Other People's Baggage (7 page)

SWITCH BACK: TWO

  

We bumped into Little Oak, Texas just before three a.m. My legs were cramped, my eyes were scratchy, and my left hand was tingly from Zibby sitting on it. We unloaded Zibby at the Carter ranch first, which took all of three minutes since she had no bags or carry-on, then rode about a mile down the road to the Little Oak Inn.

It wasn't until I entered the living room lobby that I realized the inn was more bed and breakfast than hotel.

Rita went behind the counter and rifled for a pen. “You must be exhausted, sugar.” She fiddled with some paperwork, which I promptly signed and exchanged for a key.

“This is the best room I've got,” Rita said. “Top floor, spectacular view. And we'll have fresh frittatas and biscuits in the morning.” She peered over the counter, then looked back at me. “Right, no luggage. Have your claim ticket? I'll drop it off in the morning.”

I blinked back at her trying to remember where my tag was, then slowly dug it out of my hipster handbag.

“You're all set then. Have a good sleep and don't forget to come down for breakfast. I'm serving my homemade honeysuckle jam with fresh sweet butter.”

My mouth watered as she pointed to the center staircase and I trudged up to the third floor with key in hand. It took three tries to wiggle that sucker into submission, but the door finally creaked open and I creaked inside.

Without a toothbrush or hairbrush or clean tee to sleep in, I simply set my handbag on the nightstand, stripped off my skirt, flipped off my flip flops, and fell onto the lumpiest mattress this side of the last century.

  

Seventeen things bumped in the night and I finally opened my eyes to the bright glaring sun sooner than I wanted. A room full of windows, and not one had a blind or a curtain. Not even a single sheer to prevent the room from turning into an oversized sauna. I rolled over and and cursed for a solid minute the fate that brought me to the surface of the sun in the middle of summer.

As of a month ago, the Ballantyne Foundation on Sea Pine Island, South Carolina was the proud owner of Little Oak, Texas. As Director of said Foundation, I volunteered to trek to the town, attend the Cattle Baron's Ball, and thank Bea Carter and her family for their generous donation.

And generous it was. We'd never received an entire town before. I'm not sure any charitable organization had. And I certainly didn't know what to do with it. Zibby Archibald, one of our most cherished benefactors, joined me on the trip as it was her late family friend, Austin Carter, who bequeathed the town upon his death. Not sure how the rest his family felt about it, but I'd soon find out.

I dragged myself out of the lumpy bed and into the tiny bathroom. And by tiny, I mean tiny. The door was about half-size of normal and hit the back of the sink when it opened. After I availed myself of the facilities, I realized I had nothing else to do. No clothes, no toiletries, nothing to unpack and nothing to change into. The tee I slept in was rumpled and stained with the airline's finest red wine. I didn't drink it fast enough before we hit the storms and managed to splash half a glass right down the front.

But my paisley skirt survived without a drop, and my flip flops would do just fine. I spied the sliver of bar soap I used to wash my hands and bit back another shiver. Based on the layer of dust that had coated the wrapper, I wasn't sure the last time the room was cleaned. Or with what. But soap is soap, right? Even if it tightened my skin like leather on a football, I'd still be clean.

I was debating my options when I heard a loud knock on the door.

“Hellooo, Elliott?” Rita of the homemade honeysuckle jam and fresh butter called through the door. “You in there?”

“Hi, Rita,” I said, trying not to sound like the morning grump I am.

She handed me a small baggie with a miniature toothbrush and toothpaste and a small black comb. “Small delay with your luggage. Some kind of storm glitch, tags don't match or something. My girl needs a quick description, contents and all that, says it'll make it go faster.”

I cringed at the thought of some strange girl rifling through my things, but then remembered I brought a one of a kind suitcase. “It's easy to spot. A bright turquoise hardback Samsonite, white trim, metal latches. Let her know it's the only one.”

“Will do. See you in a jiff,” she said and shut the door.

I locked it behind her and rushed my bounty straight to the bathroom.

After a seven minute shower in which the water alternated between a comfortable rapid boil and just shy of freezing, I hopped out and dried myself on a thin scratchy towel. The skin on my face was indeed so tight, I probably looked ten years younger than my quite youthful forty years.

It took longer for me to comb out my auburn snarls than it did the whole rest of my morning routine. But I slapped on yesterday's clothes, grabbed my handbag and went downstairs, determined to shake off my bad mood and all this travel drama. There were frittatas in my future.

The dining room bustled like a pancake House on a Sunday morning. Folks filled every table, including a bar in the back. I grabbed a plate, but quickly realized most of the food was gone.

I snagged the last half a biscuit and waited in line for a glass of fresh squeezed orange juice.

Rita came over just as I drained the last drop. She wore a bright blue scarf over her tall brown hair.

“You gotta get down here earlier. The frittatas go fast. Lots to do today.”

“This all for the Honeysuckle Festival?”

“Oh no. That was canceled in favor of the Broken Spoke Casino Rally.” Rita bounced through the dining room and into the living room lobby and I trailed behind. “Wait 'til you see the plans the tribe drew up. Custom felt tables and authentic saloon chairs for the slots.”

“An Indian casino, in Little Oak?”

She dug through several boxes of party supplies at the counter. Poster boards, markers, balloons, and a spool of red ribbon nearly a foot wide. “Yes, ma'am. Going to be bigger than the one in Oklahoma. We'll even have a real sports book in the gaming center.”

News to me. Especially since the Foundation now owned the town and we had no plans to build any kind of gaming center. We actually didn't have any plans at all.

I was about to mention that when she gave a questioning head tilt toward my tee. “No extra top shoved in your purse then, huh?”

I liked to travel light and not lug fifty pounds of personal belongings through travel worn public places. But as I followed her gaze to my filthy shirt, I thought perhaps a larger over-the-shoulder bag wouldn't kill me.

“I'm hoping there's a boutique nearby, somewhere I can buy a new shirt, maybe some toiletries?”

The main door opened and two men with a large banner balanced between them struggled through. I rushed over to hold the door open while they wrestled the banner across the threshold.

“Sorry it took so long, Miss Rita, but we got it here before the Honeysuckle opens,” one of the men said. “Usually get these things turned around in a couple weeks, but we've been swamped.”

“No worries at all. Y'all did just fine,” Rita said as she signed the delivery slip.

Two women came in and grabbed the boxes of decorations while a teenaged girl in short shorts started cleaning the desk.

Rita talked to me over her shoulder. “Most of the stores closed, sugar. Town's nearly shut down. Might be able to find something next door at the gift shop. Think Gilda's got some adorable t-shirts. You need anything, anything at all, you just ask. Tell her I sent you,” she hollered as she scurried through the back door.

  

The sky was bluer than the Caribbean Sea and just as tranquil. The temperature had to be close to ninety-five and it wasn't quite ten a.m. On the bright side, the humidity was low. A nice break from the thick air back in South Carolina. Several trees lined this end of the town square. Interestingly, they were all crepe myrtles with not a single oak among them.

The town square was more of a town rectangle. The Little Oak Inn sat center between Little Oak Gifts and Little Oak Grill. Two rows of shops flanked each side of a long brick lane. Rita wasn't exaggerating. Nearly every shop was empty. Their windows dusty from abandonment, small closed signs tilting sideways on the doors. I thought perhaps a tumbleweed might blow by except for the activity far down the road. Trucks and vans parked all along the curbs and men unloaded equipment, or perhaps pipes or building materials.

When Zibby told me about this unique donation to the Ballantyne Foundation, I didn't quite know what to think. She spoke of a town square bustling with shops and restaurants. With summer festivals and a thriving tourist trade. If anything, the profits would go straight to the Foundation where we would direct them into one of our many causes. She never mentioned a casino replacing the bustling boutiques. Perhaps a lease already in place?

After two minutes in the sun, I popped into the gift shop for supplies and possibly a little scoop. With Rita busy, I needed someone to tell me what was going on.

The bell tinkled as I walked in and a short round lady walked out of a backroom. Her frizzy blond hair probably hadn't seen its natural color since she graduated high school sometime when Eisenhower was president.

“How you doing this delightful day?” she asked.

“Well, I'm having a t-shirt emergency and I hear you're the one to the rescue.”

She glanced at the enormous red splotch that covered most of my upper half. “Sure, sugar, got a nice selection in our souvenir section.” She pointed me to an array brightly colored almost all cotton shirts.

I mostly hid my blanch as I carefully picked through the round rack.

“You here for the Revival or the Rally?” she asked.

“I'm actually here for the Cattle Baron's Ball. Came in last night.”

She sighed somewhat wistfully. “The Ball used to be the event of the season. Hard to believe this will be our last one. We've got so many things changing around Little Oak these days.”

“And I'm another change, but a good one. I'm Elliott Lisbon with the Ballantyne Foundation. We inherited your town.”

“Well, howdy-do. I was hoping to meet you today. We worried your flight might get turned around with the storms and you wouldn't make it. I'm Gilda Hays.” She stretched out her hand to shake mine, enveloping it in both of hers, all soft and warm and germy.

I smiled on the outside, but inside I couldn't wait to rip into my mini hipster and lather on a good coat of hand-sani.

Discreetly, of course.

“Nice to meet you, Gilda.” I stopped shirt shopping and lowered my voice one degree. “I had no idea most of the shops were out of business.”

“Oh sure. Everything's being replaced, either with the Light of the Rock megachurch or the Broken Spoke Casino. Don't know which project will get the green light. Though my money's on the church, no pun intended. No chance the state's going to allow gambling, no matter who ole Chief Fannin knows. But don't go telling Rita that. She's on the casino side of town.”

“When did all this—”

The tinkle of the entry bell interrupted me and my final words of “take place” faded into Rita's high-pitched burst.

“Elliott,” Rita cried. “You've got to get to the ranch. Zibby called up, said the Sheriff himself is arresting Bea right as I speak. For murder. Arresting her for Austin's murder like she's a common criminal and not the town matron hosting the largest party this side of Dallas.” She remained in the doorway, arms splayed across the opening, one hand gripping the door, the other the frame. “Can you believe it?”

I could not believe it. Considering Bea's husband, Austin Carter, died of a heart attack over a month ago. I grabbed the tee my hand rested on and shoved it at Gilda. “I'll take this one.”

She pulled it off the hanger in one swift move. “You can change right through there, and don't worry about paying. We'll settle up later.”

I ducked behind a curtain into a makeshift dressing room and threw on the tee. A red crewneck with bold blue letters spelling out “I Love Texas” with a ginormous heart around the word love.

Rita offered to toss my stained shirt back into my room as we rushed up the sidewalk. “I've been best friends with Kathy Lee, that's Bea's daughter, since we were toddlers crawling around the big oak tree. Bea's like a second mother to me. Please tell them I'll be by as soon as I get someone to cover the inn.”

She started back inside when I grabbed her arm. “Can you call me a taxi?”

“Oh mercy me, we don't have taxi service. Used to have the trolley, but not since two seasons ago. I lent the truck out this morning, but you can take my scooter.” She dug the keys from her pocket and handed them to me. “It's round the side there.”

“Thanks, Rita. And where am I going?”

“Straight up Oak Street, round the oak tree, can't miss it.”

I jogged over to the far side of the gift shop and indeed, there was a vintage Vespa with chipped turquoise paint and a yellow helmet. As soon as I fastened the chin strap, I zipped down the brick road at a perky twenty-five miles an hour. The sun baked my skin so quickly, it was like riding through the Sahara on an electric camel.

The rows of desolate shops ended about a quarter mile into my ride, replaced by wide stretches of land with small subdivisions tucked behind a tree line on both sides of the road. Tall big top tents were going up in front of each set of trees. An army of workers hammered stakes and hoisted poles as if the circus had come to town, while another group set up tables down the center of the road.

I weaved around the obstacle course of party planners, and a minute later saw the lone oak tree. It had to be taller than a three-story department store and nearly as wide. The tree sat in the middle of a well-tended garden bursting with fragrant summer roses and leafy purple kale.