Miss Ruffles Inherits Everything (32 page)

“We won't get in your way,” I said.

In front of the house, a police car stopped, and Bubba Appleby got out. He came through the front gate and spoke to the armed guard. Then he strode over toward Miss Simpkins.

He noticed me and made a detour in my direction with a big smile appearing on his face. “Hey, there, Miss McKillip. Y'all've got quite a hubbub going here. The neighbors are complaining. How you doing today?”

“Not so great.” I indicated the mess in the garden. “These people are destroying Honeybelle's roses.”

He assembled a solemn expression. “My sisters aren't going to be happy about this. Their hearts are set on having the wedding here.”

“Is there anything you can do to help us?”

Bubba straightened his shoulders as if I'd asked him to untie me from the railroad tracks. “Let me see.”

It turned out the handsome assistant deputy couldn't do much of anything but listen. Miss Simpkins took Bubba by his elbow and steered him out into the lawn, where she explained her mission. He almost saluted her.

I joined Mr. Carver, Fred, and Mae Mae on the porch, and together we watched the slow destruction of Honeybelle's rose garden.

Finally Bubba returned to the porch and addressed us. “I'm gonna have to call my sergeant to find out who's got jurisdiction here, but it doesn't look good for the roses.”

I was sure the feds had plenty of jurisdiction, so I said, “Sorry the neighbors brought you out like this. We'll try to make it up to them.”

A radio pinned to Bubba's shoulder suddenly squawked. He lifted it closer to his ear to listen. When the communication finished, he looked energized. “I gotta go. They need me for backup over at the university.”

“What's wrong over there?” I asked.

“They went to arrest President Cornfelter. I guess he's putting up a fuss.”

Bubba hadn't learned the discretion aspect of police work, I guessed. I took advantage of his rookie mistake and said, “They're arresting him for what?”

“I heard the guys talking about it down at the station while they waited for the warrant. A couple of ladies over at the university say he's been threatening them.”

Hannibal the Animal, someone had called him. I asked, “What kind of threats?”

Bubba shrugged. “Started out as workplace harassment, I heard. Then he got real nasty. Not a very nice boss, if you ask me. A big shot in public, but a jerk when the door closed.” He hooked his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of his car. “Look, I gotta run along. Y'all will apologize to the neighbors?”

Mae Mae said, “I'll bake something. Cinnamon always makes people happy. I'll make extra for you, too, young man.”

“Yes, ma'am. Thank you, ma'am. I'm real partial to cinnamon rolls.” With a big, boyish smile, Bubba tipped his hat and hurried back to his cruiser.

To Mr. Carver and Mae Mae, I said, “Cornfelter arrested! What would Honeybelle say?”

“She'd say it's about time,” Mr. Carver muttered. “That man was always throwing his weight around. The only person who stood up to him was Honeybelle herself.”

Unable to watch the ravaging of the garden any longer, I herded him and Mae Mae into the house for dinner. Fred followed. At the kitchen table, I explained what Miss Simpkins had told me about digging up the garden and checking all the roses for diseases.

Despite wearing quite a bit of barbecue sauce on his chin, Mr. Carver was outraged. “They can't do that! Honeybelle would never break any laws!”

“They're going to have egg on their faces,” Mae Mae predicted. “This is all a big mistake.”

“Why did the FBI decide to pick on Honeybelle?” Mr. Carver asked me. “Did somebody report her?”

“It's not the FBI. It's the Department of Agriculture,” I soothed. “And it was a shipment of a rosebush from Germany, caught by customs, that alerted them to the potential problem. There's no—”

“From Germany?”

“Maybe Honeybelle ordered a rose from a catalog before she died,” I said. “There has to be some logical explanation.”

“Well, they shouldn't dig up her garden without … without—”

“Without asking her?” I said. “You know that's impossible, Mr. Carver. We'll just have to wait until the agriculture people complete their investigation.”

We picked at our barbecue while listening to the local news on the television.

When Poppy Appleby came on to talk about the weather, Mae Mae turned to watch the screen and said, “She looks real nice in pink. And I like her hair that way, too.” She put a hand to her own hair, wrenched back into her usual tight bun, not very becoming. “I wonder if Poppy has a beautician in the studio?”

She did look nice in pink, and she did a good job. She was perky, but concise and informative. Tonight, though, I was more interested in the weather report than in the reporter. For the first time since I'd come to Mule Stop, Poppy's map pictured something other than a big, smiling sun. I squinted at the television. “What's that thing on the map?”

Unhappily, Mr. Carver said, “It's a haboob.”

I had heard the word before but didn't expect to hear it in Texas. “One of those really big dust storms like they get on the Sahara? I've never seen one.” With a thought for Mr. Gamble's twister obsession, I asked, “Is it like a tornado?”

“No, not a tornado. Tornados spin and are much more destructive. When a haboob comes, the wind kicks up and gathers all the grit into a big cloud in the air and blows it basically in a straight line. It's a blinding dust storm. The dust gets everywhere.”

With distaste, Mae Mae said, “It's like a hurricane, but with dirt, not water.”

“It's over fast,” Mr. Carver went on, “but there'll be dust in your hair for weeks afterward. Last time, we had to repaint one whole side of the house. The sand in the air blasted the paint right off.”

“Are we getting one? Do we have enough water?” Alarmed, I tried to hear what Poppy was saying on the air, but Mae Mae had gotten up from the table and was noisily running dishwater into the sink.

“We have plenty of water. And maybe we won't get the storm,” Mr. Carver said. “Depends on heat and weather patterns and which way the wind is blowing.”

The video Poppy was playing on her screen showed a massive red cloud of dust bearing down on Phoenix.

“That's all we need right now,” Mae Mae grumbled. “A natural disaster.”

The agriculture people said they planned on working all night, so when Mr. Carver and Mae Mae retired, I took Honeybelle's rose notebook out of her office and up to my bed. Fred came along and snored while I read. Outside, the Department of Agriculture set up bright lights and continued to dig while I carefully read every page of the notebook and looked at all the pictures.

About midnight, I decided I had a good idea who had Miss Ruffles.

And I was willing to bet my million-dollar inheritance she was still very much alive.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Always drink upstream from the herd.

—COWBOY WISDOM

In the morning, the Department of Agriculture team continued their meticulous labors in the rose garden while munching Egg McMuffins. I noticed some of them had upgraded to hazmat suits.

I tried to put their work out of my mind. With my new theory in mind, I started making phone calls. I used Honeybelle's computer, too.

At ten, Poppy stopped by to pick up Mae Mae for her day in the television studio. I answered the door.

“What's going on here?” Poppy asked, aghast at the devastation already apparent in the front yard. She clapped one pretty hand to her lipsticked mouth in horror.

“Just a little inspection,” I assured her. “Nothing to worry about. It'll all be cleaned up very soon.” At least, I hoped so.

There wasn't time for Poppy to get more upset, because Mae Mae bustled into view. She was already huffing and puffing, a stormy look on her face.

“Break a leg,” I said to her at the door.

Mae Mae couldn't summon any reply. She looked like a walking case of stage fight.

Poppy diagnosed the situation instantly. Warmly, she said, “Mae Mae will be great.”

I had noticed Mae Mae hadn't been able to eat her breakfast, but she put her Sunday church hat firmly on her head and went out to Poppy's car with her new recipe notebook clutched in one hand.

Mr. Carver joined me, looking more mournful than ever. “Those people are still making a terrible mess of the garden. What are we going to do when they're finished?”

“We'll have to try putting things back the way they were, I guess.”

“Do you know anything about gardening?”

“Not much,” I admitted. “But I have Honeybelle's map and notebook. We'll manage somehow.”

As if the morning couldn't get any worse, he said, “There are more prairie dogs in those traps out back. Maybe three or four.”

I checked the clock on the wall. “Where's Critter Control? Rudy said he'd come back this morning.”

“I already called him.” Mr. Carver grew even more glum. “He said after he finishes the termites at the Bum Steer, he has to go over to the stockyard. There's a snake in the men's Porta-Potti toilet, and the rodeo people want it out of there right away.”

“I can't blame them.”

“That leaves us with all these prairie dogs, and I don't mind telling you they make me nervous. Once the sun gets high enough, they're going to cook in those traps.”

I went outside and draped wet kitchen towels over the traps. Then I went out to the street to speak with the Blues Brothers.

“Could you give me a hand?” I asked.

They were not happy, but they helped move all the prairie dogs into Honeybelle's car.

“Where you taking them?” Mr. Costello asked.

“Over to the stockyard to give them to Critter Control. I hear there's a rodeo today, if you want to come watch.”

He was using his handkerchief to rub his hands clean. “This is enough animal stuff for me for one day.”

“Me, too,” said his partner. “I don't even like cats much. My first wife had a cat, and that animal hated me. It used to sit in my shoes.”

“Just so long as it was just sitting,” Costello said, “and not doing something else.”

“Okay,” I said, “thanks, fellas. I'm going over to the stockyard.”

“It's awful hot,” Costello said. “Maybe we'll go grab some lunch somewhere air-conditioned. We'll meet you back here later.”

“Fine by me.”

“Take your time, Stretch.”

First I made a quick stop at the Tennyson law office. Gracie was nowhere to be seen.

I spoke with the receptionist, back from her days off, who reported Ten had been in the office all morning but had already left for the day.

“He's delivering livestock over to the stockyard. Today's the first day of the rodeo. School even lets out early so the kids can go.” Her face was alight with anticipation. “Are you going? It's always a lot of fun. My son Isaac is bull riding.”

“How old is Isaac?” I asked, thinking the receptionist wasn't much older than I was. Her child surely couldn't be old enough to ride the likes of Hellrazor.

She had a dimple when she smiled. “He's four. His life's dream is to be a cowboy.”

I found it hard to believe a four-year-old already had a life's dream, let alone one about being crushed by a massive animal, but she looked convinced. I thanked her and told her I'd catch up with Ten at the rodeo.

When I got to the stockyard, I found it transformed. No longer a sleepy outpost at the end of town, it was now crowded with people, vehicles, and animals. Not just horses and cattle of all sizes, but ponies and sheep and goats and dogs. Fred sat up in the passenger seat and looked keenly around.

I parked at the end of a row of cars and got out. Fred scrambled after me. “I don't think this is a good idea,” I told him.

But he woofed a promise to stick close to me, so we set off together. I opened the trunk to give the prairie dogs some air. The trunk lid provided some shade, and there was just enough breeze to keep the heat down. The prairie dogs hissed at me. I went looking for Rudy's Critter Control truck.

The parking area was full of cars, but also small family groups setting up chairs and umbrellas and coolers packed with food. Picnics were breaking out all over. I headed past them toward the corral where the longhorns were kept. In the shadow of a large trailer on my way, I ran across a farrier putting new shoes on an enormous pinto horse. While he worked, the placid animal's lead rope was held by a smiling pixie in a cowboy hat—no older than the four-year-old bull rider I had already heard about.

Next to the farrier was a portable fence enclosing a dozen black-faced sheep. They were nestled down in fresh straw, awaiting some kind of action I couldn't guess. A grandmother in a plaid shirt and jeans sat in a folding chair. She had her hat tilted down over her face and seemed to be dozing, too.

From there, the stockyard took on a carnival atmosphere. A local Girl Scout troop was already selling sandwiches and sweet tea from a table set up in front of an RV. The Rotary Club had a dunking booth almost ready to go, with a blushing middle-aged man in a bathing suit nervously waiting to get wet in the tank. The ladies of the League of Women Voters were decked out in bright square-dancing dresses to distribute information about a coming election. The Sorghum Society had samples of sorghum molasses to give away while they sold 50/50 raffle tickets to benefit a local project.

Somewhere in the distance, I could hear a banjo and assumed Crazy Mary was at work in the crowd.

No sign of Critter Control.

In front of the corral, a school bus pulled up and disgorged a crowd of kids, all in jeans and wearing hats. They dashed off in different directions. I saw Travis Joe Hensley among them and tried to follow him, but I lost him in the crowd.