He scooted down, took his beat-up Panama hat, the one he liked to wear when he was working, and moved it low over his eyes. “Did I ever tell you I was in Vietnam during the war?”
I sat up and crossed my legs. “No, but I’m not surprised. You’ve been everywhere.”
He chuckled under his hat. “Not everywhere, but a darn lot of places. Anyway, Gabe and I were talking a few months back and realized that we’d been in Vietnam about the same time.”
“Wow, that’s weird.”
“Yes, quite a coincidence. We might have crossed paths, though chances are we didn’t. I was there for National Geographic, so the military treated me well. I ate and drank with the officers. Gabe, being a marine grunt, didn’t get my perks, though he and his buddies certainly deserved them more than I.”
“I hate that about the military, all that hierarchy stuff. I would be a horrible military wife. If someone tells me I can’t go somewhere, that’s exactly where I want to go.”
“I think God placed you exactly where you should be.”
“So, what did you photograph in Vietnam? I don’t know much about it because I was so young when the war was going on. When you and Gabe were over there, I was ten years old, learning my times tables and how to groom a steer for show at the county fair.”
He inhaled deeply, crossing his arms over his chest. Above us I could hear birds rustling, the sound of a woodpecker. Misty snorted, pawed the ground, then settled back down. “Vietnam’s a beautiful country with wonderful people. What we did to it . . . well, don’t get me started on my soapbox. I may be a bit more left-wing than most about the devastation heaped on that little country.”
“Were your photos political at all?”
“No more so than any war photography. I concentrated on the beauty of the country, the warmth and resourcefulness of the people, the incredible landscape. I was trying to show what Vietnam was like before the war as well as during the war.”
“Did you photograph any soldiers?”
“I did for another assignment, one for AP. Anyway, to answer your original question, what I loved most in Vietnam were the people and their animals. Specifically how they interacted and worked together as a team. I was thinking about compiling some of those photographs using that theme. Kind of like the photograph I just took of you and Misty. It would fit in quite well.”
He’d snapped a shot of me blowing into Misty’s nostrils and Misty fluttering her lips in response. It was our special way of greeting each other.
“Did you take photos of Vietnamese kids and their dogs?”
“It was their relationships with water buffalos I found so fascinating. Water bos, our guys called them. They’re the symbol of Vietnam, you know, and most farmers owned one. They were extremely important to their livelihood. I loved watching the kids ride them like circus elephants, making them obey as if they were pet dogs. Those long, curved horns always reminded me of handlebar mustaches. Even the bravest soldiers and marines were very cautious around the water bos. The kids were fearless and used to laugh at how scared our troops were of the water buffaloes.”
It was later, when I was pulling into my driveway, that Isaac’s words struck something in me.
Those long, curved horns always reminded me of handlebar mustaches.
I dug through my purse and found the photos I just had developed at Target. I flipped through the photos of the Memory Festival until I found the photo I took of Tessa’s photo. Next to it, only partially visible since it wasn’t the focus of my photo, was the tiny jade animal with the big, curvy horns.
A water buffalo.
CHAPTER 15
HAD LIN BEEN IN VIETNAM? OR PERHAPS GABE SENT HER THAT gift or gave it to her after he returned. I leaned my head against the steering wheel, suddenly so weary of this whole scenario that I wished I could take a pill that would make me sleep for a month. I looked at my watch. It was almost two p.m., and I didn’t have a place I needed to be or a thing I absolutely needed to do.
So I called Elvia to see how Sophie was doing.
“She’s fine,” Elvia said. “The doctor said it’s common and that we did everything we could. Apparently, babies just have to grow out of it.”
“I’m glad to hear that. How’s Miguel? I meant to call this morning, but I figured you’d call me if there was bad news.”
“He’s fine. Driving everyone nuts because you know how he hates to stay still for very long.”
“Unless he’s playing video games.”
Elvia laughed. “Yes, that’s true. Actually, he’s bored with all his games.”
“How about I get him a new one.”
“He’d love that. He’s dying for James Bond 007.”
“I’ll run by Norman’s Toy Store.”
Fortunately, the toy store had the game Miguel wanted. In the parking lot of General Hospital, I called Hud’s cell phone. It went right to voice mail after one ring.
“Hey, Clouseau,” I said. “Any information yet? Call me as soon as you get this message. I have something to run by you about . . . our subject.”
The security around Miguel had relaxed a little, though there was still a police officer posted in the lobby and another one next to Miguel’s door. The officer at his door dutifully checked my identification despite knowing perfectly well who I was. He probably didn’t want me reporting to his boss about any lax in security.
Miguel sat up in his hospital bed wearing a small-print hospital nightgown and dark blue sweatpants. His room looked like a combination balloon store and funeral parlor. The sweet scent of the flowers fought with the lemon-pine scent of the hospital’s room cleaner. A basketball game blared from the overhead television. Miguel was playing video hangman with Gabe’s son, Sam.
“Madrastra!” Sam said. “Long time, no talk.”
“I’ve been around.”
“He’s been down south surfing, lucky dog,” Miguel said.
“Hey, I was helping my mom move too, bro,” Sam retorted.
“How’re you doing?” I went over and kissed Miguel’s cheek. “I’m so glad you’re okay,” I whispered in his ear.
“I’ll live. So, how come you’ve only visited me twice in the last week? I’ve kept track, you know.”
“I sent a basket of cookies, magazines, some balloons and, you’re right, I visited twice, but both times, you were asleep. Beside, you were not the easiest person to see. For a few days, this place was worse than Fort Knox. Your lovely sister and your handsome boss have kept me up on your progress. I don’t think you’ve been lonely one little bit.”
“He hasn’t,” Sam said. “You should see the girls who want to visit him.”
“Man, getting shot is totally better for getting girls than walking a puppy.”
“Walking a puppy probably hurts a lot less,” I commented.
“For sure,” Miguel said. “They said I can maybe go back to work in eight weeks. I’m already bored.”
“When are they saying you can go home?” I asked.
“Maybe next week.” His full mouth turned down at the corners. “I wish I could work this case. Man, I’d like a crack at the guy who did this.” His broad face tightened in anger.
“They’ll get him,” I said, patting his hand. “Is there anything I can do for you? I can’t imagine what else you need.” I handed him the video game. “Oh, Elvia said you wanted this.”
“Wow, thanks! I was getting bored with the old stuff.” He turned it over in his hands, his face resembling the five-year-old Miguel I remembered. Inside my chest, it felt like my heart shrank a little when I thought about how we could have lost him.
“I’ll come by your parents’ house in a few days,” I said. “Do what the doctors tell you to do. Don’t get all Latino male macho on me.”
“Ah, what do you know about Latino males?” Sam said, grinning at me.
I shot him with a finger pistol. “You, young man, need to come visit your father.”
Sam’s face turned serious. Except for his br
own eyes and the darker hue of his coppery skin, he could have been Gabe twenty years ago. Though Sam’s gregarious personality could sometime grate on Gabe’s nerves, his son was also one of the few people who could make Gabe laugh. “He needs you right now, Sam. He needs some laughs.”
“I’ll come by,” he said. “You know, I came back when Dove called me about Miguel. No one from my immediate family called me.”
I grimaced. “Guilty as charged. Someone should have. I apologize. What is it you young folk say—my bad?”
“Young folk?” Sam said, making a face at Miguel. “What is this, Little House on the Prairie?” They both burst out laughing.
“Glad I could amuse you two. You know, someday you young folk are going to be old, and we’ll see how funny you think it is.”
“Never happen,” Sam said. “Our generation’s going to find a cure for that.”
“For sure,” Miguel said.
“Good luck with that. I’ll catch you crazy boys later,” I said, smiling at their naïveté.
“Love you, mama dos,” Sam called after me.
“Me too,” Miguel echoed.
It made me happy that Sam would stop by to see his father. Now that their relationship had evened out—mostly because Gabe had learned to accept his son for who he was and not expect him to be a carbon copy of Gabe—they were really good for each other. Sam might be lacking a little in the ambition department, but that might change. With his easygoing personality, I had no doubt he’d always find a job of some kind.
The main parking lot for the hospital had been full when I’d arrived, so I’d had to park over on the side lot near the emergency room. So when I reached the lobby, I turned left to go through the emergency room waiting area, a shortcut to my truck. In the hallway outside the emergency room, I ran into Yvette Arnaud.
“Hey, Detective Arnaud,” I said. “Fancy meeting you here. Are you here to talk to Miguel again?”
“No, no,” she said. “My mother. She fell . . .”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said, instinctively reaching over to touch her arm despite the fact I barely knew her. “Is she hurt badly?”
“She hit her head. She’s getting a CT scan right now.” Her hand shook as she touched her mouth. “No one was there. I was working and Van was supposed . . . She was alone and then she fell. She lay there for hours. I . . .”
“When did she go in?” I asked.
“About ten minutes ago. They said she’d be there for about an hour.”
“Then you have time to get a cup of coffee. Let me take you down to the cafeteria . . .”
“No, I couldn’t . . . I mean . . . drink more caffeine.” Her smile was tremulous when she held out her hand. It was visibly shaking. “Glad I’m not working SWAT. Couldn’t shoot the broad side of an elephant today.”
“How about some herbal tea, then? Or a strawberry malt? Believe it or not, they make great shakes and malts in the hospital cafeteria. They won second place in the Tribune’s Best of San Celina competition.”
She hesitated, then said, “Okay.”
On the elevator ride down to the basement where the cafeteria was located, she told me some of the details about her mother’s dilemma.
“She has one of those neck things, you know, where you press the button and summon help?”
I nodded. I’d seen and made fun of the commercials for that product along with everyone else. Now that I had so many aging relatives, the product didn’t seem quite so funny. “Is that how she got help?”
“No, I found her. She was knocked unconscious, so she couldn’t press the button.”
A fatal flaw in the system, I thought. How could technology fix that?
“She wouldn’t have pressed it anyway,” Yvette said, her voice bitter. “She thinks the lifeline is stupid and a waste of money. But she won’t agree to assisted living and won’t agree to someone staying there during the day. It’s all on Van and me, and it’s getting . . . hard. Thank God his parents are dead.”
She glanced over at me, her face blanched. “Oh, that sounds horrible. I didn’t mean . . .”
“It’s okay. I understand what you were trying to say.”
We reached the cafeteria and stood in line. I ordered a strawberry malt and some French fries; she chose skim milk and a toasted bagel.
“I’ll try a malt another time,” she said. “My stomach’s a little upset.”
“Absolutely understandable,” I said, motioning at her to put away her wallet. “This is on me. What with this sniper business and now your mom, I’d have an ulcer or three by now if I were in your shoes.”
She gave a half smile and picked up her tray. “You don’t fool me, Benni. Things aren’t all that rosy for you these days, I’m sure.”
“You’re right,” I said, thinking, You have no idea. “But I was just trying to make you feel better. Misery loves company and all that jazz.” I pointed my tray toward a table in the back of the busy cafeteria.
Once we sat down, we ate silently for a few minutes. I was beginning to think she’d regretted taking me up on my offer to talk, when she spoke.
“It’s just so hard,” she said, her head down, studying her bagel as if the answer were written there in sesame and poppy seeds. “I can’t seem to make her happy. I can’t make Van happy. He hates it here. My mother drives him nuts. I can’t get a handle on this sniper . . .”
I ran my finger down the side of the icy silver shaker that contained part of my malt. “You have a lot on your plate right now. Anyone would be overwhelmed.”
When she looked up, her expression was panicked, as if suddenly realizing who I was, who I went home to after this. “I can handle this task force. I did it in New Iberia. We caught the sniper. He was a disgruntled oil rig worker, angry because they’d cut off his disability check. The only disability he had was a fear of hard work.” Her face grew hard. “We’ll catch this guy too.”
“I know you will,” I said, quickly realizing I’d hit a sore spot. “Gabe thinks very highly of you.”
“I shouldn’t be talking to you . . . I . . . this is . . .” She shoved the bagel aside. She’d only taken two small bites. “I’m not usually this unprofessional.”
“Having feelings isn’t unprofessional. Having feelings is human.”
“But men . . . your husband . . . they don’t respect an officer who breaks down. I can handle this.” She started to stand up.
“Wait,” I said, reaching out. “Anything you tell me stays with me. I promise. Do you have any friends here? I mean female friends?”
She slowly shook her head no, the hard lines of her face softening.
“Look, you need help to get through this. I . . .”
Before I could finish, her tough cop mask was back. She pushed aside her tray a little too forcefully, causing her half-empty glass to clink against the plate. She slid smoothly out of the booth. “Thanks for listening, but I can handle this. Please excuse me, I need to see about my mother.”
I watched her walk away, her back straight and unyielding. I wanted to do something to help her, but what could I do? She didn’t want my help. I looked down at my half-eaten French fries, my appetite gone. I cleaned up both Yvette’s tray and my own and walked out to my truck. Once inside, I tried calling Hud again. Again I got his voice mail on the first ring. I was getting the feeling he was avoiding me.
“Hud, call me. Right now. If you can’t find anything about Lin, that’s okay. I just need to know. Bye.”
I stared at my cell phone for a moment, then dialed another number.
“San Celina Sheriff’s Department. How may I direct your call?”
“Sheila? It’s Benni Harper. Uh, Ortiz.”
“Well, which one is it, girl? Believe me, if I was married to that hunk of a police chief, I’d never forget my last name.” Sheila gave a loud, honking laugh, followed by a fit of coughing. “Sorry, my allergies have been driving me nuts. Doc says it’s mold. I said, hey, I might be old, but I’m not moldy . . . yet.” Anothe
r wet laugh.
“With how cranky Señor Ortiz has been the last few days, I’d sell him to you for one of your caramel cakes.” Sheila Waterston, the receptionist at the sheriff’s department for the last hundred years, also baked the best cakes in the county. She rarely made them for money but would bake one for charity, for a gift or for a friend.
“This sniper business has all the boys and girls here with their hands hovering over their weapons, jumpy as a cat in a yard full of pit bulls. I’m afraid to sneeze, to be honest with you. Someone might turn me into Swiss cheese.”
“Something has to break soon. So many agencies are working on it.”
“That may be the problem, sweetie pie. So, what can I do you for?”
“Is Detective Hudson in his office?”
“No, ma’am. He’s gone with the wind until further notice.”
“What?”
“Took some vacation time. As of yesterday. Easy for him to do that since he works the iceboxes.” That was what Sheila called the cold cases. “Want to leave a message?”
“No, thanks. Wasn’t urgent. Catch you later.”
I dialed Hud’s cell phone again. Voice mail. “Okay, Hud, quit playing games with me. I just called your office and they said you’re on vacation. I’m assuming you are working on what I asked you about, but I don’t know for sure because you won’t answer my calls! Call me back immediately. I mean it.”
I sat for a moment in my truck, not sure what to do. Yvette’s dilemma kept coming back to me, and I wondered if I should do something, tell someone.
But who? Certainly not Gabe. I’d promised her I wouldn’t reveal any confidence, but she and her husband were definitely in a tough spot and needed help.
I sighed and turned my ignition. There was nothing I could do except make myself available if she needed to talk. Her situation wasn’t unusual. Another woman torn between her demanding job, her spouse and his needs and her aging parent’s needs. It was a sad, familiar story. What I wished Yvette Arnaud understood was, it was a heck of a lot easier when you had girlfriends. Somehow I couldn’t imagine her opening up in the same way to any of the male detectives working with her. Apparently, she hadn’t made any female friends yet in San Celina.
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