A Fair to Die For

by Radine Trees Nehring

  When he walked into the house Henry smelled . . . cinnamon rolls?

  He found Olinda and Edie in the kitchen reading the newspaper.

  “What smells so good?”

  Olinda said, “I’ve never made a pie from scratch, and Edie hasn’t for years, so, since we had plenty of time, we decided to make one. Your Grass Valley Bistro Cookbook doesn’t include anything as ordinary as a simple piecrust recipe, but I found instructions online. You didn’t have all the stuff called for here in the house, but you had the basics. We substituted the rest, like using margarine instead of shortening and salt. We took the two apples you had in the refrigerator and a can of peaches for our two-crust apple-peach pie.” She looked at her watch. “Done in about thirty minutes if our calculations are right.”

  “Sounds and smells good. I look forward to it.”

  Edie said, “Things go okay with the police chief? You were gone quite a while.”

  “Oh. Well, I waited for him to be free. Nice guy. Concerned about Carrie, of course. I guess there’s no news or you’d have called.”

  “No news,” Olinda told him. “Sorry. Now it looks like we’ll all be here at least another day. That means I need to go out to a grocery store, if you’ll loan me your car. I hate to leave you and Edie here alone, but it can’t be helped. You know enough to stay inside with the doors locked.”

  “Edie and I will be okay. No hanky-panky.” He attempted a chuckle, and it came out sounding more like the attempt to conceal a burp.

  Olinda seemed not to notice. “Well, I was thinking of the safety issue, but, okay, we’ll get a list together after lunch. I’ll report to the sheriff about where I’m going and why. Overall, it should take me about an hour. Meanwhile, what about lunch?”

  We have canned soup, and your pie. There’s also lunch meat for sandwiches.”

  “Out of bread,” she said.

  “Oh. Well, we can cut the lunch meat into squares and have it on crackers with our soup.”

  “How about making that tomato soup you made the day I came?” Edie asked.

  When they cut the pie, Olinda looked at it in dismay. “It’s soupy,” she said, and the bottom crust didn’t really cook. What’s wrong?”

  Edie stared into the pie pan. “Probably should cool more, but I also forgot about mixing flour or tapioca into the fruit to thicken the juice.”

  “Never mind,” Henry said. “I’ll wash our soup bowls, we can spoon the filling into them, and break pieces of the top crust over the fruit and juice. Anyone for vanilla ice cream?”

  As soon as Olinda left for the grocery store, Henry stopped cleaning the soup kettle and said, “We need to talk. Come in the living room. We can finish this later.”

  Looking wary, she joined him, saying nothing.

  As soon as they were seated, he said, “Edie, it’s time for the truth. You must have some idea about why our guestroom and your belongings were searched during the time Carrie and her abductors were in this house.”

  She picked at a piece of dried dough on her jeans and remained silent.

  “I am not playing games with you. What do you—or did you—have that someone wants so badly they took my wife captive, used her keys to gain access to this house, and searched your belongings? That must have been the reason they abducted her, and I’m sure that’s the reason those two men came here asking for you in the first place. You tell me why right now.”

  He knew his voice was rising, but didn’t bother to control it, or the anger he was intentionally, but very easily, displaying. “What do they want? How did they know where you were, or that you were coming here?”

  Edie looked up at him. There was no emotion visible on her face as she said, “I don’t know.”

  He stood. “I’m ready to turn you over to the sheriff and tell them you’re connected to drug trafficking in this part of Arkansas. You’ll have to prove your innocence, and that may take some time, since I can give a lot of circumstantial evidence against you. My word against yours. Who do you think they’ll believe?”

  She raised both her hands, palms slanted out. “I’m not lying. I don’t blame you for thinking I am, but I really have no idea what they were looking for or how they knew I was coming here. You know as well as I that leaks as far back as DC are possible. My mother knew I was coming, and I didn’t tell her to keep my planned visit to Oklahoma and Arkansas a secret. She has lots of friends, and there’s a woman checking in on her every day while I’m gone, though, as far as Mother is concerned, this is a vacation and an effort to connect with a long-lost cousin. She knows nothing about my confidential work for the DEA, and I didn’t tell her I was going to try and learn what happened to Daddy.”

  Henry snorted in disgust and turned toward the phone.

  “Do you want me to make up something just to appease you? If I knew anything, I’d . . . oh, wait. Maybe I do have an idea. Maybe I can guess.”

  He turned back toward her, but remained standing. “All right, guess.”

  “I don’t know anything about the drug traffickers Daddy worked with, except, of course, for Milton Sales, who was undercover with him as you know. The only thing I am sure of is that those men were evil. But Milton told me something more.

  “He said Daddy was collecting damning evidence against the men he worked with as a form of insurance if they ever turned against him. He was writing things down, and planned to put his information in a safe-deposit box or some other secure place.” She stopped talking, and looked at the floor.

  “And?” Henry prodded.

  “Well, Milton says he has no idea what the evidence could have been. He wasn’t far enough into the organization yet to hear many details. I guess he was still sort of on probation with both the DAC Bureau and the gang selling drugs to truckers. He wasn’t even sure Daddy trusted him, since he never let him see what was on any of the papers.”

  “Edie, how long have you known about those papers?”

  “Milton mentioned them in our conversation on the bridge at War Eagle.”

  “And, just now, when you continued to insist you had no clue why your belongings had been searched, it didn’t occur to you that those papers might have been a reason? I find that hard to believe.”

  “Okay, don’t believe me, but I honestly thought the matter of the papers was a dead issue. I didn’t connect what Milton told me with present-day events. Even while Milton was telling me about them I assumed they were destroyed when Daddy was killed. It never occurred to me they might still be in existence, or that they could be important to someone today.”

  “Did Milton say any more about the papers that you ‘just might remember’ now?”

  “He did tell me they were in an old black leather portfolio. Milton doesn’t think Daddy had time to put them someplace safe before he was killed, since their existence in a safe place was supposed to be a kind of insurance against that very thing. He said the bad guys must have found them and destroyed them when . . . when they killed Daddy.”

  “And you say, until now, you had no idea they existed?”

  “Mother and I found a safe-deposit box key in Daddy’s things, but all that was in the box were passports, family papers, the deed to our house, my birth certificate, some other records. All very innocent.”

  Henry stood there in silence, thinking over what she’d been saying, and trying to decide if he believed she could be so naïve. Finally he said, “There may be copies of those papers somewhere. It seems obvious that at least two or three people believe they exist, either as originals or copies.”

  “After all these years? And, why would they matter now anyway? Probably people mentioned in the papers are dead. The mortality rate in that business is high, and anyway, people Daddy’s age would all be gone by now. Some probably died in prison.”

  “Milton Sales is certainly still alive and active.”

  “He was only in his early twenties back then.”

  “Edie, use your head. He wouldn’t have been the only one in that age group. An
d some of the older folks would have had families like your Dad did. Their children could be interested in destroying papers proving their parents were involved in crimes. It’s also likely some of the children are carrying on the family business tradition, and therefore wouldn’t balk at criminal activity to retrieve damning papers about their relatives.”

  “Well, I guess that’s possible. But it’s a lot of trouble to go to for old papers that, so far as we know, either don’t exist, or, if they do, don’t contain information anyone cares about today. Maybe Milton is all wrong about the papers.”

  “Maybe he’s lying?”

  “But what would his point be?” She returned to picking at the spot of dough.

  He changed the subject. “You said passports. Whose?”

  “Mother’s and mine.”

  “Not your father’s?”

  “No, but if he was planning to go to Mexico, he’d have taken it with him.”

  “Back then you could travel legally in and out of Mexico or Canada without a passport.”

  “Oh, yes, that’s true.”

  “Why passports for all of you?”

  “We took a vacation to France when I was in my teens.”

  “If he had his passport with him when he left home that last time, perhaps he planned to go further afield than Mexico.”

  “Oh, I . . . well, I . . . uh, why?”

  He sat across from her again and didn’t answer, leaving her to think about the possibilities by herself. Could her father have abandoned family and country for a life abroad? Was he the sort of man who might do that? Only Edie and her mother would know. Or guess. And, what about Milton Sales? Did he know more than he was willing to tell Edie?

  After a silence, he said, “And now are you telling me all you know—the complete truth as you see it?”

  “Yes, Henry, I am.”

  He sighed, blowing out a whoosh of air. “After such a long time, I admit I’m as curious as you are about the interest in those papers.”

  They were both silent for a few clock ticks, then Edie asked, “Henry, do you trust Milton?”

  “Right now, Edie, I don’t trust anyone but myself, Carrie, and the Booths.”

  “Not me?”

  “No.”

  For a minute she looked as if he’d slapped her. Then she nodded slowly.

  “Okay,” he said. “We’d better go finish cleaning up in the kitchen. You keep thinking about the papers. If they exist, where could they be hidden? And if they don’t exist, how can we convince the people looking for them that they don’t?”

  “And, by doing that, get Carrie out of harm’s way?”

  “Yes, exactly. And you, as well.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  HENRY AT HOME

  By five o‘clock Henry didn’t know how much longer he could stand the required secrecy about Carrie’s escape or, for that matter, stand more time with Olinda and Edie.

  They weren’t offensive, just the opposite, but he couldn’t be comfortable in his own home. No sloppy dress—or undress—no rude comments or rude noises that Carrie would understand and tolerate. He had to act like a gentleman all the time. Worse, he had to keep up a façade of concern over Carrie’s safety.

  Now he was sitting on the edge of the bathtub in his and Carrie’s bathroom, knowing he’d probably spent more time here than would seem reasonable. Still he sat, enjoying this private space.

  Carrie didn’t wear perfume, but the room retained scents he associated with her—shampoo, hand and face creams, a Carrie smell. He took a deep breath. Though he knew she was safe now, she still wasn’t here, and the smells were comforting.

  He wondered if Edie and Olinda felt uncomfortable too. All three of them were virtual prisoners in this house, and it might not be any easier for them than it was for him. He also wondered if Edie had come up with any new ideas about the missing papers. With Olinda always hanging around, they couldn’t discuss it.

  Oh, well. He stood. Time to go back on duty.

  He’d talked briefly with Roger, and learned, in a sort of awkward, limited code, that the trip to the Marshall’s had been productive. They’d be telling Cousin Norm about it tonight.

  Other than the phone call, and an attempt to do a bit of vacuuming, with Edie and Olinda hovering to dust and wipe, Henry had spent most of his time reading. That seemed the safest neutral occupation, since the women were reluctant to bother him with conversation when he had his face in a book. He’d just finished Tony Hillerman’s novel, Hunting Badger, and was eager to begin the next in the series. For him this was light reading. He no longer chose the thrillers that were once his reading preference. There had been enough of the thriller stuff in real-life Kansas City, though he could now read tough novels without putting himself inside whatever awful action was depicted. His own haunting memories were over and done with. Mostly.

  Well, anyway, he was enjoying his visit to the New Mexico-Arizona Four Corners area and learning about Navajo life as depicted by Hillerman. The man obviously knew what he was writing about. Or, at least Henry supposed he did. Sure seemed like it, though he’d never been to that part of the United States so couldn’t really judge.

  Maybe he and Carrie should take a trip out that way next spring. He’d always wanted to see the Grand Canyon, and wondered now if she had ever been there.

  He left his sanctuary in the bathroom, walked to the living room and looked around for more reading. Ah, he could try some of The Message Bible by Eugene Peterson that Carrie kept on the coffee table. Bible reading would look appropriate for someone in his supposed situation, and any reading passed the time. Besides, it cut off Olinda and Edie’s attempts to comfort and distract him from his pretend anxiety by engaging in rambling conversation.

  A while ago Carrie had recommended beginning Bible reading with something in Psalms, and he quickly decided Peterson had an instructive sense of humor. The First Psalm began: “How well God must like you—you don’t hang out at Sin Saloon, you don’t slink along Dead-End Road, you don’t go to Smart-Mouth College.” Curious, he left his chair to get Carrie’s King James Bible for comparison. He’d just started the First Psalm, reading, “Blessed is the man that walketh not in the counsel of the ungodly,” when Edie came into the room and stood, waiting for him to acknowledge her presence.

  “You and Olinda doing okay?” he said, closing the Bible.

  “We’ve been playing cards, but are getting hungry, and wonder what we should think about for supper. We have plenty of groceries in the house now.”

  “Let me look through our cookbook. Something there may appeal to all of us.”

  He got Chef John’s book, and the two women sat at the kitchen table with him while he paged through, stopping to read some of the recipes aloud.

  “How about this? ‘Macaroni-Beef Casserole.’ I think we have everything it calls for.”

  “Read it to us,” Edie said.

  He did, got approval, and started assembling ingredients while Olinda began peeling and chopping an onion.

  Edie put out the large kettle to boil water for cooking macaroni.

  “I don’t mind doing this by myself,” he said, wishing they’d take the hint and get out from underfoot.

  “Gives us something to do,” Edie said. “We’re as bored as you are, and anxious about Carrie, of course.” She looked into his face for a long moment before continuing, “though not nearly so anxious as you must be. Let us help.”

  “What’s on TV tonight?” Olinda asked as she dumped the first batch of onions out of the chopper, then stopped to wipe her eyes.

  “You two are welcome to the television,” he said. “I think I’ll read in bed.”

  He ended up watching a program about whales on AETN with them, then headed for the bedroom to continue his Bible reading. Before ten thirty he was asleep.

  The gunshots awakened him at midnight.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  FIRE

  Two shots! What the devil?

  Henry sat
up, saw firelight through the bedroom window.

  Conditioned by long experience, he was wide awake and moving in an instant. He grabbed the gun he’d been keeping in the bedside table and slipped into jeans and loafers.

  As he opened the bedroom door he heard Olinda shouting, “Edie, someone’s set fires on this side too. I’m going after them. Call 911. Put shoes on and get out here to help. Get Henry. Don’t pour water on the fires. They used gasoline. Find some dirt and a shovel.”

  The front door slammed shut and the shouting stopped. There were more gunshots.

  He could hear Edie on the phone so he went to get the two fire extinguishers they kept in the house, ran to the front door, then stopped, dead still, his hand on the knob.

  Wait. Wait a minute.

  He moved his hand to the door lock. Turned it.

  Then he ran through the house, looking out all the windows. The only place flames were evident was outside the bedrooms where he, Olinda, and Edie had been sleeping.

  Now he was torn by indecision. What if the fire was a ploy to get everyone out of the house—out in the open, and vulnerable? What if some person outside wanted in the house?

  He ran back to his bedroom, fire extinguisher in hand, cranked the window open, shoved the screen out, and sprayed foam into the fire below him. It sputtered, didn’t go completely out, but appeared to be dying. He looked along the wall of the house and didn’t see any other fire, though the smell of gasoline was strong.

  Hurrying to the guestroom window, he opened it and used the second extinguisher to spray more foam. He was returning to check on the fire outside the master bedroom when Edie joined him.

  “Where can I find a shovel? Olinda said to shovel dirt on the fire.” Her voice was high, almost a screech.

  “I heard her. Stay inside. It’s possible the fires were set to get us out of the house. I only saw fire outside our bedrooms and I think they’re under control now. I’ll keep patrolling inside. Stay with me. I locked the front door.”