Kansas Troubles

by Earlene Fowler

  “No, this is fine,” Gabe said evenly.

  Dewey downed his drink and poured another. “Suit yourself.”

  While he and Gabe reminisced about an old high-school escapade that involved a dead frog, bread crumbs, and a squeamish home economics teacher, I wandered around the living room looking at the pictures on the walls. Photographs of Chet from babyhood to his latest rodeo covered almost every inch of the rough paneling. Working my way around the room, I followed the life of Dewey’s son. One recent picture showed Chet and a smiling young girl of about sixteen or seventeen. This must have been DeeDee, the daughter who died. I reached back into my memory for what Gabe had said. Thrown off a horse and killed. Flashing the unknown photographer a dazzling smile, DeeDee looked so young and happy, it was hard to believe she was dead. She wore tight red jeans, a ruffled white cowboy shirt, and a tall, pale cowboy hat with a fancy feather band. A white sash across her chest announced in gold glitter: Miss Rodeo Sedgwick County.

  “That’s my little girl.” Dewey’s voice rumbled behind me. I turned and looked up at him. His face held a dark expression, and his breath was sharp from the bourbon. “I shot the mare that killed her.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  He shrugged and turned back to Gabe. While the two of them talked about some truck that Gabe’s dad bought the year he was born, I wandered over to a built-in bookcase that flanked the liquor cabinet. Dewey’s choice of reading matter was predictable for someone who raised horses—various veterinary books, books on equine lineage and breeding, back issues of Western Horseman magazine. He also owned a large collection of books on Vietnam. I pulled out books randomly, leafing through them. He seemed to prefer oral histories; something he and I had in common. As biased as they sometimes are, I’ve always felt that in the long run they give us a more accurate representation of an era than any accounts found in a history book. I pulled out a paperback that, judging by the softness of its cover, had obviously been read or thumbed through many times. I opened it to the middle to look at the pictures, and found an old war photograph stuck there.

  The photograph showed the weathered back of a man’s neck and a young, sober-faced Gabe facing the camera. Gabe’s eyes were shaded by his helmet, but even minus his thick mustache, the proud, stubborn set of his jaw was as familiar to me now as Dove’s nagging. His worn camouflage fatigues were rumpled but clean, and it appeared as if he’d just shaved. The man facing him was pinning something on Gabe’s shirt; his beefy hand concealed the shape of it. “Oh,” I exclaimed.

  The men stopped talking and looked over at me. “What is it?” Gabe asked. Dewey came over and took the picture out of my hand.

  “Well, I’ll be dipped. I wondered what had happened to this picture. I was talking to Chet about it the other day when I told him you were coming out from California. I was telling him how he would have never been here to ride bulls or anything else if it hadn’t been for my good brave buddy, Gabe Ortiz.” Dewey’s words slurred slightly, and I couldn’t tell if it was just the liquor or if there was a tinge of sarcasm in his voice.

  I glanced over at Gabe’s frozen face. His eyes had turned steel-gray. “Shut up, Dewey,” he said, his voice low and controlled.

  Dewey said to me, “Did your hubby ever tell you he saved my life?”

  I shook my head slowly and looked back at Gabe, questioning.

  “Dewey, let it go,” Gabe said.

  Dewey looked at Gabe with a surprised expression. “You never told her? Shit, Gabe, that was your finest hour.” He turned to me. A sheen of perspiration had formed on his upper lip. “Saved me. Saved a full bird colonel, too. Big ole fat rich sucker by the name of Johnston. Tilton Lee Johnston. Leave it to Gabe to do it right. If you’re gonna risk your balls saving someone, make it an officer with friends in high places. Tell her the story, Gabe. Benni, honey, it’s a regular John Wayne movie.” He held up the picture. “A two-star general pinned the Silver Star on Gabe himself. Got it right here with my trusty little Kodak. I say we need a toast. Here’s to Gabriel Ortiz. Bravest son of a . . .”

  “Dewey, I said shut up.” Gabe strode across the room, ripped the picture out of his hand and crumpled it. “You’re out of line. It’s time for us to go. Benni.” He grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the door.

  “Ah, Gabe,” Dewey said. “I didn’t mean anything by it. Don’t leave, buddy. Benni, tell him I was just kiddin’.” He pleaded with glassy eyes.

  I gave a futile shrug and followed Gabe, having no choice with the tight grip he had on my hand.

  He drove fast and silently down the long driveway. I listened to the ping, ping of scattered gravel and chewed the side of my lip, trying to decide how to bring up what just happened. When we reached the wide smooth asphalt of the highway, I decided that blunt had served me well for thirty-five years, so I’d just stick with it.

  “What was that all about?” I asked.

  “I don’t want to talk about it.” He reached down and turned on the radio. The disc jockey was laughing at some guy who was requesting a song to be dedicated to a girl who’d dumped him. He’d asked for the Travis Tritt song “Here’s A Quarter, Call Someone Who Cares.”

  “Gabe,” I said.

  “I said I didn’t want to talk about it.”

  I punched the radio off. “Well, I don’t much care what you want—we are going to talk about this.”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Gabe.” I softened my voice and squeezed his upper arm gently. “Talk to me. Please.”

  He stared straight ahead, his hands rigid on the wheel as he concentrated on the empty country road. It was as if I wasn’t even there.

  “Gabe.”

  Silence.

  I felt my temper bubbling. His behavior reminded me too much of my uncle Arnie and his teenage friends when I was a girl. We’d be sitting out back of the barn on the large corral fences watching one of them practice for a coming rodeo, and I’d ask some question about roping or riding. They’d just squint at each other, spit forbidden tobacco juice, and ignore me. When I persisted, they’d smirk, wave their dirt-stained hands about and drawl, “Horseflies sure are bad this year, don’tcha think?” They would continue this tactic until they’d achieved their purpose—a frustrated me slinking away so they could turn their conversation back to the cruder topics that Dove wouldn’t let them discuss when I was around. It worked until I discovered a way to get them to, if not answer my questions, at least acknowledge I was there. It was extremely childish and incredibly effective, and I did it now. I sat back in my seat, took a deep breath, and screamed as loud as I could.

  Gabe jumped, let out a string of Spanish words, and slammed on the brakes so hard I would have hit the dashboard except for my seat belt. We stopped in front of a dense field of ripe corn.

  “What in the—” He turned to me, his face bloodless.

  I smiled serenely. “Now that I have your attention . . .”

  Anger turned his cheeks a reddish nutmeg. “Are you out of your mind? You could have gotten us killed.”

  “I checked. There were no cars near us. We’re all alone out here. Are you ready to talk to me now?”

  “This is by far the most childish thing I’ve ever seen you do.”

  “Actually, I don’t think so. I’ve done much more childish things.”

  He gave me a stony look that instantly stopped my smart remarks. I knew his temper. I knew I was playing with fire. I also knew that he would never hurt me except with his excluding silence.

  “Gabe,” I said softly, “I hate it when you shut me out.”

  His expression still hard and unyielding, he started the car and pulled slowly out onto the road. A hot wind had come up, fluttering the wide leaves of the corn. They moved back and forth, dark green, light green, and they appeared in the blur filming my eyes, like hands waving goodbye. When we arrived home, he walked ahead of me into the house, not looking back. I turned and headed the opposite way, down the driveway to the dirt road. It was dark now, and
the locusts had resumed their unbearable sawing. Helicopter blades, I thought. They sound like helicopter blades. I followed the dirt road to the paved street that I knew, after a half mile or so, led to town. Trying to ignore the emotions churning inside me, I concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. On the bridge over the Arkansas River, the air felt damper, though not one degree cooler. I yearned for just five minutes of San Celina’s cool ocean breezes. Momentarily turning my thoughts away from Gabe and Kansas and that sizzling, insistent sound of the locusts, I imagined instead the sweet smell of burning oakwood, the teasing camaraderie with longtime friends in Blind Harry’s Bookstore after one of Elvia’s literary events, the comforting rhythmic coo of the mourning doves outside my Spanish bungalow’s bedroom window.

  Derby was fairly busy for nine-thirty on a Tuesday evening. I didn’t feel frightened walking down Madison peering into the windows of stores that had closed hours before. Set off by itself on a small lot was the Sunflower Quilts and Crafts store. It was a bright yellow clapboard building with china-blue shutters decorated with tiny, smiling sunflowers. I cupped my hands against the glass and peered into the storefront window crowded with quilts, handmade dolls, and bears. I made a note to come back the next day, when the store was open. I sighed and started back up the street. Maybe tomorrow would be a good day to go out and see Hannah about making that quilt for me. If nothing else, it would keep me away from Gabe the better part of the day. I passed Cricket’s Coffee Hutch, hoping it was open so I’d have somewhere to sit down, have a Coke, and think, but I wasn’t surprised to see it had closed hours ago. I knew at the far end of town all the fast-food joints would be open, but the thought of then walking all the way back to Kathryn’s house wasn’t especially appealing.

  In front of the empty VFW building on the corner of Washington and Madison, out of the corner of my eye I noticed a truck slow down beside me. I crossed the street quickly, thinking it wanted to turn left off Madison. I felt my heart start pounding when it continued to follow me, shifting into a lower gear. I moved my purse to my other arm, stopped abruptly, and turned around, thinking that I could slip behind the truck and get across Madison to the crowded parking lot of an open gas station. The driver caught my maneuver, suddenly backed up, and blocked my way. The door flew open, and I turned and started to run.

  “Benni! Wait!”

  The sound of my name surprised me into stopping. A figure emerged from the cab of the truck, cursing under his breath. His familiar cream-colored cowboy hat caused me to exhale the breath I’d been holding.

  “It’s Dewey,” he said. “I couldn’t get the doggone window down before you hot-footed it outta here like a deer in hunting season.”

  “You scared me,” I said, walking up to him. He didn’t appear drunk now, though it had only been an hour or so since we’d left his house, and I wondered how much of that volatile scene could be attributed to alcohol.

  “Sorry,” he said. “What are you doing out this late?”

  I shrugged. “I felt like taking a walk.”

  His eyes flashed perceptively. “He’s royally pissed, isn’t he?” He gave me an apologetic half-smile.

  “Yes, he is.”

  He rubbed his knuckles against his jaw. I could hear the scritch scritch of their roughness against his whiskers. “Hey, want a cup of coffee?”

  “Sure.”

  “Actually, I was heading up to the station to pick up some work. I can make us some there.” He held open the driver’s door, and I climbed into the cab, sliding across to the passenger side.

  At the station Dewey unlocked the back door and let the dispatcher know we were in his office. I sat in his one vinyl office chair and watched him fiddle with the drip coffee machine on the credenza behind his desk. His office was square, impersonal, and messy. Its single window was covered with white miniblinds. The pale walls held only one framed picture of Dewey and Chet in front of the livestock pens at some rodeo. Chet had a deep, fresh-looking scratch on the side of his smooth cheek.

  Dewey sank into his high-backed chair, and we both silently watched the glass pot fill to the halfway point. He handed me my coffee in a black plastic D.A.R.E. To Stay Off Drugs mug and leaned back in his chair.

  “I blew it big time tonight,” he said, taking a large swallow of coffee.

  I sipped my coffee and didn’t answer, not wanting to tell him I was in no position to point a finger.

  For a minute or so, the only sound was the buzzing fluorescent lights overhead and an occasional gurgle from the coffee machine. I stared down into my cup and decided to steer the conversation away from Gabe. “How’s the investigation going? Are they letting you work much on it?”

  His face grew irritated. “Not as much as I’d like.”

  “What have they got so far?”

  “Not much. There was hardly any physical evidence. We never did find the brick that killed her. At this point all they’re doing is interviewing and reinterviewing people. Then the fun part begins.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Reading the interviews over and over until you come up with something that doesn’t look right.” He smiled at me, his skin grayish under the harsh light. He picked up a pencil and tapped the green desk blotter in front of him. “You’re married to a cop. You know how the routine goes.”

  “So they’re letting you read the interviews.”

  He patted a stack of manila folders. “That’s what I came back to get. Bill, he’s the sheriff’s detective in charge of the investigation, said if he reads these one more time he’ll go cross-eyed. I’m going through them to see if he missed anything. If the media found out he’s letting me go through this stuff, they’d have a conniption fit screaming collusion and cover-up and who knows what else, but me and Bill go way back to our rookie days. We spent some quality time at Miller U together.”

  “Miller U?” I asked. “Is that some kind of beer joke among cops?”

  He picked up a blue plastic squirt gun that was resting on one of the file folders and scratched his cheek with it. “Nah, Miller U is the Kansas Law Enforcement Training Center out near the town of Miller. A lot of Kansas police agencies train there. We just nicknamed it Miller U. Though with some of the extracurricular activities those guys get involved with, it’s more appropriate than you think.”

  “So, who do you think did it?” I asked.

  “Now, Benni, don’t go asking me to make a bet when all the cards aren’t dealt yet.”

  I laughed. “That sounds like something my Gramma Dove would say.”

  “Is she a poker player?”

  “Her third greatest talent.”

  “After?” He waited, his dark eyes red-rimmed and tired.

  “Her fluffy buttermilk biscuits and her nosiness.”

  “Hmm,” he said, laying the plastic gun down. “Sounds like granddaughter takes a little after grandmother.”

  “Oh, no,” I said solemnly. “My biscuits are as hard as rocks.”

  He threw back his head and laughed. “Sugar, you are a real piece of business—you ever been told that?”

  “Once or twice,” I said wryly. I picked up the squirt gun, and suddenly an idea popped in my head. “Is this yours? Can I borrow it?”

  He gave me a mystified look. “You can have it. Somebody’s kid left it a while back, and we’ve just been screwing around with it.”

  I stuck it in my purse. “So, there are no real leads, then?”

  “Nope.” He stood up and started stacking file folders. “Not even when they searched her place. I was there. Nothing. I’ve never seen anything like this homicide.” He turned off the coffeemaker and tucked the files under his arm. “Ready to go? I’ll drop you off at Kathryn’s.”

  “What happens to all Tyler’s stuff now that you’ve searched her place?”

  “Someone needs to claim it. And they better do it soon. The lady she was renting a room from called late this afternoon. Wants it gone. Says she needs to rent the room out real bad.” He sett
led his hat square on his head.

  “I guess everything she owns would belong to her husband, John.”

  “Yep, he’s the next of kin. But those Amish are heck to get a hold of, not having phones. We’ll send someone out tomorrow to tell him.”

  “I was thinking about going out to see Tyler’s sister tomorrow. I could tell her to tell Tyler’s husband.”

  He cocked his head. “You know the victim’s sister?”

  “I met her yesterday when Becky and I went out to take her some food. She’s agreed to make a quilt for me. That’s why I thought maybe I’d go see her tomorrow.” I set my empty coffee cup on the desk. “I feel bad for them. Violent crime is hard enough to cope with when you’re basically exposed to it all the time the way that we are. What must it be like for the Amish? They don’t even have television.”

  “Well, TV or not, all I can say is, if I were Bill, I’d be paying real close attention to that husband of hers.”

  “But he’s Amish. It would be completely out of character.”

  “When it comes to affairs of the heart, Benni, all bets are off, including the religious ones.” He held my elbow lightly, directing me through the maze of hallways.

  “I don’t know,” I said doubtfully.

  “Trust me,” Dewey said, his voice weary. “I’ve been in this business a long time. Gabe will back me up on this. Domestic violence crosses all boundaries—money, class, race, and religion.”

  Dewey turned his headlights off when we pulled into Kathryn’s driveway so he wouldn’t disturb anyone in the dark house. For all his effort, the loud rumble of the truck’s engine announced our arrival as surely as the trumpet of my husband’s namesake. I felt irrationally guilty, like a teenager trying to sneak in past curfew. He cut the engine.

  “Benni,” he said, his voice low. “I just want to apologize . . .”

  “Don’t,” I interrupted, embarrassed. “This is between you and Gabe.”