State fair, p.17
State Fair, page 17
“It’s okay,” I said, even though it wasn’t. I looked up into Lloyd’s face, a deeply tanned, weathered version of his son’s. Lloyd wasn’t as conventionally handsome as his son, but there was a rugged cast to his chin and deep set blue eyes that told me that he probably had no trouble finding women friends. He had to be forty or forty-one, not much older than me. He’d been a few years ahead of me in high school and had belonged to the high school rodeo team. Saddle broncs, if I remembered right.
“No, it’s not,” he said. “Janie spoiled him, though I suppose I didn’t try to stop her. We almost lost him from meningitis when he was barely born and she never got over that.” He studied the tops of his beat up cowboy boots.
I vaguely remembered the difficulty surrounding Dodge’s birth twenty years ago. Probably I’d overheard Dove talk about it to Daddy. But I would have been eighteen at the time, just starting Cal Poly, and more concerned with my new classes and my romance with Jack than the health problems a young mother and father had with their new baby.
I do remember clearly when two years ago, a day after Dodge turned eighteen, Janie Burnside ran off with a John Deere equipment salesman. According to gossip, she never looked back. It was the talk of the ag community for months. Maybe that explained some of the rage Dodge had toward women.
Still, it didn’t give him the right to be abusive. I wanted to make sure his dad knew about the incident. “Did Dodge tell you why he’s upset with me?”
Lloyd looked up and silently shook his head. I told him what happened in the fair’s parking lot yesterday.
When I finished, he said, “Did he actually hit this girl?”
I shook my head. “But he grabbed her and if I hadn’t intervened—”
“It doesn’t matter what might have happened,” he interrupted. “The fact is he didn’t actually do anything illegal.”
“No,” I said slowly. “That’s not exactly true. He threatened her.”
He brought a hand up to his forehead and rubbed it. “I’ll talk to him. My son isn’t a bad kid. I’ll tell him to stay away from the Clark girl. I was never happy about him seeing her in the first place. It was a mistake, plain as day. Just begging for trouble.”
“What do you mean?”
“C’mon, Benni,” he said, giving me a “just between us” smile. “They’re obviously different . . . I mean, not his type at all . . . She’s . . .” He stopped when he realized I wasn’t returning his smile. He looked surprised, then took a step backward, shoving his hands into the back pockets of his Wranglers. “I’ll talk to him about leaving her be. I doubt it will be a problem. He’s moved on, got himself a new girl.” Before I could answer, he turned and walked into the Farm Supply.
I sat in my truck for a moment, thinking about what had just taken place between Lloyd Burnside and me. My thoughts couldn’t help but drift to who sent those threatening letters to Levi. Someone who hated the idea that his only son was dating a biracial girl? Would Lloyd go that far to keep his son from being with Jazz?
Or was it the more obvious, that someone was angry that a black man was given such a prestigious job? This was 1997, for crying out loud. Hadn’t things gotten any better in the last twenty years?
It reminded me of a controversy about scholarships back when I was in college in the late seventies. Some scholarships had been allotted specifically for students of different ethnic groups and a group of the white students complained to the newspaper, threatening to bring a lawsuit against Cal Poly. The Tribune jumped on the controversy and ran a series of front-page stories about it despite the fact that the lawsuit never was filed. Everyone followed the debate closely. One morning Dove and I discussed it while she was making bread. I sat at the breakfast counter, the Tribune spread out in front of me.
“Well,” she’d said, after I read her the latest episode, “I suppose it does seem unfair to some people that there are scholarships just for blacks or Mexican people, but to be honest, there’re scholarships for all kinds of special folks—smart kids, kids good at sports or music, ones that help the physically handicapped.”
I closed the newspaper. “One of the guys at school was complaining that he was just a normal white guy, not smart enough or good enough at sports or handicapped or a minority. He says there’s nothing there for people like him.”
Dove kneaded the bread dough, her face thoughtful. “It does seem unfair. But I believe in taking what you are given with a grateful heart, whether it is a scholarship or a plate of beans and then when you can, when you are doing better, you reach back and help someone else. That’s what we’re put on this earth for, to love God and to prove that love by serving our fellow human beings.”
I cupped my chin in my hand. “What would you have said to this guy who was complaining that minorities are getting all the scholarships?”
She started kneading again. “I’d ask him if he’d trade places with any of those black or handicapped folks to get those scholarships or any other advantages they might be given. That’s all. Would he take on their burden for the rest of his life? I’ll bet dollars to doughnuts he’d turn that offer down real quick.” She flipped the bread dough over and gave it a whack. “Everyone wants the good stuff, but nobody wants the sorrow.”
She was right, I thought, inserting my key into the truck’s ignition. And I supposed it was human nature, though not always the best part of our nature. I started to turn on my truck, glancing up in the mirror. I stopped when I saw Juliette Piebald walk out of the front door of the Farm Supply. She looked from side to side, then casually—too casually—strolled over to a stack of painted clay pots. She stood staring at the pots, on sale two for ten dollars. Somehow I had a suspicion that she wasn’t shopping for her garden.
A few minutes later Lloyd Burnside wandered out from the feed-supply side of the store. He stopped at the pots, said something to Juliette, then seemed to slip her something. A note? I wanted desperately to turn around for a better view, but I was afraid even that tiny movement might tip them off that someone was watching. Smooth as sugar syrup, Juliette turned around and went back inside the store. Lloyd stood for a moment, staring out into the vacant field next to the Farm Supply. His face was too far away for me to see its expression. He turned and strolled back inside the feed department.
Holy cow, what was that all about? Was Aunt Garnet right about an affair, but wrong about which Burnside man it was with?
I started my truck and pulled out of the parking lot. Though the possibility that Juliette was cheating on Milt was an interesting piece of gossip, what did it have to do with anything?
Except . . . what if that was what Cal saw? Would Lloyd or Juliette kill him to keep Milt from finding out? But why wrap him in the Harriet Powers quilt? Why put him in the Piebald Family Farm exhibit? If they wanted him out of the picture, wouldn’t it make more sense to kill him and dump his body somewhere out in the desolate Carrizo Valley? Or behind a sleazy bar somewhere? Should I tell Hud what I saw or thought I saw? I could just imagine his mocking laughter.
Maybe I’d ask Aunt Garnet her opinion. It might take her mind off whatever it was she was going through, another mystery that, hopefully, would be solved soon.
CHAPTER 11
I COULDN’T BELIEVE WHAT I WAS SEEING. AUNT GARNET ON THE front porch. In jeans. Jeans? As far back as I could remember Aunt Garnet had always worn dresses. For every occasion. Everyday cotton calico housedresses. Tailored going-to-town dresses with matching belts and full skirts. Fancy Sunday dresses with lacy white collars. I think once I might have seen her in a pair of cotton slacks weeding her garden. Maybe. It might have been a dream.
“A proper lady always wears dresses,” she had loved saying, especially around Dove who only suffered with dresses for funerals or weddings. I came by my dislike of them honestly.
But there stood my great-aunt waiting for me in dark blue jeans; a blouse covered with royal blue and grass green daisies and new blue Keds tennis shoes. It was, no doubt, a new day and wardrobe for my now officially unpredictable aunt.
I flipped down the truck’s tailgate and started pulling out sacks of chicken feed. “You’re looking sharp. I won’t be long. Have to unload these supplies.”
“No hurry,” she answered, descending the porch steps with careful, measured steps.
I leaned the posthole digger against the side of the porch, subtly searching her face for illness. “We don’t have to go to the fair today if you’re tired. We can, you know, just hang out here if you want.”
She touched a finger to her upper lip. “Nonsense. I’m raring to go.”
Raring wasn’t the word I’d have chosen, but I wasn’t about to contradict her. I gave her a big smile. “We’ve got dozens of fair activities to choose from today. Hope you’re ready for some fun.”
Her return smile was tremulous, but sincere. “Fun is my middle name.”
“Do you want to drop by the folk art museum first so you can see the new exhibits?”
“That sounds delightful. I want to do as much as I possibly can while I’m here.” She opened the passenger door.
“Before we go, I need to ask Dove something.” Specifically, if she’d ferreted out any information from Uncle WW.
“Then you’ll have to call her on that little phone of hers,” Aunt Garnet said. “Sister was up and out of here this morning before I could finish my cup of tea. She’s avoiding me.” Her voice sounded hurt.
“It’s just fair time,” I said, covering for Dove who was likely doing just that. “She always overextends herself. You two will have plenty of time to catch up after the fair.”
She looked out the side window. “I suppose.”
On the way to the folk art museum, I told her about the African American quilt exhibit, the research I had to do and how excited I was that an old college friend of Katsy’s had lent the museum part of her black cloth doll collection to complement our quilt exhibit.
“What exactly are black cloth dolls?” Aunt Garnet asked.
“Before Katsy introduced me to Rona Chappell, I’d never heard of them. Rona is an actress. She acquired her first black cloth doll about thirty years ago when she was a little girl. Her mama bought and sold antiques in Oxford, Mississippi. Rona saw the doll at an estate sale, one of those old plantations being sold out of the family. She said it was the first black doll she’d ever seen. Her mama bought it for some ridiculous amount because back in the sixties not many people recognized their cultural significance.” I turned left on the highway and started toward San Celina.
“It’s remarkable that any survived,” Aunt Garnet said. “I’m assuming they were made for children?”
“That’s what historians assume. The earliest ones were made somewhere around the 1870s. Some were definitely designed and stitched by slaves and it’s a good guess they were toys for their children. But they were also made by free black women for fund-raising bazaars of the nineteenth century to raise money for antislavery societies.”
“You’ve really done your homework,” Aunt Garnet said. “Good girl.”
“Thank you.” I felt myself flush with pleasure. It was nice having her admire something I’d worked hard on rather than nag at me. But, again, I felt a ragged pit of worry gnaw in my stomach. People could change, but it often took something dramatic to make that happen. Something had to be really wrong with Aunt Garnet. Without warning, tears burned behind my eyes. I cleared my throat trying to control them.
“Got a frog in your throat?” she asked.
“Allergies. So, Rona got hooked on collecting them. She has one of the most extensive collections in the world. She loaned us twenty of them. We have dolls from all three periods when they were popular, from the 1870s to the 1930s.”
“What happened after that?”
“Commercial doll making really took off after World War I and handmade dolls weren’t as popular. Though what Rona told me is from 1930s to the ’60s the dolls made by manufacturers were mostly white. African American girls again only had the choice of dolls who didn’t look like them. It wasn’t until after the civil rights legislation was passed in the 1960s that black dolls slowly started appearing in the commercial marketplace. Now we have all sorts of African American dolls—Barbies, Cabbage Patch dolls and Raggedy Anns and Andys.”
Aunt Garnet looked down at her pocketbook, clutched in her thin hands. “Things are certainly better now, but we’ve still a long way to go. Look at what is going on with Mr. Clark.”
We pulled up in front of the folk art museum. The parking lot was more crowded than I expected for a Monday, the day we were officially closed. I turned off the ignition and started to open my door.
Aunt Garnet reached across the bench seat and touched my forearm.
“Benni, before we go in, I have an important question.” Her face was neutral, but her pale-lashed eyes intent.
I inhaled a deeply. This was it. She was finally going to tell me what was wrong. “Yes?”
“Our case. Have you found out anything new?”
A groan itched at the back of my throat. All she wanted was news on the case. “Now that you mention it, there are a couple of developments.” I repeated what Jazz told me last night. “And something happened at the Farm Supply this morning. I have a feeling you might be right about there being a relationship of some kind between Juliette Piebald and a Burnside man, but it might not be the one we first suspected.” I told her what I thought I saw between Lloyd and Juliette. I didn’t mention Dodge harassing me at the Farm Supply. There was no point worrying her. “Now, I don’t know what she really gave him, maybe a note or something, but there was definitely physical contact.”
“Do you think they made you?” she asked eagerly.
“Huh?”
“Made you. You know, did they notice that they were under surveillance? My book says that a good way to know if they made you is if they give you the finger.”
“What?” This time it came out as a squawk.
“It’s a joke, Benni.”
I wanted to laugh. Except I was kind of afraid to. “What book?”
“Homicide Investigation for Dum-Dums. I bought it in Little Rock. Are you going to inform Detective Hudson?”
“Maybe,” I stuttered, still stunned by her reference book and the finger joke. “There’s actually nothing concrete to tell him.”
“Still,” she said firmly. “We must keep him in the loop. Otherwise, he won’t return the favor.” She opened the truck door and swung her legs out. “I think we need to pay Detective Hudson an official visit, see if we can pump him for new info.”
“If we have time.” Though, I thought, it might be quite amusing watching Aunt Garnet badger Hud for information.
“The museum looks lovely,” Aunt Garnet said, standing in front and taking in the white-washed hacienda buildings.
“D-Daddy’s definitely a miracle worker,” I said, waving at my part-time assistant who was watering the half wine barrel planters filled with San Celina native wildflowers. He was worth twenty times what we could pay him. The folk art museum and the stables that now housed the artists’ co-op looked as if they were cared for by a team of caretakers, not just one dedicated ex-fishing-boat captain.
“Hello, Mr. Boudreaux,” Aunt Garnet called. “How are you this fine summer day?”
“Bonjour, Mademoiselle Garnet,” he replied in his lilting Cajun French. “Comment ça va?” He gave her a little bow.
She returned with a flirty little wave.
“Why, Aunt Garnet, you tease,” I whispered. “I’m going to tell Uncle WW on you.”
“Oh, pshaw,” she said. “William Wiley wouldn’t care one little bit.” Her eyes moistened, and then she shook her head. “Let’s go see the dolls.” She walked ahead of me without looking back.
I scurried to catch up with her.
“How’s it going?” I asked Kay, who was straightening up the tiny gift shop in the museum lobby, getting ready for tomorrow. She pointed up at two black cloth dolls sitting on a long, almost empty shelf. The dolls had been handmade by members of the Ebony Sisters Quilt Guild.
“Tell the Sisters we need more dolls,” she said, pushing back a strand of her short, silver-streaked hair. “We’re down to our last two!”
“That’s wonderful! I’ll let Flory Jackson know. She’s coordinating the boutique items for this exhibit.”
Aunt Garnet came up beside me and picked up one of the dolls. “Jeanetta, the young woman who plays organ at Sugartree Baptist, just had a little girl. This is the perfect gift.”
“It’s signed,” I told her, lifting up the edge of the doll’s blue calico print dress and showing Aunt Garnet the signed and dated label. “Don’t forget to take the pamphlet we made to go with the dolls, in case Jeanetta doesn’t know the history of black cloth dolls.”
While Aunt Garnet paid for the doll, I made a mental note about making a phone call to our store downtown and see how they were doing. Between both gift shops and the booth at the fair, August might prove to be our most profitable month this year. That would make Constance Sinclair, our biggest benefactor, and the woman who donated her family’s hacienda for the museum, very happy. She was always threatening that she couldn’t personally fund the folk art museum forever. As a group, we’d worked hard to support ourselves and, as of last month, her contribution was only 15 percent of our monthly budget, down from 30 percent a year ago.
“Let’s do a quick walk through the exhibit,” I said to Aunt Garnet. “It’s eleven o’clock and the Cattlemen’s Lunch starts at noon sharp.”
“No rush, I ate a large breakfast.”
“Okay, then let’s take our time and eat later. They serve for four hours.”
“Let’s go,” she said, clutching her tissue-wrapped doll.
By the time we’d toured the quilts, it was past noon. I helped Aunt Garnet into the truck. “Still not hungry?”
