Miss Ruffles Inherits Everything

by Nancy Martin

  Unhappily, Mr. Carver said, “It’s a haboob.”

  I had heard the word before but didn’t expect to hear it in Texas. “One of those really big dust storms like they get on the Sahara? I’ve never seen one.” With a thought for Mr. Gamble’s twister obsession, I asked, “Is it like a tornado?”

  “No, not a tornado. Tornados spin and are much more destructive. When a haboob comes, the wind kicks up and gathers all the grit into a big cloud in the air and blows it basically in a straight line. It’s a blinding dust storm. The dust gets everywhere.”

  With distaste, Mae Mae said, “It’s like a hurricane, but with dirt, not water.”

  “It’s over fast,” Mr. Carver went on, “but there’ll be dust in your hair for weeks afterward. Last time, we had to repaint one whole side of the house. The sand in the air blasted the paint right off.”

  “Are we getting one? Do we have enough water?” Alarmed, I tried to hear what Poppy was saying on the air, but Mae Mae had gotten up from the table and was noisily running dishwater into the sink.

  “We have plenty of water. And maybe we won’t get the storm,” Mr. Carver said. “Depends on heat and weather patterns and which way the wind is blowing.”

  The video Poppy was playing on her screen showed a massive red cloud of dust bearing down on Phoenix.

  “That’s all we need right now,” Mae Mae grumbled. “A natural disaster.”

  The agriculture people said they planned on working all night, so when Mr. Carver and Mae Mae retired, I took Honeybelle’s rose notebook out of her office and up to my bed. Fred came along and snored while I read. Outside, the Department of Agriculture set up bright lights and continued to dig while I carefully read every page of the notebook and looked at all the pictures.

  About midnight, I decided I had a good idea who had Miss Ruffles.

  And I was willing to bet my million-dollar inheritance she was still very much alive.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Always drink upstream from the herd.

  —COWBOY WISDOM

  In the morning, the Department of Agriculture team continued their meticulous labors in the rose garden while munching Egg McMuffins. I noticed some of them had upgraded to hazmat suits.

  I tried to put their work out of my mind. With my new theory in mind, I started making phone calls. I used Honeybelle’s computer, too.

  At ten, Poppy stopped by to pick up Mae Mae for her day in the television studio. I answered the door.

  “What’s going on here?” Poppy asked, aghast at the devastation already apparent in the front yard. She clapped one pretty hand to her lipsticked mouth in horror.

  “Just a little inspection,” I assured her. “Nothing to worry about. It’ll all be cleaned up very soon.” At least, I hoped so.

  There wasn’t time for Poppy to get more upset, because Mae Mae bustled into view. She was already huffing and puffing, a stormy look on her face.

  “Break a leg,” I said to her at the door.

  Mae Mae couldn’t summon any reply. She looked like a walking case of stage fight.

  Poppy diagnosed the situation instantly. Warmly, she said, “Mae Mae will be great.”

  I had noticed Mae Mae hadn’t been able to eat her breakfast, but she put her Sunday church hat firmly on her head and went out to Poppy’s car with her new recipe notebook clutched in one hand.

  Mr. Carver joined me, looking more mournful than ever. “Those people are still making a terrible mess of the garden. What are we going to do when they’re finished?”

  “We’ll have to try putting things back the way they were, I guess.”

  “Do you know anything about gardening?”

  “Not much,” I admitted. “But I have Honeybelle’s map and notebook. We’ll manage somehow.”

  As if the morning couldn’t get any worse, he said, “There are more prairie dogs in those traps out back. Maybe three or four.”

  I checked the clock on the wall. “Where’s Critter Control? Rudy said he’d come back this morning.”

  “I already called him.” Mr. Carver grew even more glum. “He said after he finishes the termites at the Bum Steer, he has to go over to the stockyard. There’s a snake in the men’s Porta-Potti toilet, and the rodeo people want it out of there right away.”

  “I can’t blame them.”

  “That leaves us with all these prairie dogs, and I don’t mind telling you they make me nervous. Once the sun gets high enough, they’re going to cook in those traps.”

  I went outside and draped wet kitchen towels over the traps. Then I went out to the street to speak with the Blues Brothers.

  “Could you give me a hand?” I asked.

  They were not happy, but they helped move all the prairie dogs into Honeybelle’s car.

  “Where you taking them?” Mr. Costello asked.

  “Over to the stockyard to give them to Critter Control. I hear there’s a rodeo today, if you want to come watch.”

  He was using his handkerchief to rub his hands clean. “This is enough animal stuff for me for one day.”

  “Me, too,” said his partner. “I don’t even like cats much. My first wife had a cat, and that animal hated me. It used to sit in my shoes.”

  “Just so long as it was just sitting,” Costello said, “and not doing something else.”

  “Okay,” I said, “thanks, fellas. I’m going over to the stockyard.”

  “It’s awful hot,” Costello said. “Maybe we’ll go grab some lunch somewhere air-conditioned. We’ll meet you back here later.”

  “Fine by me.”

  “Take your time, Stretch.”

  First I made a quick stop at the Tennyson law office. Gracie was nowhere to be seen.

  I spoke with the receptionist, back from her days off, who reported Ten had been in the office all morning but had already left for the day.

  “He’s delivering livestock over to the stockyard. Today’s the first day of the rodeo. School even lets out early so the kids can go.” Her face was alight with anticipation. “Are you going? It’s always a lot of fun. My son Isaac is bull riding.”

  “How old is Isaac?” I asked, thinking the receptionist wasn’t much older than I was. Her child surely couldn’t be old enough to ride the likes of Hellrazor.

  She had a dimple when she smiled. “He’s four. His life’s dream is to be a cowboy.”

  I found it hard to believe a four-year-old already had a life’s dream, let alone one about being crushed by a massive animal, but she looked convinced. I thanked her and told her I’d catch up with Ten at the rodeo.

  When I got to the stockyard, I found it transformed. No longer a sleepy outpost at the end of town, it was now crowded with people, vehicles, and animals. Not just horses and cattle of all sizes, but ponies and sheep and goats and dogs. Fred sat up in the passenger seat and looked keenly around.

  I parked at the end of a row of cars and got out. Fred scrambled after me. “I don’t think this is a good idea,” I told him.

  But he woofed a promise to stick close to me, so we set off together. I opened the trunk to give the prairie dogs some air. The trunk lid provided some shade, and there was just enough breeze to keep the heat down. The prairie dogs hissed at me. I went looking for Rudy’s Critter Control truck.

  The parking area was full of cars, but also small family groups setting up chairs and umbrellas and coolers packed with food. Picnics were breaking out all over. I headed past them toward the corral where the longhorns were kept. In the shadow of a large trailer on my way, I ran across a farrier putting new shoes on an enormous pinto horse. While he worked, the placid animal’s lead rope was held by a smiling pixie in a cowboy hat—no older than the four-year-old bull rider I had already heard about.

  Next to the farrier was a portable fence enclosing a dozen black-faced sheep. They were nestled down in fresh straw, awaiting some kind of action I couldn’t guess. A grandmother in a plaid shirt and jeans sat in a folding chair. She had her hat tilted down over her face an
d seemed to be dozing, too.

  From there, the stockyard took on a carnival atmosphere. A local Girl Scout troop was already selling sandwiches and sweet tea from a table set up in front of an RV. The Rotary Club had a dunking booth almost ready to go, with a blushing middle-aged man in a bathing suit nervously waiting to get wet in the tank. The ladies of the League of Women Voters were decked out in bright square-dancing dresses to distribute information about a coming election. The Sorghum Society had samples of sorghum molasses to give away while they sold 50/50 raffle tickets to benefit a local project.

  Somewhere in the distance, I could hear a banjo and assumed Crazy Mary was at work in the crowd.

  No sign of Critter Control.

  In front of the corral, a school bus pulled up and disgorged a crowd of kids, all in jeans and wearing hats. They dashed off in different directions. I saw Travis Joe Hensley among them and tried to follow him, but I lost him in the crowd.

  As every minute passed, the throng grew. I spotted my friend Cody from the university alumni office. He stood holding a clipboard in a milling group of students, but he saw me waving and came over to greet me.

  “Hey, there, ma’am, it’s nice to see you again.” He tucked the clipboard under his arm, took off his hat, and shook my hand. “Hey, there, Miss Ruffles.”

  Fred sat down beside me, perfectly obedient.

  “Looks like you’re in charge of something today, Cody.”

  “Incoming freshmen,” he reported. “We take small groups out to show them the town. The students from outside Texas think this is a real rodeo.”

  “It isn’t?”

  “Oh, no, ma’am, this is just fun for kids. But the freshmen think it’s cool. We bring a lot of Alamo students and faculty here. President Cornfelter’s even with us today. He’s singing with a barbershop group later.” Cody pointed.

  I turned to see Hannibal Cornfelter standing in a cluster of men wearing striped vests and straw hats. He did not look as if he’d been recently arrested. If he saw me, he avoided my eye.

  Cody said, “I think they’re going to start the mutton busting in a minute. Want to watch with us?”

  “Mutton what?”

  He laughed. “C’mon, you’ll see.”

  I went back to the car to check on the prairie dogs first, and they seemed perfectly fine. The trunk must have felt like their cozy den. I hurried back to find Cody. The temporary bleachers were already full, but we squeezed into a spot at the far end of the corral fence and climbed up to watch. The longhorns had been herded elsewhere, and the corral was set up like an arena with wooden chutes at one end. A group of young fathers milled around there, talking to kids and sorting out numbered cards to pin on the backs of their shirts. The rodeo clown seemed to be in charge. He organized the kids into a line and the fathers around the openings of the chutes. I heard some animals making noise in the chutes but couldn’t see what they were.

  The man who’d been the master of ceremonies out at Harley’s Roadhouse climbed up on a small grandstand with a microphone and announced the first contestants in the mutton busting. The next thing I knew, a chute burst open and a sheep came barreling into the arena with a shrieking little boy on its back. The boy wore a helmet on his head and cowboy boots on his feet, and he had dug his hands deep into the sheep’s woolly neck. He hung on for dear life. The sheep galloped straight out into the dusty space, and with every leap, the little boy slipped farther sideways until he was practically upside down. He plopped off into the dust, and the happy sheep scampered for our end of the corral. The boy popped up with a big smile on his face, dusting his jeans off, and the crowd cheered. The rodeo clown guided the boy back to the chutes. Two of the fathers ran after the rollicking sheep, caught it, and sent it back to its friends.

  The next little boys fell off their sheep right away to more cheers, and then came two little girls who had better success. One hung on until the sheep gave up and lay down, to roars of laughter from the crowd. When the chute flew open the next time, I saw the Tennyson receptionist yelling encouragement from the top of the fence. Her little boy survived his bucking sheep only a few seconds before he landed flat on his back in the dust, but he got up grinning, and the clown laughingly lifted him up into his mother’s arms.

  Behind me I heard the toot of a horn and turned to see a couple of big pickup trucks entering the rodeo area. One was the same pickup that had brought Trey Hensley to Ten’s ranch just yesterday. I looked through the windshield and saw Trey lounging in the passenger seat, one booted foot on the dashboard, while his buddy drove. Trey was either chewing on a hunk of straw or smoking a cigarette, I couldn’t be sure. Both pickups were full of teenage boys in full rodeo gear. They drove on toward the parking area and disappeared.

  I asked Cody a few questions, and he explained.

  “Yeah, they do the events for the elementary kids first. Next there’s the junior high kids. The high schoolers have football practice after school, so their events are tonight. But the rodeo lasts right through to the weekend, so you’ll have to come back for the events you like best.”

  “What do you like best?”

  He smiled. “Well, my sisters all did barrel racing, so that’s always fun for me, but really, it’s the bronc riding and bull riding that’s the most exciting.”

  “Because people get hurt,” I guessed.

  He laughed. “Nobody gets hurt too bad, not at this level.”

  I thought of Ten and his wheelchair, but I didn’t argue.

  After the mutton busting, the fathers turned a bunch of young calves loose in the corral, each with a ribbon tied to its tail. A mob of little kids jumped into the corral and chased the calves around, trying to grab a ribbon. It was a way of teaching ranch children not to be afraid of cattle, I could see. They all ran around yelling with delight. One child got knocked down and cried about it, but the rodeo clown appeared and plucked him up out of the dust to cheer him up.

  I realized the rodeo clown looked familiar.

  The junior high event turned out to be pole bending—girls on very fast horses looping in and out of a series of tall-standing poles, then galloping for the finish line. The horses were quick and feisty. All the contestants seemed to be best friends, and they took turns fixing each other’s hair or holding each other’s horses between runs.

  There was a break in the action after that, and I went back to look in on the prairie dogs. They still looked comfy, snuggled in their cages. I returned to the arena just as the barbershop singers climbed up on the little stage to sing. President Cornfelter fit right in, I noted bitterly, except he was the youngest performer by about twenty years. He managed to look perfectly innocent as they sang their hearts out. I wanted to throw a rock at him.

  While the music carried over the whole stockyard, parents gathered up their young children and herded them out to the parking lot to take them home for dinner. I figured I’d better follow their example. As I headed back to the car, I had to be careful of the traffic; there were lots of vehicles going out and coming in. As the afternoon slipped away, a different crowd seemed to be filling up the parking lot—parents and their older kids. Lights had been strung from some of the trailers, and they lit up all at once, making the crowd applaud.

  Still listening to the barbershop harmonies, I made another circuit around the parking lot, looking one more time for Critter Control. No luck.

  I saw Cody again, and he pointed, showing me that his platoon of college freshmen was going to tour the area behind the chutes where more animals were waiting for later events. I waved Cody off, intending to go home, but then I saw a sign for Hellrazor. I stood in the long line to get a look at him in a reinforced stall made of steel pipe. Fred seemed especially happy to see his friend. Hellrazor lowered his head and shook his horns at Fred.

  A pair of mischievous little boys toyed slyly with the latch on the gate to Hellrazor’s pen.

  The rodeo clown was leaning against Hellrazor’s fence, making sure the latch stayed bolted. It was T
en. He wore shorts and a colorful T-shirt with sneakers and red knee socks. His hat was rainbow colored, and he wore a red ball on the end of his nose.

  “Hey,” he said to me with a smile.

  People jostled around us, but I said, “Hey, yourself.”

  He heard my tone, and his gaze sharpened. “You okay?”

  No, I wasn’t okay. I was definitely on the edge of figuring out everything about Honeybelle’s death and the disappearance of Miss Ruffles and all the evil that lurked behind the polite sweet talk of some of the smiling Texans I had met, and that made me brave. I decided not to beat around the bush. I said, “The four-wheeler in your barn. The one with the ‘don’t get lost’ bumper sticker?”

  His face registered surprise. “What about it?”

  “When was the last time you used it?”

  “Me?” Baffled, he said, “Years ago. I can’t … my leg. Why do you want to know?”

  “Just tell me, Ten. Was it you? Monday night?”

  “What are you talking about? I told you I can’t … Monday? Aw, Sunny.” He snatched off his red nose, expression shocked. “The guy who hurt you? He was riding my ATV?”

  I knew at once he couldn’t fake the concern he showed. It hadn’t been Ten who lassoed me and threw me to the ground. Someone must have stolen his four-wheeler, and I could guess who. I was so relieved that I found myself smiling shakily. “It’s okay. I’m okay. I’m glad it wasn’t you.”

  I had a lot more to discuss with Ten, but not in public.

  He said, “Have you heard anything more about Miss Ruffles?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Okay, we’ll talk later.” He stuck his red nose back on. “You just missed Poppy. She had to run back to the station for some weather thing, but she was looking for you.”

  “How was her day with Mae Mae?”

  “They can tell you about it. Thing is, Poppy got a phone call this afternoon. From a television station in Atlanta.”

  My heart skipped. “Oh?”