Smoke (23 page)

“Mommy.” Drew tugged on her arm. “I hafta go potty.”

“Mother?” Immy didn’t want to miss the next rider.

“I took her to the facility the previous time.” Hortense didn’t want to miss him either.

“Twenty minutes ago,” muttered Immy, rising and taking Drew’s hand.

Immy looked over her shoulder until they got out of sight of the arena, but the champion rider didn’t appear. She led Drew to the rooms tucked under the bleachers, but there was no need. Drew knew the way. She loved the noise the hand dryers made. That was the reason Drew liked to go so often, Immy knew. She also knew that the one time she told Drew, no, they couldn’t go right now, would be the time she really did have to and there would be an “accident.”

The line at the restroom snaked out the door. Immy heard the crowd cheer as the rider and horse started. They had just reached the door of the room when the announcer screamed, “Fantastic ride! I’ve never seen anything like this! This ride that will go down in history!” He went on, but his words were drowned by the noise of the crowd.

“Great,” said Immy.

“What’s great, Mommy?”

“Nothing, sugar. Come on, there’s an open stall.”

After Drew did her business, which had amounted to about a teaspoon’s worth, Immy drummed her fingers against the wall while Drew held her hands under the dryer. She tried it on her arms, then tried to make it blow on her legs. The whirr echoed in the concrete room.

“Are you finished?” Immy looked up to see Betsy Wiggins, her red-nailed fingers dripping.

“Drew, sugar, Ms. Wiggins want to use the dryer,” said Immy.

Drew sadly took her hands from beneath the hot air stream.

“I’m so grateful to your friend for saving Drew from the bull yesterday,” said Immy over the roar of the dryer.

“Ain’t he just the cutest THANG?” Betsy showed her brilliant teeth as she flashed a smile.

“Is he married, too?” asked Immy.

Betsy’s eyes narrowed. “That’s a bitchy comment and you know it.”

“My child is here, Betsy.”

“Well then you oughta mind your manners. I only saw Rusty because he needed consoling.”

“I’m sure.”

“It’s true. Rusty was too good for Tinnie. Why, do y’all know, he told her he shot the pig just so she wouldn’t get upset with her daddy? She thinks the world of her daddy, you know.”

“What?”

Betsy raised her voice. “I said she thinks—”

“No, what you said before that.”

Betsy drew her hands out of the air stream and the room grew several decibels quieter. “Let’s go outside.”

They found a spot relatively free of people and Betsy repeated her statement. “Rusty thought Tinnie would be so upset if she knew her daddy shot that damn pig that Rusty told her he did it. And look what that got him. Amy JoBeth killed him because she thought he killed that damn pig.”

“What damn pig?” piped up Drew.

“Are you sure about that?” asked Immy.

“Positive. Rusty told me everything. He said she was already mad enough to kill him, on account of he was seein’ me, she couldn’t be any madder, so he might as well tell her that.”

“Tell her what?” said Drew.

Tinnie was angry that Rusty was banging every woman around him, and she had a right to be, Immy thought.

“Come on, sugar, we have to go.”

After they were out of earshot from Betsy, Drew whispered to her mother, “That lady doesn’t talk nice.”

“You’re right, sweetie, she doesn’t.”

But Immy had a feeling she talked true. At least this time. Tinnie’s daddy shot Gretchen? Old, drunk Sonny Squire? Immy could see that happening.

Chapter 21

Saddle bronc was done with and team roping was under way when Immy and Drew returned to the stands.

“That was the most spectacular—” began Hortense.

“I don’t want to hear about it,” said Immy. “I heard the announcement.”

She hardly paid attention to the team roping event, mulling over Betsy’s revelation. How did that change things? She didn’t know for sure that Rusty was killed because he murdered the pig, or said he did, but that was reasonable to assume.

So who thought he did it and would kill him for that? Amy JoBeth? Vern Linder? Louise Cotter? Tinnie? Whoever killed him had made a mistake, though.

It crossed her mind that Ophelia Jenkins might have killed him for seducing her daughter, but she dismissed that thought. For one, Ophelia didn’t seem all that much bothered by the relationship. For another, Poppy seemed to have been killed in tandem with Rusty. Same method, about the same time. So probably by the same person. Why would they be killed together?

A gust of wind blew a dirt cloud from the arena in her direction, but she absently waved it away.

“Ew, gross,” said Drew. “I need another lemonade.” Drew made fake choking sounds to demonstrate her acute need.

Immy looked around. The roping was still in progress, but bareback would be next, another of Immy’s favorites.

“Mother, your turn,” she said.

“Now, Imogene, you know how much delight I take in the spectacle of man versus beast in the bareback competition.”

“And you know how much I take, too, Mother. It’s your turn.”

Hortense gave a much-put-upon look and grunted as she pushed up from the bench. Immy felt a slight twinge of guilt. It really was much harder for Mother to navigate the bleachers than it was for her. The twinge grew to a pang.

“Sit down, Mother. I’ll go. C’mon, Drew.”

“Would you mind bringing me the same libation? I’m so appreciative, Imogene. You’re a good daughter.”

After Immy and Drew had made it through the long line at the lemonade trailer, they started back. Since Immy balanced three large flimsy cups, she decided not to hold Drew’s hand for once. Immy dodged when she saw Sonny Squire coming at her from the picnic area, reeling and staggering more than usual. She wasn’t going to let him knock her lemonades out of her hands.

“Hey there, Mizz Imogene. Can I ask you a queshun?” He stood before her, swaying, red-eyed. “Have you seen…did you see me...drop somethin’?”

Immy knew exactly what he was talking about. His pistol. She phrased her answer carefully. “No, I didn’t see you drop anything.”

“Yesserday, I mean. At the bull pens. When Drew fell in. ‘Member?”

“Of course I remember. Thanks for trying to—”

“Mommy—”

“Drew, be quiet. We have to go now, Mr. Squire. I hope you find it.”

“But Mommy—”

“Hush.”

As they turned toward the bleachers Louise Cotter rushed up. “I heard you, you old coot. Whatever you lost, I hope you never get it back.”

Louise made such a sour face Immy was afraid, for a minute, she was going to spit on Sonny.

“Like
we
never got back what you stole from
us
,” Louise said, her screech turning heads toward them.

“Din steal it. Got it fair and square, you bitch.”

“You call refusing a loan during a drought fair and square, you bastard? You call watching us lose the ranch for taxes fair and square? You call poisoning our herd fair and—” Louise’s voice broke. She screwed up her face and, this time, she did spit. She didn’t have much range though, and her spittle landed on the pointy toe of Sonny’s ostrich-skin cowboy boot.

Louise turned away and almost tripped over Drew, who had been watching the exchange, ears and eyes wide open.

Drew picked that moment to be helpful. “Mr. Sonny lost his gun, Mizz Louise.”

Now how in the hell did she figure out that’s what he was talking about, wondered Immy.

“Yeah.” Sonny swayed ominously, staring at the stained toe of his expensive boot. “The one that shot that, that….”

A strangled sound came from Louise.

“Gotta find it. It’s here somewhere.” Sonny staggered through the picnic tables, crashing against them and tipping a bench upside-down.

Immy looked from Louise, frozen with incomprehension, to Sonny, who had just about told her the gun killed Gretchen. How could he have said that? On the other hand, how could he be that drunk and still be standing?

Louise shook her head slowly. “Sonny Squire killed Gretchen?”

“I don’t think he meant that,” said Immy. “He’s just, just looking for his gun.” She didn’t know what Louise would do to Sonny if she got any madder at him.

“The gun that shot… Gretchen.”

“Mommy, you have—”

“Hush, Drew.” She thrust two of the cups into her small hands. “Take these to Grandma. Right now.”

“Sonny Squire killed Gretchen,” Louise repeated.

“Not necessarily,” insisted Immy. “He’s lost his gun. I don’t think that’s what he meant.”

“So what did he mean?”

Immy didn’t honestly know. It could be that Rusty killed the pig with that gun. But she didn’t think so. “I hope he finds it,” said Immy.

Louise pondered a moment. “Well, he couldn’t have shot Gretchen. Rusty shot her.”

Immy didn’t say anything to that. She didn’t know how much of what she’d learned was true, anyway. People say things. And who could believe that ditz, Betsy Wiggins?

“That man is plumb crazy,” said Louise. “He’s stark ravin’. I’m not sorry to see it happen, neither.” She twisted her mouth into a mean sneer and took off for the stands. “Needs to be committed,” she mumbled as she left.

Immy wondered if the bareback event was over yet.

* * *

As Immy returned to Hortense and Drew, and to watch the last two bareback riders, she remembered one of the clippings. The headline had read “Land Dispute” and had mentioned the Squire family. Had the Cotter family been mentioned, too? Maybe Amy JoBeth had been trying to document the history of a land dispute between the two families. Probably the dispute that was the cause of her father’s suicide.

Louise’s accusations were serious. It sounded like the Squire family had refused them a loan when they were in trouble. Most small town banks did everything they could for the local investors. And Louise had even accused the banker, Sonny Squire, of poisoning her family’s herd. Immy wondered if charges had ever been brought.

She wished she had those damn clippings. Someone must have them. She knew Mike Mallett would never bother with them. He didn’t pay attention to anything but his own folders. Immy thought Amy JoBeth might have taken them back.

Think, Immy, think. Why would Amy JoBeth collect the clippings, then carelessly leave them behind when she quit the job?

If Amy JoBeth left them behind it was improbable she had then come back and taken them. Unless they had achieved an importance they didn’t have before, for some reason. Something had prompted someone to remove all traces of them from Immy’s desk, and from the newspaper archives. They must be all-fired important, Immy thought, but to who?

However, if Immy couldn’t find them, they wouldn’t help her solve any cases.

So what would?

A louder roar erupted from the crowd. Hortense jumped to her feet and lifted Drew to stand on the bench so she could see past the heads in front of them. Immy stood, too, just in time to see the excitement. The cowboy clown galloped over and snatched the bareback rider around his chest to pull him from the bucking horse. The clown dangled the rider and urged his pony farther from the sharp rear hooves that the riderless bronc was still flinging skyward.

As the excited horse calmed down and obediently trotted to the exit chute, the announcer yelled above the din. “That was the best ride of this rodeo, folks!”

And Immy had been inside her head, being a detective, for the whole thing. That proved she should be a real one.

The wranglers started getting ready for calf roping. Immy told Hortense and Drew she needed to make a pit stop. She didn’t really, but she wanted to do some hard thinking. For once, Drew didn’t want to tag along. She loved calf roping.

Immy sat in the shade at a picnic table and pondered her cases. Even though her files were not there with her, she remembered everything she’d written in them.

Her table was a little too close to the portable potties that were set there to handle overflow from the permanent bathrooms at the stands. A large fly population buzzed about her head.

She still had a lot of open cases, including her first one, The Case of the Slaughtered Pig. Upon further thought, she regretted the title. Most pigs were slaughtered. That pig was murdered. Probably shot with Sonny Squire’s gun. Probably by Rusty, but maybe not.

She swatted at the flies and sat up straight. She had clues for The (renamed) Case of the Murdered Pig. She had the gun and she had the bullets. Now what?

Raspy whispering came from around the corner of the nearby row of potties. That harsh grate of a whisper could only be Louise. Immy sat still and strained her ears, wishing she had something to amplify the sound with.

“Yes, I know what day it is.” It sounded like Amy JoBeth.

“Well, what do you think I should do about it?”

“I thought Vern said—” That was Amy JoBeth, no longer whispering.

“I don’t care what your precious Vern said—” Louise was talking aloud, too. “—Sonny killed Gretchen. He almost said it.”

“But, if he didn’t say it, then how do you—”

“He started to say it.”

A noisy sniff sounded. “Did he say
why
he killed her?”

“Here, darlin’, wipe your nose. No, he didn’t finish saying he
did
it.”

“Mommy!” Drew called from the other side of the picnic area. She ran toward Immy, who scrambled up and ran to meet her, to get as far from the toilets as she could. Maybe, if Louise and Amy JoBeth came out from behind them, they wouldn’t know how close she’d been sitting. And wouldn’t know she’d overheard them. Not that they’d said anything bad, or embarrassing. It just seemed like a private, personal conversation.

“What do you need, sugar?” asked Immy.

“Geemaw sent me to find you. She’s hungry.”

Immy realized it was getting dark. As she and Drew left the picnic area, strings of tiny white lights that were strung in the trees above the tables twinkled to life. The stadium lights in the ring were coming on, too. Soon it would time for the closing ceremonies. She and Drew spotted the matched palominos being ridden toward the place at the far side of the arena where they would line up for the serpentine. The riders all wore white hats and matching red shirts with “Fish and Game and Wild Things”, a local sporting goods store, stenciled on the back. They would parade, single-file, weaving back and forth, making a serpentine pattern across the arena.