From A History of Grace Gulch
Monday, September 18
Audie and Dina met me at Jenna’s office for lunch. Her work table offered the best space for spreading out Brad’s design for the mural.
“I hope you’re all hungry.” I gestured with my to-go bag of barbecued buffalo burgers from The Gulch.
“Keep those away from the paper.” Sometime that morning, Jenna had enlarged the design and laid it out.
I put down the burger and joined the others at the table. My stomach complained. In these last months of pregnancy, I felt hungry all the time. Doc Johnson said my weight gain fell within normal ranges and not to worry. I hoped my post-pregnancy figure agreed with his assessment.
I had seen Brad’s design before, of course. It was far and away the best concept submitted for the Center’s alfresco display. “Grace Gulch Gold” told the sweep of the town’s history, from Bob Grace and Dick Gaynor riding neck and neck, to oil wells and the dust bowl, to more modern images like the recently built city hall and town businesses. I smiled the first time I saw my own store on the mural. After all the work Brad had poured into it since his arrival in town, the finished product would be stunning. If he got to finish the project. If he returned, alive and well, and not under arrest for Finella’s murder.
“So my father created this.” Dina ran her fingers along the edge of the paper. “Seeing it makes me feel closer to him.”
Jenna hugged her.
Audie leaned over the section that showed city hall. “Cic, take a look at this.”
I bent over as far as Junior would allow. Brad had captured the neo-classical look of the building, a deliberate choice by our town fathers over a modern glass-and-chrome structure. The ants Brad included marching between Doric columns struck a sour note to the picture, but I didn’t see anything to excite me.
“How many pillars do you see in front?” Audie demanded.
Three pair were spaced across the porch, with an additional pillar mid-portico. “Seven.”
“That’s not right. There should only be six pillars.” Jenna’s eye captured details like that.
Dina accessed the internet on her phone and nodded her head. “Yup. There should be six pillars.” She passed around a miniscule picture for us all to see.
Six, seven, who cared? Except the Brad I knew was fanatical about getting the details right. “I’m sure it’s just a mistake. He would have caught it.”
“I may be totally off base. But as Wilde pointed out, ‘A work of art is the unique result of a unique temperament.’” Audie touched the inaccurate rendering. “Brad drew it that way on purpose. Jenna, didn’t you say Brad often includes puzzles in his work?”
Jenna nodded.
“So—what if he included seven pillars on purpose? Do they symbolize anything?” Audie prodded us.
“Kwanzaa,” Dina offered.
“The African-American holiday around Christmas time?” Audie and Jenna looked as unsure as I felt.
“It was a big deal at school,” Dina explained. “And there are different symbols for each day of the holiday. But it doesn’t have a Grace Gulch connection.”
Jenna suggested a menorah, but that didn’t spark any ideas either.
“We’re overlooking the obvious. Seven is an important number in the Bible.”
Trust Audie to bring us back to the Bible. “It usually represents perfection or completion.”
“The Sabbath.”
“Seven years of tribulation.”
“The seven churches in Revelation.”
None of those resonated with us either.
“Wait! Do you have a Bible here?” Audie asked Jenna.
She dug one out of her desk drawer. Audie flipped through the pages. “Got it! ‘Wisdom has built her house; she has hewn out its seven pillars.’ I told you Brad liked Proverbs.”
Seven pillars of wisdom. Seven pillars instead of six on city hall. It clicked. “But what do they mean?”
“Wait. It’s coming.” Jenna pressed her hands over her face as if to blot out every image except the one she was trying to tease out of her memory banks. She opened her eyes wide, discovery written in their hazel depths. “It’s the key to the puzzle. If there are seven pillars of wisdom, there are probably seven clues hidden on the mural. And they might all come from Proverbs.” She high-fived Audie. “Good catch.”
Dina didn’t share Jenna’s enthusiasm. “Am I missing something here? Okay, so maybe Brad planted clues in the mural design. But how does that get us any further in finding him? Or in figuring out who killed Finella?”
The aura of progress that had excited us only moments before vanished like tumbleweed in a dust storm.
“She’s right,” I admitted. “Unless the mural points to a hiding spot where Brad might have gone.” I glanced at my watch. “And as much as I hate to break up the party, I’ve got to get back to work.”
Audie looked like a boy who had been told to come in from playing ball at the end of a long summer’s day in order to take a bath. “We need to study the design again to find the clues. I know we’re on the right track.”
“We never did learn what you did with your assignments the other day.” I turned to Dina. “Have you had a chance to talk with Noah about Brad and Finella?”
“I. . .no. I’m a little scared to.” She bit her lip. “What if I start talking about Jenna’s old pals from high school, and he puts two and two together and realizes I’m Brad’s daughter?” She paused. “And I don’t want him thinking about the difference in our ages.”
I wished he would, but both of them were adults. Any interference on my part would be the fastest way to throw her into his arms.
Audie cleared his throat. “Jenna, did you learn anything from your art contacts?”
Trust my sweetheart to defuse an awkward moment.
“Of course Brad has his share of competition. For instance, a dozen artists submitted proposals for the mural.” Jenna paused before adding, “But only Noah expressed any animosity over losing out to Brad.” Jenna spoke
“I don’t understand why you don’t like Noah.” Belligerence pitted Dina’s voice.
“I like Noah okay,” Jenna said. “But that doesn’t change the facts. He resented the mural being awarded to someone from outside of the community.”
“I suppose you think I shouldn’t be dating Noah.” Dina stuck her chin out. Her hair stood at odd angles to her head as if shocked into blue by electricity and not by dye.
“I’ll go make some coffee.” Audie made a smart move, escaping the coming confrontation.
“Oh, honey, I never said that.” Jenna reached for Dina, but she wriggled out of her embrace. “But I do think you should be careful.”
“You have no right to tell me what to do.” Tears clouded Dina’s hazel eyes, so like Jenna’s. “You may have given birth to me, but that doesn’t give you the right to boss me around.” She grabbed her purse and headed for the door, slamming it behind her.
Jenna dropped into a chair and hid her face in her hands.
I sat down next to her and wondered what to say. Didn’t the experts say the middle child often played the role of peacemaker? Poor Jenna. “She doesn’t really mean that, you know.”
“Oh, yes, she does.” The words came out muffled. “And I deserve it.” She blinked her eyes twice, then held them open as if squaring her mind to accept responsibility.
“Of course you don’t deserve it.” I was stumbling along, saying what was expected.
“They say adoptees often wonder why their birth mother didn’t love them enough to keep them.” Jenna fixed a smile on her face. “It’s good that she’s bringing it up. We’ve never really talked about. . .you know. . .me giving her to Mom and Dad to raise. Maybe learning about her father provoked her to confront unresolved issues.”
I considered the child growing in my womb. Could I give him up, even for the best of reasons? The parting would tear me in half. If I did, would he resent me for it? I thought about m
y dear friend, Suzanne Jay, who had recently learned about her birth parents. What had driven her to seek them out? Perhaps she could advise Dina.
“You were incredibly brave.” Now I wanted to cry. “It must have been incredibly hard, giving your baby up.”
“At least I got to see her grow up.” Jenna’s smile relaxed into the genuine thing.
“Dina may have questions about the adoption. But I’m sure you’ll work through it.”
“I hope so.” Jenna walked into a restroom off the workroom. She returned with a fresh application of lipstick and bright cheeks. “I only hope she doesn’t try to get back at me by making a mistake with Noah. It’s not worth it.”
“She’s twenty-two. She may be pining for some romance in her life.” I remembered wondering at that age if I would ever find love. Noah’s interest must enchant Dina. He was charming, talented—good looking, too. The age difference troubled me most.
“I suppose,” Jenna said. “But Noah’s all wrong for her. Am I the only one who sees that?”
Audie returned with two mugs of coffee. He must have decided we were ready for his company again. “What are your concerns about Noah?”
“To start with, I’m not sure he cares for Dina as much as she cares for him. She’s always waiting for him to call her back. For all we know, he dates lots of his students.”
I remembered the period when Audie and I dated. He could never call often enough. Jenna was overreacting. “She did wait until after graduation to date him. She didn’t rush into it.” I remembered the semester Dina took an art class with Noah. She talked incessantly about how brilliant he was, how charming, how witty. Anyone could tell she had a bad case of hero worship. “But I think I know what you mean. When they’re in public, she’s clings to his arm as if displaying a trophy.”
“Some men might interpret that as possessive behavior. And react poorly.” Audie gave a masculine interpretation.
“Or accept it as their due.” Jenna wrapped her arms around her waist. “But I have an even bigger concern. He may be using drugs.”
15
Wallace Wilde was the youngest claimant to reach Grace Gulch. His twin sister dared him to celebrate his twenty-first birthday by riding in the land run. When friends heard about it, they agreed he was “always wild, that one.” To Wally’s surprise, he arrived minutes behind the leaders, Grace and Gaynor, and claimed the plot to the south of Bob Grace.
Wallace took his success as a sign from God that he should settle down to a rancher’s life. He christened his land the “Crazy W Ranch” and built a profitable enterprise. His first wife, Dick Gaynor’s second daughter Isabel, died childless. When America entered World War I, Wallace made a name for himself on the battlefields of Europe. He brought home a war bride from England and they had one son, Woodrow.
From A History of Grace Gulch
Monday, September 18
Noah Brodie might be using drugs? Someone should have said something. I felt like the sheltered small town girl I was. “What are you talking about?”
“The police have it at least partly right.” Jenna managed a lopsided grin. “I don’t do drugs myself, and I don’t deal with artists who do, but I’ve worked with enough of them. . . Let’s just say, I recognize the signs.”
“Those stupid sunglasses.” I blurted out.
“Even on overcast days. That’s pretty common, to hide the pupils of his eyes.” Audie spoke as if we were discussing a neutral topic, not my sister’s boyfriend. “I had noticed that, but I don’t think it means anything.”
I chewed on that for a minute. “If Noah does drugs, Dina doesn’t know about it. Except for her crazy hair colors, she’s as straight-laced as they come. And she chooses friends who feel the same way.” But ordinary behavior can fly out the window where the heart is involved.
“I used to say the same thing about Finella. She was Miss Goody Two Shoes, never willing to take a risk.” A grin lit Jenna’s face. “Noah and I used to laugh at her. We depended on her to drive us home and help us with schoolwork. Later, I wondered why she hung out with the two of us.”
“Because you accepted her?” I ventured an opinion.
“More like we used her, but maybe she felt accepted.” Jenna looked at a blank spot on the wall. “If anyone had asked me back then who might end up a murder victim, I would have put Finella at the bottom of the list. At least until she married Ham Gaynor. The jerk.”
“Too bad he has an alibi.” Audie reminded us.
“Oh, I know.”
Audie stood to his feet. “Our lunch hour ended about five minutes ago.”
“Oops.” I struggled to my feet, not the easiest thing with a baby sitting on top of your legs. “If Noah is into drugs—is he the one the police are looking for?”
“But from what I understand, he’s been back for years, ever since he finished graduate school,” Jenna said. “Before the problems started.”
I scratched my head. He hadn’t taught at Grace Gulch Community College when I attended—probably still in graduate school. “I think he started a year or so before Dina finished high school. We could find out.”
“I’ll do that.” Jenna dashed out the door before I had a chance to encourage her about Dina.
Audie placed his arm around my shoulder, an intimate gesture that encircled me and Junior and Audie in a single entity. Then his cell phone rang and he answered.
“Hello, Mother.” He winked at me, those blue eyes that made my days sparkle. “Hotdogs for supper? Of course Cici will like it. Great!” He folded the cell closed and hugged me. “Now you get to taste a real Chicago hotdogs. There’s nothing like it anywhere else in the world.”
About a year ago, Gilda had a carton of Pontino’s hotdogs, her favorite brand, shipped to us. I grilled them, added a dollop of catsup and even chopped onions for Audie, but he shook his head. “They’re just not the same.” Maybe tonight I would learn what made a Chicago hotdog so different.
After school, the two girls who had first shopped for a prom dress returned with friends. Was I ever that giddy, even in high school? I doubted it. During those years, I ran the household even before Mom died of cancer. I made up for it through my store. Where else could I play dress up every day? I smiled and greeted my customers.
The girls were giggling over a silver lame minidress with a matching jacket.
I approached “How can I help you today?”
“We told our friends about the awesome clothes you have here. Everybody wants one of your dresses.” Megan, the girl who bought a traditional formal during her previous visit, answered.
“I like this one.” A short, rather stout girl pointed to the mini—not at all what she should wear.
“So do I.” The outfit would suit her dark and willowy companion nicely.
“Why don’t we pick out several, and you can try them on.” I led the short girl to a stylish mod gown that had a Victorian flare as well, with ruffles that added a feminine touch suitable to her pale beauty.
Everyone joined in the shopping fun except a dispirited brunette named Danielle. She wore thick-lensed glasses which most teens traded for contacts these days, and looked as though she hadn’t slept well the night before. Maybe she was fighting a cold. She couldn’t stop yawning and her nose kept running.
I wanted to tell her to go home to bed and come back when she felt better. Instead, I offered her a cup of coffee or tea.
“Sure.” She followed me to the coffee pot.
“Coffee okay?”
“Sounds good.” She picked up a Styrofoam cup and dropped it.
“Let me take care of that.” Someone needed to take Danielle home. “What do you want in it?”
“Black. With two sugars.” She poked among the sugar packets and saw the jar of honey Dustin had left. “You do business with the Murks?” She sounded surprised.
“Mrs. Murk has talked with me about the hayride.” I went into saleswoman mode and pointed to the racks of retro casuals from the ’60s. “If you’re
interested, I’ve got some nice things for sale.”
“Oh, yeah, the hayride. Everybody’s talking about it.” She tugged off her glasses and dabbed at her eyes with a napkin. Without the distortion of the lenses, they looked weird. My earlier discussion with Jenna and Audie clicked into place. Drugs?
I wanted to take the poor girl to Dr. Johnson and get her some help. I should take her to Frances to learn who was dealing drugs. I could at least question her myself. I didn’t know enough about drugs to ask the first question, so I did nothing.
Danielle drank the coffee and took an extra cookie with her when she wandered off. She headed in the direction of the outfits for the hayride.
By the time the girls left, my stock of ’60s outfits had shrunk by half. I hung velvet pants from special hangers to avoid crushing the fabric. Junior rippled across my abdomen, and I paused, placing my fist at the small of my back as if to prop it up. These last few weeks of pregnancy were a bear. I envied pregnant women who had a desk job. Having Gilda around to cook supper did have its advantages, even if it did mean Chicago cooking every night.
I couldn’t get Danielle out of my mind. Before I could close up shop for the night, I had to do something about her. Who did I know who might be able to help? A school teacher seemed like the best bet. Many of the teachers I had in school had left or retired by now, and I didn’t know the new faculty well. Surely I could think of someone. I searched my memory for a contact. I lit on the doctor’s wife, Jean Johnson. We had connected on a social level during my investigation into the murder at my store before my wedding two years ago, and we had stayed in touch. Although she taught eighth grade English, she might know someone in the high school English department who could check into it for me. I dialed the number.
“This is the Johnson residence.” Her always-friendly voice took me back to her class when I fell in love with Tolkein and first encountered Oscar Wilde.
“Jean, this is Cici Howe. And I’ve encountered a situation that I wondered if you could help me with.” I explained my suspicions about Danielle.
Darlene Franklin - Dressed for Death 03 - Paint Me a Murder Page 10
