Other People's Baggage (10 page)

SWITCH BACK: SEVEN

  

I wandered down the road in the hostile heat to the inn, the cool air welcoming me into the living room lobby. It sparkled as if Mr. Clean himself spiffed and shined in case the governor might pop by. The boxes of supplies were long gone, the room neat as a model home. I walked up the three flights to my penthouse suite impressed at the beauty of this small hotel. Until I entered my room.

Still paltry and stuffy and dusty. The ceiling fan pushed the air slowly around the room and I dropped onto the bed to enjoy the peace, if only for a few minutes. But I still had the Carter conundrum on my brain.

It wasn't actually insurmountable evidence that Bea was attached to the murder weapon when the maid walked in. Isn't that generally how it would go? If you see someone lying bloody on the floor, especially a loved one, you're going to rush over, try to do something. She screamed for help, Mrs. Alden came running. What bothered me more was that Bea didn't have a strong reason to kill her husband. Certainly others in this tiny town had more motivation.

Even Rita, proprietor of this very inn. She wanted to keep her business, not tear it down to make room for a church or casino. But then, so would Gilda, her storefront neighbor. If I used that reasoning, I might as well throw in most of the townspeople. And in the end, what good did killing Austin do?

Killing Austin came down to the will, who got what and when. With an entire town at stake, it had to be the motive. That line of reasoning pretty much ruled out Jolene and Kathy Lee. They each wanted their own project, not one of the Ballantyne's. It had to be better for them to keep trying to persuade their Big Daddy, rather than either of them to kill him.

And Austin's death probably wasn't premeditated. Must be a hundred other ways to off a guy rather than to jam scissors straight into his heart.

Someone was not happy with Austin Carter.

I reached for my phone and spent the next hour and a half researching the Reverend Kincaid and Chief Fannin, using my recently acquired PI researching skills and the magic of Google. My phone had limited internet capabilities—I didn't bring my computer since it's the kind that sits on my floor, not on my lap—but it was enough to discover that the Light of the Rock had a snazzy website with live and recorded podcasts and webcasts from their small church south of Dallas. They also sold inspirational books, coffee mugs, t-shirts, and offered more than a dozen ways to donate money. All very legit, if not a smidge flashy.

On the other hand, not much turned up on the Big Spring Choctaw or their chief. Only a handful of vague articles referencing their recent gambling establishment efforts buried in the back pages, and a simple landing page for the Broken Spoke Casino.

I used shorthand as I jotted notes on the little paper pad from the nightstand. BSC, Big Spring Choctaw. BSC, Broken Spoke Casino. Coincidence?

My phone beeped as my battery faded away and I checked the time. The afternoon had slipped away.

Remembering the Cattle Baron's Ball, I leapt off the bed and spotted my suitcase in the corner. I'd never been so happy to see that beat-up beauty. I rarely used it since it was without wheels and expansion capabilities, but I'd lent my modern bag to a friend and grabbed this one from a stack of collectibles in my beachside cottage. I sighed with relief as I popped the metal latches. I needed a long hot shower with all my favorite products. And to wear my own clothes.

I could not have been more shocked when I lifted the lid than if it had been filled to the top with stacks of counterfeit bills.

I stared openmouthed at the garments layered inside the rectangular box. Every item was black. And thrown haphazardly together as if airport security dumped it on the floor, then scooped it up blindfolded and shoved the whole lot inside.

Clearly this was not my suitcase.

I gently lifted the clothing out. A small black top. A small black skirt. A small black pair of jeans. So dark and tiny. Like a goth girl in the third grade. Or a supermodel. I held the pants up to my frame. A very short supermodel. With gorgeous shoes. A dozen thoughts crowded my brain: Whose stuff is this? Who else uses a vintage hardcover suitcase? Where are my clothes?

Oh my God, my clothes! The Ball was in an hour. I glanced at my Texas tee and started to sweat. I ran to the bathroom mirror. My hair was as frizzy as the before shot in a shampoo commercial and I only had flip flops. I can't wear flip flops to a ball. I remembered my earlier statement to Kathy Lee about knowing how to dress for an event.

I went back to the suitcase to double-check my options. I dug all the way to the bottom. Nope. All small and tiny and black. And I realized whoever packed this didn't use organized Ziplocs or put their outfits in sets. Why not put them in sets? Who is this person? I started to repack when I noticed a beautiful bottle of Kentucky whiskey tucked near the bottom. It was very expensive and sealed up tight.

So she's not a third grader.

And it was probably the only bottle of booze within ten miles. I wondered if I could get arrested just for possessing it. Perfect. Sued and arrested. Mr. Ballantyne might never let me leave the state again.

I called the airline and promptly received a recording letting me know in a most pleasant mechanical voice that my hold time would be thirty-five to forty-five minutes. Who would hold that long? I slammed down the phone. Which on a cell phone meant I very firmly pressed the red end button.

I bit back the first twinge of panic. No need to get all crazy pants. This was not my first clothes related crisis. After two calls to the lobby and one to the gift shop, I finally got Gilda on the line and explained my suitcase switch.

“Sure, I can help. I've got something even better than the gift shop. I've got keys to the Twice Around boutique up the block. Plenty of dresses ready to attend a ball.”

“Thank you, thank you. Meet you in an hour?”

“Better make it forty-five, I don't want to be late. See you at the door. It's the second to last shop on the right.”

I thanked her again and quickly washed my skirt in the small sink. I'd need it for tomorrow. I glanced at my wine-soaked tee from the airplane ride over and decided it needed more advanced attention than I could give it using miniature bar soap. I Heart Texas would have to do. After a quick wash and hang dry, I squinted at the flimsy soapy sliver.

I only hesitated about two blinks before I went straight to the fashionista's suitcase and fished out her liquids: soaps, lotions, and hair products. At the last second, I snagged the whiskey bottle and set it on the table. Just to look, not open.

Even though the water still alternated between hot and cold, it felt divine to scrub away the past two days using foamy soaps and slick conditioners. Once I was dolled up, I realized my clothes were wet from my sink hand-washing. Which meant I had nothing to wear to the dress shop.

I threw on the wrinkled wine tee and fashioned a skirt from a black scarf from the Lilliputian's goodies and hurried out of the hotel only five minutes late. I found Gilda waiting for me in front of the shop. A thick layer of North Texas dirt covered the glass door, but the inside was clean, if not a hint musty.

Two simple round racks sat in the middle of the store. A dress form was propped in the corner next to a large sewing machine and a rack of tools to rival any commercial sweatshop, holding everything from measuring tapes to buttonholers.

“Here, sugar, this rack is about the right formality for tonight,” Gilda said. She flipped through the hanging clothes with a practiced hand, sliding hangers along the bar at a rapid pace. “Huh.”

“Huh?”

“I thought we had more in a small size,” she said.

“That's okay. I'm not that small.”

“Well, most of these are for plus-sized women. I haven't had a chance to box them up yet like I have the others. We're donating to one of those shelters that helps women with interviews and such.”

I joined her at the rack and did my own flip-through. The sizes didn't bother me as much as the style. They were everything a ninety-two-year-old woman living in the seventies would love. Lots of heavy polyester with scratchy panels and a hint of rosewater perfume.

“Here we go,” Gilda said. “Two ideal choices. What luck!”

Luck indeed. A Gumby green floor length flared leg pantsuit with long sleeves and brass zipper right up the front or a striped sailor dress with one-inch pleats detailing the entire skirt. I thought of the silky black dress with matching slingbacks in the suitcase back in my hotel room. Pop star? Beauty queen? Barbie impersonator?

I sighed and accepted the dress as gracefully as I could. We paired it with a pair of red patent leather square-toed pumps that were only one size too small and left for the ball. If my outfit was any indication, I thought, this night is not going to go well.

SWITCH BACK: EIGHT

  

We tooled toward the Broken Spoke in Gilda's flashy two-seater: a '60s VW Bug with the top securely up and arrived slightly past six on Friday evening. A stream of cars stretched from one side of the house, down the drive, and around the large oak while four tuxedoed valets hustled keys and escorted couples. Tall glass globes hung high above the path from the front walk to the side steps. Flower arrangements of bright pink peonies and orange lilies dotted the path. I saw the tops of party tents peeking through the trees and the rousing sounds of a country band floated over them.

The temperature had yet to sink a single degree as I emerged from the cool tin cocoon into a thick wall of heat. It had to be two hundred degrees. And apparently the Baron's Ball would be held in the backyard. Outside. In August. As Director of the Ballantyne, I'd often hosted outdoor events, but rarely the last week of August when the sun sizzled and scorched even the shadiest of spots. I avoided it not just for the comfort of our guests, but because nothing turned a party sour faster than a yard full of cranky donors with sticky clothes, fallen hairdos, and warm drinks.

But I'd never attended a summer event in Texas.

Large fans with ice misters hung from the tops of the poles blowing a cool breeze across a massive white tent in the very center of the backyard. Though “backyard” seemed to understate the grandness of the space. Perfectly manicured greens spread out like a city park, each side bordered with rose bushes and magnolia trees. Two smaller tents flanked the larger one with banquet tables arranged around intricately carved ice sculptures. I do believe actual air conditioners were placed around the perimeter. I could neither see them nor hear them, but the temperature beneath the billowy tents was twenty degrees cooler than the air just ten feet away.

Gilda and I went straight for the bar. Six different lemonade blends, nine varieties of iced tea, every soda ever created, and no less than ten flavors of Kool-Aid. But not a single drop of alcohol. I graciously accepted a cola martini. Gilda went off to find Rita and I went over to the main table.

Jolene Carter sat center with a group of women cooing about, offering their heartfelt Southern regrets at the passing of her father-in-law and the arrest of her mother-in-law.

“Why, you must be devastated, Jolene. Such a tragedy, here in your quaint little town,” a woman said. She wore her big bleached hair tucked into an even bigger yellow hat.

“I know,” another lady said. She was all a-dazzle in full-length pink sequins and a chunky pink stone necklace. “When I heard about your mama, I immediately ran right down here to see what I could get. I mean, get for you.” She sipped something red from a frosty lemonade glass and smacked her lips. I wondered if she hadn't added a nip along the way.

Kathy Lee nudged the woman aside. “It's not her mama and you know it.” She shooed away the small crowd. “You ladies go busy yourselves, dinner will be starting soon.”

The woman in the yellow hat hugged Jolene half-heartedly with one arm, then started talking to her friends before she moved away. “I hope they serve the lobster,” she said excitedly.

“It was ambrosia last year,” another one said, her voice fading as they two-stepped toward a waiter passing a silver tray of canapés. “Let's sit at Wynonna's table. You know she caught her husband…”

“You might as well sit here, Elliott,” Kathy Lee said. “Zibby's resting until Mama's ready. She won't be here for a spell yet and she'd twist my ear if I didn't extend you the courtesy. Even if you are wearing Shirley Temple's sailor suit. I thought you said you knew the dress code.”

I ignored her and took a seat on the other side of the round table, setting my handbag on the chair next to mine, saving it for Zibby.

A short man in a ten gallon stunner approached the table. He placed a lime green drink in front of Jolene, then tipped his hat to me. “Ma'am. You must be this Elliott I keep hearing about. I'm Austin Carter the Second, but you can call me A.J. Everyone else does.”

I introduced myself with a matching nod. “I'm truly sorry to hear about your father. He sounds like he was a kind man, and a favorite around here.”

“Everyone loved Big Daddy,” Jolene said.

“Well, clearly not everyone loved him,” Kathy Lee said. “You getting closer to figuring this mess out, Elliott?”

I smiled and tried not to squirm. The heat made my feet swell and the too small shoes were beginning to pinch. “I am, actually. If you don't mind, I'd like to ask you all some questions before dinner.”

A.J. interrupted before Kathy Lee could protest. “Go on, but I'm not sure what you can do that the sheriff can't.”

“You know Mama's being railroaded by Bobby Wainwright,” Kathy Lee said. “He's on a mission to slander the Carter name.”

“Oh now, Kathy Lee, settle down,” A.J. said. “Let's just get through the night without one of your hissy fits.”

I took a sip of my fizzy Coke country martini and wished I had the foresight to buy a purse load of those little airline booze bottles while we were touring the friendly skies the night before. “Can you tell me about the will, A.J., since you're the attorney? The original one, before it was changed.”

“Sure. But I didn't draw it up. Big Daddy had it done down in Dallas. Keep it fair. Basically all of Little Oak, property and land, went to both me and Kathy Lee, provided we settle on a project to support, and run, together. There's also a provision we take care of Mama and Broken Spoke.”

“But he changed it after months of bickering,” Jolene said. “Kathy Lee talking nonsense about a casino, when she knows full well this town's perfect for The Light of the Rock megachurch.”

“Changed the will to what, exactly?” I asked.

A tuxedoed waiter began setting plates of greens in front of each diner. A.J. waited until he finished serving the table before answering. “If we couldn't agree on the town's new direction at the time of his death, then the entire package went to the Ballantyne Foundation.”

Kathy Lee stabbed a cherry tomato and pointed it at me. “But he never intended to go through with it. And he's certainly spinning in his grave right now just listening to this horrifying turn of events.”

Jolene dabbed her mouth with an ivory napkin. “Now
that
we agree on.”

“Did the same provision stay with the new addendum?” I asked, ignoring them both. “The one where you're required to take care of Bea and the ranch?”

“Absolutely,” A.J. said. “His first priority was Mama.”

If Bea was financially cared for regardless of which way the will went, then there also went any financial motive for Bea killing her husband. “Did she take sides in the casino versus church debate? Maybe have a preference? Or was she maybe tired of the fighting in the family?”

“You ask a lot of questions for a charity worker,” Bobby Wainwright said, approaching the table from behind me. “As the town's new owner, you starting your own police force?”

“You don't need a badge to ask questions,” A.J. said.

“Around here you do,” Bobby said.

“This is a private party, Bobby Wainwright,” Kathy Lee said. “And you were not invited.”

“Oh enough already, Kathy Lee,” Jolene said, then smacked A.J. lightly on the arm. “You, too, sugar. He's already here, show some manners.”

Bobby took off his cowboy hat and set it on the table, then sat two seats over from me.

“To answer your question,” A.J. said pointedly to me, “Mama didn't prefer one project over the other.”

“Mama didn't care for that pretend Indian chief one bit—”

“Mama hated that plastic preacher—”

A.J. raised his palms at Jolene and Kathy Lee and their simultaneous protests. “You know she supported us all, but did not want to be in the middle. And yes, she was definitely tired of the girls bickering night and day.”

I was with Mama on that one. They were shredding my nerves like a block of hard cheese on a steel grater and I'd only been here one day. Can't imagine what it'd been like to live with those two round the clock. But it made more sense to knock one of them off, not their Big Daddy.

I tried to look as sheepish as I felt when I asked my next question. “Was Austin seeing someone on the side, perhaps?”

Kathy Lee threw down her fork and dressing splashed the tablecloth, but Jolene only laughed. “Sugar, even if he wanted to, which I assure you he certainly did not, he couldn't sneak anything in this town. Big Daddy was a walking bullhorn the size of Texas and every resident stopped to listen. Man never left the house or walked the square without someone in tow.”

Two waiters approached the table. One cleared out salad dishes while the other replaced them with enormous dinner plates. I'm not sure I'd ever seen a single piece of beef so large. The first tender bite melted in my mouth like warm chocolate. It was paired with homemade bleu cheese mashed potatoes and I was hooked.

“So back to the will,” I said between bites. “Who knew the terms?”

“Everyone within fifty miles at least,” Bobby said. “I even knew about it and I haven't had a reason to visit Little Oak in years.”

“You don't have one now,” Kathy Lee added, then turned to me. “No one but the three of us and Mama knew about Big Daddy's ridiculous revision giving you the tiniest window to snatch away my birthright. So killing Big Daddy with it in place only made it worse for us.”

I stuffed an overly large slice of steak into my mouth, forcing me to keep my pie hole shut. But we were thinking the same thing. The Ballantyne addendum pretty much ruled out the family's motive for murder. And opened everyone else in town up for scrutiny. Including the dashing preacher and the Indian chief. If they didn't know about the revision, then maybe they thought killing Big Daddy might tip the scales toward one project or the other.

Speaking of said preacher, I spotted him walking across the tent toward a table on the other side. He wore a sharp gray suit with a white cowboy hat. I was beginning to think cowboy hats were the number one reason the party was held outdoors, so all the men could wear them.

“Look at those flowers,” Zibby said from behind me. “I've never seen a bloom so large!”

I turned just as she and Bea approached our table. Zibby looked not a day of her eighty-six years in a fuchsia ball gown and matching pillbox hat. She wore delicate lavender gloves, but I'm pretty sure they were inside out.

After a quick hug in greeting, I whispered in her ear about her gloves.

She eased into the chair next to mine and patted my hands. “I know, dear. This way they don't get dirty on the walk over.” She took them off and stuck them under her hat.

“Mama, we were so worried about you,” Jolene said. “Did they make you wear one of those dreadful orange jumpsuits? Did a gangbanger try to give you a beat down?”

“Seriously, Mama,” Kathy Lee said. “Were you threatened? You didn't touch anything did you?”

“It was the local sheriff's lockup, girls,” Bobby said. “She was booked, arraigned, bailed, and released in less than four hours. Didn't even sit in a cell.”

“No thanks to you,” Kathy Lee said. “I mean, she was there thanks to you.”

Bea waved to a waiter and settled into her seat. She looked exhausted down to her soul. Dark circles and gray skin no amount of makeup could cover. “Bobby was very kind to rush things along. Sheriff and I had a nice visit on the way down, and Austin Jr. and I on the round trip. And I made it in time for the ball, so don't y'all be upset now.”

“Mama, he arrested you for murderin' Big Daddy,” Kathy Lee said. “Of course we're upset. We shouldn't have to sit with this scoundrel right at the table, at Daddy's party.”

The waiter arrived with a frosty non-cocktail and steak dinner for each Bea and Zibby. As soon as they left, Bobby set his knife on the edge of his plate and picked up his hat. “Thank you, kindly, Miss Bea. I've long wanted to attend one of your Cattle Baron parties. If you'll excuse me, I best be on my way.” He tipped his hat at Kathy Lee, then walked away.

“Really, Kathy Lee,” Jolene said. “How you ever gonna lasso that man with that bad attitude of yours? He's waiting for you, circling the fences, and you keep throwing mud.”

Kathy Lee just glared at her while A.J. looked confused.

I quickly hopped up and pulled Bobby aside.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure, long as it's not privy to the case,” Bobby said.

“Why did you wait so long to arrest Bea? It's been nearly four weeks. Not to jump to conclusions, but you found her over the body, clutching the murder weapon, alone in the room.”

He looked thoughtful a moment, as if trying to decide how much to share. “I guess it's no secret. I've known this family my whole life and Bea plain had no reason to kill Austin Sr. I stalled as long as I could, but folks in the D.A.'s office, the Sheriff's department, hell even here in Little Oak, started demanding answers. Couldn't deny the evidence in front of me even if I don't all the way believe it.”

I thanked him and walked back to the table. Well, I guess that was everyone who doubted Bea killed Austin. Unfortunately doubts didn't do much until twelve of her peers shared them, too. Could be a long way from here to there and anything could happen.

Bea and Zibby had started an interesting conversation on the benefits of learning to rope cattle in kindergarten, so I decided to take a quick stroll around the tent, see what else I could dig up. I was one day down, less than two days until my departing flight, and no closer to finding Austin's killer than I was learning how to rope cattle.

I made excuses of needing a carbonated martini refill and a good leg stretch, then meandered amongst Little Oak's finest folks. Most women sparkled tip to toe. Glitzy jewelry and sequined dresses. Even their hats were bedazzled. The country band had added at least four new members and couples started lighting up the dance floor.