“Pipe down,” he said good-naturedly. “And answer the question.”
“Honestly, Nora was a nice person. Though a bit sharp-tongued at times, she was never mean. I can’t imagine why anyone would kill her.”
“I know you like this Grace and Roy, sweetheart, but don’t be surprised if it turns out to be one of them. Most homicides involve money or sex, and they hit the bell on both accounts.”
“I don’t even want to think about that.”
“Well, just remember, no questions,” he reminded, yawning. “That’s my job.”
“You know, with how involved I am with all these people, this time I think I’ll listen to you.”
“That’ll be the day,” he replied.
The next morning, as usual, he was up before me. I lifted my head from where it was jammed into my pillow and watched him through slitted eyes as he pulled on shorts and a sweatshirt. The man’s discipline was phenomenal and sometimes more than a little irritating.
“Your turn to put on the coffee,” I mumbled.
“I do believe it’s your turn this week, but since you were so good last night, I’ll give you this one.” He bent over and tied his jogging shoes.
I struggled up and rubbed my crusty eyes. “Are you saying that if I wasn’t good I’d be fixing my own coffee?”
He grinned. “Now, don’t put words in my mouth.”
“Chauvinist,” I said halfheartedly.
“Just think of it as conditioned reflex. Like Pavlov’s dogs.”
“That’s not a very accurate analogy.”
“It’s as good as I can do on an empty stomach. I’ll jog by Stern’s Bakery and get some fresh bagels,” he said, unperturbed by my grumpiness. I was relieved to see he was starting out in a good mood, though how long that would last was debatable. He and Sam still hadn’t actually talked yet.
“Then I’ll make the coffee,” I said. “I need to get up anyway. I have a million things to do today.”
He left the room, and I grabbed my robe. In the living room I was surprised to find him standing motionless, staring down at his sleeping son. His expression broke my heart—a combination of raw longing and deep anger.
He turned when he heard me. His face recomposed itself into his blank, no-one’s-going-to-touch-me look. “I’ll be back in a half hour,” he said in a normal tone. “Don’t have time for a full run.”
I held my finger to my lips and pointed at the kitchen.
“Don’t worry,” he said, his voice flat. “Sam sleeps like a log. Always has, ever since he was a baby.” Only the strange light in his eyes revealed the emotion watching his sleeping child stirred in him.
While he was gone I made coffee and sliced tomatoes and Swiss cheese to eat with the bagels. As I worked I plotted my day. First, go see Nick. Last night must have been horrible for him, and I wondered if any of his friends had come to stay with him. I had just poured my first cup of coffee when a bleary-eyed Sam wandered into the kitchen. He wore a pair of baggy purple-and-black shorts and a stretched-out sweatshirt faded an odd grayish blue.
“Is Dad gone?” he asked, pouring himself a cup of coffee.
“He’s jogging,” I said. “He should be back in about a half hour.”
“Maybe I should split, then,” he said, holding his mug with both hands and shivering slightly.
“Sit down,” I said, pointing to a dining chair. “You’re not going anywhere. You and Gabe are going to have to come to some kind of truce. You two may not be able to solve every problem you’ve accumulated in the last eighteen years, but you can at least be civil.”
“So tell him that.”
“I intend to.”
He smiled over his mug. “Wow, I bet you and Dad really tie it on sometimes. He hates anyone telling him what to do.”
“So I’ve noticed.” I set cream and sugar down in front of him.
“I drink it black.”
“Just like your father.”
He scowled and took a long gulp.
We were on our second cups when Gabe walked into the kitchen.
He glanced quickly at Sam before laying the white bag in front of me.
“There’s a dozen in there,” he said, pouring himself a cup of coffee.
“I’m starved,” Sam said, sitting down at the table. I set out bowls, granola cereal, milk, orange juice, and bananas. “I’m toasting my bagel,” I said, my eyes darting between the two silent men. “Anyone else?”
They both grunted affirmative, glanced at each other, then back down into their bowls. After a few minutes of attempting conversation, I finally gave up and decided the slurping of milk and crunch of bagels were the only sounds I was likely to hear from these two this morning. By the time everyone was finished, I’d made up my mind that I was not going to come home after a stressful day at the museum to this unresolved standoff.
I licked my spoon, then slammed it down on the table. Both heads snapped up and stared at me. “Listen up, boys. I will not put up with this childish game of each of you waiting to knock the stick off the shoulder of the other. I know you can’t resolve all your problems in one visit, but you can be pleasant to each other for as long as Sam is here.” I turned and faced my stepson. His dark brown eyes were wary. “First you, Sam. Just how long do you intend to stay?”
His tanned face grew stubborn. I immediately nipped that attitude in the bud. “Now don’t go all juvenile on me. You want to be treated like an adult, so that’s exactly what I’m doing. An adult who visits has a set time in mind. We need to know what yours is.”
“I don’t know,” he said, shrugging. “A week, I guess.” He shot his father a fierce look. “Maybe I should just leave today.”
Gabe threw his napkin down on the table and stood up. “Run away when things don’t work out like you want. Why doesn’t that surprise me? That’s always been what you do best.”
Sam jumped up, his face twitching with anger. “Well, I guess you were right, Benni,” he said, though his eyes never left Gabe’s face. “I am just like my father.” His right hand beat a nervous drum pattern on his thigh.
I took a deep breath and intervened. “Look, why don’t you two deal with all that old baggage later? Right now why don’t we just agree that Sam is going to stay a week and see how it goes? Frankly, he’s my new stepson, and I’d like to get to know him. How about we try that? Just a week?”
I suspected that Sam didn’t have anywhere else to go and was probably short on money and I also suspected that Gabe didn’t really want him to leave. What they needed was just a little time to get used to each other again. At least that’s what I was hoping. When I was growing up on the ranch and the men in our family got to growling and snapping at each other, Dove would just send them packing off to different parts of the ranch to work until they could stand being around each other again. Of course, that was easier done on a two-thousand-acre cattle ranch than in a small two-bedroom house in a medium-size college town.
“Well, guys, how about it?” I looked at the vein in my husband’s left temple and the set of his jaw, gauges I’d learned to monitor for clues to his emotional temperature. His jaw seemed just a little less rigid than it had minutes ago. “Gabe?”
“A week,” he said, and strode out of the room.
Sam shook his head and picked up his almost empty glass of orange juice, concentrating on swirling the liquid around and around. “I should just leave,” he said, his voice sad now that Gabe had left.
“No,” I said, picking up the cereal box and closing the flap. “I meant what I said. I would like to get to know you. Give your dad some time. He’ll come around.” I made my voice light and positive.
He picked up the carton of milk and carried it over to the refrigerator. “I think I know him better than you, Benni. He’d probably be happy if he never saw me again.”
“I know that’s not true.” I stopped wiping the table and looked up at him. “Look, just let him get used to you being here and see what happens.”
He shrugged. “Whatever. To be honest, unless I go down to my mom’s in L.A., I don’t have anywhere else to go and about ten bucks to get there.” He said the last part with his head down, not meeting my eyes.
Just as I thought. I opened the cupboard and pulled out a red Folger’s coffee can where I kept some household money. I counted eighty-nine dollars and some change. I held the bills out to him.
“I can’t take your money,” he said, his face coloring. “That’s not why I said that.”
“I know. But it comes with two strings attached.”
He eyed the money longingly. “What?”
“One, call your mother and let her know you’re here and all right.”
He nodded. “And the second?”
“Be patient with your dad and try not to bite when he makes sarcastic remarks. Heaven knows, I understand how hard that is. But he’s going through a rough time with what happened in Kansas and with Aaron. I think he really needs you right now and just doesn’t want to admit it.”
Sam shook his head dubiously. “I think you’re wrong but I need the money.” He took the bills and slipped them into the pockets of his shorts. “I’ll pay you back.”
“Maybe I am,” I agreed. “But let’s give it a try anyway. And consider the money a late graduation present.”
“So,” he said, his face relaxing. “What’s there to do in this town? What are you going to do today?”
“As you probably saw last night, downtown’s a nice place to hang out. Lots of boutiques and coffeehouses. Pick up the Freedom Press. It has an entertainment section that tells what’s going on in town. As for me, I’m going to go visit a friend of mine this morning and then go to the folk-art museum and finish getting the grounds set up for the storytelling festival this weekend.” I smiled at him encouragingly. “We can always use more volunteers. Why don’t you come by the museum this afternoon? I’ll give you the two-bit tour.”
“Maybe I will,” he said. “But the problem is, I’m pretty much hoofing it. How’s your rapid-transit system around here?”
“Lousy,” I said, thinking for a moment. I took the spare key to my old truck from a kitchen drawer. “You can drive my truck, and I’ll drive your grandpa’s old truck.”
“The restored one?” Sam’s eyes lit up. “Wow, Dad told me about it over the phone. That was so cool of Otis. Why can’t I drive that?”
“ ’Cause your dad isn’t quite ready for that yet,” I said wryly. “He’s not going to be thrilled about me driving it, but it’s the only way we can get you some wheels.”
“Maybe I can talk him into it,” he said, his eyes still dreamy.
“Maybe,” I humored him, thinking, Not in this lifetime, sonny boy.
I was thankful Sam was in the bathroom when Gabe came into the living room dressed for work. I straightened his tie and informed him of our plans.
“Be careful,” he said. “Maybe I should drive Dad’s truck.”
“Okay, but then I drive the Corvette.”
I watched his face struggle with the choices. “I guess I’ll take the Corvette. You’re not going anyplace off-road, are you?”
“Oh, go catch some bad guys,” I said, kissing him and pushing him toward the door.
I dressed quickly in jeans, a sleeveless denim shirt, and boots. With a quick brush of hair and teeth, I was ready for my visit with Nick. All I had to do was stop by the bakery and buy a pie. When I walked back into the kitchen, Sam was loading both last night’s and this morning’s dishes in the dishwasher. A package of chicken breasts lay on the counter.
“Thanks,” I said. “What are you doing with the chicken?”
He smiled at me. “I’m not a complete scrounge, madrastra .” He took a long glass pan from the bottom cupboard. “I thought I’d marinate some chicken breasts in this great teriaki-ginger sauce I learned in Hawaii. We can broil them for dinner. Maybe steam some vegetables and rice to go with it.”
I unsuccessfully hid my surprise. “You cook?”
He wiped his wet hands on his sweatshirt. “I worked for a few months as a chef’s helper in a hotel restaurant in Haleiwa. I mostly just cut up vegetables, but I learned a few things watching the chef.”
“Well, anyone who cooks around here is more than welcome.”
After picking up a fresh cherry pie at the bakery, I drove to Nick’s house. He lived near the college on a cul-de-sac that ended at one of Cal Poly’s pastures. The street had become more familiar to me in the last few months because Gabe’s leased house was at the end of the same street. Nick’s house sat above the pavement, perched over his two-car garage. A red Harley-Davidson Sportster was parked in front of the garage doors, a black helmet resting in the bushes as if he’d flung it there when he dismounted. I picked it up and balanced it carefully on the leather motorcycle seat. A steep set of white wooden stairs led to an intricately carved front door with a stained-glass porthole window. An overgrown ash tree in his tiny front yard canopied the deep front porch.
He answered the door on my third knock. He looked thinner than the last time I saw him a week ago, though I knew that was just an illusion. Death, it seemed to me, did that to survivors, seemed to shrink them for a time, as if a part of them physically left when the person they loved did. His shaggy auburn hair was slightly greasy at the crown, and the whites of his blue eyes were faintly yellow and webbed with red lines. He wore a pair of dark jeans, a gray athletic shirt, and scuffed black motorcycle boots.
“Nick, I’m so sorry,” I said. We did an awkward dance for a moment as I tried to hug him while balancing the pink box holding the pie.
“Come on in,” he said, taking the box from my hands.
I followed him into his shaded living room. With the greenish sunlight dappling the room and the large picture window peering over his neighbors’ rooftops, it felt like we were in a tree house. He pushed aside a pile of newspapers on the leather sofa to give me a place to sit. Crumpled fast-food containers and empty beer bottles littered the glass coffee table. He sat across from me in a plaid chair, cradling the pink bakery box in his lap.
“Thanks for the cake,” he finally said.
“It’s a pie, and you’re welcome.”
We sat uncomfortably silent for a moment. He set the box down next to him and picked up a worn acoustic guitar propped next to the white brick fireplace. “What’s Gabe found out so far?” he asked, running his fingers along the edge of the instrument.
“Not much,” I said. “But he’s got everyone he can spare working on it.” I hugged my bare upper arms. For some reason, though the temperature had already started climbing toward the high eighties, his house felt like a refrigerator. “They’ll find who did this, Nick.”
He squinted at me, his light eyes cynical. “I’m glad you have so much confidence in our boys in blue. Too bad they couldn’t be there when someone decided to kill her.”
I didn’t answer. His remark was unfair, but I also knew from experience that during those first few days after such a shock, a person can’t always be held responsible for what they say. I picked up a pillow needlepointed with the figure of a soaring eagle and pretended to study the stitchwork. “Do you need help planning the service?” I asked gently.
He rubbed a hand over his face. “Man, I’m sorry, Benni. I sound like an ungrateful ass. I know Gabe’s doing his best. I’m just so angry at whoever did this, I can’t see straight.” He thrummed his fingers down the strings of the guitar, then stopped their sound with the flat of his hand. “Truthfully, I don’t know what to do and I don’t even know who to ask.”
“I can ask Gabe when they will release her,” I offered.
“You know it was just me and her. This is all my responsibility now, and with the two of us she was always the one—” His voice broke. “She would be the one to find out these things.”
“I know, but she had friends. You have friends. We’ll help you.”
“Thanks,” he mumbled, staring out the huge picture window into the ash tree’s thick f
oliage. I followed his gaze. Through the leaves, the sloping umber hills of San Celina seemed to undulate before our eyes. “I hope they found something in her apartment.” He looked back at me. “And I hope they’re looking real close at Roy and his horsey girlfriend. They had more reason to want her dead than anyone.”
Again I didn’t answer. One of the problems with living in the same small town your entire life was sometimes your loyalties got intertwined and complicated. Although Roy annoyed me sometimes with his smart-ass personality, he was basically a good guy. And I liked Grace. I liked her a lot. I didn’t want to believe either of them would kill Nora.
“I’ll call you as soon as I find out about when they’ll release Nora,” I said, standing up. “Is there anything else I can do? Do you have enough food? Want me to go grocery shopping for you?”
His face softened, and he gave a quiet laugh. For the first time since I walked in, he looked more like the kindhearted guy I’d known for years. The guy who would spend an hour helping a schoolchild find all the right reference materials for an overdue report on California missions or help a frightened senior citizen research a list of medicines prescribed to them by a doctor too busy to explain the side effects. “I’m eating fine,” he said, pointing to the coffee table full of fast food wrappers. “You remind me of Nora. She was always concerned I wasn’t eating enough.”
“You loved each other very much,” I said.
His eyes teared up. “Yes.”
“We’re doing a special tribute to her at the storytelling festival,” I said. “Maybe you’d like to come see it.”
“Is Roy going to be there?”
“There’s nothing I can do about that, Nick. He’s in the program.”
“Then I’ll pass. But thanks for thinking of her.”
“Nick, when the detectives talked to you, did they ask who—”
He broke in. “I think I know what you’re going to ask. I told them that the only person I knew who could possibly want her dead was Roy Hudson and that woman he left my sister for. They are the only ones who could benefit from her death, and frankly, any man who could screw around on his wife when his son is dying is capable of anything in my book.”
Goose in the Pond Page 8
