I intend to make the run every time it is offered until we have our own land. As God is my witness, I promise that it will not take long.
Your loving fiancé,
Robert Grace
~
Saturday, September 21
The last bite of hot dog turned to ash in my mouth and my appetite fled.
Mitch continued to pester us, but after Cord’s outburst, none of us said much. “If you want to know about the props, why don’t you ask Dina yourself?” I asked. Mitch’s interruption of our dinner peeved me. “After all, she works for you.”
“Oh, I will, don’t worry.” He whipped out a camera and snapped a picture of us before we could protest. “That’s a fetching outfit, Cici, I must say.” He grinned again and slid away in search of another victim.
“He as much as called me the murderer,” Cord sputtered.
“You and Dina.” I looked at my plate. The sight of the perfect watermelon slice that tempted indulgence fifteen minutes ago now soured my stomach.
“Where is Dina tonight?” Jenna asked. “I can’t believe she’d miss the barbecue.”
“At work. She called to say Mitch asked her to help get out a special edition of the Sequoian.” I shook my head. “So she’s hard at work and missing all the fun, and he’s here bothering people for interviews.”
“I bet she’s glad she didn’t get that internship at the Herald that she applied for. Things must be in an uproar at the paper after Penn’s death.” Jenna kept up on the town gossip in spite of the fact she had kicked Grace Gulch’s dust off as soon as she finished high school and never looked back. As they say, you can leave Grace Gulch, but Grace Gulch never leaves you.
No one else came our way during the barbecue. Jenna finished eating and left us alone, giving us a few moments’ privacy, but we didn’t stay for long. Cord drove me straight home and let the engine idle.
“Will I see you tomorrow?”
I cringed. Although we attended different churches on Sunday mornings, our families sometimes spent the afternoon together. Maybe he expected me to attend the Land Run concert with him tomorrow.
“Perhaps. I’m going to the concert with Audie.” I tried to keep my tone nonchalant. I almost wished I hadn’t made those plans. Cord needed my support now more than ever.
Now it was Cord’s turn to frown. “Another time, then.”
“Do you want to come in for a cup of coffee?” The day had disturbed us both in a myriad of ways, and I wondered if he wanted company. But he agreed and helped me climb down from the cab of the truck.
While my favorite decaf caramel truffle coffee brewed, I set out a pair of gray ceramic mugs with a painting of our state bird, the beautiful scissor-tailed flycatcher doing a sky dance on the sides. I was eager to speak with Dina, but the clock told me she would be hard at work. I’d have to postpone the call.
I thought Cord might want to talk, but he didn’t say much while we drank the coffee. Neither one of us wanted to voice the thoughts prominent in our minds. Penn’s death. The two people with the best opportunity to kill him were my sister—who handled props for the play—and Cord, the man sitting across my kitchen table, who had fired the gun. After he finished his coffee, I offered him a second cup, but he shook his head.
“I’ll be heading home.” He stood up, hat in his hands, and stared at the floor for a long minute. Then he looked at me with a forced smile. “At least you aren’t afraid to ask me into your home.”
“Oh, Cord, of course not.”
He motioned with his hand. “It’s okay. I’m sure even Reiner will figure out that I’m innocent. Eventually.” He said his good-byes and left.
I checked the clock and decided I could call Dina. I picked up my handset and punched the speed dial for Dina’s cell phone.
“Hey, Cic, what’s up?”
Rolling presses clattered in the background.
“Can you get away from the printer?”
Dina laughed. “Sure. Several people showed up for work after they left the barbecue. I can take a short break.” The clattering subsided, followed by the slam of a door. “Is this better?”
“Are you alone?” I didn’t want anyone at the paper to hear even part of our conversation.
“Yup. I ducked into an empty room. Why?”
“How did things go today with the police? Did you ask for a lawyer?”
“Why? I haven’t done anything wrong. They asked a few questions, took my fingerprints, and let me go.”
“What did they ask about?”
“You know, like when did I last handle the guns.”
“Well? When did you?”
“I was there when Penn and Cord picked them up. About eleven thirty.” She paused. “I can’t believe Penn’s dead.”
“Me either.”
“Do they think Cord’s gun killed him?”
I didn’t answer her question. “When was the last time you checked the guns? You know, put the blanks in?”
“We used blanks at the rehearsal last weekend. We test fired all three guns and decided on which ones Cord and Penn would use during the performance. Everything went off without a hitch. I checked them one last time that morning. Everything looked good.” Her voice rose in pitch. “Hey, why all the questions? I did my job!”
“I’m sure you did. But somebody shot Penn. With a real bullet. Did you have a chance to check the guns after the fight?”
“No. The police took both guns—Cord’s and Penn’s. But I’m sure there were blanks in both. If someone had changed blanks for the real thing, wouldn’t Cord have been shot, too?” She sighed. “Maybe not. They used the same guns each time. All somebody needed to know was which one was Cord’s and which one was Penn’s.”
I knew what Reiner would say. Cord could have switched the bullets and killed Penn on purpose. He didn’t have a motive of any kind, but that wouldn’t stop the chief. Cord could speak up for himself. But if they dug around for Dina’s motive, on the other hand. . .
“If the police want to speak with you again, be sure you have a lawyer there.”
“Cic.” The rise in Dina’s voice told me I had pressed far enough. She’d complained to me often enough that I was trying to take her mother’s place. Truth be told, I did feel like her mother since my mom died back when I was thirteen.
I only hoped she would heed my advice. What were kids coming to these days? Didn’t she watch any of those endless cop shows? I sighed. Little sisters didn’t like big sisters butting in—anymore than I appreciated Jenna—but I couldn’t worry about Dina’s feelings right now.
I heard some talking in the background. “Hey, I’d better get back to work. We have to finish up here, or else I’ll never make it to church in the morning.”
By the time we said our goodbyes it was close to midnight; Sunday had almost arrived. Maybe this week Pastor Waldberg would preach a comforting message instead of his usual hellfire and brimstone. Everyone in Grace Gulch still suffered from shock at Penn’s death.
~
My alarm woke me out of a deep sleep shortly after dawn the next morning. I needed to be up extra early to get ready for another hectic day, starting with getting dressed. Although I wore period clothing throughout the week at my store, I rarely did so on Sundays. After all, Christians set aside the day to worship the Lord, not to do business. Most weeks I alternated combinations of my limited contemporary wardrobe of four skirts, seven blouses, and three sweaters.
But today, many people would dress up in honor of the Centennial. They had purchased their clothing at my store and wanted to wear it as often as possible during Land Run Days. It would look odd if I didn’t wear something appropriate for the occasion. So I took the time to dress carefully. I selected a gray bolero jacket over a white blouse, a lace jabot with a matching skirt, and a derby hat.
By the time I finished dressing, my doorbell rang. My father stood outside, a trim figure at sixty, handsome in his workaday blue jeans. “Would you like a buggy ride?” His eyebro
ws wiggled. “Or did you forget?”
Dina, wild red hair a shock over her high-necked blouse, leaned forward in the carriage and waved. I stared at the buggy. On the back of the carriage, a sign read “Celebrate Land Run Sunday with Us at the Word of Truth Fellowship.” After yesterday’s tumult, I had forgotten that my family had volunteered to drive the buggy around the neighborhood inviting people to worship with us. But Dad appeared at my doorstep this morning as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
“We have doughnuts and hot chocolate,” Dad added as an extra inducement.
My stomach rumbled its agreement. “Sounds great. I haven’t eaten breakfast yet.” I smiled in acquiescence—the church was counting on us—and grabbed the double cape I had worn last night. Dad handed me up to the worn leather seat and then urged our horses forward.
We circled the church three times during the Sunday school hour, waving at everyone we saw and inviting people to church. Some asked if they could ride the buggy, and Dad explained that rides would be available for all ages—after the morning worship service, while they were preparing for the picnic on the grounds.
A few minutes before service, Dad unhitched the horses from the buggy and hobbled them near a tree on the church lawn. As full as the parking lot was, I wondered how many people had crowded into our sanctuary and if we could find a seat. But Audie greeted us at the front door with a smile and said, “This way.” He managed to save a spot for us.
Audie sat with us most weeks, ever since his first Lord’s Day in Grace Gulch. I looked forward to seeing him on Sunday mornings. I flashed a “thank-you” smile in his direction as Frances—the cop was also our church’s pianist—began the prelude.
Well-worn booklets titled Gospel Hymns replaced our usual hymnals in the pews. Leafing through, I saw some of my favorite hymns, a nostalgic treat from my childhood before contemporary worship music became the norm. The praise team looked strange in their long dresses and fancy suits, tambourines replacing electric guitars. They led us through several gospel songs. What songs we didn’t know, we stumbled through in merry spirits. Audie seemed to know most of the music.
“I see that Ira Sankey wrote a lot of these songs. He traveled with the evangelist D. L. Moody, you know,” Audie whispered to me during the offering. “In Chicago I grew up singing this stuff, since it was his home base back in the day.”
The song service ended all too soon. Enid Waldberg, the pastor’s wife, led the children’s Sunday school class in reciting the Twenty-third Psalm from the poetic King James Version. Then Pastor Waldberg stood up to speak.
The bulletin announced the sermon title as “Life Is Short—Are You Ready?” For the past few months, Pastor Waldberg had emphasized the importance of evangelism on this Sunday, when we expected an influx of visitors due to the Land Run Days. I was sure he had prepared his sermon well in advance of yesterday’s tragic events, but Penn’s death only emphasized his point. Our pastor’s thick black brows protruded over somber dark eyes, his mighty voice and piercing gaze adding weight to his usual hellfire-style. In spite of his occasional odd traits, he truly was the best preacher I had ever heard. He invited us to open our Bibles to the sixteenth chapter of Luke, to the story of the rich man and Lazarus.
Waldberg read the passage and opened in prayer, then began to speak.
“Some people would say Penn Hardy was well off, like the rich man in Jesus’ parable. He was rich in the things of this world. He owned a newspaper. He belonged to a prominent family.” The Gaynors in the congregation preened themselves at the reference. “And he ran his newspaper fairly, reporting as much of the good news as the evil doings of this generation. He will be missed as a deacon of our church.
“But this day—this day! His soul has been called to account. You never know when your life will end. If Penn could, he would send an angel to warn you of wrath to come! But God says no! If you don’t believe the Word of Truth, how would you believe an angel sent by God?”
And on he went. God’s Spirit was with him. Several people raised their hands during the invitation. I felt guilty that I longed for comfort instead of conviction on this particular day, when God was in the business of saving souls.
After the service, I sought out Enid Waldberg. A warm, cozy woman, she served as the perfect counterpoint to her husband. I complimented her on the great job the children had done. Audie, as usual, dived into a discussion about the finer points of the sermon with the pastor.
“As Oscar Wilde said, ‘Ordinary riches can be stolen, real riches cannot. In your soul are infinitely precious things that cannot be taken from you.’ ” Audie never missed an opportunity to quote his favorite playwright. “Lazarus knew what real riches were. I hope I can emulate his example.”
Pastor Waldberg looked flustered. I didn’t blame him. Audie’s use of a quote from a reprobate to echo a spiritual truth would make any man of the cloth uncomfortable.
“Or as Proverbs says, ‘Wealth is worthless in the day of wrath, but righteousness delivers from death.’ ” Audie added the scripture verse to put the pastor at ease. His knowledge of the Bible exceeded his knowledge of great plays. I admired a man who knew his Bible backwards and forwards.
“Yes, indeed.” Poor Pastor Waldberg looked a bit shrunken. If they held a memory verse contest, Audie would probably win. He seemed to have the entire book of Proverbs memorized, chapter and verse.
We stayed for the picnic, held in celebration of Land Run Days. After so much food sampling over the weekend, I might have to let out my clothes before I wore them again.
“Are you sure you don’t want to run the buggy around?” Dad invited Audie to drive.
“Not unless you want a runaway horse.”
“No, we can’t have that. I’ll take the buggy around a few more times before I eat.” Dad donned his hat and climbed up in the seat.
Audie took off his jacket and added red suspenders over a white shirt. “Let me duck inside and get ready for my act.”
Audie might not be comfortable holding the reins of a horse, but he could act. He had offered to be a mime at today’s lunch, and I knew he planned to add white face makeup and become a blond Marcel Marceau for the afternoon. He reappeared a few minutes later, a gaggle of balloons tied around his waist, and the children on the grass swarmed around him. He mimed each animal as he tied the balloon. I loved his passion for bringing his art and joy to everyone.
Audie reminded me of those two brief years I went to college out of state, of art and history and a whole other world, a world that I explored through dresses of the different eras. He was as skilled at theater as Cord was at ranching, but he bucked the actor stereotypes by being down-to-earth, concerned, and authentic.
The two men differed in so many ways. Cord was as familiar as a foam mattress that conforms to a person’s shape over time. My experiences matched his. Everything I could do around a ranch, he could do as well—make that better—as I could. Cord already knew all my most embarrassing moments. There were no secrets between us. But that was the problem. Did I want more of the same?
Both men had hinted at taking things to the next level, to making it an exclusive relationship. I thought it strange that Cord never cared about that until Audie entered the picture.
My eyes strayed to Audie while I picked at a piece of fried chicken. He had stopped tying balloons and started miming Bible stories. He tied a napkin around his head and lifted his eyes to heaven. Then he sprinkled coins in the children’s hands, sending ripples of giggles through the crowd. He pointed to the billboard of the ten commandments Pastor Waldberg had added to our lawn and then pointed to himself. He pondered each commandment. Yes, I do that. No, I don’t do that. He made his self-inventory clear through head motions and facial expressions.
I didn’t recognize the associated story until Audie took off the napkin and threw dust in his hair. He looked down at the ground. Of course! Jesus’ parable about the Pharisee and the tax collector.
“Stop daydreaming and co
me and eat.” Dina touched my elbow. “Dad’s taking a break from the buggy rides.”
I grabbed a glass of lemonade and joined them at the end of a picnic table, daydreaming about two different men. Times like this I missed my mother. Who else could I talk to about matters of the heart? Dad assumed I chatted with Jenna about “girly things,” as he put it, but she lived far away, and we didn’t phone that often. Besides, with the mistakes she had made, I couldn’t trust her advice when we were younger, and now we didn’t talk much. Then there was Dina, but at nineteen, she was inexperienced. So I prayed and asked God to show me which man was right for me. If either.
Audie must have seen us sit down, because he mimed eating and left behind the protesting children to go through the buffet line.
Of course, people asked me about what happened yesterday. Several others stopped Audie on his way to our table. They must have asked him about Penn’s death as well, because I saw his answering actions and movement.
Dina caught me watching Audie. “You’re staring.” She poked me in the arm. The point of my plastic fork dug into the side of my mouth, and I yelped.
“Guilty.” I dabbed my mouth and took a sip of lemonade. “I wonder what he has to say about what happened yesterday. Because we haven’t had a chance to talk about it.” I chased a last bite of potato salad around my plate.
“Oh, is that all?” She noticed my empty plate. “I’m ready for a second trip. What do you want? I’ll get it for you.”
“I’d like a small spoonful of that tamale pie.”
“Sure, be right back.”
Audie broke away from another questioner and moved in our direction.
“You can have my seat.” Dina stood up and offered her chair to Audie.
Somehow, Audie had juggled two cups of tea with his plate. He downed one in a few long gulps.
“I didn’t know miming could work up such a thirst.”
Darlene Franklin - Dressed for Death 01 - Gunfight at Grace Gulch Page 3
