Irrational Numbers Read online

  Bonnie checked her Mickey Mouse watch. “In about half an hour the rodeo starts. I want to catch the barrel racing.”

  “Since when are you a rodeo fan?” He led her toward the rodeo grounds.

  Bonnie pulled herself to her full five-foot-three and adopted the indignant pose of the maligned. “I’ll have you know, my skeptical friend, I am well acquainted with the various events that comprise today’s modern rodeo. I can tell you the current and past professional barrel racing champions going back ten years.”

  Lloyd chuckled. “Very impressive. It seems Witherspoon isn’t the only pistol at this fair. Bon, I got no doubt you memorized some facts about barrel racing, but that don’t make you a fan. As I recall, a female math teacher in my employ once stated, Rodeo is just an excuse for cowboys to get drunk.”

  “That’s all changed. Tonight, I intend to ‘wahoo’ with the best of them.”

  “Ain’t you the best cowgirl at the fair?”

  “You betcha. Now get a wiggle on.”

  At the covered stands, Lloyd and Bonnie climbed the twenty-five risers to the top tier. She plopped down and scanned the crowd below. Cowboys with numbers pinned on their western shirts walked hand in hand with girls wearing straw hats, square-dance skirts, and red bandannas. Out in the arena enclosure, rodeo clowns rolled in the barrels for the race.

  “Okay, Missus Know-It-All,” Lloyd said. “Tell me all about barrel racing.”

  Bonnie tugged at her ear, engaging the memory mechanism. She pointed at a wide gate at the far end of the arena. “Pay attention and learn something. The racers, usually quarter horses and, of course, their riders, come in at that end. When they pass the plane of the gate they trigger an electric eye, starting a timer.”

  Bonnie then nodded toward the trio of barrels being laid out by the clowns. “They tear ass, in a kind of cloverleaf around the barrels. When they complete the pattern, they race back to the gate, triggering the eye again, and their time stops. The racer with the fastest time wins. In the vernacular, this is known as one of the speed events.”

  “Very impressive. You’ve done your homework.” A smile lifted the corners of Lloyd’s mouth. “Well, lookie there.” With a tilt of his chin he indicated the walkway at the bottom of the risers.

  Harold T. Dobbs and his son, Jason, had halted at the steps leading into the stands. The pastor looked every inch the rodeo star he’d been as a boy—straw cowboy hat, boots, even a belt buckle the size of Rhode Island. His son, a smaller, thinner version of his father, was dressed the same.

  They still hadn’t seen Bonnie, and she hoped it stayed that way. Then as the pair climbed, Harold looked up and frowned.

  Color rose into his already ruddy face. His meaty paw came to the brim of his hat, which he tipped maybe five degrees. “Missus Pinkwater, Lloyd.”

  Bonnie nodded.

  “Harold,” Lloyd said.

  Jason caught sight of Bonnie, and his face broke into a wide grin. “Missus P, Mister Whittaker. All right!”

  Jason pushed past his father who had taken a seat two rows down. The young man edged his way into the row in front of Bonnie and Lloyd, and hooked his thumbs into the loops of his jeans. “So good to see you guys. You come to see Seneca ride?”

  Bonnie studied the young man. Except for a new walrus mustache, he was the same skinny point guard she remembered. “So she’s going to race?”

  The young man’s grin went lopsided and mischief swam into his eyes. “You bet. It’s driving Caleb crazy.”

  “Why?” Lloyd asked. “The girl’s been competing since Little Britches. She’s probably the best racer East Plains ever produced. I’d think her husband would be proud of her.”

  “Not since she got pregnant.” Jason swiveled his head around and pointed with his thumb. “That’s them over by the starting gate.”

  Bonnie rubbernecked past Jason and caught sight of Seneca. Caleb Webb had his foot propped on the first rung of the galvanized fence surrounding the arena.

  “They seem to be arguing,” Bonnie said.

  Jason took a deep breath and let it out between his teeth. “They’ve been doing a lot of that lately. Caleb thinks she’s being reckless, calls her selfish to anybody who’ll listen. Been seeing my dad for counseling.”

  “Things are that bad?”

  “Yeah. I think Caleb’s begun thumping on Seneca, which is surprising since up until lately I would have said he worshiped her.”

  Bonnie gave herself a moment before she spoke. If there was one thing that made her blood boil, it was husbands who used their wives as punching bags. “You know this for sure?”

  “Not for sure. But last week, Seneca came in with a swollen eye. Said she had a fall, but I don’t think so.”

  Bonnie gave Caleb Webb a hard look. Asshole.

  Needing to redirect her focus before she said something she’d regret, Bonnie touched Jason’s hand. “How are you doing with Leo’s death?”

  Jason looked away, seemingly staring at something beyond the risers. For the briefest moment, Bonnie thought she saw a quiver touch the young man’s face before he steeled himself. He smoothed out his mustache.

  “We were close before graduation. But I haven’t really been in contact with him since then.”

  Bonnie caught Harold, head cocked, eavesdropping on the conversation. She felt certain Jason could see him, too. Her heart went out to this young man, having to share a life, and now a vocation, with such a controlling father.

  “Listen, I need to be getting back to Dad.” Jason shook hands with Lloyd. “It was great seeing you guys.”

  “You, too, Jason.” Bonnie thought Jason looked somehow diminished as he returned to his father.

  Ain’t my problem.

  She smacked Lloyd on the knee. “Before this party gets started, I need to visit the little girls’ room.”

  The nearest bathroom was a port-a-potty behind the midway. Bonnie had just tossed her cotton candy stem and was heading that way when, between the beer tent and the Side-o’-Beef Raffle booth, a screaming woman stumbled into view.

  “Somebody help! I think he’s dead.”

  CHAPTER 5

  NO SOONER HAD BONNIE TAKEN A STEP THAN SHE WAS caught in a press of bodies streaming into the narrow space between the beer tent and the Side-o’-Beef Raffle concession. Painfully funneled through the passage, she was barely able to breathe. Her T-shirt tore. Her back scraped against a metal pipe. A hand cupped her buttocks. Angry and anxious protests came from all sides.

  “Look out for my little girl.”

  “Watch your elbow!”

  “Do you mind?”

  Just about the time she thought she might faint, she squirted like a watermelon seed into the dusty open space behind the tents. Midcrowd, she toppled onto hands and knees. Pandemonium reigned, people tripping one over another. A cowboy boot came down on her fingers.

  Goddamn!

  Bruised hand to her mouth, she caught sight of a mother covering the eyes of her toddler. A man in a white Stetson scooped up a crying girl and held her to his chest. A ringing in Bonnie’s ears gave way to screams. Using the back of a sprawled man, Bonnie hoisted herself to her feet.

  Ahead, a port-a-potty stood open. A rodeo clown sat crosswise on the commode, a spreading stain rapidly coloring his western shirt to match his red bandanna.

  The idea of approaching this more-than-likely dead clown required at least an attempt at validation by her immediate peers. “Does anyone besides me think this fella might still be alive?”

  “What do you got in mind?” A giant of a man in what had to be size quadruple X coveralls was fanning himself with a ruined straw cowboy hat. He offered a meaty paw. “Toby Crump.”

  She took the offered hand in hers. “Bonnie Pinkwater. Well, first I’d check for a pulse. Maybe see if he’s breathing. I have my CPR certificate if it comes to that.”

  The big man considered her for a moment, then nodded slowly. “Let’s do it.”

  “Wait.” Bonnie took back her h
and. She pointed at the man in the white Stetson. “Call nine-one-one please?”

  When the man nodded, she caught the attention of a trio of young men with numbered rectangles pinned on their shirts. “Check if any veterinarians are still at the livestock pavilions.” She didn’t have time to wait to see how this last task would sort itself out. If this clown wasn’t already singing in the heavenly choir, he was trying on the robe.

  “All right, Toby, let’s go.”

  As she approached, Bonnie’s hopes diminished. Whoever had decided to end the life of this unfortunate young man had done a thorough job. She counted three separate holes in the clown’s western shirt. The pattern formed a small equilateral triangle centered on the heart.

  Why is that so familiar?

  Bonnie relegated the question to the I’ll-think-about-this-later portion of her brain. “Hold him so he doesn’t fall over.” She laid two fingers on the clown’s neck. Nothing. She brought her face close to the clown’s. No discernable breath. As she stepped back, she was sure she’d seen this clown somewhere before.

  Another random thought I’ll consider later. “We’ve got to get him out of there. I don’t know how to do rescue breathing on a man propped on a commode.”

  “You’re the boss.” Toby crushed his tattered hat onto his head. He then lifted the clown to his feet like a rag doll, holding him at arm’s length to avoid the blood. “Where to?”

  “Faceup, right here in the dirt.”

  As Toby gently set his charge down, Bonnie steeled herself. She knelt beside the clown. Can’t begin rescue breathing until I get the bleeding under control.

  “Lend me your hat.”

  The big man blinked at her. “My hat?”

  Bonnie waggled her fingers at him, willing him to be quicker. “That’s right. Please.” As soon as the straw hat was within arm’s reach, she snatched it, folded it double, and jammed it down on the clown’s chest. She pressed down, one hand atop another.

  “Sorry, Toby, but I couldn’t think of what else to use.”

  “Don’t you worry about it, little lady. You just do what you got to do.”

  Bonnie had barely begun her compression when she felt a tap on her shoulder.

  “Missus P?”

  She angled her head and came face to face with Deputy Byron Hickman. Behind him, standing at the ready, were two black clad EMTs and Deputy Wyatt.

  “The techs’ll take over now, Missus P. You did a great job.”

  She took a proffered arm, and she and Byron removed themselves to stand with the oversized Crump.

  Bonnie pointed with her chin toward the EMTs. “How did they—”

  Byron shook his head. “Emergency techs are on the scene at all rodeo events. And me and Wyatt were manning a booth for the sheriff’s department when this screaming woman came running up.”

  Byron held up his hand. “Excuse me for a moment.” He signaled for Wyatt to come over and whispered in her ear.

  When he returned, he took Bonnie and Crump aside. “Tell me everything as it was before you moved the body.”

  Bonnie’s heart sank as she realized that Byron was no doubt correct about the clown’s life status. The EMTs would do their best, but this was one rodeo clown who wouldn’t see the inside of a rubber barrel again. She and Crump described the original scene, ending with the trio of bullet holes tight about the clown’s heart.

  “Does that ring any bells with you, youngster?”

  “You mean three shots to the chest probably delivered at close range?”

  “You know damn well that’s what I mean.”

  “It could just be a coincidence.”

  “What are you guys talking about?” Toby asked.

  Byron shot her a warning glance. “Don’t go off half-cocked, Missus P.”

  She wanted to tell this former student that she was thoroughly cocked, but she could see his point. No point in getting Crump involved in an unsubstantiated theory connecting the death of a rodeo clown at a county fair with that of a homosexual young man out on an isolated road.

  “I feel like the younger brother at his big sister’s slumber party,” Crump said. “You two want me to leave so you can talk?”

  Byron shook his head. “Nope. I’ve got to give Wyatt a hand with these interviews. Mister Crump, please leave a number with my deputy before you go, in case I have any more questions.”

  Before he could walk away, Bonnie grabbed Byron’s arm. “Just one more thing, and it’s bugging the hell out of me.”

  Byron almost succeeded in wiping a frown from his face. “Shoot.”

  “It’s the clown. I know him from somewhere, but I can’t picture the face under the greasepaint.”

  “He went to East Plains, probably had you for math. Used to get in a dozen different kinds of trouble with a kid who called himself Spoon.”

  As the realization dawned on her, Bonnie whipped around to get another look at the clown. Sure, she knew him. Even dead, she should have recognized Dwight Furby.

  “Don’t be silly, Bon.” Lloyd grabbed Bonnie’s arm to take her the medical tent. “You look like you’ve been through a war.”

  Bonnie shook her head. “No time for that. Didn’t you hear what I said? Dwight Furby’s dead, murdered.”

  “I got it, Bon. I just don’t understand your hurry. Furby’s not going to get any deader in the time it takes to bandage your hand—maybe look after your back.”

  Bonnie shrugged off Lloyd’s arm. “Listen to me, boss. I forgot to tell Byron about seeing Witherspoon talking to Rattlesnake.”

  “And?”

  “And Byron’s going to want to question Witherspoon. He probably came to the fair with Furby. Hell, for all we know he could have been the one to murder him and”—she pointed to the crowds of people streaming toward the main gate—“he’ll be out of here in a matter of minutes.”

  When Lloyd still didn’t pick up the pace, she said, “We need to hurry. Witherspoon could get away, if he hasn’t already.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Oh, yeah, smarty-pants, why not?”

  Lloyd pointed. “Because there he is.”

  Sure enough, Spoon was striding out of a livestock pavilion, beer in hand. He downed the drink, crushed the plastic cup, and dumped it in a trash barrel.

  Lloyd chewed on his lower lip. “From the looks of him, that wasn’t the first beer that young man put away. And you’re right about him skedaddling. The old Spoonmaster’s making a beeline for the gate.”

  “You think he’s heard about the murder?”

  “You kidding? The only folks who ain’t heard are the ones who just got here, and I wouldn’t bet on them.”

  “Then why isn’t Witherspoon heading toward the murder scene?”

  “Good question. I say we follow the boy.”

  Bonnie stared a long moment after her friend. He’d surprised her with his renewed animation after the state she’d found him in that afternoon. She ran to catch up. “Don’t let him see us, you ninny.”

  “So what if he does? He’s hardly going to pay much attention to his old teacher and principal. Besides, that young man looks like he has other things on his mind—like he’s got the hounds of hell nipping at his backside.”

  Bonnie had to admit Lloyd had a point, and not just on the top of his overeager head. Witherspoon took a wary look around, scanned them momentarily without a shred of recognition. He ducked into the arts and crafts pavilion.

  Lloyd jammed his hands in his pockets and strolled nonchalantly to the pavilion.

  “Lloyd!” Bonnie tried to whisper, but in her excitement ended up yelling loud enough to draw attention.

  The hell with it. “What are you doing?”

  By way of an answer, Lloyd waved her back. His hand was on the glass door of the pavilion when he stopped. Using the exaggerated long steps of the DooDah Man, Lloyd moved quickly behind a row of bushes bordering the pavilion. He turned toward her, a smile on his craggy face, his eyes wide. Using his thumb and pinkie,
he made the universal telephone sign.

  Bonnie joined him, crouching low in the bushes. “How’d our friend look?”

  “Nervous and scared. I think the Spoonmaster’s about to pee his pants. I’d give a week’s pay to know who he’s calling.”

  “The police can the get the identity later from phone records.” Bonnie stared back at the pavilion and its double glass doors. “Did Spoon see you?”

  Lloyd shook his head. “No way.”

  Ah, yes, men. Quite often wrong, but never in doubt. “I’ll have to take your word for that.”

  Lloyd shifted from one foot to the other, obviously eager to resume the chase. “I can see why you like this sort of thing.”

  “What sort of thing?”

  “Playing detective.” Her principal thumped a fist on his chest. “It really gets your blood pumping. Beats the hell out of sitting around a dark living room drinking beer, eating stale pepperoni pizza, and feeling sorry for yourself.”

  “I’m glad you’re having a good time, but what makes you think I enjoy these sorts of things? They just fall into my lap.”

  “Forgive me, Bon, if I’m more than a little skeptical.” Lloyd patted her arm. “Cover me, schweetheart, I’m going in.” He quit their hiding place and made again for the doors.

  Oh, no, not another man who thinks he’s Humphrey Bogart.

  Before Bonnie could voice a protest, her principal entered the pavilion. No more than a minute later, when Lloyd failed to return, Bonnie decided to join him. Before she reached the door, he slammed back out.

  “He’s gone.”

  Hot on Lloyd’s heels, Bonnie followed him into the pavilion. Moving as fast as the crowd allowed, they elbowed and excused themselves past booth after booth selling cowboy art, patchwork quilts, Tex-Mex salsa, and beer-can men who waggled pipe-cleaner penises when you tilted their tin-can tunics. An eternity later Bonnie pushed toward the back door.

  No Spoonmaster in sight.

  Bonnie smacked Lloyd’s arm. “The parking lot! We should have gone straight there as soon as he disappeared.” She set off running.

  Again, the human traffic gods conspired against them. Couples, whole families, and one rotund woman leading an army of preschoolers sprang up in Bonnie and Lloyd’s path. It was all Bonnie could do not to scream at them to get out of the way.