He smiled down at me, his dark eyes sharp and amused. “How do you do, Ms. Benni Harper, Liberated-Woman-of-the-World.” He held out a huge cool hand.
“Mr. Lyons.” I gave it a short, irritated shake as Dove continued to chatter about his visit, which, apparently, was starting tonight.
“Call me Isaac, please,” he murmured.
“We’re going to blow this joint and get some coffee and real food,” Dove said. “I’ll tell your daddy on my way out that Isaac will fetch me home.”
“But—” I started, but before I could protest further, she kissed me on the cheek and was leading Isaac toward the door. More than one set of irritated society-matron eyes followed them.
That was more than I could take. She’d just met the guy, for cryin‘ out loud. She wasn’t going anyplace with that man without me. I started to push my way through the crowd after them when I felt a hand clamp down on my shoulder and pull me up as short as a roped calf.
“Whoa, there, Calamity Jane.” My husband’s voice rumbled in my ear. “I know that look, and whoever it is you’re heading for, forget it. I don’t want to have to arrest my own wife for assault and battery.”
“Let me go,” I said, pulling against his grip. “Do you know who that is? Do you know his reputation? Dang it, Gabe, let me go.”
He grabbed my hand and pulled me into the gallery’s empty back room. The party noise dropped to a soft buzz when he firmly closed the door.
“What in the world are you talking about?” he asked.
I jerked my hand out of his. “Isaac Lyons, the photographer. He’s a playboy. He takes pictures of naked women. And he just left with my grandmother. He’s talked her into letting him stay at the ranch. We have to do something.”
Gabe grinned. “I’ve seen his photographs. He’s good. Dove and Isaac Lyons. Bet he’s in for a wild time.”
I glared at Gabe. “This isn’t funny. I think he’s up to something.”
“Benni, what could he be up to? He’s a famous photographer who’s taken a shine to your grandmother. He probably wants to photograph her.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“It’s art, Benni,” he said, ruffling my hair.
I slapped at his hand. “You think so? Maybe I should offer him my services, then.”
He lifted my chin and kissed me on the lips. “Over my dead body, querida. Your fair limbs are strictly for my perusal.”
“Hey, you two, no making out in the back room,” Parker said, walking into the room. “You do have the right idea, though. Hide from the maddening crowds. Mispronunciation intended.” She sat down on a folding chair and heaved a big sigh. “I’m bushed, and this week’s festivities haven’t even started yet. Have you had a chance to talk to Greer?”
“Yes,” I said. “She’s nervous as a barn cat, but holding up fine. Are you ready for your demonstration and talk on women in the western arts tomorrow?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” she said, grimacing. “Trying to explain to people why and how I create is so hard for me. I know how important promotion is these days, but I wish I could just paint and not have to also be a ‘character’ to sell my work.”
“Speaking of characters, did you manage to meet Isaac Lyons?”
“I hovered at the edge of a group of his admirers and listened to him. He’s quite a fascinating man with some very definite ideas about what art is and isn’t. He was using Shelby’s photographs as an example of how artists should put themselves in their art, that each photograph should not only be a story of the subject, but a story of the artist and that if you really studied an artist’s lifetime of work, it should reveal the true personality of the artist.”
“Too bad Shelby’s lifetime was cut so short,” I said.
“Yes,” she agreed, her voice soft. “Yes, it was.”
I turned to Gabe. “You think we could sneak out without making too much of a dent in the crowd?”
He slipped a warm hand underneath my hair and squeezed my neck. “I think there’s a good chance they won’t even notice we’re gone.”
“Go over the wall, kids,” Parker said. “If anyone asks, I never saw you escape.”
We slipped through the back door into the alley and walked past the bluesy sounds still coming from Sweet Dreams. “I’m glad that Greer’s having her time in the sun,” I said, tucking my arm through Gabe’s, “but Shelby’s death put a damper on the night for me.” He just murmured in agreement.
“Gabe, what do you think happened?” I asked when we reached the truck.
He opened the passenger door, his hand resting on the small of my back. “I don’t want to speculate with so little to go on.”
“But you must have an opinion, a feeling of some kind.”
“What I feel is irrelevant.”
“Not to me. I want to know what you think.”
He walked around the front of the truck and climbed in. “Are you going to nag me all night until I answer this?” he asked.
“Probably.”
“I suspected as much. Look, this is just speculation, but in the interest of marital harmony and my nervous condition ...”
“You don’t have a nervous condition.”
“I’m developing one at a rapid rate being married to you. I’ll just say it looks like she was in a fight with someone who pushed her. She unfortunately fell and hit her head on a rock in a freak accident and died. The person panicked and ran. When he or she gets caught, the charge will most likely be manslaughter. I don’t really think it was planned. Does that make you feel any better?”
“But how in the world will they find out who did it?”
“Tedious footwork by detectives. Most likely they’ll just keep questioning people and rereading people’s statements until something jumps out at an investigator or someone feels guilty and confesses.”
“Does that happen very often?”
“Not often enough, but it happens. Now, can we get something to eat? I’m starving.”
“Let’s go to Liddie’s. Nadine’s been complaining she hasn’t seen you in weeks.”
But when we drove past, I changed my mind. There in a window seat, glowing under one of Liddie’s yellow globe lights, sat Dove and Isaac. He held her hand across the table. Her head was thrown back in silent laughter.
“Forget Liddie’s,” I grumbled. “Let’s get pizza.”
Gabe chuckled under his breath.
“You wouldn’t think this was so funny if it was your mother Isaac Lyons was seducing.”
His smile was bright against his dark skin. “My mother is too sensible to be seduced by someone like him.”
I opened my mouth to snap an answer, then closed it. Having had more years under the marriage belt than my high-and-mighty husband, I knew that it was treading on shaky ground when spouses started comparing maternal personality quirks.
Unsmiling, I looked directly into his amused eyes. “So tell me why Isaac Lyons would be interested in my grandmother.”
His smile faded at my serious question. “Why shouldn’t he be? She’s a fascinating woman with an interesting life. Not to mention a whole lot of fun and nice to look at. Also, there’s something about you Ramsey women that’s just somehow irresistible.” He smiled again. “I should know.”
I reluctantly conceded a half smile, still not comforted, but warmed by his audacious flattery. “You know, we’ve switched places. Usually you’re the suspicious one.”
“They say the longer people have been married, the more alike they become.”
“Oh, dear Lord, help me,” I said.
“Amen to that,” he replied.
7
“IT’S FOR YOU,” Gabe said, answering the phone the next morning. I was still in bed, peeking at the clock at five-minute intervals wondering just how close I could cut it and still make it to the museum by eight forty-five. The first docent tour started at nine, Greer’s lecture was at ten o‘clock, and Parker’s at eleven. We’d sold tickets andpromised a contine
ntal breakfast as part of the admission price. I still had to go by Stern’s Bakery and pick up the mini apricot coffee cakes, almond croissants, and chocolate muffins.
“Who is it?” I mumbled into my pillow.
He tossed the phone onto the bed next to me. “I didn’t ask, but they sound frantic.” I struggled up and through filmy eyes watched him pull on a white dress shirt. “This is my last shirt, by the way. Are you going by the cleaners today? I would, but I’m in meetings all day.”
“I’ll put it on my list of about a zillion things to do,” I said, picking up the phone. “Hello?”
“It’s Parker.” Her voice was low and breathless and sounded very far away. “I just thought I’d tell you first thing because I know how you hate not knowing what’s going on.”
I shook my head, trying to completely wake up, and watched Gabe button his shirt. When he got to the top button, it popped off. He swore softly in Spanish.
“Just a minute, Parker.” I put my hand over the receiver. “Gabe, calm down. Get a needle and thread out of my sewing basket and come here.”
“Tell me what?” I said into the phone.
“About the trouble at Roland’s gallery last night.”
“What trouble?”
“It happened right after you left. Kip showed up drunk and on the warpath. He’d heard that Roland had tripled the prices on Shelby’s photographs and he accused Roland of killing her just to make himself more money in commission.”
“That’s ludicrous,” I exclaimed. Gabe walked back in the room holding a spool of white thread and a needle. He started taking off his shirt.
I shook my head and gestured for him to sit down on the bed. Cradling the phone on my shoulder, I threaded the needle, bit off the thread, then knotted it. Encircling his waist with my legs to get closer, I started sewing the button back on.
“Hmm,” he said and started nibbling my neck.
Stop it, I mouthed, pushed him back, and continued to talk as I sewed. “So, what happened after that?”
“Luckily, the sheriff was there, and he managed, with the help of some other guys, to get Kip outside and calmed down. Then that other guy from your dad’s ranch, the one Olivia’s hanging out with ...”
“Bobby Sanchez?”
“That’s the one. He came out of The Steerhead Tavern across the street and told the sheriff he’d make sure Kip got home. While all this was happening, Roland locked himself in the bathroom.” She giggled softly.
I laughed along with her. “He is such a pathetic excuse of a man. Frankly, that was tacky to raise the prices so quickly. It’s disrespectful.”
“That’s the art world, Benni. It’s an old joke, but a true one—that death makes you a much more valuable commodity.”
“It’s still tacky.”
“Welcome to the real world. Well, I just wanted you to be up-to-date on all the information. How long’s it going to take you to solve this one, Detective Harper?”
I looked straight into the blue eyes of my husband. “Parker, this week I’m a chili judge, a tour guide, a parade entry, and who knows what else. I’m going to leave solving murders up to my brilliant and hard-working husband.”
“If you say so.” She giggled again. “See you at the museum.”
“Very well stated, Ms. Harper,” my husband said when I hung up the phone. I bent my head down, bit off the remaining thread, and placed a quick kiss on his chest.
He pulled me around so I was straddling his lap. “If I tear off the rest of my buttons, will you sew them all on like this?” He ran his beard up and down my neck.
“Would you quit that?” I said, pushing him away. “My neck is beginning to look like someone scrubbed it with steel wool.” I untangled myself from him and stood up. “You’re late, Chief, and so am I. Don’t forget the auction at the Forum tonight. Dinner has to be quick and easy.”
“I’ll try to get home early.” He started buttoning his shirt. “You meant what you said on the phone, didn’t you?”
“About you being brilliant and hard-working? Of course, dear.”
He gave me one of his unblinking, interrogating cop looks.
“You know that doesn’t work on me, Friday,” I said, pulling my tee shirt over my head. “I know your tricks. If it makes you feel better, what possible reason could I have to get involved with this? I liked Shelby, and yes, it bothers me that it happened at the ranch, but I’m taking you at your word that it was an accident and that the person responsible will eventually confess.”
“I didn’t say that exactly. A confession is what we hope for.”
“Nevertheless, I don’t think anyone’s in any real danger. Frankly, with the way Kip’s been acting, I still say he’s the prime candidate.” I told him what happened at the gallery after we left.
“He’s certainly one of the suspects.” I watched Gabe’s reflection in the long mirror as he straightened his tie, resisting the temptation to ask who else they suspected. The last thing I wanted to do this morning was get into a debate over Wade’s innocence or lack thereof.
“Have a good day,” I said, opening my lingerie drawer.
“Speaking of having a good day, what exactly are you planning to do with yours?”
I turned to face him, arranging my features in what I was sure was an innocent look. “Oh, stuff. You know, museum stuff. Heritage Days stuff.”
“Leave Dove and Mr. Lyons alone,” he warned. “She’s a grown woman and allowed to have her own friends.”
“He’s scoping her out! I have to warn her.”
“Benni, let her have a life. Don’t you think she deserves that after all the years of being alone?”
I turned back to my drawer and started digging through it. He came over and kissed my bare shoulder. “Think about it,” he said.
“I will.” All the way out to the ranch.
After he left I finished dressing, putting on new tobacco-brown Wranglers, a tan long-sleeved shirt, and a pair of dangling boot-shaped moonstone and silver earrings I’d bought recently from one of our newest artists—a jewelry designer who was having difficulty maintaining enough product to sell because everyone at the co-op kept buying his new creations.
In the kitchen, Emory, wearing a rich, wine-colored velour robe, was reading the San Celina Tribune and drinking black coffee.
“So, what are you doing today?” I asked, pouring myself a half a cup and filling the rest with milk and two tea-spoons of sugar.
He looked up from his paper. “Still drinking your coffee like a child.”
“Eat dirt. Want to come help at the museum?”
“I think not. After slumming my way through your birdcage liner here, I thought I’d mosey on downtown and see what the natives are doing.”
I took two large gulps, then set the cup down in the sink. “You know, hovering around Elvia like some kind of weird stalker is not going to endear her to you.”
“Who said anything about Elvia?” he said, giving me an indifferent look. “I’m going to drop by the newspaper and say hey to one of the reporters there that I’ve made an acquaintance with on-line.”
“You’ve got connections at the Tribune?”
He smiled. “Sweetcakes, I’ve got connections in places that would straighten that curly hair of yours.”
I made a face at him. “By the way, Gabe’s stint as auctioneer starts at seven o‘clock in the Forum downtown. Gabe and I are meeting here at five to decide about dinner. We’ll probably go out. You’re welcome to join us.” I glanced at my watch. “Geez, I gotta go. A busload of hungry seniors from Santa Barbara County will be expecting chow, and I’ve still got to pick it up.”
I pulled into the museum parking lot a mere two minutes before the chartered bus did. Greeting the senior citizens cheerfully, I instructed the docent to start the forty-five minute tour while I helped arrange the food and coffee on the long tables my assistant, D-Daddy, had already set up on the long porch of the museum. Luckily the weather was clear and cool today with just en
ough sun to make the old Sinclair hacienda look its best.
“Running late, eh, ange?” D-Daddy said in his French-tinged Cajun accent. He hooked the banquet-sized coffee pot to a thick orange extension cord and set it on the long table.
“D-Daddy, I have a feeling the whole week is going to be like this,” I said, picking a few dead flowers out of the twin whiskey-barrel planters on both ends of the porch. We’d planted marigolds and daisies for a change of pace from the native wildflowers we normally rotated according to their blooming schedules.
Wiry white eyebrows bunched over his dark brown eyes. “See the newspaper yet?”
“No, I was in too much of a hurry this morning.”
“On your desk,” was all he said. By the narrowing of his eyes, I knew that there was most likely an article about Shelby’s death. I sighed deeply, trying not to dwell on the fact that times had indeed changed in San Celina County—that, like it or not, violence had become a more frequent occurrence here on the Central Coast.
The tour ended in the co-op’s large main studio, once the hacienda’s stables, with me giving a short history of the co-op, our goals, and our accomplishments. This last year we’d spent more time in community outreach with artists traveling to schools and retirement homes, giving free classes in everything from doll making to leather carving to watercolor painting. We were most proud of the fact that we’d started donating our artists’ time and talents to “Art for Kids”—a summer program, sponsored by our local YMCA, that opened the possibilities of art to underprivileged kids in hopes that it would keep some of them away from gangs, drugs, and alcohol.
While the sixty-some-odd seniors were enjoying their mini-brunch, I helped set up chairs for Greer’s lecture on women in western art. Parker was setting up some of Greer’s paintings, while Greer perused her notes.
Dove in the Window Page 12
