arkansastraveler (27 page)

His hands still moving with a steady rhythm that always relaxed me, he said, “Okay, a carnival I know. But what is a Ping-Pong ball drop and a progressive dinner?”

“I asked Grady Hunter about the Ping-Pong ball drop yesterday. I guess it’s something the town merchants and churches thought up. Grady is paying for the plane—a Cessna, I think he said. Anyway, at high noon the plane flies over the town square and drops ten thousand Ping-Pong balls, and people catch them.”

Gabe laughed and reached for the rubber band I held up. “For what reason?”

“The Ping-Pong balls have discounts on them for local businesses and some free prizes, too, like free bed-and-breakfast weekends and fifty-dollar savings bonds. Oh, and some are printed with Bible verses and invitations to come to church services. The big prize is a bass boat.”

“Sounds. . . interesting,” he said, lifting my finished braid and kissing the back of my neck. “And a police officer’s nightmare. You certainly have peculiar ways of having fun here in Arkansas.”

“I think they’re closing the square to car traffic that hour.”

“A wise move. And the progressive dinner?”

“You eat each course at a different house. For example, appetizers here, salad at Emory’s, main dish at whoever’s. I don’t actually have our map yet, so I don’t know whose houses we’re going to. I assume Dove or Aunt Garnet will give it to us. You never had progressive dinners in Kansas?”

“No, we prefer to do all our grazing in one pasture.”

I turned and poked him in the stomach. “It’s fun, Friday, and the whole point is socializing.”

“That’s why Kansans don’t have them, I guess. Eating is serious business, and we don’t want talking to interfere with it.”

I picked up a hand mirror and inspected his braid work. “Perfect as always. I knew there was a reason why I married you.”

In the kitchen, Isaac was loading film into a couple of cameras. Elvia was sitting across from him sipping a cup of tea. I poured a cup of coffee and looked around for something to eat. “Hey, y’all, did I miss breakfast?”

“Doughnuts again,” he said, pointing over at two white bags. “The sisters were up early marking Ping-Pong balls with Miss DeLora.”

“For who?”

Elvia said, “Your aunt said both churches decided this would be a good way to advertise their services. They’re offering free homemade pies to each first-time visitor if they show their Ping-Pong ball to the usher.”

“Bribing people with pies to come to church,” I said. “That’s . . . innovative.”

“Soul food, so to speak,” Isaac said with a smile.

I laughed and dug through the bag looking for a maple bar. “You do plan on getting pictures of this Ping-Pong ball thing, don’t you?”

“Is Jimmy Carter a Democrat?” he asked.

“So, do we have our orders?” I asked them.

Elvia handed me a sheet of paper. “We’re working the carnival, and here’s the schedule for the progressive dinner.”

I glanced down at Aunt Garnet’s flowery script. “I work the fishing booth. Good, I always loved that game as a kid.”

“I’m working the candy apple booth with Dove,” Elvia said.

“Save me one, then. Hmmm. . . .” I said, looking over the progressive dinner map. “Appetizers at Emory’s. Salad at Brother Johnson’s. I don’t know him. He must be with Zion Baptist.” I didn’t look up at Elvia, though I could imagine her expression, one of nonchalant indifference that I knew in my heart was a sham. “Soup and bread at the Watkins’s house. Main dish at Miss DeLora’s, and coffee and dessert at Grady Hunter’s. It should be fun. I haven’t done one of these in years.”

Elvia said, “Dove says they’re expecting about fifty at each house. Can Miss DeLora’s cabin handle that many?”

“It’s usually not too crowded except at the last house ’cause people arrive and leave at different times. Miss DeLora has that big backyard, too, and the evenings haven’t been very cold. She’ll probably have tables set up outside.”

Gabe joined us a few minutes later. “What’s for breakfast?”

I held up my maple bar. “The sisters are marking Ping-Pong balls, so this is it.”

He poured a cup of coffee and said, “I’ll go downtown and buy breakfast. Meet me in the square at noon?” The unspoken part of that request was so I could tell him what I’d found out.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I said. “If I’m not there, look for me in the fishing booth.”

I went into the living room and called Amen.

“How’s it going?” I asked.

“Okay, what’s up?”

“How’s Quinton doing?”

“Fine. As of last night, he’s bunking with Emory. He was staying here, but we all agreed that he’d probably be safer at Boone and Emory’s. Even Toby Hunter’s trashy friends would think twice about messin’ with Boone Littleton’s house. We’re also keepin’ him away from the campaign office. Quinton’s not too pleased about it, because the last month before an election is the most crucial time, and there’s a lot of work to be done. He’s certain this whole thing was instigated to keep me out of office.”

“You mean Toby’s murder? That seems a bit farfetched.”

“Not the murder. Just the suspicions on him.” Her sigh over the phone revealed her fatigue. “To be honest, I’m about ready to toss in the towel. Even if I do win, it’ll be an uphill battle my whole two year term. I’m not sure I have any fight left in me.”

I didn’t jump in like I normally would have and insist that she did have the fight and that she would triumph. Who can know another person’s thoughts and feelings, say when they should give up or when they should keep going?

“You’re a strong, good person, Amen,” I simply said. “I believe you’ll do what is right and best for you and for what you believe in.”

“Thanks,” she said. “What did you find out from the detective? I’m assuming it wasn’t much, or you would have called me last night.”

“You’re right, he didn’t have much to say. I tried to convince him to talk to his bosses about spreading around the suspicions, but I don’t think he went for it. I was kind of disappointed.”

“Why? Did you really think he’d put his butt on the line for us? Why would he do that?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I said, trying not to sound as sarcastic as I felt. “Perhaps justice. Truth. Integrity. Doing the right thing.”

“Dream away, girlfriend.”

“Look, I want to talk to Quinton. Would that be okay with you?”

Her voice went sharp. “Why do you want to talk to him?”

“I just want to hear from his mouth what happened that night.”

“And find out if he knows about me and . . .” She left the sentence open, and I knew that Lawrence must be in the house.

“Have
you
asked him?”

A long silence. “No.”

“Don’t you think we should know if he knows? I mean, you don’t want this . . . God forbid, if he should actually get charged and go to court . . . you don’t want it to come out then and blindside his attorney.”

Another long silence, then a whispered, “No . . . yes . . . no . . .” I heard a sob catch in her throat. “Oh, shoot, I don’t
know
.”

I didn’t answer, waiting. If she really didn’t want me to talk to Quinton, I wouldn’t.

“Okay,” she finally said, her voice still subdued but stronger. “Talk to him. Find out if he knows, if you can, but, promise me, do it without actually asking him. I don’t want him . . . or anyone to know if we can keep it that way.”

“Okay, I’ll talk to him this morning and tell you what I find out at the carnival. Are you going to the progressive dinner tonight?”

“I’ll probably just go to Grandma’s part and Grady’s. I promised Grandma I’d help her, so it looks like main dish and dessert is all I’ll get.”

“Hey, that would satisfy me. What’s Miss DeLora making?”

“She wanted to do her famous barbecue ribs, but we talked her out of it. Too messy. So we decided on chicken
and broccoli casserole and that old church potluck standby, lasagna.” She was silent for a moment.

“Amen, are you going to be all right?”

She hesitated, then said, “Sure, fine. I’ll see you later.”

“Yeah, later.”

I hung up and was staring at the phone deep in thought when Elvia came into the living room.

“Something wrong with the phone?” she asked.

I shook my head. “No, just thinking.”

“About what?”

“Just all the . . . confusion going on the last few days. That was Amen. With everything that’s happened, it sounds like she’s ready to quit the race.”

Elvia’s face was sympathetic. “I don’t blame her. Sometimes the price a person has to pay is too high.”

I didn’t ask her to elaborate. I didn’t have to. Her sad brown eyes said it all.

“I’m going to talk to Quinton,” I said.

“Why?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. See if the police forgot something.”

“Or maybe find out if he didn’t tell them everything.”

I smiled and sat down on the arm of the sofa. She knew me too well. “Maybe that, too.” I gave her a hopeful look. “He’s over at Emory’s. Want to come?”

She shook her head no, her mouth a thin line. “Nice try,
gringa loca
, but to quote your uncle WW, don’t be poking in that fireplace and start messing around with my fire.”

I gave a loud laugh. “Elvia Marisol Aragon, you
have
been here in Arkansas too long.”

“
That’s
what I’ve been trying to tell you,” she said, laughing, too, in spite of herself. “See you at the carnival.”

As I walked over to Emory’s, my hopes for him and Elvia had already started climbing again. If she could joke about any of this, there was still a chance, right?

I met Uncle Boone as he was coming out of the front
door, and he sent me to the back patio where Emory and Quinton were having breakfast with Miss DeLora. Emory looked a lot better than the last time I saw him. He wore khaki cotton slacks and a dark brown cashmere sweater. His face was pale and drawn, which on him looked tragically handsome and appealing. I wished I’d managed to get Elvia over here somehow. One look at his vulnerable face, and I knew she’d take him back in a heartbeat.

“Hey, Benni,” Quinton said, standing up when I walked up to the glass-topped patio table. “Want some coffee? And I think there’s a croissant or two left.” He looked very much his age this morning in his baggy jeans and Arkansas Razorback T-shirt. Twenty-two years old. Though it was only fourteen years since I was his age, it seemed an eternity.

“Such manners your great-grandson has,” I teased Miss DeLora. “He’s a sterling example to his more barbaric, older friend here.” I jerked my head in my cousin’s direction.

“Hey, I bought the croissants,” Emory said. “And made the coffee.”

Miss DeLora laughed and winked at me. “He called and had the croissants delivered, and he opened a new bag of coffee beans.”

“He makes horrible coffee,” Quinton said.

“I know,” I said, “but we love him anyway.” I leaned down and kissed Emory’s cheek before sitting down on the padded patio chair. His skin was freshly shaven, smooth and cool under my lips. “You’re looking much improved today, cousin.”

He shrugged, his face neutral.

After a little small talk about the carnival and the progressive dinner tonight, I said, “I only dropped by for a few minutes because I’m due at the fishing booth by ten. Quinton, could I talk to you a minute?”

Miss DeLora stood up and started stacking plates. “I’ll just take these inside and wash them up real quick.”

“You will not,” Emory said, jumping up to help her. “You aren’t the housekeeper anymore, Miss DeLora. You’re a guest. I’ll help you carry them in, and we’ll leave them for Rhonda.”

“I don’t think that girl’s gettin’ them clean enough,” she nagged gently as he followed her through the open French doors. “Why, when I was here, you could see yourself in the plates. Maybe I need to speak with her, see what type soap she’s usin’.” Emory’s voice murmured good-natured sympathy.

Quinton and I glanced at each other and laughed.

“Grandma’s got a slight problem with letting go,” he said.

“I don’t envy Emory and Boone’s new housekeeper.”

Quinton leaned back and rested his big hands, fingers long enough to grip a basketball one-handed, on his stomach. “Emory says Rhonda handles Grandma just fine. Lets her give all her advice without interrupting, then goes right on doin’ what she intended on doin’ to begin with.”

“Hmmm . . . kinda reminds me of Miss DeLora.”

“That’s for sure.” He picked up a china cup of coffee and took a sip, making a face. “Cold. So, what do you want to talk to me about?”

I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the table. The hard glass felt damp on my thin cotton shirt. “I know you’ve been over this a million times with the police, but I want to hear myself what happened the night you followed Toby.”

His young face froze with a stubborn look that told me this was not going to be easy.

“Quinton,” I said, laying an open hand out on the table. “I’m just trying to help.”

He gave a deep sigh, sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and said, “I’m so tired of talking about it.”