by Sylvia Nobel
Marmalade was waiting near the front door as usual, her welcoming cries and rattling purr filling the silence of the house. I knelt to pet her. “Hey, there, pretty girl, glad to see me?” She clawed her way into my arms and I carried her to the kitchen. “How about a treat?” I said, opening the cupboard and grasping a can of tuna. “It’s a special night, so why shouldn’t you be part of the celebration?” She apparently agreed, practically turning the bowl over to get to the contents.
Smiling at her antics, I reached for the phone to check for messages. Oh boy, Mom had called again. No time to respond now. I’d have more news later anyway. And it would be good, I hoped. Scrolling back, I noted that there were three calls from a number I didn’t recognize. I punched in the code while rushing to my bedroom to survey my wardrobe. I saved the first message from my mother asking that I call her as soon as possible. Oh man. More than likely, she was still bent on trying to change my mind. Dad and I always got along famously, but my mother and I rarely saw eye to eye on anything. She apparently had a different vision for my future and never passed up an opportunity to voice her opinion on what a mistake I was making marrying an Arizona rancher. It was troubling that both mothers objected to our union. I deleted two more hang-ups before hearing Tally’s voice, sounding far away and indistinct. After the hissing and clicking stopped I made out “…be a little late…wait for me before…something… something…news…tell her…located the…something…of…” some background noise I couldn’t identify, a buzz and then dead air. I replayed it, but still couldn’t make out what he’d said. I tossed the phone on the bed, shed my clothes and climbed into the shower. Cell phones. I viewed them much the same as I did computers—wonderful when they worked, terrible when they didn’t. Tally refused to own a cell phone, so he must have borrowed one from another posse member. It was a relief to know that he was going to be late, so the pressure was off to be there at exactly five p.m. But then, maybe not. Ruth was expecting us, so it might behoove me to arrive on time. No use handing her additional ammunition to add to her list of my apparent inadequacies.
I was ready in record time, dressed conservatively in a plaid western shirt, black jeans and boots. Once again, I slipped off the ring and stuffed it into my pocket, rejoicing in the knowledge that, after tonight, I would no longer have to hide it. I scrutinized my reflection in the full-length mirror, calculating that the heels probably added three inches to my five-foot eight-inch frame. Good. Height is always an advantage in a confrontation. Since my unruly red hair was the most striking similarity to the late, and much despised, Stephanie Talverson, I took care to tamp it down as much as possible, wetting and winding it into a thick braid that hung half way down my back. A little blush and light lipstick finished the job. There. The perfect ranch wife. I grabbed my jacket and headed to the door, stopping to pet Marmalade on the way out. “Be back soon, baby. Slay lots of nasty old spiders while I’m gone.”
In full darkness with only a few lights twinkling from distant ranches, I drove towards the Starfire with dread tightening around my belly like a cold belt, unable to avoid the memories I’d been pushing to the back of my mind all week. Ginger’s innocent remark at lunch had launched them to the forefront. Talk about the irony of ironies. It wasn’t lost on me that had I married Grant last spring as originally planned, I would now be enjoying the company of the most wonderful mother-in-law on the face of the planet. Phyllis Jamerson and I had hit it off from the beginning. Beautiful, refined, and highly educated, she was everything one could wish for. It wasn’t surprising that she and my mother, who taught language arts at the local community college in Spring Hill, had become fast friends while they’d excitedly planned for my wedding. And even after the heartache of returning Grant’s ring, then tearfully disclosing the news to her, Phyllis had remained supportive of my decision. In an odd twist of fate, she and my mother had remained on good terms and I guess that’s why I’d felt compelled to write the note informing her of my engagement to Tally. It seemed only right.
When the lights of the Starfire Ranch came into view, I steeled myself as I pulled in and parked next to Ronda’s blue pickup. I stepped out and stood in the cold night air soaking in the beauty of the ebony sky glimmering with starlight. I lingered there another ten minutes hoping Tally would show up but the road behind me remained cloaked in silence. Casting a last apprehensive glance at the sprawling two-story ranch house, I murmured a little prayer, climbed the wooden stairs leading to the porch, and then paused another moment to gather my thoughts before rapping on the front door. My knock set off a barrage of barking and, as I expected, the door was not answered immediately. It was Ruth’s usual routine—pretending she didn’t know I was there. Wistfully, I looked beyond the pipe fencing towards the long horse barn several hundred yards to my right. Lights blazed from every window, no doubt signifying that Ronda was inside enjoying the company of her horses as usual. Who could blame her? I was going to need all the patience I could muster, knowing full well that the ornery side of me would love nothing better than to smack the crap out of this spiteful woman.
I knocked louder and finally the porch light popped on and the door swung inward to reveal Ruth Talverson in all her glory, or lack thereof. While I’d taken great pains to dress for dinner and the special announcement she was not yet privy to, she appeared disheveled, as if she’d been doing yard work for a week and forgot to bathe. Clad in soiled jeans and a ratty-looking shirt, her iron-gray hair hung limply around her deeply grooved cheeks. Not unexpectedly, she wore an expression of barely concealed irritation. Nice. I’d done quite a few pieces on manic depression, now popularly referred to as bi-polar illness, while working at the Philadelphia Inquirer. This troubled lady certainly fit the bill as far as I was concerned. Tally had warned me about her bouts of clinical depression and Ginger had confided to me that she’d been hospitalized several times in the past, and had suffered a complete nervous breakdown following the death of Tally’s father. I’d expressed my reservations about her reaction to our news, but Tally seemed confident she would soften her stance against me. “Hello, Ruth,” I said, forcing a synthetic smile. “How are you tonight?”
Still standing behind the screen door flanked by the dogs, her deep-set eyes glittered with reproach. Okay. Obviously, she was not happy to see me. “Where’s Tally?” she snapped, her gaze flitting past me to search the darkness.
A naughty thrill of elation flashed through me with the sudden realization that he’d called me and not her. I couldn’t help myself. “Oh? He didn’t call you? He left me a message saying he would be a little late.”
“Why?”
“I’m not sure. The message was garbled.”
Her scowl intensified. “I see,” she grumbled, adding with a complete lack of enthusiasm, “I guess you’ll want to wait inside.”
As opposed to what? Standing outside in the cold? I swallowed my annoyance and brushed past her into the kitchen. My entrance sparked a renewed barrage of barking from the two older dogs and anxious whining from the rambunctious puppy. They rushed at me with happy doggy faces, jumped, pawed, and slobbered all over me. “Okay, fellas, settle down,” I finally ordered with a laugh, trying to pet each of them while shedding my jacket. At least they seemed glad to see me.
Wordlessly, Ruth moved to the stove, removed the lid from one of two saucepans and stood with her back to me while she stirred the contents. I wrinkled my nose. Whatever it was didn’t smell terribly appetizing. I already knew that their regular cook, Gloria, who consistently served savory melt-in-your-mouth meals, was in Mexico visiting her sister for a few weeks. That left us to suffer the consequences of Ruth’s culinary endeavors that usually consisted of transforming perfectly fine food into a series of mystery stews, or her signature dish, a casserole containing questionable ingredients and topped with a mound of crushed, burned potato chips. No matter. The tight knots of anxiety squeezing my stomach squelched my normally hearty appetite anyway.
“So…ah…what’s cooking?” I
asked in an expectant tone, taking the first plunge into what was usually a conversational abyss.
She turned her head slightly. “You like fried okra?”
Did I? I knew it was green and in the vegetable family, but I wasn’t positive I’d ever actually tasted it before. Nevertheless, I responded with forced enthusiasm, heartened to be engaging in what was as close to a real conversation as we’d ever had before. “Yeah, sure. It sounds…delicious.”
“Good.” She turned back to the stove and lifted the lid on a second saucepan.
I cleared my throat. “Anything I can do to help?”
Keeping her back to me, she answered, “No.”
“I haven’t seen you for awhile. Anything new or interesting going on?” I asked in a bubbly tone, hoping to keep a dialogue going.
“No.”
A heavy curtain of silence dropped between us. I interpreted the rigid set of her shoulders as a return to her usual pattern of non-communication. Stifling a sigh of aggravation, I sat down at the kitchen table and played with the dogs, trying to ignore the fact that she was ignoring me. My impatience level escalated with each passing minute until it was sheer torture to sit and endure her unspoken censure of me, apparently for deeds committed by a woman I’d never met. More than anything, I wanted to break down the stoic façade of this terminally morose woman and initiate a frank discussion. But I had no idea how to begin. As of that moment, things weren’t looking good. I had a sinking feeling her reaction to our engagement, no matter how diplomatically we presented it, would be nothing short of volcanic. I stared at the kitchen clock. Where was Tally?
Struggling for patience, my pulse rate climbed steadily. As I sat there digging deep inside, searching for a character trait I sorely lacked, I had to grudgingly admit that my likeness to the late Stephanie Talverson probably wasn’t the only reason Ruth disliked me. And if I were to be totally honest with myself, she would be right.
Because my all-consuming passion to be the best investigative reporter on earth continually led me to seek out stimulating story possibilities—or, as Tally often described it, my need for a constant adrenaline fix—I’d been involved in a couple of close calls since my arrival at the Sun. Inadvertently, I had dragged Tally into several dicey situations with me. I don’t think he had elaborated to Ruth how close we’d come to disaster this last time around, but she’d obviously read the accounts in the newspaper or learned of it through Ronda or other acquaintances. Even though she’d never verbalized her fears, I sensed that she very much resented me involving her only son in my risky escapades. Serving as the newspaper’s sports reporter these past two years, Tally had most likely never encountered anything more dangerous than the occasional foul ball until he’d gotten involved with me. Even though it was disappointing to me, no doubt Ruth was pleased about his recent decision to resign his present position as of the first of the year to focus his attention on the ranch.
The uncomfortable silence between us lengthened, and my agitation heightened with each tick of the second hand. Apparently even the dogs were bored because one by one they exited through the pet door. I wished I could escape through the pet door with them. Should I excuse myself and wait in the living room? I arched my neck towards the dimly lit room beyond the dining area. It occurred to me that during the few times I’d been in the house, I’d rarely left the kitchen. In fact, I’d had only one quick tour of the entire place. From what I remembered, Ruth and Ronda had adjoining bedrooms and separate baths on the first floor, and Tally occupied a suite of rooms upstairs. Once again the thought of living here with this crabby old woman gave me a royal case of the shivers.
What the hell was taking Tally so long to get here? Damn him for leaving me stranded in this uncomfortable situation. Maybe he wasn’t going to make it at all. I wished I’d been able to understand his truncated message. What was the point of waiting any longer? No sooner had I decided I was out of there than I heard the welcome rumble of his truck accompanied by Attila’s high-pitched yelps that prompted answering barks from the other dogs. Thank heavens! My immediate relief was tempered by a swell of anxiety. With the moment of truth now upon us, it was a struggle to remember our carefully rehearsed words.
I jumped to my feet, raced to the door and jerked it open. Attila yapped joyously. “Hey, big guy, how are you?” I patted his silky fur and grinned with relief when Tally stepped inside behind him. “Boy, am I glad to see you!” Under ordinary circumstances, I would have thrown my arms around his neck and kissed him until I ran out of breath but with Ruth glowering at us, I restrained myself. I sensed something was wrong when I caught his hand. It was icy cold. His smudged clothes looked damp and his complexion had a peculiar grayish hue.
He squeezed my hand, saying to his mother, “Sorry I’m late.”
“Dinner’s ready,” was her bland response. “Did you stop at the Post Office box and pick up the mail?”
“No.”
“Damn it,” she fumed, slamming a spoon onto the counter, “It’s been four days. I want my magazines.”
I was poised to suggest that if she’d learn to drive a car she could quit bitching and get the mail herself, but Tally laid a hand on my arm and said under his breath, “You did get my message, I hope?” He appeared to be signaling me with his wide-eyed stare. “Well, sort of,” I answered, attempting to interpret an underlying meaning in his statement. “I mean, not much of it, but hey, you’re here now and that’s all that matters.” The odd intensity of his steady gaze disturbed me, but I attributed it to the fact that he was probably feeling as anxious as I was. Since I’d long since breached my tolerance threshold, all I could think of was making our announcement as quickly as possible. Why wait until after dinner? I dug into the pocket of my jeans to retrieve the ring before swinging around to face her dour expression. “Ruth, Tally and I have some exciting news to share and we hope you’ll be as happy as we are—”
“Kendall, not now,” Tally cut in harshly, yanking me to his side and almost off my feet.
I gawked at him in amazement. “What?”
“Come outside. We have to talk first.”
I couldn’t believe it. He’d made me wait in agony for over an hour and now it appeared that he was backing out at the last minute. I set my jaw. “No. We’re going to do this now.”
“No, we’re not.” He leaned in whispering fiercely in my ear. “Trust me, this isn’t the right time.”
I glared back at him. Not the right time? There would never be a right time to tell her. “Tally, you promised me—”
Before I could finish my sentence, he barked, “Ma, we’ll be back in a minute.” Then, amid my storm of protests, he unceremoniously dragged me outside onto the porch, slamming the door behind us.
Angrily, I wrenched my arm from his grasp. “Just what the hell do you think you’re doing? First, you leave me twisting in the wind with—”
“Kendall, will you shut up for a minute! Please.”
Stunned by his outburst, I suddenly realized the stern light in his eyes conveyed not anger, but distress. My inner radar clicked on. “What’s going on?”
He hesitated before placing a hand on each of my shoulders and looking deep into my eyes. “Kendall, do you remember the promise you made me two weeks ago?”
“Which one?” I’d had a fairly extensive list.
“The one where you promised to chain yourself to your desk instead of jumping head first into another…possibly dangerous assignment.”
My interest level shot skyward. “What assignment would that be?”
His grip tightened. “I mean it.” He drew in a deep breath. “Look, I can’t ask you not to do your job…but I’d prefer you didn’t go anywhere near…what I’m about to tell you.”
It’s questionable as to which was more powerful, my exasperation with his cryptic behavior or my mushrooming curiosity. “Come on, Tally. How can I promise you something when I don’t know what you’re talking about?”
He paused a few more maddening s
econds before saying in a somber tone, “We found the judge’s body a couple of hours ago.”
“Oh no. That’s what you were trying to tell me. I’m really sorry.”
“Damn cell phones.” He pulled me into his embrace. “It’s not your fault,” he said, gently stroking my back. “But, I’m sure you understand now why this is not the most opportune moment to tell my mother about our plans.”
I drew back and searched his eyes. “Tally, I’m making a titanic effort to be more sympathetic when it comes to your mother’s fragile temperament and all, but this isn’t entirely unexpected. After all, the poor man had been exposed to the elements for almost two weeks. Listen, why don’t we just tell her like we rehearsed and then you can gently break this…this other news to her in the morning.”
He removed his hat and raked a hand through his thick hair. “It’s not going to be that simple.”
“Why not?”
“Because he didn’t die from exposure.”
“What do you mean?”
“He had a bullet wound in his chest.”
“Uh-oh. A hunting accident?”
“Doubtful.”
An acute sense of apprehension gripped me. “What are you getting at?”
“Kendall, we didn’t find him near Flagstaff where the truck was located last week.”
It felt like cold fingertips tickling the back of my neck. “Where did you find him?”