Goose in the Pond

by Earlene Fowler

  I hugged myself, running my hands up and down my upper arms, trying to smooth out the gooseflesh. “You remember Nora Cooper, don’t you?”

  Her brows furrowed in concentration, smoothing out when they placed the name. “Nick Cooper’s older sister. He works at the library, right?”

  “Head reference librarian. Nora works there, too.”

  “What about her?”

  “She’s dead.”

  “That’s too bad. Was she sick?”

  “No, she drowned. It might be murder.” I grabbed her cappuccino and took a large gulp. She could tell I was upset so she didn’t harp like she normally would about me drinking out of her glass. I set the glass mug down, my hand shaking slightly. “I found her body.”

  Elvia pushed her computer printouts aside and leaned closer. “Tell me what happened.” Her shiny black hair caught the overhead light and flashed. It reminded me of Nora’s lifeless strands floating in the water. I closed my eyes for a moment.

  “Benni,” Elvia said softly. “Do you want to go up to my office?”

  “No,” I said, opening my eyes. “I’m fine.”

  Remembering my single quarter’s worth of parking time, I gave her the condensed version. I finished her drink as I talked, and suddenly realized when I was through that I was ravenously hungry and deliriously happy to be alive. Survivor’s guilt pricked at my conscience, that small relieved voice whispering, “Aren’t you glad you weren’t the one who died?”

  “Would you like another one?” she asked. She held up the glass mug and motioned at the counter clerk to bring us two more.

  “I can’t stay long,” I said. “This is Gabe’s lunch. He hates eating the food they order when they’re working on an investigation. It’s always pizza or hamburgers or some junk food. And I’m bringing him a change of clothes.”

  “How’s he taking it?”

  I rested my chin in my palm and sighed. “Like he does everything, stoically, professionally. He really doesn’t need this right now.”

  “And exactly when does a person need a murder investigation in their life?” she asked ironically.

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Yes, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be facetious.” She and I had discussed my worries about Gabe, the strain he’d been under the last few months with his friend’s death in Kansas and now Aaron’s death and how he never spoke of either of them. She viewed his quiet reticence with more dispassion than me. Not only because he wasn’t her husband, but because she was accustomed to the Latino male’s way of handling emotion.

  “He’s reacting exactly how any of my brothers or my dad would,” she assured me. “He’ll come around eventually or work it out in his own way.”

  “He seemed a little more open when we got back from Kansas, then Aaron died, and he’s . . . well, he’s not exactly depressed. It’s just like it never happened. I don’t think holding things in necessarily works them out. I think people need to talk about their feelings.”

  “That’s your Southern background. All you people do is talk. But does it really help? You all are just as crazy as the rest of us.”

  I gave her a weak smile. “Sometimes crazier.”

  She wrinkled her nose delicately, reminding me of a fussy, purebred cat. “Well, I didn’t want to actually say it—”

  “You know as well as I do talking about things is healthier, but I guess you’re right. He’ll come around in his own time. I know when Jack died I didn’t want people poking at me to do things.” I sipped the iced coffee drink the clerk set in front of me. “On the other hand, sometimes it was what I needed, you and Dove pushing me back into life before I thought I wanted to go. A person isn’t always their own best judge of what they need.”

  “Go feed him,” she said, pushing the white sack toward me. “Mama says if you can’t do anything else for a man, you can always feed him.”

  I laughed and stood up. “I love your mama. I need to visit her soon.”

  “This week,” she said firmly. “She’s been complaining about not seeing you enough. Are you going to visit Nick?”

  “Yeah, I’m going to drop by the bakery and get a pie.”

  “Give him my condolences. I’ll send some flowers.” She gathered up her computer printouts and stood up. “I’d better do it now before I forget.”

  “I’ll call you later and let you know what happened.”

  I took my cappuccino over to the counter and asked the clerk to pour it into a paper cup and added a just-baked apple turnover to Gabe’s lunch. As the clerk added it to my tab I heard my name called out over the buzz of the crowd. Peter Grant stood up and waved at me. I grabbed my sack and maneuvered my way through the noisy room to his table.

  Peter and I had known each other most of our lives. His parents once owned one of the largest almond orchards in North County. We met in 4-H and had shared lots of Cokes and baskets of greasy chili fries at the MidState fair while hanging out waiting for our animals to be judged. In college, we took a different route. My major had been American history with a minor in agriculture. His was environmental studies, emphasis on the radical. When his family was forced to sell the orchard after a few bad years and move to San Francisco, Peter remained on the Central Coast. He managed the small mountain sports store he’d worked at since college, taught mountain climbing on the side, and fought passionately for the rights of spotted owls, redwoods, and gray wolves. An avid rock and mountain climber, at thirty-seven he very rarely wore anything but shorts, T-shirts, and hiking boots. He had that yuppie outdoorsy look that, had he been taller, could have made him a lot of money posing for Eddie Bauer catalogs—a trim, muscled body, healthy brown hair, clear brown eyes, skin tanned a glowing ocher. Today he wore a pale tan T-shirt depicting a house with a red circle and slash painted over it and the words SAVE OUR OPEN LANDS. He was at the forefront of the fight for zero development and a permanent greenbelt surrounding San Celina. He’d recently added storytelling to his hobbies, and naturally his stories had a strong environmental emphasis. The troubled look distorting his even features told me he’d heard about Nora.

  He wasn’t alone at the table. Next to him sat Ashley Stanhill, another local storyteller and current president of the San Celina Storytellers Guild. Ash and I had worked closely together promoting the storytelling festival. A traditional Southern storyteller, he could tantalize an audience with his smooth-as-Black-Velvet Mississippi accent and sinfully sensual smile. He’d only lived on the Central Coast a little over a year, but according to the co-op’s warp-speed grapevine had already managed to break more than a few female hearts. There was nothing particularly special about him—medium height, russet hair, deep blue eyes. You’d never look twice at him when he walked down the street except for thinking that maybe he bore a passing resemblance to the actor Dennis Quaid. But when he turned his attention on you, it was like you were the most perfect specimen of woman God had ever created. I’d been to one of his storytelling sessions, and though the children were held rapt by his silky-voiced performance, the women were absolutely mesmerized.

  Peter gestured to the chair across from him. Ash nodded solemnly and sipped his espresso, his blue eyes observant as a cougar’s.

  “I suppose you both heard,” I said, sitting down, then added quickly, “I can’t stay long. I’m taking lunch over to Gabe at the station.”

  “Did you really find her body?” Peter asked, his normally calm face mobile with agitation. A faint sheen of perspiration coated his cheeks.

  “Unfortunately, yes,” I said with a sigh.

  “We’ve called an emergency meeting of the festival committee. We’re going to meet at the museum.” He glanced at his black diver’s watch. “I told them two o’clock. I wasn’t sure how long it would take me to reach you. I tried calling, but no one answered.”

  “You must have just missed me. I have an answering machine.”

  He waved his hand irritably. “I refuse to give in to the control the industrial complex is gaining over
our lives through the addiction to useless environmentally destructive machinery.”

  I shrugged. I understood what he meant, but with that attitude he was going to miss a lot of messages.

  “Old Pete here wishes we’d go back to sendin’ smoke signals with a bonfire and a blanket,” Ash said, giving me a conspiratorial wink. “More environmentally responsible. At least until the EPA shut it down.”

  “Shut up, Ash,” Peter snapped. “This is a disaster. Our guild’s first storytelling festival, and it has to be overshadowed by Nora Cooper.”

  I leaned back in my chair, shocked. I thought he was upset because of Nora’s murder when apparently it was only the festival he was worried about.

  “Let’s talk about it at the meeting,” I said sharply. “We can also discuss how we all might give some support to her brother, Nick.”

  His face flushed slightly, and he looked down at his blunt rope-callused hands, avoiding my gaze. “I didn’t mean it the way it sounded.”

  “Good, because it sounded pretty heartless,” I said. “See you at two.”

  There was a space free in front of the police station, a tan stucco building with a gurgling beige-and-blue tile fountain that local college students occasionally filled with detergent. If you exchanged the plain San Celina Police lettering for the word PODIATRY, no one would even bat an eyelash. Since it was Sunday, I knew the lobby door would be locked, so I walked around back to the maintenance yard and pressed the red buzzer. A young officer with greenish-blond hair and a bad cold opened the gate and informed me that Gabe was in his office.

  The oak door to Gabe’s office was closed. I stood for a moment and studied the brass plaque that had replaced Aaron’s only a few months ago: GABRIEL ORTIZ—CHIEF OF POLICE. Its permanent look wrapped around my heart like a flannel quilt. Removing Aaron’s name from the door had been a big step for Gabe. I was glad he did it before his best friend died. It would have been a lot harder now.

  Gabe was leaning back in his black leather executive chair talking on the phone. He rested the bottoms of his running shoes on the edge of the glossy oak desk in a less-than-professional position, especially in his cotton running shorts. I set the white paper sack and his clothes on the desk in front of him and waved hello before settling down in one of his padded office chairs. He gave me a welcoming smile and continued to talk on the phone. Or rather listen. Whoever it was on the line was chattering like a hysterical parakeet, and Gabe answered with an occasional “Yes, I understand. No, sir. Yes, sir, I certainly will.” He swung around and stared at the picture on the wall behind him, another gift from me. It was a black-and-white framed poster of Albert Einstein sitting in a wing chair, his fingers threaded loosely in his lap, giving the photographer a slightly bemused look. Printed above his feathery white hair was a quote that made Gabe throw back his head and laugh when he read it—GRAVITATION CANNOT BE HELD RESPONSIBLE FOR PEOPLE FALLING IN LOVE.

  He swung back around and hung up the phone, giving it a dark scowl.

  “Who was that?” I asked, pushing the lunch bag toward him. “Here, eat. What do you want to drink?” I went across the room to his small oak-paneled refrigerator. The choices were limited. “Looks like it’s water, grape soda, or water.” I made a face. Welch’s grape soda. There were some things about this man I’d never understand.

  He stood up and stretched. “Give me a Welch’s. I know I need to restock. The Neighborhood Watch commanders cleaned me out yesterday.”

  I handed him a frosty purple can. “Who was flapping their gums at you over the phone?”

  “The mayor, who else?” He popped the lid and sat back down. “He’s upset about this murder, of course. He’s up for reelection next year and he wants to run on a get-tough-on-crime platform.” He unwrapped his sandwich, a weary expression on his face. “That means my life is going to be miserable for the next year. And right before he called, the city manager called and gave me his nickel’s worth. They both want this murder solved as quickly as possible.”

  I perched on the edge of his desk. “That’s certainly an obvious sentiment. I think everyone would like it solved fast. Did she drown?”

  “No. The medical examiner’s first assessment was that she was killed somewhere else and dumped in the lake.”

  “Why does he think that?” I leaned over and picked a slice of cheese off his sandwich.

  “The rope ligature marks around her neck are a slight hint.”

  “You mean like rope burns? She was strangled by a rope?”

  “Very good, Detective Harper. Now, thanks for lunch, but don’t you have something you need to attend to? Maybe planning a gourmet dinner for your hardworking husband?”

  I reached over and snagged a slice of avocado. “I’m guessing that’s your not very subtle way of telling me I’m asking too many questions. And Chief Ortiz, the only gourmet dinner you’ll be getting this week is the one you’re holding in your hands. I’m up to my ears in storytellers and artists, not to mention I got a phone call from Dove this afternoon.”

  “And?”

  “You’ll never guess who’s back in town.” I reached for his sandwich again. He held it away from my grasp.

  “If this is all I’m getting, then I’m not sharing. Who’s back in town?”

  “Aunt Garnet. Or at least she will be as of tomorrow. She and Uncle W.W. are on the outs. Dove’s having a hissy fit over it. Aunt Garnet’s visit, that is, not their marriage woes.”

  “The infamous Aunt Garnet,” Gabe said, chewing thoughtfully. He took a long drink from his grape soda, then grinned at me. “Well, they’re your family. I’d help, but as you can see I’m going to be extraordinarily busy the next few days. Sorry.” He set his can down on his desk blotter, not looking the least bit remorseful.

  “Don’t act so smug,” I warned, slipping down off his desk. “If Dove has her way, Aunt Garnet will be staying with us. And believe me, if you think Dove meddles—”

  He reached over and pulled me between his legs. “Querida, I have complete confidence in your ability to maneuver around your grandmother. Now give me a kiss and run along like a good girl. I’ve got work to do.”

  I bent down and kissed him, nipping him sharply on his bottom lip.

  “Ow!” he said, jerking back. “That hurt.”

  “Then don’t talk so condescending to me, Friday, or the next time I’ll draw blood.”

  He laughed and ran his hands over my hips. “What makes you think that’s a turnoff?”

  “You’re a real sicko, Chief.” I gave him a real kiss that time. A slow, lingering one. “What time will you be home?” I eventually asked.

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “Who knows? You know how these things go. As soon as I get changed, Jim and I are going to head over to the sheriff’s crime lab and wait for some test results. Looks like it might be a long day. What do you have planned?”

  “There’s an emergency meeting of the festival committee at the museum at two o’clock. I ran into two of them when I dropped by Blind Harry’s. They’re very upset about Nora’s murder.”

  His face grew sharp and questioning. “What are their names?”

  “Peter Grant and Ash Stanhill.”

  “That first one sounds familiar.”

  “He’s very active in environmental rights here in San Celina. You’ve probably seen his name in the newspaper. He and his friends would love for all the ranchers and farmers to just donate all our land to the public trust. Of course, I don’t know what he expects us to do for a living or where in the world he and his vegetarian friends would get their broccoli and salad greens, not to mention the leather for their Birkenstocks—”

  He interrupted me. “Did they know Nora Cooper well?”

  “Peter did. We all went to Cal Poly together. She was a few years older than us. I don’t know if Ash knew her well but I could casually ask—”

  Gabe stood up and rested his hands firmly on my shoulders, squeezing them in warning. “No.”

  Before I could an
swer, a knock sounded on the door. “Come in,” Gabe called out.

  The door opened, and Jim Cleary’s head appeared. “Am I interrupting anything?” He gave us a wide, white smile.

  “Nope, Benni was just leaving,” Gabe said evenly. He kissed the top of my head. “See you tonight. Stay out of trouble, niña.”

  I rolled my eyes at Jim. “You promised me that you’d have that arrogant macho stuff trained out of him by now.”

  Jim stepped into the room. He was wearing dark slacks, a pure white dress shirt, and a conservative striped tie. He was head deacon at St. Stephen’s Baptist Church over near the lake where Nora was killed, and from the looks of his attire, he’d been called straight out of church services. He held up his hands. “I never made any promises. You know there are some cases that even fasting and prayer won’t help—only a miracle straight from the Good Lord Himself.” He gave me a broad wink.

  “Amen, Brother Cleary,” I replied.

  “You get in here,” Gabe said good-naturedly to Jim, then pointed at me. “And you beat it.”

  It was one o’clock when I left the police station, and I decided to make a quick pit stop at home to use the bathroom and scrounge in the refrigerator for a bite to eat. Standing in front of the refrigerator, I was chugalugging a can of Coke and trying to remember just how old that enchilada from Pepe’s was when the doorbell rang. I tossed the aluminum tray in the sink, not entirely certain whether those green specks were peppers, and answered the door. I stared up into a darkly tanned, high-cheekboned male face wearing a dazzling smile that would have buckled my knees had I been fifteen years younger.

  “Hi, Mom,” he said. “What’s for dinner?”

  4

  I WAS SPEECHLESS.

  He tilted his head and lifted one dark brown eyebrow in question. His friendly, open expression reminded me of a sweet-natured Irish setter we’d had on the ranch when I was a girl. Reddie was a terrible ranch dog with the bad habits of sucking eggs and chasing calves, but he had a perpetually happy spirit that could make even the grumpiest ranch hand crack a smile.