Darlene Franklin - Dressed for Death 01 - Gunfight at Grace Gulch (12 page)

“More than anything else, she needs Jesus.”

Audie, the apostle to the theater crowd. He put me to shame. When I opened my business, I intended to share the faith of our fathers—perhaps I should say the faith of our mothers since we carried hardly any menswear—with my customers along with their clothing. And how seldom I succeeded.

“Of course you’re right.” I swallowed my tea in an effort to hide my embarrassment. “And Gwen, too, to get through this awful time.”

“Absolutely. And I’ll be praying for your sister. Jenna, I mean. Dina is already on my prayer list.”

And me?
We did work together on the theater. I thought of my own spotty prayer journal and felt ashamed once again.

“Jenna?” I said out loud. Maybe the spark I thought I had seen wasn’t a figment of my imagination.

“She seems so. . .well, confused. Unsettled. You are a solid rock. You’ve put down deep roots here. She’s a wandering soul.”

“Is that a bad thing or a good thing?”

“It’s a good thing, for you. You’re an anchor. You, your faith, your good sense. Jenna needs you, you know.”

Yeah, I knew that. Experts said the middle child usually played peacemaker in the family. How Jenna passed the eldest child’s role of caretaker on to me flummoxed me. I sighed.

“You’re an amazing person, Cici. You’re the glue that holds your family together. You take care of your dad. You practically raised Dina by yourself. You’re a successful businesswoman. And now you’re showing another aspect of your character—a twenty-first century Jane Marple, jumping into this investigation.” His eyes crinkled in silent merriment. “A trailblazer, caretaker, independent spirit. You epitomize the pioneer spirit.”

I blinked. I looked into Audie’s eyes, as clear and deep as Lake Tenkiller, and saw nothing there but sincerity. He reached across the table and clasped my right hand between both of his. Something unspoken hung between us.

He shuffled to his feet without letting go of my hand. His lips brushed my cheek. “And someday soon, when this mess is behind us, we’ll talk more.” He released my hand, and the magic spell ended.

A few moments later, I heard the door close and a car engine start. I stayed at the table, staring into the cooling tea, while thoughts whirled through my head. A smile stretched my face so far that it hurt.

Audie liked all the things about me that made me feel like a country woman who would never amount to anything outside of Grace Gulch. And he had hinted at a much deeper emotion.

Bursting with joy, I jumped up from the table, rinsed out the mugs, and changed for bed. After the uproar of the day, I had expected a sleep-deprived night, the many revelations of the day repeating themselves endless times in my thoughts.

Instead, Audie’s compliments replayed themselves in my memory. Buoyed by his good opinion, I fell into a deep sleep.

12

September 19, 1891 Excerpt A

Dearest Mary,

It is happening again. Just like in April of ’89, people are gathering at the border of the unassigned lands by the thousands. So many people are hungry for a fresh start. Working their own land would be a dream come true. Already twice as many people have assembled as there is land available, and I expect the numbers to soar to twenty thousand or more.

Dearest, my hope for a better result in this run is fast disappearing. What shall we do if I fail?

So I place my faith in God and in my pony. And wonder if there is more I should do.

~

Tuesday, September 24

When I awoke the next morning, my first thought was of Audie’s amazing confession, and my good mood persisted. I decided to wear one of my favorite ensembles—this time a post–World War II dress, a pink floral design that did nice things for my figure, with three-quarter-length sleeves and a V-neck trimmed with white lace, belted with a silver buckle, the luxuriant feel of real silk on my legs. As usual, my hair took the longest time to fix. Manipulating my bangs into a high curl over my forehead with a curling iron, I pulled back the rest into a French twist.

I stopped by Gaynor’s Goodies for a bag of tea cakes and managed to leave without spilling everything I had learned to the town gossip. I arrived at the store in time to brew a pot of coffee before nine. Today’s outfit had inspired me to plan a 1940s front window display. I had posters of Joan Crawford and Rita Hayworth, those two prototypical pinup girls. Creating a window around their fashions would be fun. As for an Oklahoman, I would look to Angie Debo, the “First Lady of Oklahoma History.” Surfing the Internet for further ideas, I ran across a picture of a platinum blond Veronica Lake and remembered Suzanne.

I’m supposed to be investigating a murder. The window can wait. I poured myself a cup of coffee and sat behind the cash register with the day’s newspapers. Both reported a lack of progress by the police in the death of Penn Hardy. The
Sequoian
held out for the tragic accident theory. The
Herald
pounded on the police for a more thorough investigation.

The phone rang, interrupting my thoughts. I picked up the receiver.

“Hey, Cici! Did you see the paper this morning?” Cord usually didn’t get a chance to read the news until after he finished his morning chores. But Penn’s death had the whole town seeking out information. “The editor seems to agree with us that it was murder.”

“I noticed that. Speaking of the murder, listen to what we learned yesterday.” I thought Cord would like to know the list of suspects.

“We? As in you and that city boy?”

Oh, boy. I should have made that first-person singular
.
“Yes, Audie helped me talk with some people.” I told Cord about the suspects we had identified and what we had learned about Suzanne and Gwen.

Cord whistled. “The classic love triangle. It can create all kinds of bad feelings.”

I had a feeling that he was talking about more than Gwen and Suzanne.

“Promise me you’ll be careful, won’t you?”

I couldn’t promise that, and Cord knew it. We hung up, both of us unsettled after the conversation.

I decided to peruse the mini-morgue I kept of both the
Herald
and the
Sequoian
. I kept copies of all editions with ads for Cici’s Vintage Clothing and made notes on their relative success. An article might suggest a motive for Penn’s murder, or at the very least, remind me of recent developments in our community. I didn’t expect much success, but I couldn’t think of anything else to do until evening relieved me from store duties.

The mail carrier dropped off a larger than usual pile of orders. I logged onto my computer. Sales over the weekend had rendered my Web site outdated; most of the pictured items had sold, and I needed to update the information. The challenge of matching clothing to customers gave me great satisfaction. It was also time to check out estate sales and second hand clothing stores. With parties requiring guests to wear costumes, and with the upcoming Christmas season, I hoped that people would remain eager to buy from me.

Next, I checked my favorite stocks. My interest in the stock market started in high school, when I tracked the market price of the
Herald
for an economics class. My nest egg was growing nicely.

While I was on the Internet, I decided to check out the
Herald
Web site. Ads placed in the electronic version of the newspaper worked well when I wanted to sell outside of the door-to-door delivery area. Checking for headlines electronically would keep me from getting ink on my pretty pink dress. I confess that I felt as dainty and fresh as a spring flower when I wore that dress, my waist cinched small enough to make me feel like Scarlet O’Hara.

But what was I looking for? Suzanne said Penn was pursuing a big story. I decided to start with the current date and work back until something caught my attention. If something caught my attention.

Soon I fell into a rhythm of scanning headlines and reading an occasional abstract. If needed, I could look up the entire article in my newspaper file. News of plans for the Land Run festivities filled recent issues. A week ago, Ron Grace won the mayoral election in a landslide against his Democrat opponent. In the same issue, he announced his plans to invite the mayors of Grace City, North Dakota, and Grace, Idaho, to the upcoming festival. They must have declined; I hadn’t seen any visiting dignitaries. Then again, after the gunfight, I didn’t notice much of anything.

Thinking of the mayoral race reminded me of the primary election for city officials in May, the only vote that mattered in local politics. No Democrat had won since FDR had left office. Ron was opposed in his bid for reelection by Jordan Malcolm, the big name in Grace Gulch realty and a distant Grace cousin. If I remembered correctly, the
Herald
had come out in support of Mr. Malcolm. I searched by subjects “primary election” and “Jordan Malcolm” to find relevant articles.

The first Sunday issue in May had run articles in support of candidates from each party. The paper had to make a pretense of nonpartisan support. The Democratic candidate—the lawyer who handled most of my legal affairs, Georgia Hafferty—ran unopposed. Penn had written a fairly objective statement of her experience and successes, as well as her unpopular stands on issues, from public land management to hydroelectric power.

Penn surprised the town by endorsing Ron Grace’s opponent, Jordan Malcolm, as the Republican candidate for mayor. He pointed to Malcolm’s strong business sense and described him as a good man to lead Grace Gulch into the future. He criticized Ron’s “provincial” mentality and poked fun at the “Grace-filled” map that adorned the mayor’s office. Pushpins marked the locations of various members of the Grace clan, as well as institutions and communities named after Grace. Penn pointed out the possible conflict of church and state and wondered aloud that someone hadn’t filed a suit against the city. He didn’t make any friends with that article, I decided.

I didn’t remember how the
Sequoian
had handled the primaries, so I switched Web sites.

The difference between the papers was immediately obvious. News items about school events at Lizzy Gaynor Elementary and a weekly column by Pastor Waldberg from the Gaynor-founded Word of Truth Fellowship, indicated its pro-Gaynor roots. Aside from that, it provided more balanced coverage than the
Herald
.
Mitch supported reelecting Mayor Ron. He ran our town with a mixture of common sense and humanity, in spite of occasional silly stunts (my words, not his). I guess Gaynor figured Ron was the best of the Grace-tied candidates; Georgia was the only candidate not related to the Graces.

After spending most of the morning on the computer, I decided that if Penn was on the trail of a story, he hadn’t written about it in the paper. I didn’t catch a sniff of anything controversial. The primary coverage came the closest, but the mayor won reelection in spite of Penn’s opposition. So that didn’t count as a motive, did it?

I turned off the monitor and closed my eyes. I should at least talk with the mayor, however. How could I snag an interview? Our paths didn’t cross all that often. Perhaps his cousin Cord could pave the way. Poor Cord. I wondered if Reiner had continued his harassment. One thing was certain; he had not arrested Cord yet. If that happened, I would hear before he reached the police station.

After a sack lunch, I cleaned my hands and prepared the mail orders. The Fed Ex driver stopped by around three. After much persuasion, I had convinced him to stop in Grace Gulch at least every other day. The company didn’t like him to wander too far from I-44 and Route 66, and our town was nestled in the hills of Lincoln County, well off the beaten path.

A constant stream of customers kept me busy for the remainder of the afternoon. A brief flurry came after five and purchased most of the remaining special Land Run items. Time for a sale? Not yet, I decided. As soon as the cloud still hanging over Cord and Dina disappeared, I would close for a few days and shop for new stock. Then I would hold a sale for any holdovers from the festival. Promptly at six, I turned the sign to
Closed
and walked out the back door to my car.

At home, I exchanged my dress for a robe before starting supper. I boiled pasta shells and made an indulgent sauce out of Velveeta and cream cheese, then placed the casserole in the oven on low heat while I headed to the shower. My hair got wet, but I put off styling it until the morning, after I decided what to wear. For one night I could let it go to seed. That’s what I called it, anyhow, because left untended, my washed out hair looked like a dandelion gone to seed. I pulled on my favorite OU sweatshirt, faded and spotted from the paint job on my first apartment, and blue jeans with holes. I didn’t intend to think about work or investigations for the next twelve hours. Maybe I could catch up on the ladies’ Bible study I had decided to join at church, and then perhaps watch a half-hour comedy on television.

I had tossed a salad reminiscent of Jenna’s California dish—I had enjoyed the A and A combination and decided to recreate it at home—when the doorbell rang. I peeked out the front window. Audie.
Oh, no!
I opened the door an inch. “What’s up?”

“I was driving by and, well, I wondered if you had eaten dinner yet.”

“Actually, I’ve got a casserole in the oven.”

Audie looked disappointed.

I sighed. “Why don’t you join me?”

“I thought you’d never ask.” Audie walked through my front door, not reacting to my disheveled appearance. I added an extra place setting to the table and headed for my bedroom to change back into my dress. I looked at my reflection in the mirror. As expected, my hair sprang in a dozen directions. I ran a comb through it to get out the worst of the snarls but decided to leave on my casual clothes. This is the real me, I decided
.
If last night meant anything, if there was to be a future for Audie and me, he would have to accept me at my worst as well as at my best. And damp, frizzy hair, paint-stained sweatshirt, and holey jeans definitely fell into the “worst” category. Besides, the damage had been done. He’d already seen me at the door.

A couple of minutes passed before I returned downstairs. Audie had gone out to the front porch swing, a hiss that was his version of whistling issuing from between his lips.

“It’s a beautiful night,” he said. “Can supper wait while you join me for a few minutes?”

“Sure.” Coward. Outside maybe he wouldn’t notice how bad I looked. Moonlight added magic to everything. I slid into the swing—the selling point for the house, as far as I was concerned—and settled into the crook of Audie’s arm.

“Careful.” He handed me a bouquet redolent of Oklahoma—baby’s breath and daisies, lilies and Indian paintbrush. “I asked for the flowers that Bob Grace described in his letters.”

Tears came to my eyes. “They’re beautiful.”

He pecked me on the cheek. “Don’t want to give the neighbors too much to talk about,” he whispered in my ear. Then he straightened up and held me against his shoulder, and we swung in silence for a few minutes. It was a clear night, and the starry host made my small worries seem no bigger than a grain of sand.

“I figure the stars haven’t changed since Bob Grace first set eyes on this place,” Audie said. “I can locate Orion’s belt and know he saw the same constellations.” He paused. “Minus the streetlights, of course. I sometimes wonder what it would be like to experience total darkness, without any lights shining except for the heavens.”

“I suppose I came as close to that as anyone does in this day and age, growing up on a ranch. It took me awhile to get used to city noises—well, you know what I mean. The occasional rumble of a train. Cars passing. Instead of crickets and roosters and cows.”

“It gives you perspective, I guess. ‘I was there when he set the heavens in place, when he marked out the horizon on the face of the deep, when he established the clouds above and fixed securely the fountains of the deep.’ Solomon described wisdom as being present at creation.” Of course Audie could quote the right Proverb.