Other People's Baggage (11 page)

Whoever killed Austin Carter was likely at the ball. Celebrating? Did his death benefit them or must they now deal with the fallout of an unexpected addendum to his will?

I noticed Gilda Hays and Rita Whitaker enjoying the party. Funny how every other business in the square closed, but theirs stayed open. And their businesses at the end of Main Street showed no signs of closing.

Then I spotted the Reverend and the Chief huddled together just one table over. Neither benefitted from the Ballantyne addendum, but they couldn't have known about it when Austin died. Maybe one of them hoped with Austin gone, they could gain more ground?

I casually looped a wide arc around the back side of the tent, balancing between staying inside the cool air and blending into the crowd. I quietly slipped into a chair behind the huddle.

“Doesn't seem…really going to be…on the way…” Reverend Kincaid said in a voice so low I barely heard him.

“…she'll take care…our time next…confident for the…” Chief Fannin replied.

I leaned back, tipped my head at the oddest of angles, but still couldn't make out every fourth word. Seems I wasn't going to be able to eavesdrop, though just noticing these two plotting was suspicious enough. They could be simply talking about the weather, but I didn't think so. I strained one last time and nearly slipped off my chair. I decided I better join them before I crashed into them.

“Oh hello, Chief Fannin, Reverend Kincaid,” I said. “Nice to see you again. May I sit a moment? I'm afraid my feet are killing me.” Not an untrue statement. I was tempted to kick off my shoes under the table except I'd never get those suckers back on.

“Of course, red-headed woman,” the Chief said.

“It's auburn, actually,” I said. “I didn't realize you two were friends. Or is this you keeping your enemies closer?”

The Reverend chuckled good-naturedly. “Elliott, right? Chief Fannin and I go back more than ten years. We've worked several charity events together.”

“Indeed,” Chief Fannin replied. “Our people are a giving people. We believe in returning the benefits given to us. Unlike you who has chosen to take away from Little Oak.”

“Let's not be too hard on her,” Reverend Kincaid said. “She's just doing her job.”

“Maybe she needs a new job,” Chief Fannin said. “One with a higher moral standard.”

“Sounds like she's only following the path set before her. Takes a strong woman to lead a charitable foundation.”

I tried not to preen at the compliment as I quietly listened as these two played good cop, bad cop, bantering about my life's work. The Ballantynes treated me like family, had since I was a young girl, and working at their foundation was a dream for me. Sometimes the crazy kind of dream where bananas talked and my telephone doubled as a washing machine, but a dream all the same.

The preacher and the chief finally paused long enough for me to get a word in. “I'm sorry to contradict you gentlemen, but the Ballantyne truly is a reputable organization, and the will donating Little Oak is legally sound,” I said.

“The court will have plenty to say about that,” Chief Fannin said. “My people do not fear fighting for their lands.”

“I've never heard of the Big Spring Choctaw before,” I said. “I did a little research. Not much out there.”

“You researched our tribe?” He looked affronted, but not the embarrassment I expected if he had been hiding something. “When? On the way to the party?”

“We have a very thorough research staff at the Ballantyne,” I said. And we usually did. My lack of a laptop and Tod's puppy baby shower duties notwithstanding. “We found little information on your tribe.”

“Our people prefer a less recognized lifestyle,” Chief Fannin said. “Unlike your Ballantyne which draws attention to itself weekly.”

Now it was my turn to look affronted—and embarrassed. I worked hard to keep those headlines positive and infrequent. I'm not always successful.

“Elliott, we would love to have you attend our revival tomorrow,” Reverend Kincaid said. He smiled and leaned forward on the table. “The Light of the Rock congregation will be celebrating the Lord's goodness. It might change your mind about things. From one charitable organization to another.”

“And our rally, too,” Chief Fannin said, not to be left out. “The Big Spring Choctaw tribe will be celebrating the wealth of the land as well.”

The more I listened, the more they seemed like the type to simply take their show on the road, work their charm in the next town. They were already shifting their attitude with me, trying to work me to join one of their groups.

“I think I shall. Stop by to both, I mean,” I said.

Coffee service began and I said my good evenings. They immediately huddled back up with low voices. No one else seemed to think it suspicious, so what did I know? I really only did have less than ten percent of my PI hours logged. Not like I knew what I was doing.

However, when did the Chief research the Ballantyne? That day, like me, huddled over a sketchy cell connection, or earlier. And how much earlier? Something tickled my memory, but I couldn't figure out what.

I hopped one table over just as thick slices of strawberry cake with rich pink frosting arrived.

“Elliott, you look adorable in that dress,” Gilda said. “I knew it was perfect.”

I sank into one of the empty chairs, ridiculously comfortable for a banquet chair. I was beginning to think I could learn something from these Texas party planners.

“Yes, a perfect dress,” I lied. “You totally saved me. But these shoes might kill me.”

Rita passed me a decadent piece of cake. “This will cure it. One bite and you'll forget all about your feet.”

She was right. It was silky and sweet with a hint of tart from the crisp berries on top. I could've eaten five slices of that cake in one sitting.

“You coming to the groundbreaking tomorrow?” Gilda asked me.

“Only one? I thought both the sinners and the saints had something going on,” I said.

“They do,” Rita said. “Officially, they are both hosting celebrations tomorrow to get all the folks ramped up. Then the groundbreakings are next week.”

“Even though only one project will go forward?” I asked. “Won't that be costly for one of the groups?”

“Yep,” Gilda said. “But the Carter girls are convinced their own project will win, so neither will back down.”

“Well, I know the casino will easily gain more favor with residents,” Rita said. She sat back and sipped her coffee. “But since either project will take at least a year to build, better to get started now.”

“It really will be spectacular tomorrow,” Gilda said. “You'll be glad you're here. Town's lucky to get either one.”

I ate the last bite of cake and pondered this predicament. A religious retreat and a gambling hall aren't exactly the types of establishments the Ballantyne Foundation usually supports. Nothing wrong with either, really, but neither seemed in need of charitable assistance. We generally tended to the struggling, the educational, environmental, and social organizations in need of financial generosity. “Mr. Ballantyne would never approve of either project,” I said.

“Can I quote you on that?”

I jerked around at the sound of a familiar weasely voice. “Absolutely not,” I said.

“Tate Keating, reporter for the Islander Post,” he said to the table. He had a notebook in one hand and a pen in the other. He wore a brown plaid shirt with the cuffs turned back and a leather bowtie. All very Jimmy Olsen goes to the rodeo.

“What are you doing here in Texas?” I asked, irritated his eavesdropping efforts might be more successful than mine and net him another jazzy headline.

“Chasing a scandalous story, Elliott,” Tate said. “You wouldn't return my calls, so I hopped on a plane to check things out myself.”

“Return your calls! Tate, I left you three messages,” I said. “There is nothing here for you to see. The Carters graciously donated Little Oak to the Ballantyne, and I'm here to thank them. No scandal, no drama. Just routine charity stuff.”

“That's not what I hear,” he said in a singsong voice and merrily waved his notebook.

“Well, you heard wrong. You leave these fine folks alone,” I said with a shooing hand motion. “This is an invitation-only party and you were not on the list.”

He looked around the table one last time, hoping for a little juice, but Rita and Gilda sat silent. “Fine by me. But wait until you see Sunday's headline. Going to be a grabber!”

Heat rose up my back and I felt my cheeks flush bright red. Tate Keating made newspaper mountains out of mole hills, always searching for his ticket out of a small town island paper. Guess he thought the Ballantyne would pay the fare.

I stood and watched him walk across the tent. He turned back once and gave me a small finger wave, then ducked out along the lighted path. I stared at the path for a full minute, in case he returned. The only person I saw was an elderly woman in a maid's uniform enter the side door to the house.

“I'm going to make sure Tate's left the grounds,” I said. “You guys staying awhile?”

“Oh at least a half hour, I'd say,” Gilda said.

“You need a ride back to the inn?” Rita asked. “I'm happy to take you. I need one more cup of coffee in me, then I'll be ready.”

“Perfect,” I said, then limped away. If I didn't lose the shoes soon, my feet might cramp forever.

  

I used the same side entrance as the maid and entered a long mudroom with built-in cabinets running the length of each wall. It was brightly lit and several servers passed by me carrying coffee carafes and the final trays of cake. I followed the sound of clinking glass through an enormous commercial kitchen where a mostly college-aged staff diligently washed and packed stacks of china. No one questioned me as I entered the main house. I don't think anyone even noticed.

Kathy Lee, or Jolene, I couldn't remember, mentioned Austin's study was at the back of the house, along with the maid's quarters, so I stuck to the rear rooms. Beautiful dark wood floors gleamed in the lamplight while plush decorative rugs muffled my clomping footsteps. I found it hard to walk stealthily with my throbbing feet jammed into plastic pumps.

I passed two powder rooms (taking a quick detour to make use of one of the lovely facilities), a sitting room, and an enormous hall decorated with a pair of ranch scene oil paintings, each larger than freeway billboard. Two mahogany and glass doors flanked a room at the opposite end. Even without the gaudy crime scene tape, I knew it was the study. A piece of heavy carpet had been cut from the rest, near the center of the room.

The walls were covered in hand-carved bookshelves, stained dark like the doors. Silk-shaded wall sconces bathed the room in a soft light. An imposing desk sat off to one side. Typical executive accessories graced the top: an antique lamp, a fancy pen and pencil set in personalized holder, and a matching brass letter opener and scissor set.

I was about to check out the credenza when I realized what I'd seen. I reached out and picked them up. Brass scissors. Not unusual, since most executives probably have a similar set somewhere in their office. But considering Austin was killed with a pair of scissors, and his were sitting pretty on his desk, then it followed the killer brought their own pair.

“Strange isn't it?” a small voice said from behind me.

I jumped back and accidentally whipped the sharp scissors into the visitor's chair. They stood perfectly straight, tips firmly planted in a needlepoint pillow. I quickly picked it up and apologized to the elderly woman in the doorway.

She smiled, but didn't move. She kept her feet firmly on the wood outside the study, her toes an inch from the carpet.

“No worries, now,” she said softly. “Miss Bea has dozens of those old pillahs. Been stitchin' 'em since she was a kitten.”

“You must be Mrs. Alden,” I said gently.

Her maid's uniform hung loose on her tiny frame. But it was starched stiff and would pass any military inspection.

“Indeed. Been with the family muh whole life. Now you come on out of there. Nothing good in that room.” She turned and very slowly walked into the large hall.

I realized I was still holding the stabbed pillow, the scissors jutting from the center. A grim reenactment of the recent events. I quickly pulled out the scissors, returned them to their holder on the desk, and the pillow to the chair, and rushed from the room.

Mrs. Alden waited for me on a settee beneath one of the oil paintings.

“Mr. Austin painted these himself, you know. Oh, 'bout thirty years, I guess now. Took him two years to finish each one. Was a talent.”

I studied the one across from us and realized the ranch depicted in broad strokes was the Broken Spoke in the spring. The house was in the background, a squat barn and horse ring in the foreground.

“They're beautiful,” I said.

“He loved this ranch more than anything. Except Miss Bea, of course. Loved this town, too.”

“It must have been awful finding him that way. Finding them both, really.”

She pulled a tattered tissue from her front pocket and gripped it in her fragile hand. Her skin was covered in large dark spots, her veins as visible as her knuckles.

“Horrible. Worst night of my eight-seven years. And I've had some nights.”

“Do you think Miss Bea was to blame?” I asked as gently as I could. I wasn't sure how she would answer such a bold question from a stranger, but this woman had been behind the scenes of the Carter clan for almost a century. If anyone knew the scoop, it was Mrs. Alden.

“Absolutely not. Makes no sense, now. I'm only tellin' you because I know who you are and you're here to help. Help Miss Bea, maybe even help those two girls who can't get out of their own way.”