by Nancy Martin
“All kinds. Jazz, mostly, and blues. My mother was a singer in St. Louis. My father was a studio musician in Memphis, back in the day.” He couldn’t stop himself from smiling at his memories. “It’s just a hobby for me. I like to make new arrangements of old songs.”
“That’s fascinating. I’d love to hear you play. Or am I interrupting?”
“I have a little more work to do on this piece.”
“I hope to hear it when you’re finished.”
“We’ll see,” he said.
“Breakfast isn’t quite ready. You should stay up here and work on your music.” Before he caught on that I wanted to know he was out of my way for the day, I said, “I mean—there’s nothing that needs to be done in the house, right? So you might as well stay up here.”
“There really isn’t much household work to do anymore,” he said sadly. “Without Honeybelle, the house certainly feels empty.”
“If Posie were allowed to throw her sister’s wedding here,” I said on the spur of the moment, “we’d at least have something to keep us busy. Do you know if they’ll go ahead with that plan now that Honeybelle is gone?”
“That’s up to the family to decide. The more I think about it, the more it seems wrong to go against Honeybelle’s wishes.”
Now that the door was open, I tried pushing it a little wider. “Why do you think she didn’t want to throw the wedding here? She was usually so generous. Why the argument?”
Mr. Carver shook his head. “Honeybelle was a wonderful lady. But she and Miss Posie never did hit it off—and their disagreement went clear back to Miss Posie’s mama and daddy.”
“How did Hut Junior and Posie get together, if Honeybelle had such a long feud going with the Appleby family?”
Mr. Carver smiled with the affection he always showed when Hut Junior’s name came up. “Oh, you know how it is with young fellas and their mamas. Sometimes bringing around the wrong girl can make things right.”
“Did that work for Hut Junior?” I asked. “Did he make things right with his mother?”
Mr. Carver lost his smile. “Not really, no.”
“So what was the big argument between Posie and her mother-in-law?”
My informant’s face went blank, and he clammed up. “I never thought it was any of my business, and it’s none of yours either.”
I thought of something Poppy had said. “I thought it was over the wedding. But maybe was it roses instead? A yellow rose Honeybelle got from Posie’s family?”
With a snap in his voice, Mr. Carver said, “Honeybelle got that yellow rose fair and square. If the Applebys are still mad about it, they ought to remember she paid them what they asked. Maybe it was worth more than that, but it was a fair deal at the time, no matter what that family says. Now, that’s enough questions, young lady. Get on with your work.”
I had more questions to ask—I wanted to know what package he had exchanged with Hut in the driveway under cover of darkness—but Mr. Carver made it clear our conversation was over by tuning his guitar.
I turned for the door, then took one last chance. “Mr. Carver, can you tell me what Honeybelle and President Cornfelter argued about?”
Exasperated, he exclaimed, “Why are you so concerned about all this? It’s over! Honeybelle is gone, and that’s that. Now, run along, Sunny.”
That was my cue to leave, but my gaze was suddenly riveted to something else besides the sheet music. A bottle of pills—an amber plastic pharmacy bottle. As if by accident, I knocked it sideways, and it clattered to the floor. I bent to pick it up.
“Sorry,” I said, trying to read the label. I couldn’t do so surreptitiously.
And Mr. Carver took the bottle from me anyway. He said, “My heart medicine.”
“Better take good care of that,” I said.
I went down the stairs with my mind churning with a totally new idea. If Honeybelle had been murdered and it looked like a heart attack, how had her death actually been accomplished? On the bottom step, I shook my head to get rid of the new theory that was pushing its way into my mind. Surely Mr. Carver hadn’t given her some of his heart medication.
No, that was impossible. Why would he want to harm her?
I checked the back gate again for another communication. The original note had said I’d be contacted on Monday, today. I had assumed Posie would reach me the same way she had done the first time. But there was no flutter of paper in the gate or anywhere around it.
I put Fred on a leash and dragged him out onto the street. Fred thought I had exercise in mind, and he immediately objected. He planted his butt on the dusty driveway.
“C’mon, Fred.” I tugged the leash. “Please?”
Across the street, the black car was back in position. Nobody waved from inside, though, I assumed they were laughing too hard.
Fred gave me his most woeful gaze and flopped down on his belly.
“Please, Fred.” I glanced up and down the street, concerned that my fake Miss Ruffles was acting decidedly un-Miss-Ruffles-like. “C’mon. What do you say we go find a nice juicy bone on our trip to the grocery store?”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Don’t squat on your spurs.
—DERN GOOD ADVICE
I was saved from arguing with a dog by the arrival of the U.S. Postal Service. The postman waved at me from behind the wheel of his truck, then braked with a squeak. He was wearing a straw cowboy hat that looked as if it had barely survived a stampede.
“Hey, there, missy,” he said to me. “How’s Miss Ruffles this morning?”
“Feeling lazy,” I said.
He looked down at Fred, who remained crouched at my feet. “I saw her getting the royal treatment at the game on Saturday. She’s getting used to getting drove around in a golf cart, ain’t she?”
“Yes, she loves it. Do you have Honeybelle’s mail?”
“Sure do. Here you go.” He handed an armful over to me and waved. “’Bye, Miss Ruffles. See you at the next game!”
He drove off, and I stood there, flooded with relief. To the untrained eye, maybe the Fred masquerade was going to work. I flipped through the mail. In addition to the usual stack of gift catalogs and other junk, I sifted through some handwritten envelopes—most addressed to Honeybelle’s family, so I assumed they were more condolence notes—and a couple of bills. A colorful brochure from a cruise line gave me a pang.
At the bottom of the stack was an envelope addressed to me. At least I assumed it was me.
Dog lady
That’s all that the envelope said, with Honeybelle’s address. Was there more blood on the envelope? I thought so. The stamp looked a little raggedy, too. I tucked the other mail under my elbow and tore open the envelope. Fred watched from a prone position while I found some tufts of brindle hair and a note hand-printed on the same kind of notepaper the ransom note had been on. But this time I could see the paper had been chewed—maybe wrestled out of a dog’s possession. Miss Ruffles still fighting her captor?
$10,000. I will contack you tonite with futher instrutions. Wait by the stockyard at 9pm.
Ten thousand dollars. An impossible sum.
I stared at the note, already thinking past the money issues. So far, all other signs had pointed to Posie as the dognapper. Crazy Mary had heard Miss Ruffles yipping in Posie’s car. Gracie and I had seen Posie take one look at me and roar out of town as if she had a crime to conceal. And then the restraining order.
So why was this note as illiterate as the previous one? Did Posie think she was throwing me off the track?
I crumpled the note in my hand and took another look inside the envelope. Ten thousand dollars was bad enough, but the envelope contained no proof that Miss Ruffles was alive and well. And now I had a whole day of worrying ahead of me.
Not to mention trying to figure some way of finding the amount of money needed to get Miss Ruffles back. Maybe I’d have to use my powers of persuasion instead.
I paced around Fred, stewing. Monday was shaping up to
be hot and miserable in more ways than one.
In the end, I took Fred up to my room and left him sleeping there while I drove to the Tejas.
Across the parking lot, Gracie Garcia was climbing out of her Volkswagen. I caught up with her at the door. She was dressed for business in a suit and heels. The suit might have come from Victoria’s Secret Lawyer Collection, though. It had a tight-fitting jacket, a short skirt that showed off Gracie’s legs, and a blouse that allowed for just a little jiggle.
“Hey, darlin’,” she said. “I’m pickin’ up coffee for the office. Since Mule Stop is the last place on earth not to have a Starbucks, here I am here. Can I buy you a cup?”
“Thanks, but I’m on an errand for Mae Mae.”
She pulled a sympathetic face. “No lollygagging, I get it. How’s your pup?”
“Still missing.”
“Ready for me to join your posse? I used to practice with a lasso.” She feigned twirling a lariat over her heat. “I can rope any bad guy you point me at. Or bad girl.”
“Thanks, but I’m still thinking how to do this best.”
She patted my arm. “You’re better at thinking than me. Catch up with you later.”
Gracie made a turn and headed for the in-store coffee counter, and I headed for the meat department at the back of the store. I asked the attendant for Mae Mae’s sausage and waited while it was located and wrapped up.
Four minutes later, Gracie rushed up, balancing a cardboard tray containing three jumbo cups of coffee. “Red alert! Posie’s here.”
At that moment, Posie Hensley turned the corner by the bakery, headed my way, pushing a grocery cart and giving a display of whole wheat bread a cursory study.
“Quick! We have to hide.”
With a hasty thank-you, I grabbed the sausage off the top of the meat counter and ducked into the cereal aisle. Right behind me, Gracie seized the biggest box of Cheerios and handed it over. I grabbed the box and held it up in front of my face, pretending to study the nutritional information.
We needn’t have worried. Posie pushed her cart past the meat counter and kept going. She was wearing workout clothes and sneakers. Her hair was in a perfect ponytail, very jaunty.
“Let’s get out of here,” Gracie muttered.
“Just a minute.”
“What are you doing?”
I kept the Cheerios. “I don’t know yet.”
We edged out of the aisle and peeked to see where Posie was headed next. Looked like the deli counter.
Gracie said, “We ought to torture her, ask about Miss Ruffles. We could tie her up in the deli, maybe force her to eat some of that olive loaf stuff. That should make her confess in a heartbeat.”
“I’m going to follow her out of the store, see where she goes next. If she’s on a bunch of errands, I might have time to drive out to her house to look for Miss Ruffles.”
“You won’t know if she’s coming back any minute. Wait, I’ve got an idea. Here, hold this.” Gracie shoved her tray of coffee into my hands and grabbed a bag of dog food off the nearest shelf. She marched Posie’s way.
“Gracie!”
She shushed me and kept going.
Posie appeared to be doing her weekly shopping. She had a list and a small pencil that she used to efficiently check off the items she picked up. At the deli counter, she left her cart by the pickles and took a number. While she discussed sliced turkey with the attendant, Gracie dropped the dog food in her cart and kept going. Posie never noticed.
I lingered by the peanut butter, watching.
Gracie must have circled the aisle, because she came up behind me. “What happened?”
“Nothing yet.”
Posie put the sliced turkey in her shopping cart and moved on.
“She didn’t even notice!” Gracie hissed.
“Let’s go to the checkout line. She’ll show up there eventually.”
At the checkout, I paid for the Cheerios and the sausage, and Gracie paid for her coffee order.
As she tucked her change into her wallet, she said, “I gotta go before this gets cold. Call me later. Tell me what happens with Posie.”
She swished out the automatic doors. I hung around the locked cigarette case where I could keep an eye on the checkout lanes.
In ten minutes, Posie came along, ready to check out. The clerk got as far as the dog food when Posie stopped her.
“What’s that?”
“Your dog food, ma’am.”
“I didn’t put that in my cart.”
The clerk shrugged and put the food aside. “People put stuff in the wrong carts all the time. No problem.”
Posie lost interest in the dog food and began going through her wallet. “I wouldn’t have a dog in my house if you paid me. My son is allergic. Plus, dogs make an awful mess.”
The clerk smiled as she scanned the rest of Posie’s items. “I love dogs. I have three. And our beagle just had puppies. Three boys, two girls. Beagles are the cutest puppies ever. You want one?”
“No, thank you.” Posie remained polite and repeated, “My son is allergic. We can’t have pets of any kind.”
I went outside, more puzzled than ever. If Posie was so protective of her allergic son, why would she have Miss Ruffles in her possession? Or didn’t she? And why would Posie need ten thousand dollars when she had a sizable inheritance, even if it wasn’t all of Honeybelle’s fortune? It didn’t make sense. Was the misspelled ransom note a clue telling me Posie hadn’t kidnapped the dog after all?
I decided to hang around Honeybelle’s car to see what happened when she came out of the store.
In a couple of minutes, Posie came outside in the company of the young man who sometimes helped customers to their cars. He pushed the cart, and Posie followed, tucking her shopping list into her shoulder bag and making conversation. She wore her sunglasses. When the young man had loaded her shopping bags into her trunk, she tried to give him a tip, but he politely refused to accept it. Pretending to offer a tip in a parking lot where signs plainly said employees weren’t allowed to accept was a routine exercise. Honeybelle had always offered tips and rarely succeeded in handing over any money. Posie was also unsuccessful. If she had grown up poor, at least she had learned how to behave in her new socioeconomic world. She must have said something nice to the employee, because he laughed. She smiled, too.
It was not the kind of exchange I expected of the bitchy Posie I knew.
She got into her car and pulled out of her parking space. As she drove by me, she finally noticed who was standing there in the sunshine. She looked beyond me and recognized Honeybelle’s car.
She braked and rolled down her window. Tartly, she asked, “I see you’ve commandeered Honeybelle’s car now.”
“I’m doing my job,” I said. “Running errands.”
“I hope you don’t leave Miss Ruffles in a hot vehicle. You wouldn’t want to endanger her life, now, would you?”
With that, she rolled up her window and drove away.
I stood frowning, thinking. What the heck did that all mean?
I went home and spent the afternoon second-guessing myself.
At eight thirty that evening, I left Fred dozing on the warm pool deck. Mae Mae was sitting at the kitchen table tirelessly laboring with a pencil and a dime store notebook. Writing down recipes, I guessed. Mr. Carver was upstairs in his apartment with music playing.
The Blues Brothers had gone back to their hotel for the night. I let myself out the gate and walked quietly through the gathering gloom to the appointed place. As directed by the ransom note, I headed toward the stockyard where Miss Ruffles and I had visited the longhorn steers. Inside the houses that I passed, lights were coming on. Air conditioners hummed. Through the windows, I could see families settling down for the night—parents turning on televisions, children going off to bed. In one yard I heard a group of kids shrieking as they captured fireflies. I smelled cigarette smoke beside one house, the sweet hickory woodsmoke of a barbecue from another.
<
br /> As I drew closer to the stockyard, I caught the whiff of manure on the steady breeze that constantly blew through Mule Stop. The wind never ceased, but I hadn’t gotten used to it yet. It was one of the many signs that told me I wasn’t in Ohio anymore.
A set of headlights caught me from behind, and I faltered to a stop at the spot where the sidewalk petered out. The vehicle turned out to be a big pickup truck, heading out of town. It rattled past me and kept going. When my heart stopped pounding, I headed for the stockyard again.
As I reached the entrance to the stockyard, I saw a big sign for the upcoming Junior Rodeo. Underneath the sign, a car’s engine started up. I could see two figures inside the vehicle. One was a girl who seemed to be straightening her shirt. The teenaged boy at the wheel lit up a cigarette and blew smoke at me through his open window as he drove by. I guessed that I had stumbled upon a teen hangout. No doubt the town’s high school kids came here after dark.
The longhorns had already bedded themselves down for the night, unperturbed by the teenagers. By the light of a single streetlamp that glowed over the corral, two of the big steers stood quietly chewing their cud. The rest of them were still, dark shapes on the ground. I peered at them through the rails, but they paid me no attention. Beyond the corral stood a bunkhouse—a long, low building used for assorted municipal purposes, but empty and dark tonight.
I waited, counting the minutes. Nine o’clock came. I heard church bells announce it. I tried to stay calm, but my fears rose with every passing minute. Until I started to get mad. Where was the dognapper?
I paced by the fence. In the distance, I could hear the sounds of the town. The university’s drum line practicing on a distant field. The buzz of a motorcycle. The church bells chimed again, a quarter past, and again at nine thirty.
The motorcycle sound grew closer, coming from the big emptiness beyond the town. A headlight jiggled into my view, and I realized it wasn’t a motorcycle but some kind of all-terrain vehicle. A dark figure held the handlebar with one hand. He came closer and closer, the noise of the engine sounding like an angry hornet.
