by Nancy Bell
Rosebud pulled the car up to the curb in front of Hickley's House of Flowers and Butch, wearing black velvet jeans and his white ruffly shirt got in. He held a covered cake plate.
"Did you bake a cake?" Miss Julia asked.
"Not likely," Butch replied. "I got one of Populus's cherry pies. They're my favorite. Which kind do you like, Ruby?"
"Coconut," Mrs. Muckleroy said. "I just naturally gravitate toward the cream pies, myself."
Mr. Populus is Greek and owns the Owl Café, which is downtown on the square. It's called the Owl on account of a long time ago, it stayed open all night. Now, Mr. Populus closes at nine, but the people in Job's Crossing were used to the old name, so he never changed it. Mr. Populus makes the best pies in the whole world— even better than Willie Mae's, although I'd never want her to hear me saying that.
Biggie rode in front with Rosebud while the other grown-ups lined up in the back. I had taken the small jump seat.
"Ooh, I've just got chill bumps running up and down my spine." Butch wriggled around in his seat. "Girls! Has it occurred to you that we're headed right straight into danger? A killer's on the loose at that ranch."
"You do what you must," Mrs. Muckleroy said. "Myself, I just put on the armor of the Lord." She held the cross she was wearing up so everybody could see.
"That's right, we all have to make sacrifices." Butch examined his fingernails. "Darn! I've chipped my polish."
"Well, y'all can call yourself Christian soldiers all you want to," Miss Julia said. "Me, I'm just filled up with curiosity. What's going on out there, Biggie? Do they know who the killer is?"
"Not yet," Biggie said. "Red Upchurch has sent both guns off to be tested."
"Both guns? You mean there were two? Mercy, that must have been quite a night," Mrs. Muckleroy said.
"It was, for a fact," Biggie said. Then she told about Stacie coming in and taking Laura hostage. "Of course, her gun wasn't the one used to kill Rex. That was his own gun."
"Then why send the other one off at all?" Miss Julia asked.
"Just because it was there, I guess," Biggie said. "It was right there in the room next to us the whole time. But Red is very thorough. He doesn't leave anything to chance."
"I'm that way, too," Mrs. Muckleroy said. "Oh, here we are. Where are all the cars? I thought they had a funeral out here."
"Family only," Biggie said. "Park over here by the fence, Rosebud."
The ladies went in the front door while Rosebud and I took the food around back to the kitchen. Josefina, dressed in black, was standing by the stove stirring a pot. When she looked at us, her eyes were red from crying. Then when she saw what we had, I thought she was going to start bawling all over again.
"What is this?"
"The ladies and Butch brought y'all some food," Rosebud said. "Where you want it?"
"Why?" Josefina asked. "Can't I cook for this family?"
"It's a custom," I said. "Whenever a person dies, folks take food. Where do you want it."
"Over there, I guess." She motioned toward a table that stood against the wall.
Rosebud sat down at the kitchen table to talk to Josefina, and I went looking for Biggie. I found her sitting alone with Babe in the dining room. Babe was wiping her eyes with a tissue.
"He was the only living soul who loved me just the way I am," she said. "What am I going to do without him?"
"Where is your mother?" Biggie asked.
"Dead. She and Daddy divorced when I was seven. I went with Mama. She kept me until she couldn't anymore."
"Couldn't? Surely Rex took care of the two of you. Financially, I mean."
"Oh, sure. Mama had breast cancer. We lived in Wisconsin where Mama had a good job with the state. She never married again. She always said, after Rex Barnwell, no other man would do."
"Then why did she divorce him?"
"Oh, she didn't. He divorced her. Of course, I was just a kid at the time. But from what I could piece together later, Daddy was gone a lot and Mama had, you know, men friends…"
"I understand," Biggie said quickly. "So how old were you when your mom got sick?"
"A teenager, about fifteen, I guess. She worked as long as she could, even when the chemotherapy made all her hair fall out. Finally, we had to go and live with her sister in her small house in Madison. That's when Mama sent me to live with my daddy." She pulled a fresh tissue out of the box and blew her nose. "It was just fine at first…."
"Then Laura came along?"
Babe looked at Biggie. "Laura? No, Laura had nothing to do with it. We got along okay until I married Rob. That's when the trouble began."
"Do you want to talk about it?"
Suddenly Babe's face hardened. "No, I don't think I do. Why are you asking so many questions anyway? Are you a cop or something?"
Biggie patted her hand. "No, honey, just an old friend of your daddy's."
"Well, I have to find Hamp. He's promised to take me riding. Lord knows, I need to get away from this house. It's giving me the creeps."
With that, Babe got up and hurried out of the room.
"What do you know about that?" Biggie said. "Well, come on. I want to pay my respects to the Widow Barnwell."
I followed Biggie through the great room where the ladies and Butch had Rob cornered and were asking questions a mile a minute. We went down the hall to Laura's room where Biggie rapped on the door.
"Who's there?" It was Laura's voice.
"Honey, it's Biggie Weatherford and J.R. Can we come in?"
The door opened and Laura stood there. She was wearing a long, floaty robe, pale blue. I could see a matching satin nightie under it, and she had on tiny slippers to match. Her brown hair was loose and fell in waves around her face. She looked as pretty as a field of blue-bonnets.
"Come in," she said, real soft. "I'm sorry, I can't talk very well. All the crying has done something to my voice, I think."
"Saltwater," Biggie said. "Best thing in the world. Just gargle a little— warm— every thirty minutes. You'll be good as new."
"Thanks, I will. Come in, please. I was in bed. Do you mind if I just climb back in?"
"Of course not, honey." Biggie pulled a blue velvet chair from the dressing table and placed it next to Laura. I stood at the foot of the bed. "Are you all right?" Biggie asked.
"Not really." She sniffed like a little girl. Biggie handed her a tissue from the box on the bedside table. "To tell the truth, Mrs. Weatherford, I don't know what I'll do without Rex. Oh, not that I don't think he's in a better place now. The poor man suffered so this past year. I'm selfish, I guess. But, you see, even as sick as he was, Rex was my strength. Can you understand that?"
"Of course," Biggie said. "He's always been that way, even as a boy."
Laura smiled at Biggie. "I forgot, you knew him, too. I guess we share something… I don't know how to say it…"
"You don't have to," Biggie said. "Now, what's to happen to you— to the ranch?"
"Oh, well, the girls need this place. Somehow, we have to carry on."
Biggie nodded. "What about Babe?"
"Babe?" Laura looked surprised. "Why should you ask about her? She'll go on with her life, I guess. She doesn't live here, you know, although she and Rob stay here a good part of the time. They have a house in Arkansas— up in the hills. Rob thinks of himself as a writer, although I don't think he's ever published anything. I can't see why they would continue to come here. Babe scarcely hides her dislike for me."
"And you? How do you feel about her?" Biggie looked hard at Laura.
Laura sighed. "I tried to be her friend at first, really. But Babe didn't want that, not for a minute. I can't prove it, but I have a feeling she tried to undermine me with her father. When she was still in high school, she used to spy on me. She didn't think I knew it, but I did. Even if I was only going to the grocery store, she'd follow me in her car." She stared out the window at the ivy trailing down from the house. "Once I confronted her about it when I caught her lurking out
side the beauty salon, but only once. She became hysterical and accused me of things you can't even imagine. After that, I left it alone."
"Did you tell Rex?"
"Actually, no. Babe would have accused me of trying to cause a rift between her and her father— and, who knows, Rex might have believed it. We hadn't been married so very long when all this was happening."
"It sounds to me like that girl needed professional help."
"Oh, we sent her to counseling— the best money could buy. But she fooled the therapists. They would call us in for family sessions, and Babe would be all sweet reason. Eventually, I think, they ended up thinking we were terrible parents."
"My, my," Biggie said. "I guess you won't be sorry to see her go then?"
"Sadly, no. It was clear long ago that Babe and I could never be close, even now when we share the same sad loss." She closed her eyes and put her head back on the pillow.
Biggie stood up. "Honey, all this talk's just wearing you out. We'll be going now." She patted Laura's hand and headed for the door then turned back. "By the way, I was just wondering… do you know when the will's going to be read?"
Laura didn't answer. Her eyes were closed, and she looked to be asleep. But she wasn't asleep; she was playing possum. I could see her eyelids fluttering.
"Are we going home now?" I asked Biggie.
"In a minute," she said. "I just want to check Rex's room one more time."
I followed her down the hall and watched as she pushed open the door, noticing that someone had taken down the yellow crime tape. The room was dark and smelled nasty.
"What is that smell?" I whispered.
"It's death, J.R. You can't wash away the smell of blood. It lingers for a long time." She switched on the lights and began to walk around the room, picking up things and setting them down, opening drawers and pawing through the contents. I looked at the pictures and trophies on the mantel. My grandfather had been a great man, I could tell. In one picture, he was standing with Paul Newman beside a sleek, white racing car. In another, he was talking to Larry King. I wondered what was going to happen to all these things now.
Finally Biggie touched my arm. "Let's go," she whispered.
I followed her to the door. Just as she was reaching for the knob, she bent down and examined the wide baseboard next to the door. "There's something lodged here," she said. "And it looks to me like a bullet. See if you can find me a tool to dig it out."
"I don't have to, Biggie. I've got my pocketknife with me." I dug the knife out of my pocket, half expecting to get into trouble for carrying it, but Biggie didn't say a word, just took it and went to work on the slug.
17
By the time we got home, the wind had turned to the north and the temperature had dropped twenty degrees. Willie Mae had made beef stew with plenty of tender meat, potatoes, peas, and baby carrots swimming in rich, brown gravy. She set a plate of hot cornbread on the table to go with it. For dessert, we had crispy fried peach pies. When we finished eating, Willie Mae poured coffee and set cups in front of Biggie and Rosebud. She sat back down at the table.
"You find out anything today?" she asked Biggie.
Biggie sipped her coffee and frowned. "I'm not sure. I certainly found out something about the goings on in that family."
"They don't like each other much," I said.
"That's right," Biggie said. "The only thing they all seemed to agree on was that they loved Rex."
"And he be the one got hisself kilt," Willie Mae commented.
"That's right," Biggie said. "And I'm too tired and full of your good supper to think about it anymore." She got up and stretched her arms above her head. "Rosebud, I think we could have a fire in the fireplace tonight. What do you think?"
"Suits me," he said. "I just cleaned the flue last week. She's all ready to go soon's me and my boy here bring some wood in."
"Rosebud," I said, as we loaded the wood onto the wood cart, "I'm in big trouble."
"You sho is."
"How do you know what I'm talking about?"
"It's plain as mouse turds in a sugar bowl." He grinned at me, showing the little gold hearts, clubs, diamonds, and spades he had built into his front teeth.
"Rosebud!"
He leaned against the woodpile and crossed his arms. "Anybody who gots two women on the string's got trouble. Um-hmm."
"Well, what am I going to do about it?"
"Help me get this wood in the house, and I'll be thinkin' on it."
Once we got the wood loaded in the big copper pot Biggie uses for a wood box and Rosebud had a fire going in the fireplace, I prodded him. "Did you think of anything?"
"What?" Biggie had been dozing in her chair.
"Rosebud's supposed to be helping me with a problem I've got."
"I ain't what you'd say necessarily supposed to do nothing. Still and all, it does put me in mind of the time a black feller I knew got hisself in a similar jam."
"What am I going to do, Rosebud?"
"What do you want to do?"
"That's just what I don't know. Monica's been my best friend ever since… forever. But Misty, she's different from any girl I've ever known. I feel like I've got to take her to the dance. It's not like I've got a choice, Rosebud, I gotta do it!"
"I see what you mean. But, make no mistake about it, boy, you got a choice!"
I sighed. "Well, what happened to the feller?"
"It happened when he was working on a cattle ranch down in south Texas."
"I never heard of a black cowboy."
"They's lots of things you ain't heard of. Now, shut up and let me tell this story. You see this feller needed to make some money so he could marry up with his sweetie back home in Natchitoches where he come from. Naturally, it didn't take him long to figure out there wasn't never any money in wrangling, but that's another story. Anyhow, they put him up in a bunkhouse with a bunch of Mexican vaqueros who didn't speak one word of English."
"They spoke Spanish."
"Ain't you smart? Of course they spoke Spanish, and fast, too. Wellsir, this feller got awfully lonesome, listening to the others rattling away in a language he couldn't understand. Finally, after a while, he began to pick up a word or two here and there, enough to get by on the job, but not much more. Even the foreman spoke Spanish. He used to lay in his bunk at night while they played some card game he couldn't make head nor tail of thinking of his sweetie back home. She wasn't much to look at, a little-bitty thing with a face like a raisin. And sometimes she'd talk to that feller like he had a tail, but boy could she cook." Rosebud laughed without making a sound and slapped his knees. "She could put together a fine gumbo that would make you stand up and slap your grandpa. And sweet tater pies? Umm-umm. Still and all, there was something else about her, something more important than her cooking, something he couldn't rightly put his finger on. He thought it might be the way she didn't seem to care what anybody thought about her, the way she'd say and do whatever she took a notion to, exactly like as if she had a sprig of mistletoe hanging from her coattails, if you take my meaning. It was like that she knew a secret that nobody else in the whole world knew. It made this gal awfully attractive in a way that this feller never really understood.
"Anyway, one weekend he went into town and wandered into a honky-tonk on the back street. You can't imagine how pleased he was when he discovered a musician playing blues music on an old piano. Well, he thought he was back home again. He ordered himself a beer and pulled his mouth organ out of his pocket, and when that piano player launched into 'Saint James Infirmary,' he commenced playing along. When the song was over, everybody in the place whooped and yelled and bought him beers. The pretty little gal behind the bar gave him a big kiss on the mouth."
"What's a mouth organ?"
"A harmonica. After that, every chance he got, he'd go in that bar where they liked him and spoke his language. He'd play his mouth organ until closing time, and everybody, especially the gal behind the bar, treated him like he was somebody
special. Pretty soon he began to believe it. He forgot why he'd come to the ranch in the first place."
"Why was that?"
"Pay attention, son. He was supposed to be saving up his money so he could marry his little sweetie back home."
"Oh. So what happened?"
"He took to waiting until the gal, Rosa, got off from the bar at night so he could walk her home. Some nights he wouldn't get back to the bunkhouse until the sky was turning gray in the east. Needless to say, he didn't get much sleep on account of they had to get up at the crack of dawn to do their work. Well, one day they was ropin' calves—"
"Do they really do that? Outside of rodeos, I mean."
"Shoot yeah, they do. They had to get 'um in the pen to vaccinate them. Well, this feller, he was so groggy from not getting any sleep that he somehow got both arms tangled up in his lasso and, before he could stop it, he'd done broke both his wrists. Well, naturally, they fired him."
"That's cold."
"It ain't cold. A wrangler with two broke wrists ain't no more good than tits on a boar hog. Besides, it was his own fault he done it. But the feller didn't see it that way. He just felt sorry for himself. So soon's the doctor put splints on his wrists, he headed into town to get a little sympathy from Rosa."
"I feel kinda sorry for him."
