by Nancy Martin
We passed Crazy Mary on the corner outside the stadium. The street musician had a violin today, and she whipped her bow in a lively fiddle tune. She played even though nobody was around to listen.
Miss Ruffles yipped at the music, but we kept going. Trouble was, the afternoon had turned very hot, and even the shortcut across campus and through the sacred burial site of Coach Hut Hensley wasn’t going to be a pleasant walk. We lingered in the shade of the trees by his tomb, and I noted there were red and white roses planted around the giant monument. Honeybelle had obviously put them there, under the stone that had been cut to the approximate shape of Coach Hensley’s gruff face. Miss Ruffles rooted around in the bushes but was amenable when I urged her to walk again. I could feel the freckles popping on my arms and sighed at the thought of another sunburn. I should have arranged for a ride home, I realized.
Although I was wilting, Miss Ruffles looked perfectly fine in the heat. I knew she was thirsty, though. We took a break at a Jiffy Stop, and I bought a bottle of water for Miss Ruffles and a blueberry slushie for me. She slurped the water from a paper cup. I ate the slushie with a plastic spoon while we walked, then pitched the cup into a trash can at the Valero station.
On a side street, a dusty, noisy Jeep with no doors caught up with me. A set of Jurassic cow horns decorated the Jeep’s hood, and the radio was blaring something twangy. Ten Tennyson was behind the wheel. He pulled over to the sidewalk and slowed to a crawl. He turned down the radio but kept his aviator sunglasses on.
His friendly grin was long gone. “Nice hat.”
I continued to walk. The floppy brim of the Alamo hat provided a little shade, but not enough. “They gave it to me for the football game. I feel like I’m supposed to sell used cars.”
He kept pace with me. “You gotta wear it like you mean it.”
“I feel silly.”
“It shows.” He tilted down his sunglasses and squinted. “Is your mouth blue?”
“No,” I snapped with more force than I intended. But he thought I’d conned Honeybelle somehow, an opinion that offended me. “Where’s your horse?”
“Back at the barn. We did our Saturday cattle drive, and he’d had enough. I missed the game, taking him home. What’s the score?”
“You don’t want to know.”
He could have driven off then. But he hesitated, then said, “Before you self-combust, I’d better take you to Honeybelle’s. I was just on my way to pay a visit anyway. Hop in.”
I wanted to refuse the ride. But the heat was intense, and despite my enormous hat, the glare of the sun already had me wincing.
Miss Ruffles didn’t wait for me to accept Ten’s offer. When he stepped on the brake, she leaped into the passenger seat and nuzzled him with garbled but excited whines. He laughed and roughed her up. When she’d had enough, she braced her front paws on the dashboard to look out over the hood. She looked like the heroic figurehead on a sailing ship. I pushed her over so I could share the seat and buckled in.
Ten threw the Jeep into gear and pulled away from the curb with a neck-snapping jerk of the clutch. He wasn’t wearing a seat belt. After a minute, he must have decided to make cordial conversation. “So what happened at the game?”
I held on to the dashboard with one hand, Miss Ruffles with the other. “Alamo has no defense, and the quarterback wants to be a hero on every play. He’s not the strategic genius he thinks he is. If not for the kicker, they wouldn’t have any points on the board at all. They were down by twenty at the half.”
He glanced at me with surprise. “Football fan?”
“Texas isn’t the only place where football is a universal language.” As we took the corner, I held on tight. “Are you coming to inspect the house? White gloves to check for dust? Or are you going to take my fingerprints?”
“Fingerprints might be a good idea. Thanks for the suggestion.” He shifted gears with another lurch, and we roared past the university. “I’m supposed to take a look around the place every week. Anything out of order yet? Mae Mae and Mr. Carver—are they keeping up their end?”
“Of course they are. The house is immaculate.” Deciding to be honest, I said, “Trouble is, Mr. Carver can only dust the picture frames so many times a day. And now that Mae Mae doesn’t have to stick to Honeybelle’s menus, she’s started experimenting with old family recipes. If you’re lucky, she’ll have something for you on the stove. But Mr. Carver has heartburn.”
“I was counting on some good cooking.” He finally grinned. “Mae Mae grew up in New Orleans, you know. Honeybelle kinda adopted her after Katrina.”
“I heard that. She really likes you. What’s your secret?”
“You feeling ignored?”
“If she ignored me, it might be easier. No, she took an instant dislike to me.”
“Mae Mae liked being Honeybelle’s confidante. It must have been hard enough sharing Honeybelle with Shelby Ann. When you came along, you probably took Mae Mae’s place in line.”
That possibility hadn’t occurred to me. “It wasn’t a competition. And anyway, that doesn’t explain why she still hates me now that Honeybelle is gone.”
“Give her time. Mae Mae could surprise you.”
The only way Mae Mae could surprise me was by swearing to be my friend for the ages.
Ten glanced my way. “Y’all getting on each other’s nerves already?”
“We’re okay.” With care, I said. “Maybe Honeybelle intended this arrangement to ease Mae Mae and Mr. Carver into retirement, but neither one of them can quit working.”
“That could change. My grandfather announced his retirement as soon as I finished law school. Hadn’t skipped a day at the office until Honeybelle died, and now he’s made himself scarce.” Half to himself, he said, “They both have, actually. My father, too. They worked like crazy on rewriting Honeybelle’s will for her, and the next thing you know, she’s dead and they’ve mysteriously gone on vacations. As far as I know, they’ve never missed an Alamo football game until today. And I haven’t heard a word from my mama either. That’s mighty suspicious, too.”
“Too?” I said.
Ten shook his head as if to discard an irritating thought. “There are a few things that don’t add up. I’m trying to get Honeybelle’s estate paperwork organized for when my so-called partners get back, but I … well, I’m still having trouble tracking down the death certificate.”
“You mentioned that. When my mother died while she was traveling, I got copies of her death certificate from the Department of State Health Services, but usually you get them from the funeral home.”
He glanced over at me. “When did your mother die?”
“In April.”
“I’m sorry. Did she … was it sudden?”
“Yes, she was killed in an accident while out of the country.” I made an effort to remain calm, but it was hard. There were days when the realization that she was gone still hit me like a punch in the stomach. Honeybelle’s death had brought my own loss back with almost as much heartache as when it first happened. I turned my face away, pretending to look at the houses we passed.
“I’m very sorry,” Ten said, sounding genuine.
“Me, too. She was an entomologist. A lepidopterist, actually—she studied butterflies and moths. She was a scientist first, a mother definitely second. But I miss her. I miss knowing she’s in the world.”
“You’ve had a lot of changes in the last few months.”
I was trying to be resilient, but I didn’t always feel that way. Especially when I got unexpected sympathy, I tended to tear up. I suppressed that urge and spoke only when I had myself pulled together. “Have you asked the funeral home about the death certificate?”
“Yeah, but the funeral guy put me off. It’s Mr. Gamble’s nephew, so he’s not familiar with all the ins and outs. I should ask him to try again.”
“Where’s Mr. Gamble?”
“Out of town, so I’m told. His nephew’s in charge.”
I figured M
r. Gamble was probably upset that his would-be girlfriend was as dead as his wife. A moment passed, and I asked, “How’s everything else going for you without your dad and grandfather around?”
“It’s like I’ve been thrown into the pond to learn to swim. Since I’m not licensed yet, I’m just supposed to keep the office open, so it’s not too hard. Mostly I run errands.”
“Like this one.”
“Yes, ma’am. My dad said I should be concentrating on the wedding right now, but—hell, how much attention does that require? I don’t like fritterin’ time away.”
“Frittering?” I said, amused. Then, thinking of Travis Joe Hensley in his role of ring bearer at his Aunt Poppy’s wedding, I asked, “Whose wedding?”
He glanced at me with surprise. “I thought you knew all the family business.”
“Which family?”
“Honeybelle’s. Well, her daughter-in-law’s family. Posie’s a frustrated wedding planner, so she’s starting with us. It’s my wedding. I’m marrying Poppy Appleby, Posie’s sister. In Honeybelle’s rose garden.”
CHAPTER NINE
Cowgirl up. Or go sit in the truck.
—FEMINIST ADMONITION
I don’t know why I was so surprised. Why shouldn’t Ten Tennyson get married? But I was struck silent by the idea of him marrying the sister of the garden club lizard. It was half a minute before I thought to congratulate him.
“Thanks,” he said, concentrating on roaring the Jeep around the next corner. “I didn’t think I’d get sucked into a lot of wedding nonsense when I asked her, but I guess that’s the way it is these days. At least we’re not releasing doves like Posie first wanted. Throw some doves up in the air around here, that’s just asking for my rod and gun club buddies to start shootin’.”
I wanted to ask if the location of the wedding had been officially decided. Had Posie won the right to hold the nuptials among Honeybelle’s roses? Or did Honeybelle’s will somehow prevent that from happening?
But I said, “What did Posie do before she started planning weddings?”
“One wedding,” Ten corrected. “Her own. She didn’t have any job before she got married, which was right after the Miss Texas pageant she finaled in. Hut Junior proposed, and she’s been busy raising Trey and Travis Joe ever since. Her husband said she needed a career now that her boys are in school. It makes Hut Junior nuts that she can’t let those boys out of her sight. So she thought she’d start planning events. Like weddings.”
“And you’re the lucky recipient of her attention.”
“Hey, it’s no problem for me. Poppy and Posie are having fun with it. They’re into the rose theme. Lots of roses.”
“Honeybelle’s house is certainly a rose paradise.”
“So I hear. I’ve only been in Honeybelle’s backyard where the pool is. I wasn’t shown the roses. I can go along with just about anything Poppy and Posie want.”
“Except the doves.”
He grinned. “Somebody’s got to think about public safety.”
When we arrived at Honeybelle’s garage, Miss Ruffles jumped down from the Jeep and ran around me until I was too tangled up in the leash to open the gate. Ten did the honors, and when I unclipped Miss Ruffles, she zoomed off like a rocket to find something to destroy. Her bark said she’d behaved herself long enough and now it was time to cut loose.
Lingering at the gate, I took off my silly hat and tried to smooth my hair back into its usual ponytail.
“Listen,” I said to Ten, not quite able to meet his eye, “about the football games.”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“I’m not … I don’t think it’s a great place for Miss Ruffles.”
Ten leaned his elbow on the gate. He was wearing a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled over tanned forearms, tucked into jeans. A belt buckle the size of a teacup saucer gleamed on his belt. He didn’t smell horsey, so I guessed he must have cleaned up after the parade. He said, “You’re trying hard to be the dependable governess, aren’t you?”
Determined not to think about how nice he smelled and to keep going with the subject I’d opened, I said, “I don’t think the stadium is a safe place for her. It’s huge and full of drunks and … and there are too many bad things that could happen.”
“Bad things? Like what?”
“I don’t know. Like somebody throwing her a poisoned hot dog, maybe.”
“Nobody’s going to feed her a poison hot dog. People around here love Miss Ruffles. She’s been going to the games for years. Well—at least one year.” Ten frowned to himself. “Maybe more. While I was laid up, I fell out of touch with what was going on here in Mule Stop, but—”
“There are thousands of people in that stadium. And some of them are carrying guns, I hear. From what you said about Honeybelle’s will—about people in town wanting their bequests now, not in a year—I get the feeling they’re only going to get what they want when Miss Ruffles … when she dies.”
Ten laughed at me. “You think Honeybelle’s will has given everybody in town a motive to kill a dog? You’ve been watching too much TV, Jane Eyre. Anyway, Miss Ruffles is indestructible. It’s her job to attend the games, so she has to keep going. Relax. She’ll be fine.”
“I hope so,” I murmured, unable to hide a frown.
I wanted to bring up something else. I was back to thinking about Honeybelle’s request that I attend her memorial service to see if I could spot her murderer. That joke—had it been a joke?—was back to buzzing around in my head like an insistent bee. There were many other strange things that bugged me, too. Shelby Ann, her nurse, had disappeared into thin air before Honeybelle was cremated. So, it seemed, had both of Honeybelle’s lawyers. Mr. Gamble, too. And there was something totally weird about President Cornfelter and his stupid stadium.
While I figured out how to bring up my concerns, Ten let a moment go by, then asked, “What does your mouth look like when it’s not some outrageous color?”
I don’t know why that remark hit me wrong, but it did.
“It’s a normal mouth,” I snapped.
I did a fast about-face and went inside to change out of my too-tight Alamo T-shirt and sparkly belt. I spent the afternoon helping Mr. Carver fold up household laundry and delivering the sheets and towels to their appropriate closets. I washed a couple of loads of my own clothes while I was at it, avoiding Ten as he talked with Mae Mae while she fixed him coffee and beignets, and later when he took a look around the house with Mr. Carver. I stayed out of their way, but I could hear them talking. They all sounded friendly.
Finally, I retreated to my room. I had a bedroom with a bath on the third floor at the front of the house. My windows offered the best view of the rose garden. The modest suite had been built for Hut Junior’s governess, Honeybelle told me, so it was private without being totally out of the family orbit. I had shared the attic with Shelby Ann, Honeybelle’s companion, who had a similarly small suite of rooms across the hall, but who had packed up and left the day after Honeybelle’s death, locking her room behind her and presumably heading off on her world cruise. Ten did not come upstairs to inspect my room. I stayed there, though, reading until I heard the Jeep depart.
Not long after that, Mr. Carver took off in Honeybelle’s minivan, the vehicle he used to pick up groceries and haul flowers from the nursery. He said he was having dinner with friends. He left every Saturday evening and was very closed-mouthed about where he went. His disappearances were a mystery that had intrigued me, and I wondered who his friends were, but I hadn’t dared ask Mr. Carver or Honeybelle, who seemed to treat her butler’s social life as none of her business. I couldn’t help thinking he had a lady friend somewhere. For a man his age, I thought, good for him.
To Miss Ruffles, who commandeered my bed now that Honeybelle was gone, I said, “Or maybe he goes to church.”
She gave me a long, pitying look. Nobody went to church for six or eight hours on a Saturday night, not even in Texas.
“It’s bett
er when he’s here,” I said to Miss Ruffles. “I’m scared to be alone with Mae Mae.”
Miss Ruffles greeted this confession by plunking her butt on the bed and using one hind leg to scratch her ear.
Not happily, I went downstairs for my weekly uncomfortable dinner alone with Mae Mae. Tonight she had made a spicy chicken dish that would have sent Mr. Carver reaching for the Rolaids. A man had shown up at the back gate with the whole plucked chicken, saying he owed Honeybelle something nice after she gave him a lift out of town one day. Even though she was gone, he wanted to return the kindness, so Mae Mae accepted it. While I ate the chicken, she watched me from the corners of her eyes, maybe hoping I’d complain about the hot pepper.
“It’s delicious,” I told Mae Mae. “It reminds me of the stews in Colombia. My mom took me there once. They cook with okra, too.”
Impervious to my conversation starter, she hmphed and served me a dish of melon slices—her usual dessert for Mr. Carver.
While I ate the melon, I thought about that trip to Colombia—one of the few occasions my mother lugged me along on one of her adventures. I was maybe thirteen, and I’d been terrified most of the time. The woman who had made the stew calmly killed a snake that slithered into her kitchen, and I’d had hysterics that made my mother disgusted with me. I had disappointed her then. I wondered if I continued to disappoint her for the rest of her life. Thinking about it made me low.
Mae Mae cleared the table. She snapped on the television and turned up the volume to hear the dialogue on a rerun of a forensic cop show, her obsession. I kept my thoughts to myself as I took out the trash. When Mae Mae poured herself a last cup of coffee and went up to her apartment over the kitchen—without so much as a “good night”—I made Miss Ruffles her nightly bowl of kibble. When I rattled the scoop in the tub of food, she usually came running.
Tonight, she didn’t.
I went to the back door, held it open, and whistled, but she didn’t show herself.
I went outside to look for Miss Ruffles. She wasn’t digging up flowers or patrolling for invading UPS men. Nor was she snoozing under the lavender bush. She didn’t come when I whistled again. She didn’t yip when I called her name.