Kansas Troubles

by Earlene Fowler

  “Could I make some coffee?” Becky asked the detective after we’d sat quietly for twenty minutes with nothing happening.

  “We’ll question you first, and then you can,” he answered tiredly. Five minutes later he took Becky outside to the front porch and questioned her. He chose me next, and without hesitation I told him about overhearing the argument between Tyler and the Amish man on the porch, as well as the argument I heard on the tree farm. “Would you be able to identify this Amish man?” the detective asked, drawing deeply on his cigarette.

  “No,” I said firmly. “All I saw was an outline.”

  “What about his voice?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. I only heard a few words, and some of them were German, I think.”

  The detective perked up. “Do you remember any of them?”

  I thought for a moment. “Gott.” It was the only German word I knew, and I wasn’t even sure where I’d learned it.

  “Got?” He dropped his cigarette and ground it out on Becky’s clean porch. “What’s that mean?”

  “God.”

  “Oh.” He looked disappointed. “Tell me again what you heard on the tree farm,” he said, lighting another cigarette. I fanned the air in front of me.

  “Sorry.” He held the cigarette behind his back, but didn’t offer to put it out.

  “All I heard were voices. They were arguing. One voice said, ‘How could you,’ and then I heard ‘heartless.’ ”

  “That’s it?”

  “Yes.”

  He turned around and took a drag on his cigarette. “A male and female voice. You’re sure.”

  “I wouldn’t bet my life on it, but it was a low voice and a somewhat higher one. I guess I just assumed it was a male and female.”

  “Could it have been two men?”

  I shrugged. “I suppose.”

  “What about two women?”

  That made me stop and think. “Maybe. If one of the women had a low voice or if she was angry and trying to keep her voice low. I guess it could have been.”

  After my interview, I went to the kitchen to help Becky with the coffee. She’d already brewed one pot for the women and was up on the counter searching one of her top cupboards for a carafe to send some down to the men. Gabe came in a few moments later, his questioning obviously finished.

  “What’s going on?” I asked, pouring milk into a small glass pitcher.

  “It’s a real mess out there. This is unincorporated county land. That means that technically the Sheriff’s Department has jurisdiction, but the land is in the middle of being annexed into Derby, so the Derby police will be involved, not to mention that it’s a Wichita mailing address, so they’ll want to put in their two cents worth. Then we’re talking the problem of a Kansas law enforcement officer being involved, which the media will turn into tabloid heaven.” He closed his eyes and rolled his neck to relieve the tension. “I pity Dewey. I wouldn’t touch this one with a fifty-foot pole.”

  “So how do you fit in?” Becky asked, climbing down off the counter holding a tall silver Coleman thermos.

  Gabe opened his eyes and gave her a serious look. “As an innocent bystander, period. I’ll give Dewey a hand if he needs it, but with all the fingers that are going to be in this pie, he won’t need one more.” He turned to me. “What’s this about you hearing some arguments?”

  I gave him a quick explanation of what I’d heard.

  “Wow,” Becky said. “You might have heard the killer’s voice.”

  “I don’t like this,” Gabe said, frowning.

  “Don’t worry,” I assured him. “What I heard is virtually worthless. I doubt that I’d ever recognize the voices. It’s hard to believe that someone at the party would kill Tyler. Everyone seemed so normal.”

  “Unfortunately,” Gabe said grimly, “most murders are committed by people who look perfectly normal.”

  “I know.” I leaned my head against his solid chest, relaxing when he put his arms around me. “We’d better call your mom before she hears it on the news. Aren’t we allowed to make one phone call?”

  He hugged me. “Such a thoughtful daughter-in-law. We’re not under arrest, so we can use the phone as long as it doesn’t interfere with the questioning. I’ll call her. We’ll probably be here the rest of the night.”

  He was right. It was almost dawn before the detectives finished questioning everyone. The guests left one by one, appearing shell-shocked and disbelieving. They kept saying, How could it be? Derby was a nice town, people didn’t get murdered here. I couldn’t help searching the expressions of each person, wondering if one of them hid the face of a killer. By the time the purple darkness turned to the pale mauve of early morning, only Gabe, Stan, Becky, Rob, and I sat in the living room. Rob stared down into his empty coffee cup. Every line in his face seemed etched deeper, adding years to his age. He didn’t seem to know what to do next.

  Stan walked over and rested a hand on his shoulder. “Let me drive you home. We’ll bring your car over later.”

  Rob stared straight ahead, his eyes focused on Tyler’s quilt across the room. “No.” He shrugged off Stan’s hand. “I’m fine.” He stood up and ran his fingers through his rumpled hair. “I have to get a message to her family. I’ll call the lady who owns the fabric store in Miller. She’ll let Tyler’s sister know.”

  “Call us if we can do anything,” Stan said, walking him to the door. “Anything at all.” Rob nodded mutely and left.

  “What happens now, Gabe?” Becky asked, tucking her legs up under her on the sofa.

  Gabe leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “With so many agencies involved in the investigation, my guess is confusion.”

  I turned to Becky. “What will her family do?”

  She traced her finger over the quilted pillow in her lap. “I don’t know. They’re Old Order Amish. When she left them to pursue her singing, they shunned her, which means no contact unless the congregation reinstates her. That only happens if she asks for forgiveness and for permission to return. But I can’t imagine them just ignoring her death, though they do have some awfully strict beliefs. She hadn’t seen her sister or her father since she left.”

  After saying goodbye, Gabe and I pulled out around Dewey’s brown GMC pickup, the only other car left in the driveway, and started for home. The sun was a bright half-ball on the horizon when we got back to his mother’s house. Kathryn was in the kitchen cooking breakfast. The air crackled with the spicy scent of cooking sausage. The moment I smelled it, I became ravenous.

  “Hope oatmeal is all right for you, dear,” she said to Gabe, flipping sausage patties in a large iron skillet. “The peaches and blackberries are fresh.” She turned to me. “I know my health-conscious son won’t want any, but the sausage is from my sister Beulah’s farm down in Coffeyville.”

  “It smells great,” I said. Gabe picked up a slice of whole wheat toast and smeared it with orange marmalade. We ate without speaking. Even Daphne lying in her bed in the corner of the breakfast nook had picked up the mood and was strangely silent. I almost missed her growl. Almost.

  After breakfast, with Kathryn’s encouragement, we went upstairs to get some sleep. The air had never cooled off completely, so I slipped into a pink Jockey tank top and turned the window air conditioner on high, certain I would never be able to turn my brain off long enough to fall asleep. But the minute my head hit the pillow, I was out. When I woke up, the clock radio next to the bed said twelve-thirty. The fan sitting on the dresser weakly circulated the cold air from the air conditioner. Gabe was leaning against the headboard, reading. With his round wire-rimmed glasses and wearing nothing but black cotton running shorts, he looked like a very sexy college professor.

  “Did you sleep?” I yawned and propped myself up on an elbow.

  “I caught a few hours,” he said, leaning over and kissing my forehead. “You slept enough for both of us.”

  “What are you reading?”

  He looked back down at the boo
k. “One of my thesis books.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “The point of suffering. The definition of evil.” His thesis had something to do with the reason we suffer, whether suffering is just evil or a necessary experience for growth, or something like that. I think I understood the theory of what he was talking about, what he believed about suffering. I just wasn’t sure I agreed. I’d seen too many people suffer who weren’t one bit better for the experience. On the other hand, thinking of Jack’s death and how it had changed me, I was more compassionate now toward others who had lost someone. Would I be as understanding if I hadn’t experienced so much grief this last year? I guess in some ways Gabe and I did agree. I just didn’t like to brood on it as much as he. Then again, I suspected my past didn’t harbor as many ghosts as his.

  I put my hand over the page. “Gabe, you’re supposed to be on vacation. Considering the circumstances, maybe you should forget your thesis for a couple of weeks.”

  He looked down at me, his left eye twitching underneath his glasses. I reached up and touched the spot with my fingertip. It jumped under my touch. Taking hold of my hand, he brought it to his chest. I felt his heart beating beneath his cool damp skin. My hand rose as he sighed deeply.

  “What?” I encouraged softly.

  For a moment, his face held a look of utter despair. He brought my hand to his lips and kissed it gently, his thick mustache tickling the back of my hand.

  “Gabe, tell me what’s wrong.”

  He let go of my hand and looked at me, his face blank. “Wrong? Nothing’s wrong. I’m just tired. You thirsty? I’ll get us a Coke.”

  While he was gone, I picked up his book and glanced over the pages he’d been reading. It was a habit I’d started before we’d even married, this unabashed snooping for clues to his thoughts in underlined passages in his philosophy books.

  “Human beings,” the writer asserted, “are ultimately more frightened of killing than being killed. Because if we are the killer, there is no chance of escape. Ever.”

  Did his underlining mean he agreed with this philosopher’s beliefs? The thought troubled me. I knew that as a Marine he’d spent most of his time in Vietnam as a grunt. I also knew he’d probably killed people, though he never spoke of it. I’d assumed he’d worked all that out years ago. A cold, terrible feeling ran through me, the same feeling I’d had as a child playing at the beach. I’d turn to see a distant wave coming, and at first it would appear to be predictable, manageable, and I’d watch it, waist-deep in the cool salty water, fascinated by its rolling grace. But as it approached, it would gain momentum until it was too late and I was captured by its foamy power, tossed and turned uncontrollably, clawing to get away, certain I would never make it to the surface alive.

  I put the book down before he returned with an icy glass of Coke. I wanted to ask him about the passage, but suppressed my urge and moved to safer ground.

  “Who does Dewey really suspect?” I asked, sipping my drink before setting it on the nightstand. “And what about the murder weapon? Have they found it yet or even decided what it was?”

  He leaned his head back and groaned. “Benni, leave it alone.”

  “You know something, don’t you? I can tell by the look on your face you’re not telling me everything.” I straddled his thighs and put my hands around his neck. “Spill the beans, Friday, or I’ll be forced to choke it out of you.”

  He laughed, grabbed my wrists, and we playfully wrestled for control. “Querida,” he said, “this is not my investigation. I have no jurisdiction. I want no jurisdiction. I’m on vacation.”

  “Don’t you care who killed her? Aren’t you curious? Do you think it was that Amish man?”

  “Of course I care, but I repeat, this is not my investigation. I’ll give Dewey any assistance he asks for, but I’m going to stay out of it except as a witness.” He let go of my wrists, grabbed my hips, and pulled me to him, his big hands cradling me firmly in his lap. “And so are you.”

  I wrapped my legs around his waist and contemplated him silently, my face inches from his.

  “Benni . . .” he warned. “You’ve given your statement, and that’s as far as it goes.”

  “Okay, okay,” I said. “You’re right. It’s just that . . .”

  “It’s just that nothing. The only police procedure I’d like to practice in the next few hours, providing we can get rid of my mother, is a little California Penal Code Section 4030d3.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Physical body search.”

  “Old joke, Chief. Get some new material.” A sharp rap on the bedroom door interrupted my giggle.

  “Yes?” Gabe called out.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you,” his mother called, “but Dewey’s on the phone. He says he needs to speak with you immediately.”

  We untangled ourselves and pulled on jeans and T-shirts before running down the stairs.

  I watched Gabe’s face grow increasingly sober as he listened to Dewey. He motioned for a pencil and paper and wrote some information down in his neat, boxy handwriting. “That’s assuming they let me talk to him,” he said. He hung up, then slammed his fist down on the tiled counter.

  “Gabe, dear, what is it?” his mother asked.

  “Rob’s being taken to Wichita. He tried to kill himself.”

  FOUR

  WE LEFT KATHRYN in the kitchen trying to call Rob’s mother, and walked out to the car.

  “What do you think it means?” I asked.

  “I wish I knew,” Gabe said, his face taut with worry. “Look, you don’t need to come with me. I’m going to go with Dewey to Wichita. He asked me to talk to Rob. Though I don’t know how he thinks it will help, I couldn’t say no.” He didn’t voice what both of us were wondering—had Rob tried to kill himself out of despondency or remorse?

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to come along?” I asked hopefully, squinting up in the bright sunlight. He knew what I was trying to avoid.

  He looked at me pointedly. “It wouldn’t hurt for you and Mom to spend some time getting to know each other. She’s going to be your mother-in-law for a long time.” He gave a half smile. “At least I hope so.”

  “We’ll see,” I grumbled.

  “I’ll be home when I can. Let Mom know where I’m going, okay? Be a good muchacha.”

  “Sí, papacito,” I answered irritably. He knew I hated it when he went all paternal on me.

  He smoothed the top of my hair with his hand. “I think I’ve proven enough times that fatherly is the last thing I feel about you.”

  I swatted at his hand, but smiled anyway. Kathryn walked out with her navy purse over her arm.

  “Mattie’s on her way to the hospital right now. I think I’ll go be with her.” She turned to me. “Will you be all right, Benni? You’ll have to fend for yourself for meals today.” Her expression seemed to say there was some doubt about whether I could manage that difficult task.

  “You can come with us if you want,” Gabe said.

  “No,” I said. “They don’t even know me. I’ll just be in the way. I’ll be fine. There’s always McDonald’s if I’m on the verge of starvation.”

  Kathryn nodded, though her expression was still doubtful. “Leave Daphne inside if you decide to go anywhere.”

  Gabe gave me a quick kiss. “We’ll call when we know something.”

  The mutt was waiting for me when I walked back into the house. “Well, flatface, looks like it’s you and me today. Want to go play fetch out on the highway?” Growling deep in her throat, Daphne retreated to her pink cushion in front of the plaid Early American sofa. She curled up, resting her nose on her rump, keeping a wary eye on me. I growled back and claimed the brown vinyl recliner across the room.

  I picked up Kathryn’s July Ladies Home Journal and was in the middle of a particularly vicious “Can This Marriage Be Saved?” when the phone rang.

  “Ortiz residence,” I said.

  “I’m going to kill myself.”
<
br />   I paused for a moment, thinking the irony of this was entirely too . . . well, ironic. And a bit ghoulish. But then, Dove had no idea what had happened here in Derby in the last twenty-four hours.

  Her dramatics didn’t faze me. I’d learned early not to add fuel to her capricious fires. “Dove, where are you now?”

  I heard the rustling of what I assumed was a map. “Capitan,” she finally said. “Capitan, New Mexico.”

  “Why are you calling me from Capitan . . . where?”

  “New Mexico. We’re visiting Smokey the Bear’s grave. He was born here, you know. And it’s his fiftieth anniversary. They got the prettiest little stained glass window with his picture on it. The museum’s real interesting.”

  “Sounds like you’re having fun.”

  “Well, I’m certainly trying, not that some people will let me. That father and uncle of yours are real close to joining Smokey in that eternal campsite in the sky if they don’t straighten up and fly right.”

  “I thought you were going to kill yourself.”

  “Changed my mind. They’re the ones driving me batty. I swear, I’m going to drop them two off by the side of the road one of these days.”

  “Now, Dove, they’re your kids. You’ve got no one but yourself to blame for the way they act.”

  Before she could answer, my dad got on the phone. “Benni, that you?”

  “Yes, Daddy. How’s it going?”

  “Slower than molasses in Alaska, that’s how it’s going. Your gramma has us stopping at every gole-durn side-of-the-road money-stealing sideshow a con man could think up. At this rate, it’ll take us four weeks to get to Kansas.” I heard him hack, then spit. “This Yogi Bear grave just beats all. Don’t these people have better things to do with their time and money? You got the average rancher gettin’ farther behind every year, and they spend money on a dead bear’s grave. Between her yapping at me to stop here and yonder and Arnie nagging at me to drive my new truck, which will happen over my dead carcass, I’m about ready to put them both on the Greyhound and head on back home.”