Dove in the Window

by Earlene Fowler

  There’s something about sitting in a pitch-black room against your will that makes you look at life in a whole different way. It was the kind of darkness that your eyes never got used to since the door was so well made that not even a strip of light shone out from the bottom. Not that I’d be able to see anything clearly out of my still-streaming eyes.

  Well, I told myself firmly, after what I’d calculated was an hour, though I couldn’t be sure, at least you won’t die of thirst. And you do have a place to pee. Could be worse. You could have been pushed into a closet with a full bladder.

  I do try to look at life’s little problems optimistically.

  Especially when I felt myself teetering on the edge of hysteria. I knew someone would come eventually. I would be missed. Eventually.

  That word eventually was the kicker.

  After I’d run out of soothing hymns from my childhood, all the Bible verses I could remember, nursery rhymes, and my extensive repertoire of Patsy Cline hits, I moved on to singing under my breath—“The bear went over the mountain to see what he could see.” After that I’d be stuck with “A hundred bottles of beer on the wall,” and by the time anyone found me, I’d be stark raving mad. Maybe now would be a good time to start talking to the Big Guy. And, pray tell, why is that always your last resort? I heard a voice not dissimilar to Dove’s in my head.

  Then I heard voices in the hallway. I struggled to my feet, screaming from my diaphragm.

  “Help! I’m in here!” I yelled before it occurred to me that it might not be friendly forces out in that hallway.

  At this point, I was willing to fight my captor face-to-face rather than spend one more minute in complete darkness.

  Just in case, I was standing there ready to spring when light from the hallway flooded the room and I blinked up at a blurry Clark Kent in his baggy forties suit and neat fedora and a semifull beard.

  “Superman?” I stammered.

  “Are you okay?” Gabe grabbed me by the shoulders. Behind him was a sea of worried faces, Elvia’s in the forefront. I hoped that was worry on her face.

  “I can’t breathe,” I said. My eyes still streaming, I saw blackness at the edge of them and felt my legs start to crumple beneath me.

  In a flash I was literally swept off my feet and, feeling a bit silly but incredibly relieved, I relaxed as Gabe carried me through the crowd. He swore softly under his breath in Spanish.

  “Out of our way,” he said roughly and looked over at Elvia. “We need some privacy. She needs to get out of this dress.”

  “The business office is just down the hall,” someone called out of the crowd.

  “Oh, Rhett, please, not in front of the help,” I said as he carried me down the hallway.

  “Is there any situation where you don’t feel compelled to make a smartass remark?” he snapped.

  Inside the slightly shabby office, Elvia clucked under her breath as she undid the buttons in back.

  Gabe stuck his head out of the office door and yelled. “Somebody get her clothes.”

  “I know you didn’t want to do this, but you didn’t have to go to such drastic measures,” Elvia murmured, helping me out of my bustle, corset and other nineteenth-century undergarments. A knock on the door and a discreet hand produced my jeans, flannel shirt, socks, and boots.

  “What happened?” Gabe asked, his arms crossed over his chest in that stance that raised my hackles as surely as a dog protecting its dinner.

  “Someone turned out the light when I was taking a leak and then sprayed me with what I think was pepper spray. Then when I tried to leave, they somehow locked the door. How’d they do that? I’ve never seen a bathroom door that locked from the outside.”

  “They slipped a metal bar between the double handles,” he said. “Did you see or hear anything else?”

  “The hand wore a dark glove,” I said. “That’s all I saw before they sprayed me. I told you they shut out the light when I was peeing. And when I tried to turn it back on, it wouldn’t work.”

  He unfolded his arms, his eyes flickering as his brain processed that information. “They probably shut it off at the main circuit breaker.”

  Elvia gathered up my dress and shoes and gave me a small hug. For her, that was extremely affectionate, so I knew she must have really been worried when I didn’t make my cue.

  “I’m sorry, Elvia,” I said. “Really, I am.”

  “Not your fault. I’ll take these back to the Historical Society. You just go home and get some rest. Call me tomorrow.” She eyed Gabe but didn’t say anything. She knew we were about to get into it and she was a wise enough friend to realize it was our battle. When she reached the door, she said over her shoulder, “By the way, your debt’s not paid.”

  I gave a small laugh. “La Patróna has spoken.”

  Gabe didn’t crack a smile.

  “I guess we can talk about this at home,” I said.

  “Count on it.”

  After assuring the people who hung around and helped search for me that I was all right, I found my purse and headed for my truck, my grim-faced bodyguard following me like a loyal Doberman pinscher.

  “I’ll drive,” he said, taking my keys from me. “I’ll send a patrolman for my car.”

  At home, I reluctantly showed him the tongue that I’d found on our doorstep. After looking over the package thoroughly, he wrapped the meat in a plastic bag and stuffed it in our outside trash can. While he changed out of his forties costume, I fixed his favorite Mexican hot chocolate, hoping to sweeten the discussion we were about to have. It didn’t work. As usual, he thought I was too involved and I thought he was overreacting. We were sitting at opposite sides of the kitchen table, clutching our mugs and glaring at each other when Emory walked in.

  “Whoa, Nellie,” he said, looking at Gabe’s face, then mine. “I’ll slink off to bed and see you two in the morning.”

  When we were alone again, Gabe said, his voice tired, “Is there any crime that happens in this town that you aren’t involved in?”

  “That’s an exaggeration, and you know it. As for being involved, you grew up in a small town yourself. You know what it’s like. I can’t help knowing as many people as I do.”

  “I know,” he said, looking down into his still-full mug. “It’s just that you’ve come close to really getting hurt so many times, I’m afraid you’ve used up all your luck.”

  I reached over and put my hand on his. “Gabe, don’t worry. You know this is strictly college high-jinks crap. I mean, a cow’s tongue? Locking me in a bathroom? Even pepper spray is something that you can get at any sporting goods store these days. If they’d been serious they’d have hit me over the head or something when I came out of the bathroom.”

  He looked up at me, his face serious. “They could have. It was a metal bar they used to jam those doors shut.”

  “You said yourself Shelby’s death was probably a spur-of-the-moment thing. Kip’s, too. So I’ll just be extra careful until the killer is caught.”

  “And stop asking questions?”

  I traced a finger over his knuckles. They were rough and slightly chapped. Faint black lines still stained their crevices from his patient and loving work on Sam’s car a few nights ago. “I won’t lie to you. Both Isaac and I have good reasons why we are investigating, and I know neither of us will stop. I will promise to be careful and not to break any laws.”

  He took my hand and squeezed it gently. “I would prefer you didn’t ride your horse in the parade on Saturday. Not just for your safety, but for others. We don’t know how far this person might go.”

  I started to protest, then stopped. He was right. Putting other people at risk was irresponsible. “All right. I’ll watch it from Elvia’s office upstairs.”

  I was rinsing out the cups while Gabe was showering when Emory stuck his head in the doorway. “Everything swingin‘ low and easy, sweetcakes?”

  “Everything’s fine, Emory. Come on in. What’s up?”

  “Been working
hard all day on your behalf. There’s lots of dirt to report.”

  I glanced over at the closed bathroom door. Through it I could hear the shower still running. I was glad, for once, that Gabe took long showers. “Quick, tell me what you found out. Gabe’s being really cool about this, but I don’t want to press my luck.” I leaned against the counter and folded my arms.

  Emory opened a small leather notebook and frowned, trying to decipher his own cramped notes. “First, Mr. Roland Bennett. Five years ago, he was a bunny’s whisker away from being indicted in regards to an appraisal scam he and another dealer were involved with. His specialty was recent widows who needed money quickly or were just too upset over their husbands’ deaths to think rationally. Apparently he’d appraise a work low, then his friend, claiming to be new in the business and a bit naive, would sweep in and offer a few thousand over Roland’s appraised amount. The widow would, of course, jump on it, and then Roland and his friend would sell it for double or triple the amount and split the profits.”

  “And they got away with it?”

  “Art appraisal is a tricky business, and most of the women and a few men were very prominent citizens who didn’t want to press charges because of the personal humiliation of being snookered. He messed with the wrong man, though, when he tried to rip off an old Texas oilman by appraising two Schreyvogel oils in his mama’s estate at fifteen and twenty thousand dolllars, respectively. Bennett’s dealer jumped in and offered the oilman forty-five thousand for the both of them. But that ole Texas boy, having dealt with many a honey-tongued horse trader in his life, got suspicious and obtained a third opinion from another appraiser. That appraiser, a legitimate one this time, weighed the paintings in at seventy-five and ninety thousand dollars. Quite a difference. And you know Texans—they hate anyone even tryin‘ to pull one over on them. He went to his attorney, but before anything could happen, the old Texan guy croaked, and Roland and his buddy skedaddled out of the Lone Star state to seek their fortune in California. Roland started the rumor that his friend was the brains behind the deal, thereby saving what little reputation he had left. He’s kept his nose clean ever since.”

  “That we know of,” T pointed out.

  “Precisely.”

  “How could that work into Shelby’s and Kip’s murders?”

  “I just report the facts, my dear. You’re the brains in this outfit. Next, we have Parker Leona Williams of Bakersfield, California. Story fit for a confession magazine. Father ran off when she was ten. Mother was an on-again, off-again secretary for a number of small manufacturing companies and basically an unrepentant drunk and sleep around. Older sister served some time in state prison for being the driver in a liquor store robbery when she was a mere two days past her eighteenth birthday. Parker was fourteen when her sister went to prison and her mom went on a drunk and ended up in detox in the county jail. She lost custody of Parker, who was then shuffled around to a series of foster homes where she eventually found herself in the home of a Mr. and Mrs. Cal and Blythe Fellows. Mrs. Fellows was an art teacher, so I’m just taking a wild guess here and assuming it was her influence that started Parker down her artistic road.”

  “She never mentioned them,” I said. “Or her family. But that’s not unusual at the co-op. A lot of the people there have things in their pasts that they don’t like to talk about.”

  Emory’s voice was mild, “Who doesn’t?” He looked back down at his notebook. “The Fellows were killed outside Tracy, California, in a five-car accident a year ago.”

  “How sad,” I murmured. “And her sister and mother?”

  “As far as my sources could tell, they’re still in Bakersfield, but both are of a rather transient nature, so who knows?”

  “No wonder she was bitter about Greer,” I said. Emory’s eyebrows went up, and I told him about her sudden change of personality when she and Greer spoke about their art at the museum. “She’s probably not only jealous of Greer’s talent and financial situation, but also of her close-knit family.”

  “Our Miz Greer and her kinfolk have their problems, too.”

  I sat up in my chair. “What?”

  “Seems the Shannon ranch isn’t doing as well as could be these days.”

  “No big news there. Whose is?”

  “At least you and Ben are breaking even. Apparently the Shannons are thinking about selling some prime roadside pasture land by Highway One to a group of investors looking to put in a golf course and country club.”

  “I know that piece of property. It’s been in their family for over a hundred and fifty years! I can’t believe they’d sell it to developers. Where’d you find that out? I haven’t heard a thing through the rancher’s grapevine, and neither has Daddy or Dove or they would have told me.”

  “It’s very hush-hush at this point. Things like that get people all riled up and sending in letters to the editor. You know, that whole public trust-private ownership thing. It’s going to make the Shannons look mighty sour to their longtime friends and neighbors.”

  Remembering the furor two months ago about the land surrounding Bishop Peak and the housing development that was still in limbo, I knew he was right. “How did you find out about it?”

  He leaned over and tapped a finger on my nose. “It’s what I do, sweetcakes. And I do it very well.”

  I swatted at his hand. “Keep talking.”

  “Actually,” he continued, “it wasn’t that hard. Most of the transactions so far are on public record—environmental impact reports and such, though it appears that some people might have had their palms softened a bit to keep it quiet. I found out by simply calling real estate agencies, asking about bidding on the Shannon property. The supervising agent at the first four reacted with ‘huh?’ It was on number five that I received a ‘Who’s asking?’ Bingo.”

  I shook my head. “I knew things had been tough the last few years for them, but, shoot, it’s been that way for all of us. Cattle prices are ridiculously low, and the government gave price subsidies to the dairy farmers again by buying their old milk cows and flooding the market with cheap, low-quality beef. I knew things were bad, but I didn’t think the Shannons were so hard up they’d have to sell prime land.”

  “Better a part than the whole, I guess. Apparently there’s been some medical expenses also. Their grandmother?”

  I nodded. “I knew about that. She’s got Alzheimer’s, and they’ve had to put her in a special hospital. If they’re anything like us, they probably didn’t have any insurance for it, and those places aren’t cheap.”

  “So they’d need money fast and, like most ranchers, all they have is land.”

  I sighed. But for the grace of God, I couldn’t help but think, But how would that fit in with murdering Shelby and Kip?

  “What else?” I asked.

  “Bobby Sanchez. No great discovery there. His family’s very socially prominent in the Hispanic community and very religious. But you knew that. If he had a motive, it had to be those pictures. Which we only know about through Ms. Contreras’s statement. Do you think they really exist?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, suddenly frustrated with this whole scenario. “Isaac never found any negatives. Maybe whoever sent them to Olivia has them.” It embarrassed me knowing these intimate details about the lives of my friends and colleagues. How would I look them in the face again?

  Hearing the shower shut off, I said, “Hurry, anyone else?”

  “Olivia Contreras herself. A few parking tickets. A bust for being part of a sit-in during her sophomore year at Berkeley. She never graduated. Has worked a series of odd jobs since coming back to San Celina. Needs money, but then all of them do.”

  “So why is she driving a new truck?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “Leased maybe? I didn’t check on that.”

  I pushed myself out of my chair. “I suppose. Well, we’re not any closer to finding out who did this than I was fifteen minutes ago.”

  “Process it all for a while,” he advi
sed, ripping out the sheets of paper and handing them to me. “Something will click.”

  I lay in bed that night, the stories of each of the suspects swirling about my head, keeping me from sleep. Which of those circumstances would be grave enough to drive a person to kill? What circumstances would drive someone to that extreme? Would I—could I—ever be that desperate? I loved the ranch I grew up on with all my heart—it was a feeling that was hard to explain to someone whose only experience with the land was the small plot of ground in the back of their suburban tract home or condo. But would I kill for it? I know I wouldn’t. Human life was more important than rocks and trees. What about a position, a career? I knew of people who’d killed to preserve that. To protect someone I loved from physical harm? That I could imagine doing.

  Finally I eased out of bed and stood by the window, watching the shadows in our small front yard change and darken. In the dead of night, problems always seem larger, more impossible to solve—darkness seems to diminish us humans and our feeble attempts at bringing order to a chaotic universe. I thought about Shelby and a life lost so young and wondered if I’d just worded my advice differently, if she’d just not confronted her friend, if I’d just ... who knows what—she’d still be alive. I thought about Isaac and how successful his life had been professionally, and yet the two people he’d truly loved in his life were gone. I wondered about Kip and the family he’d left back in Montana—did they even think when they’d waved good-bye less than a year ago that they’d never see him again? And I thought of Jack—how in some ways my life with him almost seemed like a dream now. How Wade seemed only half a person without him. Was there anything I could do to help Wade move on?