He crumpled his cupcake tin and tossed it into the rainbow-colored trash can. “Le Maître and I are doing okay without someone else interpreting for us.”

  “Le who?”

  He gave me a half smile. “Roughly, the Boss.”

  “Can I assume you are not talking about Bruce Springsteen?”

  “Go get regenerated, ranch girl. Let me get back to catching the bad guys.”

  “Good luck. I really do want justice for Cal.”

  He slipped an arm around my shoulders. “I can’t promise that, but I can do my darndest to find out who killed him.”

  I arrived at the fair’s smaller arena—the Wild West Stage—in the middle of the first song—“What a Friend We Have in Jesus.” The lead singer from Rifle Shot accompanied the crowd on an electric guitar while a bored-looking young man in a black cowboy hat kept time on a set of sparkly red drums. There was about a hundred or so people in the audience, not a bad turn out. Mac would be pleased if only two people showed up. Glancing over the crowd, I spotted Dove and Aunt Garnet in the sixth row from the stage.

  “Hey, girls,” I said, slipping in next to my aunt. “What’s shakin’?”

  Aunt Garnet put her finger to her lips and handed me her photocopied sheet printed with the words of the song. Like any child who’d spent her formative years in Sunday school and vacation Bible school I knew the words by heart, but I wasn’t about to argue with my aunt during church. I glanced at Dove who rolled her blue eyes skyward.

  After a few more traditional hymns and a bluesy solo about faith, fishes and loaves by the Rifle Shot musician, Mac took the stage. Even though he was a good distance away, his six foot four, ex-linebacker physique was still imposing. His full, reddish brown beard, olive green Western shirt and dirt-stained boots gave him an authenticity that even the young cowboys respected.

  Without any hemming or hawing, he jumped right into his message. He’d preached enough of these Cowboy Church sermons to know that the fair and all its delicious glories were an irresistible siren song in the background. Whatever point he had to make, he had to make fast. His Cowboy Church sermons were never longer than fifteen minutes.

  “Only fourteen minutes and fifty-two seconds longer than a good bull ride,” he liked to say.

  His Scripture was 1 Corinthians 9:24-27—one that was appropriate for the fair where competition whether in cattle confirmation, corn bread, demolition derby or saddle broncs, was foremost in everyone’s minds.

  “Paul was telling the Corinthians,” Mac said in his melodious baritone, “that in every race there is only one winner and that they should run the race in such a way so that they will be that winner. What he was saying is not that winning was the most important goal, but that doing your best is. Keep in mind that he was speaking on a spiritual level . . .”

  I’d heard this sermon many times in my life so I let my mind drift off, thinking about Dodge Burnside’s alibi. If it wasn’t Dodge, was it maybe a friend of Dodge’s? Did Dodge hate Cal enough to pay someone else to kill him so that Jazz would be free to be with him? That seemed pretty far-fetched, and I would have discounted it had I not experienced even crazier behavior in my life with people who wanted others dead. The truth was when it came to human beings, anything was possible. I made a note to myself to hunt down Sam and see what he thought since all these guys were his friends.

  Before I knew it, people were standing up to sing the closing hymn. Afterward, while Aunt Garnet went to shake Mac’s hand, Dove lingered so that she could speak to me privately.

  “Have you found out anything?” she asked.

  I hesitated, thinking she meant about Cal’s murder.

  Before I could answer, she said, “I’ve given up on WW. No matter what I try to bribe him with, he’s keeping his trap shut.”

  Oh, Aunt Garnet. “She hasn’t told me a thing.” I left it at that. I was beginning to wonder if Aunt Garnet was running a con on Dove, just trying to mess with her mind. Frankly, that would have been a brilliant practical joke. But I wasn’t about to suggest that to my gramma. She was worked up enough.

  “She’s not getting the recipe,” Dove said, patting the front of her blue and white flowered snap button shirt.

  I must have had an uncomprehending look on my face, because she gave a disgusted sound and reached into her shirt and pulled a three-by-five-inch recipe card from inside her bra.

  “Dove!” I burst out laughing. “Seriously, I don’t think—”

  “It’s stayin’ right here until she leaves. She can nose her way through every cookbook I own. She’ll never find it.”

  I was actually happy to see Aunt Garnet walking toward us with Mac in tow. Dove hastily tucked the corn bread recipe back into her very personal safe.

  “Pastor Mac,” Dove said. “Wonderful sermon. Something we all needed to hear. Especially the part about life not being a physical competition but a spiritual one.”

  “Amen to that,” Aunt Garnet said.

  I glanced from sister to sister, then to Mac’s smiling face. “You know,” I said. “I really need to . . . uh . . . be somewhere . . . I think I’m supposed to help with the . . . uh . . .” I realized I was getting ready to blatantly lie in front of a minister, but really, I couldn’t deal with the sisters right now.

  Mac grinned as he if knew what I was doing.

  “I have go check on the museum booth,” I concluded weakly.

  “Garnet, you go on with her,” Dove said, not looking at me. If Mac hadn’t been standing between us, I would have pinched her. “I have some church business to discuss with Mac.” She grabbed Mac’s arm and pulled him away before Aunt Garnet and I could react.

  “Well,” Aunt Garnet said, fanning herself with one of KCOW’s boot-shaped paper fans. “Looks like you’re stuck with me again.”

  The slightly humiliated look on her face made me feel bad enough to say, “Oh, c’mon, Aunt Garnet. You know Dove. She just has so many things going on in her life. Let’s buy something to drink. Then we can check out the quilts.”

  We were standing in line for lemonade when I caught a glimpse of my stepson’s head in the crowd.

  “Could you please buy me a medium with lots of ice?” I said to Aunt Garnet, handing her a five-dollar bill. “I’ll be right back. I need to ask my stepson something. Sam, wait up!”

  He turned, saw me pushing through the crowd and held up a hand. Justin Piebald stood next to him.

  “Hey, madrastra,” Sam said.

  “I want to talk to you about something.” I glanced at Justin, who picked up on my cue.

  “Dude, I’ll be over at the antique tractor display.” He nodded at me. “Nice to see you again, Mrs. Ortiz.”

  “You too,” I replied.

  “What’s up?” Sam said, after Justin strolled away.

  “I just wanted to ask you about Cal Jones and Dodge Burnside.”

  Sam adjusted his red Boone’s Good Eatin’ Chicken ball cap. Emory was paying Sam and some of his school buddies with free meals in exchange for occasionally wearing the caps during the fair. “What about them? Have they found out who killed Cal?”

  I shook my head. “Not that they’re telling me. The detectives pretty much eliminated Dodge as a suspect. He was apparently passed out drunk at home during the time Cal was killed.”

  “Yeah, he said he got really ripped last night. He’s kinda made a joke about it, how for once in his life getting smashed actually did him some good.” Sam’s mouth turned down at the corners, his dark eyes looked into mine. “I told him to shut up, that a guy’s dead. A guy I liked. He called me a dickhead and we didn’t talk about it again.”

  I shaded my eyes with my hand. “You were friends with both of them?”

  “Yeah, but not at the same time.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It wasn’t like we were all some big happy group. I surfed with Dodge and we’d hang out and stuff. Me and him and Justin and a few others. We all go to Cal Poly. Jazz hangs with us too.”

  “So, where does Calvin Jones fit in?”

  “He doesn’t. Not with that group, anyway. Cal and I met when he did some fence work for your dad. We had some laughs. We shot pool sometimes at Triggers.” Triggers was a working-class bar by the San Celina bus station. “He sometimes talked about learning how to make saddles. There was this old guy he’d written who lived up near Cardinal, you know, on the way to Mammoth? A really good saddlemaker. The guy was maybe going to let Cal apprentice.”

  That piece of personal information about Cal made my eyes tear up. This young man had been making plans for his life. He was a person who had had plans, hopes, dreams. And someone took that away from him.

  “Yeah, it sucks,” Sam said. “And I know Dodge can be a jerk, but I don’t think he’d kill anyone. Besides, Cal wasn’t so perfect, Benni. He could be a real ass too.” His face broke into a wide smile. “Hey, Mrs. Wilcox!”

  “Hello, Sam, how are you?” Aunt Garnet’s voice said behind me. “Here’s your lemonade, Benni. Shall I meet you over at the quilts?”

  I took the cold, sweating cup. “No, I’ll be just a minute.” I looked back into Sam’s face. “What do you mean that Cal was sometimes an ass?”

  His eyes darted over to Aunt Garnet.

  She waved her hand impatiently. “You can talk straight in front of me, Sam. I spotted the body first.”

  “Okay, the truth is, at one time Cal had some pretty skanky friends. He was trying to break off with them, clean up his act. He was into Jazz, wanted to impress her. But he said it was hard because when he was young and had no one, these dudes took him in and gave him, you know, a place to go, people he could hang around.”

  “What kind of skanky are we talking about?” I asked.

  “You know, skins. Heil Hitler dudes.”

  “Lord, help us,” Aunt Garnet said under her breath. I glanced at her to see if she was being sarcastic, but her face was truly sad. “It’s a failing of God’s people that we aren’t there for young men like him, that he’s forced to find refuge with people like that.”

  “Yeah,” I said, surprised that she and I agreed on something. Especially about the church. “So Cal once hung around some creepy people. How does that let Dodge off the hook?”

  “I’m just saying that Cal wasn’t pure as snow. Dodge was a little pissed when Jazz started seeing Cal. Maybe he thought she was doing it just to make him jealous.”

  “Jazz doesn’t seem to me to be the type of girl who plays games like that.”

  “She’s not. I think Dodge was more into her than she was him. I’m not making excuses for Dodge, but you have to look at the whole picture. The cops just want it to be Dodge because it’s easy.” He flipped a shock of black hair out of his eyes. “And you don’t like Dodge.”

  “You’re right, I can’t stand Dodge Burnside, but it is important to look at all the facts. Did you tell the police about Cal’s other friends?”

  He shook his head no. “No one asked.”

  “Mind if I mention it to Hud?”

  He gave a casual shrug. “I got no secrets.”

  “Thanks, Sam. I appreciate you being honest with me.” I started to take a sip of my drink, when a group of preteen boys ran by. One shoved another, who fell into me, causing me to drop my cup, spewing lemonade all over my hands and boots.

  “Hey!” I cried, jumping back.

  “Sorry!” they screamed and ran off, laughing.

  “Hooligans,” Aunt Garnet said, pulling another lacy hankie from her purse. “There’s a water fountain over yonder.”

  When I returned from washing my hands, Sam was laughing about something with Aunt Garnet, charming her like he did every female he encountered. He’d even bought me another lemonade.

  “Thanks again for your help, Sam,” I said. “And for the refill.”

  “No problem,” he said cheerfully. “Catch you later, ladies.”

  Aunt Garnet and I watched him lope away.

  “What a nice young man,” she said, with a curt nod. “Well brought up.”

  “Yeah, he’s a sweetie.”

  “That was an interesting piece of information about Cal, wasn’t it?” Aunt Garnet said. “The fact that he hung out with what sounds like white supremacists certainly opens up the suspect pool. Definitely something we should inform Detective Hudson.” Her face got a crafty look. “Maybe we can bargain for an information exchange.”

  “We can certainly try.” Fat chance was what I was really thinking. I hooked my arm through hers and took a long drag off my lemonade. It felt cold and good. “But right now, let’s forget about murder and go look at the quilts.”

  She patted my hand and gave a little laugh. “That’s an excellent idea.”

  CHAPTER 9

  ON THE WAY TO SEE THE QUILTS WE PASSED THE AGRICULTURE building where a sheriff’s deputy was tearing away the yellow and black crime scene tape crisscrossing the front entrance.

  Aunt Garnet’s rouged cheeks flushed a deep rose. She grabbed my arm and tugged me toward the double doors. “Let’s take another look at the crime scene!”

  “All right,” I said, figuring, what could it hurt?

  What was the reason behind this new-and-improved version of my aunt? Had she always had this side to her or had something radical happened in her life that caused this change? Before the day was over, I was going to just flat-out ask Aunt Garnet what the heck was going on.

  Inside, a few people meandered around the room pretending to look at other exhibits while trying to sneak peeks at the exhibit where Cal’s body had been discovered. The Piebald exhibit was being dismantled by two brawny young men. Juliette Piebald hovered over them like a kindergarten teacher on the first day of school.

  “Be careful of those photographs!” Juliette Piebald yelled as the young men pulled down tissue paper-covered plywood. “Those photographs cost me a thousand bucks.”

  Her voice was an octave higher than normal and a little screechy. Otherwise she looked runway ready in her narrow-legged black jeans, pink gauzy tank top, diamond earrings the size of hummingbird eggs and bright pink ostrich cowboy boots.

  Aunt Garnet said out of the side of her mouth,“Her lipstick matches her boots. How Miss America.”

  I glanced up at my aunt, amazed. She was making a joke. Sort of. Something was definitely wrong.

  “Where’s the truck shell?” Aunt Garnet asked.

  “I bet the sheriff’s department removed that last night. Since Cal’s body was found under it . . .”

  “DNA,” she said, nodding. “Where’s y’all’s crime lab located?”

  “We don’t have one.”

  She tsked under her breath. “Shocking. What do y’all do then?”

  “We send stuff either to a lab down in Santa Barbara or one in Bakersfield. It’s pretty expensive to maintain a crime lab and our county just doesn’t have money in the budget for it.”

  “They are extremely expensive.” She stated it with such authority I wondered if she’d actually done research into the cost of building and maintaining one.

  We watched silently as Juliette, like a border collie with OCD, circled the young men, directing them exactly how to place the stuffed sheep and cows in the big wooden boxes, what to do with the colorful tissue torn off the backdrop and where to stack the bulky sheets of plywood.

  At one point Juliette turned, scanned the room with a frown before spotting us. Her frown morphed into a practiced smile and she waved at us.

  I waved back. “Do you need any help?”

  “No, thank you,” she called. “But thanks so much for offering.”

  Even from where we stood, I could see her bottom lip tremble. Though I hadn’t agreed with how she essentially cheated to win the Family Farm exhibit grand prize, I couldn’t help feeling sorry for her. From a back door emerged Justin Piebald and Dodge Burnside. They were deep in conversation, only stopping when they reached Juliette.

  “Seen enough?” I asked Aunt Garnet, after a few minutes.

  “Just a minute,” Aunt Garnet said, tapping her bony knuckles on my forearm. “I think something interesting is about to happen.”

  “What could possibly happen now?” It felt wrong to stand here and stare, like we were rubbernecking a gory highway accident.

  “Shhh,” she said, her eyes glued to the scene. “Look.”

  The moment she said it, a large piece of plywood backdrop, held precariously by the two young men, teetered a half second, then fell forward.

  Juliette screamed. “Dodge, watch out!”

  Dodge jumped back, the board missing him by inches.

  “Are you guys crazy?” Dodge Burnside yelled. “Watch what you’re doing!” He turned to Juliette, who stood a few feet behind him. “Are you okay?”

  She nodded, her eyes wide.

  Excitement over, I turned and started toward the exit, but Aunt Garnet grabbed my arm.

  “Wait,” she murmured. Then, after a few seconds, “Okay, we can go now. I saw what I needed.”

  I followed her out of the building, confused. “What do you mean you saw what you needed? What are you talking about?”

  “In good time, my dear,” she said.

  I felt like bopping her one.

  Inside the building where the quilts were displayed, the air was cool and damp, the atmosphere serene. People laughed, sipped their bottled waters and pointed at the intricate quilts, hand-knit sweaters, beautifully carved jewelry boxes and clever table settings for fictional dinners that all sounded deliciously decadent. Murder wasn’t on the menu in this building.

  “Let’s start at the beginning,” Aunt Garnet said. “I don’t want to miss a thing.”

  I gave up . . . for the moment. Aunt Garnet was immune to nagging. But I’d wheedle the information out of her eventually.

  We strolled around the room, studying each display. The entries had been organized by color this year, giving the room a sort of rainbow effect. We were in the oranges, about a half hour into our tour and her comparison of every quilt with one she’d made and entered in the Arkansas State Fair, when I finally couldn’t stand it any longer. I broke into her historical reverie of past quilt glories.