A Parfait Murder (4 page)

Kyle shoved his hands deep in his jeans pockets, ducked his head, and glared up at me through his lashes. His expression was standard-issue sullen teenage boy, but something about his eyes or the set of his jaw induced an eerie sense of déjà vu. Suddenly I was eighteen again, standing in the Tasty-Swirl parking lot in my white sundress, watching helplessly as my romance with Finn Harper disappeared in a spray of gravel and a squeal of tires.

I shook off the sense of doom that enveloped me, gave Kyle an impulsive hug, and took off in the direction of the Creative Arts Arena. I’d rounded the corner of the A-la-mode booth to make my way back to the midway when Finn stepped out of the shadows and took me by the arm.

“Tally.”

“Lord a’mighty, Finn. You took a year off my life.”

“Sorry. I just . . .” He trailed off, and his gaze drifted to a spot over my shoulder.

He looked so intense, I glanced behind me to see if anyone was coming, but we were alone.

“Is Alice okay?” he finally asked.

“I don’t know. Bree’s giving her the news right now. But don’t let her little-girl looks fool you. Alice is a tough cookie. She’ll muddle through.”

He nodded, but his expression remained troubled.

“You working?” I asked.

“What?” He shook himself, and when his eyes met mine again the devilish glint had returned. “Actually, yes. I’m supposed to be doing a feature on the newcomers to the Lantana County Fair. The A-la-mode included.”

He leaned in close and whispered in my ear, “Wanna preview that new haunted rodeo ride with me? It might be romantic.”

I laughed. “What part of zombie cowboys and ghostly saloon girls is ‘romantic’?”

His warm breath stirred the hair at my temple as he chuckled. “Come on. It’ll be dark, and we can hold hands.”

I knew I needed to get back to the Creative Arts building for a meeting with Garrett and Kristen about judging procedures and the timing of announcing various awards. And I knew that Bree and Alice might both need a little support—not to mention time off from the A-la-mode booth.

Finn laced his fingers with mine and tugged gently. I inhaled the clean bite of juniper and wintergreen that emanated from his skin. And I felt my resistance melt. There would be plenty of demands on my time over the next twenty-four hours, but I could afford to play hooky for fifteen minutes to slip away with my man.

Besides, I reasoned, the haunted rodeo was right on the way to the Creative Arts Arena.

The fairgrounds were laid out like a giant cross. When fairgoers entered the main gate to the south, they had to run a gantlet of carnival barkers challenging them to feats of strength and coordination in order to reach the midway rides—the carousel, the Ferris wheel, the Tilt-A-Whirl, the swings, the battle-ax, and, this year, the haunted rodeo. If you continued north through the rides, you’d reach the arena where the rodeo and pageants were held. To the west of the midway, the strip of food booths led to a small amphitheater where one-hit wonders and local honky-tonk bands put on free shows, while the Creative Arts buildings dominated the east side of the fairgrounds.

Finn and I held hands and dashed toward the midway, giggling like a couple of kids sneaking in after the prom.

Between the Tilt-A-Whirl and the carousel, perennial fair favorites, the new haunted rodeo attraction—Doc Lister’s Wild, Wild West—hid behind a massive facade of weathered wood, swinging saloon doors, and a huge spectral cowboy whose animatronic gun arm rose and fell in time with the demented cackling of the ride’s sound track.

The ride might be new to the Lantana County Fair, but it sure as heck wasn’t new on this earth. In fact, the painted steel steps and pitted orange enameled cars looked as if they might date back to the dust bowl.

As we stepped onto the platform, it wobbled beneath our feet. I stopped and gave Finn a “you gotta be kidding me” look. He just grinned, cocked an eyebrow in a wicked dare, and tugged gently on my hand. He didn’t come right out and call me a chicken, but I got the message.

A man stepped out from beneath the curtain of fake spiderweb and tattered bunting that draped down from the boot spurs of the giant zombie cowboy. I recognized Wiley Bishop. Wiley did odd jobs around town and always smelled a little like whiskey and bologna. He wore grease-stained dungarees and a faded Papa Smurf T-shirt, a blue bandanna tied around his head. Silver bristles stuck straight out of the bit of scalp that showed, like the spines on a cactus, and deep crevices fanned across his face like the arroyos that scarred the high desert landscape. A dusting of red glitter across his cheekbone seemed wildly out of place.

As he approached, he sucked on his teeth, as though he were summoning the spit to speak.

“Come on up, folks. First passengers of the day.” He coughed, a deep rattling cough, and I half expected to see a puff of dust belch from between his lips.

“Hey, Wiley,” Finn said, “you got a little . . .” Finn touched his own cheek, prompting Wiley to rub his own face. Wiley’s efforts removed a bit of the glitter, but left behind a bold slash of grease.

“Dang old whore,” Wiley muttered.

“Wiley, there’s a lady present,” Finn warned.

“Naw, not a real whore. One a’ them dummies inside. She kicks her legs over the tracks and the glitter come off her frilly skirts. Found some in my drawers last night.” He sucked his teeth again, expressing his disgust for glittery undergarments. “Two tickets each.”

Finn tore off four red tickets, the universal currency of the fair rides and games, and handed them to Wiley, who folded them accordion-style and tucked them in a hot-pink fanny pack that rested on his hip. Finn held my hand as I stepped down from the platform to the dusty bench seat before joining me. His hand brushed my hip as he pulled the seat belt across my body and snapped it together between us.

He leaned close and whispered in my ear, “You can hold my hand if you get scared.”

I gave him the stink eye. “Oh, sure, I’m quaking in my boots already.”

The six-car train started forward with a bone-jarring lurch. Somewhere above us, speakers emitted tinny cackles and “yee-haws,” and plinking piano music. As we chugged along through scenes of Main Street shootouts and positively offensive Indian tableaus—complete with “hey-a-hey-a” chanting and tomahawk chops—the whole experience registered more as “confusing” and “loud” than “scary.” The only redeeming features of the ride were the puffs of cool, spooky mist and the dark.

Finn took full advantage of the dark.

We finally rounded a corner into an old-fashioned saloon. The fakey piano music picked up again, but this stretch of the ride was quieter than the others. A ghoulish bartender polished the same glass over and over while a table of zombie cowboys rocked back and forth over a game of cards and a bottle of whiskey. The piano and its ghostly player nestled against the far wall, right next to a set of old-fashioned saloon doors. Oddly, a small balcony teetered above the doors, and a saloon girl perched there, kicking her leg just out of sync with the music. Even in the dim light, I could see the sparkle of the red glitter that plagued poor Wiley in the girl’s tulle skirts. In one last hurrah, a crazed cowboy with red glowing eyes burst through the saloon’s swinging doors, guns blazing with puffs of white smoke. Canned shrieks rang out, and the cardplayers collapsed over their hands.

I smothered a laugh as Finn kissed the ticklish spot right behind my ear. The train gave a last jerking push toward the exit. For a moment, we were in total darkness.

Finn whispered something into the tender skin at my temple.

“What?”

I felt his lips curl in a smile. He dipped his head to get closer to my ear and whispered again, “I love you.”

I froze. Ahead of us, I could see the light leaking around the exit door, and we were moving closer and closer. I wanted so bad to stop the whole world, make everything hold still so I could savor those words. For nearly twenty years, I’d only heard those words from Finn in the deepest, most secret corners of my mind. And there they were, just out there. I wanted to touch those words, hold them in my hand, feel the weight and reality of them.

But the exit door, haloed in light, grew closer.

I should have said the words back, made the circle complete right there in that sacred moment, but I had no air for words. Instead, I twisted around, groped for his hair, and pulled his head down into a heated kiss . . . hoping that every ounce of my joy and terror and love was communicated from flesh to flesh.

The train nudged through the ride’s exit, and we pulled apart as the harsh summer sunlight blinded our dark-adjusted eyes.

A
fter Finn’s bombshell, he had to dash off to do reporterly things. I had mustered the nerve to head back into the fray at the Creative Arts Exhibit, but my phone vibrated to indicate I had a new voice mail message—apparently there wasn’t any cell reception inside the haunted rodeo. I checked the call record as I dialed in. Garrett Simms.

He assured me that the great ice cream controversy had been settled: Tucker’s Pepper Praline ice cream used cayenne instead of ancho chili, and his praline was more brown sugary than the dulce de leche in my Texas Twister.

It seemed Tucker Gentry, who had swept the yellow tomato canning categories and won best in show for his tomato-pepper-tequila jam the year before, could hold his head high in this year’s cooking contests.

Garrett sighed. “I knew I couldn’t make everyone happy with that decision, but apparently I didn’t make anyone happy. Tucker’s still moping around here like a lovelorn teenage girl, and Eloise is on the warpath. She’s mighty peeved at you for, and I quote, ‘not defending your own blasted ice cream.’ I’m getting out of here for the day, and I suggest you lie low, too.”

His advice suited me fine, as I wanted some quiet time to savor Finn’s sweet confession.

I left Kyle sulking over setting up the A-la-mode booth and handling the first night’s customers—despite a promise I would send Beth in to help him—and took Peachy and Bree back to the store on the Dalliance Courthouse Square.

While Bree and Peachy ran out for our dinner, I busied myself making a giant batch of bittersweet fudge for the next day. I let the narcotic scent of warm chocolate seep into my pores while I replayed those moments in the haunted rodeo over and over.

Peachy’s brittle voice broke through my blissful haze. “Barbecue,” she barked, announcing the evening’s menu.

“Oh, good. I’m starved.”

I was, too. Between the hubbub over Tucker’s ice cream, Sonny’s return to Dalliance, and my little interlude with Finn, I’d missed lunch.

We clustered around one of the café tables in the front of the store—just in case a customer drifted in while we were eating—and tucked into dinner from Erma’s Fry by Night Diner: barbecued brisket sandwiches, laced with homemade bread and butter pickles and sweet onions, and fresh coleslaw.

While Peachy and I mulled over her competition in the quilt show and debated whether the Lantana Round-Up Rodeo Queen Pageant demeaned women or not, Bree listlessly poked at her coleslaw and looked as if her best dog died. I couldn’t even coax a smile from her with one of her favorite black Irish milk shakes (dark chocolate ice cream laced with Irish cream).

As predicted, Alice hadn’t taken the news of Sonny’s return and the paternity suit particularly well. She’d skedaddled off in a huff, refusing even the comfort Kyle offered. With nothing but a backpack and bicycle, she couldn’t get into too much trouble. I knew our girl: she’d go blow off some steam, talk herself from raging to rational, and turn up at home as if nothing had happened.

In her head, Bree knew that, too. But her heart wasn’t so sure.

“She’s gonna hate me,” she mourned, while I went ahead and added an extra glug of Irish cream to the milk shake container.

“For what?” Peachy snapped. “You didn’t do anything but love her every day of her life. If she’s gonna hate anyone, it’s that snake Sonny.” She smacked her hand on the wrought-iron café table. “I wish to God he wasn’t her daddy.”

“Bite your tongue, Gram. Sonny’s Alice’s father, and I’m going to prove it.” She reached into the mammoth purse at her feet and hauled out a small plastic sandwich bag.

From the other side of our wide marble counter, I had to squint to make out the bag’s contents: a small plastic cup, like the kind that comes with bottles of cough syrup, and a lime green plastic spoon.

Peachy, too, was squinting at Bree’s hands. “Lord a’mighty, child, what do you have?”

“I snagged that little sample of caramel Sonny tasted. I’m gonna send it off for DNA.”

Peachy frowned. “Why don’t you leave all that stuff to the courts? You shoulda got a judge in the middle of this fifteen years ago. That’s what courts are for, Sabrina Marie.”

“I know, Gram. But my friend Andi down at the Bar None, her daughter got knocked up and didn’t know who the daddy was. It took four months to find out. Those state labs are all backed up with murders and stuff. Andi said there was a private lab where they could have sent the samples and gotten results in less than a week. But Andi’s daughter didn’t have the money.”

She looked at me hard. Even from across the room, I could feel the raw force of her will. “I’m not about to wait four months.”

I sighed. “Bree, you know I’ll get you the money. Even if I have to sell a kidney. But I bet the courts don’t accept that kind of evidence. I mean, I don’t think Kristen Ver Steeg’s going to just take your word for it that that little green spoon has Sonny’s spit on it. Do you?”

She shrugged. “Don’t know, don’t care. That fancypants Kristen Ver Steeg can take her legal mumbo jumbo and shove it where the sun don’t shine. This isn’t about a lawsuit or child support. This is about giving my little girl her daddy back.”

 

The next morning, Bree and I left Alice sleeping off her emotional bender and Peachy shoring up our domestic defenses with zucchini muffins and butterscotch bars.