Kansas Troubles

by Earlene Fowler

  “Well . . .” I hedged.

  “Sweetcakes, don’t be lyin’ to me. I know everything. You know Aunt Damson always said I had the ‘second sense.’ ”

  “What she said was you had no sense.”

  He chuckled. “Now let’s not get feline here. So, what can I be doin’ for you, and it better not involve anything of a monetary nature ’cause my wallet’s as parched as Aunt Garnet’s liquor cabinet.”

  “No money involved. I need you to find some information for me about someone who lived in Little Rock or the general area about seven or eight months ago. Or at least I think she lived there.” After extracting a promise that this was entirely confidential, I told him the whole story. “What I’d like to know is who’s listed as the father on the birth certificate.”

  “Do you think she’d tell the truth?” he asked.

  “Maybe. Especially if she didn’t use the name she sang under. I’m guessing she had the baby under her Amish name—Ruth Stoltzfus, or maybe her maiden name, Ruth Miller. Who would ever connect either of them with Tyler Brown, aspiring country-western singer?”

  I listened to him whistle softly through his teeth as he wrote down the information. “Little Rock’s a big city, cuz.”

  “I know it’s a lot of work, Emory, but she was murdered. And I’m afraid the person who killed her might get away with it.”

  “That money really intrigues me. How much did you say it was?”

  “Well, the opening balance was ten thousand dollars, but she’d apparently been living off it because it was almost half gone.”

  “You know what that probably means?”

  Just as his words came over the phone, the pieces clicked together. “Emory, if she had a baby, she probably sold it to someone.”

  “That’s sure what it sounds like.”

  “Well, that certainly explains the money, but it still doesn’t give a clue as to why she was killed.” I traced a finger over the pattern in the kitchen wallpaper.

  “That, thank goodness, is your territory. I’ll get my network started on it and let you know what I find out tout suite. Now.” The timbre of his voice deepened. “There’s the business of my fee.”

  “Your fee? I’m family, Emory Delano Littleton. If you don’t do this for me, I’ll tell Aunt Garnet that you were the one who spilled Hawaiian Punch on Great-gramma Littleton’s Path in the Wilderness quilt.”

  “That’s blackmail, sweetcakes, and an incredibly pathetic attempt at it, too, I might add. I’m not asking you for money, just a teensy little favor.”

  “What?” I asked warily. Emory always had been a sneaky kid. More than once I’d been caught holding the bag when he’d talked me into some mischief, then disappeared like magic when Dove and Aunt Garnet showed up.

  “Your friend Elvia.” His molasses voice fondled her name.

  “What about her?” Elvia Aragon was my best friend back in San Celina. A tiny, gorgeous firebrand of a woman, she ran Blind Harry’s Bookstore and Coffee-house with the steel-nerved precision of a seasoned general and the obsessive love of a new mother. We’d been friends since the first day of school in Mrs. Lawndale’s second-grade class when she informed me in her intense little soprano voice that the red bows in my braids didn’t match the maroon in my dress. I responded to this bit of fashion advice by spitting on her. It was a friendship made in heaven. She is still trying to coordinate my wardrobe, but I don’t spit on her anymore.

  “I want a date with Elvia,” he said.

  “With Elvia?” I repeated, hoping I’d heard wrong.

  “Hello, is anyone home? Yes, with Elvia. Can you arrange it?”

  I stuttered for a moment, grasping for straws. “But you live in Arkansas.”

  “For a date with her, I’ll fly to California. Is it a deal?”

  She’ll kill me, I thought. No, she’ll torture me and then she’ll kill me. And she’s very creative. And smart. And well-read. The possibilities sent a chill down my spine. I hesitated exactly two seconds.

  “Sure,” I said.

  “Okay, I’ll get on it right away. If I come up with a birth certificate, you want me to fax it to you?”

  “Call me first. Except for the police department, I’m not sure where there’s a fax machine. I don’t want anyone to know about this until I do.”

  “Not even tu esposo el chota?”

  Great, Spanish with an Arkansas drawl. I pictured the contemptuous expression on Elvia’s face when Emory tried to impress her with his language skills. I studied my hands. Just how painful was it to have your fingernails yanked out one by one? “Except for Gabe, of course. If I’m not here, you can tell him, but don’t worry, I’ll be here.”

  “Okay, I’ll see what I can worm out of people. I’ll try tomorrow, but I’ll probably have to wait until Monday. I’ll get back to you asap.”

  “Thanks, Emory.”

  “Hasta la vista, sweetcakes.”

  Upstairs in bed with Gabe, I repeated my conversation with Emory.

  “I still think you’re reaching,” he said, “but since it’s free, we might as well see what he can find out.”

  “Well, it’s not exactly free.” I told him the conditions of Emory’s help. Gabe let out a war whoop of a laugh.

  “You sold Elvia? I want to be there when you tell her,” he said. “I’d skip the Superbowl to watch you try to wriggle out of this one.”

  “He’s just bluffing. He’ll never come to California. He hates to fly.”

  “Well, you are one dead little gringa if he does.”

  “I know,” I said, pulling a pillow over my face.

  The next day Gabe, Kathryn, and I drove back downtown to the quilt show. Gabe and his mother walked through the exhibits while I helped Becky with raffle tickets. Around noon, Dewey dropped by and asked if Gabe and I would like to come out to the stable later for a barbecue he and Belinda were having for Chet to celebrate his winning first place in both bulls and bareback.

  “He’s on his way to the National Finals, no doubt about it,” Dewey said. “And besides getting to sample some of my expert cooking, there’s a new little quarter horse named Lucy you might like to try out.”

  “I’m sure it’ll be all right with Gabe,” I said. “He’s wandering around the show somewhere with his mom, but as soon as he gets back, I’ll ask him.”

  He bent his head and studied the side of my face. “Heard you took a tumble at the rodeo. How’re you feeling?”

  “Fine.” I laughed and retold my fictional story. “Didn’t have a drop to drink either. Just tripped over my own feet.”

  “Well, maybe we ought to saddle up old Grapenuts for you to ride. He’s going on thirty and might be more your speed.”

  I showed him a fist. “Don’t you worry, Detective Champagne. I can take care of myself.”

  He pushed his hat back and grinned at me. “Okay, don’t say I didn’t offer. Tell Kathryn she’s welcome, too. Chet’ll be there with some of his rodeo buddies. How’s a nice juicy, cornfed Kansas City steak sound? I even bought some range chicken for your picky husband.”

  “Great. We’ll be there unless Gabe’s made other plans.”

  When they returned, I told them about the invitation, but Kathryn declined, saying she’d already made plans to eat with friends. Gabe and I headed out to the stable alone.

  We found Dewey in front of the house manning a steel barrel barbecue and surrounded by the tangy, smoky smell of cooking chicken and beef. “Chet’s out back looking at my new mare,” Dewey said. “Cordie June and Belinda are in the kitchen stirring up potato salad or dip or something.”

  “I’d bet on the something,” Gabe said in a laconic voice.

  Dewey grinned broadly, pointing toward the kitchen with his long-handled spatula. “I guess having the ex-squeeze and the current squeeze at the same meal isn’t the smartest thing a man can do, but this barbecue’s for Chet and his friends. Belinda’s his mom, but I couldn’t leave out Cordie June, now could I?”

  “Cowboy,” G
abe said, trying to hold back a smile and not succeeding, “you’re playing chicken with a hand grenade pin.”

  “Always did love a good fireworks show.”

  “Excuse me,” I said, irritated by his patronizing attitude toward his ex-wife and his girlfriend, and by Gabe’s nonchalant acquiescence to it. “I think I’ll go see if they need any help.”

  “Better put on a bulletproof vest,” Dewey called after me.

  Inside the kitchen, Belinda and Cordie June were silently working at opposite ends of the room. On the radio the lead singer of Sawyer Brown was telling us that some girls don’t like boys like him, but some girls do. They both looked up when I walked in. Belinda wore tight, old jeans and a faded Western shirt with the tails hanging out. Cordie June wore a short, bright orange jean skirt and a thin tank top that showed off her tanned young arms.

  “Hi,” I said. “I thought maybe you could use an extra set of hands.”

  Belinda handed me a metal bowl of green apples. “I was going to make an apple brown Betty. You could peel these apples.” She started opening up drawers, looking for a knife.

  After letting Belinda search through four drawers, Cordie June said, “Oh, I moved them to a more convenient spot.” She opened a drawer and pulled out a wood-handled paring knife. Offering it to Belinda, she flashed an impudent grin.

  Belinda’s freckled face flushed a deep, mottled red. Swallowing an angry sound deep in her throat, she stormed through the kitchen door, slamming it hard enough to rattle the glass.

  Cordie June stared after her, her small hand still grasping the knife. She turned and stabbed it deep into a fat green apple. “Heavens,” she said, her mouth twisting into a sly smile. “I reckon some people just don’t take well to change.”

  I didn’t answer, knowing her cocky self-confidence would be cured soon enough by the aging process. Though it didn’t seem possible to her right now, she wouldn’t be twenty-two forever, and someday she could very well be the old being replaced by the new. I went out the back door and headed across the backyard to the breezeway barns where I suspected Belinda had retreated. She was in the tack room, swearing steadily as she struggled with a tangle of bridles someone had dropped in a spaghetti-like heap on the floor.

  “Need help?” I asked.

  She continued to wrestle with the twisted tack. “These stupid kids. Sometimes I think I’d be better off closing this place and getting a job managing a Mc-Donald’s in Wichita.”

  I laughed lightly. “So you can get away from kids?”

  She looked up, her thin face chagrined. “I guess you’re right.” She hung one freed bridle on an open hook. “Sorry about what happened in the kitchen. It’s just irritating to find out your kitchen has been rearranged by your ex-husband’s latest bimbo.”

  “It must be.” I picked up the other bridle and straightened it out.

  Her wide mouth drew down sullenly. “I’m surprised you’d even be sympathetic to me.” The abruptly hostile tone of her voice reminded me how she’d rubbed me the wrong way the first time we met.

  “Why’s that?” I asked, trying to keep my voice level.

  “Seems to me that you, being the younger second wife, would be more on Cordie June’s side.” She picked up a red and black saddle blanket and held it to her chest.

  I looked at her coldly. “Belinda, I don’t know either of you well enough to take sides, and to be perfectly honest with you, I don’t want to. And though it’s really none of your business, Gabe was divorced for seven years before we got married. I’ve never even met his first wife, but from what I understand, she’s been happily remarried for three years. You know, nothing pisses me off more than someone assuming something about me that isn’t true. So you can take your habit of instantly judging people and shove it.” I tossed the bridle at her. She dropped the saddle blanket and caught it, surprise causing her mouth to drop open.

  I turned and started for the door.

  “Benni, wait,” she called, running after me. She caught my upper arm in a steel grip.

  I jerked out of her grasp. “Watch it.”

  She held her hands up. “Sorry. Hey, really, I’m sorry. I don’t know why I get like this. It was just seeing Cordie June so . . . at home in my kitchen. The kitchen where I raised my kids—where me and Dewey . . .” Her voice cracked; her eyes looked as miserable as a sick calf’s.

  I stubbornly fought the pity that started creeping into my heart. It couldn’t be easy what she’d gone through these last couple of years, losing her daughter, her husband, and even the small comfort of everything being in the same place in the home that held so many memories. Who’s to say I wouldn’t be just as prickly and suspicious if I’d experienced what she had?

  “Before you go to making up your mind about someone too fast, try to imagine yourself pullin’ their boots on every morning,” Dove had always told us kids. “You’ll understand them better, and maybe the pinches in your own boots won’t hurt as much.”

  “It’s okay,” I said to Belinda. “Let’s just forget it and go eat. That steak is beginning to smell awfully good.”

  She hung her head and said in a low voice, “I need to cool down more before I see . . . that woman again. I’m going to grain some of the horses. You want to come with me?” Her face held a question, almost a plea, for acceptance.

  I wanted to say no. Chances were she’d pop off again, but the alternative was going back and helping Cordie June. And, hearing Dove’s voice in my head, it would be the forgiving thing to do.

  “Do you mind me asking something personal?” I asked as we walked through one of the barns, giving grain to some horses who’d been sick recently and needed the extra nutrition.

  “Depends,” she said.

  “Why does Dewey live in the house when you’re out here more?”

  She shrugged. “It was part of the divorce settlement. At the time, I didn’t want to live in this place where all those memories were of him and me and Chet and especially DeeDee.” Her voice sparked with bitterness. “He can forget things easier than me, I guess. The place didn’t seem to make him feel bad. So he took out a second mortgage and paid me off. I bought a small house in Derby, close to my parents. But now that time has passed, I wish I’d fought for the house. Especially since he started bringing women here. I don’t know why I let Cordie June rattle me. She’s not the first cheap tramp in his life and certainly won’t be the last.” She tapped her nails against the bucket of grain she carried. A pale buckskin moved out of the shadowed corner of his stall and stuck his head over the door. “No grain for you, Coley, but here’s a goodie.” She pulled a carrot out of her pocket and fed it to him. Her eyes grew shiny. “Sometimes I just miss our old life so much. If DeeDee hadn’t . . . if I’d just . . .” She dumped the remaining grain in the last stall. A sharp-ribbed bay moseyed over to the trough. “Like I said, I should have stayed in the house and made him leave.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  She brushed off my sympathy with a harsh laugh. “Yeah, well, as they say, hindsight and all that.”

  We walked up to Apache’s stall. He stuck his head over the metal door, and I patted the side of his neck while she fed him a carrot. “Ever ride him?” I asked.

  “Sure. Dewey doesn’t know it, though. He can be such a tightass sometimes.” Her eyes shifted sideways and gave me a shrewd look. “Want to try him out?”

  Instinctively, I looked behind me. “I don’t know . . . Dewey said . . .”

  “Forget Dewey,” she said. “But if you think you can’t handle him—”

  “That’s not it,” I said sharply. “I just don’t believe in riding someone’s horse without their permission.”

  She smirked at me. “Honey, I own half this stable, and that includes all the critters in it. So I’m giving you permission.”

  “Then let’s go.”

  I followed her to a smaller tack room at the back of the barn. She pulled a soft maroon-colored bareback pad off a saddle rack and handed it to me. �
�He’s not broke to Western saddle yet. He can get a little frisky. That okay with you?”

  “No problem,” I said.

  Apache blew air and jerked his head high when Belinda haltered him. She led him into the breezeway to cross-tie him. I threw the pad over his back and buckled it.

  “Better use this.” Half smiling, she handed me a shiny D-ring snaffle bit. He fought me as I tried to slip it into his mouth, jerking his head away sharply, like a child avoiding bitter-tasting medicine. Apparently he’d decided he liked standing in his stall and doing nothing but processing alfalfa.

  Belinda stepped to the side, her hands stuck in her back pockets. “Need any help?” she asked, her slightly mocking tone back in place.

  “Nope.” Finally he took the bit. I pulled the reins over his head, suddenly feeling uneasy. “You can see the arena from the front yard. Dewey will come barreling out the minute we walk Apache in.”

  “We’ve got another arena out back of the old barn,” she said. “He’ll never see us out there.”

  Leading the skittish horse, I followed her out the back of the breezeway toward an ancient, ramshackle barn. Behind it was a split-wood corral that must have been built around the same time as the barn. The gate hung crookedly by one rusty hinge. I opened it carefully and led Apache to the center of the ring.

  “He’s pretty big.” She laced her fingers. “I’ll give you a leg up.”

  Apache balked at the pressure of me on his back, jumping around while I struggled for control. Irritably he whipped his long tail up and struck me on the shoulder. It was clear he was still not ready to become a cooperative working partner with a human being. I wondered just how long it had been since he was last ridden.

  “Maybe you should tie the reins,” she called, moving back behind the corral’s fence away from us.

  I shook my head and scowled. It was a deliberate barb meant to make me mad, and it worked. Only kids and beginners tied their reins as a precaution against losing them. Apache arched his head and pawed the ground angrily. I pulled back hard. He blew another angry breath. Unlike Sinful, who had eventually settled down after his initial fight for control, Apache, reminding me a lot of a certain police chief, wasn’t about to let anyone tell him what to do. In the next few minutes, using everything I’d ever been taught about breaking horses, I managed to make him walk around the ring. Belinda’s eyes were glued on me the whole time, waiting for me to make a mistake. More than once, Apache slammed me against the splintery boards of the corral, trying to push me off. After his first attempt to dislodge me, I switched directions so that my injured side wouldn’t get bruises on top of bruises. After about fifteen minutes, he seemed controlled enough for me to try a jog. I clucked and he immediately responded, though I never got secure enough to loosen the reins. I was beginning to enjoy his strength and spirited personality and turned to say so to Belinda, when a brown-striped squirrel scampered down a crooked box elder next to the corral and ran across the ring in front of us. The sudden movement broke my precarious control, and Apache reared up slightly, trying to shy away from the chattering squirrel.