Kansas Troubles

by Earlene Fowler

  “Oh, boy,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Maybe she and I can play jacks while you two men discuss grown-up stuff.”

  “Brat,” he said, laughing.

  After dropping him off, I drove down Madison, Derby’s main street, and pulled into the dusty parking lot of Harlow’s Feed and Grain. I wondered if Janet and Lawrence’s troublemaking daughter, Megan, was working today. Two vehicles were parked in front—an old Jeep Wrangler with ripped front seats and a faded red Suburban. The usual Purina checkerboard sign proclaimed that Harlow’s was the place to shop for dog, rabbit, cat, and chicken chow. A rusty cowbell on the wooden screen door announced my entrance. I inhaled the familiar feed store smell of sweet hay and sharp, tangy ointments.

  “Howdy,” a female voice called from the back. “I’ll be out in two shakes.”

  I smiled when Janet walked out from behind a row of veterinary supplies carrying a bundle of bills.

  “You work here?” I asked. “I thought you ran a craft store.”

  “Run it and own it, fool that I am. Sunflower Quilts and Crafts, four blocks up the street. My sister’s watching it today. I’m just helping out until . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  “Have you heard anything?” I asked.

  “No.” She walked around the counter and opened the cash register, slipping the bills in. “Lawrence is going back into Wichita to see Rob this morning. He feels real bad about fighting with him last night. Megan, my daughter, is going with him. That’s why I’m taking her shift today.”

  “Janet, where do you keep your Corona ointment?” a hoarse, good-natured female voice called across the store. “Darn, you’re not out, are you? I haven’t got time for a trip to Wichita today. I’ve got four horses to exercise and six lessons booked. And on such a pisser of a hot day, too.” The woman abruptly stopped talking when she reached the counter and saw that Janet wasn’t alone. “Oh, sorry. Didn’t realize you had a customer.” She was lean and freckled with gray-blond hair pulled back in a thick braid. I guessed her to be somewhere in her early forties; she wore bright blue Rocky Mountain jeans, a tight, cropped tank top, and tan manure-caked lace-up Ropers.

  “This is Benni,” Janet said. “Gabe’s new wife.”

  Her pale green eyes flicked over me in a quick, condescending once-over. “Benni, huh? Where’d you get a name like that?”

  “My given name is Albenia. My father’s name is Ben. My mother’s was Alice.”

  She gave a curt nod. “Cute. So, how’d you meet our Gabe?”

  “I was a suspect in one of his murder investigations.”

  She snorted and laughed, revealing a gold crown on one of her molars. “Leave it to Gabe. At least he didn’t stoop to using the personal ads.”

  “Excuse me,” I said, gritting my teeth. “I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Where are my manners?” Janet said. “This is Belinda Champagne.”

  Dewey’s ex-wife. I studied the woman with more interest now.

  “Didn’t you and Gabe even date at one time?” Janet asked Belinda.

  “Once or twice,” she said. “He never much cared for horsey women.”

  Involuntarily, my lips tightened. Was that meant to be a barb? I was at a disadvantage here because I didn’t know how much she knew about me and my background. I was familiar with the superior attitude some horse people took with those not completely enamored of all things equine. Taking in my white cotton shorts, Nikes, and surfer-type T-shirt, she probably figured I was some kind of California beach bunny. I hated being judged by the clothes I wore or by whether I happened to have learned how to make a horse behave. And loving animals was no guarantee you were a decent human being. I’ve known some pretty rotten individuals who were great with horses, dogs, and cattle.

  “That’s certainly changed now, I’d imagine,” Janet said diplomatically. “Benni grew up on a cattle ranch.”

  “That right?” Belinda looked at me with a bit more respect, but her voice was still tinged with sarcasm. “Well, gee willikers, a real-life cowgirl. So I guess you ride, then.”

  “Since I was two years old,” I said stiffly.

  “Well, if you get bored, come on out to the stables. We’ve got some real solid little ponies, and they always need exercising.”

  I thanked her and stood quietly while Janet found the ointment and walked Belinda out the door to the parking lot. I watched them through the rusty screen, suspecting their low conversation concerned Tyler’s murder and Rob’s attempted suicide. There was no way I could eavesdrop without being seen, so I tried on leather gloves until Janet came back into the store. I selected a pair of buttery-soft Berlin deerskins.

  “I’m going to help Otis work his new horse,” I said, explaining my purchase. “It’ll give me something to do while Gabe is gallivanting around.”

  “You should take Belinda up on her offer, then,” Janet suggested. “I know she seems a little gruff, but she’s really a sweet person once you get to know her. I’m sure you two would get along famously.”

  “Maybe,” I said, thinking, Not in this lifetime, honey. I had no intention of seeing that woman again. I slipped the gloves into my purse.

  Janet gave a small embarrassed smile. “Well, I’m sure you’ll be going out to the stable sometime during your visit. Dewey’s so proud of his horses, he shows them off any chance he can get. He breeds quarter horses.”

  “I’m looking forward to it. He and Belinda both own the stable, right?”

  “Yes, and it’s worked out well for them even if their marriage didn’t. They board a lot of horses for people in Wichita, and that helps pay for their breeding operation. He and his son, Chet, used to team-rope before Chet got bit by the bull-riding bug. Chet’s going to compete this weekend at the Pretty Prairie Rodeo. Are you and Gabe going?”

  “I don’t know, but I imagine so if Dewey’s son is going to ride in it.”

  “Well, come by Sunflower Quilts sometime before you leave. We’ve got some wonderful Amish quilts and rugs you might like.”

  “Sounds great. I will.”

  I climbed back in the Camaro and pulled out of the parking lot trying to decide what I should do. It was getting close to noon and was already too hot and muggy to give Sinful or myself a workout. I drove through town and thought about the rest of the vacation looming ahead of me. When I reached the end of town and passed Derby Bowl, Angel happened to be climbing out of her white Toyota truck and spotted the Camaro. She gestured enthusiastically, so reluctantly I turned around and pulled into the parking lot. I had a feeling that from the street she couldn’t tell who was driving. As I suspected, her face fell when she saw me step out of the car. She recovered quickly and tried to look friendly.

  “Ran out of lowfat milk for the coffee,” she said, pulling a Food 4 Less sack out of the truck’s cab. “Senior citizen leagues,” she explained.

  I followed her into the twelve-lane bowling alley. All the lanes were full with laughing seniors wearing square-hemmed bowling shirts in a rainbow of colors. Their team names made me smile. Dial-A-Prayer, Retha’s Raiders, Gutter Tramps, Bea’s Bombers, Dusty’s Tomatoes. The one thing I’ve always liked about bowlers is their wacky sense of humor.

  “Let me put this away and I’ll show you around the place,” Angel said.

  She filled the plastic cow-shaped milk servers on the snack bar counter and put the rest of the milk in the refrigerator. I studied the small bowling alley as she worked. Though they’d acquired modern computerized score-keeping equipment, the alley itself, with its orange, beige, and green plastic chairs and slow-moving ceiling fans circulating the cool air reminded me of the one I bowled at in San Celina before it closed down in the seventies.

  “Let’s go in my office,” Angel said, pointing to a white door behind the snack counter.

  I declined the coffee she offered, and sat in the chair next to her desk. The office walls were bare except for a tarnished gold-framed picture of Kathryn, Gabe, Angel, and Becky that must have been taken in the early sixties
. The girls looked to be about five or so, Gabe about eleven. In gold stick-on letters across the bottom were the words Mi Vida—My Life.

  She noticed me studying it. “That hung in my father’s office down at the garage until the day he died.”

  I didn’t answer. I didn’t know what to say to Angel. She and I hadn’t hit it off all that well at the party, and so now, figuring the only other thing we had in common besides her brother was the murder, I asked, “Did you hear that they decided it was a brick that killed Tyler?”

  “Yeah, Becky told me. That just means it could have been anyone.”

  “Yes, I suppose so.” There was a minute of uncomfortable silence.

  “Where’s Gabe?” she asked.

  “Meeting some old friends. And he’s going to visit Rob again.”

  “Rob’s an ass.” Angel’s intense brown eyes watched for my reaction.

  “Do you think he killed her?” I asked. In the background, bowling pins rumbled across the wooden lanes. The bowlers gave thin, high cheers.

  “He’s too much of a wimp. This suicide thing is just for attention.”

  Since she seemed to be fairly open about it, I decided to push the conversation a little further. “So who do you think did it?”

  “I imagine there were a lot of people who might want to kill her.”

  Her comment surprised me. “Why?” And who? I added silently.

  She shrugged. “I’ve worked as a bartender for more years than I care to admit. People like Tyler are a whole separate species.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She propped her foot on the desk and fiddled with the laces on her sneakers. “Ambitious, competitive, willing to do anything to succeed.”

  “She didn’t seem that way when I met her,” I said. And I couldn’t help remembering how she moved the audience when she sang. Perhaps I was naive, but I wanted to believe there was some depth to a talent like hers.

  “Plenty of these creative types have got that ‘public face’ down pat. And some really are good people. It’s difficult sometimes to figure out who’s real and who’s just playing you like a fiddle.”

  “You’re saying Tyler was a fiddle player?”

  “I’m just saying don’t be fooled by her innocent demeanor. It took someone incredibly determined and one-track-minded to walk away from her family like she did.” Angel took a big swallow of coffee. “And in my experience, people with one-track minds sometimes have a tendency to derail.”

  “Then who do you think did it?”

  Her voice was low but penetrating, with a hint of laughter in it. “Could have been any of us, don’t you think?”

  “I don’t think so,” I asserted. “I, for one, had no reason to kill her. Neither did Gabe.”

  “That eliminates two out of what—thirty or forty?”

  “So,” I repeated, “who do you think might have done it?”

  “You’re as persistent as a yellow jacket, aren’t you? Okay, Gabe says you like playing detective. Who do you think are likely suspects?”

  “What about that fight that Rob and Lawrence had? Did it have any connection with Tyler?”

  “I think they’re both suspects, but that fight had to do with Rob dating Lawrence’s daughter. Now if Rob had been killed . . .”

  “Okay, so it probably wasn’t Lawrence, unless he was trying to hurt Rob through Tyler. What about the daughter? Was Megan there?”

  “I don’t recall her being there, but I’m sure she knew the party was going on. Not to mention she has one heck of a crush on Rob.”

  “So, who else?”

  “Well, there’s Cordie June.”

  “Yes, I can see that.” I thought about the look on her face when Tyler captured the audience with her last song. “Jealousy is always a good motive for murder. But how would killing Tyler further Cordie June’s career ?”

  “I don’t know, but I know who would.”

  “Who?”

  “One of their band members. When I worked as a bartender, I used to hang out with the guys in the band. Believe me, they know all the gossip and, for a few beers, are willing to dish it.”

  I thought of T.K., Tyler’s friend and the lead guitarist in the band. How was he taking her death? And how much did he know?

  “If Lawrence’s daughter could have done it, so could Janet,” I blurted, then immediately clamped my mouth shut, feeling my face turn warm. I’d forgotten for a moment that these people were Angel’s friends, people she’d grown up with, and here I was dispassionately accusing them of murder.

  “Janet . . .” Angel mused, apparently not insulted. “Could be.”

  Her nonchalance surprised me. “Doesn’t this bother you? I mean, thinking of your friends as suspects in a murder?”

  “Acquaintances,” Angel said, giving me a jaded look. “I may have known them all my life, but that doesn’t make them my friends.”

  “Say, Angel, have you seen . . . ?” Dewey stuck his head around the corner of the door and smiled when he saw me. “You’re just the lady I’m hunting. I promised your husband I’d keep an eye on you, so I’m here to take you to one of Derby’s finer dining establishments for lunch.”

  The idea that I needed checking on irritated me, but I tried to give Gabe the benefit of the doubt and assume he just didn’t want me to have to eat lunch alone. “How’d you know I was here?”

  “Not too many cherry-red Camaros in a town this size.”

  He leaned up against the wall of Angel’s office, hands stuck in his pants pockets, jingling change. He looked entirely different today in a conservative navy sport coat, dark gray slacks, white shirt, and conservative tie. I’m always amazed at how dress clothes instantly give a man more perceived authority, and how often we make snap judgments about people, based solely on their attire. It made me think of Belinda this morning. There was no doubt in my mind she would have treated me differently had I been dressed in my everyday Wranglers and worn Justin boots. I thought of Cordie June and her flashy clothes worn with the sole purpose of attracting attention, and Tyler’s sister, Hannah, and how her clothes were chosen for the exact opposite effect. It was inevitable, this immediate judging of people by outward appearances, but foolish.

  “Looks like you’re grinding some brain gears there,” Dewey said. “What’re you thinking about?”

  “Nothing,” I said, shaking my head and laughing. “Where are we going for lunch?”

  “Gabe says you love foods of the cheap fried variety. Have I got a place for you!”

  “You’ll have to drive,” he said, walking out to the parking lot. “I had a patrol officer drop me off. Your husband smooth-talked me out of my truck.”

  We drove five blocks to a cafe named Cricket’s Coffee Hutch. It was twenty degrees cooler inside, and lunch started to sound actually appealing. The small restaurant had red gingham curtains and matching table-cloths. At the counter, a row of old men in stained overalls and Dickie workpants held up by elastic suspenders drank white mugs of coffee and vigorously debated some farm bill. Behind the front counter, rearranging an assortment of gum, candy bars, and chewing tobacco, was a tall middle-aged woman with thickly painted coral lips and a red hairdo that reminded me of a football helmet.

  “Why, Detective Champagne,” she said. “You sweet thing. Where have you been? It’s been a dog’s age since I’ve had the pleasure of serving a member of Derby’s fine law enforcement.” Her accent was deep South, though I couldn’t tell from exactly where. “And who is this you got here? You’re robbing the cradle again, you wicked boy. What have you done with little ole Cordie June?”

  Dewey laughed. “Unfortunately, this one’s not mine, Norma. This is Benni, Gabe Ortiz’s new wife. They’re here from California, visiting Kathryn.”

  “That right?” Her Joan Crawford eyebrows flew up with interest. “You know any movie stars? You know David Hasselhoff? From Baywatch? Honey, that man sends more than my heart aflutter, if you get my drift.”

  “No, I’m sorry,” I sa
id. “I live quite a bit north of Hollywood and Malibu. No movie stars in my neck of the woods.”

  “Shame,” she said. “So, you’re Kathryn’s new daughter-in-law. You know she meets here once a week with the Friends of the Library. She was showing around a picture of her son a couple of weeks ago. He is one sexy-looking devil, I tell you what. I was real sorry to hear he’d been snatched up. And me not even getting a crack at him. Now, the special is roast beef and mashed potatoes. It’s a good piece of meat—I picked it out myself—and it comes with salad and a big ole hunk of pecan pie. How’s that sound?”

  Dewey gave me an amused wink. “Sound okay, Benni?”

  “Fine,” I said, smiling back at him. I wasn’t about to nix anything this woman said.

  Our food arrived quickly, and for fifteen minutes we ate and talked about Dewey’s stable and horses and his successes and failures with breeding. I told him about meeting Belinda and her offer to ride some of their horses.

  “Absolutely,” he said, sipping his iced tea. “I’ll give you a tour tonight, and then you come on out whenever you want. We’ll probably be having a barbecue this weekend, too, since Chet’s in town and he just turned twenty-one last week. You going to come to see him ride in Pretty Prairie?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it,” I said.

  The mention of Chet got him started on what was, I could tell, a favorite subject. Chet was doing extremely well on the rodeo circuit this year, but had been on the road for three months solid. Dewey pulled out his wallet and unfolded a newspaper picture of his son stumbling away from a wild, slobbering bull, a painful grimace on his young face. “Chet Champagne scores an astounding 91 riding Bobby’s Axeman,” the headline read.

  “Here’s what he looks like when he’s not running from a crazy bull.” Dewey handed me a picture of Chet flanked by his parents. The picture showed a good-looking young man with Belinda’s lean frame and Dewey’s dark hair and lazy smile.

  “I bet you’re real proud of him,” I commented, handing back the clipping.