“He made her cry the last time,” Mrs. Parker said.
I swung around and faced her. “He did?”
“Most of the time she wasn’t here to take his calls, and far as I know, she didn’t return them. Anyways, she didn’t use
my
phone to return them. But the last time he called he was real mad. Told me to tell her to call or else. After she did, she started bawlin’ her eyes out right here in my kitchen.”
“About what?”
“She wouldn’t say. Just said that men are the same everywhere. That they think they own you, can take your life and twist it around however they want. I told her that’s why I never remarried after Lyle died. I like being my own boss. Ain’t no man never going to be telling me what to do anymore.” Her jovial face grew hard. I wondered about her late husband and what he’d done to cause her dark eyes to flash so angrily.
“That’s all she told you?”
“That’s it.”
“Did you tell the police that?”
“I sure did. I want them to catch that lowlife who killed her. ’Course, they took it about as serious as you’d expect a bunch of white men to take the ramblings of an old black woman. With a pinch of nothing.” She rubbed her thumb and forefinger together and tossed imaginary salt over her shoulder.
“Did she ever get any calls from women?”
“Not that I ever took.”
“Thanks.”
“What took you so long?” Becky asked when I returned. The Jeep had cooled off to a wonderful winter-like chill.
“Sorry, I just got to talking with Mrs. Parker about Southern cooking.” We listened to the news as we sped down the turnpike toward Derby. This time I was thankful for Becky’s heavy foot. I wanted to get back in time to take a quick shower before the rodeo that night. She started talking about the quilt show on Friday and what she had to do to get ready and who was a help in the guild and who was just a big pain in the butt. I nodded and murmured an appropriate response occasionally, but my mind drifted, thinking about the man who kept calling Tyler, the boxes of Tyler’s things in the back of the Cherokee, and especially about the quilt. There was something about the quilt that bothered me, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. It wasn’t just that I couldn’t think of the name of the pattern; something else had set off a warning buzz in me.
“Earth to Benni,” Becky said, reaching over and tapping my thigh.
“I’m sorry. What did you say?”
“I was saying that my mother told me that your aunt Garnet in Arkansas is an award-winning quilter. Too bad she can’t see our show.”
“She is,” I said automatically. Then it dawned on me. “That’s it!”
“What’s it?”
“The pattern. I’ve seen it before because Aunt Garnet pieced one for my grandmother the last time she visited her. It was right around the time I met Gabe.” I knew it wouldn’t mean anything to anyone but me. Not to Becky. And certainly not to the police. The question was, what was the connection, and what should I do with the information?
“So, is this twenty questions or what?” Becky asked.
“Arkansas Traveler,” I said.
ELEVEN
“I WONDER WHY she picked that pattern?” Becky said, pulling into her mother’s driveway. “It’s not exactly traditional Amish.”
“Maybe that’s what attracted her.”
Becky shrugged. “Guess I’ll see you at the rodeo. Tyler was supposed to sing the national anthem there tonight. I heard Cordie June’s taking her place, just like at the club.”
“An odd run of luck for Cordie June.”
Becky rolled her eyes. “This sounds terrible, but I can’t stand Cordie June. She’s so set on becoming rich and famous that if I didn’t know any better I’d guess she . . . well . . . never mind. It’s just too unbelievable to contemplate.”
“I suppose,” I murmured, wondering what Becky would think if she knew there was supposed to be a producer in the audience last night, that Tyler’s death was more than just convenient for Cordie June, it was her golden opportunity. I wondered if Dewey knew about it. If so, would he slack off on the investigation because of his relationship with Cordie June? Then again, he wasn’t even supposed to be officially working on the case. I decided that I would tell Gabe about the producer and let him decide who should be advised. That would ease my conscience on one thing. The quilt we found in Tyler’s room . . . that was another story. I suspected Tyler made it to remember something about Arkansas. I didn’t know how to tell anyone what I knew without admitting I’d snooped in Hannah’s house and dragging her deeper into it. Tyler was down in Arkansas for six months and apparently made a commemorative quilt while she was there. What did she want to remember about Arkansas? Was T.K. involved somehow, since he came from there?
“See you in a couple of hours,” Becky said. “Tell my mom I’ve got all the quilts moved off the guest bed so she can sleep there tonight.”
“Why is she sleeping at your house?”
“She’s staying with the girls tonight because Stan and I want to go to the dance after the rodeo. We’ll take the kids and Mom to tomorrow night’s performance. We’ll probably get in late, so Mom may as well spend the night. Gotta run.” She threw the Cherokee in reverse and whipped out of the driveway, gravel clattering over her tires like rain on a tin roof.
I relayed the message to Kathryn before going upstairs to take a quick shower and change. A note from Gabe and a highlighted map lay on the pillow next to the Camaro’s keys. “Caught a ride with Dewey and Chet. See you at the rodeo. Gabe.”
I sighed and carried my clothes into the bathroom. With the tension between us, there was only one thing I was absolutely certain about tonight—it was going to be long. I took my time dressing so that by the time I emerged from the bathroom, Kathryn and, thankfully, Daphne, had already left.
I drove leisurely through Wichita until eventually city and semirural suburb became open prairie. The turnoff to Pretty Prairie, Highway 17, was a small, lonely road that bisected endless rows of green corn and dark plowed-under wheat fields. For twenty minutes at a time I was the only vehicle on the road, but the isolation soothed me as did the emerald and black fields with their neatness and purpose. I wondered which fields were round like the ones I saw from the plane, and thought of what Gabe had said—how from this point of view no one would ever know their shape; that to see the truth of the fields you had to look at them from another perspective. Was it like that with Tyler’s murder? Was there something right in front of all our eyes that we were overlooking because our perspective was wrong?
I passed a huge white Mennonite church set in the middle of nowhere, and a few fields and passing trucks later, I entered the town of Pretty Prairie—population six hundred. To my right were the grain elevators I was getting used to seeing in any Kansas town boasting a population of fifty or more, and a huge white banner announcing “Welcome Rodeo Fans! Kansas’ Largest Night Rodeo—Free Chuckwagon Barbecue w/Friday Night Rodeo Ticket.” My stomach growled at the thought, and I was sorry it was Thursday instead of Friday. You could stand at one end of Main Street and take in the entire town in one glance—the red brick high school, the bar with a faded Budweiser sign above the door, the post office, the Wagon Wheel Cafe, The Country Cafe (Mexican Food on Saturday Eve), D & J Grocery (Where Pleasant People Shop), The Country Parlor (Homemade Gifts, Crafts and Baked Goods). The street was already half filled with every color and make of pickup truck.
I parked the Camaro in front of the Pretty Prairie Civic Theater, an old movie house that appeared to be in the middle of renovation. The pink flyer taped to the box-office window said that the theater had originally opened in June of 1936 with movies and live stage productions, but was closed in 1955 due to the outbreak of a disease we’re still trying to find a vaccine for—television. Apparently some brave souls were trying to keep the old girl alive, however, as they were advertising an upcoming Fall Classic Film Series—all of them from the forties and fifties. Each feature was to be accompanied by an
Our Gang
short because the actor who played Alfalfa apparently lived in Pretty Prairie during the fifties.
Spencer’s Mountain
, one of my favorite movies, was playing November 5th.
“Tickets are only three dollars,” a low, pleasant voice called out. A smiling man in a plaid shirt and white apron was sweeping the sidewalk in front of D & J Grocery. “And we make the best popcorn in town.”
“I’d come if I could,” I said, smiling back. “Unfortunately, by that time I’ll be back home in California.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said with a teasing grin. “But I guess someone has to live there.”
I followed the crowds walking toward what I assumed were the rodeo grounds, behind the grain elevators. An American flag proudly fluttered on top of one silver column that seemed to stretch a mile into the hard blue sky. I inhaled the familiar aroma of rodeos—the same in Kansas as it was in California and Nevada and Montana and everywhere else cowboys gather to strut their stuff—that pungent mixture of damp earth and manure, frying beef, lemonade, the acidic leathery scent of the cowboys, and a sweetness in the air from that rodeo staple, cotton candy. I’d been to hundreds of rodeos in my life, but I never grew tired of the high-pitched excitement that always hovered over everyone like an electrified cloud. I paid my admission and stood staring up at the huge packed arena, wondering what would be the best way to find Gabe and Becky and the rest of the gang. Around me, people were already flocking to the concession stands behind the white metal bleachers, stocking up before the rodeo action started, on Cokes, popcorn, beer, hamburgers, hot dogs, crispy funnel cakes, and fresh corn on the cob. My stomach reminded me again that I hadn’t eaten since this morning.
I walked past the bullpen, the fenced-off area where the cowboy contestants spread out their gear, helped each other pin on their numbers, rosined their ropes and gloves, and generally shot the breeze until their event came up. In the middle of the sea of cowboy hats, I spotted Gabe’s bare head. He was pinning Chet’s paper number on the back of his fuchsia and black cowboy shirt while Dewey, an intense look on his face, gave his son some last-minute advice. As if a small voice had whispered in his ear, Gabe looked up at that moment, searched the crowd, and found me. His face relaxed, and I felt my heart soften, relieved he was still concerned enough to worry, even though it drove me crazy. His face hardened again, as if remembering we weren’t speaking, and he gave a curt nod before turning back to Dewey and Chet.
I melted into the crowd, watching with amusement the buckle bunnies with their ruffled shorts and fringed boots giggle over the cowboys who subtly preened by performing elaborate leg stretches and joking crudely in booming, feverish voices. The cowboys’ peacock-bright shirts and chaps—items of clothing I’d watched over the years become as gaudy as a Las Vegas showgirl’s—made them seem like a flock of gruff-voiced tropical birds. The color combinations were spectacular—royal purple and fire-engine red, hot pink and black, the glowing orange and yellow of Monarch butterflies. The long metallic fringe on their stained chaps sparkled like fool’s gold under the stadium lights. The one thing that never changed were the Wranglers, seats ground dark with dirt, sporting the faint Skoal ring on the back pocket from a tobacco-chewing habit that was as much a part of rodeo as being thrown.
Then there were the cowboys themselves—the bareback riders with their temperamental personalities and almost flat-brimmed hats; the hefty but light-footed steer wrestlers, who needed the weight to wrestle a thousand-pound steer to the ground; the ropers with their intelligent faces and missing fingers; the saddle bronc riders, the traditionalists of rodeo, who can often dismount a bucking horse with the finesse of an Olympic gymnast, landing on their feet and strutting away with the confidence of a banty rooster; the barrel racers, the only female event now, where woman and horse seem to meld into one creature as they spur for those precious hundredths of a second, riding the cloverleaf pattern around the three sponsor barrels with an intensity you can almost taste. And always the bull-riders, last in the lineup, but first in the hearts of many rodeo fans. They were the macho men of rodeo, with their flamboyant grins, deep chests, and stiff horseshoe walks; they personified all that is romantic and exciting about rodeo—man against beast in a singular contest that left you breathless wondering which one you should root for.
I glanced around again, looking for our group, thinking I might be forced into going to Gabe to ask where everyone was sitting, when, as if on cue, Janet and Lawrence appeared next to me. “Everyone was wondering when you’d get here,” Janet said. “Gabe was starting to pace. We’re over there.” She pointed to the bleachers on our right.
About halfway up the crowded bleachers, I saw Becky stand and rearrange her padded stadium seat.
“I see them,” I said.
“We’re going on a beer run,” Lawrence said. “Want one?”
“No, thanks. I’ll check out the food later,” I said.
Up in the bleachers, Becky, Stan, Belinda, and Rob had saved enough seats for everyone. In the distance, the sun dipped toward the hazy gray-blue horizon causing the sky to turn as pink as the cotton candy they were selling below us. From our high perch we could see in the distance an irrigation sprayer watering a field, the stream of water a long arch with a rainbow forming in its mist. In the slowly deepening sky, the faint edge of a half-moon appeared, promising at least some illumination for the trip back to our cars when the rodeo ended.
“Did Gabe find you?” Becky asked me. “He was starting to worry.”
“He saw me. He’s with Dewey, helping Chet get ready for his ride.”
Belinda snorted and took a long drink of her cup of beer. “Dewey just can’t resist giving Chet some last-minute advice.”
“So, he’s riding bareback as well as bulls tonight,” I said, looking at the program Becky handed me.