Goose in the Pond - Earlene Fowler [97]
“Dermablend’s great,” one had said. “They got a leg makeup that almost makes the marks disappear.” Was that why Evangeline and her father were here in San Celina? Was she hiding from an abusive husband? If Nora was mean enough to reveal that, it might be reason enough for Evangeline . . . or D-Daddy to kill her.
I unlocked the file cabinet that held the co-op members’ applications for admittance. Our criteria weren’t strict, but since we did have people on the premises working with dangerous equipment, we were required to carry liability insurance as well as a next of kin to notify in case of emergency. That meant we had to keep some kind of records. I pulled out her file, closing my office door before settling down to read.
In her large, curvy handwriting was her name, address, next of kin, doctor’s name and address, the type of art she worked on, and a paragraph telling her artistic goals and intentions. We really didn’t ask much information of our prospective co-op members. What we cared about most was their dedication to their art, their ability to work within the boundaries of the co-op, and willingness to lend a hand in our mostly volunteer organization.
I looked for her former address, something that was more a formality than anything, and Evangeline had simply written Louisiana.
There was only one way I could get any information about the southeast part of our United States. I picked up the phone and dialed Sugartree, Arkansas.
“Sweetcakes,” my cousin Emory said. “Y’all haven’t paid me for the last little bit of detective work I performed for you.” One year my junior, Emory Delano Littleton is somehow, in that complex Southern way, distantly related to me on both sides of my family tree. His grandfather and Dove’s father were first cousins by marriage, and his father, Boone Littleton, married my mother’s third cousin, Ervalean, who played the organ at my parents’ wedding, which is where she met Boone.
The job Emory was referring to was some investigating he’d done for me on my trip to Kansas a few months back. He was sort of a private detective/investigative reporter for the Bozwell Courier Tribune. Bozwell was a town just south of Sugartree, just north of Little Rock. It was a job his father finagled for him when Boone’s chicken business took a downturn ten years ago and Emory had to drop out of law school. Emory was actually pretty good at his unplanned-for journalism-detective career, being the sort of man who loves gossip and was almost as nosy as me.
I’d promised him a date with Elvia, whom he’d had a crush on since the summer of his eleventh year. He stayed with us at the ranch because his mother had just died and his father didn’t know what to do with him. Elvia didn’t know about my bargain with him yet. And for a very good reason. He had annoyed her from the very first minute she heard his molasses-tinged Arkansas drawl. Since Emory was terrified of flying, I’d been hoping he had forgotten all about my rash promise. No such luck.
“I’m waiting for your explanation, sweetcakes. When is Elvia, queen of my adolescent dreams, expecting me?”
I bit my lip, trying to think of a way to answer without actually lying.
“Albenia Louise! I know what that silence means. You haven’t even arranged it. Ingrate. Why should I help you again?”
“I’ll tell her the minute you make your plane reservation,” I promised.
He paused for a moment. “It might be even wiser to wait until I’m actually there,” he said, proving he was no dummy.
“I was thinking the same thing.” I leaned back in my chair and prayed his fear of flight would continue to overshadow