Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
PRAISE FOR EARLENE FOWLER’S BENNI HARPER MYSTERIES
IRISH CHAIN
“A TERRIFIC WHODUNIT! The dialogue is intelligent and witty, the characters intensely human, and the tantalizing puzzle keeps the pages turning.”
—Jean Hager, author of
The Redbird’s Cry and
Blooming Murder
“A BLUE-RIBBON COZY . . . This well-textured sequel to Fool’s Puzzle . . . intricately blends social history and modern mystery.”
—Publishers Weekly
“CHARMING, BEGUILING, AND ENTRANCING . . . Irish Chain is a total joy.”
—Jackson (MS) Clarion-Ledger
“THE CHARACTERS ARE TERRIFIC . . . the dialogue is amusing, and the plot is different and interesting. GRADE: A+.’ ’
—The Poisoned Pen
“A DELIGHTFUL AND WITTY MYSTERY full of endearing characters. It offers insights into quilts . . . folk art, and historical events that add depth to its multi-layered story.”
—Gothic Journal
“KEEPS YOU INTERESTED AND GUESSING UNTIL THE END.’ ’
—Mystery News
Kansas Troubles is an agitating pattern consisting of small and large triangles resembling bear claws. It evokes the image of rapidly spinning windmill blades or the twirling center of a tornado. All sharp points and angles, it will not produce a calming effect no matter what color fabric is used.
And don’t miss the next Benni Harper Mystery
GOOSE IN THE POND
Coming May 1997 from Berkley Prime Crime!
FOOL’S PUZZLE
“BREEZY, HUMOROUS DIALOGUE OF THE FIRST ORDER . . . Quilt patterns provide a real and metaphorical background as a reader absorbs the names for different styles.”
—Chicago Sun-Times
“I LOVED FOOL’S PUZZLE . . . [Earlene Fowler] made me laugh out loud on one page and brought tears to my eyes the next . . . I can’t wait to read more.”
—Margaret Maron, Edgar Award-winning author of Bootlegger’s Daughter
“A CRACKERJACK DEBUT.”
—I Love a Mystery
“A RIPPING READ. It’s smart, vigorous, and more than funny: Within its humor is wrenching insight.”
—Noreen Ayres, author of A World the Color of Salt
“I THOROUGHLY ENJOYED FOOL’S PUZZLE . . . Fowler’s characters are terrific . . . a super job.”
—Eve K. Sandstrom, author of The Devil Down Home
“A NEAT LITTLE MYSTERY . . . her plot is compelling.”
—Booklist
“LIVELY . . . More Benni mysteries are in the works and will be welcomed.”
—The Drood Review of Mystery
“A GREAT BEGINNING OF A NEW SERIES. The characters are charming and their interactions lively.”
—Mostly Murder
MORE MYSTERIES FROM THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP . . .
CAT CALIBAN MYSTERIES: She was married for thirty-eight years. Raised three kids. Compared to that, tracking down killers is easy . . .
by D. B. Borton
ONE FOR THE MONEY
THREE IS A CROWD
FIVE ALARM FIRE
TWO POINTS FOR MURDER
FOUR ELEMENTS OF MURDER
ELENA JARVIS MYSTERIES: There are some pretty bizarre crimes deep in the heart of Texas—and a pretty gutsy police detective who rounds up the unusual suspects . . .
by Nancy Herndon
ACID BATH
LETHAL STATUES
WIDOW’S WATCH
FREDDIE O’NEAL, P.I., MYSTERIES: You can bet that this appealing Reno private investigator will get her man . . . “A winner.” —Linda Grant
by Catherine Dain
LAY IT ON THE LINE
WALK A CROOKED MILE
BET AGAINST THE HOUSE
SING A SONG OF DEATH
LAMENT FOR A DEAD COWBOY
THE LUCK OF THE DRAW
BENNI HARPER MYSTERIES: Meet Benni Harper—a quilter and folk-art expert with an eye for murderous designs . . .
by Earlene Fowler
FOOL’S PUZZLE
KANSAS TROUBLES
IRISH CHAIN
GOOSE IN THE POND (coming to hardcover May 1997)
HANNAH BARLOW MYSTERIES: For ex-cop and law student Hannah Barlow, justice isn’t just a word in a textbook. Sometimes, it’s a matter of life and death . . .
by Carroll Lachnit
MURDER IN BRIEF
A BLESSED DEATH
KANSAS TROUBLES
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / Published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
All Rights reserved.
Copyright © 1996 by Earlene Fowler.
This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. For information address: The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is http://www.penguinputnam.com
eISBN : 978-1-101-50026-2
Berkley Prime Crime Books are published
by the Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
The name BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the
BERKLEY PRIME CRIME design are trademarks
belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.
http://us.penguingroup.com
For Retha and Clarence Fowler,
my favorite Kansas couple
and
For Ann Lee,
who never stopped believing
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Gratitude and humble thanks to:
God, the only true Creator. All I have is from You;
Mary Atkinson and Ann Lee, insightful readers, faithful friends;
Deborah Schneider, simply the best agent in the world;
Judith Palais, an editor with enthusiasm, talent, and a wonderful sense of humor;
Joyce Goldberg and all the other great people at Berkley, thanks for your hard work;
Darrell and Joyce Albright of Pretty Prairie, Kansas, for their hospitality, friendship, and for rendering help whenever asked;
Mary Lou Wright of Lawrence, Kansas, for her generous hospitality and support;
Stephanie Harris (and Barbie and Tony), superior horsewoman, instructor, and generous dispenser of equine information;
Chief Delbert Fowler and Officer Larry Hudson of the Derby Police Department, for assistance above and beyond the call of duty;
Debra Jackson, Laurie Fowler, Tom and Bonnie Fowler, Renea Frazier, and Gail Rose, for help in their particular areas of expertise (I’ll always remember the escalator, Laurie);
Earl Worley, my father, and Retha Fowler, my mother-in-law, for their love and support;
Mary Arnell Worley, my mother, and Clarence Fowler, my father-in-law, for what they gave me while they were here on earth;
And always, to my husband, Allen. As far as I’m concerned, he can rope the moon.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
If you check a map of Kansas, you’ll find that the towns of Derby and Pretty Prairie really do exist. They are both wonderful towns full of friendly, law-abiding citizens. The crime rate in both communities is extremely
low. I want to thank the citizens of both towns for good-naturedly letting me use their place of residence for my creative purposes. Miller is based on a real town in Kansas, but I chose to fictionalize it out of respect for the privacy of the Amish who live there. I made every attempt to write about Kansas as accurately as possible and especially appreciate the help I received from all my new friends there. All characters in this novel are created strictly from my imagination and are not based on any real people. Any errors are, of course, my own.
KANSAS TROUBLES
Variations of the Kansas Troubles quilt pattern have been traced back to the early 1800’s, and it was officially recognized by the Ladies Art Company in the latter part of the nineteenth century. An agitating pattern consisting of small and large triangles resembling bear claws, “Kansas Troubles” evokes the image of rapidly spinning windmill blades or the twirling center of a tornado. The pattern, all sharp points and angles, will not produce a calming effect no matter what color fabric is used. In all, Kansas Troubles has over twenty-five variations. Some of the more popular ones are called Indian Trails, Climbing Rose, Bear’s Paw, Little Lost Ship, Rocky Road to Kansas, Slave Chain, and Endless Tears.
ONE
KANSAS. LAND OF sunflowers, golden wheat fields, occasional roads of brick (though none yellow as far as I could see), and the more-than-occasional tornado. Tornados were specifically on my mind that sunny but cool California Central Coast Saturday morning in July, since I’d just awakened from a dream featuring one. It was a large, menacing dust devil with blue-gray eyes at its widest part. Eyes that followed my every move like those crazy Mona Lisa paintings in slapstick horror movies.
The bed sagged on one side. A large hand enveloped my shoulder and gently shook it. I woke up and stared into eyes the same steel-blue as those in my dream. They gazed back at me in concern.
“Benni, sweetheart, are you okay?” Gabe asked. “You were whimpering in your sleep.”
“What color did you say your mom’s eyes were?” I asked, blinking rapidly.
“Kind of grayish-blue. Like mine. Why?”
“No reason.” I didn’t believe in prophetic dreams. Really I didn’t. As he nuzzled my neck with his scratchy mustache, I tried to forget the image and just enjoy his warm lips tracing my collarbone. He was slightly damp and smelled of soap. I groaned inwardly. That meant a cold shower was somewhere in my immediate future. The hot water tank in my tiny Spanish-style house was more than adequate for one person. Two, if they took a reasonable length of time in the shower. Which he didn’t. After a little over four months into this second marriage, the shortcomings of a shared domestic life were beginning to come back to me.
“He says you can even use the eyelashes,” I yelled ten minutes later over the cascade of tepid water in the shower. I twisted the hot water spigot as far as it would go. My skin took on that always lovely plucked-poultry look.
“What?” Gabe yelled back.
I stuck my head out from behind the shower curtain and repeated my comment. He stood nude in front of the oak-framed bathroom mirror, the lower half of his olive face covered with snowy white shaving cream. I studied him in the mirror’s reflection, relishing the domestically sensuous picture of a man shaving. His thick black mustache was tipped white like frosting on a chocolate cake. My eyes wandered down the back of the dense, hard muscles of his runner’s thighs, pausing briefly on the pale spider-web scar on his left hip. A scar he refused to discuss the first time I noticed it. I repeated my eyelash comment.
He glanced at me in the mirror, his serious, deep-set eyes crinkling in amusement. “Keep staring, and I’ll be joining you in there. Now, whose eyelashes are we discussing?”
“Ostriches.”
His eyebrows went up in question.
“It’s the latest thing that Uncle Arnie wants Daddy to invest in. It’s not as crazy as it sounds. They even have a category now at the Houston Livestock Show for ostriches and emus.”
“Eyelashes,” he prompted.
“Keep your spurs on. According to Arnie, no part of these birds is wasted. You can sell the meat and the feathers, then make the skins into boots or sofas. Their toenails are ground up and sold to jewelers as an abrasive, and even the eyelashes are used for paintbrush bristles or ornamental design.”
He rinsed off his face, his smooth brown back flexing attractively. I seriously considered his offer to join me in the shower. “Sounds disgusting,” he said. “What do they decorate?”
“You got me.” I stepped out of the shower and grabbed one of the fluffy, sand-colored bath towels a couple of his patrol officers had given us as wedding presents. “But you can bet dollars to doughnuts that Daddy will turn in his cattle brand and raise birds when you start eating red meat again.”
“Anything’s possible.” He reached for my towel. “Let me help dry your back.”
“Not a chance, Chief Ortiz,” I said, wrapping the towel around me. “We’ve only got an hour and a half before our plane leaves, and your help always slows things down.” I pointed toward the bedroom. “Get dressed.”
Sitting on the bed, he pulled on his favorite pair of faded Levi’s and a moss-green polo shirt. I grimaced when he stuck his bare feet into scuffed leather Topsiders.
“One of these days, I’m taking those shoes to the dump,” I warned.
“You do and maybe you and Arnie’s wife can get a two-for-one deal with her divorce lawyer,” he said with a serene smile. He shook his head and grinned. “I like Arnie. He can always make me laugh.”
My Uncle Arnie can be a fun guy, but as Daddy likes to say, he’s never been in any danger of drowning in his own sweat. Thirty years ago, when my mother was dying, Arnie and my gramma Dove moved from Arkansas to San Celina, on California’s Central Coast, to live with my father and me. I was almost six years old, and my grieving father could barely care for his expanding cattle herd, much less an active, growing little girl. Arnie was thirteen at the time, so he’s always been more like a brother to me than an uncle. His wife recently threw him out of the house, and he’d already worn out his welcome at the ranches of his three other brothers and two sisters, which were spread across the western United States. We were his last resort.
I slipped on a pair of wheat-colored Wranglers, boots, and a sleeveless denim shirt. Early July weather here on the Central Coast was the best in the country—sunny, breezy days flowing into cool, clear nights—but I’d been warned that summers in Gabe’s hometown of Derby, Kansas, seven miles south of Wichita, were sometimes so hot and muggy that conversions in the local churches went up thirty percent whenever a minister presented a sermon on the physical existence of Hell. But, Gabe warned, wait five minutes, and the weather will change. Apparently Kansas weather was similar to what people were saying about our marriage—unexpected and bound to be stormy.
“Well,” I continued, “I can’t imagine him and Dove and Daddy driving all the way to Kansas without some big blowup. This ostrich thing has Daddy about ready to chomp a bit in two. They should have flown, but Daddy can’t get Dove on an airplane to save his life.”
“They’ll be fine,” Gabe said. He tucked his black leather shaving kit into the matching suitcase opened on the rumpled Irish Chain quilt covering our pine four-poster bed, the only piece of furniture we owned in common at this point. I compared his neatly packed suitcase with the haphazard muddle of clothes I’d thrown into my J.C. Penney canvas bag. Even our style of luggage was as different as night and day. With me being widowed only a year, Gabe divorced for seven, and knowing each other barely three months before getting married, family and friends were literally placing bets on how long our marriage would survive. I couldn’t blame them. I would be the first person to say it didn’t make sense. But then, when did being in love ever have anything to do with sense?
“I don’t know,” I said doubtfully. “It’s a long way to Kansas. A lot of desolate places to leave a dead body.”
He wrapped his arms around me in a warm hug. “Quit worrying about
them. We’re on vacation. A vacation we both need.”
I couln’t argue with that. My position as curator of the Josiah Sinclair Folk Art Museum and Artists’ Co-op might not involve as many life-and-death decisions as his chief of police job, but it certainly caused me more than enough stress. Keeping the shoestring budget pumped with donations and maintaining a semblance of peace among the forty often temperamental artists were jobs I wouldn’t miss for the next two weeks. But there were at least a hundred places other than the Sunflower State on my wish list of belated honeymoon destinations. Not that I have anything against the state itself, mind you. I mean, who can totally dislike a state whose official song is “Home on the Range”? And The Wizard of Oz has always been one of my favorite movies, though like most people, I’m always a bit disappointed when Dorothy opts to return to black-and-white Kansas rather than stay in Technicolor Oz. And I’m sure the state that produced both William Inge and Superman has many wonderful cultural and recreational sights. It just happened to also contain one cultural sight I was not looking forward to. Namely, Gabe’s family. Specifically, his twin sisters and his mother.
Though I’d seen pictures of them, talked to them over the phone, and heard quite a few stories in the last few months, they still didn’t seem real to me. Nor did the life Gabe lived in Kansas until he was sixteen years old, which was when his father died, causing Gabe’s life to totally change. After a few delinquent escapades that almost landed him in jail, his mother sent him to Southern California to live with one of his dad’s brothers in Santa Ana. Even with the photos and the stories, I couldn’t really picture this man, whose whispered Spanish words could melt me into soft wax, driving a tractor on his Grandfather Smith’s wheat farm, any more than I could imagine him crawling through the soggy jungles of Vietnam or working undercover in the barrios of East L.A. The only context in which I’d ever seen Gabe was in his all-business Chief of Police (or as I like to call it, his Sergeant Friday) personality or his easygoing at-home demeanor. Sometimes it almost seemed as if he appeared from nowhere, sans history, and plopped down in San Celina just for my benefit. It was different from anything I’d ever experienced, being intimate with someone I barely knew. Life with my first husband, Jack, who had known me since I was fifteen and was raised on a ranch as I was, hadn’t prepared me for the disparate backgrounds and complex emotional baggage people bring into middle-age relationships.
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