Stranded (18 page)

In spite of those thoughts, when Kelli stopped by the library later to see how my job was going, I realized uncomfortably that the certainty of her innocence had slipped a percentage point or two in my mind. I tried to cover the discomfort with vivacious chatter about the wonderful books and how the Ladies had agreed to order the software program I needed for the cataloging process. Kelli looked surprised at my uncharacteristic effusiveness, but she didn’t mention it, just said it looked as if I had everything under control.

And the discomfort I felt then was minuscule compared to the dismay I felt when I walked back to the house from the library on Saturday afternoon. Because there in the driveway, in all its mismatched, multicolored, mud-spattered glory, stood the Dorf. I’d doubted the thing would be ambulatory within this decade, and here it was. With Norman standing there grinning at me in all his bearded, ponytailed glory.

“Norman,” I said. “I-I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I got the Dorf runnin’. ’Specially so I could come and see you.”

Ivy Malone, the senior sexpot, inspiration to semi-eccentrics everywhere. Oh joy. Now I noted a bumper sticker I hadn’t before. “Eat more possum.”

Norman thrust a sack at me. “I brought you some eggs.”

I accepted the sack and peered inside. Beautiful big brown eggs, with bits of straw from the nest still clinging to them. “Why, uh, thank you, Norman. That’s very thoughtful of you.”

“I figgered maybe you’n me could have dinner at the Café Russo.”

Several thoughts splashed through my mind. One was that the Café Russo had looked quite elegant, undoubtedly the most expensive restaurant in town. Did they have a dress code? Norman was wearing a suit and tie, but his Nikes looked as if they had spent some time in a dumpster.

The second thought loomed even larger. What if we ran into some of the Historical Society ladies at the restaurant? I didn’t know what had brought Norman up as a subject of conversation, but I’d overheard the two ladies on duty at the main desk yesterday laughing about how he’d brought his chickens in for the Fourth of July parade last summer. Not as participants, but so the chickens, safely wedged under Norman’s arms, could watch the parade. Women of the Society would be aghast—and/ or giggly—at my being out on what would surely look like a date with Nutty Norman the Chicken Man. And what if he did something outrageously strange at the restaurant?

Norman was waiting expectantly for my answer, and I was trying to think of a polite way to avoid this, but suddenly I was ashamed of myself. Yes, his old blue suit was shiny in places and long out of style, his shoes strange, and his beard as wild and bushy as ever, but there were no stray leftovers in it, and he’d obviously done all he could to spiff himself up for this occasion. His ponytail was neatly rubber-banded, his fingernails clean. The scent of cigarette smoke still clung to him, but the garlic was absent, and I even caught a whiff of aftershave lotion. I decided not to wonder where he’d put it, since he didn’t shave.

I also decided I wasn’t going to disappoint him or hurt his feelings by turning him down. He’d put a lot of effort into this. What did I care what anyone thought about my going to dinner with him? I thought about suggesting someplace cheaper than the Café Russo, but I suspected he’d find that insulting. I decided if he came up short on money, I could discreetly add a few dollars to make up the difference.

“The Café Russo sounds lovely,” I said. “Would you like to come in while I freshen up?”

He grinned. “You already look mighty fresh to me, Ms. Ivy.”

Norman may have his peculiarities, but he knew how to flatter a woman. I led him through to the kitchen, where I stashed the eggs in the refrigerator. Koop, who has no tolerance for cigarette smokers, even spiffed-up ones, took one sniff and headed out of the room.

To cover Koop’s rude departure, I pointed to the jar on the windowsill. “Kelli brought your feathers here after the funeral. They’re very nice.”

I left Norman with a cup of coffee in the kitchen while I went to refresh my lipstick, fluff my hair, and change to a more up-to-date pair of dark slacks, my best imitation silk blouse, and seldom-worn, dressy high heels. If anyone saw us, I fully intended to look as if this was an important date, not something to be embarrassed about.

“You look beautiful, Ms. Ivy,” Norman said when I returned. “Thank you, Norman. You look very nice too.”

There was an awkward moment when I remembered the doors of the Dorf didn’t open. I was feeling kindly toward Norman, but not so kindly that I wanted him helpfully boosting me through a window.

“Why don’t we walk?” I suggested. “We’ll work up an appetite and enjoy our food more.”

“Fine idea, Ms. Ivy.”

The high heels weren’t the best choice for walking, but Norman considerately took my elbow at curbs and over bumps of icy slush. At the Café Russo, the hostess led us to a small booth in the rear. I didn’t know if that meant she preferred to hide us from public view, or if she thought we wanted something dim and intimate, but I was guiltily grateful. The hour was still early, only a few scattered diners present. I was grateful for that too.

We both declined drinks. I was apprehensive that Norman might demand possum, but he ordered red snapper en papillote by pointing to it on the menu. I chose the manicotti.

When our first-course minestrone arrived, Norman threaded his fingers together and looked at me expectantly. In surprise I realized he was waiting for me to offer a blessing, which I did.

Our conversation during the meal covered a wide range of topics from books he’d read, although I was relieved that he skipped the subject of UFOs this evening. One thing he asked about was the whistle I always carry on a chain around my neck. I’d forgotten to tuck it under my blouse, as I usually do.

I told him how, after a woman was mugged in a local parking lot back in Missouri, a friend had given me one to wear. Another friend replaced it when that first whistle was lost.

“Have you ever used it?” he asked.

“Not yet.”

He considered the situation thoughtfully. “Keep wearing it,” he advised.

“You think I might need it?”

“There’s a killer around here somewhere.”

“But there’s no reason a killer would be interested in me,” I protested.

“He might be real interested if you figger out who he is.”

I swallowed. A thoughtful observation . . . or a personal warning?

I decided to detour that ominous line of thought and concentrate on dinner. “I’m certainly a long way from figuring out anything,” I said brightly.

Norman’s manners weren’t exactly impeccable. He used a knife to scoot his vegetables onto his spoon. But he didn’t do anything over-the-top nutty. One couple passing by glanced at Norman as if they recognized him, but I didn’t spot anyone I knew.

I was, guiltily, relieved by this also. But disappointment unexpectedly overtook the guilt and relief, and I was defiantly prepared to acknowledge him as my good friend Norman. Actually, I rather missed the opportunity to do that.

Eventually, over tiramisu for dessert (which Norman recommended), I got around to asking him the question I asked almost everyone in one form or another. “Norman, who do you think killed Hiram?”

“Not Kelli,” he said, his tone decisive. Apparently he knew the local gossip even if he didn’t get to town often.

“Did Hiram ever mention anyone threatening him? Anyone unhappy with him over business or personal dealings?”

“No, though there must of been some bad feelings back there sometime. He did tell me once that I should never put money in a bank in the Bahamas, no matter how much interest they promised. He sounded real down-in-the-mouth about it, but I don’t know why he was tellin’ me. I don’t need no bank. Any money I’ve got will fit in my shoe.”

“Had Hiram been, um, enjoying his tequila at the time he gave you this advice?”

“Yes’m, I think he had.”

“Perhaps that explains it, then.”

“But I got enough to pay for this here meal,” Norman assured me confidently. I had uneasy visions of him yanking off his shoe to do so, but when the bill came he made the normal gesture of pulling a billfold out of his pocket. He studied the bill carefully. “Fifteen percent, right?”

I nodded, and he carefully counted out a tip, right down to the quarter and three pennies laid on top of the bills to make an exact 15 percent. Then he sat there a moment, his expression thoughtful. I thought perhaps he was thinking about cutting back to 10 percent, but what he said was, “Maybe you oughta know some people think I killed Hiram. Or that Kelli and I were in it together.”

Tears welled up in his eyes. He undoubtedly knew people called him Nutty Norman, which perhaps didn’t bother him, but this did.

I started to assure him I didn’t think that, but then I backed off. Because, in spite of the tears and his obvious regret that Hiram was gone, the thought occurred to me that homicide and regret aren’t necessarily mutually exclusive. Norman could have killed Hiram in a fit of anger and still deeply regret it now. I didn’t feel as if I’d been dining with a killer, but feelings can be deceptive. Still, I couldn’t think I was in any danger from him. But a conspiracy between him and Kelli? Hmmm.

Norman paid for our dinner, and he did have sufficient money, though I felt guilty at how much the meal cost. I’d send the chocolate pie that was in the refrigerator home with him, I decided.

Then, just beyond the steps of the restaurant, he came to an abrupt halt. He carefully whirled three times, tapped his forehead once, then gave three energetic hops. I was startled.

“It keeps the brain waves going right, so they don’t get all tangled up inside,” he explained as he offered me his arm.

Nutty? Just a little, to my way of thinking. But what do I know about brain waves? Mine have occasionally felt tangled.

And lots of people have odd little rituals, I reminded myself. I always put my makeup on in a specific order. Eyebrows first, then eyeliner, blush, and lipstick. Maybe that was my subconscious keep-the-brain-waves-in-line system. I tucked my hand under his elbow and nodded genially to Victoria Halburton as she sailed by.

The Ladies Hysterical Society would have plenty to gossip about now, I knew, but I didn’t care. And I was glad I’d worn my dress-up high heels.

14

On Sunday afternoon Abilene went out to the ranch with Dr. Sugarman for more driving practice, and on Tuesday afternoon she and I drove down to Hayward in his pickup so she could take the test for a driver’s license.

Hayward was still in the mountains, but it was at a lower elevation and wasn’t confined to a narrow valley as Hello was. It was also busier and more modern. Downtown Hayward actually had two one-way streets and a multiscreen movie theater. We found the DMV on the far edge of town, with a livestock auction building and stockyard just beyond it. A pungent scent of the occupants of those corrals added an earthy perfume on this surprisingly pleasant, almost spring-like day.

Written and driving tests together would take considerable time, and I didn’t want to just sit and wait. I parked the pickup where it would be easily available for Abilene’s test. It was one of those big “king” cab ones and took up a lot of space. I walked back to a shopping area. I bought a couple of mysteries at a used-book store, picked up a carton of plastic wrap at a dollar discount store, and marveled at the almost platter size of a silver belt buckle in the window of a tack shop.

Then I decided a cup of coffee would taste good, and my feet needed a rest too. I went into a café where the parking lot was filled with pickups and horse trailers, even a truck loaded with sweet-smelling hay. Inside, it was definitely a good-ol’-boys type place, with a big, round center table occupied by mostly older men in cowboy boots, with bellies overhanging their belt buckles. The men looked like a bunch that congregated regularly to exchange tall tales and enjoy the attention of a couple of pretty waitresses.

I slipped into a small booth and ordered coffee from an older waitress. It seemed the kind of place where customers were welcome to sit and sip, and I settled back to pass the time reading one of my new mysteries. Scraps of conversation reached me from the table, “that dingbat of a chestnut mare I had back in ’87,” and “the year my daddy like to kilt me ’cause I took off rodeoin’ instead of helping with the haying.”

I’d barely reached discovery of the body on page 7 of my book when a burst of laughter at the table made me look up. One of the younger waitresses was refilling cups and flirting lightly with the men. Teasing one of them about the sexy scent of a new shaving lotion brought on a fresh round of guffaws.

But what I suddenly noticed about the slim and attractive young woman were her earrings. Miniature carousel horses! They pranced and bounced as she swung her long blond braid and laughed and expertly twirled to evade a male arm trying to encircle her waist.

She was too far away for me to get a really good look at the earrings, but I was intrigued by them. Carousel horses are not a topic to which I’ve ever given much thought, but now carousel horses occupied my bedroom, and miniature carousel horses danced on the ears of this young woman. On impulse, when the waitress finished at the table, I motioned to her. “May I have a refill, please?”