Darlene Franklin - Dressed for Death 01 - Gunfight at Grace Gulch

by Darlene Franklin

  I’m supposed to be investigating a murder. The window can wait. I poured myself a cup of coffee and sat behind the cash register with the day’s newspapers. Both reported a lack of progress by the police in the death of Penn Hardy. The Sequoian held out for the tragic accident theory. The Herald pounded on the police for a more thorough investigation.

  The phone rang, interrupting my thoughts. I picked up the receiver.

  “Hey, Cici! Did you see the paper this morning?” Cord usually didn’t get a chance to read the news until after he finished his morning chores. But Penn’s death had the whole town seeking out information. “The editor seems to agree with us that it was murder.”

  “I noticed that. Speaking of the murder, listen to what we learned yesterday.” I thought Cord would like to know the list of suspects.

  “We? As in you and that city boy?”

  Oh, boy. I should have made that first-person singular. “Yes, Audie helped me talk with some people.” I told Cord about the suspects we had identified and what we had learned about Suzanne and Gwen.

  Cord whistled. “The classic love triangle. It can create all kinds of bad feelings.”

  I had a feeling that he was talking about more than Gwen and Suzanne.

  “Promise me you’ll be careful, won’t you?”

  I couldn’t promise that, and Cord knew it. We hung up, both of us unsettled after the conversation.

  I decided to peruse the mini-morgue I kept of both the Herald and the Sequoian. I kept copies of all editions with ads for Cici’s Vintage Clothing and made notes on their relative success. An article might suggest a motive for Penn’s murder, or at the very least, remind me of recent developments in our community. I didn’t expect much success, but I couldn’t think of anything else to do until evening relieved me from store duties.

  The mail carrier dropped off a larger than usual pile of orders. I logged onto my computer. Sales over the weekend had rendered my Web site outdated; most of the pictured items had sold, and I needed to update the information. The challenge of matching clothing to customers gave me great satisfaction. It was also time to check out estate sales and second hand clothing stores. With parties requiring guests to wear costumes, and with the upcoming Christmas season, I hoped that people would remain eager to buy from me.

  Next, I checked my favorite stocks. My interest in the stock market started in high school, when I tracked the market price of the Herald for an economics class. My nest egg was growing nicely.

  While I was on the Internet, I decided to check out the Herald Web site. Ads placed in the electronic version of the newspaper worked well when I wanted to sell outside of the door-to-door delivery area. Checking for headlines electronically would keep me from getting ink on my pretty pink dress. I confess that I felt as dainty and fresh as a spring flower when I wore that dress, my waist cinched small enough to make me feel like Scarlet O’Hara.

  But what was I looking for? Suzanne said Penn was pursuing a big story. I decided to start with the current date and work back until something caught my attention. If something caught my attention.

  Soon I fell into a rhythm of scanning headlines and reading an occasional abstract. If needed, I could look up the entire article in my newspaper file. News of plans for the Land Run festivities filled recent issues. A week ago, Ron Grace won the mayoral election in a landslide against his Democrat opponent. In the same issue, he announced his plans to invite the mayors of Grace City, North Dakota, and Grace, Idaho, to the upcoming festival. They must have declined; I hadn’t seen any visiting dignitaries. Then again, after the gunfight, I didn’t notice much of anything.

  Thinking of the mayoral race reminded me of the primary election for city officials in May, the only vote that mattered in local politics. No Democrat had won since FDR had left office. Ron was opposed in his bid for reelection by Jordan Malcolm, the big name in Grace Gulch realty and a distant Grace cousin. If I remembered correctly, the Herald had come out in support of Mr. Malcolm. I searched by subjects “primary election” and “Jordan Malcolm” to find relevant articles.

  The first Sunday issue in May had run articles in support of candidates from each party. The paper had to make a pretense of nonpartisan support. The Democratic candidate—the lawyer who handled most of my legal affairs, Georgia Hafferty—ran unopposed. Penn had written a fairly objective statement of her experience and successes, as well as her unpopular stands on issues, from public land management to hydroelectric power.

  Penn surprised the town by endorsing Ron Grace’s opponent, Jordan Malcolm, as the Republican candidate for mayor. He pointed to Malcolm’s strong business sense and described him as a good man to lead Grace Gulch into the future. He criticized Ron’s “provincial” mentality and poked fun at the “Grace-filled” map that adorned the mayor’s office. Pushpins marked the locations of various members of the Grace clan, as well as institutions and communities named after Grace. Penn pointed out the possible conflict of church and state and wondered aloud that someone hadn’t filed a suit against the city. He didn’t make any friends with that article, I decided.

  I didn’t remember how the Sequoian had handled the primaries, so I switched Web sites.

  The difference between the papers was immediately obvious. News items about school events at Lizzy Gaynor Elementary and a weekly column by Pastor Waldberg from the Gaynor-founded Word of Truth Fellowship, indicated its pro-Gaynor roots. Aside from that, it provided more balanced coverage than the Herald. Mitch supported reelecting Mayor Ron. He ran our town with a mixture of common sense and humanity, in spite of occasional silly stunts (my words, not his). I guess Gaynor figured Ron was the best of the Grace-tied candidates; Georgia was the only candidate not related to the Graces.

  After spending most of the morning on the computer, I decided that if Penn was on the trail of a story, he hadn’t written about it in the paper. I didn’t catch a sniff of anything controversial. The primary coverage came the closest, but the mayor won reelection in spite of Penn’s opposition. So that didn’t count as a motive, did it?

  I turned off the monitor and closed my eyes. I should at least talk with the mayor, however. How could I snag an interview? Our paths didn’t cross all that often. Perhaps his cousin Cord could pave the way. Poor Cord. I wondered if Reiner had continued his harassment. One thing was certain; he had not arrested Cord yet. If that happened, I would hear before he reached the police station.

  After a sack lunch, I cleaned my hands and prepared the mail orders. The Fed Ex driver stopped by around three. After much persuasion, I had convinced him to stop in Grace Gulch at least every other day. The company didn’t like him to wander too far from I-44 and Route 66, and our town was nestled in the hills of Lincoln County, well off the beaten path.

  A constant stream of customers kept me busy for the remainder of the afternoon. A brief flurry came after five and purchased most of the remaining special Land Run items. Time for a sale? Not yet, I decided. As soon as the cloud still hanging over Cord and Dina disappeared, I would close for a few days and shop for new stock. Then I would hold a sale for any holdovers from the festival. Promptly at six, I turned the sign to Closed and walked out the back door to my car.

  At home, I exchanged my dress for a robe before starting supper. I boiled pasta shells and made an indulgent sauce out of Velveeta and cream cheese, then placed the casserole in the oven on low heat while I headed to the shower. My hair got wet, but I put off styling it until the morning, after I decided what to wear. For one night I could let it go to seed. That’s what I called it, anyhow, because left untended, my washed out hair looked like a dandelion gone to seed. I pulled on my favorite OU sweatshirt, faded and spotted from the paint job on my first apartment, and blue jeans with holes. I didn’t intend to think about work or investigations for the next twelve hours. Maybe I could catch up on the ladies’ Bible study I had decided to join at church, and then perhaps watch a half-hour comedy on television.

  I had tossed a salad reminiscent of
Jenna’s California dish—I had enjoyed the A and A combination and decided to recreate it at home—when the doorbell rang. I peeked out the front window. Audie. Oh, no! I opened the door an inch. “What’s up?”

  “I was driving by and, well, I wondered if you had eaten dinner yet.”

  “Actually, I’ve got a casserole in the oven.”

  Audie looked disappointed.

  I sighed. “Why don’t you join me?”

  “I thought you’d never ask.” Audie walked through my front door, not reacting to my disheveled appearance. I added an extra place setting to the table and headed for my bedroom to change back into my dress. I looked at my reflection in the mirror. As expected, my hair sprang in a dozen directions. I ran a comb through it to get out the worst of the snarls but decided to leave on my casual clothes. This is the real me, I decided. If last night meant anything, if there was to be a future for Audie and me, he would have to accept me at my worst as well as at my best. And damp, frizzy hair, paint-stained sweatshirt, and holey jeans definitely fell into the “worst” category. Besides, the damage had been done. He’d already seen me at the door.

  A couple of minutes passed before I returned downstairs. Audie had gone out to the front porch swing, a hiss that was his version of whistling issuing from between his lips.

  “It’s a beautiful night,” he said. “Can supper wait while you join me for a few minutes?”

  “Sure.” Coward. Outside maybe he wouldn’t notice how bad I looked. Moonlight added magic to everything. I slid into the swing—the selling point for the house, as far as I was concerned—and settled into the crook of Audie’s arm.

  “Careful.” He handed me a bouquet redolent of Oklahoma—baby’s breath and daisies, lilies and Indian paintbrush. “I asked for the flowers that Bob Grace described in his letters.”

  Tears came to my eyes. “They’re beautiful.”

  He pecked me on the cheek. “Don’t want to give the neighbors too much to talk about,” he whispered in my ear. Then he straightened up and held me against his shoulder, and we swung in silence for a few minutes. It was a clear night, and the starry host made my small worries seem no bigger than a grain of sand.

  “I figure the stars haven’t changed since Bob Grace first set eyes on this place,” Audie said. “I can locate Orion’s belt and know he saw the same constellations.” He paused. “Minus the streetlights, of course. I sometimes wonder what it would be like to experience total darkness, without any lights shining except for the heavens.”

  “I suppose I came as close to that as anyone does in this day and age, growing up on a ranch. It took me awhile to get used to city noises—well, you know what I mean. The occasional rumble of a train. Cars passing. Instead of crickets and roosters and cows.”

  “It gives you perspective, I guess. ‘I was there when he set the heavens in place, when he marked out the horizon on the face of the deep, when he established the clouds above and fixed securely the fountains of the deep.’ Solomon described wisdom as being present at creation.” Of course Audie could quote the right Proverb.

  “We could use some of that wisdom with this mess.” I summarized my day’s investigation. “The only hint of a motive I found concerns Mayor Grace. Penn supported Malcolm. But the mayor won reelection in spite of the opposition. So why should he care? And I can’t imagine him murdering someone.”

  “None of them seem like credible suspects,” Audie reminded me.

  That was the core of the problem. While I knew in my heart of hearts that neither Dina nor Cord committed murder, I didn’t want to believe that anybody I had known my entire life had done it either. Maybe that’s why I latched onto Suzanne as a suspect. She was a newcomer to Grace Gulch. The possibility left me cold, and I shivered.

  “I’ve kept you outside too long. Let’s go inside.”

  He held my hand as we crossed the porch and then opened the door like a gentleman. Light splashed out, casting shadows across the wooden boards. I saw the porcupine outline of my head, and remembered my unkempt appearance. I hurried inside.

  “All I have is some macaroni and cheese and a salad,” I said once we entered the living room.

  “That’s almost a honeymooner’s delight.”

  I lifted my eyebrows.

  “You know, honeymoon salad, lettuce alone.”

  I smiled to let him know I understood the play on words: let us alone.

  He grinned at his corny joke. He sniffed the air. “It smells good.”

  I looked down at my paint-stained shirt and holey jeans and drew in a deep breath. “Okay. Why don’t you get our drinks ready—I’ll take some hot chocolate, it’s in the cupboard—while I dress for dinner.” I had changed my mind.

  “Change your clothes?” Audie wrinkled his nose. “Why?”

  I blushed. “I’m not exactly dressed for company.”

  Audie turned me around to face him. “Cecilia Wilde, you are beautiful just as you are. Don’t you dare change on me.” He reached out a hand to touch my dandelion hair. “I like the hair. I like the look. I like you.” He leaned in and kissed me, a gentle touch that feathered warmth on my lips, one that lingered and shattered me inside. My arms stole around his neck as I returned his kiss. Stars danced in my head, and I was Cinderella, with the feeling that “the room had no ceiling or floor.”

  Audie broke off the kiss and backed away, still holding onto my hands. “I never knew it could be like this.” He brushed my cheek with his fingers. “I want more—much more—but not now. A few other things need to happen first.” He drew in a deep breath. “Like a wedding.”

  Cinderella-like, the room twirled. Did Audie use the word wedding? Was this a proposal? Or was he indicating his adherence to biblical standards regarding the sanctity of the marriage bed? In either case, my worries about Audie’s possible interest in Suzanne or Jenna subsided. Audie was a godly man, someone I could trust.

  I gazed into velvet blue eyes and wondered if the same stars danced in mine. He looked great, a dark cardigan a perfect match for neatly pressed corduroy pants. His hair smelled like wood shavings. I wanted to fling myself into his arms again. Instead, I forced myself to step back.

  “At least let me go splash water on my face.” I smiled, as shy as a girl on her first date.

  “And I’ll fix the hot chocolate,” he said, walking toward the kitchen.

  I didn’t change, but I did spray on lily of the valley perfume before I returned. The teakettle sang merrily in time with Audie’s whistling as he stirred two mugs of hot chocolate. The macaroni and cheese bubbled on the table and tongs lay beside the salad bowl.

  “May I return thanks?” Audie asked after we sat down. I nodded. “Heavenly Father, thank you for this meal. More than that, I thank you for Cici. For her hard work. For her kind heart and inner and outer beauty that shines through whatever she wears. Give us your wisdom as we try to learn the truth about Penn’s death.”

  Warmth hugged me, and it wasn’t from the oven.

  For the next few minutes, we dug into the food and didn’t say much. “Mmm, this is creamy. Care to share your secret?” Audie dished out a second serving of macaroni.

  “It’s just Velveeta and cream cheese, milk and butter. I call it my busy day special. Enid Waldberg passed the recipe among the church ladies.”

  “Another feather to add to your cap,” Audie said. “And this salad is great. Suspiciously familiar, in fact.”

  I felt heat rise in my cheeks. “I decided that I liked Jenna’s salad recipe.”

  “Good idea.” He speared lettuce and an Ariane apple on his fork. “You don’t have to prove anything. Not to me. Not to anyone else. You’re nothing like your sisters. God made you the way you are—unique. Special. Beautiful. You don’t have to pretend to be someone else.” Then a smile creased his cheeks. “Although you look fetching in your costumes.”

  Audie wheeled his way past my defenses and pointed the finger at my deep-seated insecurities. “Oh, but I do have something to prove. I spent my
life on a ranch, but I never wanted to be a rancher’s wife, not even as a little girl. Then Mom died and Jenna left home and I took over running the house when I was thirteen. Everyone assumes that I love ranch life.” Even Cord. Especially Cord. “But I don’t. I got away for a couple of years, and now I’ve escaped as far as town. My business is about as different from ranching as you can get. But sometimes I feel like Jenna is living the life I wanted.”

  “It’s not the ranch you love.” Audie set down his fork. “It’s the people. And the community.”

  “Yes.” The word pushed past my teeth in a gush of breath. How could this man, who had known me for only a few months, understand me so well?

  “And now we have to solve Penn’s murder to return Grace Gulch to happier days.”

  My heart leapt at his use of “we.”

  “Yes, we do.” I agreed, in every sense of the word.

  13

  September 19, 1891 Excerpt B

  You have heard of the Boomers and the Sooners. The Boomer movement is fading. They accomplished their purpose of forcing the government to make the lands available to white settlement. I suppose they achieved individual glory in the same proportion as the rest of us, and many of them wait at the border by my side, hoping for a second chance.

  Sooners still abound. There is a heavy presence of marshals to prevent premature entry into the Indian lands. Some of the marshals are women, who look rather odd in their sidesaddles and skirts while holding a rifle as steady as an Indian scout.

  Even so, I am sorely tempted to become a Sooner myself. I want our land so badly that I am ready to cheat to earn it. I have found a cave near the gulch where I can hide until the noon hour has passed. Then I could join in the run—just farther ahead of anyone else.