State Fair (21 page)

For the second time, I repeated Jazz’s story.

After I finished, he waited a few seconds before commenting. “That is interesting, but there’s really nothing that helps us. He saw
something
?”

“I know it’s vague.”

“Just a little.”

“How much did you investigate that group he was involved with?”

“We talked to some of them. They are just a bunch of shaved head, leather-vested, prison-tattooed losers. Their ersatz leader claimed Cal was just one of dozens of high school kids who have hung around them over the years. He made a point to say they’d not been in touch with him for over six months.”

“Dozens? That’s a scary thought. Do you believe him?”

“Did some background research on the group. Southern Poverty Law Center in Montgomery has a boatload of information. This group is just one of thousands of tiny hate groups scattered like rotten seeds across this fair nation of ours. Law enforcement keeps one vigilant eye on them, but this group isn’t all that active on the Central Coast. Probably because we don’t have that many minorities for them to harass.”

I pulled off one boot, then the other, resting my feet up on the oak coffee table. “Do you think they could be behind the letters to Levi?”

“It’s possible. It’s a little hard to hide that he’s the first black fair manager. When they were questioned, they denied it, of course. If we were a television show, we’d get DNA off the letters, run it through our lab in ten minutes and nab the bad guys before the final beer commercial. Unfortunately, this is real life.”

“What about the quilt? Anything on it that helps?”

“Same thing. You know that.”

“So, sue me, I’m grasping for straws. But I do think the quilt connects Cal’s murder with those letters. Maybe Cal saw or heard about something that was going to take place at the fair, something to do with Levi.”

“You’d best take that straw and go buy yourself a chocolate soda. Leave the detecting to the big boys.”

“That is so sexist, Clouseau,” I said, just as Gabe walked into the living room. He frowned in my general direction. Scout bounded past him and pushed up against my leg, demanding a neck rub.

“So terminate my subscription to
Ms.
magazine.”

“Good night.”

“What did
he
want?” Gabe asked. His gingery scent was strong from the heat, but he was wearing jeans so they must have only gone for a walk, not a run.

“I was reporting in on what Jazz told me. She was so upset and she . . .” I patted the sofa next to me. “Let me fill you in.”

After I finished, I asked, “What do you think?”

“I think I dislike you being involved with anything to do with homicide investigations.”

“But . . .” I started.

He held up his hand. “I also know you can’t help but be there for your friends.” He leaned over and kissed the tip of my nose. “That’s one of the myriad reasons I love you.”

“Well,” I said, not knowing what to say. I’d expected a lecture.

“On the other hand . . .”

For some crazy reason, I was relieved. “Whew, I was beginning to think that some sweet, understanding alien had taken over my macho, protective husband.”

He pulled me to him. “I wish I could lock you in our bedroom until they find out who killed this guy.”

“This time, I almost wish that myself. This kind of thing is quickly losing its appeal for me. How did you do this for years? Investigate homicides, I mean? Didn’t it drive you crazy?”

“Sometimes. But don’t forget, I didn’t
know
any of the victims. Or their families. It was easier to disconnect from the tragedy and just consider the facts.”

“I’m exhausted and who knows what tomorrow will bring. I vote we hit the sack.” Scout let out a loud, doggie yawn.

Gabe laughed. “I guess it’s unanimous. Remember what Scarlett said. Tomorrow is another day.”

“I really don’t think Rhett had any intention of taking her back,” I said, following him up the stairs.

“Yes, he did,” Gabe argued.

“No way, Jose,” I said.

We argued about it good-naturedly until we kissed good night a half hour later. Gabe went right to sleep, but like the last few nights, I couldn’t seem to catch a ride on the dream train. The thought of Katsy, Maggie and Jazz out there by themselves, the reality that Cal’s killer was still wandering around was enough to cause me to stare wide-eyed at our bedroom’s shadows for a long time. Finally, I used the old standby insomnia cure that Dove had taught me as a child—repeating the Twenty-third Psalm.

Suddenly, it was morning and I was awakened by the intoxicating scent of frying bacon. Is there any better smell? Maybe fresh-brewed coffee, which also teased my nose. I pulled on shorts and a T-shirt. In the kitchen, Gabe was making cinnamon-buttermilk pancakes.

“Squeezed some fresh grapefruit juice,” he said, turning around to smile at me. Scout sat at his feet, hopeful nose quivering. “It’s in the refrigerator. How many pancakes do you want?”

I opened the refrigerator door. The cool air felt heavenly. “Three. Do you want juice?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said cheerfully.

I poured grapefruit juice into glasses and placed the full coffeepot in the middle of the table, within easy reach.

He slipped a stack of pancakes in front of me and offered me bacon, cooked crisp, just how I loved it. I took two pieces.

“Go ahead and start,” he said, turning back to the griddle. “They’re better when they’re hot.”

I didn’t argue and buttered my three pancakes, taking that first bite without syrup, enjoying the first spicy taste. Then I doused them with maple syrup.

When he sat down, I said, “Who are you and what have you done with my husband?”

“Old joke,” he said, smiling.

“Best I can do this early. Why the special breakfast?”

“You had a tough day yesterday.”

I took another bite of pancake. “Friday, I love you and I love your killer pancakes.”

While we were dressing for our respective days, the phone rang. I had a mouthful of toothpaste, so he answered it.

“Hey, Dove. Yes, she’s right here, but she’s foaming at the mouth.” He listened for a minute, then laughed. “No, we’re not fighting. Not at the moment, anyway. She’s brushing her teeth.”

I rinsed my mouth, then took the phone from him, kicking him lightly in the butt with the back of my bare foot. “Maybe you should change your last name to Leno. Hey, Gramma-o’-my-heart! What can I do for you?”

“Before you pick up Garnet, I need chicken feed. And dog food. And while you’re there, your daddy also has a new posthole digger that he needs picked up. You may as well save him the trip.”

I dabbed at a spot of toothpaste I’d dripped on my T-shirt. “Let me guess, you want me to go by the Farm Supply.”

“Garnet will be ready when you get here
if
you leave right now and don’t dawdle. I’m helping with 4-H market goats and then with the petting zoo.” Her voice went low. “She was prowling around again last night. I could hear her opening and closing drawers. She rearranged my junk drawer.”

“How can you tell?” I said. “We’ve been tossing things in that drawer willy-nilly for the last thirty years.”

“No backtalk, young lady! Just keep her busy and out of my hair.” My life with the sisters was beginning to feel a lot like Alice through the Looking Glass. Things were just a little off—Aunt Garnet was acting like Dove and Dove . . . well, I’d never say to my gramma’s face . . . but she was starting to remind me of the old Aunt Garnet.

“I’m not backtalking. It’s just that the junk drawer has never had any order so I’m a bit confused as to how you know it’s been rearranged.”

“Buy my chicken feed and get over here.” She hung up without saying good-bye.

Normally I’d be a little peeved, but since I had a stomach full of pancakes and a husband who was in a good mood, I let it go. “I’ll be there as quick as a bunny,” I said to the dial tone.

“Hop to it then,” Gabe said, coming out of the bathroom, tying his navy and green paisley tie.

“Ha-ha,” I said, pulling on my most comfortable Justin boots. It looked like it was going to be a long day. “I swear, today I’m going to pry it out of my aunt what is going on with her. Dove will have a stroke if this isn’t resolved soon.”

“Good luck,” he said, kissing the top of my head and giving Scout a scratch underneath his chin. “See you for dinner?”

“I have no idea. I’ll call you.”

Mondays were always a busy day at the Farm Supply, but even more so during fair time. In the last few months, my favorite store had moved two blocks, built a huge new building and tripled their clothing and housewares department. They were doing their best to accommodate the growing tourist trade and the people retiring up here to live the “country” life. I had to admit, though the influx of city transplants often annoyed me, I didn’t mind that they brought with them the money to help a hometown store like this survive and even thrive. Katey Vieira, the head buyer, said that almost one-quarter of the store’s income now came from the rural-themed boutique items.

I went directly to the feed store in back. The chicken feed, dog food and Daddy’s posthole digger were ready for me. While they arranged everything onto a product truck and wheeled it up front to load into my pickup, I wandered into the clothing section to inspect a new shipment of Wrangler shirts. Most were too fancy for my taste, but I found a couple I might add to my wardrobe. I was debating between a red plaid with white snap buttons and a plain blue chambray with black buttons when a familiar throaty voice called my name.

“Hey, Juliette,” I said, glancing around to see if Milt was with her. He was nowhere to be seen, which relieved me greatly. After his comments yesterday, I wasn’t sure I could look him in the face without showing my disgust. A poker face was not one of God’s gifts to me. “Doing some shopping?”

She lowered her voice. “Oh, I don’t buy clothes here. The quality isn’t quite up to par. I’m sure you know what I mean. They try real hard, but, you know . . .Well, Manuel’s it isn’t.”

I hoped Katey wasn’t anywhere within earshot. She was a nice girl and I liked many of the clothes she bought for Farm Supply. I almost told Juliette that owning a Manuel wasn’t all that special. I actually owned a shirt and a dress made by the famous Western designer—compliments of my rich cousin—but what would that accomplish?

“Nothing fits me better than Wrangler brand,” I said instead. “I think I’ll get this blue shirt.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” she said, trying to backtrack. “I mean, sometimes you just like to wear something simple.”

I glanced down at my watch. “Wow, look at the time. I have to go pick up my great-aunt and take her back to the fair.”

She started flipping through the rack, plastic hangers clicking like castanets. “I’m already so sick of that place. Milt insists we go every night to the Bull Pen. Says it’s good for business. But, honestly, most of those people buy new vehicles. I keep telling him he ought to get into selling new. We’d have a higher-class clientele.”

I didn’t know exactly how to continue this conversation. Though I’d known Juliette since high school, we’d never hung out with the same crowd. She’d always been a bit of a social climber, though certainly not the most obnoxious one I’d ever known. And she did have her good side, like donating her prize money to the battered women’s shelter. But when she went all elitist like this, I just didn’t know how to respond without sounding snippy.

“I mean,” she continued, “the San Celina fair is nice, but it’s not like it’s the Texas State Fair or the Houston Livestock Show.”

“Are you from Texas?” Her choice of comparisons surprised me. Usually I could discern even the slightest Texas accent since that was where my first husband was born and lived until he was a young teen. And I’d known Juliette since high school. Why hadn’t this come up before?

“I was born in Oregon, but my heart belongs to Texas. We moved there when I was ten after Dad was killed in a logging accident. I love Oregon too, but mostly ’cause of my dad. He was once a minor league baseball player.” Her eyes softened at the mention of her father. “I used to be real good at softball myself. My dad started teaching me how to hit and throw a good pitch when I was barely four. I played pony league softball until he died. Dad said I could pitch as straight as some of the pros he’d known.” Her lips turned down at the edges. “Mom hated me being so tomboy, so when we went to live with her family in Texas, she put me in pageants.”

“So, how’d you end up here?”

She a vague, half smile. “Oh, you know, Mom met some guy, married him and he was from here.”

I’d seen her stepdad before at a few of the homecomings where she’d been nominated. He was a tall, thin man who worked at the Mid-State Bank. The only reason I knew that is the bank had sponsored many of her runs for Miss San Celina Rodeo. “I didn’t realize your father was your stepdad.”

“Lots of people say that. It’s only ’cause he’s tall. Actually, my real father was only an inch taller than I am now. My grandma said I got my height from my grandfather’s side. I won my first queen title in Texas. Miss Santa Teresita Junior Rodeo. I was thirteen years old. Mama was so proud. She loved beauty pageants, but the only ones she could first convince me to enter were the ones where I got to ride horses. I was knobby-kneed and snaggle-toothed and there were only two other contestants, but I don’t think I’ve ever loved a crown as much as that one.”

She smiled and I could almost see the gawky, horse-crazy thirteen-year-old girl who adored her daddy. How did you end up marrying Milt Piebald? I wanted to ask.

“Say,” she said, abruptly changing the subject, “have you heard anything about that boy who was killed?” Her blue eyes were bright and inquisitive behind black spiky eyelashes.

“Only what I’ve read in the newspaper. Why?” It kind of embarrassed me how quickly the lie tumbled from my lips.