In Front of God and Everybody (20 page)

“Sorry, Grandma. And I been thinking about what you told me,” I said before she could lecture us on good behavior. “I'm trying to do my best.”

“I hope so,” she said, and sighed again. I looked at my dear ole grandma and realized how much I loved her, and how much I didn't want anyone to hurt her, especially that sneaky old man. But knowing Grandma the way I do, I knew I had to get something factual on him, or she'd never listen to me.

“Grandma?” I said, real casual and offhand.

“Woo?” She looked at me.

“Where'd Mr. Rance live in Texas?”

“On a horse ranch. You know that.”

“Yeah, but what town?”

“Town?” She sounded like she'd never heard the word before. “Why, I don't know that he ever said. Maybe he didn't get into town very often. Why are you so interested in that?”

I shrugged, again real casual-like. “Oh, you know. Just trying to get to know him a little better so I can like him.”

She gave me this big, bright smile, and suddenly she didn't look so old. I could almost imagine what she might have looked like when she was young and pretty. I felt a little guilty that I had to spoil her dreams of Prince Charming.

“That's my girl!” She hugged me. “You know, now that I think about it, he talks about Beauhide County a lot. You can ask him sometime about the town he grew up in.” She paused. “But don't talk about his wife anymore. He don't like talking about Emmaline, and I can't blame him. She ain't been dead a year yet, and it probably hurts him to think of her.”

Hmm. Maybe.

Mama popped her head around the doorway between the kitchen and the hall.

“Mama Grace, would you come in here for a minute?”

Grandma set her coffee mug on the counter. She sucked in a deep breath like she was sucking in something to help her deal with ole Isabel. After she left the room, Myra Sue and I looked at each other. My sister developed a snooty little smile, but she didn't speak and neither did I. We concentrated on our chores, and I got busy plotting the next step in my investigation.

Mama came into the kitchen a little later, but Grandma was not with her.

“What's up with Isabel and Grandma?” I asked.

Myra Sue used the excuse of conversation to stop ironing. “Yes, Mother, what's going on in there?”

Mama examined the pillowcases.

“These'll do,” she said. “And never you mind about what's going on, either one of you. Myra Sue, when you're finished with your ironing, you may get busy on this other basket of beans. April Grace, you come with me. We need to pick the tomatoes before the sun cooks them on the vine.”

I hated picking tomatoes.

“I should probably clean my room,” I said.

Mama pulled a billed cap on over her curly red hair, picked up some sunscreen lotion she kept on the shelf next to the back door, and began rubbing it on her face, neck, and arms. She didn't want more freckles.

“I know. You may clean it when we're through picking.” She grinned at me like she'd just given me a Mars bar. “Put on some of this sunscreen, then nip out to the garden. Double time.”

While we pulled the plump, heavy tomatoes off the vine, I said, “My library books are due tomorrow. Are you going to town?”

She didn't look up. “I need some canning salt and few other things. I can drop you off at the library while I run to the store.”

When we went back into the house, ole Myra Sue, Isabel, and Grandma sat at the kitchen table, breaking beans and putting them into big pans on their laps. No one looked mad or even peeved.

Grandma eyed our load of tomatoes. “Well, looks like you girls have been busy!”

“Are you going to town tomorrow?” Myra Sue said. “I need to go to the—”

“You're not going anywhere tomorrow,” Mama told her. Myra Sue's lower lip pooched until it nearly reached the floor, but Mama ignored it.

Grandma put aside her pan of beans and got up. She and Mama began sorting the tomatoes.

“Here's a whopper,” Grandma said, holding up one as big as a basketball. Well, not that big. But big. “Let's have hamburgers for dinner. I got me some nice, sweet red onions at Ernie's yesterday. April, run over to my place and get a couple of them onions. And bring some potatoes. Might as well have fried taters too.”

I sent a glance to Isabel, but she didn't react to the menu. Not even a flicker of a false eyelash. Instead, she seemed real intent on doing the beans, almost as if she enjoyed it, for Pete's sake.

As I braved the blazing sun and crossed the field to Grandma's house, I wondered why Grandma never asked Myra Sue to run these errands for her. In my opinion, ole Myra could do with a trot across the field just to take some of the sass out of her. But it was always, “April, run over to my house and do this,” or, “April, trot across the field to my place and bring back that.”

Boy, sometimes being a kid stinks.

The next morning, Mama and I left Myra Sue sulking at home while we went into town. It was a treat to be alone with my mama, because usually Myra Sue is always there to whine and complain and take most of Mama's attention. But that day, it was just the two of us. I hoped we'd stop at Ruby's Place for my most favorite treat in the whole entire world.

“Can we stop for a Pepsi slush?” I asked.

“We'll see.” Mama navigated around the rocks and ruts, and I figured my best chance at having the treat was to keep quiet. Even when we got out on the highway, I chose to be a perfect little lady and talked only of polite things, like the weather and the dust on Rough Creek Road, and how glad I was that Daisy was our dog. But boy, oh boy, I was itching to know what had transpired between Mama and Grandma and Isabel St. James the day before. I reckon I never will know the details of that meeting.

At one point I said, “Mama, do you like Mr. Rance?”

“Why do you ask that?”

“Well, do you?”

She didn't answer right away, and I could see she was thinking about her reply. Finally she said, “He's good company for your grandma.”

“So you don't like him?”

She gave me a Look. I figured I might blow my chance for a Pepsi slush, but I pressed on. “Can you name one thing you like about him?”

“I just said he was good company for your grandma.”

“I don't mean that. I mean something about
him
, personal.”

She pulled in a deep breath and then took her sweet time exhaling it.

“He has a nice, strong voice,” she said at last.

Oh brother. My mama, who'd been able to forgive her great-aunt and nurse the woman until she died, could find nothing good to say about that old man, because believe you me, his big mouth was
not
a positive asset.

“I've been trying to like him but—” I began, and Mama interrupted.

“Good. You just keep on trying to like him, and pretty soon you'll like him for real.”

I stared at her with my mouth hanging open. She could not be serious. But she was. And I could tell by her expression she did not want to discuss Mr. Rance further. Boy, oh boy, did I have my work cut out for me.

In the library parking lot, Mama stopped the car and said, “Now, I won't be long. So if you get more books, be quick about it, and wait for me at the entrance.”

Hoping I could take care of business in a hurry, I ran into the library, slapped my books down on the return counter, and waited impatiently for Miss Delaine to get off the telephone. Wouldn't you know that would be the day somebody called to ask how to spell
acidophilus
or
ignoramus
or some crazy word like that? The other librarian, Mrs. Heathcliff, was always frowny and grouchy, and she didn't like kids. I hoped I didn't have to deal with her because she'd probably never cooperate.

“Well, Miss April Grace Reilly, one of my favorite library users!” Miss Delaine greeted when she hung up the telephone and closed the dictionary on the desk. “You look all excited.” She smiled at me.

“Yes'm. I need some information, and I don't know how to get it.”

“You came to the right place. What do you need?”

“I want to find out about someone who died somewhere,” I said.

“You mean a historical figure?” Miss Delaine asked.

“No,” I said. “I mean a woman who died last year down in Texas.”

She gave me a funny look, but she reached for a notepad and took the pen from behind her ear.

“I assume you have a name?”

“Yes'm,” I said. “Mrs. Emmaline Rance.” I didn't worry too much about her making any connection between Emmaline Rance and Jeffrey Rance. That old man probably didn't read and never used the library.

“And where in Texas?”

“Well, I don't know the town. But the county is Beauhide.”

“Beauhide?” She wrote that down too. “I need a date.”

“Around Christmastime, last year.”

“Hmm.” She stared down at the paper.

“Can you find out anything about how she died?” I asked.

That brought her eyes square on my face. “You want her obituary?”

“Will that tell about her and how she died, like if she had been strangled or poisoned or died from a long illness or got kicked in the head by a horse or something?” I asked.

She gave me another funny look, and I don't mean funny ha-ha. “It might. Sometimes all an obituary contains is the bare facts. You know, name, dates of birth and death, names of survivors.”

“Hmm,” I said.

The expression on her face said she might be fixing to ask me some probing questions, and I preferred not to blurt right out that I thought Mr. Rance might have rubbed out his missus.

I said, “Well, I'd like to know about her life. I'm getting ready to write an essay about Texas women who've died.”

She gave me the funniest look yet. “That's an odd topic.”

I thought fast. “Well, you know, I'm going into sixth grade, and I hear my teacher expects us to write lots and lots. I want to be prepared. In fact, I'm working on ‘What Happened During My Summer Vacation' already.”

She kept looking at me as if she thought I had two heads with a horn growing out of the middle of each one. But what she said was, “Well, I'm glad to see that you're getting prepared.”

You can tell that Miss Delaine has Real Class.

“Reckon we can locate more information on Mrs. Rance?” I asked.

She hesitated, then nodded. “I think so. I'll get in touch with the library in Beauhide County, see what they have. Will that work for you?”

I was so happy that my grin hurt my face.

“That'll be great!” Then I lowered my voice and added, “But could we keep this just between us? I don't want anyone else writing essays on women who've died in Texas.”

“Okay,” she whispered. “But I don't think you need to worry.”

“Not even my mama.” When Miss Delaine frowned, I added real quick, “I want to surprise her and Daddy with all my early writing.”

“All right. It'll be our secret.” As I turned to go find a book to check out, she said, “April Grace, I hope you'll let me read your composition. It sounds . . . fascinating.”

If all went well, my “composition” might get printed right there on the front page of the
Cedar Ridge Teller
, with big black headlines, and right next to it, a photo of Jeffrey Rance being hauled to the Big House for murdering his wife to get insurance money to buy a brand-new, red Dodge Ram and then hiding from the law on Rough Creek Road. If that happened, I wouldn't have to worry anymore about him doing Grandma any mischief.