Other People's Baggage (12 page)

“It doesn't make sense to me either. I don't know the Carters, but seeing the scissors on his desk changes things. Who would bring scissors to meet with Austin?”

“Must have been some pretty important scissors.”

“I'm sure the police have asked you many times, but did you hear anyone in the house that night, maybe an argument?”

She tapped her right ear and said, “Perfect hearing, but my room's through the parlor down that hall. And this house's built like she looks, strong and thick. I wouldn't have heard much unless they was screaming something fierce.”

“Did you let someone in, a visitor, maybe earlier in the evening, and they stayed late?”

“The Carters didn't entertain for dinner that night. Miss Bea went up to bed right after.” Mrs. Alden patted my leg. “Which was normal for them. Miss Bea's getting on in years, gets sleepy after a nip of wine with her meal.”

“And Austin?”

“Mr. Austin took meetings all day and sometimes late into the night. Had an open door policy. Said he needed to, what with owning the town and all.” She pointed to a door to our left, about ten feet from the study. An outer door by the looks of it. “Doorbell rings low in the study only. Whole town knows they can ring it anytime. If Mr. Austin's still up, he'll answer.”

She sighed deep, and I bet she felt it in her soul. “If only he'd gone up with Miss Bea.”

I helped her to her feet and we slowly shuffled down the hall toward her room. “Thank you, Mrs. Alden. You've been very kind to answer my questions.”

She gripped my hand, tighter than I thought her capable. “You help Miss Bea, now. These're good people.”

I assured her I would, and walked back through the kitchen and out the side door. While Mrs. Alden didn't tell me anything I didn't already know or suspect, she did say one thing that stuck with me the rest of the night.

“Must have been some pretty important scissors.”

Indeed.

SWITCH BACK: NINE

  

I awoke hot and hungry and not at all rested. I was less than twenty-four hours from an unknown headline guaranteed to rattle Mr. Ballantyne five countries over, Zibby looked one hot flash away from a heart attack when we said our goodnights after the party, and I felt certain if I didn't help Bea Carter quickly, the wheels of justice would ride her right into her own grave. So far I wasn't living up to my investigative potential in Little Oak and I was due back on Sea Pine Island tomorrow.

Which reminded me of my luggage. I dragged out of bed and nearly knocked over the beautiful bottle of whiskey on the nightstand. I'd moved it closer to the bed in a moment of temptation the night before. If I ever needed a nip, it was last night. I held off, but if today didn't improve, I may end up in the corner with a glass in one hand and the bottle of booze in the other.

I sat on the edge of the chair and dialed the airline. My call was quickly answered with the same recording as before. Storms, claims, delays, blah blah blah. I glanced at the heavy Texas tee balled up in the corner and decided I'd rather hold than smother myself in that blanket again. Soothing music drifted over the line. Something designed to keep me distracted, no doubt. And it did. Took me ten minutes to remember the name of the song.
Torn Between Two Lovers
, the instrumental version. I studied my swollen feet. Two toe blisters and an ugly red indentation on the back of my left heel. I checked my watch for the seventeenth time. Still holding, still getting the blah blah blah, still starving. And now ridiculously late. I clicked the end button and stood. Time to shake it off and take action.

I marched over to the suitcase and carefully checked it on the slimmest possibility I'd somehow overlooked all of my things the day before. Or perhaps some of the pieces weren't as tiny as I remembered.

I lifted out a soft (clean) black tee and sighed with envy. I wouldn't fit into that minikin no matter how desperate I was. Two papers fluttered out. The name Jaya Jones was inlaid on the first sheet, a handwritten letter, and the other looked like a historical document, worn and mysterious, written in faded brown ink, protected by a plastic sheet. Tucked beside them was a magnifying glass. British detective? Treasure seeker? Egyptian excavator?

I closed the lid with a snap. Nothing inside to help me with my wardrobe deficiency.

But I still had the glamorous gumshoe's shower products. I ducked into the bathroom and emerged twenty minutes later feeling refreshed, renewed, and ready to kick some Texas barbeque butt in my own clothes. I had washed my tee in the shower and dried it with the hair dryer. It was wrinkled and wine-stained, but clean.

First order for the morning was to call Bobby Wainwright and ask about those scissors. His office was closed. Right, it was Saturday. I left a message in case he checked in and I hoped I'd run into him in town.

I slid into my flip flops and went straight down to the dining room. It was packed as if Rita was topping every biscuit with hundred dollar bills. The air buzzed with excitement, smiles on every face, and chatter so loud, I could no longer hear my own stomach grumble.

After some minor elbowing and firm nudging, I managed to score the remnants of a blueberry scone with a tab of butter. I carried my bounty to the lobby and sat on the only vacant spot: the stairs.

“Good morning, Elliott. Today is the day!” Rita said. She practically bounced she was so jubilant. “Haven't had a full house like this in five years easy.”

“All this for the revival?”

“And the casino rally.” Rita fluffed her big hair as she bustled around the front desk. “Chief Fannin's expecting more than three hundred folks today. Once we open the doors to the casino, I'll never have a vacant room again. I've got to run, set up's been going on since dawn, party's gonna start any second. You come on by, see what we've got, you hear?”

“Wouldn't miss it.” And I wouldn't. Or the revival. The answer to the puzzle had to lie within those two tents.

I brushed the crumbs from my fingers and tossed my napkin in the trash bin, then made my way outside. Brilliant sunshine glared from the bright blue sky. It had to be at least one hundred degrees out, maybe even hotter, with the heat radiating from the brick pavers. But that didn't slow anyone down. The town looked like I'd imagined it would when Zibby first described it.

Packs of families walked down the sidewalks and up the middle of the road. There must have been some sort of shuttle system because there wasn't a single car in the town square. Several people rode bicycles and scooters, slowly weaving through the foot traffic. I joined the lively crowd and their enthusiasm propelled me through the town.

Balloon clusters in bright reds, yellows, and blues surrounded a banner on the left tent, declaring “The Broken Spoke Casino Welcomes You!” Jazzy sounds of the Rat Pack era rocked the tent, as Frank Sinatra asked that luck please be a lady. Two petite dark-skinned women, both with long shiny black hair, in full suede-fringed and turquoise regalia greeted visitors as they entered the tent.

On the right side of the road, glittery gold fabric draped a shimmering white tent, its banner inviting people to the Light of the Rock Revival. A chorus of gospel sang out for the good Lord to abide with us, and from the glorious robust voices, I imagined no less than one hundred gowned singers assembled inside, hands raised, bodies swaying.

A long swath of wide red ribbon graced the front of each opposing tent, about twenty feet from their entrances, close to the road.

I debated which event to join first, rally or revival, when the decision was made for me. The sweet smoky aroma of Texas barbeque wafted over me from the center of town. It smelled juicy and tangy and my feet started walking before my brain said go.

I spotted Gilda manning a tented station filled with metal trays of hickory smoked beef, baked beans, fried macaroni and cheese, and some kind of corn slaw with red peppers. Bakery fresh buns were stacked blacktop to tent top and large squeeze bottles of sauces in varying shades of red lined the front table.

“You've never tasted something so good, Elliott,” Gilda said, meeting me in front. “You thought our restaurant barbeque was divine, wait until you taste it streetside.”

Gilda piled a plate high for me while I grabbed a glass of raspberry iced tea. “I may faint from the savory smell alone,” I said.

I followed her to a nearby picnic table in the middle of the road, square between both tents. Gilda handed me a stack of napkins, then tucked some under her chin to protect her shirt: a white tee with “Light of the Rock” spelled out in flowing script above a metallic gold cross.

One bite of my barbeque beef sandwich and I moaned out loud. A burst of sweet and spicy sauce mixed with the tender smoky meat, and the soft buttery bun wrapped the whole delightful package like gourmet birthday present. I'll say this about Texas, they sure know how to cook meat.

“Aren't these types of festivities usually reserved for a grand opening?” I asked. “Especially since they want to tear down the entire town?”

“Maybe folks figure they better do it now before the Ballantyne comes in and takes over,” Gilda said.

“Good morning, y'all,” Jolene said from behind me. “Isn't this the most glorious day? Praise the Lord, He certainly shining down us today!”

Jolene walked up with the Carter clan: A.J., Kathy Lee, and Bea, with Zibby slowly bringing up the rear. Jolene and A.J. wore the same white church tees as Gilda, while Kathy Lee sported a brown and red Broken Spoke Casino tee. Bea and Zibby had abstained.

“Jolene, for once we agree,” Kathy Lee said. “I do believe the Lord is giving the Big Spring Choctaw and the Broken Spoke Casino His blessing.”

Gilda quickly made up plates for the group and served them at our table with fresh pitchers of tea. “Elliott here was just asking about the festivities,” she said when she returned. “Wanted to know why the fuss so early.”

“The Ballantyne's ownership aside, seems you'd celebrate after the construction, not before,” I said.

“We do things big in Texas,” Jolene said.

“Yes, indeedy,” Gilda agreed. “And the Worship Center is going to do Texas proud. So big, you might see it from space. We'll seat fifteen thousand per service.”

“That's just ridiculous,” Kathy Lee said. “Couldn't fill it full in a month of Sundays. You two refuse to listen to me. The casino will allow Little Oak to thrive.”

“If Joel Osteen can do it in Houston, then we can, too. We're close enough to Dallas,” Jolene said.

Reverend Kincaid might be a charmer, I thought, but he's no Joel Osteen. I turned to Bea who sat at the far end of the table, facing the ranch. She looked thoughtful, closely following the debate, as if hearing it for the first time.

“Which project is better for the town, Bea?” I asked.

“The Ballantyne, probably. My girls are passionate, God bless them, but this has torn the family right down the middle.” Her eyes filled with tears and she pushed away her plate. “I know Austin only wanted to pressure them into deciding, but I maybe his death might bring a silver lining.”

“Now Mama, don't be morbid,” Kathy Lee said. “Nothing good about Daddy dying or that charity taking over his heritage.”

Jolene got up and hugged Bea tight. “You're always looking for the bright side, Mama Bea. You're an angel. We're going to build a special place for you right up front of the church.”

“Stop it, Jolene,” Kathy Lee said. “Always trying to push yourself onto everyone else. Let the woman be. She's got a lot to deal with now, running the ranch herself.”

“Not alone, Kathy Lee,” A.J. piped in. “Stop being so melodramatic.”

“It's not melodrama, it's reality,” Kathy Lee said. “That ranch doesn't run for free. That's why the casino project makes the most sense.”

“The Lord's riches are worth more than the Earth's,” Jolene said.

“Well, the Lord created the Earth, so I'm pretty sure it's all the same,” Kathy Lee snapped back.

Gilda and Rita both rose and moved behind their respective friends as Kathy Lee and Jolene faced off in the center of town.

“Money won't get you into heaven,” Jolene said. “You only offer money, we offer salvation.”

“I'll make the money and work out my own salvation,” Kathy Lee said. “You don't own a corner on getting into heaven just because you want to build a church.”

“Better than your sin palace,” Jolene said.

Bobby Wainwright entered the tight circle with the sheriff right next to him. They gently pushed between the two women.

“Seems you ladies know how to gather a crowd,” Bobby said. “Though I don't think this is what you had in mind. More like making a spectacle.”

I glanced around. Looked like most folks were drifting from the tents and edging closer to the scene in the street. Chief Fannin and his counterpart from across the divide slowly joined the party. The Chief wore feathers on his brown vest while I'd swear the Reverend wore glitter in his hair.

Bea and Zibby stood, as did I, since my view was now completely obstructed from the seated position. I followed behind them, figuring they'd get in the middle of the circle. I was right.

“This stops here, right now” Bea said. “You two have graduated from splitting our family to splitting the whole town.” She waved to the sea of people, half on one side, half on the other. “It's to the point everyone's taking sides. No matter which way it goes now, we'll only please half and ostracize the rest.”

Zibby moved in close, then wobbled, and I feared she was about to topple over from the heat. Instead she wiped her brow with a saucy napkin, then handed it to the sheriff. “Why don't you do both?” she asked. “Build a casino on one side and the church on the other. Then everyone will be happy.”

I laughed. Well, more like an unladylike guffaw. “Sure, the sinners can make money at night, then be saved in the morning.”

“That's a lovely idea, Zibby,” Bea said and gave her a squeeze. “And it solves everything.”

Jolene grabbed the Reverend's arm. “We can host services nearly every day of the week. Fill those seats faster than Joel Osteen does.”

“Wait, what?” I said. “What about the Ballantyne?”

“And with the draw from the megachurch,” Kathy Lee added, smiling for the first time since I met her, “we'll get nearly double the traffic in the casino.”

Gilda joined the hoopla and her joyous grin made her look like a kid heading to Disneyland. “Now we can stay open. The inn, the restaurant and my gift shop! Isn't that the best news, Rita? And we can bring back the Honeysuckle Festival, with a few adjustments, of course.”

“I never planned on leaving,” Rita said. “Figured Little Oak would open up once Ballantyne finally got here, but this is even better.”

She was the first, and only, person to acknowledge the Ballantyne. And from the moment I arrived. She was welcoming and expecting me, even with all the party planning. The tickle in my memory finally popped: the Honeysuckle banner she ordered months ago. How many months ago, I wondered. Before Austin's death?

“How did you know you'd be staying?” I asked. “You printed up the Honeysuckle Festival banner, even though it had been cancelled long ago.”

“I figured the Ballantyne would bring back the shops and the festival. I read up on Mr. Ballantyne and knew he'd never approve of the casino or the church. Even talked to that reporter from the Islander Post. He agreed. Said he'd just attended a glitzy tea party for sick children you hosted, and those are the Ballantyne's favorite causes.”

“The Wonderland Tea was held early this year,” Zibby said, referring to our annual tea party for terminally ill children.

“More than six weeks ago, as a matter of fact,” I said. “A solid two weeks before Austin Carter was murdered. How did you know about the Ballantyne's involvement before I did?”