May Cooler Heads Prevail (2 page)

“I ain’t got all the particulars worked out yet on how we’re gonna catch that killer. That’s why we need you up here.”

“You want me to help you work out the particulars on a plan to catch a killer?” I couldn’t keep the shrillness out of my voice. “Uncle Rudd, that’s just…well it’s just…” I wanted to use the word “insane.” Instead I settled for, “It’s just not practical.”

“I’ll work out the plan, Dixie-gal, you don’t need to worry about that. We need you for something else. See, Connie is pretty rattled, and she keeps talking in some kinda code. Nissa calls it symbols. Don’t matter what you want to call it, we can’t make heads or tails of it. So I was thinking that since you did such a good job with cousin Dyson, and you know all that psycho mumbo jumbo, you could help us decipher what Connie is talking about. Then we would have our first clue as to who really killed Aaron Scott.”

“It’s psychological mumbo jumbo, if you please,” I muttered, wondering how I could explain to my uncle that this was a lot different than finding Dyson a nice place in
which to be psychotic. I’m not trained to decipher coded messages—or find murder clues for that matter.

I knew Uncle Rudd wouldn’t listen for two seconds to all the sane reasons I shouldn’t get mixed up in this mess, so I settled for what I considered to be the next best tactic and said, “Of course, I’ll be there to support Aunt Connie in any way I can. But Sheriff Otis may want a therapist that is licensed in the state of Missouri to talk with her.”

“Doesn’t matter what the sheriff wants,” he huffed, “because tellin’ Otis Beecher isn’t part of the plan.”

Fearing that Uncle Rudd had, as so many Tanners before him, excused himself from the Dinner Table of Intelligent Reasoning, and was now in a feeding frenzy at the Buffet for the Befuddled, I used the same calm, well-modulated voice I had used with Dyson. “Maybe it would be a good idea to inform Otis about Aaron Scott’s murder. After all, Otis is the sheriff as well as a friend of the family. I’m certain he’ll see to it that the truth comes out. Besides, one cannot simply leave dead bodies lying about and expect people not to notice. Surely this man’s family is wondering what happened to him?”

“Nope, nobody will be missing him,” Uncle Rudd replied gruffly, “because nobody knows he’s dead. We hid the body where no one will find it.”

I knew it! The minute Uncle Rudd used the word
problem
,
I should have packed my bags, bypassed Florida, and headed out for some remote South Sea island where I could learn
to juggle coconuts and simultaneously sing “Nobody Knows the Trouble I’ve Seen.” But since it was now the middle of the night and much too late to get in touch with a travel agent, I pleaded, “Be reasonable, Uncle Rudd. Where in Kenna Springs could you possibly hide a dead body? It’s a small town. People see things, people know things.”

“Reasonable?” Uncle Rudd exploded. “You want me to be reasonable? If old Tenacious Tanner had been reasonable, they’da hung him for horse stealin’ instead of that dead horse thief. I’m telling you straight out, we hid that body real good. Nobody is gonna find it unless we want ‘em to. End of story!”

“All right, all right, you don’t have to yell,” I told him. “But you and Aunt Nissa locked up in jail for hiding a dead body is not how I want either one of you spending your golden years.”

“What? You think I’d let Nissa drag around a dead man? I’m not that big a clod. She took Connie upstairs, got her some things packed up, and then took her out to the car while we did what we had to do.”

Since the “we” part wasn’t Aunt Nissa, I was left to wonder which cousin was egging on this latest Tanner madness. Personally, my vote would’ve gone to cousin Woody. At one time there was talk of reinstating hanging in Kenna Springs just for the benefit of seeing Woody swing. However, no one had seen or heard from Woody since he took off for California ten years ago, and Woody’s parents moved to Florida soon
after. It couldn’t be cousin Dyson and his potted plant. I had talked to Dyson on the phone this morning (I declined the opportunity to chat with the plant). No one else came flashing into my mind, so I asked, “Who is ‘we’ then?”

“We’ve talked long enough, Dixie-gal. It’s time you started packing. I’ll tell you the rest when you get up here.” Uncle Rudd hung up.

He had me and he knew it. As things stood, there was a murderer running loose in my hometown, a dead body tucked away from prying eyes, an aunt who apparently now speaks in code, and a sheriff who knew nothing about any of it. And of course, the Tanner family was right in the thick of things. What choice did I have? I packed my bags.

CHAPTER
TWO

I
t was a little after one o’clock in the morning by the time I got on the road. I was still fretting and stewing over Uncle Rudd’s crazy announcement that he and an unknown sidekick had hidden the body of a murdered man and were going after his killer. It was insane at best, dangerous at worst.

I didn’t know what or how much of all of this to tell my secretary, Estelle Biggs, so I decided it would be best for everyone concerned if I just waited until I sorted it out in my mind before I called her. Besides, Estelle is not the kind of person one wakes up in the middle of the night. She has always been quite clear on that point. Considering that I was about to put her through rearranging my schedule and finding someone to take my case load for a few days, maybe longer, it was best to wait until I knew she was awake. I figured I could call her about the time I made it to the city limits of Kenna Springs. Right now I had enough worries and woes to think about with Uncle Rudd playing hide-and-seek with dead men and murderers.

Traffic was almost nonexistent, and I had nearly six hours
of driving time ahead. With that in mind, I tried to focus on what I could say to persuade Uncle Rudd to give up on this harebrained idea of playing detective and call Sheriff Otis. I came up with nothing, nada, zip. It was frustrating. The more frustrated I got, the more my favorite childhood daydream kept intruding into my thoughts. I had forgotten about it for years, yet there it was, as fresh and inviting as the first day I dreamed it up. I tried to think about something else, anything else. It was just a silly daydream about the way I wanted things to be. Maybe it was because I was tired, maybe it was just the frustration, or both, but finally I gave in to the comforting reverie.

I had it all worked out by the time I was eight years old. In my daydream I was adopted. My real parents were poor, but sane people, who had come on hard times and couldn’t afford to take care of me the way they wanted to. One day while looking for work, they happened by a nice-looking farmhouse belonging to Jeb and Memphis Tanner. Being from Chicago, they knew nothing about the Tanners, and so they were unaware of the various Tanner quirks that get passed down from generation to generation. Wanting me to have what they couldn’t give me at the time, they reluctantly left me, a newborn baby wrapped in a threadbare blanket, on the farmhouse steps. Heartbroken, they went in search of work, thinking someday they would come back for me. That evening they were caught outside of town in a blinding blizzard. Holding each other close, slowly freezing to death,
they proclaimed their undying love for each other and their darling baby daughter, and breathed their last.

I cherished that daydream, until one day, in a fit of childish petulance, I announced to my mother that I knew good and well I was adopted and told her the story I had come to hope was true. It didn’t take my bewildered mother long to produce my birth certificate, which of course had the names of Jeb and Memphis Tanner as the proud parents of one daughter, Dixie June Tanner, typed on it. My mother also pointed out that I was born in June and there was not a snowflake in sight at the time. Then she remarked that I had her small frame and dark hair. And just in case I had any lingering doubts, she snatched a color photo of my dad off the mantle of the living room fireplace and led me over to a mirror. Holding the picture up next to my face she said, “Honey, you look like me in the face, but you have the Tanner eyes.”

I couldn’t deny the truth of that. I do have the Tanner eyes. Not all the Tanners are born with them, but there are enough of us to make it a family trait. And I had them. One eye is greenish-brown and the other is just brown. Oh, how I have pined for baby blues. Even though my vision is 20/20, I tried colored contacts once, but threw them away after the redness and swelling started. So, I am a Tanner. I admit it, but not without many, many reservations.

Crossing the Missouri state line, I didn’t have time to think about anything but my driving. My old, but much loved, CJ-7 Jeep started slowing down to a crawl on the hills, even
though I pressed the gas pedal all the way to the floorboard. There was no place open to get it checked out.

By the time I reached Shotgun Hill, just outside of Kenna Springs, I had lost a lot of time. I rounded the bend at the top of the hill and came out onto a straight patch of road. It was already past eight o’clock. Estelle would be up and getting ready for church by now. The weather was clear enough and the road wide enough, I could pull over and make the phone call.

I pressed her number on my speed dial. She answered on the third ring. No, it wouldn’t be easy to rearrange my schedule on such short notice, but since I had some sort of family emergency that I refused to specify, she would manage. I thanked her and hung up. I felt guilty about not telling her any details, but what else could I do? I didn’t want to lie, and I sure didn’t want to tell her why I was going to Kenna Springs.

As I rounded the second bend before starting down Shotgun Hill, I had a panoramic view of Kenna Springs. It is one of those quaint old towns made up of stone, wood, and brick. Since it’s close to a network of natural springs and a fair-sized lake, Kenna Springs has always been a minor tourist attraction. During the summer months the tourists spend just enough money in the antique shops and craft stores dotted around the square to keep everyone hopeful that next year will be even better.

I loved Kenna Springs as it looked now, dressed to the
nines in an array of fall colors. The tourists have gone home, and everything and everyone moves to a slower cadence.

At the bottom of Shotgun Hill sits Jobina’s Jellies and Jams canning factory. Jobina’s Jellies and Jams is the biggest employer in the county. It was originally founded by Eldon and Jobina Sheffield. Their grandson, Latham, runs the factory now, making him the wealthiest man in several counties.

As I drove around the town square, I noticed that Truman Spencer, the owner/editor of the Kenna Springs
Bugle
,
was leaving the newspaper office with a small box in one hand and a clip-on tie in the other. Next door to the newspaper, Ed Baringer, dressed in his Sunday suit, was taping a sign up on his storefront window advertising the community-wide bake sale at the Veteran’s Hall next week. Even Maybelle Chesewick was out and about, pushing her battered grocery cart, which was already half-full of whatever odds and ends she happened to find lying around.

I couldn’t help but slow down as I drove past Aunt Connie’s Red Carnations Flower Shop. The shop was dark except for the lights in the display windows on each side of the front entrance.

Turning north off the square, I passed the older part of town with its two-story Victorian homes, decked out in colorful gingerbread trim. Once past the residential area, I headed out on the country road toward Uncle Rudd and Aunt Nissa’s farm, then turned into the half-mile driveway
that led up to the two-story white farmhouse.

As I drove up and parked by the garage, I could see Aunt Nissa waiting in her rocker on the front porch. Smiling and waving a greeting, she started walking toward the Jeep.

“My goodness, child, we thought you would be here before now,” she said, reaching out to hug me.

“I’m sorry. I would’ve been here sooner, but something’s wrong with my Jeep,” I explained. “I’m just grateful it didn’t quit on me. I thought about calling, but I thought you might be trying to get some sleep.”

“Well, you’re here now. Rudd’ll take a look at the Jeep. In the meantime, you just come on inside and let me get you some breakfast.” Eyeing me up and down, she sighed. “You’re like your mama, a little on the puny side, but I’ll do what I can while you’re here.”

“Breakfast does sound pretty good about now.” I grinned at her. Aunt Nissa is a firm believer in feeding anyone who crosses the threshold of her home. Fortunately she is one of the best cooks in the county.

Stowing my bags by the staircase, we went on into the kitchen. The smell of fresh-baked biscuits and bacon permeated Aunt Nissa’s cheery red and white kitchen.

I took what I have always considered as my seat at the table. “Are Uncle Rudd and Aunt Connie still asleep?”

“Connie is still asleep. We gave her a sleeping pill. Rudd is out doing some chores, but he’ll be in directly.” Aunt Nissa piled scrambled eggs, bacon, and hash browns, along with a
biscuit loaded with gravy onto a plate. She handed me the plate then poured a glass of milk and set it on the table.

“Are you going to go to church with us this morning?” she asked, pouring herself a glass of milk and sitting down at the table across from me.