Give First Place to Murder (13 page)

"You seem to have a good grasp on them.” That sounded as if it had come through clenched teeth. “Ellie, will you please listen?"

"Of course." I pushed back my chair and reaching for my purse. "Just as soon as you’re willing to sit down with Susannah and me and discuss this. Not tell us what to do, but discuss. As though we were capable adults, able to reach conclusions and arrive at decisions. When that time comes, call me."

"Ellie." Dan pushed his own chair back too fast, got his foot caught in it, tripped, caught himself by grabbing the table edge, then tipped over his coffee cup. “God damn it.” He watched the light brown liquid soak into the check.

"Thanks for lunch." I wheeled on my heel and stalked out the door.

Unfortunately, righteous indignation only lasted until I got to the office. Then the implications of Dan's suspicions started to sink in. I wasn't in the least concerned for myself. After all, I was on the outermost fringes of whatever it was that was happening, but Susannah. That was different. I had to think how I was going to protect her. The only solution I could come up with was Dan's.

"I thought this Dan of yours was supposed to be smart."

Susannah scowled at me over the top of a glass of orange juice. Strands of damp hair had escaped the discipline of her headband, drying in tendrils around her face, giving her a Medusa look.

"He is, and he's not mine."

I’d come home from work early, fortified myself with a glass of white wine, and tried to get us seated in the two wicker rockers on the front porch where we could explore the subject of Susannah's job change together. And, of course, arrive at the mutual decision that she’d quit and go to work for Carl. Instead, we were standing in the kitchen, facing each other like a couple of cats about to do battle.

"He's yours if you want him.” Susannah gestured with the glass. The orange juice swayed dangerously. ”And no one with any smarts at all would suspect Chovalo of doing anything illegal, certainly nothing that would hurt Irma or the ranch, and definitely nothing that would have hurt his nephew. He loved his nephew. Irma says Miguel was like the son Chovalo and his wife never had. To think Chovalo could--that's--it’s stupid!"

Her eyes blazed and more hair escaped as she slammed her juice glass down. "Another thing. Where do these men get off running our lives? Who elected them God? Who elected them anything?" She picked up her glass, scowled at the remaining orange juice, and slammed it back down. She gave me a withering look when I winced. At least the glass didn't break.

"We've done okay making our own decisions.” She mercifully left the glass on the table, contenting herself with waving her arms. “I sure as shit don't plan on stopping now. If you want Dan to tell you what to do, fine, but he's not telling me, and neither is Neil. I am not going to quit my job."

I got the message. I also understood her fury, but my worry overrode my natural sympathy. So I counterattacked.

"We don't use words like that in this house. Is that the kind of language you learn hanging around barns?"

She suddenly grinned, catching me off guard. "Well, there's plenty of it around there, as well as a few other places I could name. And I am not quitting."

"Give me one good reason why not." I said that in my sternest mother voice and knew instantly I had made a tactical mistake.

"I'll give you three. Irma needs me to keep Bryce organized through the rest of the summer shows and I won't let her down. Second, Bryce is spoiled and weak and much too busy destroying himself to be a threat to anyone else, and third, Chovalo didn't kill that awful Rusty and he’s not selling drugs. So why should I quit?"

"God damn it, Susannah."

"We don't use language like that in this house," she said sweetly.

Only a knock on the screen door kept me from going after her with the meat mallet.

"Hi." Neil strolled into the kitchen. He smiled slowly as he took in Susannah standing there, the blue of her shirt showing off the blue of her eyes, the curve of her body evident under the cling of her white jeans, the rich darkness of her hair as it fell over her shoulders. That smile wasn’t destined to last long. Good, I thought with sour pleasure.

"Will you look who's here." She pulled off her headband, setting the curls free.

"You knew I was coming." Neil looked mystified. "We arranged it. We're going back to the fair, to watch the rodeo." This last was addressed to me.

"Of course I knew you were coming. But I didn't know we’d have so much to talk about." Sugar dripped from Susannah’s voice. Dangerous stuff, sugar.

"Uh, talk about?" Neil's expression changed, taking on a wary look. "What do we have to talk about?"

"Oh, jobs and things."

"I told those two guys. So did my Mom." Neil sighed.

"What did you tell them?" Susannah tone was guarded, but the fury had died down a little.

"That you'd never leave Irma if you thought she needed you, and that you'd especially never leave if you got ordered. But, honey, they do have a point."

Honey?

Susannah's expression, which had started to soften, immediately hardened again. I felt a twinge of sympathy for Neil. He was in for one wild night, but I didn’t care. He’d asked for what he was about to get. After all, he was one of the enemy, wasn't he? Only I found myself hoping he’d win. I wanted her to quit, too. So who's side did that put me on? And why were we even having sides?

"Shall we go?" Susannah picked up her straw bag, settled her sunglasses firmly on her nose, and headed for the back door.

"Might as well." Neil followed her out forlornly. The sound of their voices was drowned out by the clatter of his pickup's tired engine.

He had more sense than his father. Or the wonderful Dan Dunham. I'd give him that. I refilled my glass and headed for the front porch by myself. Of course, he had a sensible mother. Maybe they'd talk it through. Maybe he wouldn’t lose his temper when Susannah dug in her heels, and maybe he'd convince her to go to work for his father. Yeah, and maybe the moon was made of cream cheese.

Before I could set the rocker going, Jake jumped up and planted himself on my lap. Absently, I stroked his ears while I sipped, rocked, and thought. The cat purred.

At least he expects her to have opinions. He seems to think she is capable of making a rational decision. Unlike some people I know.

“
Your friend," I told the cat, accusingly. "He thinks he's the only person in the whole world with ideas that count."

The cat slept on.

"You wouldn't believe how he treated me this afternoon.” I rocked a little harder. “Ordering me around, telling me how to take care of my daughter, trying to run my life."

I had the rocker going pretty good when another thought appeared, one I wasn’t willing to give voice to.

Isn't that the way I approached Susannah? Telling her what to do, not giving her credit for being able to assess the situation? Not respecting her ideas, her priorities?

"Of course not," I said out loud. Evidently quite loud, for Jake opened one eye. I took a quick sip as I thought this over. "I'm her mother, she's my daughter. I love her and part of my job is to protect her."

Sure, came the unwelcome voice again, but love doesn't mean dictatorship. She's old enough and certainly bright enough to discuss something this serious in a sane way. You didn't give her a chance, and she has a right to be mad. You did to her what Dan did to you.

"That is ridiculous." I got up and unceremoniously dumped Jake on the porch. He gave me a reproachful look and jumped into the other rocker, turned around on the cushion and lay down with his back to me.

"So be that way," I told him. "I'm going for a walk."

Jake, to no one’s surprise, ignored me, and also to no one’s surprise, my walk ended at Aunt Mary's back door.

She was making strawberry jam. There was a large pot simmering slowly on the stove, giving off subtle aromas that were heavy with memories. Lines of clear, clean jars waited on the well scrubbed white farm table and the sink was filled with bright red berries complete with little green stems.

"Well." Aunt Mary looked up in surprise as I let the screen slam. "You're a sight for sore eyes. And feet. If ever I needed a little help, it's now."

She took in my white polo shirt and gestured at the apron hanging on the peg under the McCauley’s Funeral Home calendar. I sighed inwardly and pulled it on over my head.

I'd spent many summer hours of my childhood helping my mother or one of my aunts pit apricots, peel tomatoes, snap green beans, or stem strawberries. "Why don’t the boys have to?" my cousins, my sister and I would wail.

"They hoe the garden and mow the lawn. They rake the leaves and help chop firewood. You'll be glad this winter when you don't have to," was always the answer. Secretly, I thought chopping wood sounded like fun, but I didn’t get to find out. After I married Brian, I never canned another jar or made another pint of jam. But here I was, removing little green stems from strawberries.

"Why do you do this?" I sighed as she poured another batch of berries into the sink. "Who’s going to eat all this?"

"Fair question. Sometimes I think the only reason I do it is because I always have. But it’ll all get eaten. Those pretty jars there," she pointed to a row of pint jars with fruit embossed on the side, "I'll top with little rounds of gingham and tie it off with ribbon. They'll sell at the Christmas Bazaar we hold just before Thanksgiving. Young women buy them to give away. Probably let everybody think they made it too. Well, it's their conscience."

I gave a start and quickly looked over my shoulder. I was one of those women and wondered if she suspected.

"Hear you and Dan had a little spat today." She carefully filled the front line with hot jam.

"It wasn't exactly a spat. More a disagreement in principle."

"What principle?"

"The principle that says I have the right to run my own life."

"Oh. That principle." She finished filling the jars and brought the pot over to the sink and started rinsing it out. She handed it to me along with a knife and a measuring cup.

"Don't lose count of how many cups you put in there or I'll never get the sugar right."

She took a pitcher of sun tea out of the refrigerator, got two glasses from the cupboard, filled them both, handed me one, then lowered herself into a chair beside the old table.

"My, that feels good. I'm getting too old to do this. Now, just how is Dan trying to run your life?"

Years rolled back. I was ten again, standing in this same spot, telling Aunt Mary how my life had come to an end because Catherine, my older sister, got to go to Girl Scout Camp and I wasn't allowed; at thirteen how I was never going back to school because I was the only girl who had nothing to put in a bra; at seventeen how my mean mother wouldn’t let me wear a strapless dress to my senior prom. So many crises in my life had been explored and gotten through in this kitchen, and here I was again. Not that this was a crisis. I was grown, and this was just a discussion.

"Ten cups." I held my hands under the tap and dried them on the flour sack towel before joining Aunt Mary at the table. "Dan wants me to have nothing more to do with Irma, and wants Susannah to quit and go to work for Carl. He practically ordered me! He and Carl had it all arranged."

"What did you tell him?"

"I told him I was perfectly capable of making my own decisions, both for myself and my child."

She looked at me over the top of her glass before she took a sip. "Then what did you do?"

The woman was uncanny. How did she know?

"I went home and told Susannah she had to quit."

"To go to work for Carl?"

"Yes."

"What did she say?"

I started to giggle. I couldn't stop, and caught Aunt Mary grinning right along with me.

"You know perfectly well what she said."

"Guess I do at that. How many cups did you say?"

She pushed her chair away from the table and started pouring sugar over the berries, squeezed lemon over the whole thing, and set the pot over a slow flame before she returned to me and the subject of Dan.

"What's going on at Irma's that's got Dan so nervous? Oh, I know the boy getting killed was enough to scare anyone silly, but from what I hear he didn't have any real connection with Irma or Susannah or anyone else there. He was just temporary, wasn’t he?"

I wondered how much I should tell her, how much of what Dan told me was in confidence, but a lifetime of habit was too strong.

"Dan thinks Chovalo’s somehow involved with the people who’re making methamphetamine. Not only that, he suspects him of having killed that awful Rusty."

For the first time I could remember, Aunt Mary looked shocked. I’d seen her surprised, sorrowful, angry, but never shocked.

"It’s not possible." There was no room for doubt in her voice. "I've know Irma for years, not too well, but I've known her. Your Uncle Sam and her husband, Bud, belonged to Rotary. They were wonderful to me when Sam died, and I was on the church committee that did the food when Bud had his accident."