State Fair (23 page)

I leaned the posthole digger against the side of the porch, subtly searching her face for illness. “We don’t have to go to the fair today if you’re tired. We can, you know, just hang out here if you want.”

She touched a finger to her upper lip. “Nonsense. I’m raring to go.”

Raring
wasn’t the word I’d have chosen, but I wasn’t about to contradict her. I gave her a big smile. “We’ve got dozens of fair activities to choose from today. Hope you’re ready for some fun.”

Her return smile was tremulous, but sincere. “Fun is my middle name.”

“Do you want to drop by the folk art museum first so you can see the new exhibits?”

“That sounds delightful. I want to do as much as I possibly can while I’m here.” She opened the passenger door.

“Before we go, I need to ask Dove something.” Specifically, if she’d ferreted out any information from Uncle WW.

“Then you’ll have to call her on that little phone of hers,” Aunt Garnet said. “Sister was up and out of here this morning before I could finish my cup of tea. She’s avoiding me.” Her voice sounded hurt.

“It’s just fair time,” I said, covering for Dove who was likely doing just that. “She always overextends herself. You two will have plenty of time to catch up after the fair.”

She looked out the side window. “I suppose.”

On the way to the folk art museum, I told her about the African American quilt exhibit, the research I had to do and how excited I was that an old college friend of Katsy’s had lent the museum part of her black cloth doll collection to complement our quilt exhibit.

“What exactly are black cloth dolls?” Aunt Garnet asked.

“Before Katsy introduced me to Rona Chappell, I’d never heard of them. Rona is an actress. She acquired her first black cloth doll about thirty years ago when she was a little girl. Her mama bought and sold antiques in Oxford, Mississippi. Rona saw the doll at an estate sale, one of those old plantations being sold out of the family. She said it was the first black doll she’d ever seen. Her mama bought it for some ridiculous amount because back in the sixties not many people recognized their cultural significance.” I turned left on the highway and started toward San Celina.

“It’s remarkable that any survived,” Aunt Garnet said. “I’m assuming they were made for children?”

“That’s what historians assume. The earliest ones were made somewhere around the 1870s. Some were definitely designed and stitched by slaves and it’s a good guess they were toys for their children. But they were also made by free black women for fund-raising bazaars of the nineteenth century to raise money for antislavery societies.”

“You’ve really done your homework,” Aunt Garnet said. “Good girl.”

“Thank you.” I felt myself flush with pleasure. It was nice having her admire something I’d worked hard on rather than nag at me. But, again, I felt a ragged pit of worry gnaw in my stomach. People could change, but it often took something dramatic to make that happen. Something had to be really wrong with Aunt Garnet. Without warning, tears burned behind my eyes. I cleared my throat trying to control them.

“Got a frog in your throat?” she asked.

“Allergies. So, Rona got hooked on collecting them. She has one of the most extensive collections in the world. She loaned us twenty of them. We have dolls from all three periods when they were popular, from the 1870s to the 1930s.”

“What happened after that?”

“Commercial doll making really took off after World War I and handmade dolls weren’t as popular. Though what Rona told me is from 1930s to the ’60s the dolls made by manufacturers were mostly white. African American girls again only had the choice of dolls who didn’t look like them. It wasn’t until after the civil rights legislation was passed in the 1960s that black dolls slowly started appearing in the commercial marketplace. Now we have all sorts of African American dolls—Barbies, Cabbage Patch dolls and Raggedy Anns and Andys.”

Aunt Garnet looked down at her pocketbook, clutched in her thin hands. “Things are certainly better now, but we’ve still a long way to go. Look at what is going on with Mr. Clark.”

We pulled up in front of the folk art museum. The parking lot was more crowded than I expected for a Monday, the day we were officially closed. I turned off the ignition and started to open my door.

Aunt Garnet reached across the bench seat and touched my forearm.

“Benni, before we go in, I have an important question.” Her face was neutral, but her pale-lashed eyes intent.

I inhaled a deeply. This was it. She was finally going to tell me what was wrong. “Yes?”

“Our case. Have you found out anything new?”

A groan itched at the back of my throat. All she wanted was news on the case. “Now that you mention it, there are a couple of developments.” I repeated what Jazz told me last night. “And something happened at the Farm Supply this morning. I have a feeling you might be right about there being a relationship of some kind between Juliette Piebald and a Burnside man, but it might not be the one we first suspected.” I told her what I thought I saw between Lloyd and Juliette. I didn’t mention Dodge harassing me at the Farm Supply. There was no point worrying her. “Now, I don’t know what she really gave him, maybe a note or something, but there was definitely physical contact.”

“Do you think they made you?” she asked eagerly.

“Huh?”

“
Made you
. You know, did they notice that they were under surveillance? My book says that a good way to know if they made you is if they give you the finger.”

“What?” This time it came out as a squawk.

“It’s a joke, Benni.”

I wanted to laugh. Except I was kind of afraid to. “What book?”

“
Homicide Investigation for Dum-Dums
. I bought it in Little Rock. Are you going to inform Detective Hudson?”

“Maybe,” I stuttered, still stunned by her reference book and the finger joke. “There’s actually nothing concrete to tell him.”

“Still,” she said firmly. “We must keep him in the loop. Otherwise, he won’t return the favor.” She opened the truck door and swung her legs out. “I think we need to pay Detective Hudson an official visit, see if we can pump him for new info.”

“If we have time.” Though, I thought, it might be quite amusing watching Aunt Garnet badger Hud for information.

“The museum looks lovely,” Aunt Garnet said, standing in front and taking in the white-washed hacienda buildings.

“D-Daddy’s definitely a miracle worker,” I said, waving at my part-time assistant who was watering the half wine barrel planters filled with San Celina native wildflowers. He was worth twenty times what we could pay him. The folk art museum and the stables that now housed the artists’ co-op looked as if they were cared for by a team of caretakers, not just one dedicated ex-fishing-boat captain.

“Hello, Mr. Boudreaux,” Aunt Garnet called. “How are you this fine summer day?”

“
Bonjour,
Mademoiselle Garnet,” he replied in his lilting Cajun French. “
Comment ça va?
” He gave her a little bow.

She returned with a flirty little wave.

“Why, Aunt Garnet, you tease,” I whispered. “I’m going to tell Uncle WW on you.”

“Oh, pshaw,” she said. “William Wiley wouldn’t care one little bit.” Her eyes moistened, and then she shook her head. “Let’s go see the dolls.” She walked ahead of me without looking back.

I scurried to catch up with her.

“How’s it going?” I asked Kay, who was straightening up the tiny gift shop in the museum lobby, getting ready for tomorrow. She pointed up at two black cloth dolls sitting on a long, almost empty shelf. The dolls had been handmade by members of the Ebony Sisters Quilt Guild.

“Tell the Sisters we need more dolls,” she said, pushing back a strand of her short, silver-streaked hair. “We’re down to our last two!”

“That’s wonderful! I’ll let Flory Jackson know. She’s coordinating the boutique items for this exhibit.”

Aunt Garnet came up beside me and picked up one of the dolls. “Jeanetta, the young woman who plays organ at Sugartree Baptist, just had a little girl. This is the perfect gift.”

“It’s signed,” I told her, lifting up the edge of the doll’s blue calico print dress and showing Aunt Garnet the signed and dated label. “Don’t forget to take the pamphlet we made to go with the dolls, in case Jeanetta doesn’t know the history of black cloth dolls.”

While Aunt Garnet paid for the doll, I made a mental note about making a phone call to our store downtown and see how they were doing. Between both gift shops and the booth at the fair, August might prove to be our most profitable month this year. That would make Constance Sinclair, our biggest benefactor, and the woman who donated her family’s hacienda for the museum, very happy. She was always threatening that she couldn’t personally fund the folk art museum forever. As a group, we’d worked hard to support ourselves and, as of last month, her contribution was only 15 percent of our monthly budget, down from 30 percent a year ago.

“Let’s do a quick walk through the exhibit,” I said to Aunt Garnet. “It’s eleven o’clock and the Cattlemen’s Lunch starts at noon sharp.”

“No rush, I ate a large breakfast.”

“Okay, then let’s take our time and eat later. They serve for four hours.”

“Let’s go,” she said, clutching her tissue-wrapped doll.

By the time we’d toured the quilts, it was past noon. I helped Aunt Garnet into the truck. “Still not hungry?”

“Not especially.”

“We could go to the pig races then. They’re inside an air-conditioned building this year. The races only last about a half hour. By then the Cattlemen’s Lunch two o’clock seating should be starting. It’s usually not as packed.”

“You’re the boss,” she said cheerfully. “I’m game for anything.”

Again, I mentally shook my head in wonderment. My aunt Garnet had always been the one who’d plan each and every outing with the preciseness and command of a five-star general. Now she was a free spirit. Was running barefoot through a field with flowers in her hair next?

At the fair parking lot we scored big-time and found a space someone had just vacated underneath a leafy oak trees. Now the inside of my truck would only heat up to 110 rather than 130 degrees. I fit the sun shade across the dashboard, cracked my windows and surprised my aunt with a colorful parasol that I’d found at the folk art museum.

“This should make walking around slightly more pleasant.”

“Why, thank you,” she said, giving it a little twirl. “I feel like a character in the movie
State Fair
.”

“I loved that movie! Pat Boone and Bobby Darin were great.” Aunt Garnet’s face looked surprised. Then she chuckled. “I was thinking of the 1945 one starring Jeanne Crain and Dana Andrews.”

I laughed with her. “That’s right, there’re two movies. Dove likes the 1945 one too. Can you imagine a third remake being done in the 1990s?”

Aunt Garnet gave a distinctly unladylike snort. “Starring Leonardo DiCaprio and Jennifer Aniston?”

“Pamela Anderson playing the bad girl?”

“She’s no Vivian Blaine.”

“Or Ann Margaret,” I added.

The bleachers of the Great Kansas Pig Races were filling up fast by the time we arrived. Fortunately, I spotted Emory across the circular track. Though he was too far away for even my loud voice to reach him, I knew his cell phone number by heart.

“Emory Littleton here.”

I waved at him. “Look across the arena.”

He saw me and waved back. “What’s up, sweetcakes?”

“Do you see any seats over there for me and Aunt Garnet?”

“She can have mine next to the announcer. You’ll have to fend for yourself.”

“That’s perfect.” I pointed at Emory. “Aunt Garnet, Emory’s got a good seat for you over there.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll meet you at the entrance here right after the races. Now don’t go betting the farm.”

She arched her eyebrows. “Back at you.”

I watched her push her way through the crowd toward Emory. Honestly, it was like she relearned how to speak the English language by watching second-rate television cop shows. When she was safely through the crowd and being hugged by Emory, I took a deep breath, then coughed a little. The scent of pig was already a little strong. Maybe the pig races indoors might not be such a smart idea, though it was certainly cooler than last year’s outside track.

Now I had a free half hour to kill. What could I do? Luck was on my side. I looked up and saw Hud walk right in front of me. “Hey, Clouseau! Wait up!”

He didn’t slow down. “What do you want?”

“Hey, it’s wonderful seeing you too, Mr. Grumpy Pants. Anything new on Cal’s murder?”

“Sorry. I wish I could solve this one fast for you, but it’s got more tentacles than one of those Japanese monster squids.”

“Squids don’t have tentacles. You mean octopus.”

“Whatever,
Jeopardy
girl. At any rate, we have lots of suspects, not a lot of good evidence.”

“Still no forensic stuff? Can’t you just make everyone that you suspect do that swab thing in their mouth?”

He snorted. “You really do watch too much
Law & Order.
There’re little things like right to privacy laws. Look, I know this whole thing just rankles you. It upsets your ‘life must be fair at all costs’ worldview all to heck, but the truth is we may never know who killed Calvin Jones. I work
cold
cases, remember?”

I knew he was right, but it didn’t make me feel any better. “That’s not my worldview. I
know
that things aren’t fair. It just seems like Cal never had anyone fight for him while he was a kid and I feel like . . . well, at least someone could fight to give him justice now.”

He stopped abruptly, placed a hand on my shoulder and gave it a sympathetic squeeze. “Benni, I promise to call you if I find out anything new that I am allowed to tell you.”