Kansas Troubles

by Earlene Fowler

  He balled up his damp T-shirt and threw it at me. “You’re asking for trouble big time, nĩna.”

  I slipped on clean denim Wranglers, a pink sleeveless shirt, and boots. I was looking forward to seeing Dewey again and to touring his stables. On the twenty-minute drive to the restaurant, I filled Gabe in on what I’d heard at the guild meeting.

  “You shouldn’t be involved in this,” he said predictably.

  “Look, I’m telling you everything I hear just so you can’t say I don’t trust you.”

  That had been a bone of contention between us from the first time we met—my tendency to, as he puts it, run off half-cocked. “I’d fire you in two minutes if you worked for me,” he’d told me more than once. “Hotdoggers only get themselves or other people hurt or killed.”

  “I still don’t like you snooping around,” he said now.

  “I wasn’t snooping around,” I argued. “I happened to overhear an interesting conversation while seeking a place to answer nature’s call. And let’s not forget I am telling you about it.”

  “That’s true,” he reluctantly conceded.

  “So, what do you think? I mean, about Cordie June? And about Lawrence? What do you think the thing between him and Tyler was?”

  He was quiet for a moment, then slowly pulled the car over to the side of the road and stopped. He flexed his fingers on the steering wheel for a few seconds before facing me. The muscle under his eye twitched again. “Benni, these people are my friends. I grew up with Lawrence. When I was six years old he gave me my first bloody nose. He was quite a fighter.”

  “Lawrence?” I exclaimed, astonished. Remembering the fight at the party, it appeared my theory was once again proven true; you really can’t judge people by outward appearances.

  Gabe’s mustache tilted in a glimmer of a smile. “He hit me with his Superman lunchbox because I smashed his Twinkie. I deserved it.” His smile disappeared. “The point is, I grew up with these guys, and you want me to speculate whether one of them is a cold-blooded killer. Would you want to consider Elvia or Miguel or Mac in that light?”

  His naming of my best friend, one of her younger brothers, and the local minister who had been a childhood buddy brought me up short. He was right. I wasn’t considering his feelings in this. These people were strangers to me; it didn’t matter to me who the killer was. But to him they were his personal history, a part of who he was and is.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, laying my hand lightly on his forearm. “I wasn’t even thinking. Honestly, I didn’t go looking for that information. I just overheard it. Should I just ignore it next time?”

  He ran his fingers through his black hair. “No, that wouldn’t be right. Tell me if you hear anything else, and I’ll pass it on to Dewey. As for the thing between Lawrence and Tyler, if those two ladies from the guild knew about it, I’m certain Dewey knows, too.”

  I didn’t answer because I didn’t agree with him. In my experience, there’d been more times when the women I knew sensed a conflict or fluctuation in a relationship long before the men did. I don’t know if most females communicate better or just flat out pay more attention to the people around them, but I suspect Randy Travis sang the answer best when he sagely pointed out that old men sit around and talk about the weather and old women sit around and talk about old men.

  Gabe restarted the car. “I’m glad that’s settled,” he said in a tone that implied he was crossing something off a list. I wasn’t quite sure what it was we got settled, but I wasn’t about to debate it right before meeting Dewey and Cordie June.

  The decor at the restaurant, Buffalo Barney’s Hoof and Fin, was strictly Hollywood Western, but the Midwestern steaks were cornfed, thick, and juicy, and even Gabe had to compliment the cook’s broiled Alaska salmon. In her heehaw accent, Cordie June, dressed in a minuscule red suede skirt and chest-hugging matching vest, kept us laughing with tales of one-night gigs at county fairs and redneck bars back in Oklahoma. When she turned on the charm, Cordie June was an original, no doubt about it.

  “I swear,” she said, holding up a long-nailed hand. “There was chicken-wire fence in front of the stage so we wouldn’t get hit by flying beer bottles. Out near Hooker, Oklahoma. They got some rowdy bars out there on the panhandle. You gotta really want it to keep going through that kind of crap.” She grimaced. “But my daddy was a mean old Okie dirt farmer who raised me not to take no shit from no one. ‘Cordelia June,’ he’d say to me, ‘don’t you never take no shit from no one, girl, or I’ll whip your butt.’ ” She gave a throaty laugh. “He always told me there wasn’t nobody gonna give me a free ride in this ole world, and that old fart was right as rain.”

  No one mentioned Tyler or her murder until we were sipping iced tea and picking at the remains of our strawberry shortcake. Cordie June wasn’t going with us to the stables because, as I’d heard on the radio, she and the band were playing at Prairie City Nights that evening.

  “We’re making an announcement about Tyler’s reward fund before each set,” she said, licking her skinny straw. “Are y’all coming by later?”

  “Not tonight, babe,” Dewey said. “How about tomorrow ?” He looked at Gabe and me. “That okay with you two?”

  Gabe looked at me, and I nodded. “Count us in,” he said.

  “Okay,” Cordie June said. “I’ll tell Lawrence to reserve y’all a table.” She slipped her fringed leather purse over her shoulder and nudged Dewey with her hip. “I need to hit the little cowgirls room before I drive to the club.” She stood up and tugged at the bottom of her short skirt, causing the Western-clad waiter behind her to almost drop his tray of dessert samples.

  “I’ll join you,” I said.

  “Why do women always go in pairs?” Dewey said, giving Gabe a mystified look. “Is it some kind of herd instinct, this desire to pee in unison?”:.Slap him around

  I turned to Gabe and said sweetly, “Slap him around a little while we’re gone, okay?”

  “My pleasure, ma’am,” he said.

  Dewey groaned. “Gabe, Gabe, old buddy, only five months married and already—”

  “Your comment better not have any feline references in it,” I warned over my shoulder.

  “Henpecked,” Dewey finished. Their hearty laughter followed us.

  The women’s restroom was huge and designed to look like a Western brothel with red-flocked wallpaper and fancy gold-plated faucets. In front of the gilded mirror, picking at her lion’s mane of hair, Cordie June rambled on about the songs she was singing that night and how her greatest dream was to sing in the Grand Ole Opry before her daddy died. I inspected my thirty-five-year-old complexion, trying not to compare it to hers, only half-listening until I heard the word “producer.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “What did you say?” I pulled a comb out of my purse and, trying not to look directly at her, poked at my own curls.

  “I said a real famous producer from Nashville is pass-in’ through here for a Randy Travis concert, and he’s dropping by to see the band perform tomorrow night. It could be my . . . our big break. All you need these days is the right management.” She pulled a miniature can of hair spray out of her purse and misted her glossy hair and everyone in the general vicinity. “I heard he was the one who made Trisha Yearwood famous.” In the mirror, her shiny lips tightened around the edges. “You know, sometimes you only get one shot in life. I intend to take advantage of it.”

  “Cordie June, you’re what—twenty-two, twenty-three ? You have lots of time.”

  She gave her hair one last look and turned to me, her expression uncompromising. “You don’t know what it’s like. They’re grooming people younger and younger to be stars now. It’s not just talent, it’s looks and age, too. I saw the video of a girl the other day who just turned seventeen. She’s landed a million-dollar contract promoting her music and a line of Western clothes for J.C. Penney’s. She’s got a killer first single, she looks like dynamite, and she’s almost six years younger’n me. Believe me, every m
inute counts.”

  “Amazing,” I said, trying to ignore the questions racing through my mind. How long had everyone known about this producer’s visit? Was it Tyler he was expecting to see? And most of all, just how far would Cordie June go to eliminate her competition?

  SEVEN

  WHEN WE REJOINED the men, Dewey walked Cordie June to her car, and Gabe and I waited while they said an affectionate goodbye. Under his cream-colored Stetson, Dewey’s face was flushed when he came over to our car.

  “I’d be careful if I were you, Dewey,” Gabe said. “Looks like she’s causing that old blood pressure to rise a little too high. Men your age . . .”

  Dewey grinned and ignored Gabe’s teasing. “The stable’s about ten miles from here. Just follow me. And try to obey the speed limits this time, Chief Ortiz.” He winked at me.

  We followed Dewey over back country roads, eventually turning down a long gravel driveway through a field of freshly-turned-over soil. The air had a sweet grassy smell, like cooking hops. A faded green tractor sat in the middle of the field like a toy abandoned by a child. In the distance, about a half mile from the road, I could see the stables surrounded by a grove of huge cottonwood trees. We passed under a metal archway that spelled out “Champagne Quarter Horses” in fancy black wrought iron. The sharp, hot wind that always seemed to be cropping up swung the varnished wood sign under it: “Horses boarded and trained—Dewey Champagne—Belinda Champagne.”

  “They must have had an amicable divorce to be able to work together,” I commented.

  “I think she’s still hoping he’ll come back,” Gabe said. I looked over at him, my mouth wide open in surprise.

  “You know a piece of gossip? I don’t believe it. Where did you hear that?”

  “Angel or Becky, I can’t remember who told me.” He reached over and gave my chin a gentle shake. “Close your mouth. The flies in Kansas have been known to choke people. I know a lot more than you think. I just don’t go around announcing it every chance I get.”

  I swiped his hand away. “Telling your wife is not announcing it. It’s called communication. Want me to spell it for you?”

  “Brat,” he said good-naturedly, pulling the car to a stop.

  “Despot,” I retorted.

  “Very good. Dove will be thrilled to hear you are utilizing the college education she paid for.”

  “What are you two arguing about?” Dewey said, coming around and opening my door.

  “She’s begging to move to Kansas, and I said no,” Gabe replied. Leave it to him to find the one thing that could make me laugh.

  “Quit making fun of your roots,” Dewey told him. “You might be able to fool other people, but I know the real you. You’re a flatlander at heart.”

  “Shut up and show us around,” Gabe said.

  Behind the long ranch-style house were four breezeway barns containing, I guessed from their size, thirty enclosed stalls. Most of them sounded full, which meant Dewey probably boarded about a hundred horses, give or take a few. It was an impressive operation for a mostly rural area where many people kept their horses on their own property.

  “Either of you want something to drink?” Dewey asked. We both declined, but he got himself a bottle of Samuel Adams and drank it as he gave us a quick tour. His pride in the stables was apparent in his quiet enthusiasm. He and Belinda had built a first-class stable that included a large, spotless training arena with a set of redwood bleachers, two hot walkers, two bullpens, an indoor wash rack with hot and cold water, and a tack room so organized it resembled a store. Bridles, halters, whips, saddles—everything was in its place, clean and labeled. Champagne Stables was the most immaculate stable I’d ever seen. As he was showing us a rose-and-maple-leaf-carved Charles Hape saddle he’d just had custom made, a young girl wearing tan English breeches, shiny black boots, and a pink Beauty and the Beast T-shirt walked in and threw a bridle haphazardly up on an empty hook.

  “Hey, Sarah,” Dewey said sharply. “You know better than that. Hang it right.” He tossed his empty beer bottle in a plastic-lined trash can.

  She rolled her eyes dramatically, but walked back and rehung the bridle properly.

  I laughed. “You’re as bad as Gabe. For Pete’s sake, you’ve both been out of the Marines for twenty years. Are you ever going to relax?”

  “Relax and you’re dead,” they said simultaneously, then looked at each other and laughed.

  “Sergeant Cochran’s first rule of thumb,” Gabe said.

  “Sergeant Cochran?” I asked.

  “Our drill instructor,” said Dewey. “Meanest man who ever lived, but his training probably saved our huevos more than once.”

  “Well, as irritating as compulsively neat people can be to live with . . .” I dodged the back of Gabe’s hand swatting at my butt. “Just like Gabe, you’re probably a great investigator.”

  “Watch it,” Gabe said. “She’s buttering you up for use later on.”

  “Well, whatever this little lady wants, I’d probably do it.” Dewey gave me a friendly smile. “I have to admit, I’ve acquired quite a soft spot for your wife already.”

  I smirked at Gabe and unfortunately wasn’t quick enough to miss his hand this time. “Hey, cut it out,” I said. “That’s police brutality.”

  “Settle down, you two,” Dewey said, “or I’ll have to put you both to work.” As we followed him back through the stalls toward the house, he explained the way he and Belinda ran the stable. “Belinda supervises most of the day-to-day stuff—lessons and exercising and the shows we put on for the kids a couple of times a year. I see to the breeding and the paperwork and working with some of the rougher horses. We just bought a new stud—Apache’s Red Power. He’s a Thoroughbred just off the track.”

  We stopped at Apache’s stall, where he was pawing at the fresh wood shavings. He was black as a night sky, with an almost blue sheen to his coat. He had the lean head and the lanky, matchstick legs of a quality Thoroughbred. Hearing Dewey’s voice, the horse’s small, neat ears pricked and turned like little radar dishes. Dewey reached over the stall door and stroked the stallion’s neck. “Never intended on owning a Thoroughbred. Too temperamental for me. But the price was right. And he was kind of a challenge. He might make a good riding horse yet.”

  “He’s beautiful,” I said, reaching over and fondling his soft muzzle. Apache blew an excited, watery breath. I stroked his dark face. “No treats today, Apache,” I said. “Maybe next time I come, after we get better acquainted.” I looked up at Dewey and smiled winningly.

  “No way,” he said, shaking his head firmly. “I won’t even let Belinda or any of the stablehands ride him.”

  “Just around the arena. Just once,” I coaxed.

  “I told you she was buttering you up for something,” Gabe said, laughing.

  “Please,” I begged.

  “There are plenty of other good horses around here for you to ride,” Dewey answered.

  “But I want to ride Apache.”

  “Nope, sorry.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I said so.”

  “But . . .”

  He pulled his hat off and gently smacked the top of my head. “But nothing.” He grinned at me, teasing, and I knew that was the best answer I was going to get.

  “Well, I think that stinks.”

  He turned to Gabe. “Is she always this persistent?”

  “You haven’t seen anything yet,” Gabe assured him.

  “You know,” I said, “I can probably handle that stud better than either of you. You don’t need a . . . more weight to let a horse know who’s boss.”

  They were teasing me about my comment when two preteen girls walked a mare past us and cross-tied her a few feet away from Apache’s stall. The mare let all of us know she was in season as she sprayed the ground with urine, releasing her scent into the stable. Apache, reacting as nature compelled him, started kicking at his stall and letting out loud whinnies. The girls giggled and started brushing the
mare. Apache blew air loudly and kicked at the door with his front leg.

  “Get that mare outta here,” Dewey snapped at the two girls. “Go groom her somewhere else.” Apache tossed his head and kicked a dent in the back of his stall. The girls led the mare out, giggling again as they passed Apache. “Oh, be quiet,” one of the girls called to the agitated stallion.

  “Dang stable rats,” Dewey muttered at the girls. He went over to Apache and started murmuring under his breath. “Calm down, fella. There you go. That old mare’s not worth breaking a leg over.” He looked over at us. “Let’s go in the house and have a drink.” As we followed him out of the stable, Gabe reached over and patted the horse’s forehead.

  “I know how you feel, old boy.”

  “Very funny,” I said, bumping him with my hip.

  Dewey’s large brick house was set off from the stables about a football field’s distance away. I was curious about where Belinda lived, though that was a question I knew I’d be better off asking Becky. Once inside, he poured me a Coke, Gabe a mineral water, and grabbed a couple of bottles of Samuel Adams for himself. We settled down in the spacious, distinctly western-style living room decorated in rusts, browns, and tans with raw-hide lamp shades, end tables with tiny wagon-wheel carvings, and striped Pendleton blanket-type fabric on the sofa and loveseat. The subject of Apache came up again.

  “I’m going to talk you into letting me ride him,” I announced.

  “Not a chance,” Dewey said.

  “Did you hear about Otis’s poker horse?” Gabe asked.

  “Heard about it?” Dewey said, giving a loud chortle. “I was at the game. The guy who lost was royally pissed, but he’s one of those old boys who just doesn’t know when to pack it in. How’s Old Sinful doing?”

  “I’m going to go out and work with him tomorrow,” I said.

  “He’s a nice-looking gelding. Kind of green, but nothing you can’t handle. He’s a good horse for you.” I frowned at him, annoyed at his macho I-know-what’s-best-for-you tone. He ignored my look and went over to a liquor cabinet where he filled an old-fashioned glass from a half-empty fifth of Jim Beam bourbon. “Sure you don’t want something stronger than that fizzy water, Gabe?” He held up the bottle of bourbon.