Kansas Troubles

by Earlene Fowler

  She poured herself a glass and leaned against the refrigerator. “Same old stuff those two have been squabbling about for six months now. Lawrence’s daughter, Megan, works for Rob.” She paused and took a sip. “Apparently there have been quite a few nights that she’s come home late. Working overtime, she says.”

  “So?”

  “So, apparently she’s not really working overtime. Or maybe she is in a way. Rumor is she and Rob are sleeping together, and Lawrence is mad as a hornet about it.”

  “How old is Megan?”

  “Twenty-two. Certainly old enough to make her own decisions, as stupid as they might be. Heaven knows, getting involved with Rob Harlow is about the stupidest thing I can imagine any woman doing, but to tell you the truth, I think that girl’s a spoiled brat and she’s messing with Rob just to cause her parents grief. I’m surprised she isn’t here so she could enjoy this little scene firsthand. I have no idea how two people as sweet as Lawrence and Janet could produce a daughter like that.” She shook her head and dug into an open box of Ritz Crackers sitting on the counter.

  “I thought Rob and Tyler were together.”

  She held out the box of crackers. I shook my head no. “That has never stopped Rob before. Not as long as I’ve known him, anyway,” she explained.

  We sat silently for a moment, the only sounds the murmur of the wind outside and Becky eating crackers. She set the box down and leaned her head back against the refrigerator. “I’m sorry about all this, Benni. I wanted this party to be perfect for you and Gabe.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’m having a wonderful time,” I said. “Anyway, what’s a party without a little prehistoric male head-banging?”

  “I suppose so,” she said, still sounding miserable.

  The door to the living room swung open, and four or five chattering women poured into the kitchen, each of them clasping something in her hand. Five seconds later, Gabe followed them.

  “Here,” he said to Becky and me, reaching into his pocket. He handed each of us a white poker chip.

  “You’ve got to be kidding! Whose idea was this?” Becky said.

  “Your husband’s,” Gabe answered. “He thought it might help get everyone away from the bar and get a little exercise, burn off some of this tension. It was either this or croquet.”

  “Please, not croquet,” she moaned. “Stan gets vicious when someone hits his ball.”

  “What’s this for?” I held up the poker chip.

  Gabe glanced at his watch. “I have to join the guys back down in the basement. We’re giving you ladies twenty minutes.” He turned to me. “Becky will explain it to you. I’ll catch you later.” He leaned over and gave me a swift kiss.

  “What’s going on?” I asked. Angel and Cordie June rushed past us, laughing on their way out the back door.

  “It’s poker chip tag,” Becky said, linking her arm in mine and pulling me out after them. “We used to play it when we were teenagers. The guys give us time to hide. The object of the game is to find people and get their chips. If you’re caught, you have two choices: give up your poker chip or, if you can, persuade the person to let you keep it.”

  “And the one with the most chips at the end is the winner?” We stood in the open doorway and watched the giggling women spread out through the field behind the house.

  Becky grinned. “Well, not exactly. The best-looking guys never seemed to get anyone’s chips.” She grabbed my arm and led me around to the front of the house. “Follow me. The Christmas tree farm is always a good place to hide. I just hope Stan called Otis. He knows we’re having this party and that we get a little crazy sometimes, but he also keeps a loaded shotgun under his bed.” We wove our way through the cars and ran down her driveway.

  “Who’s Otis?” I asked, following Becky across the dirt road and up the long driveway bisecting the farm. We were surrounded by six- and seven-foot pine trees which, in the pale scattered light of the quarter moon, looked like huge men in dark overcoats. The sharp, wintry scent of pine seemed incongruous with the hot summer air and the electrical buzz of locusts. At the end of the driveway the old two-story farmhouse I’d seen at a distance earlier that afternoon loomed as dark and spooky as Dracula’s castle. A flickering yellow light illuminated a second-floor window.

  “Otis Spears. He owns this place. My dad and he were best friends. They owned the garage together.” Her sentences came out in short gasps. “Heavens, I need to start aerobics again. I’m exhausted already. Anyway, he’s like a member of our family. In fact, my girls call him Grandpa Otis.”

  A figure appeared in the lighted window. Becky waved, and the person waved back. “Good, he knows.” She pushed me gently between the shoulder blades. “Okay, you’re on your own now, sister-in-law. It’ll be harder to catch us if we split up.” She disappeared into the forest of pines. “Oh, shoot,” I heard her say, her voice growing fainter. “I should have sprayed my socks for chiggers.”

  Chiggers? Memories from my childhood visits in Arkansas caused me to scratch at my thighs prematurely. This was a Midwesterner’s idea of a fun Saturday night? I started into the Christmas trees and had threaded my way to a thick bunch of overgrown, untrimmed pines when the sound of angry voices stopped me. I hid behind a wide pine, eavesdropping on yet another argument. This time both voices were vaguely familiar, but I’d met so many new people in such a short time and the gummy air and dense trees made their words almost indecipherable. The wind shifted, and I heard a low voice say, “How could you!” The other voice, frantic and high, said something I couldn’t make out. Then the low voice returned. “. . . heartless . . .”

  In the distance, muffled by the trees, men’s voices, then rowdy laughter, moved up the driveway of the farm. I dashed through the trees and found a fence. Working my way by touch, I followed the fence until I reached the barn. I slid the door open. The scent of horse was strong and fresh, telling me it was a working barn. In the darkness a horse whinnied and pawed the ground. Not wanting to scare any animals, I decided against the barn. I came back out and edged my way around to the back of the building, trying to avoid the old cars and ancient farm implements only faintly illuminated by the silvery light. Something metal rang when I stepped on it. A cat screeched and darted in front of me, its yellow eyes glowing with fear. I jumped back and stumbled, then laughed at my overreaction.

  “By the barn!” a male voice yelled. I looked around frantically for somewhere to hide, then decided speed was my best bet at this point and headed through a field of cropped wheat. In the distance, a grove of dark trees looked like a good hiding place. A thought flashed through my mind as my feet crunched through the hard wheat tufts. Just what kinds of snakes were indigenous to Kansas, and where exactly did they go at night? I reached the grove of elm and cottonwood trees and found a metal shed. Crickets fell silent as I inched around to the back of the shed and rested against its cool metal side. I unbuttoned my shirt one button and fanned at the sweat trickling down my breastbone. These people were crazy. We were too old, and it was too darn hot for this. I closed my eyes and pretended the sultry air was a cool, Pacific Ocean breeze blowing through the canyons into San Celina. In a few minutes, the crickets took up their symphony again, and the locusts continued their high-pitched sawing. I stuck my fingers in my ears and wondered how anyone could get used to that sound. Far off, I could still hear men’s voices with an occasional shriek of laughter from a woman. Somebody was apparently losing a poker chip.

  For what seemed like hours, I leaned against the wall of the shed. No one had said exactly how we’d know when the game was over. This was beginning to take on the suspiciously familiar aura of a snipe hunt, and I wondered if maybe it was some weird Midwestern initiation ritual. If so, Gabe was going to be one very sorry cop when I got him alone. I worried the chip in my hand, trying to decide if I should just show myself, give up my chip, and go snag one of the chocolate eclairs I’d spied in Becky’s refrigerator. But the competitive side of me refused to give in. I wasn�
��t about to let these Jayhawkers think Californians couldn’t cut the mustard.

  The low humming of crickets stopped. I froze, cautiously peeking around the corner of the shed. Something skittered around the dark trunk of a twisted cottonwood tree. I narrowed my eyes, trying to make out what it was. From behind, a strong arm grabbed me around the waist and lifted me up. A huge, rough hand clamped over my mouth.

  Adrenaline shot through my veins. I kicked out and flung my arms backward trying to get loose. My fist smashed into skin and bone. I heard a surprised yelp; then my attacker dropped me. Pain shot through my tail-bone when I landed hard on my butt. I scrambled up and faced my moaning assailant, furious when I saw it was Gabe.

  “What are you trying to do?” I screamed. “Scare me to death?”

  “I told you to leave the brass knuckles at home,” he said, rubbing his cheek.

  “Geeze Louise, Gabe, what did you expect, sneaking up and grabbing me like that?” I pushed his hand away and ran my fingers over his cheek where a small knot was already beginning to form. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine, but sneaking up is the whole point of the game.” He took my hand and kissed the knuckle. “Now, where’s your poker chip?”

  I looked around in the dark weeds. “It’s here somewhere. I dropped it when you grabbed me. Besides, I’m not about to give it to you.”

  “That means you’ve got to persuade me that I don’t want it.” He laced his hands in mine and pinned me against the wall of the shed.

  I struggled against him, laughing. “How am I supposed to do that?”

  “That’s your problem.”

  “I’m beginning to see the point of this juvenile game now.”

  “That’s why I made sure I found you before anyone else did.” He bent and kissed me.

  After a minute or so, we came up for air. He groaned softly. “This makes me feel like a teenager again.”

  “In more ways than one.” I bumped my pelvis against his.

  A low rumble came from the back of his throat, and he bent to kiss me again. I turned my head and laughed. “One kiss per poker chip, Friday. Those are the rules.”

  He released my hands and grabbed my face, turning it back toward him. “Who told you that? There are no rules in this—”

  Before he could finish, a woman’s scream echoed through the warm night air. Gabe’s face went rigid, listening, still holding my face in his hands. The scream was long and steady, with an edge of hysteria that told us it wasn’t the pretend shriek of a woman playing a game.

  “It’s coming from the tree farm,” he said.

  THREE

  “LET’S GO,” GABE said, grabbing my hand. We ran across the field toward the screaming. As we passed the farmhouse, an elderly man in dark overalls and a stained yellow John Deere feed cap was coming down the front porch steps. He held a shotgun in one hand, a long black flashlight in the other. “Called the police,” he said. He tossed the flashlight to Gabe.

  “Thanks,” Gabe said, catching it with one hand. “Where?”

  “Sounds like the northeast corner. I’m guessin’ three, four rows up from the fence.”

  “Stay here with Otis,” Gabe commanded and disappeared into the rows of trees.

  “You the new missus?” the man asked. Close-set dark eyes studied me from under the yellow cap. He pulled absently at one large ear.

  “Yes, sir. Benni Harper.”

  “Good meetin’ you. Otis Spears.” He pulled a palm-sized flashlight out of his pocket. “Let’s go after the boy.”

  I followed him into the Christmas tree lot, where the dense rows of pines had the spooky sameness of a house of mirrors at the county fair. Otis obviously knew this property well because he didn’t hesitate once as we crisscrossed through the trees. Fine spider webs swept across my face, and I scrubbed frantically at my cheeks, trying to wipe away the shivery, repulsive feel. The steamy smell of pine became overpowering as we moved deeper into the trees toward the murmuring voices. I bit back a gasp when someone burst out of the trees to the left of us.

  “What’s going on?” Dewey asked, breathing heavily.

  “We don’t know.” I pointed into the trees. “Gabe went that way.” Dewey disappeared down a row. “How big is this place?” I asked Otis.

  “Fifty acres,” he said, switching the shotgun from one arm to the other without breaking his stride. “Twenty of it’s Christmas trees.”

  I could make out Gabe’s flashlight now and could hear his straining-to-be-polite but autocratic chief-of-police voice through the pines. “Everyone move away from the area. Now.”

  Otis and I elbowed our way through the gathered crowd. Gabe and Dewey were stooped over someone lying between two perfectly trimmed Christmas trees. The party guests craned to view the area lit by Gabe’s flashlight. “I said move back,” he snapped harshly over his shoulder, his genial civil servant persona gone now. They obeyed silently, moving back a foot or two. I edged around the crowd and came up behind Gabe. When he stood up, I touched his elbow. His angry expression turned troubled.

  “I don’t think you should see this,” he said, slipping his arm around my shoulders. His strained voice made me hesitate before glancing at the body.

  Tyler lay face down on a blanket of pine needles, the back of her blond head smashed in and thick with blood. I inhaled sharply at the brutal savagery of her wounds and turned my head into Gabe’s shoulder.

  “Are you going to be all right?” He tightened his arm.

  “Yes,” I said, swallowing hard.

  Lawrence walked up, his round eyes unblinking and dilated behind his glasses. “What do you want us to do, Gabe?”

  “One last time, everyone needs to move back,” Gabe repeated in a loud voice. “Get over by the fence. Don’t move and don’t touch anything. It shouldn’t be long until the authorities arrive.”

  “Is there something I can do?” I asked.

  He pulled me aside and said in a low voice, “There’s not much anyone can do at this point. Dewey and I need to secure the area. With this many people walking around, a lot of evidence has probably already been destroyed.” He scanned the group and swore softly in Spanish. “I’m glad this isn’t my case. I can’t imagine a bunch of people I’d less like to question.”

  An undertone of sound came from the nervous crowd. Otis pushed his way through, carrying an old quilt he’d apparently fetched from his house. He laid it gently over Tyler’s ravaged body.

  “Otis,” Gabe protested. “This is a murder scene. You can’t . . .”

  “She deserves some dignity,” Otis said, pulling the yellow and white basket quilt over her head. One pale square soaked up blood like a paper towel.

  “What are you going to do?” I whispered to Gabe.

  He pulled at his mustache irritably. “Leave it. The damage is already done. I’ll explain it to the detectives when they get here.”

  “All right, you heard Gabe. Move over near the fence,” Dewey said. We all turned to look at him, surprised to hear him speak. Gabe’s authoritative presence had made us forget this was actually Dewey’s jurisdiction. I joined the crowd over by the split-rail fence and leaned against a post.

  “Rob,” Lawrence suddenly said next to me. “Where’s Rob?”

  As if on cue, he appeared out of the trees. “What’s all the commotion?” he asked, his voice light. “I was down near the pond when I heard someone scream. Scared the crap out of me.” He froze when he saw the quilt-covered body lying on the ground with Tyler’s tiny black boots sticking out from under it.

  He looked at Gabe, confused. “What’s going on?”

  Gabe took his arm and started to lead him away. “Rob, I’m sorry. It’s Tyler.”

  “Tyler?” he repeated, his voice catching. He shook off Gabe’s restraining hand and tore the quilt off her body.

  “No!” His wail seemed smothered in the heavy damp air. He reached down to touch her.

  “Rob, don’t,” Dewey said, catching his hand.

  �
��Call an ambulance!” Rob yelled frantically at us.

  “Rob,” Gabe said quietly. “We’ve called the police.”

  “But we need the paramedics. We need an ambulance. Did someone call an ambulance?” No one answered. Our silence was explanation enough. He turned to Gabe, the skin around his eyes white with anger. “Are you saying she’s dead? Is that what you’re saying?”

  Gabe put a hand on Rob’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Rob.”

  “Who would do this? Why?”

  Gabe answered him in a careful voice. “We don’t know, Rob. But we’ll find out.”

  “Yes,” Dewey said, scrutinizing Rob’s ravaged face. “We will.”

  In the next hour, the dirt road in front of the tree farm was jammed with a variety of official vehicles—the white and blue squad cars of the Derby and Wichita police, a couple of Sedgwick County Sheriff cars, a navy blue crime-scene investigation van, a paramedic’s truck, and a couple of obviously official cars of the unmarked variety. From what I could pick up, they were having trouble deciding just whose jurisdiction this was. That became an especially sticky problem when the reporters from the local television stations and newspapers arrived and demanded information.

  The Sheriff’s Department took control until jurisdiction could be established. Becky and Stan’s house would be used as a place to question everyone. A tall, distinguished man smoking a cigar, apparently Derby’s chief of police, sternly informed us to please refrain from talking among ourselves and to ignore the reporters shouting questions at us. Gabe and Dewey were still talking to the investigating officers when two Derby patrol officers escorted us like schoolchildren across the road. The flashing lights of the police cars glowed red, blue, and amber across our faces, making everyone appear as if they were wearing some grotesque Halloween makeup. At the house, they divided us into two groups—men and women. The men were relegated to the basement with a young Sheriff’s Department detective; the women were taken to the living room accompanied by a Wichita detective with a reddish nose and an incessant smoker’s cough. He pulled out a package of cigarettes, then hastily slipped them back in the pocket of his blue suit when Becky frowned at him.