State Fair (20 page)

She flung the door open, took one look at me and burst into tears.

“O
H, SWEETIE,” I SAID, ENCIRCLING HER WITH MY ARMS. HER sobs were deep and intense, her shoulder blades as delicate as a kitten’s. Abruptly, she broke away, motioning me into the room. Once I was over the threshold, she locked the door behind us, which seemed a little over the top. And certainly unnecessary. But I cut her slack. She was only a kid and she’d lost someone close to her in a violent way.

“I really need to talk to you,” Jazz said, giving a small hiccup and wiping her swollen eyes with the back of her hand.

“Okay,” I said, sitting down on the double bed. “What about?”

She flopped down next to me. The bed was covered with an old-fashioned chenille bedspread the color of buttered popcorn. The head-board was an off-white Shabby Chic style that someone—likely Jazz or Katsy—had hand-painted with local wildflowers—electric blue columbine, Orangesicle California poppies and school bus yellow wild mustard.

I took Jazz’s hand. “You are scaring Maggie and Katsy to death.” Inwardly, I flinched at my insensitive word choice. “Anything you tell me, you can tell them.”

She shook her head, her green eyes welling with tears. “They wouldn’t understand. Maggie and Katsy . . . well, I love them, I do! They are . . . they’re great. Like my sisters. I really, really want Dad to marry Katsy. She’s awesome and Maggie . . . she’s the best. I so, so admire them. But they wouldn’t
get
this like you do.”

I scratched my cheek, momentarily confused. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“I’m part white too,” she said fiercely. “People always forget that. It’s like when my mom died, that part of me died too. It’s not fair. When you die, people just forget you.” Her bottom lip started quivering. “Like Cal. Except for me, no one cares that he’s dead.”

I pressed my lips together, not certain how to answer. So I just squeezed her hand in sympathy.

She didn’t speak and the expression on her face looked expectant.

“I understand it’s not fair,” I finally said. “I’m always telling my gramma Dove that things aren’t fair and she just tells me fare is something you pay to ride the bus.” I gave a tentative smile. “Frankly, I wish she’d come up with a new saying.”

She didn’t return my smile. I knew this wasn’t a joking matter, but I was floundering because I didn’t have any particularly wise words of advice. How could I tell someone almost twenty years younger than me that most of the time I was as confused by people’s actions as she was? Was there really any adequate explanation for why people hate? “I’m so sorry about Cal. Is there anything I can do for you?”

She turned her head, looking out a window that still had the ancient, wavy glass of the original house. It made the olive tree outside the house resemble a surrealist painting. “Maybe I know kind of why he was killed?”

I let go of her hand and felt my spine stiffen. “What?”

She continued staring out the window. “The night before he died, we left the fair about nine p.m. It was still really hot so we decided to go swimming at my house.” She started running the palm of her hand across the chenille bedspread’s bumpy pattern. “We swam and then I made us some peanut butter sandwiches. When I was walking out with him to his truck, he said he was thinking about leaving town for a while.” She turned her head to look at me. Her eyes were red-rimmed and teary again. “I really, really liked him, Benni. He was not at all what people thought. He wrote poems and songs. Really awesome ones. He listened to me. Not many guys ever do that. They all want . . .” She looked back down at the bedspread. She fanned her hand out, her fingers reminding me of the handprint turkeys kids draw at Thanksgiving. “He and I talked about deep stuff, like how what happens to us as kids makes us the people we are. He doesn’t even remember his mom. His dad died when he was thirteen.” A tear rolled down her cheek. “He spent most of his life living with people he didn’t even know. He lived so many different places before he turned eighteen. Everything he owned fit in a gym bag. Isn’t that just so sad?”

It was and there was not one thing I could say that would lessen the tragedy of Cal’s short, troubled life.

“He was so excited about getting his GED,” she continued, “and maybe going to college. He loved animals. He wanted to be a veterinarian or learn to make saddles.”

Her expression was completely guileless, with the faith and hope that I remembered having at her age. It was truly a blessing to have that time in your life when anything seemed possible.

I let her talk about Cal’s dreams for a few more minutes before I finally broke in. “He sounds like he was a wonderful young man. I’m glad he had you, Jazz. He was lucky.”

She gave me a surprised look. “Oh, Benni, I was lucky too.”

“You’re right. And finding out who did this to him would be a wonderful way to honor his life.”

“That’s why I wanted to talk to you. I mean, besides the fact that you kind of understand since you and Gabe are different like Cal and me. You’re friends with that detective. You can tell him what I’m going to tell you.”

“Why don’t you just tell Detective Hudson yourself?”

She wouldn’t meet my eyes. “I just don’t want to.”

I knew this was a traumatic event for her, but it also seemed like she was making things more dramatic than they needed to be. It really wasn’t necessary for me to be the go-between for her and Hud. But if it made her feel better, I supposed it was the least I could do. “Why don’t you just tell me what Cal told you and together we’ll figure out what to do?”

She leaned close to me, her voice low and urgent. “For one thing, you know he once hung with some people who were kind of skinheads?”

“Yes, I heard about that. But hadn’t Cal stopped associating with them?”

She nodded vehemently. “They didn’t like that at all. Especially when they found out about him and me.”

“How did they find that out?”

She lifted up her shoulders. “Who knows? People saw us. Maybe someone told them.”

My first thought was Dodge Burnside. “So, what did they do?”

“Mostly just called him and said stuff.”

“Stuff?”

“Like being a traitor to his own race. They said he’d be sorry for hanging around a half-breed. He was so embarrassed about ever being friends with them. He didn’t want to tell me, but I pried it out of him.” Her nostrils flared. “They said things about my dad and Katsy and Maggie. About what they’d like to do to . . . hurt us. Cal didn’t want to tell me that either, but he said we should know.”

“Did you tell your dad?”

“Not yet. Cal told me all this last night. Right before he was . . .” She gave a small sob. “Maybe they killed him! One of them . . . those people who said those horrible things.”

“Detective Hudson definitely needs to know this.”

She looked back down at the chenille spread. “There’s something else.”

“Yes?”

“He found out something about someone that wasn’t right.”

“Something illegal?”

Her bottom lip quivered slightly. “He wouldn’t tell me. He just said he was going to talk to the person about it, see if they’d stop. If they didn’t, then he’d tell someone because it was the right thing to do.”

“Someone like the police?”

She bit her bottom lip, her teeth white against her lips. “I guess.” “Do you have
any
idea what he saw or who he was talking about?” My insides turn cold. There might be more in danger than any of us realized.

She shook her head again. “Cal didn’t want me to be involved. He said he would try to make the person stop what they’re doing.” A small sob caught in her throat. “Maybe whoever he talked to killed him?”

A good possibility, but I didn’t want to panic her. Her emotions were already in high gear. “It would be better if you told the detective all this.”

“Can’t you tell him? I don’t want to talk to the police again.”

“I can, but I’m warning you, he will want to talk to you again.” I stood up, pulling down the legs of my Wranglers. “Why didn’t you tell this to the police when they first questioned you?”

Confusion and regret washed over her face. “I don’t know, I don’t know! I was so scared. And I didn’t want people to think Cal was terrible because he hung out with those guys. Besides Cal was so serious about me not telling
anyone.
He said he could take care of it. I believed him.”

Oh, the brazen confidence of the young. The minute that thought came into my mind, I wondered how many times my dad and gramma had thought the same thing about me.

“I’ll call Detective Hudson,” I said, keeping my voice calm. “But Katsy and Maggie have a right to know if . . .” I stopped, not wanting to actually say it out loud—they had a right to know if their lives were in danger. “You need to tell your dad about this. Tonight.”

She dropped her head, studying her bare feet. Her toenails were painted a bright glittery purple. “I’ll call him right now.” She looked back up at me. “Could you tell Maggie and Katsy?”

I went back into the kitchen where Maggie was chopping tomatoes. Their fresh, sweet, earthy scent floated across the room. A tomato-mayonnaise sandwich eaten in front of my own television sounded so good right now.

Katsy stood scrubbing her hands in the deep farm kitchen sink. Their kitchen, one of the first rooms they’d renovated in the old ranch house, had natural pine cabinets with glass doors and pale speckled granite countertops. The pure white walls set off their collection of colorful, odd-sized folk art paintings with an emphasis on dogs, horses and cows. The paintings lit up the room with color. Bess and Harry lay on the braided rag rug in front of the back door.

“Houston,” I said, folding my arms across my chest and leaning against the kitchen threshold, “we have a problem.”

“Obviously,” Katsy said, not turning around, “but is the problem one we can solve?”

I repeated my conversation with Jazz. Katsy and Maggie listened intently, their faces shiny with perspiration. Unlike Jazz, I don’t think they much cared about Cal’s love of poetry or his tenuous dreams of becoming a veterinarian or a saddlemaker.

“She’s safer out here,” Katsy said flatly. “We have shotguns and Bess and Harry will discourage anyone who would think half a second about breaking in.”

I didn’t want to contradict her, but I was afraid that being so far out in the country might be less safe. It would take law enforcement at least a half hour, maybe longer, to get here once they were called. Then again, this was their home. Their mother had leased the ranch for years and when she died, her life insurance enabled Katsy and Maggie to put a down payment and obtain a mortgage. I knew these two well. They were ranch-tough women who could take care of themselves. They would never let anyone run them off their own property.

“I told her she should talk to her dad,” I said. “She’s calling Levi now.”

He and the Morrison women could decide whether Jazz should stay here or go back home. That was certainly not something they needed my input on.

“How about some supper?” Maggie said, holding up a halibut steak.

“Thanks, but I need to hit the road. I’ll call Hud and tell him what Jazz told me. Guess we’ll just have to wait for what comes next.”

Maggie walked me out to my truck, Harry trotting beside us. Though it was almost eight o’clock and the sun had dipped below the treetops, the temperature was still in the nineties. Harry’s tongue was rock-star long, dripping with saliva. I looked forward to my truck’s icy air-conditioning.

“What’s on your schedule for tomorrow?” Maggie asked.

“I’m not on the list to help anyone, but Dove will likely drop Aunt Garnet in my lap again so I guess I’ll see what she wants to do.”

“It’s back to real work for me. Gabe has a packed day.” She made a face. “I hate Mondays.”

“I’ll let you know what Hud says.” I leaned over and hugged her hard. “Be safe, Maggie. Don’t try to do this alone.”

She hugged me back. “Don’t you worry, Benni. Katsy and I have no desire to be martyrs.” Her tone was light, but I could hear the tension underneath, like a buzzing electrical line.

I pulled out my cell phone. No bars. “Could you call the chief and let him know I’m on my way home?”

“You bet, girlfriend.”

Gabe and Scout weren’t there when I walked into the living room, but I checked the answering machine. Gabe had listened to Maggie’s message. A note on the pad next to the phone said they went for a quick walk. It was fifteen degrees cooler in San Celina, a relief after the North County’s heat. I grabbed a Coke out of the refrigerator and dialed Hud’s home phone number.

“Hud? It’s Benni.” I flopped down on the sofa and took a drag from my Coke.

“Hey, ranch girl. What’s up?”

“I just got back from the Morrison ranch. Jazz is staying there.”

“Yes?”