Miss Ruffles Inherits Everything (3 page)

His wife said, “We can't believe she's dead. Not our Honeybelle.”

“Maybe half the town wanted to bump her off,” the man went on. “Her being so bossy and all. But the rest of us loved her.”

A quiet line formed behind him, and one by one the silent mourners came forward. A lump rose in my throat as the people came closer to see Miss Ruffles, who never moved a muscle as they touched her. Here were people who had loved Honeybelle, and Miss Ruffles knew it.

As they said their good-byes, I found myself remembering something Honeybelle joked about one afternoon when I helped her balance her personal checkbook.

Flipping through a few ragged checks that had come in the mail, she said to me in her sweetest drawl, “If I die under suspicious circumstances, Sunny, please go to my funeral and decide who among my so-called friends likely killed me. Nobody likes repaying debts, do they? And they hate me for loaning money to them in the first place. So go to my funeral. Take Miss Ruffles with you. See if she can sniff out a murderer.”

I had remembered her words the day I heard she died. And I hadn't been able to get them out of my head. The people who lined up to pat Miss Ruffles seemed very grateful indeed. But maybe Honeybelle had been right. Maybe someone had wanted to murder her.

 

CHAPTER TWO

I'm southern. I like big hair and eyeliner.

—CARRIE UNDERWOOD

My mother, who prided herself on being a solid research scientist, always said, “Believe nothing until it can be verified.”

It didn't take the psychology professor I once worked for to see that after the loss of my mother, I had probably set out to find another strong, charismatic woman to take her place. Maybe this time someone who didn't run off to distant jungles to study dying insects when I could have used some help writing book reports or choosing a prom dress. Or figuring out what to do with my life.

Not that my mother was a drag. She was a hippie chick, a sometime college professor who studied butterflies and believed in field experience over classrooms. She got me into college courses with no particular goal in mind—whatever interested me at the time—and she didn't care about my grades. She was too busy chasing butterflies in foreign countries. The most diplomatic way of describing her parenting philosophy was benign neglect. She could hack a trail through a jungle or look great on a bar stool to talk someone into donating money for a new expedition. My friends liked her sense of humor. Men liked her offhanded sexuality. She wasn't the motherly type, and eventually I realized the butterflies needed her help more than I did.

As for my father, she never thought it was necessary for me to know who he was. Maybe she wasn't sure herself.

Each summer when she went to save butterflies, I was sent to live with her parents on their dairy farm. But my grandparents tended to look at me as if I were some kind of exotic specimen my mother brought home from an expedition, so I never stayed long. I was happier on a college campus. As an adjunct, my mother wasn't terribly well paid, and it became my job to keep her finances and her academic life on track. I smoothed her frequent dustups with whatever dean objected to her travels and organized her scientific data on computer files. It was the kind of work that made me valuable to other professors. So one job came easily after another.

Before she went off to one of the last butterfly mating grounds in Mexico, I had handed her some clean socks to stuff into her duffel. My mother took them with thanks and then looked at me as if suddenly waking up to a research factoid she'd missed. She said, “Nature is strange and wonderful, kiddo. There's something out there for you. Why don't you go find it?”

It stung—her perspective that I didn't have a life.

A month later, a person from the State Department found me to say she'd been killed falling off a cliff while chasing a butterfly—hardly a big finish for someone always in search of adventure.

Honeybelle died with an equal lack of fanfare. But for me, her death felt as if my mom had tumbled off her cliff all over again. It was hard for me to accept they were both gone—both larger-than-life women who should have had more impact on the world before they left it.

After the last humble citizen of Mule Stop said good-bye to Honeybelle with a pat for her dog outside the church, Miss Ruffles jumped against my leg. She looked up at me, eyes perky again, her stub of a tail suddenly wagging. The next moment, she took off down the steps.

She knew her way home, and she pulled me down Sam Houston Boulevard, the town's main drag, which ran all the way east to the interstate and west to where the old rail station and stockyards used to be, bisecting the college campus in the middle. The University of the Alamo was a noisy college that gave an otherwise sleepy town most of its energy. Students tended to major in agriculture or engineering for the oil industry. Or sports broadcasting, sports management, or sports medicine. Football provided the heart of the school.

We passed by the public library, where a kind librarian often took her smoke break to look after Miss Ruffles while I checked out books. At a trot, Miss Ruffles led me past Gamble's funeral home, the stately bank where Honeybelle served as a director, and the first of many college bars.

The corner was taken up by the Boots 'N' Buckles Emporium, which advertised Tony Lama cowboy boots, Stetson hats, fancy belt buckles, and saddle repair. Honeybelle had often stopped in to ask Joe, the elderly proprietor, to polish her boots. Barefoot while he made her boots shine, she tried on hats and teased him. He treated her like a queen. I remembered his check being among those from townspeople Honeybelle loaned money to, and I hoped he could afford to remain in business now that she was gone.

Everywhere I looked there were things that would never be the same without Honeybelle—not just the businesses she patronized, or the small shops she'd financed. She had recently won a campaign for new street signs and flowers in window boxes, and triumphed in a fierce battle against litter and graffiti. Thanks to Honeybelle, Mule Stop looked pretty enough for its own postcard. Not a bad legacy, but not as good as seeing Honeybelle herself motoring down the main street, waving from her convertible as if she owned the whole town.

Gracie Garcia came out of Cowgirl Redux, the clothing resale shop, and grabbed my elbow.

“Is the memorial service over already? Or did they throw you out of church? Or—Lord have mercy, Miss Ruffles didn't bite anybody, did she?”

Gracie was the first person my own age I'd befriended when I came to Mule Stop. It had only taken a couple of days for me to realize my Ohio clothes weren't suited to the searing Texas sun and heat, and Gracie had been a big help.

“You might as well wear a big ol' Yankee sign around your neck,” she had said pityingly when I first ventured to the door of her colorful shop. “What are you wearing? Darlin', come inside and we'll find you something real pretty. And bless your heart, you're not wearing near enough makeup.”

Today I hauled on the leash to prevent Miss Ruffles from trying to sniff the crotch of Gracie's snug capri slacks. Gracie wore enough mascara to blind a whole cheerleading squad, and her long, glossy black hair curled fetchingly around her plump bare shoulders. She had come to Mule Stop to follow a “no account” boyfriend enrolled at Alamo, but when he dropped out to work on a gulf oil rig, she had stayed and made a place for herself. She ran the resale shop on weekends, and during the week she had a real job as a paralegal in a law office to keep up on her bills.

I said to her, “Nobody threw us out of the memorial service. We said our good-bye to Honeybelle, and that was it. But I think Miss Ruffles really knew what was happening in there. Look, already she's getting her energy back.”

Miss Ruffles proved my point by trying to untie the ribbons on Gracie's espadrilles.

Gracie side-stepped to stay out range of the dog's teeth. “Well, I'm glad nobody pitched a fit. Miss Ruffles belonged there just as much as that family of Honeybelle's.”

“The family was on relatively good behavior.”

“I hear Hut Junior's real broken up. All good southern boys love their mamas, of course. Or else use them for target practice. But what about Posie? Did she throw her hat in the air and dance a jig to celebrate her mother-in-law's passing?”

“Posie wasn't happy—mostly about seeing Miss Ruffles in the church.”

“Everybody knows Miss Ruffles bit President Cornfelter. But didn't she take a bite out of Posie's oldest boy once, too, right?”

“Just nipped him,” I said quickly. “Tried to herd him into the swimming pool. She wasn't the only one who thought he needed a dunking.”

Miss Ruffles continued skittering around Gracie for attention and finally let out a frustrated yip. Laughing, Gracie bent down and took the dog's head in her hands. They gave each other enthusiastic kisses. “You sweet puppy! No wonder Honeybelle loved you so much. Why, you're just cuter than a possum!”

Miss Ruffles panted happily, and I found myself smiling at last. “Already she's cheering up. The memorial service really helped.”

“Dogs are sensitive creatures.” Gracie gave the dog a pat on her ribs, then straightened to study me through narrowed eyes. “How about you? You still look poorly.”

“I'll be okay.” I couldn't quite articulate how sad I felt about Honeybelle's passing. Maybe I should have stayed at the memorial service to hear some noble words spoken on her behalf. I still felt swamped by emotion, but seeing Miss Ruffles cavorting around us improved my spirits. I said, “It made us both feel better to say good-bye. And there were scores of people waiting outside the church. They were all so kind. It was touching to see them.”

“Honeybelle did a lot of good things for people. I'm glad some of the grateful ones paid their respects. The rest of 'em are as common as pig tracks for not showing up.”

“One thing surprised me. A man said half the town wanted to bump her off.”

Gracie grinned. “Why does that surprise you?”

“Because she did so much good.”

Gracie had an unladylike snort. “She also had this town by its … well, its private parts. Not much business got done here in Mule Stop without Honeybelle's approval. And Hensley Oil and Gas? Employs a lot of people—and she wasn't shy about firing anybody who didn't give her a hard day's work.”

“You really think Honeybelle had enemies?”

“Sure as shootin',” Gracie replied.

I was still stewing over Honeybelle's request that I be on the lookout for someone who might have wanted to kill her. She'd been joking at the time, but her words rang in my ears.

I said, “One of Honeybelle's grandsons seemed very upset that she's gone.”

“The younger one? Yeah, I heard he was sick when he was a baby. Story goes, Honeybelle read him books every day in the hospital. That was real nice, and they bonded. Not that her daughter-in-law would notice.”

“They were always a little cool with each other,” I said cautiously.

Gracie had no qualms about gossiping. “I reckon Posie resented how Honeybelle wouldn't let Hut Junior take over the oil company. I mean, he's forty, if he's a day, right? Why he didn't just buy himself a bass boat and go fishing for the rest of his life, I'll never know. So tell me. What did the memorial look like? Did they have some pictures of Honeybelle around?”

“Yes, a big photo. And lots of flowers, of course.”

“It's a terrible shame they cremated her. I mean, she just had her hair done! She'd have looked real pretty in a casket.”

I couldn't come up with a response to that one.

Gracie must have seen me turn pale. “You want to come in out of the sun and cool off? I got a couple of Coronas in the cooler. Just the thing on a hot day like this.”

“No, thanks. They're reading Honeybelle's will at the house this afternoon. It's some kind of party. I need to get back to help out with the refreshments.”

“Knowing that family, they'll be splitting her assets while they drink her champagne.” Gracie enveloped me in a hug—all bosom and perfume. “Don't get yourself too upset, okay, Sunny? You go on taking care of Miss Ruffles the best you can, for as long as you can. That's what would make Honeybelle happy.”

“Thanks, Gracie.”

“Swing by for a drink tonight. I close up at seven. We can give Honeybelle our own send-off.”

“A farewell party for me, too?”

Gracie gave me a comforting pat. “Tonight we'll brainstorm some ideas for a new job for you. I don't want you to leave town. Maybe we'll meet some cute guys, too. I have my eye on one of the bartenders.” She waggled her eyebrows. “You might find somebody worth sticking around for.”

I made no promises. I didn't feel like celebrating the loss of a second job in just a few months, and although I'd be needing a paycheck, it felt too soon to start hunting up a new position. Gracie gave me another hug anyway and let herself back into Cowgirl Redux. I usually made friends easily, but the thing about growing up on a college campus is that friends tend to last only four years before moving on. I had hoped Gracie might last longer.

Miss Ruffles jumped at my leg and growled with some of her old pizzazz. She spun in a quick circle and pulled me to get going again.

“Okay, okay, I'm coming,” I said to her.

Ahead on the corner of Jim Bowie Avenue, another local character stood in front of an open banjo case, hammering out a tune, eyes closed, communing with her music. Behind her leaned a ratty old backpack stuffed with belongings—a sign I took to mean she was homeless. A few kindhearted souls had dropped crumpled bills into her case. I'd heard someone call her Crazy Mary. Today she wore a dusty, flamboyant Mexican skirt along with a couple of layers of T-shirts and wraparound sunglasses. Her hair was a mess of dirty blond dreadlocks. She ignored the bustle of people around her, seeming to be immersed in her music.