Kansas Troubles

by Earlene Fowler

  I melted into the crowd, watching with amusement the buckle bunnies with their ruffled shorts and fringed boots giggle over the cowboys who subtly preened by performing elaborate leg stretches and joking crudely in booming, feverish voices. The cowboys’ peacock-bright shirts and chaps—items of clothing I’d watched over the years become as gaudy as a Las Vegas showgirl’s—made them seem like a flock of gruff-voiced tropical birds. The color combinations were spectacular—royal purple and fire-engine red, hot pink and black, the glowing orange and yellow of Monarch butterflies. The long metallic fringe on their stained chaps sparkled like fool’s gold under the stadium lights. The one thing that never changed were the Wranglers, seats ground dark with dirt, sporting the faint Skoal ring on the back pocket from a tobacco-chewing habit that was as much a part of rodeo as being thrown.

  Then there were the cowboys themselves—the bareback riders with their temperamental personalities and almost flat-brimmed hats; the hefty but light-footed steer wrestlers, who needed the weight to wrestle a thousand-pound steer to the ground; the ropers with their intelligent faces and missing fingers; the saddle bronc riders, the traditionalists of rodeo, who can often dismount a bucking horse with the finesse of an Olympic gymnast, landing on their feet and strutting away with the confidence of a banty rooster; the barrel racers, the only female event now, where woman and horse seem to meld into one creature as they spur for those precious hundredths of a second, riding the cloverleaf pattern around the three sponsor barrels with an intensity you can almost taste. And always the bull-riders, last in the lineup, but first in the hearts of many rodeo fans. They were the macho men of rodeo, with their flamboyant grins, deep chests, and stiff horseshoe walks; they personified all that is romantic and exciting about rodeo—man against beast in a singular contest that left you breathless wondering which one you should root for.

  I glanced around again, looking for our group, thinking I might be forced into going to Gabe to ask where everyone was sitting, when, as if on cue, Janet and Lawrence appeared next to me. “Everyone was wondering when you’d get here,” Janet said. “Gabe was starting to pace. We’re over there.” She pointed to the bleachers on our right.

  About halfway up the crowded bleachers, I saw Becky stand and rearrange her padded stadium seat.

  “I see them,” I said.

  “We’re going on a beer run,” Lawrence said. “Want one?”

  “No, thanks. I’ll check out the food later,” I said.

  Up in the bleachers, Becky, Stan, Belinda, and Rob had saved enough seats for everyone. In the distance, the sun dipped toward the hazy gray-blue horizon causing the sky to turn as pink as the cotton candy they were selling below us. From our high perch we could see in the distance an irrigation sprayer watering a field, the stream of water a long arch with a rainbow forming in its mist. In the slowly deepening sky, the faint edge of a half-moon appeared, promising at least some illumination for the trip back to our cars when the rodeo ended.

  “Did Gabe find you?” Becky asked me. “He was starting to worry.”

  “He saw me. He’s with Dewey, helping Chet get ready for his ride.”

  Belinda snorted and took a long drink of her cup of beer. “Dewey just can’t resist giving Chet some last-minute advice.”

  “So, he’s riding bareback as well as bulls tonight,” I said, looking at the program Becky handed me.

  “Yep.” Belinda grinned proudly. “No saddle broncs tonight, though. He didn’t like the pick, so he didn’t enter. I’m telling you, he’s going to snatch that World Champion All Around title right from under Ty Murray’s nose. Maybe not this year, but he’ll make the National Finals in Las Vegas for sure. He’s number nineteen in bulls and seventeen in bareback.” She pointed to his name in the ProRodeo News, the biweekly newspaper that followed rodeo standings throughout the year.

  I couldn’t help smiling at her motherly enthusiasm. “Well, we’re certainly pulling for him. Ty’s hogged it long enough.”

  “My feelings exactly.” She held out a box of popcorn. “Want some?”

  “No, thanks. I haven’t had dinner yet. I think I’ll go down and get a hamburger after the opening ceremonies and Chet rides.”

  “Well, he’s first up,” she said. “Then he doesn’t ride again until the bulls at the end.”

  A few minutes later, the announcer’s liquid voice crooned over the crowd, attempting to get their attention. “Testing, one, two, one, two.” He tapped the microphone. The thump echoed over the buzzing voices.

  The rodeo clown in his baggy denim overalls, red-and-white face makeup, and tennis shoes advertising Bud Lite, joked into his hidden microphone. “Ladies and gents, that there’s Hadley Barrett, rodeo announcer extraordinaire, counting his teeth.” The audience tittered, the laughter rippling around the stadium like a vocal version of the “wave.”

  “Now, Swingler, you behave yourself,” the announcer good-naturedly countered. “We got ourselves a long night ahead of us. You’d best not antagonize me right off.”

  “Hey, Hadley,” the clown said. “Did you hear that Kansas now has the world’s largest zoo?”

  The announcer chuckled, knowing he was being set up. “No, I didn’t.”

  “Yep,” the clown said, leaning on the padded barrel he’d be spending half the night tucked into, avoiding the dangerous hooves and horns of the irritated bulls. “They done put a fence around Nebraska.”

  The audience, made up mostly of Kansans, roared and stomped their feet, causing the bleachers to rumble like thunder. Gabe had told me about the traditional rivalry between Nebraska and Kansas, but this was the first time I’d seen it for myself.

  “How can the two states make fun of each other?” I’d asked Gabe. “They look just alike.”

  He’d given me a pained look. “Spoken like a true Californian.”

  “I was technically born in Arkansas,” I retorted.

  “Enough said,” he replied.

  Once the announcer gained control of the audience again, the rodeo began with a tribute to the event’s sponsors. One of the contract acts, Vickie Tyer and the All American Trick Riders in their shiny white spandex outfits assisted by the young kids of the Pretty Prairie Saddle Club, circled the arena on adrenaline-charged horses carrying sponsor flags that snapped in the wind like gunshots. They ended their ride facing us in the traditional lineup featuring Debra Jean Jackson, Miss Rodeo Kansas, in the middle on a nervous appaloosa. The sponsors were as American as rodeo itself—Justin Boots, Bud Lite, American Cowboy magazine, Dodge Trucks, Coca-Cola, John Deere Tractors, and Copenhagen Skoal, whose name was also emblazoned on the brand-new bright green computerized scoreboard. “Howdy, folks, from Kansas’ Largest Night Rodeo” it flashed, then showed a moving picture of a long-horned bull with its back legs in the air. We stood for the singing of the national anthem. The sun was almost down now, and the stadium lights cast a hazy glow over the dirt in the arena, giving it a reddish-brown sheen like old leather. Black clouds cut the dim lavender sky into jagged pieces.

  “And now,” the announcer said. “ ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’ sung by Cordie June Rodell of Kermit, Oklahoma.”

  Rob abruptly pushed his way past us and stomped down the bleacher steps, an intense look of disgust on his face.

  “This must be hard for him,” Becky whispered to me. “I don’t understand why he even came tonight.”

  We watched Cordie June strut to the middle of the arena. Her costume tonight was bright but conservative—a red satin cowboy shirt with black sequined trim, matching calf-length skirt, and sharp-toed crimson cowboy boots. She performed a slow, seductive rendition of our national anthem, giving the audience considerable second thoughts about the meaning of the “rockets’ red glare, the bombs bursting in air.”

  “I’ll just bet that wasn’t exactly what old Francis Scott Key had in mind when he wrote it,” Becky said out of the side of her mouth.

  Overhearing, Belinda snapped, “Somebody ought to throw a bucket of ice water on tha
t woman.”

  Becky raised her eyebrows slightly.

  We’d only been seated a few seconds when the announcer gave the traditional call to the crowd, “Are you ready to rodeo?” The audience answered with a noisy cheer.

  “First up,” he said when the noise died down, “we got us a cowboy who’s been on a hot streak lately. Bulls or broncs, he doesn’t care, he’ll just ride ’em. It’s rumored that this young man might just might make it to Las Vegas and give ole Ty a run for his money. Hailing from Derby, Kansas, and riding Bad Buffalo Bill—Chet Champagne!”

  The chute burst open, and a stout buckskin with a long black mane did his best to get rid of the flailing human attached to his back. Chet’s spurring action was good—smooth and rhythmic—and his style was loose, but there was no doubt in that first crucial second of his ride, when the rider has to judge just what kind of ride he’s in for, that Chet was in control of this horse. The eight-second horn blared, and the Dodge pickup men in their red-and-white chaps rode alongside Chet, one releasing the bucking horse’s flank strap, the other wrapping his arm around Chet’s upper torso and pulling him to safety.

  “What a way to start a show!” the announcer told the audience. “If that’s an indication of how the evening’s going to go, we’re going to see some championship riding tonight. This is going to be hard to beat.” He paused as the judges passed him Chet’s score. “Derby is gonna be proud of their hometown boy tonight. This fine young cowboy gets a whopping eighty-eight!”

  Belinda threw her box of popcorn in the air, showering us with the salty kernels. We all laughed and screamed and hugged each other. An eighty-eight would be a hard score to beat, so it was definite that Chet would finish “in the money” tonight as well as adding to his overall score for the year.

  “Now I can breathe again until the bulls,” Belinda said. We settled back down in our seats to watch the rest of the rodeo, talking casually and not paying much attention now that the person we’d come to see had made his ride. In the next few minutes we were joined by Gabe, Dewey, and Cordie June. Gabe sat down beside me, and Becky and Dewey sat behind us with Belinda on one side, Cordie June on the other.

  “Did you see that boy ride?” Dewey kept repeating until Belinda playfully shoved some popcorn in his mouth to shut him up. They exchanged an intimate glance that clearly annoyed Cordie June.

  “What’d y’all think of my singing?” she unabashedly fished.

  Dewey turned to her, his face apologetic. “Sorry, babe. You were great, just great. Best this ole arena has ever heard.”

  Belinda frowned and stepped down to our row and sat next to me.

  “How did it go today?” Gabe asked me, his voice casual.

  I looked around to see if Rob had returned. I didn’t want to bring up our afternoon’s activity in front of him. “Fine,” I said, shrugging. “Definitely sobering. Made me consider going home and cleaning out all my drawers and closets just in case.”

  His face grew sad. “Next to informing the victim’s next-of-kin, that was the part of homicide investigation I really hated. I can’t imagine anything more humiliating than having strangers go through your personal possessions.”

  I looked at him in surprise. The first time I visited the house he’d rented in San Celina before we were married, I’d been struck by how empty it was. I assumed that since he had planned on being in San Celina temporarily, most of his belongings were in storage somewhere. But after we married, I discovered that what was in the house was literally everything he owned. Was this the reason why? Had he seen so many people’s belongings being poked through that he decided no one would ever do that with his things?

  “Are you talking about Tyler’s stuff?” Belinda asked loudly. At the mention of Tyler’s name, everyone stopped talking and looked at us.

  Becky moved to our row and said, “It was sad, packing up someone’s life like that. Everything’s in my garage until her sister decides what to do.”

  “So, did the Snoop Sisters find any clues we missed?” Dewey joked. I glanced back at him and Cordie June. Her face held an odd, furtive look. Next to her, Janet intently studied her rodeo program, and Lawrence’s face was a frozen mask. I thought about the comment Lawrence had made last night, how interested he’d been in the fact that Becky and I were going to clean out Tyler’s room. Was there something there he was afraid would point a finger at him? Did he and Tyler have something going? Janet looked up and caught me staring at her husband. Her eyes darkened, and I looked back to Becky, who was replaying our afternoon’s activities in detail.

  “It was kind of creepy,” she said, giving a small shudder and tucking her arm through Gabe’s. “But we did find something. A quilt.”

  “A quilt?” Janet’s face brightened with interest.

  “Actually, a wall hanging. The stitching is exquisite. Tyler must have spent a long time making it. Let me tell you, Benni’s a whiz. It didn’t take her long to figure out the pattern.”

  “What was it?” Janet asked.

  “A star pattern called Arkansas Traveler,” Becky answered before I could. “It’s absolutely gorgeous. I wish I could buy it, but I’m sure her sister will want it. We were trying to figure out why in the world she’d make that pattern. Maybe there’s a clue in that.” She gave a merry laugh.

  “The clue in the quilt,” Belinda said sarcastically. “Shades of Jessica Fletcher.”

  “If it were only that easy,” Dewey said, shaking his head.

  I worked on keeping my expression bland, hoping my face didn’t reveal my feeling that the quilt might actually be a clue.

  “Well, I just hope they find out who did it soon,” Becky said with a sigh. “I’ll certainly rest easier at night.”

  I stood up and stretched. “Well, steer wrestling isn’t my favorite event. I’m going to hit the concession stands. Anybody want anything?”

  There was a general murmur of dissent.

  “I’ll go with you,” Gabe said, taking my elbow. I felt my face warm up. Darn, I should have known he’d see through me. Faces like mine should come equipped with a ski mask.

  “You want anything?” I asked, walking up to the hamburger line. He gave me a rueful look. “A Coke?” I persisted.

  He pulled at his mustache irritably. “Sure. I’ll wait for you over there.” He pointed to a picnic bench next to the fence, slightly apart from the milling crowd and the bright arena lights. Night had fallen, but the air remained as warm and clammy as it had been in the afternoon.

  It took me ten minutes to reach the front of the line. Gabe watched me the whole time, working his familiar interrogation technique without saying a word. He assumed by the time I sat down across from him I’d be confessing to every remotely illegal thought and deed of my life. Ha, I thought. Guess again, pal.

  “Hello again, Miss California,” the plaid-shirted man with the salt-and-pepper hair said. His horse-shaped name tag said “Darrell.” “Be prepared to enjoy the best hamburger you’ve ever eaten.”

  “He’s not kidding,” said a short-haired woman with a perky voice and a sparkling smile. Her name tag, shaped like a cowboy’s hat, informed me her name was Joyce.

  “Great, I’m starved,” I said, ordering one with the works and two Cokes.

  “Rodeos sure can work up an awful big thirst,” Darrell said, handing me a wrapped hamburger and the two Cokes.

  “One’s for my husband.”

  “You aren’t going to feed him?”

  “He doesn’t eat beef.” I slid my money across the counter.

  “Another Californian?” Darrell grinned at me and made change.

  “Actually, he isn’t. He’s from Kansas.”

  “Well, what’s that boy’s problem that he doesn’t like beef?”

  “You got me.”

  “Sounds like you might need to straighten him out a little.”

  Joyce smacked his shoulder with the back of her hand in an affectionate way that told me this couple had loved each other for a long time. “Now
, Darrell, quit teasing the girl.”

  I walked over to the picnic bench and slid the paper cup of Coke across to Gabe. “Aren’t you going to eat anything?” I asked.

  “I ate with Mom.”

  “She’s spending the night at Becky’s.”

  “So I heard.”

  Having run the gamut of polite conversation, I ate and he watched me. I debated with myself while chewing—should I tell him about the postcards and the connection with the quilt or keep it to myself until I found out more? What about the producer and Cordie June? Say nothing and reduce myself to his negligible level of communication? Tell him what I’d found out and endure yet another lecture?

  He broke into my reverie, forcing a showdown. “Okay, let’s quit playing games,” he said.

  “Fine with me.” I looked at him in challenge.

  “What are you hiding this time?”

  I bristled at the words “this time.” Except, of course, that he was right. “Okay, I’ll tell you what I know. Then will you kindly let me finish my hamburger in peace?” I took an angry bite.

  He didn’t answer. There was one thing you had to say about Gabriel Ortiz. He never made promises he couldn’t keep.

  I sipped my Coke and took another bite, deliberately taking my time chewing and swallowing. He sat patiently waiting, his face never deviating from its chilly expression.

  I looked him straight in his cold blue eyes. “Cordie June told me the other night at the restaurant that there was going to be a Nashville producer in the audience at the club last night. He’s here for the Randy Travis concert.”

  He kept his eyes on my face. “So?”

  “She didn’t say how long ago his visit was planned. She also said that sometimes people only get one chance in life, and they have to grab it.”

  “And from this you’ve deduced that Cordie June killed Tyler just so the producer wouldn’t see her.”