Miss Ruffles Inherits Everything (17 page)

I pulled the coverlet from my bed and tiptoed downstairs. I made sure the front door was locked, At the security keypad, I let myself out onto the back porch. The evening air was already getting chilly. The scent of Honeybelle's rose garden floated over the lawn—normally a welcoming fragrance. Tonight, though, the smell almost turned my unsteady stomach. I wrapped myself in the coverlet and stretched out on one of the pool chairs, prepared to stay awake until the police cars departed. Then, I told myself, I'd go to Posie's house.

My mother used to say that the primary quality a scientist needed was the ability to observe. As I sat under the stars, I forced myself to think about what I had observed—more clearly, with diminishing panic. I reviewed Posie's every interaction with Miss Ruffles. And every word President Cornfelter had said about Honeybelle. And the things Honeybelle herself had said and done when she spoke over the hedge with Mr. Gamble.

If Posie had taken Miss Ruffles, why had she bothered with a ransom note? And why bother making the ransom note so illiterate? Why not dump Miss Ruffles in a shelter somewhere—or worse, kill her—and simply take the inheritance that was coming to her?

Had Crazy Mary been wrong about hearing Miss Ruffles in a car? Had Mary and I jumped to the wrong conclusion when we thought it might have been Posie's?

And what about President Cornfelter? He admitted he'd been in conflict with Honeybelle over the football stadium. He was angry that she hadn't created a legacy for herself by paying for the stadium, but I had a feeling he was more furious that she had denied him his own legacy as a successful president of the university.

I heard a noise and was instantly on my feet, ears straining. The electric garage door opener rumbled. When the door was up, Mr. Carver pulled into the garage and shut off the minivan. I heard him get out and saw him stand for a minute in front of the garage, looking down the street at the police car—no doubt wondering what the cruiser was doing in our neighborhood. He must have decided there was nothing amiss, because he slowly made his way to the outdoor staircase to his apartment over the garage. I could see his stooped, skinny figure from the shadows. He looked quite fragile as he gripped the handrail. Wherever he had been, he was very tired now.

I faded back against the wisteria bush, unable to bring myself to approach him. Instead, I watched him go into his apartment. He turned on the lights.

A moment later, another car pulled up at Honeybelle's garage. The driver got out, leaving the engine running. I stood very still in the leafy shadows. It was Hut Junior.

Tonight, he wore a large cowboy hat, jeans, and a long-sleeved shirt. He was smoking a cigar.

Upstairs, Mr. Carver came out of his apartment carrying a long, thin box. Too large for a briefcase, not shaped like a suitcase. Too small for a dog to fit inside. Mr. Carver came slowly down the stairs and met Hut Junior in front of the garage.

They had a short conversation, and Hut took the container. With his cigar in his mouth, he shook Mr. Carver's hand, and they shared a laugh. Then Mr. Carver went back upstairs while Hut Junior stowed the box in the trunk of his car.

When he closed the trunk, he glanced down the street at the police cruiser. He raised his hand in a wave. I couldn't see the police car from where I was, but I assumed the cop waved back. Hut got into his car and drove away.

Upstairs in his apartment, Mr. Carver locked the door behind himself and turned on some music—guitars and a voice, Texas swing. I could hear the water running in his bathroom. Eventually, his light went out and the music faded away.

What was that all about? I couldn't imagine.

Except that Hut Junior and Mr. Carver were in some kind of partnership.

My mother used to say that a scientist had to be open to the possibility of surprise. The relationship between Hut Junior and Mr. Carver was definitely a surprise to me. Dizzy all over again, I tottered back to the pool chair and sat down.

My thoughts went into overdrive. If Hut Junior wanted his lion's share of Honeybelle's fortune right away, he only had to collude with someone like Mr. Carver to get Miss Ruffles out of the way. He could pay off Mr. Carver with more than the million Honeybelle's will already promised, and they'd all be happy.

Poor Miss Ruffles. My throat closed up tight. The thought of that high-spirited little dog in mortal danger crushed me. Where was she? Was she cold? Hungry? Frightened?

I had failed to protect the animal entrusted to me, so my job was over. All I could do was go back upstairs and pack my belongings. I could be back in Ohio very soon—broke and jobless, maybe, but with the whole horrible mess behind me.

But then I thought of my mother and how relentless she was about butterflies. She used to get a fire in her eyes when she heard a report about migration problems, or the destruction of feeding grounds by the encroachment of farming. She never gave up—not even on a species that was surely doomed. How many times had she packed her duffel and headed off to protest a chemical plant or help count the number of insects that turned up at a tropical destination? She could have stopped fighting. She could have spent her time in warm classrooms, lecturing sleepy students who didn't care about the battle she was waging.

I knew what my mom would say.

Miss Ruffles had only one person on her side—me.

The hour grew very late. The temperature dropped, and the stars sharpened overhead. I was back to thinking Posie had Miss Ruffles. A plan for confronting her swirled in my mind. I thought of various things I could say to her. I waited for the police car to leave. I waited and waited.

Eventually, though, I must have dozed off, wrapped warmly against the cold air. I started awake when I heard Mae Mae banging plates as she unloaded the dishwasher. I could smell her coffee brewing, too. I was stiff and sore as I pulled myself to my feet. If Mae Mae caught me, I'd have a hard time explaining myself.

I grabbed my coverlet and wrapped it up. I peeked over the hedge to see if the police car was still parked nearby. It was.

I went back to the porch and steeled myself to go inside.

But I heard Mae Mae's voice. From her tone, I realized she was speaking on the telephone. I hesitated, listening.

“My gracious, that does sound exciting, cher! Your first day of school, and already you know half your numbers! Why, you must be the smartest little girl in class!”

I shouldn't have eavesdropped, but the astonishing note of love in Mae Mae's voice rooted me to my spot.

“You bet I'm proud,” she said with obvious affection. “I'm the proudest great-gramma in the whole world.”

The idea that Mae Mae could have a family—let alone one she loved so clearly—astonished me. From all the details I had gleaned, I assumed Mae Mae left New Orleans and never looked back.

She said, “Okay, sweetness, you have another great week at school, and we'll talk again next Sunday. Let me talk to your mama now, okay, cher?” A moment later, she said in a more businesslike but no less tender voice, “Don't you worry, now, Dasha. I sent the check just yesterday, so you'll have that tuition money, no problem. Sure, sure, I'm happy to do it. Happy I can do something good for all y'all, so don't fuss. I know, honey. I love you, too. Bye-bye, now.”

She hung up and began to hum a tune.

I stood, quiet and thinking. Mae Mae had more than herself to support.

There was no question now. I had to stay and fight for Miss Ruffles. Mae Mae needed the money Honeybelle left her.

To avoid talking to Mae Mae just yet, I went around the house and let myself in the side door. I went upstairs and cleaned up, dressed again, and screwed up my courage in front of the bathroom mirror. It took a while before I was brave enough to go downstairs to the kitchen.

“Good morning, Mae Mae.”

“What's so good about it?” She was busy at the stove, flipping little puffs of crispy dough from the hot grease in an iron skillet and onto a wire rack on the counter. Glowering, she sprinkled each with powdered sugar.

I chickened out. Telling her about Miss Ruffles wasn't going to help me. She'd probably drown me in the boiling grease.

Mr. Carver arrived silently. He poured himself a cup of coffee and drank it scalding hot. Then a second. He sat at the table and waited for his breakfast in silence, looking sick. I actually wondered if he was hungover. He was in no shape to help me either.

Breakfast turned out to be grits and grillades—a far cry from Honeybelle's daily request for fruit and cottage cheese. I thought I would hardly be able to taste anything, but suddenly I was famished. I ate everything, even sopped up the gravy with my toast before I dashed out the back door to pretend to take care of Miss Ruffles.

After breakfast, Mae Mae chopped an onion and started a roux on the stove before going upstairs to get ready for church.

The house already smelled like gumbo when she shuffled out to the car on Mr. Carver's arm. Her hat, an enormous confection of pink swoops and feathers, looked like an exotic bird on her head. Beside her, Mr. Carver looked frail.

So far, neither of them had noticed Miss Ruffles was missing, but that wouldn't last much longer.

The couple of hours they attended church was the only time during the entire week that I had Honeybelle's house to myself. As soon as they were out of sight, I dashed into the kitchen and turned on the water faucet. Wasting water felt like a sin, but if Mae Mae or Mr. Carver came back unexpectedly, they'd shut off the faucet first thing. I'd hear the water stop and be warned of their return.

That done, I slipped into the little parlor Honeybelle used as an office, and I sat in her chair. The last time I'd been in that chair was when I'd cleaned up the mess of shredded paper Miss Ruffles had made when she chewed up Honeybelle's mail.

If I was going to confront Posie about Miss Ruffles, I needed information. I wanted to know the root of the conflict between Posie and Honeybelle.

Before me, Honeybelle's desk was polished and dusted. In her absence, Mr. Carver had arranged a neat fan of Honeybelle's favorite magazines beside the framed photographs of her husband and the little boy with the guitar, whom I assumed to be Hut Junior. Instead of her usual vase of roses, a glass dish of Honeybelle's favorite candies sat within easy reach. From the dish, I selected a mini lollipop and unwrapped it. Savoring the sweetness, I kicked off my shoes and cautiously opened the top drawer.

The drawer was full of monogrammed writing paper, a selection of beautiful greeting cards, two fountain pens, and tape and ribbons for decorating gift packages—a glimpse into how much of Honeybelle's life was dedicated to other people. I flipped through her address book, bound in chintz and crammed full of names and Texas addresses. The drawer to the right contained fancy wrapping papers. Nothing that would help me.

The left-hand drawers were more useful. I walked my fingertips across a dozen file folders packed with papers and pulled them out one by one.

I had done a lot of financial work for various college professors, but Honeybelle's money matters were much more complex than simple budgets and retirement plans. I could make no sense of her investment statements except to note that she had invested with more than one broker—two located in Dallas, one in New York—and the numbers were very big. Several other folders contained information about Hensley Oil and Gas. More big numbers, but I guessed most of the company secrets were held at the office across town.

I saw Hut Junior's signature on many pages. Perhaps he wasn't running the company, but he clearly played a big role in its management. Looking at all the papers he signed, it hardly seemed that Honeybelle had distrusted her own son. He had his hands on many aspects of the business. I thought about his anger at not being named the CEO after Honeybelle's death. Posie had sympathized with his disappointment. Was that the crux of the problem between Honeybelle and her daughter-in-law? Honeybelle's unwillingness to relinquish control of the lucrative company to her obviously capable son?

Possibly. I stowed those folders away. Family dysfunction took many twists and turns.

A folder marked
MISS RUFFLES
contained health records from the vet who gave the dog her regular checkups. It also held some old photos of other dogs—presumably the other Texas cattle curs Honeybelle and her husband had owned years ago. Nothing that might interest Posie.

A folder concerning the rose garden contained a detailed map of the roses she had planted, with a code of letters and numbers by the name of each rose. Behind me on the credenza sat the notebook she had taken outside with us the day we had worked in the garden. I made a mental note to take a longer look at that later. If need be, I could steal it out of the parlor and take it upstairs to my room that night and return it the next morning before Mr. Carver started his rounds.

I sat for a long time reading through her folder containing garden club information. It was all cut-and-dried, though—nothing about Posie except the date when she joined the garden club eleven years earlier. I found myself thinking eleven years was a long time to try to win her mother-in-law's approval and not get it.

I opened the folder marked
ALAMO BD MINS
and found myself looking at the secretary's typed notes of the university's board meetings. This was the kind of thing I understood. Committee and department notes were my specialty after a particularly disorganized English Department chair gratefully handed over many details so he could study some newly discovered e. e. cummings letters.

I put my bare feet up on the desk and flipped through the university board minutes. Someone had doodled little dog drawings in the margins—Honeybelle, bored and sketching little cartoons of Miss Ruffles. She even had caught the mischievous gleam in her dog's eyes.

I felt the prick of tears as I looked at those cartoons. Miss Ruffles looked so alive in them.