Fool's Puzzle by Earlene Fowler (reading eggs books .TXT) 📕

Ray asked. His gentle concern and easy smile made him seem about as likely a killer as Mr. Rogers. Then again, I was never quite clear on exactly what it was he did in Vietnam.

“No, just tired.” I smiled back, but couldn’t help regarding him in a new light. I hadn’t even suspected anything sexual going on between him and Marla. Of course, Jack always said I was the densest woman he’d ever seen when it came to male-female relationships. I was always the last one to figure out among our friends who was interested in whom. No feminine intuition whatsoever.

“It’s four o‘clock. We’re all going home now. You need anything else done for tonight?”

“No, I’ve got a few more quilt histories to frame, then I’m leaving, too. Then I think I’m going to sink into a long, hot bubble bath.”

“Just remember to come up for air,” he teased.

Ten minutes later, my mind was on that hot bubble bath when I climbed the stairs to the second floor of the museum to look for some frames for the last two quilt histories. I had searched through the storage room, certain I’d ordered enough, but in an artist’s co-op, frames of any size or condition always seemed to sprout little legs and walk away.

The air was warm and thick in the four spacious rooms where Constance’s ancestors had once slept, made love, had babies, died. Sneezing and coughing, I scrounged through rusty old trunks and poked through boxes containing old tubes of paint, stacks of blank, yellowing canvases, and one large box full of every sort of bead, trim and feather you could imagine—an obvious donation that no one could quite figure out what to do with. The floor creaked under my weight. I wondered if the idea Constance brought up at the last co-op meeting about using these rooms as more exhibit space was feasible from a safety point of view.

After checking a six-drawer chest in one of the rooms and finding nothing but more dust and an old mouse nest, I decided to forget it. I’d just mat the histories and stick them directly on the wall with some double-sided tape. I shoved the last drawer in, struggling a few minutes when something hung it up. I pulled it out and peered into the back of the chest. Dusk and the hacienda’s filmy windows made seeing anything difficult, but there was something stuck to the back of the chest. Curiosity overcame sense. I tentatively stuck my hand in and yanked at the plastic-wrapped object. When I pulled it free and inspected it, I could have kicked myself for not leaving well enough alone.

The plastic freezer bag was full of rubber-banded bills and it didn’t take a genius to realize there was something fishy about this money.

I turned the bag over and over, trying to make a decision. If I called the police, which is what I knew I should do, they’d be all over the museum and the pre-showing and auction would be ruined. Our next fund-raiser wasn’t until spring. So, after ten seconds of serious contemplation of the consequences, I stuck the bag back in the chest and pushed the drawer closed.

I’ll tell the police, I told myself as I locked the front door. Just as soon as the auction is over.

My answering machine was flashing when I got home. As I unbuttoned my shirt, I listened to my one caller.

Dove hates answering machines, so she pretends that she is actually talking to a human, leaving time for your answer. Her messages always sound halting and semi-lucid.

“Benni, is that you?” Long pause.

“Who else would be in my house, Dove?” I don’t know why I felt compelled to answer. That authority thing again.

“Don’t get smart with me, young lady.” One, one thousand, two, one thousand ...

“What do you want, old woman?”

“Garnet wants to see you.”

Aha. The real reason for the call. “I can’t. I’m too ...”

“And don’t give me any of that you’re-too-busy crap. She’s your great-aunt and she deserves some respect. And I deserve some peace and quiet. And don’t you turn me off.”

“Great suggestion.” I hit the stop button, thankful for at least one positive thing about technology. But by the time I undressed, curiosity got the better of me and I punched it back on.

“I knew you’d be back,” her voice cackled out of the machine. “You always were as nosy as a chicken. Call me. I mean it.” The answering machine chirped.

“Don’t hold your breath.” I took a quick shower to scrub away the worst of the dirt and dust embedded in my pores, then pulling my hair up in a Pebbles ponytail, I settled down in a nice warm bath and worried about the trouble I knew was coming after the auction tonight. I didn’t remember seeing any sinks in the jail, or showers, for that matter. I couldn’t sleep without my nightly shower. I sank deeper into the bubbles and groaned.

After a few minutes in front of my vanity mirror deciding they were laugh lines and not wrinkles, I took care of the impossibly boring ritual of war paint. For once, my curly hair semi-controlled itself down my back. Though I briefly contemplated pulling it back with a rubber band, I decided the lecture from Elvia wasn’t worth it. The green silk dress felt as airy as cotton candy and made a fine rustling sound against my nylons. It had been a long time since I’d worn a dress, and it felt, if a bit awkward, pretty good. I slipped on my Levi jacket to retain some level of familiarity, with the intention of ditching it before Elvia saw me. It was soft enough to make a pretty good noose.

The caterers arrived minutes after me and started unloading cases of champagne and foil-covered trays of hors d‘oeuvres. Though the champagne had been donated by one of Constance’s friends who owned a winery, I’d spent more on the food than I’d