Kansas Troubles

by Earlene Fowler

  She filled our plates with the sweet-smelling pie, a helping of chow-chow that reminded me of my aunt Garnet’s pickled spring vegetables, slices of ham crusted with a brown sugar glaze, and thick pieces of homemade white bread spread with cool, salty butter. While eating, we talked about quilting and Hannah’s flower garden, how bad the tomato worms were this year and how hot it was. She asked me if I was enjoying Kansas and told me she’d always been curious about California. She blushed when she confessed that Disneyland, as worldly as it was, was someplace she’d always wanted to see. Finally the conversation turned to Tyler. Becky asked Hannah if the police had talked with her yet.

  Before answering, Hannah cut each of us a slice of a four-layer coconut cake. She sat down and stared at her plate. “Yes, but I didn’t have anything to tell them. You know I haven’t seen her in over a year. I don’t know what her life was like except for what you have told me.” She picked up her fork, then laid it back down. A shininess appeared in her gray eyes.

  Becky touched her friend’s hand. “They’ll find whoever did this.”

  Hannah pushed her cake away, and put a hand to her temple tentatively. “I know, Becky. In my heart I know that God allowed this to happen for a reason and that justice will be done, if not now, then in eternity.” Becky and I finished our cake silently. Hannah picked at hers, then abruptly stood up, straightened her back, and walked over to the sink. With sharp, quick strokes, she scraped what remained of her cake into a large aluminum pan.

  The back door flew open, and Ruthie and Emma tumbled into the kitchen. “Mama, can Becky come see the chickies now?”

  Her face grew tender with affection. “Yes, if she wants.”

  “I most certainly do,” Becky said, grabbing each girl’s hand. “Hannah, Benni would love to see your quilts. Would you mind showing them to her?”

  “If she likes,” Hannah said.

  She took me into an airy bedroom upstairs and opened a blue-painted highboy. Silently I named the patterns as she laid them across the narrow bed—Sawtooth Diamond, Sunshine and Shadow, Double Nine-Patch, Tree of Life, Fence Row, Wild Goose Chase, Grandmother’s Flower Garden. All traditional Amish patterns using no printed fabric, their brilliantly colored symmetry and complex quilting exemplified the reasons that these quilts were so prized by collectors and lovers of folk art. Each seemed more impressive than the last, and finally I ceased exclaiming over them and just enjoyed their beauty. The last one she pulled out was a traditional Star of Bethlehem, that arresting pattern of hundreds of tiny diamond-shaped pieces, in this case ranging in color from bright purple to sky-blue to Turkey-red to the dark green of a summer pine. Only one thing marred its adherence to Amish tradition. The final diamond on each tip of the eight-pointed star was made with a dark green material with the tiniest print of flowers. A small cry of defiance in a stifling world of conformity.

  “This is the only quilt I have left of Ruth’s,” Hannah said sadly, smoothing it as if it were a beloved child’s unruly hair. “It was a birthday gift. She took all the others with her when she left, and sold them. I’m just thankful Becky bought some and that I have this one left.”

  “It’s incredible,” I said, studying the intricate stitching. I looked up at Hannah. A faint sheen of perspiration gave her face a rosy glow. Her brow furrowed. “This must be very hard for you.”

  “Yes,” she said, the troubled expression on her face deepening. “Becky’s brother . . .” she began, then cleared her throat delicately. “Your husband. He’s a police officer, isn’t he?”

  “Yes,” I said, mystified. “Why?”

  She looked down and started folding up the quilts quickly. I helped her silently, sensing that she’d finish her thought when she was ready. She carefully laid Ruth’s quilt on top of the others in the chest, giving it a sorrowful look before closing the doors. Then she turned to me, her neat, pointed jaw set determinedly. For a moment, with that look of stubborn resolve, the similarity between her and Tyler was eerie.

  “I have something I must show you,” she said.

  FIVE

  HANNAH AND I walked across the backyard to the paint-peeled barn, the strong, tangy odor of pigs surrounding us. The clouds had moved south, and through the shimmering heat of the clear afternoon air we could hear Becky’s teasing voice in the distance and the high, excited squeals of Hannah’s daughters. Inside the cool barn, she led me to a small room in the back. Tack of all sizes hung on the rough walls. Wood shavings decorated the floor around four straight-backed wooden chairs. Two men were in the room; both had the traditional untrimmed beard and bare upper lip of the Old Order Amish male. One had pale thinning hair, ice-blue eyes and a penny-sized mole on his left cheek. He sat behind a scarred desk cleaning a bridle worn dark brown from use. The buttery-sweet smell of saddle soap filled the room. The other man, leaning against the wall across from him, was about six feet tall, with dark eyes, a weathered complexion, and long legs. They stopped talking when we entered.

  “This is my husband, Eli,” Hannah said, pointing to the blue-eyed man cleaning tack. “And our friend, John Stoltzfus. This is Becky’s sister-in-law, Benni. The one who’s married to the policeman. I’m giving it to her.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I said.

  Eli frowned at me, then slowly dipped his head in acknowledgment. The other man, John, stared at me silently. Hannah opened the top drawer of an old wood cabinet and pulled out a legal-sized envelope. She gestured at me to follow her back outside.

  In the backyard, under the cool shade of a massive walnut tree, she handed me the envelope. “Please excuse my husband’s unfriendliness,” she said. “Since the police came to question us this morning, he and John have not been in the best of moods.”

  “Why would it bother John?”

  She looked surprised, then flushed with emotion. “Becky has not told you about John?”

  “No,” I said carefully. “I guess she didn’t.”

  “John and Ruth are married. When she left, he was very upset. It has been hard for him.”

  Married? I thought. Tyler is—was—married? I was speechless for a moment. “What—” I started, not certain what I wanted to ask. “How—”

  “We do not believe in divorce,” Hannah said quietly. “For us, marriage is until death.”

  “So what is he supposed to do?” I realized after I said it that it wasn’t a problem for him now. “I mean, before—What did he do?”

  “Lived his life according to the Scriptures, prayed for her return. The bishop told him he must look upon it as a test of faith.”

  “But no remarriage. No children.” I knew enough about the Amish to understand how that would be the ultimate sacrifice, the supreme test of faith.

  “No. No children.”

  I looked into her sad eyes, and the unspoken truth hung between us heavy as pollen in the air. Now he could remarry and have a family within the bounds of the community. Had anyone told the police that Tyler was married? Was he the Amish man who argued with Tyler on the porch last night? And could a man raised Amish actually kill someone?

  I contemplated the envelope she’d handed me. It had been opened and resealed with Scotch tape. “What is this?”

  “Ruth’s bank book,” she said. “I looked, though perhaps I shouldn’t have. There’s a lot of money in it.”

  Taking that as a cue, I opened the envelope. The account, on deposit in a downtown branch of the First Bank of Wichita, was opened on January twelfth of this year with a starting balance of ten thousand dollars. It showed a balance of $6258.67 as of last Friday, when five hundred dollars had been withdrawn. Five withdrawals had been made during the last six months. I guessed Tyler had been using this money to supplement her unpredictable earnings as a singer.

  “Why do you have this?” I asked, slipping the bank book back in the envelope. “I thought you and Ty—Ruth didn’t communicate. Oh, I forgot. Becky.” Had Becky failed to tell the police about this money, as she’d failed to tell them about Tyler’s husband
? I wondered what else she knew that she hadn’t told.

  “Oh, no,” Hannah said, shaking her head in protest. “Becky doesn’t know about this. For some reason, Ruth did not confide in her about this money. A couple of days ago Ruth came out and gave the bank book to Fannie Fisher, the woman who owns the fabric store in town. She is an old school friend of ours. Ruth told Fannie to give it to me if anything should happen to her, that she wanted the money to be mine and Eli’s. She told her to tell me to sign her name and draw the money out. But I can’t do that. I don’t know where Ruth got this kind of money. She had nothing when she left, and I know she didn’t make that much singing . . . ” Hannah’s voice trailed off. Above us, in the thick foliage of the tree, a squirrel chattered at a crow holding something red and raw in its beak. “It’s as if she knew she was in danger. Doesn’t it seem so? Oh, how I wish she’d never left us.”

  I ran my fingers up and down the edge of the envelope, trying to figure this out. “Why didn’t you give this to the police officer this morning?”

  “I don’t know. He was so cold and uncaring. He seemed so certain that Ruth did something to cause her own death.” She blinked rapidly.

  “I don’t understand. What do you want me to do?”

  “Your husband. He’s a policeman. Becky has told me he is a man of great honesty. I thought perhaps . . .”

  “Hannah, he’s a police officer in California. He doesn’t have any jurisdiction here. He’ll just have to turn it over to the local police himself.”

  Pressing two fingers to the space between her eyes, she said, “I know. I just want it out of here.” Her eyes pleaded with me. “I realize you don’t know me and that none of this is your concern, but I don’t know who else to turn to. I don’t want Becky involved, because she lives here and I don’t know where my sister got this money, but I suspect it came from something that wasn’t good. Ruth wasn’t always the easiest person to love, but I did love her.” She said the last sentence passionately. “But to keep this money would be wrong. Please, could you just give it to your husband?”

  I folded the envelope in half and stuck it in the back pocket of my jeans. “Yes, but the police will eventually want to question you about it.”

  “I know, but it gives me some time. To think . . . and to pray. Eli is very upset about this. John is like a brother to him.” She touched my forearm. “Please, don’t tell Becky about this. She has been so kind to me and Ruth. I’m so afraid to involve her in something bad.”

  “All right,” I said, not feeling entirely good about the whole situation. But a part of me was intrigued. Considering the amount of money in the account and knowing the poverty in which most aspiring musicians lived, Hannah was probably right in guessing that Tyler hadn’t gotten this money legitimately. The question remained, Where did she get it and did it involve her murder? We returned to the house and sat on the front porch waiting for Becky and the girls. “I’d love to purchase one of your quilts,” I told Hannah, trying to steer the conversation toward a pleasanter subject than her sister’s murder. “Or perhaps commission you to make one for me.”

  “That would probably be best,” she said. “You could meet me at Fannie’s store in Miller and pick out fabric. Just call Fannie and tell her what day you’re coming, and I’ll meet you there. Anytime is fine with me.”

  “Hey, you two,” Becky called from across the yard. She was carrying a round melon basket over her arm. Ruthie and Emma tumbled around her legs like two golden retriever puppies. “Your hens are really going to town this summer. I’d like to buy two dozen eggs if you can spare them.”

  “Of course I can,” Hannah said, smiling. We talked about her hens and the quilt she would make me as she packed up the eggs. She insisted we take three jars of raspberry preserves and an apple strudel she’d made that morning. As we drove slowly down the soft dirt driveway, Ruthie and Emma ran alongside the Cherokee, tripping over their own legs like gawky colts.

  On the highway, Becky turned on the cruise control and the radio. Tanya Tucker was having some kind of trouble and her preacher was tellin’ her that all God’s children got their own kind of trouble. Amen, I thought.

  “I met Hannah’s husband while you and the girls were looking at the chickens,” I said. “And Tyler’s husband, John.”

  “She told you, then,” Becky said, her voice relieved. “So, what do you think?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “About John. You know, that doesn’t look real good, you seeing him at the house last night right before she was killed. . . .”

  “I didn’t see him exactly,” I reminded her. “I saw an Amish man. It could have been anyone.”

  She shook her head and made a disbelieving noise in her throat.

  “Why didn’t you tell me Tyler was married?” I asked, slightly irritated. Along with a taste for speeding, this habit of suppressing information seemed to be an Ortiz family trait.

  “I didn’t even tell the police. I figured they’d find out soon enough when they questioned Hannah and Eli. And if I told you, you’d have felt obligated to tell Gabe, who would then have felt obligated to tell Dewey.”

  I followed her logic, but was still irritated.

  “Well,” she said, “they apparently know now. So, what do you think?”

  I thought for a moment, then answered her with a question. “Do you really think John could have killed her? Isn’t that kind of violence way out of character for someone who’s Amish?”

  “Absolutely,” she said. “And if the police have any brains at all, they’ll realize that, too.”

  Thinking about Gabe and the other cops I’d become acquainted with and their often justifiable cynicism about human behavior, I had a strong hunch that John being Amish wasn’t going to impress any branch of Kansas law enforcement.

  When we arrived back at Kathryn’s house, the empty driveway told us that she and Gabe had not returned from the hospital. During the trip, the envelope in my back pocket felt as if it had doubled in size. I was anxious to tell Gabe what I learned, but that apparently was going to have to wait.

  “It’s past six o’clock,” Becky said. “Why don’t you leave them a note on the door and have dinner with us? Gabe can pick you up when he gets home. No point in you sitting here alone. Besides, you haven’t met my girls yet.”

  Stan, Paige, and Whitney were just climbing out of a dark blue Grand Marquis sedan when Becky and I drove up. Paige, the twelve-year-old, had a thin, serious face and a freckled, sun-peeled nose. She politely held out a water-wrinkled hand when Becky introduced us. Whitney, four years younger, with two missing front teeth and hair tinted pale green from chlorine, giggled and waved.

  Becky threw together a magazine-perfect summer supper of cold garlic and rosemary chicken breasts, Caesar salads, and fresh sourdough bread. Afterwards, we sat out on the front porch on her white wicker furniture, sipped lemonade, and watched the sun dip toward the horizon. I glanced at my watch. It was almost eight o’clock now, and I wondered if I was ever going to hear from my husband again. Paige and Whitney dressed and undressed Whitney’s Barbie dolls until Paige became bored and started bugging her mom to go across the street.

  “I want to see Grandpa,” she whined. “And Cinnamon.”

  Becky glanced at Stan. “I don’t know. It’s going to be dark soon . . .” I could see the fear in her eyes, and it hit me suddenly how frightening Tyler’s murder must be for this small town.

  “Who’s Cinnamon?” I asked.

  “Grandpa Otis’ new horse,” Whitney piped up. “He’s training Cinnamon so he can sell him. He won him in a poker game.”

  “Had a choice between the horse and the guy’s ’85 Buick Skyhawk,” Stan commented in his lazy voice. “He chose the horse.”

  I smiled. “Good choice. I’ve never seen a horse that was won in a poker match. How about if I go with them?”

  “That would be fine,” Becky said, her voice relieved. “I’ll make some chocolate ice cream while you’re gone.”r />
  Whitney, who had accepted me as her Aunt Benni with the unquestioning blitheness of an eight-year-old, grabbed my hand and swung it as we walked down the long driveway and across the road to the Christmas tree farm. Paige bounded ahead of us, brandishing a stick as if it were a sword. Neither girl could resist stopping and staring past the yellow police tape into the thick clump of trees. The actual murder spot couldn’t be seen from the gravel driveway, so Whitney peppered me with questions.

  “Was it scary?” she asked, her eyes bright. “Was there blood everywhere? Did you throw up?”

  “Whitney!” Paige scolded. “Don’t be so gross.” She shot her younger sister an impatient look. Her serious face was apologetic when she turned to me. “Please ignore her. She’s very immature.” Her clipped words sounded so much like Kathryn’s, I had to smile.

  “Am not,” Whitney said, pushing her sister.

  “Are, too,” Paige retorted. They continued to pick on each other as we walked around to the side of the house where the corral was located. When they spotted the old man I’d met last night, they stopped their fighting and dashed over to him.

  “Grandpa Otis,” they cried, climbing up on the corral’s metal railing. “Make Cinnamon gallop!”

  In the center of the arena, Otis, still wearing his yellow feed cap, held a nylon lunge line and exercised a narrow-necked, elegant-legged red roan gelding that appeared to have more than a little thoroughbred in it. He cracked his long lunge whip, and the horse went into an extended trot.

  I joined the girls on the railing and watched Otis put the gelding through its paces. The horse had a smooth, graceful gait, and responded with energy and just the slightest show of rebellion to the snap of Otis’s whip. We watched Cinnamon walk, jog, go into an extended trot, lope, and full gallop. The girls squealed with delight when the horse raced around Otis, its white-streaked red mane flying in the warm breeze.

  Otis brought the roan back to a walk and called out to the girls, “Hey there, my little chickadees. What do you think of your Grandpa’s horse now?”