State Fair (11 page)

I was going to say paranoid, but my gramma didn’t raise no dummy.

“Where is Aunt Garnet anyway?” Changing the subject sometimes worked.

Dove pointed her thumb in the direction of the home arts building. “Watching the cake-decorating demonstration. Probably telling them how they’re doing it all wrong.”

“So, she’s out of your hair for a little while. Why don’t you go watch the 4-H kids show their lambs? You know how you love that.”

Dove was a sucker for a cute kid in a green-and-white 4-H uniform. She’d spent a good part of my youth hauling around a “bag of whites” to supplement the uniforms of her 4-H kids whose sizes seemed to change by the hour.

“Well . . .” she said, contemplating my suggestion.

“Change of subject, just for a minute, okay? I need your advice.”

She gave me a suspicious look, certain that I was making up an excuse to stop her complaining about her sister. Then again, she could never resist giving her opinion. “About what?”

I quickly told her about the letters Levi had received and what I’d overheard Milt say last night.

Dove tsked under her breath. “Lord, Lord, some things never change.”

“Gabe thinks that Milt’s just a jerk saying stupid things, but I’m worried they might be connected. Should I tell Levi about what Milt said? And there’s something else.” I told her how Dodge Burnside threatened Jazz in the parking lot yesterday. “Should I tell Levi about that too? Maggie and Katsy say that Jazz isn’t a kid anymore and that it might not be our place to tattle on her. Do you think I’m just being a busybody?” I leaned against the wall of the warm building.

Dove patted my cheek with her soft palm. “Of course you’re being a busybody, but only because you care about this girl. Try to convince Jazz to tell her daddy herself about what happened with this Burnside boy. She might surprise you and agree. But if she doesn’t want to, you’d best stay out of it since it’d be better for her to stay speaking to you than not. As for what Milt said, well, I’m not sure it would do any good to tell Levi about that. This isn’t likely the first time Milt has talked trash about Levi and probably won’t be the last. Right now, Levi doesn’t need more things to fret about. He’s got a full enough plate.”

I hugged my gramma, inhaling the sweet scent of her Coty face powder. “You are so wise.”

She gave me a little push. “Now, back to me. What am I going to do about Garnet?”

“Why don’t you let me be her chauffeur for the rest of the day? That’ll give you a break. How long is she supposed to stay anyway?”

Dove gave a little growl. “She will not give me a going home date! That woman is up to something.”

“Maybe it’s not your corn bread recipe she’s after. Maybe it’s something else entirely.” The minute the words were out of my mouth, I tried to grab them back. I slapped the side of my head. “Crazy me, what am I saying? She’s just here to visit you and—”

“You’re right,” Dove said, her voice pitched low with realization. “The question is what? You keep her as long as you can, honeybun. I’m heading back to the ranch to phone WW back in Sugartree, see if I can pry anything out of him. I’ll bribe him with my snickerdoodle cookies.”

I watched her stride away, as much as a five-foot-tall woman with a twenty-eight-inch inseam could stride, and wondered if somehow she’d again outfoxed me. Maybe the whole story about Aunt Garnet wanting her corn bread recipe or going through her books was just a ruse to trick me into entertaining Aunt Garnet. If it was, it had worked. Which left no doubt that Dove Ramsey Lyons was still the smartest hen in the chicken coop.

I called Gabe on my cell and told him that now that I was Aunt Garnet’s escort, we’d probably leave the fairgrounds for lunch since I was pretty sure a cheeseburger at the Kiwanis booth wasn’t up to her persnickety standards. With the heat, I couldn’t imagine that she’d want to stay around the fairgrounds the entire day.

According to the daily fair schedule, the cake-decorating demonstration had another forty-five minutes to go, so I walked back into the commercial building and wandered the aisles looking at turquoise jewelry from New Mexico, magic mops, sewing machines that could practically drive your car, American flags from every time period in our history, fireplace mantels, CDs from the All American Boys’ Choir, rhinestone cell phone accessories, ladders that looked like you’d need a degree in engineering to fold and unfold, Jacuzzi spas, the ever-present Gilroy garlic products, a man selling honey who wore a hat shaped like a beehive and, my personal favorite, the Electronic Personality Handwriting Analysis. Jack, Elvia and I never could resist this booth, doing it three or four times each fair when we were teenagers just to prove that it was fake. One time Jack and I got the exact same “analysis.”

“See,” he’d said. “We’re perfect for each other.”

“Get your personality analyzed,” the twentyish-looking man with a ring in each nostril announced in a bored voice. He handed me the blue and white form with a space to sign my name. “For three dollars our supercomputer will reveal who you are.”

“What a bargain,” I said. “Except it used to cost me fifty cents to find out who I was.”

His expression slid from bored to apathetic. I was only thirty-nine, but to him I was a boring old lady.

“Shoot howdy,” Dove used to say when I read them out loud to her. “I could tell you the same thing and I’d only charge you a quarter.”

It was silly, but it was also a tradition so I signed my name with a flourish—Albenia Louise Harper Ortiz—and gave it to the hawker. The “supercomputer” with its flashing lights and tinny sound track spit out my “analysis” in about a minute.

I smiled to myself. They hadn’t changed. The one thing you could count on was the “analysis” could really apply to anyone’s personality. The line about my highly evolved investigative abilities pleased me. That would give Gabe a laugh. I stuck the paper in my backpack and grabbed a free cup of icy water from the Arrowhead Spring Water booth before heading over to the home arts building.

The cake-decorating demonstration lady was squeezing the final bit of red piping on a dark chocolate cake when I slipped into the empty chair next to Aunt Garnet.

“Hey, Aunt Garnet,” I said, putting my arm around her knobby shoulders and giving her a hug. “Are you having fun?” She smelled like fresh mint leaves.

“Where have you been hiding?” she asked. “I arrived a good twenty-four hours ago and this is the first I’ve seen hide or hair of you.”

Two seconds in her presence and I was getting scolded. I was already regretting my offer to relieve Dove. I sat back in my chair and faced forward, trying not to let her see that she’d ruffled my feathers. The trick with Aunt Garnet was to feign complete neutrality so she couldn’t ferret out your weak spots.

“I’m here now,” I said cheerfully, “and I’m going to be your personal chauffeur for the rest of the day.” I didn’t glance over to gauge her reaction but concentrated on the Martha Stewart clone showing the audience how to make perfect-every-time frosting roses. How did she get the frosting that deep dark red? It kind of reminded me of blood.

“Where’s Dove?” Garnet asked. “What does she have to do that’s more important than visiting with her only sister?”

I turned to look at my great-aunt, amazed as always, at how physically different she was from her only sibling. Dove was short, plump and had white hair that she wore in a long braid down her back, while Garnet was taller by a vast three inches, thin to the point of gauntness and had short, tightly curled hair that reminded me of a poodle. Only their hair color was the same—the silvery white of former redheads. I mentally put that on my to-do list—find a beauty parlor for Aunt Garnet. Dove wouldn’t have the first clue about hair salons—I trimmed her hair when she needed it, as she did mine—but Aunt Garnet was definitely the weekly wash-and-set type. Maybe one of the docents at the folk art museum could recommend one that specialized in helmet-haired ladies.

I ignored her question and opened up my fair program. “There’s lots of stuff to see at the fair. Plus I want to take you by the folk art museum and you’ve always liked the chicken and dumplings at Liddie’s so I thought we’d go there for lunch and, of course, there’s Blind Harry’s bookstore. I know you want to see Emory’s baby. I’m sure Dove told you her middle name is Louise like yours and mine. Actually Sophia Louisa, but Emory and I call her Sophie Lou. She’s as beautiful as an Italian painting, but, of course, I’m a little partial—”

“You know,” Aunt Garnet said, abruptly standing up. “I’m not ignorant. I know my sister pushed me off on you. You can just take me back to the ranch. You don’t need to force yourself to entertain me.” Her voice, normally sharp and demanding as a mockingbird’s, sounded a little . . . hurt.

I stood up and took her arm in mine. “Nonsense.” I cringed at my choice of words. I sounded like . . . well . . . Aunt Garnet. “It was my idea. You and I have not spent enough time together and I thought it would be fun. You and Dove will have plenty of time to visit.”

I think her face actually softened and her thin, tangerine-painted lips turned up into a hint of a smile. “Why, Benni Harper, that sounds real nice.”

“It’s Benni Harper Ortiz now,” I said, patting her dry, powdery hand. “Did Dove tell you I took Gabe’s name?”

Aunt Garnet gave me a wider, approving smile. “No, she didn’t. I’m so proud of you. I have prayed and prayed for your stubborn heart to soften toward that dear, patient husband of yours.”

The smile on my face felt frozen. I gritted my back teeth. Be nice, I told myself, be understanding. “Yes, Gabe is a good man. He’s here at the fair. Maybe we’ll run into him.”

She continued smiling, clueless about how her words had sounded. She grasped my hand and I could feel a small tremor. Guilt pushed aside my irritation. Okay, she was old and cranky and certainly judgmental. But she
was
my great-aunt and I
did
promise Dove.

“Let’s go see the Family Farm exhibits,” I said. “They are something I think you’ll enjoy. Then, unless you want to eat here at the fair, we can drive into San Celina and have lunch there. I’d love to show you the improvements we’ve made at the folk art museum.”

“Lead the way,” she said.

Fortunately we didn’t have to walk far in the hot, sticky air since the agriculture building was right next door. The blessed swamp coolers were valiantly doing their job. While we wandered from exhibit to exhibit Aunt Garnet gave a running commentary on how each one reminded her of something about the farm where she and Dove grew up in Sugartree, Arkansas. The land had long ago been sold out of the family and Aunt Garnet and Uncle WW lived in town. But whenever Dove visited Arkansas, she and Garnet drove the twenty miles out of town to visit the old barn they played in as girls.

It was the only thing left of the farm.

“Oh my,” Aunt Garnet said when we came up to the Piebald Family Farm exhibit. “I reckon I can see why this one took the grand prize.”

“I suppose,” I said, still rankled by the award. “Actually, there’s some controversy about it. Some people think they might not have designed the exhibit themselves, which kind of ruins the whole point of the competition.”

Her face looked thoughtful. “Yes, that would bother folks. I suppose there are people like that everywhere, just have to win no matter what it takes.”

I looked at her in surprise. It sounded so unlike her. The observation was actually
nice
. Maybe Aunt Garnet was softening in her old age. I could hear Dove’s voice murmuring, “And I’ve got some beachfront property in Little Rock I’d like to sell you for a wooden nickel.”

“Look at that old pickup truck,” Aunt Garnet said. “Daddy used to call them pick-me-up trucks. He had one just like that, only it was dark blue. I remember many times taking cold lemonade out to him in the barn when he was working on that truck. Just like that there dummy. Seeing those legs sticking out like that just brings back Daddy like it was yesterday.”

I heard her sniff and turned to witness a tear running down her wrinkled cheek. Aunt Garnet crying? I’d never seen her cry.

Not wanting to embarrass her, I turned back to look at the Piebald exhibit, studying the truck that had made her so emotional. I stared at the crazy grinning stuffed sheep, the panicked cows, the sign—Templeton Cattle Auction or Bust. Something looked different. I glanced down at the jean-clad legs sticking out from underneath the truck’s shell. Legs.
Legs?
Legs that hadn’t been there yesterday. It felt like the blood in my temples had suddenly doubled.

I cleared my throat. “Aunt Garnet, why don’t you sit over here on this bench and collect your bearings. The air in here is kind of close.”

“Thank you, dear, I believe you might be right.”

I helped her over to a bench in the center of the exhibition hall, then strolled casually back to the Piebald exhibit. I sidled close to the white picket fence enclosing their exhibit, trying not to appear suspicious. Unless the Piebalds had decided since last night to add something extra to their bucolic barnyard exhibit there was something dreadfully wrong.

I reached over the short fence and poked the leg, hoping to feel the give of hay or polyester stuffing. It was solid as a wood beam. My heart did a loopy dive, like the first twist on a Tilt-A-Whirl.

I pulled out my cell phone and dialed Hud. He answered on the second ring.

“Detective Hudson.” His husky voice sounded bored.