Land of a Hundred Wonders by Lesley Kagen Page A

most.”
    First off, I don’t really enjoy card playing all that much, ’cept for the cribbage game Miss Lydia and me have every Wednesday morning after we pick flowers. And second off, I don’t need to saddle up and ride hard. All I need to do is lope along. A nice easy pace. Giving me plenty of time to take in the scenery, just like Mama and I used to. Riding double, pressed together like one. A wildflower necklace lying warm against my neck. I know he’s got my best interests at heart, but if I can be honest with you, my grampa’s sort of a Gloomy Gus.
    Resheathing his whittling knife that’s so sharp I’m not allowed to go near it, he says, “Hungry?”
    I listen in on my stomach. “Sounds like it.”
    When the weather is warm like it is, at the time of day the crickets and frogs tune up, we eat grilled perch or trout or whatever else has not outsmarted him that afternoon out on the lake. Sometimes with jolly red tomatoes, and just-picked sweet corn that’s still got that clumpy dirt smell, and maybe some churned ice cream for dessert.
    â€œAlready got the coals heated,” he says, heading toward the grill.
    Upon hearing that, Keeper drops his stick at my feet, letting me know he’s ready for his evening fetch and go. (This is his favorite hobby next to sucking eggs.) “Ready-set?” I shout, tossing his stick into the lake as far as I can, and when he brings it back, I throw it again, despite feeling awfully bad for loafing like this. What I should be doing is working on finishing up that Miss Cheryl and Miss DeeDee story so I can get busy investigating the murder of Mr. Buster. I cannot tolerate the thought of Mama chewing her fingernails about me.
    â€œChows up,” Grampa calls after a bit, walking our plates to the picnic table. “Wash your hands.”
    After sliding them into the lake and wiping them off on my jeans, I sit down across from him at the table he made from scratch. The cornbread is warm, the catfish crispy. “The sheriff was at Miss Jessie’s today,” I say, helping myself.
    â€œUse your fork. What for?” he says, all of a sudden cranky again. Grampa does NOT care for LeRoy Johnson any more than I do. Says the man is a born and bred bully, same as his daddy and his daddy before him. And even though that’s true, I also suspect that jealousy, sometimes known as the green-eyed lobster, might be rearing its ugly head tonight.
    â€œPeaches and I had a wonderful ride this afternoon,” I say. “And that new filly, she’s really something.”
    â€œGibby.”
    â€œYup. And then . . .”
    â€œFocus,” he says, ripping a hunk off the cornbread and jabbing it in the clover honey. “Why was LeRoy up to Jessie’s place?”
    â€œMr. Buster’s gone missin’,” I say, sliding a sliced tomato into my mouth that’s sprinkled with dressing all the way from Italy. “The sheriff came by to talk to Miss Jessie about his disappear—”
    â€œI heard there was some to-do up at the Malloy place,” Grampa interrupts. His eyes look like the deposit slot down at the bank. “Don’t be gettin’ any ideas on using your powers of meticulous perception to go snoopin’ around in this matter, hear? And don’t talk with your mouth full.”
    â€œWhy shouldn’t I go lookin’ for Mr. Buster?”
    â€œJust don’t,” he barks out like the drill sergeant he used to be.
    For what seems like close to eternity the only sounds are the far-off motors on the water and forks scraping against the tin plates cowboy Grampa loves so much because they remind him of stars at night that are big and bright deep in the heart of Texas.
    Finished eating, he dabs at his mouth with his paper napkin. Says nicer, “Ya still wanna get the board out after we clean up these dishes?”
    â€œA course I do, Charlie.” I lay my hand on his whisker