The diner, on the edge of town, featured rabbit on the menu: fried rabbit, rabbit stew, ground rabbit. It was busy and loud, jukebox blaring a country-and-western tune, a haze of cigarette smoke hanging heavy, cement floor, rough wooden booths with unpadded benches, truckers arguing, laughing, slapping each other on the back. Antlered deer heads and bobcats were mounted on the walls. Pictures of muscular young males in various stages of nudity were plastered all over the walls and ceiling of the ladies’ room. She assumed the men’s room had the opposite adornment.
In a booth at the rear, Parkhurst was working on a glass of iced tea. She slid in across from him and felt the rear of her slacks snag on the rough wood. She’d never tried the specials, and never intended to. Bunny rabbit was something she’d never cared to eat. She ordered a chicken sandwich and iced tea, closed the menu, and handed it back to the waitress.
“What have you got?” she said.
Parkhurst propped his elbows on the table and leaned forward to hear over the babble. “Core samples.”
“Ah. What?”
“Harlen Dietz is getting into all the activities that precede drilling himself an oil well. Aerial photographs, geological surveys, core samples.”
When she thought of oil wells—if she ever did—she thought of Texas, but beam pumps, like giant bobbing chicken toys, raised their heads any number of places in northeast Kansas: cornfields, sorghum fields, by the side of the road. “I thought the oil business went in the dumper.”
“Pretty much has. Used to pump millions into the state coffers, but oil prices slid way off. That meant production went down, which led to fewer new wells and existing wells plugged, then layoffs and companies going belly-up. And crude here is heavier than the imported stuff, so it sells for less.”
“Then why is he doing this?”
The waitress brought Parkhurst’s cheeseburger and her chicken sandwich in red plastic baskets, added bottles of catsup and mustard, and asked if they needed anything else.
When she left, he dumped catsup on his french fries. “I think it’s a last-ditch effort to save the farm. Harlen’s in bad trouble. Owes money everywhere. He hasn’t been able to pay the back taxes. If he doesn’t take care of that, he’s going to lose the land. He loses Holly’s land, she’s apt to drill him.”
“Holly would do a lot to save that farm?”
“Yes, ma’am, she would. People get rabid about land that’s been theirs for generations. Anything short of murder, and I’m not real sure about that.” He looked at her. “What have you got cooking in your head?” He bit into the burger and chewed.
“I assume this is an expensive proposition, drilling a well.”
He swallowed. “Very.”
“Does he expect to get it back, make a profit?”
“He must. And according to the geologist, he’s got a promising site with great potential. Estimate in the millions of barrels. The section of Dietz land that abuts Ellen’s place. The assumed oil pool runs under her land too.”
The waitress came up and refilled the iced-tea glasses.
“Where is Harlen getting money for photographs and surveys and whatnot?”
Parkhurst took a slug of tea. “Why do I get the feeling you’re about to tell me?”
She pulled a piece of lettuce from her sandwich and stuck it in her mouth. “Harlen Dietz wasn’t at the Barringtons’ when Vicky threw out her barbed comment about core samples.” She frowned as a thought struck her. “How would Vicky know?”
“Her family and Holly’s have been friends for years. She sees Holly now and again. Holly could have told her. You want to come right out and tell me what you’re talking about, instead of dancing all around it?”
“Taylor.” Susan broke off a chunk of sandwich and popped it in her mouth. When she swallowed, she took a sip of tea to help it down. “He got annoyed with the Barringtons pointing their fingers at him and pointed one at Vicky. She said, ‘Don’t point at me; I know about core samples.’ Why would she say that unless it meant something to him?”
“And it meant?”
“Taylor was providing the money for Harlen’s oil well. Taylor didn’t have enough, or the whole deal cost over the estimate and he had to come up with more or lose what he’d already invested.”
“Uh-huh. So he grabbed a painting and sold it. Holly then waltzed it into the gallery and said, ‘Hi. I’m Ellen. Fork over the dough.’” Parkhurst raised an eyebrow. “Anybody ever say you got a fancy imagination?”
“It’s been mentioned.” That fancy imagination had been as useful as an informant at times. It never made a case, but it gave her direction. Those leaps of fancy, more often than not, proved right on when evidence was turned.
“Why pick Ellen to blame?” Parkhurst said in a voice cluttered with doubt.
“She’s the only Barrington with dark hair. Holly has dark hair. To someone with poor eyesight, it could look short if she had it pulled back. Maybe Ellen was the only one Dorothy could be convinced was lying, if the theft were discovered. It’s conceivable Dorothy would believe Ellen would take it and then lie.”
The waitress drifted up to remove the baskets and topped off the tea glasses.
“Taylor had a piece of bad luck,” Susan said when she drifted away. “If Dorothy hadn’t spotted the filler in the paper, it might have gone undetected for who knows how long.”
“Taylor was simply going to hope nobody would realize it was gone? Less than bright.”
“There’s Ellen. She could deny it until the sun went down. Taylor could whisper in Dorothy’s ear, ‘Ellen’s lying. Look how much trouble she’s always been. Maybe you should just let it go. Why cause a rift in the family?’”
“Dorothy called her family together to denounce the thief, and Taylor shot her,” Parkhurst said, with his doubts still showing.
“I’m inclined to think she didn’t know who took it and called them all together to find out.”
“Then Taylor offed her before she could.”
Susan could see he wasn’t anywhere near sold on the idea. Neither was she, but she was convinced—almost convinced—that Taylor had snatched the painting and Holly had peddled it.
A man built like a tank rolled over to the jukebox and thumbed in coins. Music blared out; a nasal voice wailed in despair, “We only have to figure out where to go from here.”
She couldn’t have put it better herself.
25
FIVE O’CLOCK IN the afternoon, clouds moving in like a war party, the air hot enough to steam clams, and Nadine was adamant about going to the park.
Ellen pulled on the bottom of her T-shirt and flapped it back and forth. “Heatstroke,” she said.
Nadine, looking wilted in white shorts and loose white blouse, ignored her and pushed on around the corner. She stopped and frowned at the lake that was Bobcat Canyon Park. A kid in a kayak was paddling across it. “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.”
“Why do you say that?” Ellen waved her arm. “We could swim out to that bench and huddle on it while we eat sandwiches. Pretend it’s a raft.”
“Don’t be difficult.” Nadine wrestled the stroller with a sleeping Bobby into a U-turn, bumped it over squishy ground to the sidewalk, and made off down Ninth Street. “Let’s see about Broken Arrow Park. Maybe it’s okay.”
“Why do we have to have a picnic? It’s going to rain any minute. We could eat at the house.”
“Bobby needs fresh air.”
“He could get fresh air on the way to the Coffee Cup. It’s cool in there, and they have booths. That makes it real nice. When the rain comes, you don’t get wet.”
“I told you to bring your raincoat.” Nadine’s own raincoat with the gourd appliqué, identical to Ellen’s except a bright blue instead of black, hung over the handle of the stroller.
“I can’t find it.”
“What happened to it?”
“I don’t know. Nadine, what are you up to?”
“I told you. I want to talk to you.”
Nadine strode firmly on with that bossy attitude she always got when she’d done something she knew Ellen would get pissed about.
Broken Arrow Park had a tree down at the entrance blocking the way. Undeterred, Nadine maneuvered the stroller around fallen branches and wheeled over to a bench. It wasn’t exactly wet, but it wasn’t dry either. Ellen could feel damp boards through the seat of her jeans.
“Nadine, this is stupid.”
“Get up a minute.” Nadine spread her raincoat over the bench and then busied herself getting sandwiches and cookies from a bag in the stroller. She handed a sandwich to Ellen.
Ellen unwrapped ham and cheese and tore off a corner. She chewed and swallowed. “All right. What is it?”
Nadine fussed over Bobby, poking and tucking.
“Nadine—”
Nadine peered studiously into the small bag. “I have chicken salad too, if you’d rather.”
“Knock it off. Or I’m going to hit you.”
“Well.” Nadine carefully peeled plastic wrap from a sandwich and examined it. “I saw Adam.”
“So?” Ellen chomped down on another corner.
“I mean I talked to him.”
“Yesss?” Ellen said darkly.
“I just happened to run into him at the service station. You know, Pickett’s, over on—”
“I know where Pickett’s service station is.”
“Right. Well, he was getting gas and I pulled in right behind him. I needed gas. And I could hardly not say anything. I mean, he spoke to me and said how cute Bobby was, and asked how I was doing, and how Bob was.” Nadine nudged the stroller to and fro. “And anyway, I asked him.”
“Asked him what?”
Nadine aimed a sideways glance at her. “Why he left.”
“You did what! My God, Nadine, I may hit you just on general principles.”
“Well, I kind of knew you’d feel that way. That’s why I thought it’d be better if we were somewhere nobody’d hear when you yelled at me. He didn’t do it, Ellen.”
Ellen glowered. “Do what?”
“Take money from Dorothy.”
Fizz started to bubble up in her chest. She slammed a lid on it. “How do you know?”
“I asked him.”
“You what?”
“Dorothy offered. If he’d leave. He turned her down.”
All of a sudden Ellen found it hard to breathe. Things inside seemed to be fighting with other things. “Dorothy didn’t lie,” she said when she could grab hold of words.
“I know, but—” Nadine twisted the cap from a thermos and handed her something red. “What exactly did Dorothy say?”
“Lots. And at the end she said she—” Ellen drank whatever was in the cup and grimaced. “What is this?”
“Kool-Aid. You see, she offered him money. She didn’t say he took it.”
Ellen was so flat-out steam-rollered, she couldn’t remember what Dorothy had said. Nadine had really done it this time. She had no right. Always sticking her nose in.
Nadine eyed her warily. “Dorothy tried to do what she thought was best for you. That’s what happens when you have too much control. You start thinking you know what’s best. Then you start manipulating to get what you know is best to come about.”
Ducks from the swollen pond waddled up, quacking and grumbling. Ellen crumbled bread and tossed it to them. They squabbled and darted.
“So anyway, I just thought you should know.” She looked at Ellen, waited, and finally asked, “So you going to yell?”
“Damn right, I’m going to yell. Just as soon as I—” She burst into tears.
“Hey now, Ellen—”
“I’m going to be arrested.”
“Of course you’re not. Why would you?” Nadine rooted around in the diaper bag and came up with Kleenex.
“I found Vicky’s— I found Vicky. The cops think I killed her. And stole a painting. And—” I’m losing it, she thought, scrubbed at her face, and blew her nose. “I’m scared.” She hauled in a long, shaky breath. “One of my family hates me.”
“Oh, Ellen, no. Why would you think that?”
“Because—” She almost told Nadine about Daddy’s gun. Instead, she explained about the painting and the phone call that had gotten her to Vicky’s. “I can’t stay at the house anymore. It’s too weird with Dorothy not there. I’m scared of everybody. What if Taylor did it? What if he creeps up and stabs me in the back? I’ve got to leave.”
“And go where? Carl’s?”
She couldn’t even do that. Afraid to trust Carl. Everything was wrong and crazy. “Home. My place.”
“You can’t. There’s no plumbing.”
“So I’ll camp out. No big deal. I can’t stay at the house anymore. I’m going. I have to.”
“It’s not safe, all by yourself.”
“Safe?” Ellen heard the high wail in her voice and got a tighter grip. “I’m not safe anywhere. At least, out there I can hear them coming.” I’m safer there than where I am.
“Ellen, there’s another storm on the way.”
“So I’ll wait out the wind.” Ellen gathered cookie crumbs, tore up leftover pieces of bread and squished toward the duck pond, swollen almost double. The ducks saw her coming and noisily squabbled around her. She scattered crumbs, dusted off her hands, and wiped them on the seat of her jeans.
“I’m not going to let you do it.” Nadine packed wrappings back in the paper sack and stowed it in the diaper bag.
“You can’t stop me.”
They left the park, Nadine shoving the stroller over the uneven ground. “Then I’m coming with you.”
“With Bobby? Don’t be ridiculous. And what would Bob say?” Ellen lifted the front end of the stroller up onto the sidewalk.
“Please don’t go.”
“I have to.”
“Ellen, no—”
After Ellen made promises to be careful, they split at the intersection. Ellen plodded along Ninth Street, then over to Indiana, and let herself into the old family home. Ha. Where, if you have to go, they have to take you in. Taylor wasn’t around, and she wondered where he was.
Upstairs in her bedroom, she gathered clothes, toothbrush, and comb and jammed them in the backpack. After all that firm talk, it suddenly didn’t seem like such a good idea. Foolhardy. Dorothy had always said she was foolhardy. Ellen sat sideways on the window seat, elbows propped on her bent knees, and stared out at the flowers and the latticework gazebo where she used to read as a kid. Her throat got tight, and tears dribbled down her face. Leaving home. She seriously didn’t want to go.
Then what? Stay here and snivel? She hauled herself to her feet and slung the backpack over one shoulder.
Leave a note? Call Carl? She didn’t want anybody to know where she was, but if she simply disappeared, panic and bloodhounds would be in order. She scribbled a note and left it on the kitchen table.
It was after seven-thirty when she tossed the backpack onto the passenger seat of the Mustang and stuck the key in the ignition. The cranky old car was always developing freaky problems that couldn’t be diagnosed, but it started right up and idled roughly. Hands on the wheel, she sat looking at the house: a symbol of safety, belonging, a haven in times of dire trouble. Looking at it now made her cry again. Nothing had been what she thought, not family unity, not loving relatives, not even safety. It was a place of danger and betrayal.
Shoving the car in gear, she backed out of the driveway. Adam she didn’t even allow headroom. If she were arrested, there’d be plenty of jail time to think about him. Find out who was trying to frame her. Stop this quivering in fear and waiting for the axe to fall.
Willis. Of them all, he was the most devastated by Dorothy’s death. The two of them had always been close. With a crazy father and a mother too busy and psychologically unsuited for motherhood, they had clung to each other. Vicky’s death coming on top of Dorothy’s shattered Willis to the point of nonfunctioning.
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br /> Marlitta. Plodding along doing everything by rote. Like her mind was zapped by electricity and her body went on without it. Brent. Slimy creep. Pawing anything young and female. God’s gift, for Pete’s sake. Marlitta loved him. Why? Couldn’t she see what he was? Obviously not. Besotted.
Carl. The smartest. Would he kill and try to frame her? That hurt. That hurt a lot. So much, she could only come at it sideways. No matter how this all turned out, there’d be pain. Maybe too much, and it would tear away even the pretense of togetherness.
Unless Taylor was guilty. Nobody would be too grief-stricken then. Which was, of course, why everybody wanted him to be it.
A hawk flew against the gray sky, banked in a wide arc, and floated gently down to a tree limb. Freedom. Ha. Freedom was a myth. The world consisted of predators and prey. You were either hunting or running.
Far to her left, floodwater surrounded outbuildings and the roofs looked like small islands. A farmer in a rowboat was ferrying a pig to higher ground. The pig gazed imperiously ahead like an emperor surveying his kingdom.
Two miles further, she turned off on the road that led to her place. When the old stone house came into view, her heart lifted. She loved this place; just being back gave her some hope. Maybe she could figure out what was going on.
The house sat on top a hill, and even though there were patches of standing water, the house itself was in no danger of flooding, though the trenches the plumbers had dug were brimming. Her very own swimming hole. So it was long and narrow instead of round. She’d always been a nonconformist. Would she ever have workable plumbing? She sighed. Not until the weather cleared up. She pulled up in front.
Slinging the backpack over a shoulder, she slid from the Mustang, unlocked the door, and let it stand wide. Dim inside. Musty smell. She shoved up the two windows in the living room and trudged upstairs. Didn’t smell as bad up here. She opened windows and went back down.
Worry tugged frantically at the edges of her mind. Some small animal, maybe a field mouse trying to get away from floodwater, had gotten inside and died. Didn’t smell too bad in the living room. Stronger in the dining room. Apprehension catching hold, she eased toward the kitchen.
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