From the folk art museum, it was a twenty-minute drive to Morro Bay.
I figured that gave me an hour, tops, to search her motel room. That left forty minutes to drive back to the folk art museum and replace the key before Lin’s time was up. Since there wasn’t anyone else scheduled on the wheel, there was a good chance she’d work past her time so she could finish her project.
Sitting in my truck, I checked my Thomas map book. The Spotted Pelican hotel was on the corner of Main and Ocean Bluff Way, overlooking the Embarcadero and Morro Rock. I found it easily, tipped off by a five-foot metal sculpture of a pelican in front of the black and white fifties-era motel. The three-story building appeared to have recently been renovated. Neatly trimmed trees dotted the parking lots and bright red and yellow flowers in barrel-size terra-cotta pots book-ended the office’s double glass doors. Five or six cars parked in front had open doors and people rearranging possessions, obviously checking out.
I parked my truck around the corner, out of sight of the office, and walked around the building looking for a door that would allow me entrance to the hotel’s inside hallways without meandering through the lobby trying to pretend I belonged there. I was in luck. An outside staircase led up to the second and third floors. I walked up, opened the security door with my stolen key, keeping my head high, willing myself to look like I was just dashing back to my room for a forgotten item.
My acting job, for whatever it was worth, was unnecessary, because I didn’t meet one person before I reached her room on the third floor. I passed by a couple of open doors, blocked by heavy metal room maintenance carts loaded with clean towels, tiny soaps and shampoos and packets of coffee. But the maids were busy cleaning the rooms and didn’t even give me a second glance. I slipped the key into room 312, took a deep breath because at this very moment I knew I was breaking the law, and opened the door.
Her room had already been cleaned. That was a lucky break. I’d attempt to put everything back exactly where I found it, but if I didn’t, it was believable that the maid might have moved something, so Lin wouldn’t suspect her room had been searched. I surveyed the room. The walls were painted a pale aqua and the room was decorated with black-framed copies of Audubon’s detailed bird illustrations. A white and navy striped comforter covered the king-size bed. One overstuffed chair and ottoman were upholstered in the same fabric. The curtains and carpet were solid navy. The maid had opened the drapes halfway, allowing natural light to filter through the white sheers.
I looked at my watch. Forty-five minutes left. Be methodical. There’s no time to waste.
I started with the bathroom. Her few cosmetics and skin care products were placed neatly in the corner of the counter—toothbrush, toothpaste and dental floss; Neutrogena night cream; Aveeno day cream SPF 15; Burt’s Bees lip gloss; that ubiquitous green and pink tube of black Maybelline mascara; Cover Girl liquid makeup and matching face powder; a travel-size jar of Vaseline; a travel-size container marked “hand lotion.” I opened the container and brought it to my nose, inhaled the familiar cherry-almond scent of the original Jergens. The same lotion Dove and Aunt Garnet used. The same hand lotion many of the women in the Coffin Star Quilt Guild used. The scent always seemed to be part of anything I did with the older women I loved and admired. I’d always imagined that when I reached a “certain” age, the age of wisdom is how I thought of it, I’d stop using my favorite hand-cream-of-the-month and permanently graduate to Jergens.
On the floor sat her overnight bag, that old-fashioned square kind that reminded me of movie stars in the 1950s like Marilyn Monroe or Doris Day. The glossy leather case was gray with black stitching, worn at the corners from use. I poked through its spare contents. It didn’t reveal much more than the products on the counter—an expensive, wood-handled boar’s bristle hairbrush, three more packets of tissue like the one she’d given me after my cocoa spill, two pairs of thin wool socks and a manicure set in a green leather pouch. There was also generic aspirin, calcium tablets, fish oil capsules, Tylenol PM and a small, unmarked prescription bottle filled with red and white pills. I opened the bottle, shook one out. No markings that I could see. The shower revealed only a pink disposable razor and an unwrapped hotel soap bar.
I went back into the room and checked her nightstand. On the surface was a travel clock, a pair of eyeglasses in a maroon case, a small jade animal that looked like a bull with curvy horns, and a shiny blue dish that looked like a young child made it. A pair of silver hoop earrings and a handful of seashells filled the dish. I picked up the dish and looked at the bottom. A small thumbprint was pressed into the baked clay. I walked around the bed to the other nightstand that held only a hardback book: Losing It—An Easy and Practical Guide to Facing Your Past and Moving Forward.
The author, a psychologist from Portland, Oregon, had visited Blind Harry’s Bookstore a few months ago as part of his book-signing tour. His book was recently featured in USA Today. He’d talked about moving forward from every type of loss a human could experience—divorce, death, health, family, income, job, friendship. His simple steps to deal with those losses seemed to hit a nerve with the seventy or so people who came to the signing. Elvia had sold out of his books.
I turned the book over. The price tag was from a store in Oklahoma City. Oklahoma City? That seemed odd since she claimed and her license plate verified that she was from Washington. A bookmark held her place on page 197, approximately halfway through the book. The chapter had to do with the pros and cons of seeking out people in your past to whom you never said good-bye and making peace with them.
I set the book back on the nightstand, my stomach churning. What had I expected? It was becoming clear that Lin Snider was someone from Gabe’s past—another someone. Was I doomed to repeat this scenario until we died or until it finally broke us up?
I shook my head, forcing myself to ignore the self-pity welling up inside me. I had a job to do and not much more time to accomplish it. I opened the nightstand drawer. Nothing but a black Gideon Bible and a Morro Bay telephone book. Next, I checked the dresser drawers in the cabinet that held the television. It held a neatly folded flowered nightgown, a pair of soft pink socks and a black cashmere scarf. A plastic sack from a local grocery store held what appeared to be her dirty clothes. The second and third drawers contained only extra pillows and blankets.
That left only her suitcase. I stared down at the closed suitcase. It was made of bland black fabric and was just a little too big to be a carry-on. I unzipped it and opened the lid, carefully feeling through her clothes, trying not to disturb anything. A woodsy scent floated up from her clothes reminding me a little of the patchouli that was popular with teenagers when I was a little girl.
In the bottom of the suitcase, I found a plastic CD cover—Elvis Presley’s Greatest Hits.
Ha, I thought. It was you out at the ranch.
Well, maybe. Only a gazillion people had Elvis CDs.
I looked through each inside pocket finding only cotton underwear, beige bras and another pair of black socks. Then, just as I was about to give up and conclude that my illegal search had been in vain, I hit the jackpot.
CHAPTER 14
WELL, A PENNY JACKPOT. BUT, AT LEAST IT APPEARED TO BE SOMETHING personal. Something that connected her with someone.
It was a photograph. A three-by-five photograph of a Hispanic girl who could be anywhere from her late teens to late twenties. It was hard to tell because she had the almond-shaped eyes and smooth, almost ageless facial features of a person with Down syndrome.
The smiling young woman stood in front of a large bottlebrush bush covered with bright red flowers. She wore loose jeans rolled to her calves, a yellow blouse with ruffles down the front and pink high-top Converse tennis shoes. Dark glossy hair cut in a chin-length bob with thick, slightly uneven bangs framed her soft face. Her mischievous grin made me guess she might have trimmed them herself. She looked like at any minute she would burst out in laughter and run out of camera range.
> In the distant background was a hospital, one I recognized from many years of watching the soap opera General Hospital with Dove. A lot of people didn’t know that the hospital pictured in the opening credits that was supposed to be in fictional Port Charles, New York, was actually a photo of Los Angeles County–USC Medical Center.
I turned the photograph over. On the back was written—Tessa at place of birth—1997.
I stared more closely at the photograph. Who was this girl? Lin told me she didn’t have any children. Was this a niece or a friend’s daughter?
It hit me like the first jolt of an earthquake. I sat down hard on the bed, clutching the photograph.
The girl was Hispanic. There was no doubt about that. Who knows how many women Gabe been intimate with before we married. It was something I didn’t like to think about. But Gabe had lived in Los Angeles for many years.
My head started to feel light. I leaned forward, resting it on my knees.
Was that the reason Lin had been asking questions about me and how I felt about children? Was she trying to find out how I’d react if she presented Gabe with a daughter?
Lord, help me, I thought, my head still on my knees. This is big. I’m not sure I can do this.
I don’t know how long I sat there, but a knock on the door jerked me out of my frozen state.
“Housekeeping,” a female voice called.
I called through the door. “Yes?”
“The room, it is okay?”
I peered through the peephole. A middle-aged Hispanic woman held a clipboard. “Yes, it’s fine. Thank you.”
I watched her check off the room and walk away.
My watch told me I’d been sitting on the bed holding Tessa’s photograph for longer than I thought. It was almost one thirty. I should have left a half hour ago. I dug through my purse, propped the photo on the nightstand next to the travel clock and took a quick photo of it.
I put Tessa’s photograph back inside of the suitcase, surveyed the room one last time and left. Halfway down the hallway, I walked by one other person, an older woman wearing binoculars around her neck.
“A good day for ducks,” she said cheerfully. Her wet sandals squished when she walked.
I smiled without answering. Outside, a light rain had begun. I started my truck and pulled onto Main Street, not realizing how nervous I was until I came to the first stop sign. I started trembling so violently that I had to pull over to a side street. As I listened to the rainstorm grow stronger, it struck me that this moment was one I’d always remember. I’d always remember that this was the day I’d first seen the photo of a girl who might possibly be Gabe’s daughter. I stared out of my truck’s blurry windshield feeling like my and Gabe’s life together seemed perched over a precipice ready to fall into a deep, unfathomable canyon.
While the rain grew harder and throttled the roof of my truck, I wondered again if I was overreacting, jumping to some huge conclusion. I contemplated what I really knew about Lin Snider. That she was curious about me and my relationship with Gabe. That she was either Lin Snider or posing as Lin Snider. That she was from Washington. That she carried the photo of a young Hispanic woman with Down syndrome who may or may not be her daughter. It was all such a jumble of suppositions. Should I go to Gabe? If it turned out to be nothing, he’d be upset that I’d manufactured a mystery where there wasn’t one. If there was something to it, did he really need to deal with it right now?
Except for one thing. I knew this man’s integrity. I knew this man’s heart. If this young woman, Tessa, was his daughter, he would take responsibility for her. He’d never turn his back on her. He would love her. Of that, I was certain.
Could I handle it, him having another child? Yes, I thought I could. Gabe loving another child didn’t bother me. Gabe having feelings for another woman. That was different. If this was his child, what had he felt for her mother, Lin?
I rubbed my aching temples, wishing there was an easy solution to this situation, wishing I knew more. I wanted to go to Gabe, not with suspicions, but with real facts.
I started the truck and drove back to the folk art museum. Right now, I had to sneak this key back into Lin’s purse before she realized it was gone.
The museum parking lot was almost empty when I drove in. I breezed through the museum and headed straight to the co-op buildings. Inside, a lone quilter, a woman named Sadie, was rolling up a half-quilted Log Cabin quilt.
“Hey, Benni,” she said.
“Hey, Sadie. Where is everyone?”
She chuckled. “Rain scared ’em off. Honestly, you Californians.” Sadie was from Oregon. “I told ’em I’d lock up when the potter is finished.” She jerked a thumb toward the hallway.
“I was born in Arkansas,” I said, laughing, without breaking stride toward my office. Down the hall, I could hear the chattering sound of a pottery wheel moving. I sent up a quick thank you.
I went into my office and locked the door. Then I shoved Lin’s hotel key back inside the paper key packet. I placed her purse back in the drawer, took a deep breath and unlocked my office door, feeling safe for the first time in hours. It felt like I’d run the Boston marathon. Twice.
She was just removing a pot when I wandered into the room.
“Hi,” she said, looking up and smiling. “Did the rain mess up any of your errands?”
I plastered a smile on my face and said, “Not at all. I got everything done that I’d planned.”
“Glad to hear that,” she said. “I’ll be finished in a minute. I accomplished much more than I anticipated.”
“Good. Well, see you later. Just let Sadie know when you’re leaving so she can lock up. I’ve got a dinner date.”
After saying good-bye to Sadie, I decided to go to the Target in Atascadero and have my roll of film developed at their one-hour photo. Normally I took my photos to Lopez Street Drugstore downtown, but they knew me too well there. They always flipped through my photos, and someone would want to know what the story was behind my photograph of a photograph.
An hour and a half later, I had my photo of Tessa. Not that I knew what to do with it.
The truck’s clock said four o’clock. I called Gabe on his cell.
He answered after the first ring. “Ortiz at your service. Day or night. Night preferred.”
I gave him the laugh he was angling for. “I’m assuming you looked at the screen and saw it was me. And I’m assuming you’re alone?”
“Who is this?” he asked.
“Ha-ha. What time are we going to dinner?”
There was a long silence.
“How about hot chocolate with marshmallows in our own home?” I asked, saving him from making an excuse. Anything to do with the sniper had to come first. “Whenever you get there.”
“I’m sorry. A new FBI guy just came into town and wants an update right away. I’m meeting him and Detective Arnaud at my office in a half hour. We’ll probably grab dinner downtown.”
“It’s okay, Friday. Really.” Actually, I was glad our plans had changed. I was afraid I’d be distracted tonight and that, somehow, he’d pry out of me why. I needed a few hours to regain my composure. “I’ll be waiting.”
“Thank you,” he said softly.
“Run like a rabbit.” It was one of his favorite lines from the Pink Panther movies.
I hung up and sat in the Target parking lot, thinking about who I could talk to about my latest suspicions. There was really only one person who knew as much about this situation as me.
I called Emory at home. He answered on the fourth ring, his voice groggy. “Umm . . . hello?”
“It’s Benni. You sound terrible. Are you sick?”
“No. Sophie. Colic. No sleep. Napping.”
“Oh, Emory, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you. Is my goddaughter okay? How’s Elvia holding up?”
“Sophie’s fine. She finally went to sleep two hours ago after sixteen hours of walking the floor. I mean us walking the floor holding her. Elvia’s i
n the master bedroom dead to the world. I’m in Sophie’s room sleeping on the floor. Mama Aragon is asleep in the guest room.”
“Wow. Again, I’m sorry.”
“Is there something you need?”
“No, just calling to say hi.” I wasn’t about to lay my latest problems on him right now. “I’ll catch you tomorrow when you’re back in the world of the living. Sweet dreams.”
“Love you,” he mumbled and hung up.
Okay, that left only one other person since my two best friends were out of commission. I found his number on my phone’s address list and dialed.
“Hey, ranch girl,” Hud said. “What’s up?”
“Are you free for dinner?”
“Depends on what you’re cookin’.”
“I’m not cooking anything, but I’d be happy to buy you dinner. I have . . . a dilemma.”
“Hmmm . . . sounds interesting. Where and when?”
“Liddie’s in a half hour? I don’t want this to look like a date, because it isn’t. I just need some law enforcement advice.”
“Your husband can’t help you?”
I was silent for a moment, wishing now that I’d called someone else. But who else could I call? “He’s kinda busy right now. In case you hadn’t noticed, there’s a crazy person with a loaded gun roaming the streets of San Celina.”
“This is about that lady the other night.” No grass grew under Detective Ford Hudson’s fancy alligator boots.
“Yes. I . . .” I chewed on my bottom lip. It was dry as a desert. “I sort of investigated her hotel room when she wasn’t . . . uh . . . there.”
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