Tumbling Blocks

by Earlene Fowler

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said, smiling with relief. “After the parade Constance set up interviews for me with her three suspects. Could you—?”

  “I’ll take him back to your house and visit with Kathryn. Give me a chance to meet her new husband. I need to be at the airport by five p.m. though. That’s when Isaac arrives. He left his car at the airport. He can take me home.”

  “No problem. Gabe or I will drive you to the airport. Kathryn will love seeing you. There’s tons of stuff in the freezer for lunch.”

  She waved me away again without stating the obvious, that she’d also been feeding people years before I was born. I went into her bedroom, put on a tomato-red cowboy shirt and black Wranglers, brushed off my black felt cowboy hat and stuck it on. On the way out to the barn, I grabbed a freshly baked cinnamon roll and a mug of coffee. The frost-covered grass crunched like corn flakes under my feet. I opened the barn door and heard my father talking to the horses while he tacked them up.

  “Hey, Daddy,” I said, walking up beside him.

  “Hey, pipsqueak,” he answered, straightening his favorite silver-trimmed saddle on his big old bay mare, Apple. He always rode Apple in parades because a bomb could explode in front of her and Apple would just blink her eyes. “Heard Kathryn got herself hitched. Your horse is all ready to go.” He nodded over at Mustard, another longtime ranch horse with nerves of steel.

  “Almost shocked Gabe out of his britches,” I said, stroking Mustard’s neck. Mustard loved parades. I swear his chest puffed up a little when we passed by cheering crowds, even though there was nothing spectacular about his plain brown looks. Maybe during parades in his mind he became the Black Stallion. “Ray seems like a nice man. He’s an engineer.”

  “So I heard. Got to be pretty steady to control a train.”

  “Gabe didn’t intimidate him. That says a lot.”

  Daddy raised his white eyebrows. “He married Gabe’s mama. Kathryn’s not too short on the intimidation ruler herself.”

  I nodded and led Mustard over to the four-horse trailer hooked up to Daddy’s one-ton Ford pickup. “Gee, you’re all ready. Did you get up at three?”

  “Figured you’d take your time getting here,” he said, his voice still holding a trace of his native Arkansan drawl. “Someone had to get it done.”

  “Hey, I got up at five. That’s early.”

  He grinned at me. “Done a day’s work by then.”

  “Huh, you’d best watch out, Daddy. You’re the last one not married now. Your turn is coming.”

  He shook his head and whistled for Spud, the corgi he’d bought a while back. The dog, female despite her name, dashed around the corner, her muzzle dripping water, and slid to a stop in front of Daddy, her face expectant. “Spud’s the only woman I need in my life.”

  “For now. I’m thinking about signing you up on one of those Internet dating services. Ladies will be lining up at the end of the driveway.”

  “I’ll hide in the hills till they’re gone. Get up in that cab and buckle yourself in. We’ve got a parade to get to.”

  By the time we got to the staging area for the parade, the sun was bright, but the air still had a winter chill to it, perfect weather for a parade. Daddy and I were riding twelfth in a parade that had, from what I heard, sixty entrants.

  “It’s a record number of entries,” said Bev Adams, San Celina High School’s FFA advisor. She and I had been in FFA together back when we were in high school.

  “I think last year proved that having it during the day makes a big difference,” I said, combing my fingers through Mustard’s brown mane. I wished now I’d taken the time to braid and decorate it with silk flowers.

  “I think you’re right,” she said, climbing up on the crepe paper and pine bough decorated truck that proclaimed, Happy Holly Days from Future Farmers of America! “I’m sure glad Gabe got it changed last year.”

  Traditionally, the Christmas parade had been after dark. But in the last seven to eight years, with the influx of so many out-of-town students as compared to students whose families lived here, drunk and disorderly arrests had skyrocketed. Last year Gabe, with the wholehearted approval of the city council, suggested a daytime parade in an attempt to bring it back to being a family affair. Granted, the floats probably weren’t as pretty since using lights didn’t do much good during the day, but, as Gabe predicted, the number of drunk and disorderly arrests had fallen 60 percent, a statistic that couldn’t be disputed. I certainly liked riding in it better without the worry of some ignorant, city-raised student tossing a bottle of beer at my horse just because he wanted to see it rear up like the Lone Ranger’s Silver.

  Daddy and I were riding with the San Celina Cattlemen’s and Cattlewomen’s Association group, twenty of us in all. By earlier agreement, the women all wore red shirts and black Wranglers. The men wore dark green shirts and black Wranglers. Everyone wore their best hats and fanciest silver belt buckles, and rode on their most elaborately decorated saddles.

  “There’s so much silver here, I do believe we’ll blind some folks,” said Bobbie Everette, riding up on a glossy black gelding with a slightly off-center white star on his forehead. She wore a red and green elaborately embroidered cowboy shirt that I was sure cost ten times what my cotton one did.

  “Hi, Bobbie,” I said, catching her eye, then looking away. I was already feeling guilty about my upcoming fake interview with her. “Beautiful shirt.”

  “Thanks,” she said. “Like most of my clothes, I’ve had it for thirty years. Bought it in Houston at the stock show. Guess that would make it vintage now, wouldn’t it?”

  “Guess so,” I said, forcing myself to look her in the eye. Her face was red-cheeked, wind-roughened and honest as a newborn calf. Her gray hair was pulled back in a neat bun, and her smile was made whiter by her bright red lipstick, the only makeup she wore.

  “Benni, don’t be acting all weird on me now,” she said, throwing back her head and giving a hearty, masculine laugh. “I know Constance has you interviewing me to find out if I killed ole Pinky Edmondson. I’ll answer any questions you have to the best of my ability. But, please, don’t get all stressed out. I promise you, I didn’t murder Pinky, though, heaven knows, there were times when I wanted to. And I wasn’t the only one.” Her horse did a little crow hop and started dancing nervously in place. “Whoa, there, Blackstrap. Whoa, now.” She tightened the reins and brought the horse back in control.

  “You . . . you know?” I stammered, almost dropping my reins in surprise.

  She gave another full-throated laugh, sidled her horse next to mine and said in a low voice, “Sweetie, there’s not a club on earth I’d kill to get into, though there’s a few I might consider killing to get out of.” She looked around to see if anyone heard, then grimaced and shook her head. “Forgive me, that was tacky, considering poor Pinky’s remains are hardly cold in the ground. Hard as it might be for Constance to understand, I don’t even care about being in the 49 Club. I’m only applying to be a member because it was something I promised my mother on her deathbed ten years ago. I have hoped like heck that all those old biddies would live to be a hundred and ten. I’d take myself off the list, but I promised Mother I’d really try. She was one of the club’s founding members, bless her heart.”

  “Oh,” I managed to get out. It sounded like a mouse squeaking.

  “Look,” she said. “I’ll meet you at Blind Harry’s at one, just like Constance said. We’ll have a cup of coffee, a scone or two and you can mark me off your list. How about that?”

  I nodded, not knowing what else to do. “I do have some questions. I mean, ones that I would ask someone if I really were going to write an article.” I smiled at her. “Who knows, maybe I actually will. At least it will give me something to show Constance.” I shrugged, moved Mustard into line. “I mean, if you don’t mind. Just to keep her happy.”

  “Don’t mind at all. Constance Sinclair is crazy as a doodle bug, so I don’t envy your position one bit.” She gave me
a sideways glance. “I just wanted to make sure you understood that I know exactly what is going on.”

  “Yes, ma’am. There’s absolutely no doubt in my mind.”

  She chuckled. “Don’t you ma’am me. I’m only thirty years older than you. Old enough to be your . . . older sister.”

  “Yes—” I started, then said, “You bet.”

  “I’m going on ahead and ride with Pete Fitzgerald. We’re seeing each other, you know. See you after the parade.” She touched her horse’s flank with the back of her heel and moved up to the front row where Pete was riding his palomino.

  Pete Fitzgerald and Bobbie Everette dating? I was surprised that Dove hadn’t told me about it, since both Pete and Bobbie were very involved politically in San Celina’s ag community, which seemed to be getting smaller and smaller every year as more ranches turned into housing developments. Maybe their relationship was new. They’d known each other for decades and had both been widowed in the last few years, so it wasn’t a totally surprising connection.

  Up ahead, we heard the sound of the bullhorn telling us the parade had started. Our group was lined up four abreast, with a total of twenty horses and riders. The idea was to be red/green/red/green. I ended up being between Daddy and Bert, one of his cracker-barrel cronies from the Farm Supply.

  “Hey, Daddy,” I said. “Ready to ride?”

  “I’m ready for this to be done so I can get me a nice plate of scrambled eggs and sausage over at Liddie’s,” he grumbled.

  Bert’s grin was as wide as a jack-o’-lantern’s. “Ah, don’t listen to him, Benni. He’s been primping for this parade all week.”

  I laughed while they tossed insults and jokes across me like Ping-Pong balls. Bert knew Daddy well. He liked to moan and groan about things like the Christmas parade, but Daddy actually enjoyed being in the thick of the action. And he especially enjoyed reliving it for weeks with his buddies at Liddie’s or in the back room at the Farm Supply.

  “Hey, did you guys know that Bobbie Everette and Pete Fitzgerald are a hot item?” I asked.

  Daddy glanced over at Bert, a secretive look on his face. I glanced at Bert, who grinned again and shrugged.

  “What’s going on?” I asked as we started our horses walking. We were behind the Miss San Celina—Past and Present float. It was an array of red, green and, oddly, purple crepe paper flowers and streamers decorating a long platform pulled by a red Peterbilt truck cab. The current Miss San Celina was dressed like Mrs. Santa Claus. That is, if Mrs. Claus was eighteen and wearing a fake fur-trimmed miniskirt. They threw candy to the crowd, which caused my dad to grumble under his breath when he had to pull Apple up short when a child ran in front of him to grab an errant candy cane.

  When we’d settled back to a quiet walk, I tried again. “What’s the deal with Pete and Bobbie?” I asked, looking at Daddy, then Bert.

  Bert nodded at Daddy. “Your girl’s asking you a question, Ben.”

  “You know I hate to gossip,” Daddy said.

  “Oh, please,” I replied. “All you guys do at the Farm Supply is gossip. You know more about what goes on in the community than Dove’s quilting circle at church.”

  “We don’t gossip,” Daddy said, his sunburned face indignant.

  “That’s right,” Bert said, chuckling. “We discuss important issues.”

  “Okay, so what’s the discussion about Bobbie and Pete?” I asked, kneeing Mustard to the left to avoid the pile of manure left by one of the horses in front. It was the job of the street cleaners behind our entourage to rush in and clean up the horse pies. They were members of the Junior Cattlemen and Women of San Celina. I’d paid my dues doing that job myself many years before I was allowed to ride in a parade.

  Bert winked at me. “Heard they’re thinking about getting hitched and that both sets of kids are none too pleased.”

  “Why?” I asked, spotting Gabe and Kathryn in the crowd as we passed by Blind Harry’s Bookstore. I gave an enthusiastic wave. Ray was nowhere to be seen. That didn’t feel good to me. I turned to Daddy. “Both Bobbie and Pete have known each other forever. Why would their kids object?”

  “Land,” Daddy said, his voice matter-of-fact.

  “Of course,” I said.

  It was always about land with the old ranching families. Either it was easements or fencing issues or grazing rights or some animal or tree that an environmental group was claiming to be endangered. And the developers. Always the developers. Many of the old ranching families had children and grandchildren who were not raised in the rural life, who only knew the ranch as someplace where they occasionally visited Grandma and Grandpa on the way to their “real” vacation in Hawaii or Mammoth. They didn’t have a personal connection to the land that had been in their family for a hundred years or more. When Grandma and Grandpa died, it was just expensive real estate that would either assure their free ride to Yale or Cornell or buy them a condo in Orange or Marin County.

  Bert gave a loud sniff. “Kids on both sides are against them marrying, especially because both Pete and Bobbie are considering setting up conservation easements with the Nature Conservancy.”

  I nodded. “So their families can’t sell it carte blanche to real estate developers once Pete and Bobbie are gone.”

  “Heard they recently turned down a huge chunk of change for their properties over by Santa Rosa Creek.”

  “I know the property. It’s over by the Linn’s Fruit Bin Farmstore. Beautiful land.”

  Linn’s was a San Celina tradition. It was located on a small, winding road outside of Cambria and was popular with tourists, college kids and senior citizens. They specialized in olallieberry pies, jams and syrups but were also known for their pot pies and baking mixes. The olallieberry was a hybrid cross of a loganberry and a youngberry. It looked like a blackberry but tasted like a slightly tart raspberry.

  “That’s the one,” Bert said. “They both own a big patch of land over there that’s connected by Pinky Edmondson’s place. Don’t know what’s going to happen now that Pinky’s passed away.”

  “What?” Hearing Pinky’s name suddenly thrown into the mix of Pete and Bobbie’s easement issues surprised me. Without thinking, I pulled Mustard to a stop. It threw off Bert and Daddy’s horses and caused a bit of a ruckus.

  “Let’s keep it going,” Daddy said. “We’re in a parade, not a pasture.”

  I clucked, urging Mustard forward. “Sorry, I was just surprised for a moment.”

  “Why?” Bert asked, looking confused.

  I shrugged and avoided answering directly. “I shouldn’t be. All us ranching families eventually crisscross in one way or another.”

  Daddy nodded, easing Apple around another horse pie. The cleanup crew behind us was getting a good workout. “I heard that Pinky was holding up the works, wasn’t sure if she wanted to commit her land’s future to a bunch of greenies.”

  “Her land was necessary for the easement?” I asked.

  “From what I hear, it was the land that connected Pete’s and Bobbie’s. They could do it without her, but Pinky’s part had the easiest public access, though Bobbie’s has the creek. Hear they were thinking about making it a public park, even considering on deeding it to the city with the stipulation that it couldn’t ever be developed for housing or commercial use.”

  “Wow, then Pinky’s death puts them back at square one,” I said. All of a sudden, my upcoming interview with Bobbie took on a different tone.

  The Miss San Celina float ahead of us halted in front of the grandstands that held the mayor, float judges and other various San Celina VIPs.

  “Looks that way,” Daddy said. “Then again, we don’t know all the ins and outs. Just ask Bobbie. I’m sure she’d be glad to fill you in.”

  I glanced at my watch. Twelve thirty-five. In less than a half hour, I’d do just that.

  CHAPTER 6

  WHEN THE PARADE WAS OVER AND WE WERE BACK AT the staging grounds in San Celina City Park, Daddy took Mustard’s reins. “You get goin’
to your meetin’.”

  I’d told him I had an important appointment at one p.m. He didn’t ask me what or who, and I didn’t offer any information. I’d have time to tell him about it tomorrow at the ranch.

  “Thanks, Daddy,” I said, giving Mustard a vigorous scratch on the withers. “Thanks for a great ride, old boy. I owe you an apple.”

  I kissed Daddy’s cheek, said I’d see him tomorrow and headed for Blind Harry’s. I’d not seen Dove and Boo in the parade crowd, so I couldn’t help wondering if everything was okay. For five seconds I contemplated calling her on her cell, then decided against it. I didn’t have time to get into a long discussion about anything. I wanted to beat Bobbie to Blind Harry’s so I could have a few minutes to absorb this new information about her and Pinky and figure a way to entice her to talk about it. Why? I didn’t exactly know, except that it was appearing that things with Pinky Edmondson weren’t as innocent as they first appeared.

  Lopez Street was still crowded with parade watchers. It looked like they were shopping and eating at the downtown businesses, which was also part of the city council’s plan when they changed the parade to a daytime event. There was a long line out the door of Boone’s Good Eatin’ Chicken, something that would make my cousin Emory happy. He’d hated giving up his job at the San Celina Tribune to try to expand his father’s Arkansas-based smoked chicken business here on the West Coast, but he was also practical. He now had a wife who liked the finer things in life and a baby on the way.

  Blind Harry’s was bustling, something that would make my best friend ecstatic. She’d first worked at the bookstore her sophomore year in college and continued working there once she graduated with a business degree. She eventually became manager and in the process made Blind Harry’s one of the premier independent bookstores in California. It became hers when my cousin, the sweetest guy on earth, bought her the store for a wedding present.

  I pushed past the crowd around the bookstore’s prizewinning window display, a tiny replica of San Celina that claimed to show every house in the city limits. A tiny Santa Claus in a sleigh dangled over the miniature town.