“No.” He reached over and grabbed my hand. “I am sorry for acting like such a jackass. I’d blame it on the booze, but that’s no excuse. The thing of it is . . .” His voice cracked, and he started over. “The thing of it is, Gabe really did save my life, and I wasn’t trying to make fun of him or piss him off. I just wanted him to know that I know, I know I wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for him and how . . .” His voice faltered again, and he let go of my hand. “Just tell him I’m sorry, will you? I’ll call him tomorrow and tell him myself, but for tonight, let him know I’m sorry. Please?”
“Okay, I will. Now go home and get some sleep.”
He gave a tired smile and patted the files.
“No,” I said firmly. “You can do that tomorrow. Get some sleep.”
“I will if you will,” he said, touching two fingers to his hat.
“You got a deal.”
I walked up the steps, turning to wave at Dewey, though I wasn’t sure if he could see me. I opened the screen door slowly, hoping they’d left the door unlocked so I wouldn’t be forced to either wake someone or sleep on the redwood chaise longue. A voice from a dark corner of the porch caused me to practically jump out of my boots.
“Where have you been?” Gabe asked.
EIGHT
THE WORDS ON the tip of my tongue were, What’s it to you? but having acquired a small measure of sense in the last thirty-five years, I just grumbled an unintelligible reply.
He moved out of the darkness and leaned against the railing, studying me with unblinking eyes. “I was worried about you.”
“No reason to. Most of the time I was at the police station.”
He didn’t answer, waiting for me to elaborate. The crickets next to the porch stopped, then started again. “Look, Dewey saw me walking down the street and took me to the station while he picked up some work. We had some coffee, and he dropped me off here. That satisfy you? It’s certainly more information than you usually give me.”
He didn’t answer.
“Oh, and by the way, he’s sorry for acting like such a jerk tonight.” There, I’d done it. Not in the sweet, cajoling way Dewey was probably hoping would grease his path, but I’d done as he asked. Now all I wanted to do was go to bed. I reached for the screen door.
“We have a problem,” Gabe said.
The dense night air did little to soften the sharpness of my laugh. “Always right on top of things, aren’t you, Chief Ortiz?”
“Benni, how can I make you understand that certain events during that time of my life aren’t things I like to remember? That some things are just better left in the past?” He turned away and stared into the dark front yard. Against the sky, the trees were all black-green silhouettes. The stars pulsed white-cold and seemed close enough to touch.
I walked over and stood next to him, following his gaze, wondered what he was seeing. “I’m not asking you to give me a blow-by-blow account of your time in Vietnam, but, Gabe, it’s all the little things you keep hidden from me that make me wonder if I even know who you are.”
“Like what?”
“Like your background with horses.”
“That’s not a big deal.”
“To me it is. And it’s not only that. It’s why you don’t drink, it’s—”
“Seems like you, of all people, would appreciate that.”
“I do, but why don’t you drink?”
“I just don’t.”
“But why?”
“I . . . just . . . don’t.” His hand slowly curled up in a tight fist.
“See what I mean? It’s like reading someone’s personnel file and never meeting them in person. I have the surface information on you but never anything deeper. How long do we have to be married before you let me through that concrete shell of yours?”
He took a deep breath and relaxed his fist. “Okay, since we’re asking soul-searching questions here, I have one. Just how long are there going to be three people in this marriage?”
I swung around and faced him. “What did you say?”
His face was all black angles in the porch’s shadows. “You heard me. You think because you don’t say anything that I don’t know that everything I do, every word coming out of my mouth, is measured and judged against a dead man’s?”
“I don’t—” I started, then stopped. Because he was right. Though it happened less and less as time went on, whatever Gabe did or said I unconsciously, and often consciously, compared to Jack.
“Do you have any idea what it’s like to live like that?” The skin around his eyes and mouth pulled taut. “I’d always heard that marrying someone who’d had a bad marriage was asking for trouble. Believe me, it’s got nothing on following a happy one.”
I tried to think of some way to defend myself, but couldn’t. I’d been so busy concentrating on what he wasn’t giving me in this relationship, it never occurred to me that I was doing something wrong. My voice seemed trapped in the thick night air. “I don’t know what to say,” I finally managed.
“Benni, there’s nothing more to say.” His voice had a final sound, like falling timber. “Right now it’s late, and we’re not going to solve this tonight, so I think we’d better get some sleep and deal with it later.”
Upstairs, we undressed silently and settled under the clammy sheets, being very careful not to touch each other. I turned my back to him and mentally replayed his words at least a dozen times, trying to figure out where things went wrong, what I could have done differently, what would happen now, until eventually I fell asleep, not one bit closer to a solution than when I started.
I was an emotional porcupine the next morning, too prickly to fake a pleasant conversation with Gabe and Kathryn. I excused myself and took an English muffin and a cup of coffee out to the front porch. Kathryn gave me an odd look but didn’t say anything. Daphne growled irritably, and I almost kissed her ugly little muzzle. Ironically, I was beginning to look forward to her cranky moods, simply because it was the only completely predictable thing in my life right now. She followed me out to the porch, where I lay on the chaise longue and shot her with Dewey’s squirt gun as the mood struck me. Her agitated snapping at the air was comical enough to elicit a few chuckles from me. I was in the midst of driving her to a frenzy when a Federal Express truck pulled into Kathryn’s driveway. A trim young woman jogged up to the porch with a large, square box in her hands.
“Benni Harper?” Her voice was hopeful.
“Yes.” I stuck the gun in my pocket and stood up to meet her.
“Sign here, please.” She held out a clipboard.
I sat on the bottom step and looked at the sender’s name. Dove Ramsey—Amarillo, Texas. What in the world would she be Federal Expressing me from Amarillo, Texas? I tore open the box and pulled out the contents.
A cowboy hat. One with a braided horsehair band that I’d recognize anywhere, seeing as I made the band myself. My father’s hat. His good tan 20X dress hat that cost him two hundred dollars. My father’s good dress Stetson with the crown smashed in and a suspicious-looking stain resembling a woman’s size six footprint. This was not a good sign.
I looked back into the box and pulled out a short note written beneath the letterhead, “Wagon Train Motel—Pull Up Your Buckboard and Rest a Spell.” I could almost hear Dove’s grating voice as I read her spidery handwriting. “Next time, I’m sending an ear. P.S. We’re on our way to Corsicana, Texas, Fruitcake Capital of the World. They’d better give free samples, or heads will roll. I’ll send you a postcard.”
Fruitcake, I thought—how appropriate for my family. Then, looking back at the crushed hat, I groaned so loudly that Daphne came over and nipped at my bare toes. I pulled out my plastic pistol and shot her a long, wet one, accidentally sending the stream right up her left nostril. She screeched and took off around the house, sneezing water as she ran.
“What’s going on out here?” Gabe walked out onto the porch holding a mug of coffee.
I pocketed the gun quic
kly and handed him the hat and note. “This just came from Amarillo.”
He scanned the note, his tired face managing a half-smile. “Well, the whole world seems to be at odds, doesn’t it?”
I wanted to reach up and smooth out the tight lines around his eyes, but instead I took the hat back and tried to unsuccessfully re-form the crown.
“What are you planning to do today?” His voice was subdued.
I gave up on the hat. “I think I’d better drive into Wichita and drop this off at Shepler’s and see if someone can clean and block it. Daddy’s probably ready to hogtie and brand Dove. Maybe I’ll go to the mall. Don’t forget, we’re supposed to go see Cordie June and the band perform tonight.”
“I know. I’ll call Dewey later and find out what time.”
I was glad he’d decided not to let his argument with Dewey spoil his visit or their friendship. They had too much history to let one stupid remark come between them. I only wished that Gabe and I had that kind of history to fall back on. But the reality was, most of our lives had been spent without the other, and we’d probably do fine if we parted right now. Just fine. I felt tears prick at the corners of my eyes and I abruptly turned my head.
“So, is there any problem with me using the car today?” I asked, keeping my voice light.
“No, I’ll be sticking around the house with Mom most of the day. She has some gutters that need repair and a bunch of shingles that blew off in the bad storm they had a couple of weeks ago.”
“Okay.” We looked at each other a moment, each of us waiting for the other to speak. “Well,” I finally said. “Guess I’ll see you later.”
Driving through Derby, I passed Sunflower Quilts and Crafts just as Janet was opening the front door. I pulled in, remembering the Amish quilts I’d seen through the storefront window the night before. I wondered if any were Hannah’s. Thinking of Hannah, I remembered promising Dewey that I would ask her to find out from John what to do about Tyler’s belongings. Going to Miller would fill most of my day and keep my mind occupied, something I desperately needed right now. She had said I could come at any time.
“Hi!” Janet said brightly when I opened the screen door. “I was hoping you’d drop by some time during your visit.”
“I peeked in the window last night when you were closed and saw some things I couldn’t resist.” She gave me a quick tour of the shop. They sold a lot of quilts made by guild members as well as some Amish and Mennonite women in the area, and native Midwestern crafts like the complex and delicate weavings made from wheat. I bought a book on the Amish that told about their customs as well as their quilts, and an elaborate wheat-weaving called Heart of Kansas, with plaited interlocked hearts and tiny wheat roses.
“Looks like you’re going to do a little research,” Janet said, glancing at the Amish book while adding it to my sales ticket. “So, are you enjoying Kansas so far? I mean, besides the murder.”
“Yes.” I looked at her curiously. “Have you heard anything more?”
“No, but then I’m always the last one to find out anything, anyway.” Her voice carried a tart edge. I remembered what I’d overheard at the quilt guild meeting about Lawrence and Tyler, and wondered if Janet’s tone had anything to do with that.
“Did you know Tyler well?” I asked casually, handing her my money.
“So, so. She’d been singing at Prairie City for about two months, but with the shop and the quilt guild and doing things for Megan, I didn’t get down there much. Lawrence seemed to think the sun rose and set by her. I guess she was pretty popular with the regulars.”
“What was she like?”
Janet shrugged and handed me my change. “Just another singer in my book. I’ve seen them come and go dozens of times in the ten years Lawrence has owned the club. What else can you say? A few make it, go on to Nashville or Las Vegas or Branson. Most don’t, and end up singing in places like Prairie City until they’re old and lose their looks or voices, or both.”
“She was an incredible singer,” I said.
“Talent doesn’t give people the right to do whatever they please, to hurt innocent people.” Janet’s dark eyes flashed; then she abruptly looked down and concentrated on bagging my purchases.
“I guess it doesn’t,” I said carefully. “I’ve heard some interesting things about Tyler. I guess she wasn’t all she appeared to be.”
“That’s the understatement of the year.” She handed me my bag.
I wondered if she’d been this open with the police. Whether Gabe liked it or not, though, I was going to tell Dewey about Tyler and Lawrence. The only problem was how. Lawrence was his friend, and I was sure that a rumor about his involvement with Tyler would not be entirely welcome.
“I just hope that whoever killed her doesn’t get away with it,” I said.
Her answer was a minuscule tightening of her lower lip.
“Well, I’m going out to Miller and talk to her sister, Hannah,” I said. “Dewey says Tyler’s belongings need to be picked up. I was going out there to talk to Hannah about making a quilt, so I’m delivering the message.”
“Have the police searched Tyler’s room?”
“Of course. They wouldn’t be giving permission for it to be cleaned out if they hadn’t. Why?”
“Just wondered.”
“Are you coming to see Cordie June sing tonight?” I asked.
“I’m going to try. Lawrence is hosting a party for the old gang at the nightclub.”
“Is your daughter going to be there?” I was curious to meet this Megan who would sleep with her father’s old high-school friend. The romantic entanglements and double-dealing in this small town certainly rivaled any soap opera I’d ever watched.
“Probably.”
“Well, I’d better get going.” We said our goodbyes, and I stopped briefly at McDonald’s to use the phone to call Fannie, the owner of the fabric store in Miller. She said she’d send her daughter down to Hannah’s farm to let her know I’d be there in the next couple of hours. I drove into Wichita and dropped Daddy’s hat off at Shepler’s, promising the young man in the hat department my everlasting gratitude and a twenty-dollar tip if he could manage to clean, steam, and shape it into a semblance of its former glory. Then, pulling out my map, I decided to take backroads to Miller and enjoy some rural Kansas scenery.
To keep my mind from wandering back to last night’s scene between Gabe and me, which I definitely wasn’t ready to deal with yet, I turned my thoughts to Tyler and the strange group of people who surrounded her. Who was she? Gentle, torn ex-Amish woman who just wanted to use her musical gift? Or cold, ambitious artist who would do anything, including sleeping with someone else’s husband, to make it to the top? Both? Neither? Somewhere in between? As miles of fields full of stubby wheat stalks rolled by, I listed in my mind the people who could possibly want Tyler dead and why. Lawrence and their mysterious relationship; his daughter, Megan, and their rivalry for Rob; Rob himself, though I couldn’t imagine why. Then there was Tyler’s husband, John, who couldn’t remarry and have children while she was alive, and Hannah’s husband, Eli, for who knows what reason—maybe for putting Hannah at risk of being shunned, too? The Amish were longshots because of their passive beliefs, but deep down I had to agree with Dewey; being human made them as capable of murder as anyone else. Then there was Cordie June, who I could very easily see murdering anyone who got in her way on the road to stardom. And of course Janet, because of jealousy. More crimes are committed because of that complex emotion than for any other reason, Gabe once told me. I thought about myself and what I’d do if I caught some woman with Gabe. Then, though I fought it, my thoughts turned to what Gabe had said about my always comparing him to Jack. To be truthful, I didn’t really understand it on an emotional level, though intellectually I could see his point. He’d been divorced so long, I never even thought about his ex-wife, Lydia, who lived in L.A. and was some kind of high-powered corporate attorney. Maybe I’d understand his feelings a little better if
I were faced with seeing her or being reminded of her every day. Driving past the neat Amish farms outside Miller, I wondered if the life of these plain people, so structured but also so predictable, might be an easier, less stressful way to live.
In Miller, Fannie’s Fabrics and Notions was a separate, wooden clapboard building in front of what appeared to be a private home. As with most of the buildings in Miller, there was a long rail in front for her Amish customers’ buggies. A set of cheerful sleigh bells attached to the front door announced my arrival. The room was empty, so I wandered around, looking at the bolts of colorful fabric and at the products that told me this wasn’t your ordinary chain fabric store. Hats of yellowish straw and black felt with flat crowns and wide brims, lined the high shelves in sizes to fit every Amish gentleman from age two to ninety-two. In the back, there were plastic bins containing packages of women’s white cotton underwear, men’s plain cotton handkerchiefs, books of stories for children that could have been written in the nineteenth century, and thin blue books titled Favorite Songs and Hymns. I picked up a hymn book and leafed through it. Many of them were old hymns I’d grown up singing at First Baptist in San Celina—“The Lily of the Valley,” “When We All Get to Heaven,” “Up From the Grave He Arose.”
“That’s the wilder music used for Sunday night singing,” a voice said behind me. I turned and faced a heavyset woman in a pink calico dress. Her gray hair hung in a long thick braid down her back, reminding me of Dove. “That’s when the Amish young people do their courting. They sing the songs in German first, then in English. You must be Benni. I’m Fannie.”
“That’s me,” I said, smiling. “So what do they do after they sing?”
She gave a high little laugh, her shiny round cheeks bringing to mind one of the munchkins in the Wizard of Oz. “What all red-blooded teenagers do everywhere. They pair up, and the boys take the girls home in their buggies, racing each other, showing off and hoping to sneak in a little kissing before they reach the girl’s farm.”
Kansas Troubles Page 15