Smoke (20 page)

What else did she know about Gretchen’s death? She’d seen what was surely Betsy Wiggins dragging the pig, in a big plastic bag, behind the smokehouse. Tinnie had taken Gretchen’s body to the vet’s, then Betsy had taken her back to Tinnie and Rusty’s place. Gretchen had been killed, but where? She’d gotten out of the fence, but how far out? Who the heck could Immy ask? Surely it was important to find out where the pig was killed. Tinnie would know. Would Tinnie talk to Immy?

It was too late to drive over and call on her. Zack would be asleep, but it was around ten, Immy’s calling cut-off time. So she phoned Tinnie.

“Tinnie? I have a question.”

“Do you know what time it is, Immy?”

“I think it’s just after ten. Could you tell me where Gretchen was when she was killed?”

“It was
not
my fault. I didn’t know she could get out of that fence. It’s not like she came with instructions.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t your fault at all, Tinnie.”

“I didn’t leave the gate open either. I should sue for slander. That damn Bunyun said I did in black and white.”

“I was just wondering if I could figure out who shot her.”

“Why?”

Immy took a breath. “Because, well, because I think it would help Amy JoBeth recover from her grief. It might help you, too.”

“Everyone thinks Rusty did it.”

“That’s only because Vern says Rusty admitted it to him. I’m not sure. Can you believe what he says?”

“I don’t know Vern all that well, but it doesn’t seem like Rusty was out of my sight for long.”

“Well,” said Immy, “can you tell me who all was at your place the night Gretchen was shot?”

“We were all here. Me and Rusty and Zack. And Daddy was here, too. He ate dinner with us that night.”

“Do you remember what happened?” Immy wished she weren’t conducting her interrogation on the phone. It was so important to see if the suspect was fidgeting, or looking to the left, which meant they were lying. Or was it to the right that meant lying? She ought to look that up. Except Tinnie wasn’t really a suspect for Gretchen’s shooting. “Where was everyone?”

“Daddy was out target shooting after we finished eating.”

“So it was dark out?”

“Yes, it was nighttime. Zack was in the bathtub and I was bathing him. Rusty was inside with me then. Zack had fed Gretchen some of the dinner scraps before his bath. He loved that pig so much, even in the short time we’d had her. She was a—” Immy heard sniffling. “—a really cute thing. So sweet.”

“So, if someone was target shooting, how did you hear the shot that killed her?”

“I don’t remember. Maybe Rusty or Daddy told me they heard the shot. Rusty and I went outside after Zack went to bed. Rusty started shooting with Daddy. Then I saw Gretchen was gone and the gate was open. She’d been in her pen before Zack’s bath, when he fed her.”

Something else Bunyun got wrong? Or did Immy hear that from Dr. Fox? Or was Tinnie lying? “Gretchen must not have gone very far if she’d been in her pen so soon before.”

“No, she didn’t. Rusty went looking and found her right across the road, partly in the lane. He saw her when a truck swerved to miss her. It’s a wonder she didn’t get hit. In the morning, Rusty took her into Dr. Fox for me, to see if he could tell anything, but he just said she was…dead.” Another sniffle followed by a loud nose-blowing honk. “Dr. Fox was no help at all.”

Immy wondered what help Tinnie had expected. Resurrection?

After she hung up, Immy revised some of her information. Dr. Fox had told her Tinnie heard the shot. Now, if she was telling the truth, Tinnie wasn’t sure. Besides, two other men were shooting guns right there.

No drunken hunters had been mentioned in this conversation. But one of the shooters, if not both of them, was probably drunk. Rusty could have been drinking, should have been. It couldn’t be pleasant for him to have dinner with the father-in-law who thought he was ruining the business he’d bought for his daughter. That would drive a man to drink. And Sonny? Immy hadn’t seen Sonny Squire very often when he was sober.

Dr. Fox had said he’d warned them that the chicken wire they were using was inadequate. Tinnie probably wouldn’t admit that.

Rusty had driven the pig to the vet’s, then Betsy—as a favor to Rusty?—had hauled the carcass back to the smokehouse. Had Rusty told her to put it there?

Immy had seen Betsy drive away from Tinnie’s the next day, just before Immy found Rusty’s body.

How long had Rusty been hanging in the smokehouse when Immy found him, dead?

Chapter 18

Rodeo day dawned hot and dry. Sunshine flooded across Immy’s bed and spilled, more gently, onto Drew’s cot against the other wall. Immy never tired of watching her daughter’s sleeping angel face. If the world were a perfect place, Drew would stay four years old forever.

But, if the world
were
a perfect place, Immy would be a PI by now. She’d have a badge similar to her father’s. She’d be driving herself to stakeouts in her new car, gray for anonymity. She would at least have a job at a PI office and would not have been fired. And people wouldn’t kill each other. Or pet pigs. Of course, there might not be a need for PIs then, either.

Immy rose quietly so she wouldn’t disturb Drew, slid her top dresser drawer open, and unwrapped her precious memento. Immy wasn’t sure if her mother knew she’d kept the badge or not. Probably not. Hortense wouldn’t want it in the house, a reminder of how her husband died.

She’d never really gotten over his murder.

A uniformed man had pounded on their door late at night and Immy, twelve years old at the time, had crept out of bed to see what would cause such a rare happening.

“Ma’am, Mrs. Duckworthy,” Immy heard the man say from her spot in the hallway. “I have bad news.”

“I didn’t think it would be good news, coming this time of night. Where’s my husband?”

“Would you like to sit down?”

“Where’s Louis? What’s happened?”

Immy heard the man cross the room to stand beside her mother before he spoke again.

“There was a robbery, and a shooting at Huey’s restaurant.”

“Is Louis all right?”

Immy had never heard her mother’s voice screech and tremble like that.

The man must have shaken his head or something, because the next thing Immy knew, her mother was sitting on the floor, sobbing. Immy knew her daddy was not all right. And she knew her mother was not all right either, from that night on.

No one had witnessed what happened, no one who would talk, but Immy always imagined him dying as a hero, trying to stop the perps. Sometimes she dwelt on that event more than was good for her. But both brothers were now gone, Louis and Huey, both murdered. Immy shook off the memories. The past was over and done with.

She wrapped the badge in the soft scarf and returned it to its nest in the back of the drawer. The drawer squeaked slightly when she shut it.

Drew opened her green eyes wide, going in an instant from sound asleep to let’s-go-what-are-we-waiting-for that four year olds are so good at.

“It’s the rodeo today!” She threw off her covers and jumped on her bed, then climbed onto Immy’s and started bouncing.

“Drew, don’t jump on the bed.”

“Five little monkeys, jumpin’ on the bed,” Drew chanted.

“No more monkeys jumpin’ on the bed.” Immy cut to the last line of the rhyme, grabbed Drew, and started tickling her. “C’mon, you need a good breakfast on rodeo day.”

“For the Pig Scramble!”

Hortense was as excited as her granddaughter and dropped two eggs on the floor making an omelet. Her culinary efforts had expanded beyond dinners with the chief, to other meals for just the three of them. Marshmallow continued to benefit, too. The pig treats Hortense had made last night were on the counter, cooled and ready for consumption. She was experimenting with pig shaped rice cakes. Immy would be amazed if Marshmallow liked rice cakes. Did anyone? But, she admitted to herself, Marshmallow had yet to turn anything down, even if it did seem like cannibalism, eating things shaped like pigs.

They piled into the green van, the sun beaming warm rays, not yet the sweltering hot ones that would come in an hour or two, and drove to the Hail County Rodeo grounds on the west side of Wymee Falls.

The road approached the rodeo grounds from a hilltop, the vista laid out before them like a Google satellite map.

Trucks pulling vans full of bawling, bleating, nervous animals navigated the passageways between the rows of pens set up to house horses, calves, bulls, and other kinds of animals, too. The pens for the bulls were set out a ways from the ones for the other animals. The bull pens weren’t too close together, either. Cranky animals, bulls. Their pens gave them room to move around so they wouldn’t get any more agitated than they already were. They hated being confined too tight.

Cowboys and cowgirls pitched tents so they would be able to bed down next to their animals that night. Some were pitching tarp roofs above the pens to shade the livestock, too.

A new arena with covered seating had been built at the edge of the grounds a few years ago for this annual event. Smaller rodeos were held on private ranches throughout the summer, but this was the Big Daddy rodeo of the season. The one that attracted champions from out of state.

Since the Fourth fell on a Saturday this year, the two-day event was being held over July fourth and fifth, with the concluding fireworks Sunday night. Immy wondered about the wisdom of fireworks around skittish animals trained to buck, but the decision, obviously, wasn’t hers to make.

Immy descended the hill and drove onto the grounds through the iron, grille-work gates, paying the spectator fee, as well as Drew’s entry fee for the Pig Scramble.

“Where’s the Pig Scramble gonna be?” asked Drew, stretching her neck to see the excitement. She managed to bounce slightly, even in her car seat.

“Probably in the main ring,” said Immy. “I think everything is there.”

“That would be an intelligent deduction,” said Mother with a smile to lessen the sting of her sarcasm. “Since there is only the singular ring.”

“But,” said Drew, undeterred by sarcasm, since she didn’t understand it, “where
are
the pigs? I don’t see any pigs.”

“They’ll be in one of the pens,” said Immy. “Maybe they’re not here yet. The scramble is later on, after the parade.”

The first event, the parade, wasn’t scheduled until noon, but folks usually showed up early to look around, socialize, speculate on the outcome of the contests, and start eating.

Immy nosed the van into a slot near the arena and they got out to walk around and see people and, for Drew, pigs.

Drew ran ahead, peeking into the pens until she found the piglets for the scramble. They had arrived, after all. Hortense hurried after her, but Immy spotted someone she wanted to talk to next to a penned bull. Wanted to interrogate, actually, but this wasn’t a good place for a formal interrogation. No small rooms with bright lights and wobbly chairs.

“Well, HELL-o, Immy,” said Betsy Wiggins. “What on EARTH did you do to your face?”

Immy ignored her comment about her bruise. She’d thought it was fading in the bathroom mirror this morning, but maybe it looked worse outdoors. Betsy, every hair soldered into place as usual, was outfitted in red leather and fringe. She was going to be hot later, Immy guessed. The lanky cowboy next to her wore a white shirt and jeans pressed with a crease down the front of each leg. When Immy saw cowboys in jeans like this, their dress-up jeans, she wondered who put the crease in the jeans. The cowboy? His girlfriend? His mama?

“This here’s Kyle Joe. He’s a BULL rider.” Betsy batted her lashes in his direction on the word
bull
. Immy wanted to add something about bull, but didn’t. His goofy look testified that he had noticed Betsy’s lash batting. The woman sure recovered from her grief fast. “And this here’s Immy Duckworth, Kyle Joe. She lives over to Cowtail.”

“Duckworthy. And I live in Saltlick.”

“Oopsy. MY mistake.”

Did the woman really put the tip of her index finger on her teeth? The three-year-old look seemed to appeal to Kyle Joe. How on earth was Immy going to pry him from Betsy’s side? Immy needed to grill Betsy about what she saw when she dragged Gretchen around the smokehouse?

A clank and the sounds of snorting and pawing solved Immy’s dilemma. Two boys had thrown a rock at a bull in a nearby pen. The huge, muscular beast pawed the ground and pushed its horns against the metal pen, itching to get at the miscreants, gore them, and trample their bodies. In Immy’s experience, that’s what bulls always wanted to do. One of the boys cocked his arm back to throw another rock.

Kyle Joe yelled at the boys and took off after them. They, naturally, ran away, darting among the animals’ pens and trying to stay ahead of the bull rider. The cowboy caught them, though, one tee-shirt sleeve in each hand. They were too far away for Immy to hear the words, but the boys looked like they were getting the point. Don’t throw rocks at the bulls.

Their timing couldn’t have been better if Immy had paid them. She would have to work fast, though, before the besotted wrangler finished with the juvenile delinquents.

“So, Betsy, I want to make sure. That
was
you I saw putting Gretchen’s body behind the smokehouse that Friday afternoon, wasn’t it?”

Betsy frowned and opened her mouth. Then she shut it. Her fringed shoulders slumped. “Oh, hell. You saw me?”

“Yep.”

“Rusty called my cell that morning and told me to fetch it. That was my day off, but I wanted to help Rusty out, so I went in to the clinic. Dr. Fox said he wasn’t going to do what Tinnie wanted, cut it open and examine it. Dr. Fox was wondering what to do, cuz he didn’t want it there, so he was happy to have me take it. I brought it back to Rusty’s place, like he’d asked me to. He thought Tinnie might want to bury it.”

What kind of a person works with animals and calls them “it”, Immy wondered. What with Vern and this bimbo, Dr. Fox didn’t get very good employees. “Dr. Fox said someone called you to tell him Gretchen was dead.”

“Tinnie. She was about hysterical.”