Kansas Troubles (33 page)

“Very funny,” I said. “The point I was trying to make is that Emory has a lot of contacts both from his law school days in Little Rock and his newspaper job. Those postcards were postmarked Little Rock. Maybe he can use those contacts to find out if Tyler had a baby there. ”

“I still think you’re going overboard on this baby quilt theory.”

“All it will cost us is a phone call.”

“I guess it can’t hurt. Just let me know what he finds out. Immediately. Promise.” He gave me a stern look.

“On my honor, Chief Ortiz. Honestly, you really need to learn to trust your investigators a little more.” I climbed out and looked toward the house. “All the lights are on. It looks like your mom waited up for us.”

“I guess some things never change.”

“She knows something’s going on,” I said, following him up the steps. “Maybe we should go ahead and tell her.”

He grabbed my upper arm and stopped me before I could open the front door. “No, Benni. It’s not that I don’t trust Mom, but she’s taught a lot of these people, and some of their parents are her closest friends. I don’t want to place that burden on her.”

“Okay,” I said, sighing. “I just hate her thinking that we’re arguing about something petty. She already thinks you made a big mistake when you married me.”

“No, she doesn’t,” he said evenly. “You’re just overly sensitive.”

“Easy for you to say. I’m going to call Emory right away.”

He glanced at his watch. “It’s past eleven.”

“Emory’s a real night owl. Always was, even as a kid. If I know him, he’s just getting warmed up.”

Kathryn was awake, but already in her bedroom. While Gabe went in to tell her good night, I dialed Arkansas. Just as I suspected, Emory was wide-awake and primed to chitchat the night away. After we went through the litany of family gossip with me pointedly leaving out Dove’s latest adventure, he said in his smooth Arkansas drawl, “Okay, cuz, as much of a pleasure this has been talkin’ to your sweet self, you’re wantin’ something. Am I right?”

“Well . . .” I hedged.

“Sweetcakes, don’t be lyin’ to me. I know everything. You know Aunt Damson always said I had the ‘second sense.’ ”

“What she said was you had
no sense
.”

He chuckled. “Now let’s not get feline here. So, what can I be doin’ for you, and it better not involve anything of a monetary nature ’cause my wallet’s as parched as Aunt Garnet’s liquor cabinet.”

“No money involved. I need you to find some information for me about someone who lived in Little Rock or the general area about seven or eight months ago. Or at least I think she lived there.” After extracting a promise that this was entirely confidential, I told him the whole story. “What I’d like to know is who’s listed as the father on the birth certificate.”

“Do you think she’d tell the truth?” he asked.

“Maybe. Especially if she didn’t use the name she sang under. I’m guessing she had the baby under her Amish name—Ruth Stoltzfus, or maybe her maiden name, Ruth Miller. Who would ever connect either of them with Tyler Brown, aspiring country-western singer?”

I listened to him whistle softly through his teeth as he wrote down the information. “Little Rock’s a big city, cuz.”

“I know it’s a lot of work, Emory, but she was murdered. And I’m afraid the person who killed her might get away with it.”

“That money really intrigues me. How much did you say it was?”

“Well, the opening balance was ten thousand dollars, but she’d apparently been living off it because it was almost half gone.”

“You know what that probably means?”

Just as his words came over the phone, the pieces clicked together. “Emory, if she had a baby, she probably sold it to someone.”

“That’s sure what it sounds like.”

“Well, that certainly explains the money, but it still doesn’t give a clue as to why she was killed.” I traced a finger over the pattern in the kitchen wallpaper.

“That, thank goodness, is your territory. I’ll get my network started on it and let you know what I find out
tout suite
. Now.” The timbre of his voice deepened. “There’s the business of my fee.”

“Your fee? I’m family, Emory Delano Littleton. If you don’t do this for me, I’ll tell Aunt Garnet that you were the one who spilled Hawaiian Punch on Great-gramma Littleton’s Path in the Wilderness quilt.”

“That’s blackmail, sweetcakes, and an incredibly pathetic attempt at it, too, I might add. I’m not asking you for money, just a teensy little favor.”

“What?” I asked warily. Emory always had been a sneaky kid. More than once I’d been caught holding the bag when he’d talked me into some mischief, then disappeared like magic when Dove and Aunt Garnet showed up.

“Your friend Elvia.” His molasses voice fondled her name.

“What about her?” Elvia Aragon was my best friend back in San Celina. A tiny, gorgeous firebrand of a woman, she ran Blind Harry’s Bookstore and Coffee-house with the steel-nerved precision of a seasoned general and the obsessive love of a new mother. We’d been friends since the first day of school in Mrs. Lawndale’s second-grade class when she informed me in her intense little soprano voice that the red bows in my braids didn’t match the maroon in my dress. I responded to this bit of fashion advice by spitting on her. It was a friendship made in heaven. She is still trying to coordinate my wardrobe, but I don’t spit on her anymore.

“I want a date with Elvia,” he said.

“With Elvia?” I repeated, hoping I’d heard wrong.

“Hello, is anyone home? Yes, with Elvia. Can you arrange it?”

I stuttered for a moment, grasping for straws. “But you live in Arkansas.”

“For a date with her, I’ll fly to California. Is it a deal?”

She’ll kill me, I thought. No, she’ll torture me and then she’ll kill me. And she’s very creative. And smart. And well-read. The possibilities sent a chill down my spine. I hesitated exactly two seconds.

“Sure,” I said.

“Okay, I’ll get on it right away. If I come up with a birth certificate, you want me to fax it to you?”

“Call me first. Except for the police department, I’m not sure where there’s a fax machine. I don’t want anyone to know about this until I do.”

“Not even
tu esposo el chota
?”

Great, Spanish with an Arkansas drawl. I pictured the contemptuous expression on Elvia’s face when Emory tried to impress her with his language skills. I studied my hands. Just how painful was it to have your fingernails yanked out one by one? “Except for Gabe, of course. If I’m not here, you can tell him, but don’t worry, I’ll be here.”

“Okay, I’ll see what I can worm out of people. I’ll try tomorrow, but I’ll probably have to wait until Monday. I’ll get back to you asap.”

“Thanks, Emory.”

“
Hasta la vista
, sweetcakes.”

Upstairs in bed with Gabe, I repeated my conversation with Emory.

“I still think you’re reaching,” he said, “but since it’s free, we might as well see what he can find out.”

“Well, it’s not exactly free.” I told him the conditions of Emory’s help. Gabe let out a war whoop of a laugh.

“You sold Elvia? I want to be there when you tell her,” he said. “I’d skip the Superbowl to watch you try to wriggle out of
this
one.”

“He’s just bluffing. He’ll never come to California. He hates to fly.”

“Well, you are one dead little
gringa
if he does.”

“I know,” I said, pulling a pillow over my face.

The next day Gabe, Kathryn, and I drove back downtown to the quilt show. Gabe and his mother walked through the exhibits while I helped Becky with raffle tickets. Around noon, Dewey dropped by and asked if Gabe and I would like to come out to the stable later for a barbecue he and Belinda were having for Chet to celebrate his winning first place in both bulls and bareback.

“He’s on his way to the National Finals, no doubt about it,” Dewey said. “And besides getting to sample some of my expert cooking, there’s a new little quarter horse named Lucy you might like to try out.”

“I’m sure it’ll be all right with Gabe,” I said. “He’s wandering around the show somewhere with his mom, but as soon as he gets back, I’ll ask him.”

He bent his head and studied the side of my face. “Heard you took a tumble at the rodeo. How’re you feeling?”

“Fine.” I laughed and retold my fictional story. “Didn’t have a drop to drink either. Just tripped over my own feet.”

“Well, maybe we ought to saddle up old Grapenuts for you to ride. He’s going on thirty and might be more your speed.”

I showed him a fist. “Don’t you worry, Detective Champagne. I can take care of myself.”

He pushed his hat back and grinned at me. “Okay, don’t say I didn’t offer. Tell Kathryn she’s welcome, too. Chet’ll be there with some of his rodeo buddies. How’s a nice juicy, cornfed Kansas City steak sound? I even bought some range chicken for your picky husband.”

“Great. We’ll be there unless Gabe’s made other plans.”

When they returned, I told them about the invitation, but Kathryn declined, saying she’d already made plans to eat with friends. Gabe and I headed out to the stable alone.

 

We found Dewey in front of the house manning a steel barrel barbecue and surrounded by the tangy, smoky smell of cooking chicken and beef. “Chet’s out back looking at my new mare,” Dewey said. “Cordie June and Belinda are in the kitchen stirring up potato salad or dip or something.”

“I’d bet on the something,” Gabe said in a laconic voice.

Dewey grinned broadly, pointing toward the kitchen with his long-handled spatula. “I guess having the ex-squeeze and the current squeeze at the same meal isn’t the smartest thing a man can do, but this barbecue’s for Chet and his friends. Belinda’s his mom, but I couldn’t leave out Cordie June, now could I?”

“Cowboy,” Gabe said, trying to hold back a smile and not succeeding, “you’re playing chicken with a hand grenade pin.”

“Always did love a good fireworks show.”

“Excuse me,” I said, irritated by his patronizing attitude toward his ex-wife and his girlfriend, and by Gabe’s nonchalant acquiescence to it. “I think I’ll go see if they need any help.”

“Better put on a bulletproof vest,” Dewey called after me.

Inside the kitchen, Belinda and Cordie June were silently working at opposite ends of the room. On the radio the lead singer of Sawyer Brown was telling us that some girls don’t like boys like him, but some girls do. They both looked up when I walked in. Belinda wore tight, old jeans and a faded Western shirt with the tails hanging out. Cordie June wore a short, bright orange jean skirt and a thin tank top that showed off her tanned young arms.

“Hi,” I said. “I thought maybe you could use an extra set of hands.”

Belinda handed me a metal bowl of green apples. “I was going to make an apple brown Betty. You could peel these apples.” She started opening up drawers, looking for a knife.

After letting Belinda search through four drawers, Cordie June said, “Oh, I moved them to a more convenient spot.” She opened a drawer and pulled out a wood-handled paring knife. Offering it to Belinda, she flashed an impudent grin.

Belinda’s freckled face flushed a deep, mottled red. Swallowing an angry sound deep in her throat, she stormed through the kitchen door, slamming it hard enough to rattle the glass.

Cordie June stared after her, her small hand still grasping the knife. She turned and stabbed it deep into a fat green apple. “Heavens,” she said, her mouth twisting into a sly smile. “I reckon some people just don’t take well to change.”

I didn’t answer, knowing her cocky self-confidence would be cured soon enough by the aging process. Though it didn’t seem possible to her right now, she wouldn’t be twenty-two forever, and someday she could very well be the old being replaced by the new. I went out the back door and headed across the backyard to the breezeway barns where I suspected Belinda had retreated. She was in the tack room, swearing steadily as she struggled with a tangle of bridles someone had dropped in a spaghetti-like heap on the floor.

“Need help?” I asked.

She continued to wrestle with the twisted tack. “These stupid kids. Sometimes I think I’d be better off closing this place and getting a job managing a Mc-Donald’s in Wichita.”

I laughed lightly. “So you can get away from kids?”

She looked up, her thin face chagrined. “I guess you’re right.” She hung one freed bridle on an open hook. “Sorry about what happened in the kitchen. It’s just irritating to find out your kitchen has been rearranged by your ex-husband’s latest bimbo.”

“It must be.” I picked up the other bridle and straightened it out.

Her wide mouth drew down sullenly. “I’m surprised you’d even be sympathetic to me.” The abruptly hostile tone of her voice reminded me how she’d rubbed me the wrong way the first time we met.

“Why’s that?” I asked, trying to keep my voice level.

“Seems to me that you, being the
younger
second wife, would be more on Cordie June’s side.” She picked up a red and black saddle blanket and held it to her chest.

I looked at her coldly. “Belinda, I don’t know either of you well enough to take sides, and to be perfectly honest with you, I don’t want to. And though it’s really none of your business, Gabe was divorced for seven years before we got married. I’ve never even met his first wife, but from what I understand, she’s been happily remarried for three years. You know, nothing pisses me off more than someone assuming something about me that isn’t true. So you can take your habit of instantly judging people and shove it.” I tossed the bridle at her. She dropped the saddle blanket and caught it, surprise causing her mouth to drop open.

I turned and started for the door.

“Benni, wait,” she called, running after me. She caught my upper arm in a steel grip.

I jerked out of her grasp. “Watch it.”