State Fair (24 page)

“Thanks.”

His promise relieved my compulsion to
do
something. I was sitting on a bench right outside the building when Emory and Aunt Garnet emerged from it a half hour later.

“You missed a great race!” Emory said. Aunt Garnet’s face beamed as it always did when Emory was around.

“I won thirty bucks!” she said. “I took Emory’s advice and bet on a long shot.”

“Shhh,” Emory said, putting a finger to his mouth. “I told you betting was kind of not legal on these things.” He winked at me.

“You can buy lunch then,” I said.

Aunt Garnet waved the three ten-dollar bills. “I’ll even spring for dessert.”

“Okay, you can buy me a fried pie later. I hear they have chocolate ones this year.”

“You got it.” She looked over at Emory. “Are you coming to lunch with us, dear?”

“Wish I could, but I have to check our chicken booth and then get back to the office. I have a conference call with Daddy and Little Buck Nixon’s Barbecue Sauce company at three p.m. We’re thinking about adding their sauce to our menu. It won the national barbecue championship this year.”

She patted his cheek like he was still six years old. “Don’t forget to eat lunch. You’re looking a little thin. Doesn’t that wife of yours cook for you?”

He winked at me again. Though I knew I should jump in and defend my best friend who, after all,
just
had a baby, I knew that her husband was more than up to the job.

“Between my loving wife and her mama, I have more’n enough to eat. I actually weigh ten pounds more than the last time you visited.”

“All right,” she said reluctantly. “But you make sure not to gain too much weight. Our family has the heart troubles, you know.”

Though it might sound funny to anyone else, it was actually music to my ears to hear Aunt Garnet nag again. She sounded more like the Aunt Garnet I knew and loved, one who
wasn’t
possibly dying of some incurable disease.

“We’ll have you over for a big ole supper before you go back to Sugartree,” Emory promised. “You’ll see what a marvelous cook my Elvia is.”

“No hurry,” she said, flipping her hand. “I plan on being here a good little while.”

Emory and I exchanged a quick glance. That was news to us and would really be news to Dove.

Now I was beginning to wonder if something
else
was going on. Like between her and Uncle WW. Had they broken up? Oh, my stars. That would be the talk of the family for the next fifty years if Aunt Garnet and Uncle WW got a divorce. Still, it was starting to make sense. His reluctance to say why she was out here; her stubbornness in telling anyone why she was visiting; her fatigue and sadness. I’d been through marriage problems not that long ago with Gabe. There was nothing more exhausting; it hurt in a whole different way than being widowed.

At the Cattlemen’s Lunch, because of my longtime membership in the Cattlewomen’s Association, we were waved through the VIP line, usually reserved for folks who had an event to attend or a booth to work.

“Huh,” said Diane, who sat behind me in ninth-grade algebra and whose steers beat mine for first place three years in a row back in our 4-H days. She was in charge of appetizers. “Look who’s too good to waitress this year.” Her eyes twinkled as she offered Aunt Garnet and me a plate of barbecued Portuguese linguiça sausage. She and her daughter owned a bed-and-breakfast in Pismo Beach.

I popped a piece of spicy sausage in my mouth. “It’s my first year off in thirty years!”

“Give her a break,” said Susan, Diane’s best friend and also an old 4-H buddy of mine. She now raised floppy-eared rabbits in Templeton. “Can’t you see she’s got company?” She spooned ranch beans on my and Aunt Garnet’s divided plates.

I introduced Aunt Garnet who complimented the women on how organized everything was. Though we were in the VIP line and receiving our tri-tip steak, beans, green salad, salsa and garlic bread in minutes, even the regular line was moving along with admirable speed.

“Actually, we have more help than we need this year,” Diane said. “There are quite a few new members in the Cattlewomen’s Association, which you’d know if you ever came to a meeting.”

I’d missed the last two, though I kept abreast of things because Dove never missed a meeting. “I know, I know. I promise I’ll be there next month. It’s this being married thing. Takes up so much of my spare time.”

“I hear you,” Susan said. She slipped an extra piece of garlic bread on my plate. “Enjoy.”

Aunt Garnet and I looked over the round tables arranged under the white canvas tent. They were cheerfully decorated with red-checkered tablecloths and centerpieces made of old cowboy boots filled with artificial daisies and sunflowers. They were also mostly occupied.

“There’re some seats,” I said, pointing at a table near the back.

“Just a minute,” she replied, her gaze roving over the crowd.

I inhaled impatiently, anxious to dig into my steak. Then I chastised myself. Maybe those tables were too far to walk for her. Maybe she was afraid she’d drop her plate. Maybe I should offer to take her tray . . .

“Follow me,” she commanded.

Confused, I tagged behind her until I realized where she was heading. I felt a vein in my temple start to throb.

“Hello, Mrs. Piebald,” Aunt Garnet said, walking right up to the table where Juliette Piebald sat with Milt. “Mr. Piebald.” He chugged a beer, not even stopping to acknowledge her greeting.

“Uh, hi,” Juliette said, tilting her head, her expression uncertain.

“Mrs. Wilcox,” Aunt Garnet offered. “Garnet Wilcox. Benni’s great-aunt. We never actually met the other day during that tragic . . .” Aunt Garnet let her voice trail off.

“Oh, oh, yes,” Juliette said. “I . . . that was a . . . not a good day for me.”

Not to mention Cal, I wanted to say.

“How are you, my dear?”

“She’s fine,” Milt said, setting down his beer bottle. “Bad deal what happened. Juliette did a wonderful job on that exhibit. Shame people won’t be able to enjoy it.”

A sympathetic noise rumbled from Aunt Garnet’s throat.

What in the world did my aunt have up her polyester sleeve?

She fixed her eyes on Juliette. “Any news on who killed that unfortunate young man?”

Juliette glanced at Milt, her expression a little agitated. He kept his eyes on Aunt Garnet.

“Miz Wilcox,” he drawled, “all we know is what we read in the paper. Seems to me that you’d have better luck obtaining information from your own niece seeing as she’s married to the police chief.”

Aunt Garnet jumped in before I could answer. “It is not Chief Ortiz’s jurisdiction.”

Milt studied the label on his beer. “Well, we were just innocent bystanders.”

“Of course you were,” Aunt Garnet said, her voice as chipper as if she were talking about planting spring peas rather than a homicide. “I do hope you are able to sleep at night.”

“What?” Juliette said.

“We sleep fine,” Milt said. “Enjoy your steak, Miz Wilcox. We killed some of our best steers for that lunch you’re holding. Excuse my crass-ness.” He sawed at his steak, jiggling the table and splattering reddish brown juice on the checkered table cloth.

“Careful,” Juliette said, gripping the edge of the table.

Aunt Garnet studied him a moment. “I grew up on a farm, Mr. Piebald. I’ve seen my share of killing. Come along, Benni. Let’s leave the Piebalds to enjoy their lunch.”

I followed my aunt, speechless for the time it took her to choose a vacant table in the back. The minute we sat down I blurted, “What in the heck was that about?”

She gave a serene smile. “Just priming the pump. They might not have killed Cal, but I have a suspicion that they know more about his death than they’re saying. Or at least
one
of them does. Maybe my inquiries will make the guilty one give up the goods.” She gazed over her place of steak, beans, salad and garlic bread. “Detecting is hard work. I’m hungry as a farmhand.”

I truly did not know what to say, so I just started eating. Though challenging the Piebalds might not be the wisest move, she had a point. Sometimes poking at the badger will force it out of its hole. Then again, the badger could also spring out baring its sharp teeth.

By the time we finished our lunch, Aunt Garnet was already getting that tautness around her eyes again. It was only three o’clock, but the temperature had soared to over a hundred degrees.

I crumpled my paper napkin. “Would you like to call it a day?”

“You know, a nap does sound good. You don’t mind taking me home?”

“Not at all.” I picked up my plate and stacked it on top of hers. “Gabe’s down in Santa Maria until late tonight working with their chief on this rash of stolen cars they’ve been having. After I drop you off, I may go back to the museum and tackle some long overdue paperwork.”

I dumped our plates in the trash bins with a quick glance over the lunch crowd, searching for Juliette and Milt. But they’d already left. Had Aunt Garnet’s questioning rattled them? I guess we’d find out sooner or later.

Aunt Garnet dozed on the way home, rousing only when we bumped down the Ramsey ranch driveway. Both Daddy’s full-sized white truck and Dove’s red Ford Ranger were parked in front of the house. They’d either skipped the fair today or had gone and come back already.

The minute we were inside the cool living room, Aunt Garnet disappeared into the guest room. “We’ll rendezvous later and discuss our case,” she said over her shoulder.

I wandered into the kitchen looking for Dove. Her purse was on its hook next to the door, so I knew she was home. I opened the refrigerator and studied the contents. I wasn’t really hungry after our tri-tip steak lunch; it was avoidance. I knew I had to confront Dove about this situation between her and Garnet. I picked an edge of crust off a half-eaten peach pie and enjoyed the refrigerated air on my face until I couldn’t put off talking to my gramma any longer.

She was inside the dim barn sorting vegetables that she’d probably picked earlier this morning.

“Hey, Gramma.” My voice echoed through the rafters.

“Fetch me some of those paper sacks near the door.”

I grabbed a handful and walked across the old wooden floor. “Wow, bountiful year.”

She gave a disgusted grunt. “Too many zucchini, not enough friends.”

“That could be a book title,” I said, shaking open a bag and handing it to her. “Or a folk song. And you have plenty of friends.”

“Not enough who want zucchini!”

I watched her load the paper sacks with the slightly risqué-looking vegetables. There’d be a mountain of zucchini bread over the next few months at every San Celina club and philanthropic society meeting.

“Aunt Garnet’s taking a nap,” I said.

No reply.

“We had a good time at the fair. We saw the Great Kansas Pig Races. She won thirty bucks. We ate at the Cattleman’s Lunch.” Possibly irritated some potential killers, I mentally added. “Oh, and I showed her the quilts at the museum. Just a quick tour. We’ll probably go back after the fair is over.”

Dove continued loading the bags with zucchini, adding tomatoes to the top of each one. “They could probably use these down at the food bank.”

I decided to just dive in. “Dove, I think you need to have a talk with Aunt Garnet. Something is wrong and I think—”

Dove whipped around and held up her hand. Like a well-trained cattle dog, I stopped. A minute passed. Then she went back to dividing vegetables, murmuring softly to herself.

“Did you call Uncle WW again?” I persisted. “Did he tell you
anything
? Just answer me that and I’ll shut up.”

She turned slowly to look at me. She held a knobby heirloom tomato in one hand. The other went instinctively to her long white braid, which she habitually touched when she was in distress. Her lupine blue eyes were blank and unemotional. “He said she needs to tell me. That was their deal. He apologized, said he knew how stubborn she could be, but that it was up to her.” She looked down at the tomato in her hand, let loose of her braid and flicked a piece of dirt off the mottled yellow skin. “Sister has chosen to keep her own counsel. So I’m waitin’ on her. I suggest you do the same.” She turned back to the bag of vegetables. “I’m leavin’ for the food bank in a few moments to drop these off, then I have a historical society meeting. Reckon I’ll give them your regrets tonight.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said quietly. “I have some work to do at the museum, and then I need to catch up on chores at home. Is there
anything
I can do to help you?”

She rubbed her hands down the front of her calico apron, the pockets bulging with tomatoes. “I need a smog certificate for my truck.”

“No problem. We’ll switch trucks and I’ll take it to the shop near the museum first thing in the morning to be checked. Won’t take long.”

“Thank you, honeybun,” she said, sighing deeply. “I’ve got to send for the car tags but can’t do it until I get that slip of paper sayin’ I’m not smogging up the air.”

I walked over and put my arms around her shoulders. It seemed for a moment that they trembled, but then I felt the iron return.

“Get along with you,” she said, pushing me away. “We can trade back trucks tomorrow.”

“I’ll put my keys in your purse. I love you, Gramma.”

She made an impatient noise at the back of her throat. “If you really loved me, you’d take some of these zucchini.”

Armed with a bag of zucchini to pawn off on my unsuspecting neighbors, I walked out to her red Ford Ranger. When I turned the ignition, the low fuel light blinked.

“Dang,” I said out loud. She’d obviously been so busy she didn’t have time to buy gas. Well, this was one more thing I could do for her since I clearly wasn’t any help with the Aunt Garnet problem.

Twenty minutes later I was pumping gas into her truck at the Union 76 station near the freeway when I looked across the islands and spotted Dodge Burnside doing the same thing. His back was to me so, thankfully, we didn’t make eye contact. I was tired and didn’t feel like enduring one of his threatening scowls. He was talking on a cell phone making dramatic gestures with his free hand. Whoever was on the other end was getting an earful.