Pecos Valley Diamond

by Alice Duncan

  Therefore, when a man who looked like a doctor stepped out of the buggy and reached up to help a prim woman to get down, I wasn’t too surprised, except that I couldn’t fathom why he was paying a call on Minnie. Although my eyes were still dripping, I went over to greet the two, hospitality being second nature to folks in Rosedale.

  “How-do,” I said, making my voice cheerful even though I’m sure I looked as if I were grieving for my dearest beloved. I didn’t pat the man’s horse, which was a pretty bay gelding with a white star on his forehead, because I saw his nostrils flare and figured he might not appreciate the smell of my hand on his hide.

  “Hello, young lady,” said the man, looping the rein over the hitching post in front of the porch. He had a long, bony face and didn’t offer a smile along with his greeting. “Is this the home of Mrs. Joseph Blue?”

  “Yes, it is.” Sniffling and using my apron again, I looked from him to the woman I assumed was his wife, and decided I might as well start with the introductions. Sticking my hand out (I’d wiped it on my apron, although it still reeked of onions) I said, “My name is Annabelle Blue. Minnie Blue is my aunt. May I take you inside and introduce you, sir?”

  After that broad hint, he had to give me his name.

  “Certainly. Thank you, Miss Blue.” Wrinkling his nose, he took my hand in what was probably the shortest hand-shake on record–until he introduced me to his wife. “I am Dr. Elbert Longstreet. This is my wife, Mrs. Longstreet.”

  I turned toward the woman and held out my hand to her. She’d been sniffing the air but turned to me, frowning. “Is something the matter, Miss Blue? You appear distressed.” She didn’t sound especially interested in my health. I suspected she just didn’t want to shake my hand.

  “No, ma’am. I’ve just been peeling onions.”

  “Oh. I see.” She took the tips of my fingers in her gloved hands and dropped them immediately, setting a new record in the short-handshake sweepstakes.

  People in Rosedale didn’t often dress the way Mrs. Longstreet was dressed. Life is, of necessity, not as formal out here as it is in, say New York City or San Francisco. We dress for comfort more than anything else. That morning I had on a faded yellow dress, a hand-me-down from my sister Zilpha that had been old for several years by then. I wasn’t a model of fashion, but most people didn’t worry about fancy clothes when they were doing farm and ranch chores. Onions didn’t deserve any better, was my thinking on the matter.

  Not Mrs. Longstreet. She was clad that day in a severely tailored black suit with a skirt that came down almost to her ankles. She also wore black stockings and a black hat with a shiny black flower adorning it. I wondered if she was in mourning or if she always dressed that way. Naturally, I didn’t ask.

  “Will you please take us to meet your aunt, Miss Blue?” the doctor said after his wife had nominally done her duty and touched the peasant (me). “I need to speak with her.”

  “Certainly.”

  I applied the apron to my eyes a final time and turned around to lead the way into the house. As I did so, I saw something that startled me considerably. Mr. Olin Burgess, Aunt Minnie’s closest neighbor and the person I suspected of being responsible for the disappearance of Julia Gilbert, slid himself behind the barn so quickly I could scarcely be sure I’d seen him at all. But I had. I’d have recognized that misshapen form and hideous face anywhere. What’s more, I could have sworn he carried a shotgun.

  What the heck was he doing in Minnie’s yard? With a shotgun? Suspicions crowded into my mind like a swarm of gnats and whirled around there, but I couldn’t do anything about them at the moment. I had a sneaking hunch Mr. Burgess was up to no good, and my nerves jumped and skittered when my brain made the connection between Mr. Burgess and yesterday’s corpse. Good heavens, was he behind the murder?

  Dr. and Mrs. Longstreet didn’t need to know about my mental musings. I continued leading the way across the front porch as if I hadn’t been nearly alarmed out of my wits.

  Since I was a polite young lady, no matter what Libby (and probably Mrs. Longstreet) thought of me, I led the Longstreets into the front parlor, the one reserved for people Minnie didn’t know. Everybody else hung out in the kitchen or the back parlor, where things were shabbier but more comfortable. “Please have a seat. I’ll fetch my aunt.”

  “Thank you, Miss Blue.”

  I hadn’t seen two such formal individuals for a very long time. They acted stuffier than the preacher and his wife. I assumed these two were from out of town, since I’d never seen them before. What in the name of glory could they want with Minnie? I aimed to stick around the front parlor long enough to find out.

  Minnie was in the kitchen with Libby, stirring a big pot. She was peeved about being interrupted, but was also as curious as I was to know what had brought a doctor and his wife all the way out here for what looked like something more formal than a friendly social call. I scampered out of the kitchen before Libby could snag me and make me take over stirring the pot.

  My mouth fell open when Dr. Longstreet announced his purpose for calling on Aunt Minnie. So did Minnie’s.

  She shut it again with an audible snap of teeth. “You want to buy my house?” Her tone was incredulous. For good reason.

  “As I said, I intend to set up a nursing home for tubercular patients. I believe this would be an ideal location.”

  Both Minnie and I turned to look out the front window. I don’t know what Minnie was thinking, but I was wondering why all of a sudden this one lone, lorn piece of property out in the vast nowhere that was southeastern New Mexico had become so popular all of a sudden.

  The scenery was sure nothing to write home about, being desert, and as brown and ugly as anywhere you could hope to find except for the few yellow and purple spots that were due to the summertime rains. The sky was always beautiful and there was a whole lot of it, but there was more to life than a sky, for Pete’s sake. Was there a gold mine underneath Minnie’s house? Is that what those night noises were coming from? And if there was a gold mine, how come everybody but Minnie seemed to know about it?

  All right, so a gold mine was a stretch, even for me, who has a pretty good imagination.

  Minnie surprised me when she stood up abruptly. Her face had taken on a steely quality I didn’t generally associate with her. When she spoke, her voice was pretty darned steely, too. “I’m afraid I’m not interested in selling my home, Dr. Longstreet. I’m sorry you came all this way for nothing.”

  Since she was up, and since the doctor had a manner or two to rub together, he stood too. His manners weren’t good enough to allow him to hide his annoyance. “I assure you, I’ll pay top dollar for the place.”

  The place? This was Minnie’s home. It wasn’t the place, no matter how much I didn’t want to be there. I stood too, deciding the Longstreets deserved no more of our time. Even peeling onions was better than dealing with these snobby people.

  Mrs. Longstreet had been looking with distaste around the front parlor, as if she didn’t like what she saw and was plotting alterations in her mind. She sniffed.

  “I am not interested in dollars, top or otherwise,” said Minnie with a sniff of her own. “This is the home I shared with my husband, and I don’t aim to leave it until they carry me out, feet first.”

  That sounded pretty final to me, but Dr. Longstreet wasn’t through. “Isn’t this rather far from town? Wouldn’t you prefer to be closer to shops and stores and your friends?”

  That was it for me. I know it was impolite, but I butted in hotly. “If my aunt wanted to live closer to town, she would. This is her home, and she’s not selling it to you or anyone else.”

  Mrs. Longstreet said, “Hm,” as if she’d been annoyed by a pesky insect (I being the insect in this case).

  “I believe your aunt is the one who owns the property, Miss Blue,” Dr. Longstreet said, giving me a frosty glance.

  “Annabelle might not own the place, but she knows I won’t sell it,” said Minnie. It was the firs
t time in a long time anybody had stuck up for me, and I appreciated her for it. “You two might as well go on now. I’m very busy.”

  The aroma of onions hadn’t stayed outside when the Longstreets and I entered the house. The whole place reeked. While onions aren’t as powerful as jalapeno chili peppers, which can make your lungs as well as your eyes burn when you’re preserving them, they’re pretty darned pervasive.

  Mrs. Longstreet reached into her tiny little handbag, pulled out a black-edged handkerchief, and dabbed at her eyes. “We may as well leave, Dr. Longstreet,” she said. “Perhaps Mrs. Blue will think better of your offer later.”

  Dr. Longstreet’s nose began to twitch as if it had started running. He, too, grabbed a handkerchief and made a swipe at his nose. “I didn’t mean to upset you, Mrs. Blue,” he said, giving me another evil look. “But I would appreciate it if you would take my card. If you change your mind, please be in touch.”

  Minnie didn’t take the card. “I won’t change my mind. If you want a house, talk to Mr. O’Dell. He handles real estate in this area.”

  Taking a deep breath which I’m sure he regretted at once, what with onions in the air and all, Dr. Longstreet put his card back into the little case from which he’d taken it. “Very well. I’m sorry to have troubled you, ladies.” He bowed to Minnie, ignored me, took his wife by the arm, and the two of them left.

  Neither Minnie nor I saw them to their carriage. I noticed both Longstreets wiping their eyes. The horse took off at a nice clip, as if it too were glad to get away from the onion patch.

  I looked at Minnie, who looked at me. “What was that all about?” I asked.

  “I have no idea.”

  “That’s two people in two days who want to buy your house, Minnie. What’s going on?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. All I know is that everything that’s happening goes back to that girl.” Minnie stomped back to the kitchen.

  Right. With a sigh, I went back to the screened-in porch.

  Chapter Eight

  Phil came to supper than night. Minnie and Libby and I had opened all the windows and doors after the last jar of onions was in the water bath, but the place still smelled awful. Phil, always the gentleman in spite of his rustic ways, said he didn’t mind.

  “You’re lying, and you know it,” I said.

  I was pretty darned unhappy by then. I’d been crying all day long thanks to Libby’s adoration of pickled onions, my eyes were red, and my nose was stuffy. Mr. O’Dell hadn’t remembered to bring us a young dog to stand watch during the night. I hadn’t been able to think of a single good reason for Mr. Burgess to have been sneaking around Minnie’s yard, and Libby had been cross as crabs all day long. What with one thing and another, I was as cranky as an unmilked cow.

  “No manners at all,” Libby muttered as she dished up the chicken and dumplings she’d fixed for dinner.

  “Nonsense. Annabelle is a high-spirited young lady, Libby,” said Minnie, whose red, swollen eyes testified to her own onion-abundant day. I don’t know why she put up with Libby and her quirks and onions and everything.

  Phil kicked me under the table–not hard–to caution me that it wasn’t a good idea to aggravate Libby, as if I needed the warning, and grinned at me. I didn’t feel like grinning back. I felt like throwing something hard and heavy at his head. A flat iron, maybe. And at Libby. It had been an awful day after an awful day after yet another awful day, and I wanted to go home.

  That pleasant prospect being denied me, I had to endure. By the time dinner rolled around, my eyelids were so swollen from crying, I could barely see. I feared my eyeballs were permanently burned, too, and they were as red as a winter sunset. As much as I didn’t want to encourage Phil’s interest in me romantically, still less did I want him to think I was an ugly old hag. I mean, I might change my mind about him one of these days, and I didn’t want to ruin my prospects. I hadn’t even had time to lie down on my bed with my eyes closed and with cucumber slices cooling them.

  Phil didn’t soothe my feelings any when he said, “You do look kind of rugged, Annabelle. Hard day?”

  “I was peeling and chopping onions all day,” said I bitterly, “so you might say it was a hard day. And painful.”

  “All day, my foot,” grumbled Libby from the stove. Beastly old woman!

  “It was plenty long enough to ruin my complexion and make me look like Fatty Arbuckle after a hard night in San Francisco,” I shot back resentfully.

  Aunt Minnie gasped.

  Phil muttered, “Annabelle!”

  Libby turned away from the stove and said, “That’s enough of that, young lady!”

  It had been kind of a low comment, I guess, since Fatty Arbuckle had been accused of murdering a young woman at a party in San Francisco, during which there had been enough lurid goings on to shock the nation. My heart twanged, and I knew I’d been rude.

  But, darn it, I also felt I was entitled to some consideration. I hadn’t asked to come out to this desolate old ranch house and be used like a slave by my aunt and her galley master. Therefore, I only sniffed and decided, fine. If they didn’t want me to speak, I wouldn’t speak.

  That left Phil to carry on a conversation with Minnie, since Libby had taken her usual posture, back against the stove, arms crossed over her chest, mute, watching over us, probably eyeing me in particular with the intention of smacking the back of my head with a ladle if I said anything else she didn’t like. She didn’t have to worry. I was through talking for the day.

  Of course, I wasn’t being fair to Phil. Not only had he agreed to play watchdog for us that night, but he also hadn’t had a single thing to do with the overall lousiness of my day. Therefore, I decided that I’d relent and talk to him after supper.

  I hate to admit it, but Libby’s chicken and dumplings were wonderful. If she hadn’t been such a wicked old witch, I’d have told her so.

  It didn’t matter. Phil and Minnie praised her enough to make up for silence on my part.

  We’d just finished a delicious apple crisp, served with fresh cream taken from Clementine that very morning, when Minnie gave me the first break I’d had all day. “Why don’t you and Phillip go on out to the front porch and have a nice chat, Annabelle. Libby and I will clean up in here.”

  Libby made a noise signifying disapproval, but Minnie was the boss. I do believe it was the first time I’d smiled all day long. “Thanks, Minnie. You’re a darling.” I was so very gratified that I went so far as to deposit a kiss on her cheek before heading to the front porch.

  The evening air was cooling off, and the weather was as close to balmy as it ever gets in that inhospitable corner of the world. I stretched and collapsed into a chair. “What a stupid day.”

  “Sorry you had a rough one.”

  Dear Phil. He was such a nice person. And he was always so willing to help out when somebody was in distress. I felt guilty about being so mean at dinner, even if I hadn’t been mean to him in particular. Well, not very, anyhow.

  “It’s Libby,” I said darkly. “She’s evil, Phil, I swear it.”

  “She’s just old and tired. Probably has the rheumatics,” said Phil, ever the peacemaker.

  The problem was that I didn’t want peace made just then. I wanted sympathy, darn it. I glared at him as well as I could through my swollen eyelids. “She’s a witch. She’s mean as a rabid polecat and as cranky as an old Ford.”

  “At least Minnie’s nice.”

  “She’s nuts,” I said, grumpy. Then I remembered Mr. O’Dell and the Longstreets and Mr. Burgess, and my temper cooled a little. “But I have so much to tell you, Phil!”

  “Yeah? What’s that. Besides peeling onions.”

  I heard the grin in his voice and wished I’d stayed angry longer. On the other hand, none of this was Phil’s fault, and he was out here to help, so I guessed I’d better be nice.

  “It’s not only Mr. O’Dell who wants to buy Minnie’s house. A new doctor in town came out to ask Minnie if she wan
ted to sell her house to him today.” I said.

  “Oh?”

  “What do you mean ‘Oh’? Darn it, that’s weird! Why would anybody want to buy this place?”

  “Well . . . I don’t know. Did you ask them?”

  “Of course, we asked them! Mr. O’Dell said he has a buyer.”

  “Who?”

  “He wouldn’t say.”

  “Why not?”

  “How should I know?” I took a deep breath, ever so thankful not to be inhaling the scent of onions. “I’m sorry, Phil. It’s been an awful day, and I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

  “I’m used to it.” Phil chuckled, and I darned near blew up at him again.

  With what I considered great restraint, I didn’t explode. Rather, I took another deep breath, scented with sage and greasewood and–perhaps not altogether strangely–very soothing after a day fraught with onions, and moved on with my narrative. “The doctor said he wanted to open a tuberculosis clinic on the property.”

  The porch swing creaked, and I saw Phil shrug. “Lots of doctors are doing that.”

  “Yes, but why here? In Aunt Minnie’s house?”

  “Um . . . because he doesn’t want to build one?”

  “That’s stupid, Phil.”

  Another shrug.

  “His wife is strange, too.”

  “Yeah? How?”

  “Excessively prim and prissy.”

  “Well, she married a doctor, didn’t she?”

  “Doctors’ wives aren’t always prim and prissy. Look at Mrs. Hanks. She’s as friendly and nice as anybody else. She even makes her own jam.”

  “Maybe today’s lady was just shy.”

  “Nuts. She’s a snob, is what she is. You should have seen her, with her nose in the air, sneering around Minnie’s front parlor as if she smelled something disgusting.”