Becky wrinkled her nose and frowned. “All that trouble to get her husband’s permission, and Mrs. Parker didn’t even glance at the note.”
“But if we hadn’t, maybe we’d be breaking some kind of law.”
“I suppose. Why do you think that first note got stolen?”
I shrugged and opened the middle drawer of the desk. “Who knows? Maybe it wasn’t stolen. Maybe it just fell out of my purse in all that craziness.” Or, I thought, maybe there’s something here someone doesn’t want us to find.
Becky placed her hands on her hips. “Mrs. Parker said the furniture came with the room, so I guess everything else must be Tyler’s.”
“The police were pretty neat,” I said. “You can’t even tell anyone’s been through her stuff.” A paperback rhyming dictionary lying on the nightstand caught my eye. Its pages were flimsy and slightly oily from use. It sat on top of a two-week-old issue of Billboard and a copy of Country Weekly magazine with a picture of Rick Trevino, an up-and-coming young singer, on the cover. The sight of those trade publications and all the dreams they represented to Tyler, dampened my interest in looking for clues among her belongings.
“I’ll get the boxes,” Becky said. “Guess you may as well start.”
I went back to the desk and peered into all the drawers. They were full of the usual paraphernalia that most people shove into a desk. I started taking out the pencils, papers, rubber bands, and other junk and piling it on the bed.
Becky and I were a good team. I started at one end of the room, she at the opposite end, and we worked toward each other, filling the cartons, occasionally making a comment about some little thing we picked up. We both became increasingly quiet and sober as we folded and packed. I stood up after pulling out bags of winter clothes she had stored under the bed and wiped at the sweat trickling down my face.
“Here,” Becky said, reaching into a box she’d just brought up and tossing me an icy cold bottle of Evian water. “I knew we’d get thirsty.”
“Bless the foresight of experienced mothers.” I sat cross-legged on the hardwood floor and leaned against a wall. “All we have left is the closet.”
She sat on the bed and gave me a tired look. “This is harder than I thought it would be. And creepier.”
“Yeah.” I picked at the Evian label and thought of the day Dove and I cleaned out Jack’s things and packed them in boxes that were still sitting in the back of the barn. What should I do with them now? I had wondered. What will Hannah do with Tyler’s possessions? Boxes of books and cards and letters and the different little mementos we pick up here and there as we live life, never thinking that someday someone will have to find a place for these things. That’s why there were antique stores, I supposed. I’d always wondered where those stained pictures of sober-faced people and ashtrays bought at the Chicago World’s Fair came from. Now I knew.
“Well, let’s get it done,” I said, draining the bottle of water and standing up. We opened the closet and started pulling clothes off hangers and folding them up. Becky pulled out a white cardboard box and set it on the bed.
I dug through a box that contained a slew of rejection letters from music publishing companies, sheets of notebook paper with what appeared to be half-finished song lyrics scribbled on them, old phone bills, and still more rejection letters. I sighed, wondering what I expected. Any personal letters would have certainly been taken by the detectives.
“Benni, look at this.” Becky’s voice was excited.
I backed out of the closet and faced her.
She held up a small rectangular wall quilt made of navy blue, bright pink, forest-green, and black. “Can you believe it? I thought Tyler had sold all her quilts.”
I walked over to her and stared down at the pattern, searching my store of knowledge for its name. The single-star pattern made from triangles seemed familiar, as if I’d seen it recently. The name tickled the tip of my tongue, but wouldn’t come to mind.
“Just look at these stitches,” Becky said. “I’ve seen a lot of Tyler’s work, but this is the best quilting of hers I’ve ever seen. I’m taking this right out to Hannah. I’m sure she’ll want it. Maybe it’ll make her feel better. Do you recognize the pattern? You did pretty good that first night at my house.”
“It looks familiar, but I can’t think of it.”
“Oh, well, we’ll look it up in one of my reference books when we get home. It’s not important. I’m sure that Hannah will be thrilled to have it.”
We finished packing up the rest of Tyler’s clothes and carried the boxes down to the car. As Becky turned on the ignition, I made an excuse to go see Mrs. Parker again.
“I’m going to tell her we’re all through,” I said.
“Okay,” Becky replied, leaning her face close to the air conditioning vent. “I’ll cool off the car.”
Mrs. Parker was in her large red and yellow kitchen stirring a pot of dark green vegetables.
“We’re finished,” I said from the doorway. She gestured me in. I walked over and peered into the simmering pot. Tiny pieces of ham floated in the bubbling liquid. “Turnip greens?” I asked.
“Why, that’s right!” she exclaimed. “Where’d you say you was from?”
“California,” I said, smiling. “But my family’s from Arkansas.”
“Why, so’s mine!” She put the lid back on the pot and faced me, wiping her hands on her flowered apron. “My mama’s side anyway. Papa’s side hails from Alabama.” She looked at me curiously. “How’d you come to be involved with that crazy business up there?” She gestured above us.
“Becky—that’s the lady who’s with me—was friends with Tyler. Becky’s my sister-in-law. I married her brother about five months ago.”
“Umm . . .” She nodded her head. “Meetin’ the new family, huh?”
I smiled and shrugged. “Yeah, something like that.”
“Well, I just hope that poor girl Tyler’s family gives her a proper buryin’. She deserves at least that. We all deserve at least that.”
“I’m sure they will,” I said, even though I wasn’t.
“And I hope they catch whoever did that terrible thing to her. I told those policemen that, too.”
“I guess they questioned you right away,” I said.
“Next day. Three of them. If that ain’t just the craziest thing. I told them I couldn’t tell three of them any more than I could tell one. No wonder our taxes is so high. Too many people doin’ the same thing.”
I nodded and made an agreeing sound. “What did you tell them?”
“Not much to tell. She didn’t bring men home, which is what they really wanted to know. She was a nice girl, ain’t nobody gonna convince me of nothin’ different. She didn’t have a phone, you know. Had to use mine. But she always left money on the table, even if it was a local call. There’s others around here that ain’t that considerate.” She sniffed irritably and turned around to pull a bag of cornmeal from the shelf over the stove.
“Did she get many phone calls?”
“The police asked me that, and my answer hasn’t changed. Not many, although this last coupla weeks she got more than usual. Always the same man. Always late at night. Always said, is Tyler there. That’s it.” She ripped open the paper sack and poured some cornmeal into a bowl without using a measuring cup, just like Dove.
“Would you recognize the voice?” It was a remote possibility, but I had to ask.
“Police asked me that, too. Tell you what I told them. All Midwestern white folks sound the same to me.” She chuckled and shook her head.
I laughed in agreement. It was true; like native Californians, Kansans really had no discernible accent. Of course, that didn’t help me, seeing as all the people who were suspects had been born and raised here.
“Well, it was nice talking to you.” I started for the door.
“He made her cry the last time,” Mrs. Parker said.
I swung around and faced her. “He did?”
“Most o
f the time she wasn’t here to take his calls, and far as I know, she didn’t return them. Anyways, she didn’t use my phone to return them. But the last time he called he was real mad. Told me to tell her to call or else. After she did, she started bawlin’ her eyes out right here in my kitchen.”
“About what?”
“She wouldn’t say. Just said that men are the same everywhere. That they think they own you, can take your life and twist it around however they want. I told her that’s why I never remarried after Lyle died. I like being my own boss. Ain’t no man never going to be telling me what to do anymore.” Her jovial face grew hard. I wondered about her late husband and what he’d done to cause her dark eyes to flash so angrily.
“That’s all she told you?”
“That’s it.”
“Did you tell the police that?”
“I sure did. I want them to catch that lowlife who killed her. ’Course, they took it about as serious as you’d expect a bunch of white men to take the ramblings of an old black woman. With a pinch of nothing.” She rubbed her thumb and forefinger together and tossed imaginary salt over her shoulder.
“Did she ever get any calls from women?”
“Not that I ever took.”
“Thanks.”
“What took you so long?” Becky asked when I returned. The Jeep had cooled off to a wonderful winter-like chill.
“Sorry, I just got to talking with Mrs. Parker about Southern cooking.” We listened to the news as we sped down the turnpike toward Derby. This time I was thankful for Becky’s heavy foot. I wanted to get back in time to take a quick shower before the rodeo that night. She started talking about the quilt show on Friday and what she had to do to get ready and who was a help in the guild and who was just a big pain in the butt. I nodded and murmured an appropriate response occasionally, but my mind drifted, thinking about the man who kept calling Tyler, the boxes of Tyler’s things in the back of the Cherokee, and especially about the quilt. There was something about the quilt that bothered me, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. It wasn’t just that I couldn’t think of the name of the pattern; something else had set off a warning buzz in me.
“Earth to Benni,” Becky said, reaching over and tapping my thigh.
“I’m sorry. What did you say?”
“I was saying that my mother told me that your aunt Garnet in Arkansas is an award-winning quilter. Too bad she can’t see our show.”
“She is,” I said automatically. Then it dawned on me. “That’s it!”
“What’s it?”
“The pattern. I’ve seen it before because Aunt Garnet pieced one for my grandmother the last time she visited her. It was right around the time I met Gabe.” I knew it wouldn’t mean anything to anyone but me. Not to Becky. And certainly not to the police. The question was, what was the connection, and what should I do with the information?
“So, is this twenty questions or what?” Becky asked.
“Arkansas Traveler,” I said.
ELEVEN
“I WONDER WHY she picked that pattern?” Becky said, pulling into her mother’s driveway. “It’s not exactly traditional Amish.”
“Maybe that’s what attracted her.”
Becky shrugged. “Guess I’ll see you at the rodeo. Tyler was supposed to sing the national anthem there tonight. I heard Cordie June’s taking her place, just like at the club.”
“An odd run of luck for Cordie June.”
Becky rolled her eyes. “This sounds terrible, but I can’t stand Cordie June. She’s so set on becoming rich and famous that if I didn’t know any better I’d guess she . . . well . . . never mind. It’s just too unbelievable to contemplate.”
“I suppose,” I murmured, wondering what Becky would think if she knew there was supposed to be a producer in the audience last night, that Tyler’s death was more than just convenient for Cordie June, it was her golden opportunity. I wondered if Dewey knew about it. If so, would he slack off on the investigation because of his relationship with Cordie June? Then again, he wasn’t even supposed to be officially working on the case. I decided that I would tell Gabe about the producer and let him decide who should be advised. That would ease my conscience on one thing. The quilt we found in Tyler’s room . . . that was another story. I suspected Tyler made it to remember something about Arkansas. I didn’t know how to tell anyone what I knew without admitting I’d snooped in Hannah’s house and dragging her deeper into it. Tyler was down in Arkansas for six months and apparently made a commemorative quilt while she was there. What did she want to remember about Arkansas? Was T.K. involved somehow, since he came from there?
“See you in a couple of hours,” Becky said. “Tell my mom I’ve got all the quilts moved off the guest bed so she can sleep there tonight.”
“Why is she sleeping at your house?”
“She’s staying with the girls tonight because Stan and I want to go to the dance after the rodeo. We’ll take the kids and Mom to tomorrow night’s performance. We’ll probably get in late, so Mom may as well spend the night. Gotta run.” She threw the Cherokee in reverse and whipped out of the driveway, gravel clattering over her tires like rain on a tin roof.
I relayed the message to Kathryn before going upstairs to take a quick shower and change. A note from Gabe and a highlighted map lay on the pillow next to the Camaro’s keys. “Caught a ride with Dewey and Chet. See you at the rodeo. Gabe.”
I sighed and carried my clothes into the bathroom. With the tension between us, there was only one thing I was absolutely certain about tonight—it was going to be long. I took my time dressing so that by the time I emerged from the bathroom, Kathryn and, thankfully, Daphne, had already left.
I drove leisurely through Wichita until eventually city and semirural suburb became open prairie. The turnoff to Pretty Prairie, Highway 17, was a small, lonely road that bisected endless rows of green corn and dark plowed-under wheat fields. For twenty minutes at a time I was the only vehicle on the road, but the isolation soothed me as did the emerald and black fields with their neatness and purpose. I wondered which fields were round like the ones I saw from the plane, and thought of what Gabe had said—how from this point of view no one would ever know their shape; that to see the truth of the fields you had to look at them from another perspective. Was it like that with Tyler’s murder? Was there something right in front of all our eyes that we were overlooking because our perspective was wrong?
I passed a huge white Mennonite church set in the middle of nowhere, and a few fields and passing trucks later, I entered the town of Pretty Prairie—population six hundred. To my right were the grain elevators I was getting used to seeing in any Kansas town boasting a population of fifty or more, and a huge white banner announcing “Welcome Rodeo Fans! Kansas’ Largest Night Rodeo—Free Chuckwagon Barbecue w/Friday Night Rodeo Ticket.” My stomach growled at the thought, and I was sorry it was Thursday instead of Friday. You could stand at one end of Main Street and take in the entire town in one glance—the red brick high school, the bar with a faded Budweiser sign above the door, the post office, the Wagon Wheel Cafe, The Country Cafe (Mexican Food on Saturday Eve), D & J Grocery (Where Pleasant People Shop), The Country Parlor (Homemade Gifts, Crafts and Baked Goods). The street was already half filled with every color and make of pickup truck.
I parked the Camaro in front of the Pretty Prairie Civic Theater, an old movie house that appeared to be in the middle of renovation. The pink flyer taped to the box-office window said that the theater had originally opened in June of 1936 with movies and live stage productions, but was closed in 1955 due to the outbreak of a disease we’re still trying to find a vaccine for—television. Apparently some brave souls were trying to keep the old girl alive, however, as they were advertising an upcoming Fall Classic Film Series—all of them from the forties and fifties. Each feature was to be accompanied by an Our Gang short because the actor who played Alfalfa apparently lived in Pretty Prairie during the fifties. Spencer’s Mountain, one of my favo
rite movies, was playing November 5th.
“Tickets are only three dollars,” a low, pleasant voice called out. A smiling man in a plaid shirt and white apron was sweeping the sidewalk in front of D & J Grocery. “And we make the best popcorn in town.”
“I’d come if I could,” I said, smiling back. “Unfortunately, by that time I’ll be back home in California.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said with a teasing grin. “But I guess someone has to live there.”
I followed the crowds walking toward what I assumed were the rodeo grounds, behind the grain elevators. An American flag proudly fluttered on top of one silver column that seemed to stretch a mile into the hard blue sky. I inhaled the familiar aroma of rodeos—the same in Kansas as it was in California and Nevada and Montana and everywhere else cowboys gather to strut their stuff—that pungent mixture of damp earth and manure, frying beef, lemonade, the acidic leathery scent of the cowboys, and a sweetness in the air from that rodeo staple, cotton candy. I’d been to hundreds of rodeos in my life, but I never grew tired of the high-pitched excitement that always hovered over everyone like an electrified cloud. I paid my admission and stood staring up at the huge packed arena, wondering what would be the best way to find Gabe and Becky and the rest of the gang. Around me, people were already flocking to the concession stands behind the white metal bleachers, stocking up before the rodeo action started, on Cokes, popcorn, beer, hamburgers, hot dogs, crispy funnel cakes, and fresh corn on the cob. My stomach reminded me again that I hadn’t eaten since this morning.
I walked past the bullpen, the fenced-off area where the cowboy contestants spread out their gear, helped each other pin on their numbers, rosined their ropes and gloves, and generally shot the breeze until their event came up. In the middle of the sea of cowboy hats, I spotted Gabe’s bare head. He was pinning Chet’s paper number on the back of his fuchsia and black cowboy shirt while Dewey, an intense look on his face, gave his son some last-minute advice. As if a small voice had whispered in his ear, Gabe looked up at that moment, searched the crowd, and found me. His face relaxed, and I felt my heart soften, relieved he was still concerned enough to worry, even though it drove me crazy. His face hardened again, as if remembering we weren’t speaking, and he gave a curt nod before turning back to Dewey and Chet.
Kansas Troubles Page 20
