Darlene Franklin - Dressed for Death 01 - Gunfight at Grace Gulch (4 page)

Pastor Waldberg looked flustered. I didn’t blame him. Audie’s use of a quote from a reprobate to echo a spiritual truth would make any man of the cloth uncomfortable.

“Or as Proverbs says, ‘Wealth is worthless in the day of wrath, but righteousness delivers from death.’ ” Audie added the scripture verse to put the pastor at ease. His knowledge of the Bible exceeded his knowledge of great plays. I admired a man who knew his Bible backwards and forwards.

“Yes, indeed.” Poor Pastor Waldberg looked a bit shrunken. If they held a memory verse contest, Audie would probably win. He seemed to have the entire book of Proverbs memorized, chapter and verse.

We stayed for the picnic, held in celebration of Land Run Days. After so much food sampling over the weekend, I might have to let out my clothes before I wore them again.

“Are you sure you don’t want to run the buggy around?” Dad invited Audie to drive.

“Not unless you want a runaway horse.”

“No, we can’t have that. I’ll take the buggy around a few more times before I eat.” Dad donned his hat and climbed up in the seat.

Audie took off his jacket and added red suspenders over a white shirt. “Let me duck inside and get ready for my act.”

Audie might not be comfortable holding the reins of a horse, but he could act. He had offered to be a mime at today’s lunch, and I knew he planned to add white face makeup and become a blond Marcel Marceau for the afternoon. He reappeared a few minutes later, a gaggle of balloons tied around his waist, and the children on the grass swarmed around him. He mimed each animal as he tied the balloon. I loved his passion for bringing his art and joy to everyone.

Audie reminded me of those two brief years I went to college out of state, of art and history and a whole other world, a world that I explored through dresses of the different eras. He was as skilled at theater as Cord was at ranching, but he bucked the actor stereotypes by being down-to-earth, concerned, and authentic.

The two men differed in so many ways. Cord was as familiar as a foam mattress that conforms to a person’s shape over time. My experiences matched his. Everything I could do around a ranch, he could do as well—make that better—as I could. Cord already knew all my most embarrassing moments. There were no secrets between us. But that was the problem. Did I want more of the same?

Both men had hinted at taking things to the next level, to making it an exclusive relationship. I thought it strange that Cord never cared about that until Audie entered the picture.

My eyes strayed to Audie while I picked at a piece of fried chicken. He had stopped tying balloons and started miming Bible stories. He tied a napkin around his head and lifted his eyes to heaven. Then he sprinkled coins in the children’s hands, sending ripples of giggles through the crowd. He pointed to the billboard of the ten commandments Pastor Waldberg had added to our lawn and then pointed to himself. He pondered each commandment. Yes, I do that. No, I don’t do that. He made his self-inventory clear through head motions and facial expressions.

I didn’t recognize the associated story until Audie took off the napkin and threw dust in his hair. He looked down at the ground. Of course! Jesus’ parable about the Pharisee and the tax collector.

“Stop daydreaming and come and eat.” Dina touched my elbow. “Dad’s taking a break from the buggy rides.”

I grabbed a glass of lemonade and joined them at the end of a picnic table, daydreaming about two different men. Times like this I missed my mother. Who else could I talk to about matters of the heart? Dad assumed I chatted with Jenna about “girly things,” as he put it, but she lived far away, and we didn’t phone that often. Besides, with the mistakes she had made, I couldn’t trust her advice when we were younger, and now we didn’t talk much. Then there was Dina, but at nineteen, she was inexperienced. So I prayed and asked God to show me which man was right for me. If either.

Audie must have seen us sit down, because he mimed eating and left behind the protesting children to go through the buffet line.

Of course, people asked me about what happened yesterday. Several others stopped Audie on his way to our table. They must have asked him about Penn’s death as well, because I saw his answering actions and movement.

Dina caught me watching Audie. “You’re staring.” She poked me in the arm. The point of my plastic fork dug into the side of my mouth, and I yelped.

“Guilty.” I dabbed my mouth and took a sip of lemonade. “I wonder what he has to say about what happened yesterday. Because we haven’t had a chance to talk about it.” I chased a last bite of potato salad around my plate.

“Oh, is that all?” She noticed my empty plate. “I’m ready for a second trip. What do you want? I’ll get it for you.”

“I’d like a small spoonful of that tamale pie.”

“Sure, be right back.”

Audie broke away from another questioner and moved in our direction.

“You can have my seat.” Dina stood up and offered her chair to Audie.

Somehow, Audie had juggled two cups of tea with his plate. He downed one in a few long gulps.

“I didn’t know miming could work up such a thirst.”

“Answering everyone’s questions did that.” Audie grabbed a second glass. “I feel like I should record my answer. Push ‘one’ for ‘Is it true that Cord shot Penn?’ Hit ‘two’ for ‘Do you think someone substituted real bullets for the blanks?’ And so on.”

“Grace Gulch hasn’t had anything as traumatic as this in years. People are horrified that one of our leading citizens was gunned down in broad daylight.” We grimaced at each other.

“How did things go for Dina with the police?”

How thoughtful of Audie to ask. I looked at my sister, winding her way between the laden tables. “Okay, I guess. I wish she had brought a lawyer, but—”

“Hey, Dina!” One of Dina’s friends from high school—home from college for the weekend—called out as my sister approached our table with plates in hand. “You really should be more careful with those props.” The words fell into a moment of silence.

Dina paused mid-step, her face as red as her hair. Then she continued walking to our table, head held high.

I was never prouder of Dina than at that moment. But someone had to figure out the truth about Penn’s death, before the town dragged Cord and Dina’s names through the mud more than they had already.

4

July 15, 1891

My dearest Mary,

Praise God! I felt your heart rejoice with mine when I heard the news that negotiations with five of the tribes in Indian Territory have begun. They must make their own arrangements and take a census to determine land allotments. Hopefully each tribe’s lands will open individually as soon as they sign a treaty with the government. The lands are lush, Mary. I wish I could pick a posy of thistle and lace to bring to you. The day the land is mine, I will bring you flowers every day, if you like.

I have headed to Indian Territory so I may be on the spot as soon as President Harrison sets the date for the next land run.

Your loving fiancé,

Robert Grace

~

Sunday, September 22

After the church picnic, I arrived home only minutes before Audie stopped by to pick me up. I forgot my questions about the investigation in the warmth of the MGM lobby, where most of the town gathered for the afternoon concert presented by the Land Run Celebration Choir. For now, I would concentrate on enjoying the next couple of hours in Audie’s company.

A curlicued playbill displayed in front of the theater had advertised the concert for weeks. Someone on the Land Run Days Planning Committee discovered a program from the original theater, the one that was destroyed by a tornado before the MGM was rebuilt on the same site, and decided to duplicate the music of that era. The director dug through piles of old music and promised a gala, roaring ’90s-style.

Suzanne, theater diva and temporary saloon hostess, greeted us at the door. “I’m so glad you could join us today.” She handed each of us a program, a work of art with gold tassels dangling between blue velum covers. Inside, sepia ink was printed on cream parchment.

“Your seats have been reserved at the front.” Suzanne’s attempted smile looked like a reflection in a cracked mirror, unexpected from Miss Sunshine of the MGM theater group.

“What’s wrong?” Audie asked.

So I wasn’t the only one picking up distress signals.

Suzanne’s smile faltered. “It’s just that. . .well, you know, with Penn’s death. . . It’s so awful.”

“It is terrible.” Audie nodded, appearing to take her words at face value, but I wondered. Penn didn’t act with the theater on a regular basis, and I didn’t think Suzanne knew him all that well.

“But the show must go on, right?” Suzanne smiled, this time a genuine dazzler that showcased her acting talent.

“So you’re going ahead with the surprise?” Audie’s mouth quivered with mischief.

“Absolutely!” Suzanne arched an eyebrow and lifted the hem of her dress, revealing a hint of beribboned bloomers. “Go on in. Enjoy the show.”

“What surprise? Is there something I don’t know?” I scanned the program: solos, choir numbers, a barbershop quartet, and even a dance number—all familiar. I had helped the choir director with the costumes and thought I knew all the acts.

“Let’s just say we added a little something extra at the end.”

“We? I thought you stayed away from this production.” Content to orchestrate the reenactment, Audie had left the concert to the choir director—or so he’d said.

Audie shook his head. “Suzanne suggested it, and I put the idea to the director. He agreed. Let’s go ahead and find our seats.”

We made our way to the front, where Audie had a reserved place as interim theater director. Dad and a freshly dressed Dina had found seats toward the back. She waved a cheery hello and didn’t seem any the worse for the encounter at lunch. The seats had sold out weeks before; any latecomers had to be satisfied with SRO. A rousing success for the first musical performance at the new theater.

Magda Grace Mallory never did anything halfway. She’d rebuilt the edifice with all the bells and whistles. Red velvet hung from the walls. Soft light from sconces suggested candlelight instead of electricity. Cherubs draped in scarves adorned the ceiling. Audie once admitted to me that the acoustics were horrible. People didn’t care, carried away by the Paris Opera House-style beauty.

I sank into a plush seat at the front. Next to me, Mitch Gaynor claimed a front row seat as a theater critic, and so did Mayor Grace on the other side of Audie. I felt sorry for the people sitting behind them. Mitch’s height would block their view of the stage, and the spotlight would bounce off the mayor’s bald pate. One front row spot remained empty, probably the place Penn Hardy would have occupied. I shuddered and thrust the thought away.

“Good afternoon.” Dressed in a white linen suit, Mayor Grace beamed at us with the bonhomie that made him such a good politician. “I am truly looking forward to this afternoon’s performance. You did an amazing job with the reenactment, Audie.”

“Thank you, Mayor.”

“Until the unfortunate accident. A terrible tragedy.”

“A great tragedy, indeed,” Audie said as he shook the mayor’s hand. “Penn was a good man.”

“And a great newspaperman. I’m not ashamed to admit it,” Mitch added. “Grace Gulch has lost an icon with his passing.”

I buried a laugh with a cough. Everyone knew Mitch hated Penn’s editorial guts.

Conversation stalled as Mrs. Mallory appeared in front of the curtains to welcome the audience. The lady had class; she wore a gown that could have graced Prince Edward’s consort. She greeted all comers, prettily thanked the music teacher from the high school for leading the program, and departed through the wings. The curtain opened on a nineteenth-century paradise, a summer day. A few trees added a touch of reality to the painted backdrop, with a small pavilion to the side, for solos and quartets and such, I supposed.

The concert began with “Oklahoma!” Of course, what else? The singers sounded every bit as good as the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.

“Now that I live here, I know what Hammerstein meant when he talked about the wind whipping down the plain,” Audie whispered to me as he stood to his feet, clapping along with the rest of the audience. “After that brush with a tornado last month.”

“You can’t tell me the wind never blows in the Windy City,” I whispered back.

The first half of the program consisted of sentimental favorites from 1891.
Audie encircled my shoulders with his arm, and I leaned against him, enjoying the music.

Enid Waldberg led a female barbershop quartet. Her throaty contralto voice lent itself well to the melody in “The Pardon Came Too Late.” The melancholy message of the song sent a shiver down my spine, and Audie’s hold on me tightened protectively. I hoped that the lyrics didn’t presage some awful ending to yesterday’s events.
Don’t get carried away.
No one had been accused, let alone convicted.

With the final selection, “Every Rose Must Have its Thorn,” the curtain closed on the first act. Audie and I found our way to where Jenna had joined Dad and Dina at the back.

Jenna saw Audie and flashed a neon smile.
Oh, no. Why hadn’t I seen this coming and prepared for it?
Any male under fifty drew my older sister’s attention. And Audie was a better-than-average specimen.

“Well, will you look at that,” Jenna said. “Cici, where have you been hiding this hunk of man flesh?”

This was even worse than I had dreaded. I felt heat soak my cheeks.

“Audwin Howe, interim director of the theater. And you are?” Audie recovered well. Maybe the theater inured him to flamboyant sirens. He arched an eyebrow in my direction, waiting for an introduction.

“This is my sister. Jenna. Wilde.” I tried, really I did, to make that one single sentence. I couldn’t help it if each word came out on its own.

“I flew into town for the festivities,” she purred. “You’re not from around here, are you? I’d remember you.”

“I’m from Chicago originally, although I’m hoping to settle down in Grace Gulch.”

That statement made my heart flutter. Audie looked in my direction and spoke my name, breaking Jenna’s spell. “Would you like something from the bar?”

I could have kissed him then and there. It took a strong man to resist my sister’s charms. “I’d like a glass of water with lemon, please.” I headed for the ladies’ room while Audie made his way through the crowd to get the drink.

Audie was leaning against a Corinthian column when I exited the facilities. He must have sensed my earlier discomfort about Jenna’s overtures. “Don’t worry. I’m deaf to the siren song. ‘Musical people always want one to be perfectly dumb at the very moment when one is longing to be perfectly deaf.’”

“Don’t tell me.” I had to laugh. “Oscar Wilde again?”

“Of course. I had a drama teacher in college who pounded Wilde into our heads. He had a lot of wit, if somewhat lacking in the wisdom department. And speaking of laughter. . .” He gestured toward the doors, where we could see the lights blinking to signal the end of intermission. “The second half is supposed to be comedy. There were a lot of comic operas in that time period. Some real classics that you don’t hear very often nowadays.”

“I can’t imagine why”—I consulted my program—“ ‘Boom Ta Ra’
isn’t a standard on the oldies station.” We rejoined the mayor and Mitch in our front row seats.

A circus tent replaced the summer garden scene. As it turned out, “Boom Ta Ra” was hilarious. Clowns chased each other around the stage on outrageous unicycles, honking horns with every repetition of the chorus. Next came cats and dogs—children dressed in costumes, their names listed in the program—for “Johnny Doolan’s Cat.”

The next to last song was a coup for our concert. Magda Grace Mallory had pulled strings and obtained permission to perform “Oklahoma Rising,”
written especially for the recent Oklahoma Centennial by native sons Vince Gill and Jimmy Webb. The lyrics that touched on everything from the Dust Bowl to the bombing of the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building brought tears to my eyes. When the band played the introduction to the national anthem, patriotic fever surged through the auditorium.

The director turned to the audience and invited us to join in singing “The Star Spangled
Banner.”
A huge flag was lowered behind the risers. Several hundred voices rose in song. I could have jumped up on the stage all by myself and hollered, “God bless America,” and sung “Yankee Doodle Dandy.” I didn’t want the concert to end.

Others must have agreed with me. Someone in the back shouted, “Encore!” and the audience took up the chant. I caught Audie in a private smile, and I had a sneaking suspicion that the call for an encore had been a plant. I recollected his strange conversation with Suzanne.

A young girl ran across the stage and whispered in the director’s ear. The auditorium hushed.

The director spoke to the audience. “I’ve just received word that vaudeville sensation Belle Ormand has arrived, straight from Paris, France! And she is prepared to share a song with us.” He clapped, and soon we were applauding, as well. I heard a few cat whistles from the energized crowd.

Suzanne strutted on stage, her dress scandalously short for the 1890s. From where I sat, I could see the ribboned bloomers that adorned her calf muscles. In a nasally voice worthy of Miss Adelaide in
Guys and Dolls
, she sang into the mike, “I’m the belle of high society. . .”

“Ta-ra-ra. . .” Clanging cymbals and the bass drum announced the chorus as the choir joined in singing. With each beat, Suzanne kicked her legs high in the air.

I gasped. “She’s doing the—”

“The cancan!” Audie grinned. “Her idea.”

The entire auditorium sang along as Suzanne kicked her way across the stage. Rhythmic clapping took over, and I sensed movement behind me. I turned my head. Someone was dancing down the aisle. Jenna! With a laughing Dina at her side, both of them pumped their legs in time with Suzanne. If a trap door opened beneath my feet, I would have fallen through with thanks.

The director noticed the commotion and paused the music. He bowed and invited my sisters on stage. Dina grabbed my arm and dragged me with them. The director turned to the audience. “And now another special treat—the Wilde sisters!” Suzanne smiled and retreated to the wings. Lifting his baton, he led the choir in another chorus. “Ta-Ra-Ra Boom-De-Ay!” crashed across the stage. The three of us linked arms and kicked.

I can’t tell you how I survived the next few minutes. With my skirt and bustle, I couldn’t lift my legs as high as I used to in marching band. Dina and Jenna, experienced dancers and dressed in slacks, moved easily. I stumbled around after them, lifting the edge of my skirt with the toes of my shoes. “Just you wait,” I muttered to Dina beneath the loud music. She lifted her head high, laughed, and kicked some more.

After endless repetitions of the chorus—Audie told me later they only sang it twice more—the music stopped. In the front row, Mitch Gaynor jumped up and started applauding. The auditorium joined him in a standing ovation. The director clapped along with them.

“Thank you all for joining us today. And a special thank-you to the Wilde sisters for making it a most memorable event.”

The Wilde sisters. That was us, all right, in more ways than one.

Audie reached us first, congratulating me with a hug and a brush of his lips across my burning cheeks. “Well done!”