“Hey, what’re you doing here?” he asked. Camera bags hung from both his shoulders, and he carried a long black bag that held the same portable portrait lighting that I’d lugged around countless times for Isaac.
“I teach a quilting class to some ladies who live here.” I set down my own bag on the green commercial carpet. “Well, I don’t actually teach them anything. I’m more a fetcher of coffee, threader of needles, and partaker of their wisdom. What’s your excuse?”
“Taking some photos of Mr. Nakamura. He’s turning one hundred in two weeks, and his family wanted a portrait.”
“Wow, one hundred. Hard to imagine.”
“He looks great. Says a glass of sake a day is his secret.” He grinned at me. “I took a couple photographs of him taking a shot of his favorite beverage. Not sure his family’s going to like those, but it sure made him smile.”
I laughed. “Guess centenarians are a nice break from coeds and babies.”
“You said it.”
After a few seconds of silence, I said, “I’d better get going. Gabe’ll be home soon. At least I hope so.”
“I know what you mean.” He struggled to move ahead of me to open the door, but his load made it an awkward dance.
“Please, let me be liberated,” I said, holding the door open for him. “You can get it next time.”
“Thanks. I’m all for women being liberated.” He walked ahead of me through the door. The cold burst of damp air made me shiver. Outside, the sky had cleared, and the stars were silver sparks in the sky. “Like I said, I know what you mean about late nights. I’ve been chief cook and bottle washer quite a few nights with Lillian. I think she’s growing more than a little tired of Campbell’s Tomato Soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. That’s the extent of my cooking expertise.”
“Lillian?”
“My mother-in-law. She had a stroke. That’s why we moved here from Louisiana. A helper comes in when we both have to be gone, but it’s expensive. Yvette and I try to handle the nights. But Yvette’s had lots of late nights since she got this job, what with this or that case, trying to make her mark. Now there’s this sniper business.” His gray eyebrows moved together in irritation. Then he flushed, obviously remembering in that split second who Yvette’s boss was. “Hey, I didn’t mean . . .”
“I totally understand,” I interrupted, shifting the quilt from one arm to the other. “That was whining from one law enforcement spouse to another.” I mimed zipping my lips. “Doesn’t go any further.”
His expression softened in relief. “Thanks. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. When we had to move here to help her mom, we were just thankful that one of us landed a decent job. With insurance.”
I smiled sympathetically. “So important at our age.”
He grimaced. “Don’t remind me.”
“Why didn’t you take Lillian back with you to Louisiana?” I flinched inwardly when I said it, embarrassed by my bold question. Spending time with the ladies did that to me, made me often forget that not everyone wanted to be as candid as we were. “Never mind. I apologize for asking such a presumptuous question. Please, forget I asked.”
His Honda was parked next to my truck. He set his lights down and pushed the button on his key, releasing the trunk lid. “Don’t worry about it. It’s a legitimate question. Simply put, she’s stubborn. She wouldn’t move in with us or wouldn’t let us hire anyone to stay with her or even consider an assisted living place.”
“How long have you been taking care of her?”
“Almost a year. Yvette initially took a leave of absence, then realized that she’d . . . we’d . . . have to move here. That’s when she applied at the department. Your husband was very kind to hire her.”
“He is kind, but he wouldn’t have hired her if she wasn’t good,” I said.
Van nodded.
“Does she have any other family to help?”
“A brother, but he’s a mess emotionally and financially. Last time we heard, he was living in a trailer down in Baja California. All the responsibility is on Yvette’s shoulders.”
“And yours,” I said, trying to be sympathetic.
He gave a curt nod, lifting the bags into the trunk.
“Maybe if you could get her down here to Oakview Terrace and meet some of the ladies in my quilt group she’d reconsider . . .”
“I wish,” he said, slamming down the trunk lid.
“I’m sorry.” I’d obviously hit a tender nerve.
He waited a second, then turned around to face me, his expression mild. “It’s all right. I’ve traveled all over the world as a photographer and seen hundreds of people who have it worse than I ever could imagine. It’s just not what I expected to be doing at this point in my life.” He gave a wry half smile. “I suppose millions of baby boomers could say the same thing.”
I nodded. “By the way, the photos you took of my goddaughter were incredible. You captured her perfectly.” It seemed like changing the subject was the kindest thing I could do.
He stared at me a moment as if not comprehending my words. “Oh, yes, the bunny suit. Thanks. Not exactly Pulitzer work, but it helps pay the bills.” He held up a hand. “See you round the campfire, as my dad used to say.”
“Yes,” I said, feeling totally stupid for bringing up Sophie’s pictures. But I’d wanted to end with something positive. “Take care. You know, what you’re doing, you’re a hero too.”
He rolled his eyes and saluted me with his keys.
It had to have been hard to uproot your whole life to go care for your wife’s mother, I thought, starting my truck. I wasn’t sure if I could do it. On the drive home I thought about that, whether I could leave San Celina and move to Wichita if Gabe’s mother needed care and she refused to move. I loved Gabe, but that was beyond my capacity to imagine. How selfish was that?
Gabe finally came home at ten p.m., looking like he hadn’t slept in a week. While he took a shower, I made him some warm almond milk, figuring he didn’t need the extra stimulus from cocoa. I added a banana to his plate and some graham crackers spread with peanut butter. Kindergarten food, but comforting.
And that was what he needed right now—pure comfort. I waited for him in the kitchen, wondering briefly if Van did anything like this for his wife when she got home from a long day. He was a good guy, but after caring for his mother-in-law all evening, it seemed likely that both he and Yvette needed someone to pamper them.
“No leads?” I asked when Gabe sat down at the table. His black hair was dark and wet, the strands of gray at his temple just barely noticeable. He smelled of Zest soap and mint shampoo.
“No.” He sipped the hot milk. “Do you mind if we talk about something else? Tell me about something that has absolutely nothing to do with my job.”
“Sure.” I sat down across from him, picked up one of the graham crackers spread with peanut butter. “I spent most of the day driving around the county with Lin Snider.” I glanced up at his face, waiting for a reaction.
“Who’s that?” he asked, his expression guileless.
I told him how Lin and Amanda met at the health food store, how Lin was looking for a place to retire, had been at the folk art museum using one of the pottery wheels. During my explanation, I could tell his attention was wandering, probably thinking about the sniper.
A flood of relief washed through me. He wasn’t acting. Lin Snider didn’t set off any alarms.
“Then I went to Oak Terrace and helped finish another graveyard quilt with the ladies. Saw Van Baxter there.”
Gabe cocked his head. “Who?”
“Detective Arnaud’s husband.”
“Right, I knew that. He’s the photographer guy.”
“Yes.” I didn’t mention what he and I had discussed. “How’s she working out?”
“She fit right in without a wrinkle. Her experience with a similar situation to this sniper has been invaluable.”
“Did they catch the sniper in . . . where was it?”
“New Iberia. Yes, they did. It was a disgruntled postal worker, of all things, who was also a veteran.”
“Wow, double cliché.”
“No kidding.”
I picked up his empty mug. “More?”
He shook his head no. “I need to get some sleep. Another long day tomorrow.”
“I’ll let Scout out in the back for a last trip outside, then I’ll lock up.”
After I’d locked the house and set the alarm, I went upstairs to our bedroom hoping to see Gabe in his usual spot. He’d turned both bedside lamps on and folded back the comforter, but he wasn’t there. I walked down the hallway to the guest room.
“I think this is silly,” I said, standing in the doorway. He was already under the covers, reading a magazine.
“Humor me,” he said, not looking up. “At least until we catch this guy.”
I crossed my arms and didn’t reply.
He finally looked up. “Come here.”
I walked across the room and climbed up on the bed, straddling him. I took his face in my hands and looked into his eyes. His jaw tightened briefly, then relaxed. I brought my face to his and brushed his lips with mine. “I miss you.”
He kissed me back, hard enough to leave me breathless. “Give me a few more nights. I need to . . . figure this out.”
Though I wanted to argue, I didn’t. He didn’t need more stress in his life right now. But when this sniper was caught, my husband and I were going to have a long talk about how to deal with his broken soldier’s heart. About what I felt about it. Because it was about my choices too.
Until then, it appeared, we’d sleep apart. I kissed him again and repeated the words he said to me every night on the phone when we were dating, “Dream sweet.”
CHAPTER 9
AFTER GABE LEFT THE NEXT MORNING, I TOOK SCOUT FOR A walk and ended up at Emory and Elvia’s house. She had already left for work and Sophie was staying with her abuelita Aragon. Emory and I sat on the wide front porch in matching Shaker-style rocking chairs. It reminded me of his dad’s house in Sugartree where he and I had spent long, hot Arkansas afternoons in the deep shadows of their Victorian front porch drinking sweet tea and eating banana pudding. This morning we drank tall mugs of Community Coffee, a regional brand he had shipped in from Louisiana.
“You and Hud,” I said, sipping the strong, nutty-tasting coffee that I, like a coward—Hud always declared—blasphemed with cream and sugar. “You’re determined to Southernize San Celina County.”
“Detective Hudson has excellent taste,” Emory said, toasting me with his red-striped mug. “At least in coffee. Community is the best caffeine delivery liquid on earth.” He rocked slowly, waving at our elderly neighbors, twins Beebs and Millee Crosby, who were power walking in identical burgundy velour tracksuits and white visors.
“Signed up for cane fu,” Beebs called out. “Dove and Garnet say it’s the bomb. That’s good, you know.” She stopped, adjusted her visor, walking in place. “Doesn’t mean something is going to actually blow up.”
“Thanks for the clarification,” I called back, winking at Emory.
“My cane is lavender,” Millee sang out, matching her sister step for step. “With black lightning bolts.”
“Very Harry Potter,” I replied. Scout’s tail thumped on the wooden porch. The Crosby twins were his favorite neighbors, as well as mine. Their treats—for both humans and canines—were always generous and homemade.
“Harry who?” Millee yelled, her arms pumping high as they continued their walk.
Emory chuckled and looked over at me. “So, how are things at home?”
I looked down into my tan coffee. “All right.”
“Are you sure there isn’t anything I can do to help you?”
“I’m sure.”
“Seriously, Benni, this has been weighing on my mind since you told me. I want to help. If Gabe won’t talk to a professional, maybe he’ll talk to me.”
“No,” I said quickly. “Honestly, Emory, it’s better if you just leave it alone. I can handle this.”
He started rocking faster, obviously agitated. I was beginning to regret telling him about Gabe. My cousin’s innate instinct to protect me, probably heightened by his own new role as father, was reassuring, but I still needed to nip his desire to intervene in the bud.
“You know,” I said, determined to distract him, “there is something you can do for me.”
His rocking slowed to a more leisurely rhythm. “Name it.”
“There’s this woman I need checked out.”
His chair came to a complete stop, his expression uneasy. “Why?”
I started rocking, trying to make my voice casual. “Just humor me, because this is going to sound nuts. But there’s this woman who has sort of popped up in my life recently and I’m afraid . . . well, remember Del?”
“Say no more,” Emory said, holding up a hand. “I still feel horrible that I wasn’t there for you when that she-devil tried to break up your marriage.”
I snickered. “She-devil? Shades of bad Tennessee Williams dialogue. You’ve been watching too many Southern B movies.”
“Colic will do that to a person. You would not believe the movies they show at three a.m.”
I reached over and patted his hand. “You were in the midst of getting married when Del swooped down into my life . . .”
“Like a rabies-infested vampire bat,” Emory said.
“Good analogy, but I made it through that, and it was much worse than what I’m going through now.”
“So, what woman is trying to snatch your man this time?”
I leaned my head back against the smooth wood. “That’s just it. I’m not certain she has anything to do with Gabe. It’s just a couple of suspicious moments that, because I’m obviously emotionally raw and totally paranoid, I’ve worked into someone who is stalking us from his past.”
“Details, my little kumquat,” he said.
I quickly told him about spotting the person at the Harper Ranch, how Lin Snider just happened to meet up with Amanda and finagled meeting me, her probing questions yesterday, the fact that she drove a car similar to the one I saw at the ranch and the thing that bugged me the most, how she knew Gabe was a marine when I was absolutely sure now I’d never mentioned it.
“You know,” I said, draining my mug, “actually stating my suspicions out loud makes me realize how lame my case is.”
“It’s understandable for you to be wary,” Emory said.
“Except that situation with Del happened three years ago.”
Emory nodded. “Yes, but something like that stays with a person a long time.”
I set my mug down on the porch next to my chair. “Am I being totally crazy?”
He smiled at me, poking my calf with his leather house slipper. “Yes, but your suspicious nature is one of the things that makes you so intriguing. I can have her checked out, if you like. I know a discreet investigator I met when I worked at the Tribune.” When Emory first moved here to woo Elvia, he worked for a short time at the San Celina Tribune. They still missed him, a friend of mine who works as the city editor, said. He always made sure there were doughnuts and bagels every day in the break room. “Give me her name and some details.”
“Lin Snider. Short for Linda. I’d guess she’s in her early to mid-fifties. Silver hair. Blue eyes. About five nine or five ten. Very thin.”
“Where’s she from . . . or rather, where does she say she’s from?”
“Seattle area. Her dad was career military, died when she was in college. Her mom died when she was five. No siblings. On the co-op application, she put her “in case of emergency” person as Amanda. But she barely knows her.”
“That is odd. Like maybe she’s hiding something?”
I stopped my rocker with one foot and scooted forward. “Exactly. I do have her license plate number. It is from Washington, so she wasn’t lying there. It’s in my purse. I’ll call you when I get home.”
He nodded
. “I’ll sic my investigator on her. Never hurts to do a little background check.”
“Thanks, Emory. If nothing else, it’ll just relieve my mind.” I stood up to leave.
He stood up too and pulled me into a hug. “By the way, your clever little diversionary tactic didn’t work. I’m still watching what’s going on with you and Gabe. I’ll step in if I have to.”
I hugged him back and didn’t answer.
“I’ll call you as soon as I hear anything,” he said, walking Scout and me down the steps.
Back at home, I dug out my checkbook and called the license plate number over to Emory. Then I contemplated my day. Everything was so organized with the Memory Festival that I didn’t have much to do. Once I went to the folk art museum and gathered up what we’d need for the booth at the farmers’ market tonight, my day was free. On the drive over to the museum, I wondered what precautions the police department was taking for the farmers’ market. I couldn’t be the only person worrying the sniper would strike again.
San Celina’s Thursday night farmers’ market had become one of the most famous farmers’ markets in the state. It was actually a combination of street fair/farmers’ market and became an eagerly anticipated event for tourists, locals and Cal-Poly students. Besides providing a seasonal variety of local fruits and vegetables, the weekly event offered grilled tri-tip, giant turkey legs, smoked chicken, ribs, barbecued Portuguese luinguiça sausage as well as homemade pizza, spicy carne asada tacos or Hatch green chile–cheese tamales. Then there was the deadly rich, home-style ice cream made by Cal Poly’s Food Service department. Besides the food, there were craft booths, political booths, henna tattoos and face painting. And there was always some band playing—blues, zydeco, country, oldies rock, Cajun, or mariachi. Every Thursday night downtown San Celina was off limits to cars so people could wander the market on foot.
It was busy at the folk art museum with three school tours and dozens of artists working on last-minute projects to sell at the Memory Festival. I spent the next hour packing up the flyers, posters and raffle tickets for the booth tonight. We would be displaying the Coffin Star Quilt Guild’s Coffin quilt and making another big push to sell raffle tickets. When I was finished, I called the ranch to see how things were going. Uncle WW answered.
Spider Web Page 13
