Darlene Franklin - Dressed for Death 01 - Gunfight at Grace Gulch (3 page)

I finished the first bite of hot dog and swallowed. “Cord, you’ve got to stop blaming yourself for—”

“Don’t you see how everyone is avoiding me?”

I knew Cord liked to be the center of attention, but he didn’t usually carry things this far.

“No one wants to talk to the
murderer
,” Cord said.

Surely people didn’t think that about Cord! They couldn’t. “It is rather awkward, I suppose. Even if the bullet came from your gun—”

“It didn’t.”

“—it was still just a horrible accident.”

Cord glowered at me.

“Hey y’all!”

I would know that voice anywhere, anytime. It had scolded me every day of life until I was thirteen. My older sister Jenna, popping in from out of state for one of her unexpected visits. She lived in Taos, New Mexico, where she made a living as a computer programmer and art dealer.

Jenna squatted next to us on the quilt as if we had seen each other yesterday instead of eighteen months ago. She was everything I was not, her hair a perfect blond, aided by a bottle, I thought spitefully, and windblown into perfect curls around her face.

“What
is
that outfit you’re wearing, Cici?”

“I’ll have you know that it was the height of fashion for the athletically inclined lady.”

“A hundred years ago.”

“More like eleventy ten, 1894.” We giggled at the phrase we had picked up from Tolkein and hugged. Jenna had that effect on me. One minute she infuriated me, the next we chatted like friends at an all-night slumber party.

“I didn’t know you planned to be here,” Cord said. Cord had known my sister all his life. “The last I heard, you were in New Mexico someplace.”

“Taos,” Jenna said. “But I couldn’t miss out on
all
the excitement. I flew in today. The stupid car rental agency didn’t have my car ready; I asked for a Subaru, and they tried to give me a Ford. Can you imagine! By the time I got them straightened out, it was too late to get here for the showdown at noon, so I went ahead and ate lunch at this divine little Mexican restaurant I discovered the last time I was in Oklahoma City. Then I kind of lost my way wandering down Route 66. I just got to Grace Gulch an hour ago, and the first thing I hear is that Dina is in trouble. What happened?”

It took a minute for Jenna’s words to register. She did tend to rattle off facts machine gun-style, and it took awhile for the important ones to sink in. “Dina, in trouble? What do you mean?”

“Well, the police suspect her of substituting real bullets for blanks in the gun. As if she would do something like that.”

“Where did you hear that?” How could my sister be in town for less than an hour and already know more about the investigation than I did? Trust Jenna to ride to Dina’s rescue when I was here for Dina all the time.

“Jessie Gaynor.” Jenna gestured with a bakery box from Gaynor Goodies. “She told me when I bought these cupcakes.”

That explained it. The bakery storeowner ran the town’s gossip mill.

“Do you mind if I join you?” Mitch Gaynor, Dina’s boss for the summer at the
Sequoian
after Hardy had turned her down at the
Herald
,
towered over us. He sat without waiting for further invitation. “Jenna, welcome home.”

Uh-oh.
Business, not friendship—because frankly, we
weren’t
friends—brought Mitch to our corner of the picnic. Of course, the newspaperman wanted to talk to us.

“I want to get your account of the accident this afternoon.” Mitch confirmed my suspicion. “For tomorrow’s paper. You were first on the scene, I understand?”

You know perfectly well we were. You were there, too, standing right in front of the Gulch watching us.

“The chief told us not to comment,” I said.

Not discouraged, Mitch turned to Cord.

Hand raised, Cord shook his head.

“Can you at least tell me if you checked the bullets in your gun before you went out to put on the play?”

“Don’t you go accusing Dina,” Jenna spoke hotly.

“Of course I did. I’m no actor who relies on the props girl to get it right.” Cord shut his mouth, probably wishing he hadn’t spoken quite so openly. At least not where the family of the props girl could hear.

Mitch grinned, and the saliva in my throat turned to molten lava. Fingers had started pointing at the two people with the best opportunity to kill Penn—my dear sister Dina and my old childhood friend.

3

June 1890

My dearest Mary,

God is good. I heeded your wise advice and did not accept Hardy’s offer of work. Rumors abound that the Cherokee Commission will negotiate a settlement with the remaining tribes located in Indian Territory. Once they agree on terms, additional land will be made available for settlement. Of course the natives may protest the sale, but they have little choice. Since Congress passed the Dawes Severalty Act three years ago, pressure on President Harrison increases almost hourly to open all Indian lands.

I intend to make the run every time it is offered until we have our own land. As God is my witness, I promise that it will not take long.

Your loving fiancé,

Robert Grace

~

Saturday, September 21

The last bite of hot dog turned to ash in my mouth and my appetite fled.

Mitch continued to pester us, but after Cord’s outburst, none of us said much. “If you want to know about the props, why don’t you ask Dina yourself?” I asked. Mitch’s interruption of our dinner peeved me. “After all, she works for you.”

“Oh, I will, don’t worry.” He whipped out a camera and snapped a picture of us before we could protest. “That’s a fetching outfit, Cici, I must say.” He grinned again and slid away in search of another victim.

“He as much as called me the murderer,” Cord sputtered.

“You
and
Dina.” I looked at my plate. The sight of the perfect watermelon slice that tempted indulgence fifteen minutes ago now soured my stomach.

“Where is Dina tonight?” Jenna asked. “I can’t believe she’d miss the barbecue.”

“At work. She called to say Mitch asked her to help get out a special edition of the
Sequoian
.” I shook my head. “So she’s hard at work and missing all the fun, and he’s here bothering people for interviews.”

“I bet she’s glad she didn’t get that internship at the
Herald
that she applied for
.
Things must be in an uproar at the paper after Penn’s death.” Jenna kept up on the town gossip in spite of the fact she had kicked Grace Gulch’s dust off as soon as she finished high school and never looked back. As they say, you can leave Grace Gulch, but Grace Gulch never leaves you.

No one else came our way during the barbecue. Jenna finished eating and left us alone, giving us a few moments’ privacy, but we didn’t stay for long. Cord drove me straight home and let the engine idle.

“Will I see you tomorrow?”

I cringed. Although we attended different churches on Sunday mornings, our families sometimes spent the afternoon together. Maybe he expected me to attend the Land Run concert with him tomorrow.

“Perhaps. I’m going to the concert with Audie.” I tried to keep my tone nonchalant. I almost wished I hadn’t made those plans. Cord needed my support now more than ever.

Now it was Cord’s turn to frown. “Another time, then.”

“Do you want to come in for a cup of coffee?” The day had disturbed us both in a myriad of ways, and I wondered if he wanted company. But he agreed and helped me climb down from the cab of the truck.

While my favorite decaf caramel truffle coffee brewed, I set out a pair of gray ceramic mugs with a painting of our state bird, the beautiful scissor-tailed flycatcher doing a sky dance on the sides. I was eager to speak with Dina, but the clock told me she would be hard at work. I’d have to postpone the call.

I thought Cord might want to talk, but he didn’t say much while we drank the coffee. Neither one of us wanted to voice the thoughts prominent in our minds. Penn’s death. The two people with the best opportunity to kill him were my sister—who handled props for the play—and Cord, the man sitting across my kitchen table, who had fired the gun. After he finished his coffee, I offered him a second cup, but he shook his head.

“I’ll be heading home.” He stood up, hat in his hands, and stared at the floor for a long minute. Then he looked at me with a forced smile. “At least you aren’t afraid to ask me into your home.”

“Oh, Cord, of course not.”

He motioned with his hand. “It’s okay. I’m sure even Reiner will figure out that I’m innocent. Eventually.” He said his good-byes and left.

I checked the clock and decided I could call Dina. I picked up my handset and punched the speed dial for Dina’s cell phone.

“Hey, Cic, what’s up?”

Rolling presses clattered in the background.

“Can you get away from the printer?”

Dina laughed. “Sure. Several people showed up for work after they left the barbecue. I can take a short break.” The clattering subsided, followed by the slam of a door. “Is this better?”

“Are you alone?” I didn’t want anyone at the paper to hear even part of our conversation.

“Yup. I ducked into an empty room. Why?”

“How did things go today with the police? Did you ask for a lawyer?”

“Why? I haven’t done anything wrong. They asked a few questions, took my fingerprints, and let me go.”

“What did they ask about?”

“You know, like when did I last handle the guns.”

“Well? When did you?”

“I was there when Penn and Cord picked them up. About eleven thirty.” She paused. “I can’t believe Penn’s dead.”

“Me either.”

“Do they think Cord’s gun killed him?”

I didn’t answer her question. “When was the last time you checked the guns? You know, put the blanks in?”

“We used blanks at the rehearsal last weekend. We test fired all three guns and decided on which ones Cord and Penn would use during the performance. Everything went off without a hitch. I checked them one last time that morning. Everything looked good.” Her voice rose in pitch. “Hey, why all the questions? I did my job!”

“I’m sure you did. But somebody shot Penn. With a real bullet. Did you have a chance to check the guns after the fight?”

“No. The police took both guns—Cord’s and Penn’s. But I’m sure there were blanks in both. If someone had changed blanks for the real thing, wouldn’t Cord have been shot, too?” She sighed. “Maybe not. They used the same guns each time. All somebody needed to know was which one was Cord’s and which one was Penn’s.”

I knew what Reiner would say. Cord could have switched the bullets and killed Penn on purpose. He didn’t have a motive of any kind, but that wouldn’t stop the chief. Cord could speak up for himself. But if they dug around for Dina’s motive, on the other hand. . .

“If the police want to speak with you again, be sure you have a lawyer there.”

“Cic.” The rise in Dina’s voice told me I had pressed far enough. She’d complained to me often enough that I was trying to take her mother’s place. Truth be told, I did feel like her mother since my mom died back when I was thirteen.

I only hoped she would heed my advice. What were kids coming to these days? Didn’t she watch any of those endless cop shows? I sighed. Little sisters didn’t like big sisters butting in—anymore than I appreciated Jenna—but I couldn’t worry about Dina’s feelings right now.

I heard some talking in the background. “Hey, I’d better get back to work. We have to finish up here, or else I’ll never make it to church in the morning.”

By the time we said our goodbyes it was close to midnight; Sunday had almost arrived. Maybe this week Pastor Waldberg would preach a comforting message instead of his usual hellfire and brimstone. Everyone in Grace Gulch still suffered from shock at Penn’s death.

~

My alarm woke me out of a deep sleep shortly after dawn the next morning. I needed to be up extra early to get ready for another hectic day, starting with getting dressed. Although I wore period clothing throughout the week at my store, I rarely did so on Sundays. After all, Christians set aside the day to worship the Lord, not to do business. Most weeks I alternated combinations of my limited contemporary wardrobe of four skirts, seven blouses, and three sweaters.

But today, many people would dress up in honor of the Centennial. They had purchased their clothing at my store and wanted to wear it as often as possible during Land Run Days. It would look odd if I didn’t wear something appropriate for the occasion. So I took the time to dress carefully. I selected a gray bolero jacket over a white blouse, a lace jabot with a matching skirt, and a derby hat.

By the time I finished dressing, my doorbell rang. My father stood outside, a trim figure at sixty, handsome in his workaday blue jeans. “Would you like a buggy ride?” His eyebrows wiggled. “Or did you forget?”

Dina, wild red hair a shock over her high-necked blouse, leaned forward in the carriage and waved. I stared at the buggy. On the back of the carriage, a sign read “
Celebrate Land Run Sunday with Us at the Word of Truth Fellowship.
” After yesterday’s tumult, I had forgotten that my family had volunteered to drive the buggy around the neighborhood inviting people to worship with us. But Dad appeared at my doorstep this morning as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

“We have doughnuts and hot chocolate,” Dad added as an extra inducement.

My stomach rumbled its agreement. “Sounds great. I haven’t eaten breakfast yet.” I smiled in acquiescence—the church was counting on us—and grabbed the double cape I had worn last night. Dad handed me up to the worn leather seat and then urged our horses forward.

We circled the church three times during the Sunday school hour, waving at everyone we saw and inviting people to church. Some asked if they could ride the buggy, and Dad explained that rides would be available for all ages—after the morning worship service, while they were preparing for the picnic on the grounds.

A few minutes before service, Dad unhitched the horses from the buggy and hobbled them near a tree on the church lawn. As full as the parking lot was, I wondered how many people had crowded into our sanctuary and if we could find a seat. But Audie greeted us at the front door with a smile and said, “This way.” He managed to save a spot for us.

Audie sat with us most weeks, ever since his first Lord’s Day in Grace Gulch. I looked forward to seeing him on Sunday mornings. I flashed a “thank-you” smile in his direction as Frances—the cop was also our church’s pianist—began the prelude.

Well-worn booklets titled
Gospel Hymns
replaced our usual hymnals in the pews. Leafing through, I saw some of my favorite hymns, a nostalgic treat from my childhood before contemporary worship music became the norm. The praise team looked strange in their long dresses and fancy suits, tambourines replacing electric guitars. They led us through several gospel songs. What songs we didn’t know, we stumbled through in merry spirits. Audie seemed to know most of the music.

“I see that Ira Sankey wrote a lot of these songs. He traveled with the evangelist D. L. Moody, you know,” Audie whispered to me during the offering. “In Chicago I grew up singing this stuff, since it was his home base back in the day.”

The song service ended all too soon. Enid Waldberg, the pastor’s wife, led the children’s Sunday school class in reciting the Twenty-third Psalm from the poetic King James Version. Then Pastor Waldberg stood up to speak.

The bulletin announced the sermon title as “Life Is Short—Are You Ready?” For the past few months, Pastor Waldberg had emphasized the importance of evangelism on this Sunday, when we expected an influx of visitors due to the Land Run Days. I was sure he had prepared his sermon well in advance of yesterday’s tragic events, but Penn’s death only emphasized his point. Our pastor’s thick black brows protruded over somber dark eyes, his mighty voice and piercing gaze adding weight to his usual hellfire-style. In spite of his occasional odd traits, he truly was the best preacher I had ever heard. He invited us to open our Bibles to the sixteenth chapter of Luke, to the story of the rich man and Lazarus.

Waldberg read the passage and opened in prayer, then began to speak.

“Some people would say Penn Hardy was well off, like the rich man in Jesus’ parable. He was rich in the things of this world. He owned a newspaper. He belonged to a prominent family.” The Gaynors in the congregation preened themselves at the reference. “And he ran his newspaper fairly, reporting as much of the good news as the evil doings of this generation. He will be missed as a deacon of our church.

“But this day—this day! His soul has been called to account. You never know when your life will end. If Penn could, he would send an angel to warn you of wrath to come! But God says no! If you don’t believe the Word of Truth, how would you believe an angel sent by God?”

And on he went. God’s Spirit was with him. Several people raised their hands during the invitation. I felt guilty that I longed for comfort instead of conviction on this particular day, when God was in the business of saving souls.

After the service, I sought out Enid Waldberg. A warm, cozy woman, she served as the perfect counterpoint to her husband. I complimented her on the great job the children had done. Audie, as usual, dived into a discussion about the finer points of the sermon with the pastor.

“As Oscar Wilde said, ‘Ordinary riches can be stolen, real riches cannot. In your soul are infinitely precious things that cannot be taken from you.’ ” Audie never missed an opportunity to quote his favorite playwright. “Lazarus knew what real riches were. I hope I can emulate his example.”