Miss Ruffles Inherits Everything (16 page)

Without a word, Cornfelter snatched the folder out of my hands and stuffed the papers back inside.

I said, “Nice to see you, President Cornfelter.”

“Good evening, Miss…?”

“McKillip.”

“Yes.” He manufactured some camaraderie. “Another stranger wandering in a strange land. You're from Chicago, as I recall?”

“Ohio.”

Same difference to him. He didn't try to shake my hand but suddenly gathered the folder to his chest as if it were a treasure map he wanted to keep to himself.

He was an attractive man if you went for the college professor type who maybe sang in a men's chorus. Honeybelle told me he sometimes sang with a local barbershop group. He had wavy, Kennedy-esque brown hair and a patrician face that could quickly switch from a cool, intellectual smile to a big country-boy grin that played well in Mule Stop. I first thought Honeybelle liked him because he had more polish than most of her gentleman callers. But now I wondered.

He was smart and knew how to play the politics of college fund-raising. But my personal opinion was that if his life depended on it, President Cornfelter probably couldn't change a tire.

He went on the offensive. “I hear congratulations are in order.”

“For?”

“Honeybelle's bequest. A million dollars is a lot of money for a young woman such as yourself.”

I had assumed the details of Honeybelle's will were confidential, but obviously the bulletin had gone around town faster than the Pony Express. The fact that even Cornfelter knew about the will made my heart thunk in my chest. Everybody else must know, too. But the “such as yourself” line irked me.

He must have thought he had bested me, because he went on, “I don't know what Honeybelle was thinking. A woman of her means and values might have established an important scholarship or academic endowment. I suppose you're going to buy yourself a shiny new car or whatever young people waste their money on these days. Exactly what did you do to convince Honeybelle you deserve the kind of cash she left to you?”

Maybe I was too accustomed to the petty bickering that went on among snooty academics who had little common sense to be shaken by his quick attack. Calmly, I said, “I was more surprised than anyone by her gift.”

“Were you?” He positively had a sneer on his face. “She was a delightfully unpredictable woman.” His tone insinuated something unpleasant.

“Also thoughtful and generous.”

He said, “Perhaps you didn't know her long enough to understand her personality completely. Honeybelle was a strong woman. But she was easily flattered away from the most logical decisions. She made emotional choices that didn't always make good long-term business sense.”

“Depends on your business,” I said, giving him a taste of his own childish faculty-room behavior.

I might as well have swatted him in the face with a rolled-up newspaper. He blinked and said, “What's that supposed to mean?”

“You must be disappointed about your stadium.” Suddenly I was reckless. “I know how much a football program means to the reputation of a university. If you don't have football, students will choose to go elsewhere, and pretty soon the University of the Alamo dries up and blows away into the desert. Well, you may eventually get your stadium from Honeybelle, but can you wait that long?”

His face turned ugly. “Long enough for a dog to die?”

Shaken at last, I demanded, “Have you done something with Miss Ruffles?”

“I reported that animal to the town police.” He lifted his head nobly, as if he'd committed an act of bravery. “I was lucky I didn't contract an infection.”

“Maybe we should get Miss Ruffles tested.”

His eyes narrowed. “If she bit me, there's no telling how quickly she might attack someone else—maybe even a child. She's dangerous.”

“She was dangerous only to people who threatened Honeybelle.”

“You think I…?” He remembered himself, straightened his shoulders and gathered his composure. “Honeybelle's death was a terrible loss. But I had nothing to do with what happened to her. She went far too young. It's all very tragic.”

“Yes,” I said. “I miss her.”

I had the last word. I left President Cornfelter and hurried toward the busy part of town again. I had a black feeling of dread for Miss Ruffles as I jogged into town to find Gracie.

At the corner, I encountered Crazy Mary, the street musician.

She was carrying her violin in one hand, the battered guitar case in the other. Her backpack hung from a strap on one shoulder, and the full bag thumped against her side. Everything about her posture said she was tired.

If anyone might have seen Miss Ruffles, it was the one person who had been out on the street all day long. A ray of hope penetrated my low spirits, and I planted myself in her path. I felt like a jerk for not speaking to Crazy Mary before this, but I brushed aside that regret. I was too worried for Miss Ruffles to care about social propriety now.

“Mary? Hi, I'm Sunny.”

She said, “I don't give lessons anymore.”

“I'm not—”

“If you want to play the guitar, I can recommend someone who won't rob you blind, but if you want violin lessons around here, it's going to cost you. Banjo and mandolin, there are guys at the university who can help you.” She spoke quickly, by rote, as if she were asked the same questions over and over. “Nobody teaches rock and roll, so if that's what you want, you'll have to go to Austin.”

“Actually, I'm not the least bit musical. I don't suppose you've seen a dog tonight?”

She eyed me. Now that I was standing close enough to notice, I realized that her blond dreadlocks were actually quite artistic. Her earrings were dangling bits of silver twisted into the shapes of musical notes and adorned with small stones. Her long skirt had been knotted up on one side to show off a delicate petticoat, and her blouse—with several layers of subtly colored tank tops beneath—was intricately embroidered. From a distance, she looked scruffy, but up close, she had a real artistic flair.

Her face was expressionless. Or maybe slightly hostile, which I deserved. I could see nothing behind her granny-style sunglasses.

“I'm looking for a dog.” I put my hand down to my knee. “She's about this high. Mostly gray. With a spot over one eye that kinda looks like an eyebrow—”

“You mean Miss Ruffles?” Crazy Mary's voice was quiet but perfectly clear. Her accent was southernish, but not Texan. I recognized from her vowels that she wasn't a Mule Stop native.

“Yes,” I said eagerly. “Yes, Miss Ruffles. Have you seen her?”

“No,” said Mary in a flat voice.

She might as well have deflated me with a pin. “Oh.”

“I'm pretty sure I heard her, though,” Mary said. “She was in a car. About an hour ago. She was yipping. She has a distinctive yip.”

My heart leaped. “You heard her?” I almost seized Mary in a crushing hug.

“I have a good ear. I hear things.”

“What kind of car? What color? Did you see the license plate? Or—”

“I don't know what kind of car it was. I didn't notice the color either. A woman was driving. Mrs. Hensley.”

“Posie? You mean Posie Hensley?”

“She drove by a while ago, that's all, and I heard the dog yelping.”

I sagged against a parking meter while the truth sank in. I had seen Posie in her car myself. But I hadn't heard Miss Ruffles.

“Miss Ruffles is missing?”

“Y-yes. I have to get her back.”

“Do you have a gun?”

I jumped. “Of course not.”

She shrugged. “If you can't take care of business yourself, go to the police.”

“I … I can't do that either.”

“So you're stuck between a rock and a hard place.”

My mother had preached peace and harmony and doing unto others. Maybe she had the wrong idea.

I became aware of Mary watching me think, and I said, “I'll figure out something.”

“Good luck.” Mary squared her shoulders to redistribute the weight of her backpack, then cut around me to go on her way. She was a dozen steps away before she said over her shoulder, “You know, my name's not Mary.”

I should have chased her down to find out her real name at least, but instead I stood there and tried to make my whirling brain settle down to think.

Miss Ruffles had definitely been kidnapped. It wasn't a prank anymore. Not a mistake. Someone had taken her in a car. And not just anybody.

Posie Hensley, the lizard.

I needed to figure out how to get Miss Ruffles back, but my brain wasn't functioning. Stumbling with dread, I put one foot in front of the other. I finally found Gracie on the next block over. She was out of breath and looked disheveled. I had just enough room in my heart to feel guilty for making her run all over town.

“Sorry,” she said as we almost collided in front of the art gallery. “No sign of Miss Ruffles anywhere.”

I couldn't do anything more than moan.

Two police cars sat in the middle of the street, the officers talking to each other through their open windows. Their presence had chased most of the students into the bars. The cops stopped talking and instead began to watch us.

Gracie didn't notice. She tried to rake her hair back into order. “I don't know what to tell you, Sunny. She's not around here.”

I managed to speak. “I think Posie Hensley has her. Mary heard a dog yipping in Posie's car.”

Gracie stared at me. “You sure? But—that's good, right?”

“Not really, no. Last I heard, Posie wanted to get rid of Miss Ruffles. She wanted to dump her at an animal shelter in Dallas.”

“Well, unless she drives half the night, she's not going to get rid of Miss Ruffles right away. And if I know Posie, she won't leave her kids that long.”

“I've got to go get Miss Ruffles from her.”

“Do you need backup? Do you know where Posie lives?”

“Yes, I helped Honeybelle deliver some flowers for a dinner party last month. I think I can find the house. It's out by the interstate, in that new subdivision. I'll go myself. It'll be safer.”

“Wait.” Gracie caught my arm as I turned to leave. “You're going over there now? And do what? Knock on the door and confront Posie about kidnapping a dog?”

“What else?” I asked. “Let something terrible happen to Miss Ruffles?”

“What about talking to the cops first?”

We both looked at the officers in the middle of the street. They looked back at us.

The ransom note had been clear about not contacting the police. I said, “I can't run that risk. Besides, I don't want to get Posie into any trouble.”

Gracie laughed in disbelief. “You're kidding, right? She snatched your dog! I say we saddle up and get in her face.”

“Miss Ruffles isn't my dog. She's not her dog, either, of course, but Posie's part of Honeybelle's family. If I start throwing accusations around or bringing the police, there's just going to be a big uproar.”

“You need somebody. If not me, somebody who has some clout with Posie.”

Ten Tennyson, I thought. Or his father or grandfather. One of the family lawyers who was supposed to help keep Miss Ruffles safe. But Ten Tennyson was marrying Posie's sister, I reminded myself, so that hardly made him a good candidate for confronting Posie. With every passing minute, my panic for Miss Ruffles grew. I felt dizzy as my fear for her safety doubled.

“Listen,” Gracie said, guessing where my runaway thoughts were going. “Posie looked kind of crazed when she drove by. Maybe this whole thing is a mistake. Give Posie a chance to bring the dog back all by herself.”

I gave her an impulsive hug. “Thanks, Gracie. You've been great. I mean it—thank you. Go celebrate your birthday. Maybe Rico will give you a free drink.”

She brightened. “Hey, it can't hurt to ask. You want to come along?”

“No, I'm going back to Honeybelle's.”

Gracie bit her lip, clearly uncertain about leaving me on my own. “If you decide you want somebody to ride shotgun, just holler.”

“Yes, of course. Happy birthday.”

Behind me, one of the police cars followed.

 

CHAPTER TWELVE

When in doubt, fry it or add cheese.

—MIRANDA LAMBERT

The cop tailed me for several blocks. Then he turned onto one of the residential side streets and disappeared. But as I walked, I could see between the houses to the parallel street. There, the cruiser continued to sneak along, and I knew the officer was keeping an eye on me. I couldn't imagine why, and it made me even more nervous than I already felt. When I turned into Honeybelle's driveway, the police car reappeared. The cop watched me let myself through the back gate and into the yard.

Why were they watching me? My heart was pounding hard. I was too frightened to walk out into the street and ask. Talking to them might endanger Miss Ruffles.

The minivan hadn't returned, I noticed, so Mr. Carver was still out on his mysterious Saturday night mission. I could have waited for him in the garage and told him everything. Part of me wanted an ally. The more I thought about it, though, the more I feared the news might give poor Mr. Carver a fatal heart attack.

At the back of the house on the second floor, the blue light of a television screen told me Mae Mae was tucked in for the night with her bowl of popcorn. She was probably watching another grisly crime show. I was afraid to tell her, too—afraid for my own safety. Mae Mae's probable fury prevented me from climbing the stairs to confide in her. Besides, what kind of help could she be? I couldn't imagine her threatening to bonk Posie over the head with her iron skillet.

I let myself into the house and set the alarm for the night before creeping upstairs.

From my third-floor bedroom window, I could see both police cruisers sitting in the street in front of the house. The officers were talking with each other through their open windows again. About what? One soon departed, but the other remained at the corner, where he could monitor the front door of Honeybelle's house as well as the gate by the garage. There was no way I could leave the house again without being seen. I'd just have to wait them out.