Goose in the Pond
Fowler, Earlene
Demco Media (2002)
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SUMMARY:
When Benni finds a dead woman lying facedown in the lake, dressed in a Mother Goose costume, her investigation takes her inside the Storyteller's Guild.There she discovers that Mother Goose was telling more than fairy tales -- she was a gossip columnist who aired the kind of secrets that destroy lives -- and inspire revenge...
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Praise for Earlene Fowler’s BENNI HARPER MYSTERIES
SEVEN SISTERS
“Fowler’s regular characters all show significant growth; the mystery itself is satisfying both as a puzzle . . . and as a story about secrets buried in a family’s past.”
—Booklist
“As in all of Earlene’s previous books, in addition to the mystery there are numerous other threads cleverly interwoven in the plot . . . Enjoyable . . . Well-written.”
—San Luis (CA) Obispo Magazine
“Benni is feisty, caring, loving, and one heck of a part-time sleuth . . . A not-to-be-missed view into the worlds of crime and the elite.”
—Rendezvous
MARINER’S COMPASS
Winner of the Agatha Award for Best Novel
“Captivating . . . [An] excellent addition to a notable series.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Fowler’s plots can be as outrageous as Ellery Queen’s, her turf is Ross Macdonald’s, and her tone is heir to Grafton and Paretsky . . . [She is] an up-and-comer worth watching.”
—Nashville Scene
“Fowler’s best work to date . . . Mariner’s Compass points the way to quality reading for the heart, mind, and soul.”
—Ventura County Star
DOVE IN THE WINDOW
Nominated for an Agatha Award for Best Novel
“Excellent . . . While the characters are perhaps the most vivid feature, setting nearly edges them out. Best of all is Benni’s sharp, sassy voice.”
—Booknews
“Fowler writes beautifully about the picturesque Central Coast, ranching, and local cuisine.”
—Booklist
GOOSE IN THE POND
Nominated for an Agatha Award for Best Novel
“Engaging.”
—Booklist
“Brilliantly crafted romantic suspense . . . waiting to be devoured by the reader.”
—The Mystery Zone
“A fast, fun read that jumps into the action right from the get-go.”
—The San Luis Obispo (CA) Telegram-Tribune
KANSAS TROUBLES
Nominated for an Agatha Award for Best Novel
“Mayhem, murder, chaos, and romance . . . Well-paced mystery . . . Fun reading.”
—The Kansas Daily Reporter
“Fowler’s story about a sassy ex-cowgirl and quilter who loves to solve crimes . . . is a lot of fun to read. Fowler has a deft touch.”
—The Wichita Eagle
IRISH CHAIN
“A terrific whodunit! The dialogue is intelligent and witty, the characters intensely human, and the tantalizing puzzle keeps the pages turning.”
—Jean Hager, author of The Redbird’s Cry and Blooming Murder
“A blue-ribbon cozy . . . This well-textured sequel to Fool’s Puzzle ... intricately blends social history and modern mystery.”
—Publishers Weekly
FOOL’S PUZZLE
Nominated for an Agatha Award for Best First Mystery
“Characters come to full three-dimensional life, and her plot is satisfyingly complex.”
—The Jackson (MS) Clarion-Ledger
“Breezy, humorous dialogue of the first order.”
—Chicago Sun-Times
“I loved Fool’s Puzzle.... [Earlene Fowler] made me laugh out loud on one page and brought tears to my eyes the next.... I can’t wait to read more.”
—Edgar® Award-winning author Margaret Maron
Berkley Prime Crime Books by Earlene Fowler
THE SADDLEMAKER’S WIFE
The Benni Harper Mysteries
FOOL’S PUZZLE
IRISH CHAIN
KANSAS TROUBLES
GOOSE IN THE POND
DOVE IN THE WINDOW
MARINER’S COMPASS
SEVEN SISTERS
ARKANSAS TRAVELER
STEPS TO THE ALTAR
SUNSHINE AND SHADOW
BROKEN DISHES
DELECTABLE MOUNTAINS
TUMBLING BLOCKS
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
GOOSE IN THE POND
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author
Copyright © 1997 by Earlene Fowler. The Edgar® name is a registered service mark of the Mystery Writers of America, Inc.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
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375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
eISBN : 978-1-101-50122-1
BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME
Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
The name BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the BERKLEY PRIME CRIME design
are trademarks belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
http://us.penguingroup.com
For Allen
your love sustains me
> ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Always my thanks to:
The Father, Son, and Holy Spirit—Isaiah 53:5; Deborah Schneider—an agent with grace and class; Judith Palais—editor extraordinaire—can I call you Wonder Woman, can I?; Christine Hill—bookseller and my first friend in San Luis Obispo—for feeding me, housing me, comforting me, and making me laugh—and to her family, Jim, Kate, and Adam Hill, for welcoming me into their lives; Joy Fitzhugh—rancher, good friend, and rebel general in the War of the West—for sharing with me her life, her home, and her delicious homemade jerky; Abbott and Lorna Fitzhugh—for their kindness and wonderful stories; Karen Gray—dear friend, expert quilter, and the best dang deputy district attorney in San Luis Obispo (or anywhere)—for opening her home and her heart—and to David Gray, her husband, who always kept smiling when dead bodies were discussed (in detail) over dinner; Jim Gardiner, Chief of Police, San Luis Obispo—for good-naturedly answering my sometimes convoluted questions, and to Elaine Gardiner—for her hospitality and friendship, and giving me the real scoop on being a chief’s wife; the fine folks at the San Luis Obispo Police Department, District Attorney’s Office, and County Sheriff’s Department; for moral support and patient endurance of my whining—Ginger Matthews, Jo-Ann Mapson, and Doris Land; Debra Jackson, my sister—for generously creating quilt squares on demand; my TLC group—for their prayers and friendship—Stu Anthony, John Catlett, Kay & Marvin Foster, Marguerite & Lorin Zechiel, Steve Zinner; my husband, Allen—’cause I wouldn’t have nothin’ if I didn’t have you.
GOOSE IN THE POND
Like many old quilt patterns, Goose in the Pond was probably inspired by nature, giving us a hint at the playful and creative imaginations of early quilt designers. Seen as far back as the early 1800s and made from a combination of tiny squares, triangles, and strip blocks, it emulates the ripples created by a goose swimming across a body of water. Any colors and fabric may be chosen for this pattern, as Goose in the Pond, like a beloved folktale, lends itself well to individual interpretation. Thought to have originated in Massachusetts, it is also known throughout different parts of the country as Toad in the Puddle, Young Man’s Fancy, Mexican Block, Patchwork Fantasy, Bachelor’s Puzzle, Unique Nine Patch, and Scrap Bag.
1
“I HATE THIS,” I said, my breath coming in short, painful bursts. “It’s unnatural.”
“You’ll learn to love it,” Gabe said, his baritone voice encouraging.
I frowned up at him. “God never intended the human body to endure agony like this. I don’t care what you say—this is not fun.”
“We have all the right equipment for it.” He reached over and patted my backside. “Yours is cute, and we want to keep it that way.”
I swatted at his hand. “Watch it, Chief Ortiz, or I’ll have one of your men arrest you for lewd and lascivious behavior.”
Laughing, he sprinted ahead, then turned around to face me, jogging backward. After a mile and a half, he’d barely broken a sweat. Above us, a swirl of salty early-morning wind rattled the tops of the peeling eucalyptus. Pine trees scented the air with a sharp, lung-cleansing scent. “Benni, sweetheart, you’re getting close to middle age. Your heart and other significant parts of your body need the aerobic exercise.”
“I’m not middle-aged. I plan on living until I’m a hundred, so I won’t be middle-aged for fifteen years. Besides, I’m riding three times a week now that I’m helping Grace down at the stables. That’s aerobic exercise.”
He gave a derisive laugh. “Sure, for the horse.”
I slowed to a walk, looking down at the obscenely white hundred-twenty-dollar Adidas he’d talked me into buying. The bright orange stripes glowed in the pale California sunshine. For that much money, they should have come equipped with tiny oxygen tanks. I leaned against a sycamore carved with a heart and the words JULIO LOVES HIMSELF and held my aching side. “I can’t go any farther. Please, let me die in peace.”
He trotted up beside me. “Quit whining and turn around.”
I obliged and instinctively arched toward his hands as they kneaded my neck and shoulders, groaning out loud at the pleasurable feel of his strong fingers pressing deep into my muscles. He bent down and ran his bristly mustache down my damp neck, tickling it lightly with his tongue.
“Don’t tempt me like that in public, querida,” he whispered. “I’m used to hearing those sounds when I’ve got you flat on your back and naked.”
“You arrogant—” I clenched my fist, turned, and aimed for his stomach. He saw it coming and tightened his muscles. Those days at the gym were obviously helping. It was like hitting a concrete block.
“Ow,” I said, shaking my hand. “Do you realize you think about sex way too much for a middle-aged man?”
His blue-gray eyes, a startling anomaly against his tanned olive skin, sparkled with amusement. “I’m telling you, it’s the vitamin E. Not to mention how attractive you look in those shorts. I’m going around the park one more time. Want to join me?”
I glanced down the gravel trail we’d just run around Laguna Lake, one of the major attractions of San Celina’s Central Park. “No, thanks. I think I’ll walk back to the car and get some money to buy duck food.”
He checked his watch. “See you in about fifteen minutes.” He took off down the trail at an easy jog.
I watched him until he disappeared into the heavily wooded park. After almost seven months of marriage, the sight of his lean, powerful body could still make my heart beat faster. But he had lost ten pounds in the last month, and it showed on his six-foot frame, narrowing his face and causing his already prominent cheekbones to sharpen. Though I tried not to show it, I was worried. His mood had been light and cheerful lately. Too light and cheerful. Four weeks ago, his best friend, Aaron Davidson, San Celina’s former chief of police and Gabe’s first partner when he was a rookie cop, died from liver cancer. It was the Sunday before Labor Day weekend. We had just visited him at the hospice before attending a barbecue at my dad’s ranch. Later that evening, Aaron died, his wife, Rachel, dozing at his side. Gabe accepted his friend’s death with quiet dignity and no fuss, helping Rachel with the funeral arrangements and giving a eulogy at the service that left most of the congregation, including a bunch of tough, cynical cops, in tears. He had taken care of all the millions of irritating but necessary details that arise when someone dies. Esther, Aaron’s daughter and only child, told me they would have never made it through those first few weeks without Gabe’s calm, gentle strength. What no one knew but me was that he’d never taken the time to grieve himself. And still hadn’t. And that worried me.
I peered out over the Laguna Lake. The waterline was higher than usual this year due to the heavy spring rains that flooded most of California. The Central Coast had taken a particularly harsh beating. In North County, many of the small tourist-supported towns had experienced massive damage in their trendy art galleries, restaurants, and vineyards. Half the cattle roads on Daddy’s ranch had washed away, and Gabe and I had spent most of our spare weekends helping clear them with his Kubota tractor. Luckily San Celina’s new library resided safely on a high bluff overlooking the lake. Morning sun glinted off its dark tinted windows, causing a ripply reflection in the brown muddy water. The gray, prisonlike structure continued to win all sorts of architectural awards, but even a year after its completion, people still grumbled and complained about its land-scarring ugliness. Behind it rose the late September hills of San Celina, mountains of butterscotch gold marching all the way to the Pacific Ocean five miles away. I glanced back at the library. It was closed on Sundays, and the park was still relatively empty. Gabe and I had passed only two other people on our jog around the lake—an elderly man and woman walking a basset hound. But in the parking lot there were now three more cars parked next to Gabe’s sky-blue 1968 Corvette. I smiled at the license plate frame I’d had made at the mall for our six-month anniversary. GABE AND BENNI—IN LOVE FOREVER. With a good-natured shake of his head, he’d attached it to his car. Appa
rently he’d taken quite a bit of ribbing about it from his officers at the police department.
“So I’m crazy about my wife. Sue me,” he’d told them, according to his new secretary, Maggie, who kept me informed on all the office scuttlebutt.
After a long drink of bottled water, I stole a handful of parking-meter quarters from his glove compartment and purchased some veterinarian-approved duck chow from the dispensers the city had recently installed. The humane society and local wildlife lovers, concerned for the wild bird population’s long-term health, were attempting to discourage people from feeding them processed bread and junk food. The blue-and-white Wonder bread wrappers floating in the marshy grasses of the lake testified to the fact that they hadn’t quite persuaded everyone yet.
I stuck the pellets into the pocket of my zip-up sweatshirt and headed down to the lake, where I was enthusiastically greeted by a contingent of local waterfowl. The speckled brown ducks, white geese, and nervy seagulls were old hands at being fed by sentimental human beings and assumed that any person walking near the lakeshore was automatically a soft touch. As I tossed bird feed out to them they crowded around my feet, nudging each other aside like jealous schoolchildren. My thoughts drifted back to Gabe and how both our lives had radically changed in the last year.
It had been a little over a year and a half since my first husband and childhood sweetheart, Jack, was killed in a senseless car accident involving too much liquor and a split second of young, foolish judgment. A lot had happened in my life since Jack died—losing the ranch we owned with his brother, moving to San Celina and making the transition from being an “aggie” to a “townie,” landing the job as curator to the Josiah Sinclair Folk Art Museum and Artist’s Co-op, meeting Gabe in the circumstances surrounding a murder at the museum, falling in love, and getting married after knowing each other barely three months.
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