Kansas Troubles (12 page)

I ran my fingers up and down the edge of the envelope, trying to figure this out. “Why didn’t you give this to the police officer this morning?”

“I don’t know. He was so cold and uncaring. He seemed so certain that Ruth did something to cause her own death.” She blinked rapidly.

“I don’t understand. What do you want me to do?”

“Your husband. He’s a policeman. Becky has told me he is a man of great honesty. I thought perhaps . . .”

“Hannah, he’s a police officer in California. He doesn’t have any jurisdiction here. He’ll just have to turn it over to the local police himself.”

Pressing two fingers to the space between her eyes, she said, “I know. I just want it out of here.” Her eyes pleaded with me. “I realize you don’t know me and that none of this is your concern, but I don’t know who else to turn to. I don’t want Becky involved, because she lives here and I don’t know where my sister got this money, but I suspect it came from something that wasn’t good. Ruth wasn’t always the easiest person to love, but I did love her.” She said the last sentence passionately. “But to keep this money would be wrong. Please, could you just give it to your husband?”

I folded the envelope in half and stuck it in the back pocket of my jeans. “Yes, but the police will eventually want to question you about it.”

“I know, but it gives me some time. To think . . . and to pray. Eli is very upset about this. John is like a brother to him.” She touched my forearm. “Please, don’t tell Becky about this. She has been so kind to me and Ruth. I’m so afraid to involve her in something bad.”

“All right,” I said, not feeling entirely good about the whole situation. But a part of me was intrigued. Considering the amount of money in the account and knowing the poverty in which most aspiring musicians lived, Hannah was probably right in guessing that Tyler hadn’t gotten this money legitimately. The question remained, Where did she get it and did it involve her murder? We returned to the house and sat on the front porch waiting for Becky and the girls. “I’d love to purchase one of your quilts,” I told Hannah, trying to steer the conversation toward a pleasanter subject than her sister’s murder. “Or perhaps commission you to make one for me.”

“That would probably be best,” she said. “You could meet me at Fannie’s store in Miller and pick out fabric. Just call Fannie and tell her what day you’re coming, and I’ll meet you there. Anytime is fine with me.”

“Hey, you two,” Becky called from across the yard. She was carrying a round melon basket over her arm. Ruthie and Emma tumbled around her legs like two golden retriever puppies. “Your hens are really going to town this summer. I’d like to buy two dozen eggs if you can spare them.”

“Of course I can,” Hannah said, smiling. We talked about her hens and the quilt she would make me as she packed up the eggs. She insisted we take three jars of raspberry preserves and an apple strudel she’d made that morning. As we drove slowly down the soft dirt driveway, Ruthie and Emma ran alongside the Cherokee, tripping over their own legs like gawky colts.

On the highway, Becky turned on the cruise control and the radio. Tanya Tucker was having some kind of trouble and her preacher was tellin’ her that all God’s children got their own kind of trouble. Amen, I thought.

“I met Hannah’s husband while you and the girls were looking at the chickens,” I said. “And Tyler’s husband, John.”

“She told you, then,” Becky said, her voice relieved. “So, what do you think?”

“What do you mean?”

“About John. You know, that doesn’t look real good, you seeing him at the house last night right before she was killed. . . .”

“I didn’t see
him
exactly,” I reminded her. “I saw an Amish man. It could have been anyone.”

She shook her head and made a disbelieving noise in her throat.

“Why didn’t you tell me Tyler was married?” I asked, slightly irritated. Along with a taste for speeding, this habit of suppressing information seemed to be an Ortiz family trait.

“I didn’t even tell the police. I figured they’d find out soon enough when they questioned Hannah and Eli. And if I told you, you’d have felt obligated to tell Gabe, who would then have felt obligated to tell Dewey.”

I followed her logic, but was still irritated.

“Well,” she said, “they apparently know now. So, what do you think?”

I thought for a moment, then answered her with a question. “Do you really think John could have killed her? Isn’t that kind of violence way out of character for someone who’s Amish?”

“Absolutely,” she said. “And if the police have any brains at all, they’ll realize that, too.”

Thinking about Gabe and the other cops I’d become acquainted with and their often justifiable cynicism about human behavior, I had a strong hunch that John being Amish wasn’t going to impress any branch of Kansas law enforcement.

When we arrived back at Kathryn’s house, the empty driveway told us that she and Gabe had not returned from the hospital. During the trip, the envelope in my back pocket felt as if it had doubled in size. I was anxious to tell Gabe what I learned, but that apparently was going to have to wait.

“It’s past six o’clock,” Becky said. “Why don’t you leave them a note on the door and have dinner with us? Gabe can pick you up when he gets home. No point in you sitting here alone. Besides, you haven’t met my girls yet.”

Stan, Paige, and Whitney were just climbing out of a dark blue Grand Marquis sedan when Becky and I drove up. Paige, the twelve-year-old, had a thin, serious face and a freckled, sun-peeled nose. She politely held out a water-wrinkled hand when Becky introduced us. Whitney, four years younger, with two missing front teeth and hair tinted pale green from chlorine, giggled and waved.

Becky threw together a magazine-perfect summer supper of cold garlic and rosemary chicken breasts, Caesar salads, and fresh sourdough bread. Afterwards, we sat out on the front porch on her white wicker furniture, sipped lemonade, and watched the sun dip toward the horizon. I glanced at my watch. It was almost eight o’clock now, and I wondered if I was ever going to hear from my husband again. Paige and Whitney dressed and undressed Whitney’s Barbie dolls until Paige became bored and started bugging her mom to go across the street.

“I want to see Grandpa,” she whined. “And Cinnamon.”

Becky glanced at Stan. “I don’t know. It’s going to be dark soon . . .” I could see the fear in her eyes, and it hit me suddenly how frightening Tyler’s murder must be for this small town.

“Who’s Cinnamon?” I asked.

“Grandpa Otis’ new horse,” Whitney piped up. “He’s training Cinnamon so he can sell him. He won him in a poker game.”

“Had a choice between the horse and the guy’s ’85 Buick Skyhawk,” Stan commented in his lazy voice. “He chose the horse.”

I smiled. “Good choice. I’ve never seen a horse that was won in a poker match. How about if I go with them?”

“That would be fine,” Becky said, her voice relieved. “I’ll make some chocolate ice cream while you’re gone.”

Whitney, who had accepted me as her Aunt Benni with the unquestioning blitheness of an eight-year-old, grabbed my hand and swung it as we walked down the long driveway and across the road to the Christmas tree farm. Paige bounded ahead of us, brandishing a stick as if it were a sword. Neither girl could resist stopping and staring past the yellow police tape into the thick clump of trees. The actual murder spot couldn’t be seen from the gravel driveway, so Whitney peppered me with questions.

“Was it scary?” she asked, her eyes bright. “Was there blood everywhere? Did you throw up?”

“Whitney!” Paige scolded. “Don’t be so gross.” She shot her younger sister an impatient look. Her serious face was apologetic when she turned to me. “Please ignore her. She’s very immature.” Her clipped words sounded so much like Kathryn’s, I had to smile.

“Am not,” Whitney said, pushing her sister.

“Are, too,” Paige retorted. They continued to pick on each other as we walked around to the side of the house where the corral was located. When they spotted the old man I’d met last night, they stopped their fighting and dashed over to him.

“Grandpa Otis,” they cried, climbing up on the corral’s metal railing. “Make Cinnamon gallop!”

In the center of the arena, Otis, still wearing his yellow feed cap, held a nylon lunge line and exercised a narrow-necked, elegant-legged red roan gelding that appeared to have more than a little thoroughbred in it. He cracked his long lunge whip, and the horse went into an extended trot.

I joined the girls on the railing and watched Otis put the gelding through its paces. The horse had a smooth, graceful gait, and responded with energy and just the slightest show of rebellion to the snap of Otis’s whip. We watched Cinnamon walk, jog, go into an extended trot, lope, and full gallop. The girls squealed with delight when the horse raced around Otis, its white-streaked red mane flying in the warm breeze.

Otis brought the roan back to a walk and called out to the girls, “Hey there, my little chickadees. What do you think of your Grandpa’s horse now?”

“Let us ride him,” they begged. “We won’t tell Mom.”

He ignored their pleading, looked over at me, and touched the edge of the whip to his hat. “How do, Mrs. Ortiz.”

“Just Benni,” I called back.

He reeled in the lunge line and walked Cinnamon over to us. Paige pulled out a sugar cube from the pocket of her shorts and fed it to the horse. I jumped off the railing and reached up to stroke its velvety cheek.

“So where’s your new husband, Just Benni?” Otis gave me a slow, teasing grin.

I grinned back. “Still in Wichita, I guess. You heard about Rob?”

“Yep.” Otis’s smile faded. He clipped a lead rope onto the halter and undid the lunge line and stud chain. “Bad thing.”

“Yes.” I continued stroking the horse. “Have the police been back out here?”

His bristly gray eyebrows contracted. “Want to ride the old boy?”

“Sure,” I said enthusiastically.

He turned to Paige and Whitney. “You girls want to go get Old Sinful’s bridle for me?”

They giggled at the horse’s nickname and scrambled across the driveway, racing toward the barn. Otis turned back to me.

“Sinful?” I asked.

“It fits,” he said. “You’ll see.” He pointed with the whip to a pile of used bricks next to the barn. “Didn’t want to talk about it in front of the young’uns, but all sorts of official types were out here most of the day going through that bunch of bricks I use to prop up some of the trees. Appears that was what she was killed with, and they’re trying to find it.”

“Did they?” Otis handed me the lunge line, and I started rolling it up, trying not to think what it would feel like to have the back of my head bashed in with a brick. Someone must have been angry, really angry.

“Didn’t tell me if they did. They took a few with’em. Won’t do much good, I imagine. Bricks is something we got plenty of here in Kansas.” He shrugged and adjusted the strap of his faded overalls. “It’s a sorry thing, pretty young girl like that. Who could have wanted to do that to her?”

“I have no idea, but I’m sure they’ll find out soon. A lot of people are working on it.”

He just grunted, and I knew he saw through my polite assurances. Otis had lived long enough to know that finding the killer wouldn’t be as easy as it looked on a one-hour TV show.

We bridled Sinful, and because he was such a big horse, about sixteen hands, and because I was riding bareback, Otis gave me a leg up. Sinful danced around, making me work for control. I pulled back firmly on the reins, not giving in, and he eventually settled down when he realized I wasn’t kidding and would fight him for the position of power.

“We’re taking riding lessons at Dewey and Belinda’s, but Mom won’t let us ride Cinnamon,” Paige said, looking up at me longingly.

“He’s a bit feisty for a chickadee your size,” Otis said. “Someday, maybe. When I’ve calmed him down a bit and you get a little more meat on those chicken bones.”

“Dewey and Belinda’s?” I asked.

“They own a stable about five miles out of town,” Otis said. “She’s his first wife. Bore his young’uns.”

“Oh,” I said thoughtfully. They still owned a stable together. That was an interesting fact that Gabe forgot to mention.

The girls yelled encouragement while I rode Sinful around the ring, then gradually lost interest and disappeared into the barn, where Otis had told them there were some new kittens. Otis leaned against the gate, chewing on a pipe he’d pulled from his overalls’ deep front pocket, and watched me wrangle his horse for control. Sinful (Otis was right, the name was more appropriate than Cinnamon) was a good horse with a lot of potential, but it was obvious he hadn’t been ridden regularly. He loved to run and was responsive to the slightest voice commands, but he definitely needed work on his braking system. I totally lost track of time and my surroundings as I moved Sinful through his paces and got him accustomed to holding a rider again.

The sun had dropped past the horizon when I trotted up in front of Otis. I was showing him an abrasion under Sinful’s mane when Gabe walked around the corner of the barn. Whitney was perched on his shoulders, and Paige ran along beside him, jabbering a mile a minute.

“I knew you’d eventually end up here,” Gabe said, depositing Whitney on the corral’s top railing. He opened the gate and came in. “Hey, Otis, this your poker horse?”

Otis grinned around his pipe. “Don’t you go telling your mother now. She’d have to put in extra hours at church a-prayin’ for me, and we both know she don’t have time for that.”

“Your secret’s safe with me.” Gabe reached over and stroked the horse’s muzzle. “Nice-looking piece of horseflesh. Make a lot of cans of dog chow out of him.”

“Uncle Gabe, that’s not funny,” Paige said, smacking the side of his leg.

He ruffled her hair and winked up at me. “I’m just teasing you,
m’hija
. Becky says the ice cream’s done, and we better get back before Stan eats it all. You too, Otis.”