Irish Chain

by Earlene Fowler

  “Chief Big Shot too busy to leave the office, huh?” He threw in extra containers of their extra-hot jalapeno chile salsa.

  “You know how it is. Crime never sleeps.”

  “Well, tell him I caught that wahoo just for him ’cause I knew it was his favorite.” Joe spent half his time on his family’s fishing boat catching the pescado de hoy listed on the blackboard every morning.

  “Joe, you know as well as I do that he doesn’t let anyone slide on their parking tickets.”

  He laughed. “Hey, it doesn’t hurt to butter up the law when you can. Why do you think I keep this around?” He handed me a can of Welch’s Grape soda. “What does he see in that stuff?”

  “Beats me,” I said, handing him my money. “I think it’s all those electrical storms they have in the Midwest. Short-circuited his brain.”

  I couldn’t decide if my luck was good or bad when I drove into the police department’s parking lot and his Corvette was in its space. I looked at his personalized license plate—68 VET. It had a triple meaning—the year of the car, the year he graduated high school midterm, the year he went to Vietnam. Layers of meaning. Seemingly straightforward on top, more complex as you delved into it. A lot like its owner.

  “What are you doing up here?” I asked Miguel, another of Elvia’s six younger brothers. He sat behind the front counter filling an old gray stapler. Gabe had recently instituted a new policy under which none of the patrol officers worked the front desk unless they were injured. A waste of good training, he’d said.

  Miguel slammed the stapler shut and shoved it aside. “Hurt my knee last week trying to handcuff some stupid-ass drunk college twerp. I’ll be back out in a few days.”

  “Head honcho around?” I asked.

  His broad chest inflated and he let out a sharp breath, narrowing his dark-chocolate eyes at me. “Oh, he’s around all right. What I want to know is what you did to him and whatever it is, cut it out before the whole force goes on strike.”

  “Bad mood, huh?”

  “The worst.” He buzzed the swinging door to unlock it and let me into the office area. “Do something, Benni. Before there’s a mutiny.”

  “You know, I am not the only thing in his life that could cause a bad mood.”

  Miguel gave a mocking snort. “I have a girlfriend. Nothin’ messes with our minds like you women.”

  “Turn blue,” I said cheerfully, reverting to one of our childhood insults.

  “I mean it,” he called after me. “They’re cutting the plank out in Maintenance right now.”

  It took me a few minutes to dig up the nerve to knock on the heavy wood door bearing the brass nameplate AARON DAVIDSON, CHIEF OF POLICE. Another reminder of the tenuousness of my relationship with Gabe. Would they offer him a permanent job now that it was practically certain Aaron would resign? Would he take it? Did I really want him to?

  When silence answered my second knock, I opened the door. The room was cool and empty and so quiet the sound of the city’s maintenance yard filtered through the large picture window on the north wall. I walked across the plush brown carpet and set the two white lunch sacks on the corner of his desk. The papers spread across the polished oak executive desk told me he’d only stepped away for a moment; otherwise they’d be neatly filed away. Studying someone’s workspace when they aren’t around reveals a lot about a person, though this office didn’t tell me anything about Gabe I didn’t already know—organized, quiet, calm, but with an electric undercurrent of activity, of things getting done quickly, properly. It still looked as if he were visiting though, something that vaguely troubled me. The decor in this room had become familiar to me in the last few months: the surrealistic cactus painting behind his desk, the brass Star of David paperweight, the picture of Aaron’s wife, Rachel, and their daughter, Esther, on the oak credenza behind the tall black leather executive chair. But nothing said “Gabriel Ortiz,” even though he’d worked here almost six months. After a minute or so of honest resistance to temptation, I riffled through the papers on his desk, my heart a pulsating drumbeat in my ears. Most of them were scientific jargon that didn’t mean squat to me, but one page was as clear as a mama cow’s bawl on branding day. It was a faxed copy of a Delta County, Colorado, Sheriffs criminal record on Clayton O’Hara. He’d been arrested three times in 1988 for DUI, twice in 1990 for simple assault, and twice in 1992, both times for aggravated assault, battery and resisting arrest. In each case the charges were dropped or reduced with sentence suspended. It didn’t take a dummy to see he’d apparently never learned to control that temper of his and that someone, probably his father, had quite a bit of influence in Delta County.

  I carefully slipped the fax back where I found it and was standing by the window observing the workers in the maintenance yard when the door opened.

  We contemplated each other warily for a moment, neither of us knowing exactly what to say. I broke the silence.

  “I brought you lunch.”

  “So I see.” He sat down in his chair, his face blank, his eyes steely and unwavering and lobbed the ball back into my court.

  I walked over and stood next to his desk. “Look, I’m sorry I hung up on you last night. That was rude.”

  “Yes, it was.”

  “But I don’t like you calling my grandmother when you don’t like something I do.”

  “I wouldn’t if you’d listen to me and stay out of this investigation.” He leaned back in his chair, a critical, cool look on his face. “I’m only thinking of your safety.”

  I crossed my arms and stared back. In my opinion, my safety wasn’t the only topic of debate here. Anger flickered between us like static electricity, but this time I wasn’t going to be the one to give in.

  “Look,” he finally said. “I’m having a real bad day and I’d rather not get into this now. Why don’t we just deal with it later?”

  “We’re going to have to deal with it someday,” I pointed out. “One way or another.”

  “I’m starved,” he said, opening one of the bags. The smoky aroma of broiled fish and warm corn tortillas filled the room. “This looks great.” He opened the other bag, pulled out the sweating can of grape soda, and grinned.

  “I don’t see how you can stand that stuff,” I said, annoyed but secretly relieved. Deep down, I wanted to avoid the conflict as much as he did.

  “Well, it’s not as good as Nehi, but it’ll do.” He stripped off his navy suit coat, loosened his tie and rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt.

  We talked about inconsequential things as we ate—how he was going to fix the clutch on my truck, my interviews for the Historical Society, our plans to visit Aaron and Rachel the day after tomorrow.

  “I’d better get back to the museum,” I said, stuffing empty wrappers in the white bags. “I don’t have much time left to finish this exhibit.”

  “Just a minute, I want you to see something.” He shuffled through the papers he’d stacked to the side while we ate. He held out the fax containing Clay’s criminal record. “I thought you’d like to take a look at this one more time.”

  “What do you mean?” I hoped my face didn’t look as guilty as my voice sounded.

  The edges of his mouth turned down in a jaded look. I grabbed the fax, skimmed it and shoved it back across the desk. “So?”

  “Since you insist on seeing him, I just want you to know who you’re dealing with.”

  “So he has a bit of a temper. I knew that. That doesn’t mean he would kill a couple of harmless old people. These were probably barroom brawls. Big difference between that and murdering senior citizens.”

  Gabe propped his elbow on his chair arm, rested his chin in his hand, and regarded me with unblinking eyes. The question in them was the same one in my mind, though I wasn’t about to say it out loud. Why was I defending Clay? What possible difference could it make to me one way or another? For an uncomfortable moment, I felt seventeen again. Maybe the answer lay there somewhere. Of course, the scenario was a bit diff
erent this time. I was a grown woman and Gabe definitely wasn’t my father.

  “I gotta go,” I said, tossing the bags in the trash and heading for the door.

  “Benni—” His serious tone stopped me, my hand frozen on the doorknob. Reluctantly, I turned my head around.

  He sat forward in his chair and picked up a pencil, moving it back and forth through his fingers. “There’s no reason for me to tell you this.”

  I let go of the door and faced him. He continued playing with the pencil. “Well?” I said impatiently.

  “Our source in Colorado says Clay and his father might inherit a substantial part of Mr. O’Hara’s estate.”

  “You don’t know what’s in Mr. O’Hara’s will? I thought the police had access to that sort of information.”

  “Unfortunately, we don’t until it’s probated and made public record. And that could take months or years depending on how long his attorney chooses to hold things up.”

  “What does Clay say?”

  “Obviously, he’s not talking.”

  I thought about that for a moment. “Even if he does inherit, that’s just circumstantial evidence.”

  “True.” He pulled at his mustache and frowned. “But we’re waiting for more information about how badly they could use that money and how quickly they need it. As you well know, cattle ranches aren’t the best way to make a living these days. Circumstances may have compelled your Mr. O’Hara into deciding he couldn’t wait for his uncle’s natural death.”

  “But why would he kill Miss Violet? That doesn’t make sense. There were plenty of opportunities for him to kill his uncle without making it a double murder. Why would he risk that?”

  “Good questions. And ones I will find the answers to, not you.”

  “I’ll ask you one more time. Is Clay the only suspect?”

  “No.” He lifted his chin slightly.

  “Who are the others?”

  He laughed sarcastically and stood up. “I’m not that crazy. I’m having a hard enough time keeping you away from Clay O’Hara. You think I want to make my job even more difficult? Now be a muchacha buena and go back to the museum.”

  I cocked an eyebrow. “Be a good girl? Really, Gabe, let’s not try for the sexist Hall of Fame here.”

  “Sweetheart, I was just kidding,” he said, coming around the desk and putting his arms around me. I pulled out of his embrace and reached for the door. He held it closed with the palm of his hand. I briefly contemplated a wrestling match, but he outweighed me by over eighty pounds. Resting my hand on the doorknob, I stared at the corded muscle under the dark hair on his forearm and tried to ignore the urge to touch my lips to it.

  “Benni,” he said. “Have a heart. Let’s not argue anymore.”

  I opened my mouth, ready to give another smart retort, when a peppery knock rattled the door.

  “Just a minute,” he called out, his hand still flat on the door.

  I twisted the knob and pulled lightly. “Okay, Tarzan, you can cut the chest-beating routine any time now.”

  “Not until we’ve hammered this out or you’re at least smiling.”

  I glared up at him. “Isn’t that just like a man? Now that you’re ready to talk, I’m supposed to snap to it. Well, guess again, pal.”

  “I don’t have any appointments. I can stand here all day.”

  The phone on his desk buzzed.

  “Looks like your adoring public is calling,” I said smugly. “You’d better let me go before your employees get the idea you’re ravishing me in here or something.”

  He bent his head, brushed his lips across the soft, vulnerable spot just under my ear and whispered, “Querida, you don’t know ravishing yet.”

  The rasp of his mustache against my neck caused my stomach to lurch and a nervous laugh gurgled from my throat.

  “That’s better,” he said, releasing his hand.

  “Friday, your chauvinism is beyond compare,” I said, irritated at my body’s swift response to him. “And don’t overestimate your abilities.”

  “Just the facts, ma’am, just the facts.”

  I groaned. “Give me a break.”

  “I’ll call Rachel tonight and see what would be a good time to go and see Aaron,” he said, walking back to the buzzing phone, a confident grin under his thick mustache. “I’ll let you know.”

  “Pardon me,” I said, pushing past the patrol officer standing outside the door, his face pink with embarrassment. Then I slammed it loudly behind me. Gabe’s laugh sounded through the thick oak.

  Miguel’s sour look hadn’t changed in the last hour. “Did you kiss and make up?” he asked. “Can I call Maintenance and stop construction?”

  “You know, you’re being awfully cocky to someone who could tell stories to your macho buddies about your rabid fear of lizards, when you really stopped wetting the bed, what your father’s favorite nickname for you is—mi pollo chiquito....”

  “Ah, Benni,” he said, glancing around to see if anyone heard, his cheeks a rosy nutmeg. “I was just kidding.”

  “That seems to be the operative word around here today,” I said.

  As I walked back out to the truck, needles of guilt still pricked at my conscience because of the information I was keeping from Gabe. But as much as he was beginning to mean to me, I couldn’t imagine a permanent relationship with someone who insisted on keeping me out of a whole section of his life. It was simply a matter of trust. Was I in love with him? Who could tell? The last time I fell in love I was sixteen years old. My emotional feelings for Gabe felt entirely different from those I remember experiencing when I first met Jack as an adolescent, though my physical reactions were embarrassingly similar. All I knew was that at thirty-four, relationships were certainly more complex. Of course, I don’t know why that should surprise me, everything else was too.

  Since, as usual, I couldn’t figure out my personal life, I decided to get back to the museum and catch up on some work. I’d had three new assistants in the last two months, none of whom lasted longer than two weeks. We could only afford to pay minimum wage for the twenty-hour-a-week position and the students who had tried the job came to the astute conclusion that McDonald’s or Taco Bell was easier and less responsibility. My preferred method of supervision was to give my assistant a job list for the week and have the work completed without any further prompting from me. That proved to be too complicated for most college students. I was almost done with the cross-stitch exhibit, but there were piles of paperwork to catch up on, a maintenance check on all the equipment, more beggary letters to compose and send and a stack of forms that needed to be filled out for the city concerning the earthquake safety of the museum. That didn’t even include keeping everything clean and supplies ordered. Desperation for an assistant was rapidly overtaking me.

  While driving past the museum’s nearest neighbor, the monolithic silver building of the Coastal Valley Farm Supply, I automatically searched the crowded parking lot for familiar ranch trucks. At the San Celina Feed and Grain Co-op across the street, I spotted the white GMC pickup of Daddy’s best friend, Mr. Allison. He was probably sitting on one of the hay bales in back, spitting from his cheekful of Copenhagen into an empty Coke can and complaining about the low price his Angus calves were fetching this year. It seemed a lifetime ago when my weekly trip to one or both of those places was as much a part of my life as the daily flossing of my teeth.

  The museum’s gravel parking lot was packed with cars. Most of the artists were over the post-Christmas doldrums and gearing up for the Mardi Gras Street Festival where the co-op would set up a large crafts booth. The festival-loving Central Coast was a lifeline for most of the artisans, bringing in throngs of tourists and locals to purchase their work. In the co-op studios, every corner bustled with some sort of activity—the buzz of conversation and machines sounded almost as comforting to me as the sound of lowing cattle.

  “You’ve got a visitor,” Malcolm said. He switched off the spinning pottery wheel and twisted
around to face me. “Actually, I think he’s an applicant.”

  “Oh, that’s ... great,” I said, trying to sound enthusiastic and wondering what Cal Poly’s job placement office had sent over this time.

  “Your excitement is overwhelming,” he said with a chuckle. He picked up a stained rag and started wiping the slick clay from his hands.

  “Well, you have to admit, things have been a bit erratic for me in that department lately.”

  “Cheer up, this may be your lucky day.”

  “Yeah, right.” I headed toward the long hallway that leads past the woodshop and storage rooms, humming “I Feel Lucky” by Mary Chapin Carpenter, hoping my positive attitude would influence fate. Passing by the open door of the woodshop, I waved to the three men cutting out animal-shaped clock faces for the tole painters. The saws and sanders buzzed in a high-pitched symphony that smelled as sweet and full of possibilities as the first day of summer.

  Ahead of me, my office door loomed. Behind it could be a prize or a dud. I was beginning to wonder if the lady at the placement office had a grudge against me. Of course, the less than enthusiastic response to the job might have something to do with the fact that my last assistant was killed on the premises. I opened the door and looked at the young man sitting in the visitor’s chair in front of my desk, cradling a camera in his lap.

  “Todd,” I said, surprised. “I ... Can I help you?” I looked around my small office. “There was supposed to be someone here from the college for the assistant’s job. Did they leave?”

  “It’s me,” he said, looking down at the floor, his fingers caressing the Nikon. “I want it.”

  “Oh.” I sat down in my chair, a bit taken aback. “I thought Ramon said you worked with your grandfather. We need someone who can work at least twenty hours a week. Sometimes on the weekends. Can you manage two jobs and your classes too?”