Doggone Dead (11 page)

Adam sounded like a pretty nice guy even if he was a major force of stress in my family’s life. He also seemed like the kind of guy I really would have dated if I hadn’t already met Leo. He was the kind of guy my dad would like. Somehow I had injured him further, and I knew I had to make it right.

“I’m so glad you said that,” I replied. “That’s all I ask is that you examine both sides of the complaint. You have to admit, just because he’s leaning over in that picture it doesn’t mean he’s planting evidence.”

“Point taken.”

“Thank you, and – well, I’m sorry for trying to trick you, and you should know that email was meant for someone else.”

“You mean the boyfriend your son keeps bringing up?”

“Oh, you know about that, huh?”

“Small-town news travels fast.”

“Well, I’m sorry I went about it all the way I did, but you just have to understand this is my dad we’re talking about.”

“And if you had mentioned that from the beginning, we would have had this very conversation a whole lot sooner.”

“Just probably not on a date.”

“Where someone might be shooting at us.”

Relief flooded through me as he continued, “Do you have any idea who our gunman might be?”

“No, but...” I hesitated to add this next part. “I know you were bleeding and all, but did you hear our waiter telling me he thought it was the ghost of Charlie Loper? The whole town thinks Charlie is out shooting anyone who has anything to do with his daughter.”

“So who was he shooting at? You or me?”

“Who knows, but there are witnesses now who say they actually saw him out there on the bank with his golden Colts.”

“Do you know the names of these people?” he asked.

“Not directly,” I said. “It’s just on the town gossip hotline.”

“How do I get that number?”

“Go get your hair done down at Ruby Green’s Best Little Hair House in Texas,” I told him.

“Sorry, I like my present style. You didn’t see any old cowboys in the woods, did you?”

“No, I saw smoke, and the light caught on something out there. The police checked the area where they think the shooter was standing and didn’t find anything much.”

“Of course not, don’t they know apparitions don’t leave footprints?”

“My dad did tell me that they had our new crime scene photographer go out and take pictures of the shooting location.”

“I’ll check with the police department and see if I can look at the photos. What’s the name of this guy?”

“Elena Morris.”

“Oops, how sexist of me,” he said. “My mother would have a fit if she heard that.”

“So, are we all right, even with my many blunders?” I asked.

“I’m not sure at this point,” he said. “Just don’t give up your writing job. You make a sorry undercover cop.”

“Okay, so Betsy, you got all this straight, right?” asked Rocky as we walked around the Pecan Bayou park that had been transformed into a watermelon festival carnival with a beauty pageant platform. The gazebo side of the park had been decorated with red and blue bunting hung from every corner, and a portable stage had been set up on one side as a runway. I was joined by Stan, the manager from NUTV, Rocky from the paper and Tory Parker, a local dance teacher. Tory would be the other judge – someone who was much more qualified than I was in deciding the fate of all these little girls and their parents. Stan planned to have his crew out filming the entire pageant. He was also the unofficial producer/stage manager.

“Uh, basically the little girls walk down the runway, and I judge them for poise and style.” I said, imagining the contestants on the assembled stage.

“And confidence,” Stan added, straightening the hem of his Geoffrey Beene summer plaid shirt. His watch was circled by tiny diamonds that shone against the pristine black of the dial. He had started using mousse in his hair, which now stood up in small spikes at the front.

“Right, confidence. Gotcha.”

“We are looking for the complete package. A girl with style, poise and that special something,” Tory added.

“We really appreciate you helping us with the judging duties for this,” Rocky said. He should be grateful, seeing as he had personally pushed my dad toward an unfair investigation. He knew our friendship was greatly strained and was being overly solicitous to me to make up for it.

Rocky grinned and continued. “And don’t forget to pick a cute one. That’ll photograph well in the Gazette.”

Tory Parker’s carefully lined eyes started to cross. To her a beauty pageant was an invitation to style, not a front-page “aww, gee” moment.

“What if they’re all cute? All of the little girls I’ve seen so far were cute,” I said.

“Then you need another criterion for judging. Something that you are looking for in a contestant,” Stan said.

“And what would that be?” I asked.

“I don’t know, Betsy. It’s up to you on that one. Use your judgment.”

He really thought I knew what I was doing. He had always overestimated my abilities, dating back to the time he asked me to do a fifteen-minute weekly segment on helpful hints a couple of years ago. Even though now I appeared on “Betsy’s Helpful Hints” every week and had a following of sorts, it took me a few times to get it right. I just wasn’t all that comfortable being in front of a camera, until Leo gave me some pointers. I talked about cleaning tips, organization and recipes, and Stan received an occasional letter or email from viewers with questions. It didn’t hurt that I had my giant database of household hints and tips that I had collected over the years.

“And you are going to do all the master of ceremony stuff, right Stan?” I asked.

“Oh yes, I have my tuxedo out of mothballs, and I’m ready to officiate.”

“Just promise me you’re not going to sing,” Rocky said flatly.

Tory Parker straightened the fold on her red slacks, and the diamond ring given to her by her husband, a much older man, glimmered in the light. She laid her lacquered red fingernails on Rocky’s arm. “Honestly, Mr. Whitson, do we want the Little Miss Watermelon going down the runway with no music behind her? It would be ghastly.”

“Just what is the official watermelon song, anyway?” I asked.

Stan tapped his chin. “There isn’t one yet. Seeing as this is our first pageant, we’ll have to think of one or maybe even have Waylon write one for us.” Waylon Rodriguez was our local country music talent. He played out at Tipsy’s every Friday night. I couldn’t wait to hear what that song would sound like.

“You do know I’ve been confronted by most of the contestants and their mothers, don’t you?”

“More than what I saw at the Gazette? I certainly hope you haven’t made any promises,” said Rocky.

“I’m trying, but they don’t make it easy.”

Tory laughed. “Ah yes, the perils of the job. When I was running for Miss Hill Country in 1995, my mother parked outside one of the judges’ houses for two days just so she could be on the same jogging path.”

Stan laughed. “Now that’s dedication.”

I heard a rustle behind us. After all this time, I was beginning to be able to identify the enemy just by sound. I took a look behind me for anyone dragging along a little girl in taffeta.

A woman and her daughter smiled and waved, and then she lifted the little girl up onto the runway and started coaching her on walking techniques. The little girl, even though she seemed to be listening to her mother never once took her eyes off of our little group. It was more than a little creepy. She grinned as if she had been born with that facial expression and then took a special sashay in our direction. Her mother’s praise traveled across the field to us.

“Deciding is going to be tough,” Tory said.

Stan glanced at his watch, that black dial encircled by diamonds. It was a little flashier than most of his wardrobe, and it looked expensive. “You just choose who you think is right. I’ve got to run.”

“I, too, must leave,” Tory said, grabbing her bag. “I have a tap class in less than an hour. See you on Saturday, Betsy. Oh, and be sure to dress up a little. It makes it more special for the girls.” What, my jean shorts and tank top wouldn’t work?

Stan and Tory’s exit left Rocky and me alone together for the first time since he put my father’s picture in the paper.

“Uh, listen Betsy,” Rocky started. Here it came, his apology and a promise of a retraction on the accusations made against my father. He stumbled a bit over his words, a surprising thing from someone who used vocabulary so well. “I just want you to know that even though I put that picture in the paper, I don’t have anything against your dad. If I had to call this one, he’s probably innocent.”

“Probably?”

“Sure. I’ve known your dad for years, and he’s never done anything like planting evidence.”

“Then why did you say he did?”

“They say a picture is worth a thousand words, and well, I had the picture, thanks to you.”

“Did it matter to you that you might get my father fired?”

“Of course it did, but you just have to understand that when it comes to news I have to follow my gut.”

“Well your gut,” I said, picking up my purse and slinging it over my shoulder, “sucks.”

“Before you question my motives, darlin’, I suggest you look at your own. I would like to ask just what you were doing out for a cozy little dinner with the district attorney handling your father’s investigation?”

“Is this on the record or off the record?” I said. Before Rocky could reply, I stopped him. “Oh yes, I forgot, it’s all up to your gut. Well, for your information, Adam Cole had no idea I was Judd Kelsey’s daughter.”

Rocky’s eyebrows raised. “Why Betsy, you surprise me. You were trying to pull one off on Adam Cole.”

“Don’t be too surprised. He didn’t know until the guy started shooting.”

“And I know I asked you this, but did you see the guy?”

“Nope, just some smoke, and … something sparkled.”

“Sparkled?”

“That’s what I said. We have a notorious, sparkly killer, right here in Pecan Bayou.”

“Come on boy,” Zach said as he pulled Butch down the street. Even though Butch seemed happy at home with us, when freedom beckoned, he was willing to listen. He started wriggling out of the red white and blue yo-yo-laden collar Aunt Maggie had made him. To compliment the collar, he wore a dog-sized sailor hat with blue stars on the brim. No matter what, it seemed to stay on, and I just had to hope Zach and Danny hadn’t super-glued it to Butch’s head.

“Zach, hold on to him.” Children and adults surrounded us, each holding their patriotically decorated pooches. Dr. Springer and Allison were trying to put the dogs and their owners into a line. This effort worked pretty well until a fight occurred between a Lady Liberty dachshund and an Uncle Sam shih tzu. I never did imagine that those two characters would actually like each other.

“Mom, Butch is too strong. I can’t hold him.” Butch pulled on his new blue nylon leash, twisting it as he wrapped himself around Zach. I grabbed the leash from Zach’s small hands and unwound the dog from my son.

“Betsy,” said Dr. Springer. “If I could get you and Butch over here?” Betsy and Zach followed the doctor’s orders.

“And Mr. Cole, why don’t you and Sunshine walk behind them?” Dr. Springer seemed pretty pleased with herself for putting the two of us next to each other. She had only seen the picture in the paper and couldn’t have known we weren’t actually dating. Adam Cole smiled stiffly and stood behind us.

“Dr. Springer!” A woman came running up behind us with a little girl. The dog, a white poodle, was reluctant to enter the parade line, and the woman had to drag him over. “We would like to stand next to Mrs. Livingston and her dog. He’s just a puppy, and our Noodles does well around puppies. Noodles can be a bit obstinate.” She turned toward me and extended a hand. “How do you do? I’m Mellie Nicholson, and this here is my granddaughter, Nora. She’s here visiting us for the Fourth, and when we saw the pageant in the paper, I just had to put her in it.” After finishing this sentence, Mellie Nicholson’s face froze in a smile as she gestured toward her granddaughter. The way she flourished her hands over the child, I felt like I was looking at a brand-new car on The Price is Right.

Nora looked up at me, her expression a contrast to her grandmother’s. She flatly announced, “This is Noodles,” and pointed to the dog she was holding.

Noodles was a white poodle with red striped ribbons on his ears. Noodles didn’t seem to be the least bit interested in whatever dog he was put next to, but his owner sure wanted to be next to me.

“That’s okay, Dr. Springer. Why don’t Sunshine and I go to the back of the line?” said Cole. “We don’t mind bringing up the rear.” Following a bunch of dogs who thought they were going for a walk, I thought Adam Cole a brave man. He guided Sunshine to the back of the line, which was now stretching around the corner.

“Betsy!” Danny came running over to us. He almost ran into Allison, who had walked over to pet Noodles. Danny shuffled his feet and blushed.

He took in a big breath and came out with, “Hi, Allison.”

“Hi, Danny,” Allison returned, smiling sweetly. No wonder he thought he was in love with her. It was like she didn’t see his disability at all.

“This is Betsy’s dog, Butch,” he informed her.

“I know. I remember Butch. He’s the only dog we’ve had that was kidnapped this year.”

“Right,” said Danny. Allison patted Danny on the back and then walked over to a barking schnauzer to settle him down.

“She’s pretty,” said Zach, now folding his arms and watching Allison walk away. My son looked like a barfly checking out the night’s catch.

“Zach,” I said, “maybe she’s smart, too.”

“She’s real smart,” said Danny, a quiver in his voice. Would she break his heart when he found out she didn’t feel about him the way he felt about her? I knew I needed to apply the redirect strategy.

“Do you like Butch’s costume?” I asked him.

Mellie Nicholson cut in. “I think it’s lovely and full of imagination.”

“Thank you,” said Zach. “My aunt helped make it, but I dressed him myself.” He beamed.

Nora Nicholson pushed up her glasses. Her skinny legs poked out of a white sundress with a blue stripe on the bottom and red bows on the straps. “It looks like it came from the drugstore to me,” she said, bluntly popping my son’s balloon of pride.

Zach, not one to back down in a fight, responded, “What would you know about it? Your dog’s name is Noodles. Who names their dog after spaghetti?”

The little girl took off her glasses and calmly placed them in her pocket. I couldn’t be sure, but I think she was about to punch my son in the nose. She was a year or two younger than Zach and also a prospective Little Miss Watermelon, so I stepped between them.

“Noodles is a fine name.” I stared down at Zach. “Right?”

Zach’s gaze wavered from the girl to me to the girl. “Sure,” he muttered. Butch started to pull on the leash again.

“Is that my Scout?” Libby Loper came up to us through the crowd of trained dogs and untrained people. She bent down to Butch’s level and whistled. Butch ran to her pulling Zach behind him. The puppy licked her face as she laughed. Today she had on a white straw Stetson and blue leather vest with red trimming on it. She had regained the pride of the little girl on the white horse.

“His name is Butch,” Zach insisted.

“I know, dear, I know,” she said gently. “Your Butch here was the first friend I made after a long time of feeling alone. I hope you don’t mind an old lady being a little grateful.”

“Well, if you put it that way. You can call him Scout if you want to. I don’t mind.”

Libby put her arm around Zach’s shoulder and squeezed. “Thank you, dear, and I hope I have made another friend,” she said. She released Zach and scratched behind the puppy’s ear, bracelets clinking. I looked up at the front of the line and saw Clay and Lina Bonnet with their giant Rottweiler, Outlaw. I know that if I asked, Dr. Springer would tell me that not all Rottweilers are vicious dogs, but the Bonnets’ dog just looked mean. People would walk by him and he would snarl his lip up on one side and begin to growl.

Pastor Green, Ruby’s brother from the Pecan Bayou Community Church, smiled and attempted to approach the Bonnets. Their dog growled, and the pastor dropped his hand and hurried away. Just like the Bonnets, this dog was nothing to be trifled with. The more I watched them, the more I was sure they had lied about my dad. Clay Bonnet jerked the dog back into line while Lina fanned herself with a paper fan.

“Checking out your plaintiffs?” I was not aware that Adam Cole was once again standing right behind me. The scent of aftershave drifted my way as he spoke over my shoulder.

“Huh? No – well, maybe. I was just noticing how mean their dog was.”

“Not all dogs reflect their owners, you know.”

“That’s good, because I would never nickname you Sunshine.”

Elena Morris came running up, leading a brown and white border collie on a leash. “Am I late?” she asked. Elena looked different out of uniform with jean shorts and a red halter top on. She actually looked like a normal person, not the pushy photographer I had met last week.

“Not yet,” I answered.

“Nice to meet you,” Adam Cole extended his hand. “I’m Adam.”

“Elena.”

“Adam, this is the crime scene photographer and the newest member of the Pecan Bayou police force.”

“Oh, then we have some things to talk about. I’m the district attorney and one of the people who was shot.” He reached up and touched his arm. I could see the edge of a bandage sticking out from the sleeve of his shirt.

“You can get in line behind me and Sunshine,” he told her. Watching them walk to the back of the line, I felt a little less guilty about tricking him into dinner.

An eardrum-piercing squeal came from the flag-strewn platform.

“Ladies and gentlemen ... and dogs.” The mayor of Pecan Bayou stood up front, the mic towering over him. Our mayor was a giant of a man, figuratively speaking. Elmer Obermeyer fancied himself a baseball superfan, and many of his campaign speeches were riddled with baseball metaphors. “Let’s hit it out of the park! Vote for me, and it’s a home run!” Elmer went to high school with Nolan Ryan years back and made sure everyone knew they still stayed in touch.

“We’re about to start our parade down Main Street. Now, Benny’s Barbecue has agreed to close their doors for the duration of the parade so we don’t get any stragglers. Is everybody ready to parade?”

The crowd murmured in agreement. “Then let’s play ball!” he shouted. He pushed a button on a CD player that was hooked up to the speakers in the park, and we started walking to “Stars and Stripes Forever,” heading to a crowd of people now standing on the street or relaxing in lawn chairs. The Bonnets led the way with Clay holding on to Outlaw and Lina holding a sign that said “Bonnet Farms.” I had never thought of this as a way to advertise.

I could see my dad and George Beckman standing near the end of the parade route, ready to direct us around the corner. Even though my dad was on “limited duty” as the paper put it, over the tourist-packed holiday, there seemed to be no such thing. As we entered the official parade route, I noticed that all of the old downtown buildings were open for business. Maybe they hoped for a freak “middle of the summer even though it’s hot as heck” sale. Aunt Maggie sat in her white folding lawn chair in front of Earl’s. When she saw us in the parade she waved and cheered us on.

The heat bore down on us, and the sun was almost blinding our view. The dogs panted in unison, leaving trails of drool on the ground. Some of the old buildings had large upstairs windows and balconies to let in fresh air, a feature left over from the pre-air conditioning days. I couldn’t imagine living in Texas before the advent of air conditioning and didn’t know how people survived. It would have meant night after night of no sleep, tossing and turning in the muggy heat. No wonder they kept shouting “Remember the Alamo!” The people back then were so exhausted they had to remind each other.

Noodles and family who were now in front of us started moving. I nudged Butch, Zach and Danny to start moving. Zach and Danny had been practicing their princess waves just for the parade. They were politely holding up two fingers and waving them in the air to their adoring subjects.  The music on the CD switched to the 1812 Overture, complete with cannon fire. The heat of the sun was relentless, and I was beginning to visualize a really nice tall glass of iced tea. A sparkle caught my eye as I squinted into the sun, and then I saw a cowboy standing up on the balcony above Simmons Hardware Store. He raised his gun, and I knew immediately that this was a repeat of my dinner date.

“Look, Mom, there’s a cowboy up there,” Zach said. Many of the other paraders looked up and pointed.

“Free ice cream at Earl’s Java!” I yelled, and the paraders and crowd all rose and crowded into sleepy Earl’s establishment. Children and dogs headed for the door with the coffee bean nested in a big E. I heard a shot and then a dog yelp but continued to push the boys out of the street.

The figure on the balcony was gone and then instantly reappeared across the street in another window. I waited for him to shoot, but he didn’t raise his hands from his sides. The cowboy just stood there looking out at us.

“Betsy, can we get ice cream?” Danny asked. I looked up into the window again, but now there was nobody there.

Out in the street I could see Noodles lying on the pavement, blood running from him. George Beckman walked into the street, speaking into his shoulder walkie,  “Poodle down, please advise.”

Then I heard my dad crackling through the static on the other end, “Dammit George, forget the dog and try to find the shooter.”