State Fair (31 page)

For the last thirty or so years, Bobby Joe had held the position of Kidville’s snack and soft drink guard, squabble mediator, Band-Aid dispenser, soother of broken hearts and king of the oak wood barbecue. From his perch on his electric wheelchair, he ruled his temporary kingdom with a Solomon-like benevolence. An unfortunate ride on a bull in Reno named Whiskey Pete ended his rodeo career and permanently injured his spine, but started a whole new career that probably ended up paying him much better than rodeo every would. His insurance agency carried the personal, ranch and car insurance for almost all the ag people in San Celina County.

I’d stayed overnight at the campground myself a few times when I was a kid. Walking into the crowded maze of tents and sleeping bags brought back some wonderful memories of late nights in Kidville eating Frito pie, s’mores and singing chorus after chorus of “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” or “Ninety-nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall.”

Maria was nowhere to be seen, but Bobby Joe was inside his fancy RV enjoying a blue and red tinted shaved ice and watching
General Hospital
on a tiny television. He wore a colorful Hawaiian shirt and a dark blue ball cap that said Don’t Even Think About It. It was his favorite admonition to any kid who came up to him with a questioning look on his or her face.

“Caught you,” I said, climbing up the ramp.

“Nothing to catch,” he said, licking a bit of red ice from his bottom lip. “My addiction to
General Hospital
is a known fact. It’s my only vice.”

“No comment,” I heard his wife, Janet, say.

I glanced down the short hallway. She was lying on the king-sized bed with an ice pack on her head.

“What happened?” I said.

“Sinus headache,” Bobby Joe said.

“Man, I’m sorry.”

“It’s the dust. She took some decongestant. What can I do for you?” he asked, putting the soap opera tape on hold.

“I think you have some doll faces Maria embroidered?”

“In the top drawer under the stove.”

I found them and stuffed them in my backpack.

“Get yourself a Coke while you’re up,” he said.

“That sounds great.” I pulled a bottled Coke from the refrigerator.

“So, how’s the fair going for you?”

I sat down on the captain’s chair across from him. “I suppose you heard about Calvin Jones.”

“What is it with you and homicides? Trying to keep your husband in a job?”

I grimaced. “Not hardly.”

“Sorry, bad joke. Did you know the young man? The paper didn’t say much and everyone in fair management’s been pretty tight-lipped.”

“That’s understandable. It’s not exactly the family-friendly image the fair is looking to promote.” I took a long drink of my soda. “I didn’t actually know Calvin Jones, but he sounds like he was a nice young man.”

“That’s too bad. I imagine this has been rough for Levi too. There are those in this county who’d pay extra admission just to see things go wrong on his watch.” He set his cup of shaved ice down on the table next to him.

“Like who?” I said, my ears almost twitching. Metaphorically speaking, Bobby Joe Gomez knew where a good many bodies were buried in our county.

He gave me one of his famous James Dean, bad-boy grins. “Now, I don’t like to talk out of school . . .”

“Don’t let him kid you, Benni,” Janet called from the bedroom. “He’s a bigger gossip than the
National Enquirer
.”

He feigned shock. “Whatever is she talking about?” He crooked his finger at me. I leaned closer.

“Milt Piebald’s got political ambitions,” he said in a low voice. “Mayor of Paso and then, some say, he has eyes on being a senator or governor.”

That was his big piece of gossip? I leaned back, a little disappointed. Milt Piebald wouldn’t be the first slightly off-plumb businessperson who had political aspirations. “So?”

“Finding a body in his Family Farm exhibit isn’t exactly the type of free publicity that he was angling for.”

Now I was really disappointed because what Bobby Joe suggested meant that someone else was behind Cal’s murder, someone who had it in for Milt Piebald. “Any idea who might have it in for Milt?”

“Maybe only every other person who bought a car from him.”

“That’s no help.”

“Sorry, it’s all I got, Inspector Ortiz.”

I stood up, drained my bottle and set it down on the counter. “Thanks, Bobby Joe. You’ve given me some food for thought.”

“Wish I could tell you more. Hey, on your way out could you take my granddaughter’s gym bag and throw it with the others?” He pointed to a pink and white Hello Kitty canvas bag.

“Sure.” I reached down and picked it up, groaning at its weight. “Geeze, Louise, what does she have in here, rocks?”

“It’s her dance clothes, believe it or not. They’re going to be performing tonight at seven p.m.”

“Where do you want it?” I asked, heaving it over my shoulder.

“Outside by the red cooler, next to the others. Thanks.”

I walked down the ramp and carried the bulky bag over to the cooler, setting it next to the other girly bags. Just as I was walking away sunlight through a space in the canopies caused something to flash, catching my eye. I bent down to look at the jumble of colorful duffels and backpacks. A sparkly heart-shaped sticker decorated one light blue bag. I covered the top half of it with my hand. The bottom was pointy, like a star. It might have been the sticker I’d seen on the white pickup truck who’d played bumper cars with me.

I glanced over the rest of bags. Four others had similar stickers. In black Old English lettering they said Road to Queen. I picked up the blue bag and went back up the ramp. Bobby Joe was back to watching his soap opera.

“Quick question,” I said, holding out the bag. “Do you know what this sticker is for?”

He glanced up. “It’s the beauty queen classes that Juliette Piebald teaches over at the Paso Robles community center. My little granddaughter has a ball at them. The kids just adore Juliette.”

I
WALKED THROUGH THE FAIRGROUNDS CONTEMPLATING THIS new piece of information. Did Juliette Piebald have a white truck? Could she be the person who tried to run me off the road the other night? For what possible reason? She’d been a tentative suspect because of Aunt Garnet’s suggestion about her and Dodge Burnside, but I honestly couldn’t imagine her smashing Calvin Jones over the head, rolling his body in the Harriet Powers quilt and then planting it in her own exhibit.

Though what Bobby Joe said about Milt’s political aspirations might give her motivation. If he ran for office, an affair might be discovered by some newspaper reporter looking for a juicy story. But would Juliette actually
kill
someone to conceal a love affair? She might not alone, but if the affair was with Dodge Burnside, maybe she talked him into helping her. Maybe his dad helped them both. Maybe she and Lloyd Burnside were having an affair. Possibilities caused my brain to buzz like one of those Footsie Wootsie machines. How would Cal have found out about this alleged affair and why would he care? It didn’t make any sense.

Once I reached the parking lot, I couldn’t resist taking a quick stroll through the vehicles looking for the sparkly sticker advertising Juliette Piebald’s rodeo queen classes. Since I needed to pick up Aunt Garnet at 2 p.m., I only had time for the rows of cars and trucks in preferred parking. That seemed easy enough. Though looking for a white full-size pickup eliminated many vehicles, I had a lot of bumpers to check. White pickups in a California ranching community were the color of choice mostly for the safety factor (easier to see in the gold and green hills and, especially, at intersections), but also because they were often fleet vehicles and cheaper.

After fifteen minutes in hundred-degree heat, I gave up. There were just too many white full-size pickups. Disappointed, I drove back to San Celina.

At First Baptist, I found Aunt Garnet sitting in the front row of the sanctuary. Her head was bent and it appeared she was praying so I decided to go to the church office and shoot the breeze with Pastor Mac.

His assistant, Trudy, was chewing a wad of gum whose cinnamon flavor was apparent when I walked through the doorway. “He’s at the fair,” she said.

“I’m actually here for my aunt Garnet, but she’s in the sanctuary. If she comes looking for me, I’ll be waiting for her on the bench outside.”

“She said she needed time alone with Jesus,” Trudy said. “I told her to just take as much time as she wants. She was a real big help with the hygiene bags. I think she might become a regular.”

I almost asked Trudy what she meant by that because it sounded like she had more information about Aunt Garnet’s intentions than any of us. But, bless her heart, Trudy was a bit of a gabber and I didn’t want it to get around church that Dove and I had no idea what was going on with Aunt Garnet.

Ten minutes later my aunt caught me sitting on the bench in the church’s garden gazebo chewing on a hangnail.

“Sorry,” I said, my hand dropping like I’d been caught stealing a Milky Way bar. But my bright pink cuticle announced my sin. All my life Aunt Garnet had nagged me about using cuticle cream. I braced myself for her lecture.

She just smiled. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”

“Uh, no,” I said, standing up. “Everything . . . okay?”

“A couple of the men cooked us ladies a real nice brunch,” she said as we walked toward my truck. “Ham and cheese quiche, tiny cinnamon rolls and fresh papaya and pineapple. And the strawberries! They were picked this morning. Delicious.”

I opened the passenger door, surprised yet again by her unpredictable new persona. “We do have wonderfully fresh fruit here in California.” Once we were settled inside the truck, I decided to go for it.

“Aunt Garnet, I have a question.”

“What is it?” Her face was placid and friendly. Her Jean Naté cologne smelled like lemon icebox pie.

“Uh . . . you know, I’ve noticed that . . . I was wondering . . . Is everything . . .”

Oh, for cryin’ out loud, I told myself, just say it. “What’s going on with you? Are you sick? Are you and Uncle WW breaking up?”

Her expression registered a moment of surprise, then went neutral again. “Why, Benni, I’m just fine. And William Wiley and I are most certainly not, as you put it, breaking up.” She folded her hands neatly in her lap and stared straight ahead.“I do believe I’ll try one of those churros at the fair today. They looked delicious.”

And that was that. I pitied any attorney who ever had to cross-examine Garnet Louise Wilcox on the witness stand.

I got right back on Interstate 101 and headed up to Paso Robles. We talked about what we’d do the two hours until we were due at Flory Jackson’s house.

“There’s the Mission Beach Cloggers at three p.m. or we could watch the pig races again or go look at the photography and art displays. There’s also a local wildflower exhibit I thought you might like.” Aunt Garnet loved her wildflowers.

Aunt Garnet didn’t react to any of my suggestions. “What’s going on with our case?”

I pretended to concentrate on the road. “You know how the police are. Hud keeps me in the dark. So like Gabe. Two of a kind. That’s cops for you. Honestly, it drives me nuts.” Why did I always prattle on and on like a teenager at their first driving test every time I wanted to appear cool and nonchalant?

“Can the chatter,” Aunt Garnet said.

“Huh?”

I swear on a stack of poker chips she giggled.

“I know you’ve found out something. Give up the goods.”

“Give up the goods? Who are you and what have you done with Aunt Garnet?”

“She’s right here,” she said, her voice soft. “Battle fatigued, but here.”

It was the perfect opportunity for me to pump her again for information about her visit. But she blocked my play. “Give an old broad a break. What’s the scoop on Mr. Jones’s homicide?”

I couldn’t disappoint her despite Hud and Gabe’s warnings. This ersatz criminal investigation seemed to be the only thing that made her forget her problems, whatever they were. So I clued her in on everything that had happened since I left the Morrison ranch last night.

She settled back in her seat, satisfied. We passed the off- ramp to the Templeton Stock Auction. Only a few more miles to Paso. It was silent on her side of the cab and I hoped that my information had satisfied her curiosity.

I should have known better.

“Didn’t you say that Milt Piebald owns a car lot?” Her thin, white eyebrows moved inward. She twisted the hankie she held in a knot.

“Actually he owns five.”

“What’s the closest one to us right now?”

“The one in Paso Robles. It’s not far from the fairgrounds.”

“Does Juliette work for the business?”

“Maybe. I honestly don’t know that much about their personal life.”

“So, I was thinking . . .”