"It looks like great fun."
"Yeah, it is."
"Where do you get the costumes?"
"Well, you can buy them, but a lot of people make their own. My mom made this one, but I bought the shoes from a guy who specializes in foot gear." He held out a foot so I could see the hand-sewn black leather shoe with a long tongue and pewter buckle. "I've got a cavalry uniform I wear sometimes, too."
"So what do you do, just pick any character you want to be, or is there some kind of a script you have to follow?"
"Aw, you can be whoever you want."
"Don't let him kid ya," Wiley Colton broke in. "The boss 'ere"—he jerked his thumb at Monty—"calls the shots. Injuns in the trees," he mimicked the calls and arm thrusts of a harried director, "trappers move your arses down the knoll. Get the friggin' mules away from the fires."
Monty paid no attention to the amusing performance. He handed the box of black powder supplies to Wiley. "Here, take this to the guys. Tell them to get started. I'll be there in a minute."
"Right. Come on, kid." He hoisted the loaded box to his shoulder and gave us a big grin. "G'dye, now."
Monty stared after them wordlessly, but I didn't think he was contemplating his friend. His thoughts seemed to be a million miles away and absorbed all his concentration. When he turned back to Max, it was as if he had trouble remembering who he was.
"The steaks?" Max prodded.
"Oh, yeah. Let's go get them," he said tonelessly. With a visible effort he shook himself free from whatever had captured his mind.
As we walked to the house I questioned him a bit about the workings of the Rendezvous, finally asking, "Do any of your people dress as monks?"
"Monks?" he said, as if it were the craziest thing he'd ever heard.
"Well, there is historic precedence," I said, racking my brain for an example. "Father DeSmet, and um... some of the California mission priests walked all over the West in the early-days."
"We've never had one, but it's not a bad idea." He stroked his beard, considering.
But at least I'd gotten my answer. When we were finally in the truck and on our way back to town, I told Max, "It doesn't matter that none of the reenactors dresses as a monk, one of them could be carrying a robe as one of their costumes, and who would know? That kid I was talking to looked like just the kind who would enjoy some back-country shooting, legal or not."
Max shot me a raised-eyebrow look. "You think he was our gunman?"
I was so tired it was hard to know what I was thinking anymore. "No, not really. He just gave me the idea that the Rendezvous encampment would be a good place to hide, or disguise yourself, or... whatever." But I couldn't put any of the pieces together. I felt drained of any capacity for coherent thought or sociability. I wanted to be home, and I wasn't sure if I meant my little place in Garnet Pass, or my abandoned apartment in Chicago.
We hadn't been on the road fifteen minutes when another pickup truck overtook us. At the speed Max drove it always surprised me when someone passed him, which must've been why I craned around to stare as it flew past.
"Wasn't that Monty Montgomery and his Aussie friend?" I asked.
"Yeah," Max said. He seemed as surprised as I was. "They didn't waste any time."
"I thought they were holding a black powder shoot. He seemed pretty shocked by the news of Opal's death, didn't he? Maybe he's going in to see Clyde."
But speculation was also beyond me. I lapsed into a semi-doze until Max pulled to a stop in front of my house.
A chubby little girl on a tricycle, her blond hair pulled into two high ponytails, was on the sidewalk in front of the house along with a couple of older, grade-school-age girls. A cluster of junior high boys with bicycles lingered in the street.
When I got out of the truck the girls screamed excitedly. They jumped up and down and began a sing-song chant. "Devil, devil sittin' at our door. Stabbed Opal Bodie, threw her on the floor." With more excited screams they turned and ran off.
"Murderer!" yelled one of the boys and threw something at the house—a tomato.
"Murdering bitch! Get out of our town!" shouted another, but they all flew off on their bicycles when Max stepped out of the truck.
The only one left was the little blond girl. She was in such a state of panic she couldn't work her tricycle. Her feet slipped off the pedals as her fat little legs churned without success. I stepped forward to offer help, but she gave me such a look of wide-eyed terror that I couldn't move. Her mouth opened in a scream she was too frightened to emit. She was terrified. Of me.
Chapter 11
I paced the small living room unable to stop the tears. I cried in anger and frustration, furious that I'd been placed in such a position, become an object of terror for little children.
Max was an easy target. "Why did you bring me here?" I shook a trembling finger at him. "It's a stupid town filled with bigots. I'm not staying!" And in the next breath, "I refuse to give them the pleasure of running me off!"
Max's attempts at reason made me even more furious. "Don't make excuses for them! Who do they think they are? Just because I'm a stranger I'm fair game. I haven't done anything wrong! Let them look to one of their own. That gun-happy Dan Lorenzo should be put behind bars! But, oh no, he's prancing around town blackening my name to save his own skin. And what about that crazy lady with the chicken? She makes mincemeat out of the crime scene and nobody says a word."
On and on I went, but no matter how ferociously I stoked my anger it could not erase the picture of that poor terrified child from my mind. Max's soothing words didn't help. Neither did the light of day.
In the morning I refused to accompany him on his business rounds. We fought, throwing spiteful epithets like bull-headed, mulish, and willful at each other. When I finally called him a stiff-necked ass, he stormed out, and slammed the door behind him. But I didn't want to be protected, I wanted to fight.
Now I couldn't even remember what he said he was going to do. I didn't care. I intended to have a perfectly ordinary day, at least until the sheriff came to haul me away in handcuffs.
I slammed around, hammering together a small bookcase for the office. When I finished I was going to make myself highly visible. I would inspect my yard, and if my narrow-minded neighbors chose to throw tomatoes, well, let them. I'd swear out a complaint with the sheriff when he came.
I jumped when the phone rang. I hadn't remembered that I had one, but there it was, sitting on a table in a little nook by the front door. It rang again. Warily, I picked it up.
"Hello, Thea? This is Charlotte. Remember me? Charlotte Metzger, the—"
"Sheriff's wife," I concluded for her. "Yes, of course I remember you."
"Yvonne Sullivan is here. We usually walk in the morning, and wondered if you'd like to join us?"
I was so taken by surprise I just stood there with my mouth hanging open.
"We thought you might need some moral support," Charlotte said into the silence. "Opal's death was a tragedy, but it's just ridiculous to think you could have had anything to do with it. Everyone knows Danny Lorenzo is a fool, and I've told Rusty as much, but you know these men..." she let the thought trail off as if she were sorry she'd brought it up.
And, of course, I didn't know these men, which was one of the many things that scared the hell out of me.
"At any rate," she went on, "it's a lovely day. Come out and enjoy it with us. What do you say?"
I stammered a bit, then got a grip on myself and said more firmly, "Yes, I'd love to. Thank you for asking me."
"Good. Give us fifteen minutes," she said and hung up.
My first flush of pleasure faded quickly. Why, I wondered, would the sheriff's wife, of all people, and her friend to boot, want to go walking with me? Curiosity? Did they want to be the first on the block to get all the inside info on the murderer in their midst? Maybe Rusty himself instigated the invitation, hoping the two women could get more damning information from me than he had been able to. Or was I b
eing too cynical? Could they really believe me innocent? I gave a snort of disbelief. After all, what did Charlotte and Yvonne know about me? How could they be so sure I hadn't killed Opal?
I rummaged in an unpacked suitcase for my old walking shoes and a new pair of shorts. I put the shorts on, threw what I'd been wearing onto the growing pile of dirty clothes in the back of the closet and shut the door on the mess. I'd have to buy a hamper pretty soon.
I struggled with my shoelaces, thinking that regardless of their motivations, I planned to take advantage of Charlotte's invitation. At this point, nothing would please me more than appearing around town in their company.
When I opened the door to them, Charlotte greeted me with the same gush of friendliness that I remembered from the first time we met. Overdone, perhaps, but seeming so sincere that it made me feel warm anyway. Once again her abundant light brown hair was piled unceremoniously on top of her head in a loose knot that already dripped strands down her cheeks and neck.
Yvonne's greeting, less effusive, but just as friendly, was more to my liking. She managed to look coolly elegant in the same casual T-shirt and shorts garb that Charlotte and I wore, but where Charlotte's water bottle bulged awkwardly out of her pocket, Yvonne's was clipped efficiently onto her belt along with a cell phone and small purse.
Charlotte cocked her head and studied my face with birdlike intensity, then turned to Yvonne with a triumphant smile. "Didn't I tell you? Nobody with an aura like that could commit murder."
I groaned inwardly. Auras again.
"You did tell me," Yvonne said with a laugh and stepped around behind Charlotte into the house.
"Well, I don't have a clue," I said, hoping my voice didn't sound as spiky as I felt. I held the door wide for Charlotte to enter, too. "What is all this stuff about auras, anyway?"
Charlotte took three steps into the room and jerked to a stop with a strange flinching movement, like a frightened turtle pulling into its shell.
Startled, I said, "What's the matter? Ghosts?" surprised by the thought that popped out. Maybe this high woo-woo stuff was catching.
"No, no, Thea, nothing," she said, touching my arm reassuringly. Her eyes flitted around the room as if she herself were uncertain about what had caused her reaction. "Just memories, I guess." She pulled her elbows in close to her body as if for protection. "This was the old Caxton place. I haven't been in here for years." But the restored lilt in her voice seemed forced to me.
"This is nice." Yvonne eyed the living/dining area appreciatively, not paying attention to us. She wandered over to the office and looked in.
"I hope our talk about auras didn't bother you," Charlotte said, still trying to reassure me.
"Not really." A slight touch of prevarication. I knew auras were supposed to be some kind of color field that surrounded a person. People who claimed they could see them believed they could tell a person's personality or mood by the color emanating from them. I'd always thought it a bunch of hooey.
She gave an apologetic shrug. "I know I shouldn't talk about it. It makes people uneasy. Mama used to have a fit when I was little and told people they looked all blue or red." She sighed. "It's just been so fun for me since Yvonne came to town. She can see auras, too, you know. Isn't that right, Yvonne?"
"What?" Yvonne turned back from the office door.
"Auras. And don't you agree that Thea's all golden this morning?"
Yvonne made a big show of squinting at me with comic exaggeration. "Actually," she pronounced solemnly, "I think there's a fair bit of blue and purple mixed in with that gold." She rolled her eyes at me, an indulgent smile twitching her lips. I took it to mean that she wasn't about to hurt Charlotte, but didn't take any of this aura stuff very seriously.
"That's no surprise after what she's been through," Charlotte said. "It's the gold that's meaningful."
I held back an unkind comment. Black and blue was more like it. I felt certain Yvonne had made up her diagnosis, but it seemed more accurate than Charlotte's. I didn't feel gold at all, and wasn't at all happy with the idea that someone could read my moods—or thought they could—whenever they chose.
Happily, Charlotte changed the subject. "The house really does look nice, Thea," she said.
"I'm afraid not much of it is my doing. I believe Jennifer—"
"Oh, Jennifer." Charlotte gave a dismissive wave of her hand. "She's madly in love with your Max, you know."
"And any other man who happens to be around," Yvonne added dryly, walking over to join us. "Okay if I peek into the kitchen?"
"Sure." I expected Charlotte to join us, but she seemed rooted to that spot just inside the front door.
"I love these old houses," Yvonne said. "Wish I could have gotten one. I ended up with an ugly brick tract house."
"But it's beautifully decorated," Charlotte said brightly.
"Yeah. Jennifer did that, too."
For some reason this struck us all as extremely funny and we roared with laughter. My spirits soared. The sense of camaraderie eased the worms of anxiety that writhed in my belly. Even Charlotte seemed to forget her reluctance to view the rest of the house and joined us on the tour, at least until Yvonne opened a door in the hallway.
"What's this," she asked, "basement?"
"Yes. I haven't been down there yet."
I thought I saw a shudder race through Charlotte's body, and turned to Yvonne to see if she noticed. But Yvonne seemed so completely oblivious to anything out of the ordinary that I decided my current clutch on paranoia might be leading me to see things that weren't there.
Charlotte turned her back on the door and marched through the living room. "Come on, gals," she said firmly, "we better get going if we want to get a decent walk in."
We followed her to the front door and crowded through it, jostling each other like old friends. I flicked the lock on and Yvonne pulled it shut behind us.
"I should call the store," she said, unhooking the phone on her belt. Charlotte and I strolled off.
"I'm set," Yvonne announced when she caught up and led us off at a fast pace. "Jennifer knows I'll be late; we can even grab some lunch if you like."
I was in the middle and, comfortably girded on either side, felt like a teenager who'd just been included in the "in" crowd. I couldn't help but hope the neighbors were watching out their windows. I kept an eye out for the little girl with the ponytails, but she wasn't around. Many others were, though. Those who didn't wave or call out at least stared and took in the sight of the reviled stranger on an outing with what I hoped were two of Garnet Pass's leading citizens.
To my relief, and guilt, because it seemed I'd seriously misjudged Charlotte and Yvonne's motivations, nothing was mentioned about yesterday's horrible events or my part in them. Instead, we indulged in the pleasant casual conversation of new acquaintances. Yvonne did most of the talking, interested in my educational background, the work I did for the magazine, and why I'd decided to move to Garnet Pass. Charlotte didn't have much to say. She seemed to become more introverted the faster we walked, her brows twisted in a frown that robbed her face of all its youth.
We walked past a small park and I stopped to take a drink from the public fountain on the corner. Looking down the side street, I saw Charlotte's father, Ivar Norquist, arguing with the unpleasant old guy in a mechanic's jumpsuit who had spoken to Max on the steps of City Hall. The sight of them, or perhaps it was the intensity of their confrontation, revived all my anxieties.
When I caught up with Yvonne and Charlotte, I was the one who broke up the get-acquainted chit-chat. I needed more information. I asked if they knew Twila Pettigrew well.
"No, not well. I've only been here a little more than a year. Why?" Yvonne asked.
"She was out at Hog Heaven yesterday after... after..." I dropped that track, feeling suddenly shy about bringing up any details. From our phone conversation I figured that Charlotte knew everything that had happened at Hog Heaven, but I wasn't sure about Yvonne. "I just thought she seemed o
dd, is all."
Yvonne snorted. "Odd is right. She brought that damned chicken over to Charlotte's the other night. After Ronnie Mae died. It's bad enough to have a wake in your house without someone bringing in a chicken to poop all over everything."
"Oh, everybody knows Sugar," Charlotte broke in.
"To know her is not to love her."
On this point I agreed with Yvonne.
"Besides," Charlotte went on, "she had her wrapped in a receiving blanket. Twila's okay," Charlotte said to me. "She's been a widow for years and has run their ranch ever since her Charlie died. Done better with it than he ever did."
"Opal told me Twila was her best friend."
"Yes, they've been tight friends ever since I've known them, but they sure liked to argue."
"Fight is more like it, if the other night was an example," Yvonne put in.
"They had a fight?"
"You and Max were already gone when Twila came," Charlotte said. "She wasn't there five minutes before she started giving Opal fits about leasing a big chunk of her land to the Astral Projection people. Actually, the town hall meeting was all anybody talked about. I felt sorry for poor Ronnie Mae."
"Oh, for Pete's sake, Charlotte, you're the only person I know who'd say 'poor Ronnie Mae.' She was a vicious little bitch and you know it."
"I don't care," Charlotte said stubbornly, and I was beginning to admire her persistent positive thinking—no matter how strange she was at other times. "She deserves to be mourned by someone;" she insisted.
"Well, let her stupid husband do it. You're way too nice."
"There's Yvonne's store," Charlotte said, cutting off her friend's remarks. "Did you get Opal's pictures hung?"
"Yes, I did."
"We went to Opal's two nights ago," Charlotte told me, "and picked out two of her paintings to display in the store. She already sells some of her hand-decorated shirts."
Yvonne shrugged. "I doubt if the paintings will sell."
"It was nice of you to give them space, anyway. She was so pleased."
Dead in Hog Heaven (A Thea Barlow Mystery, Book Three) Page 10
