“Only about a hundred times. Why?”
I explained about Peter’s objection.
“For cryin’ out loud,” she said. “There’s not a thing wrong with the story Roy’s telling. It’s all about a cow-camp cook and his rock-hard biscuits. There’s not an environmentalist within a hundred miles of it.”
“What do you think this is all about, then?”
“Roy’s probably just making up stuff to irritate Peter. You know how Roy feels about those open-space people. They’ve tangled before at city council meetings.”
“Roy wouldn’t do anything to cause a ruckus at the festival, would he?”
“Like what?”
“Like tell this story that he’s been teasing Peter with.”
She shook her head. “No way. That would only make Roy look bad. He’s just starting to make a name for himself and he wouldn’t do anything to screw that up. I’m telling you, he’s just poking at Peter. If Peter was smart, he’d just ignore him.”
I sighed and gave Dos one last scratch behind the ears. “I hope you’re right.” He arched under my petting, then took off after a squirrel that darted across the gravel driveway and sped around the corner of the barn.
“Trust me, Benni.”
I gave her a crooked smile. “Why do those words always evoke fear and trepidation in my heart?”
“Girlfriend, you are getting as cynical as that husband of yours. See you tomorrow?”
I opened the truck door. “I’m not sure. My days are pretty full this week. But you’ll be at the final committee meeting Wednesday night at Angelo’s, won’t you? Remember, I’m paying for the pizza.”
“With my best boots on.” She grabbed my arm before I climbed into the truck’s cab. “Benni?”
I turned and looked at her in question.
“I know this is asking a lot.” Her nostrils flared slightly, and she took a deep breath. “If you find out anything, could you let me know? I mean, this looks real bad for me and Roy, and I’m not asking you to break any laws, but you talk to so many people, and if you hear anything, could you . . . you know, just clue me in? As a friend?”
Feeling emotionally torn, I struggled for an honest answer. “I’ll try,” I finally said. “But Gabe’s not telling me much. He’s trying to keep me out of it.”
She looked up at me with pale green eyes as translucent as opals. “I know. I guess I was just trying to find out if this was going to affect our friendship.”
“Not if I can help it,” I said, and meant it.
“Thanks. I have a feeling I’m going to need all the friends I can get.” She let out a low whistle, and Uno and Tres appeared from behind the house. “Where’s your pesky brother at?” she asked them.
I watched her in my rearview mirror as she walked back to the barn, the two perky-eared dogs bouncing around her feet. It occurred to me that I never asked her if any detectives had questioned her and Roy. They must have, recalling her remark about being each other’s alibis. That was almost as good as no alibi when both of them had very good reasons to want Nora dead.
Stop it, I told myself. She’s your friend, and the least you can do is believe she’s innocent until it’s proven otherwise. One thing I knew for sure, if they were guilty, I sure didn’t want to be the one to discover it.
It was almost four o’clock when I reached the museum. There was less activity going on, though a few people still milled about with hammers and saws. D-Daddy’s old Toyota station wagon was gone, so I safely assumed that he’d completed all the things on my work list for today. He wouldn’t have left otherwise. In the studios, a couple of quilters had a double-sized story quilt spread out on a wide worktable and were discussing it in low tones.
“What’s happening?” I asked, walking over and peering down at the intricate quilt. It was the We Are All God’s Children quilt that was a joint co-op project and was being raffled off at the festival, the proceeds going to our local hospital children’s wing, which had taken severe cuts with the last city budget. Twelve squares showed scenes of family life from twelve different cultures that thrived in San Celina County. The Latino square showed a Christmas Eve celebration that included a Santa Claus piñata and a colorful Mexican crèche scene on the fireplace mantel. The square, which I’d designed and quilted, was adapted from an old photograph of Elvia’s family.
“We’re checking it over one last time,” said Meg, a thin woman who was partial to long, baggy cotton dresses and musk perfume. Her specialty was modern quilts based on paintings by women artists.
“Looks perfect to me,” I said.
She and the other lady chuckled. “You know quilts are never perfect or finished,” Meg said. “Just abandoned.”
I smiled at the comment I’d heard so many times from artists. “Well, I’ve bought twenty-five dollars’ worth of raffle tickets, so I’m hoping it comes home with me. I have the perfect spot for it in my living room.”
“Good luck,” Meg said, laying tissue paper across the top of it and rolling it up. “I can’t think of a better home for it.”
After checking with the security guard we’d hired for the week to make sure he knew the proper way to lock up after the last artist left, I headed home, wondering what interesting scene awaited me tonight.
Ash’s new Mustang convertible was arrogantly parked in the driveway, blocking the garage. He and Rita emerged when I was halfway across the lawn. She wore a pink lace dress that would have made a good doily and matching four-inch heels.
I scowled at him, hoping I conveyed my mental disapproval of him dating my cousin who was still a married woman. He answered with a smooth, knowing smile.
“Don’t wait up,” Rita called over her shoulder, climbing into his car. “I’ve still got my key. And you got a message from Dove.”
“What?” I stuttered, watching the silver sports car back out of the driveway and resisting the temptation to throw something at it. Who would have ever expected her to keep a key after all this time? And what did Dove want? I found Sam in the kitchen tossing a salad in a large glass bowl and singing. The table was set for three. A basket of whole-wheat dinner rolls sat in the center of the pine dining table.
“Rita won’t be joining us,” Sam said, setting the salad on the table. It was a green salad using romaine lettuce, radishes, cherry tomatoes, and Parmesan cheese. He pointed at the salad. “It doesn’t exactly go with the chicken, but it’s all you had.”
“Looks wonderful,” I said.
“I called Dad’s office,” he said, turning back to the oven and pulling out the chicken. A heavenly aroma of garlic and ginger filled the room. “According to Maggie, he left about ten minutes ago.” He opened a pot on the stove and poked at the rice, then checked the vegetables he was steaming.
I picked up a roll and tore off a bite. “The station’s only a mile away. He should be here any minute.”
Sam set the food on the table, and we tried to make light conversation and not watch the cow-shaped kitchen clock. After thirty minutes it became pretty clear that he wasn’t going to show up.
“Maybe he got called back to the station,” I said. “That happens sometimes.”
He gave me a cynical look. “Right. Well, enjoy it.”
Before I could answer, he was out of the kitchen, and I heard the front door slam. I looked at all the food spread out in front of me. Resigned, I picked up the salad tongs and served myself. I was in the middle of my second helping of the ginger-garlic chicken when I remembered that Rita said Dove left a message. I chewed my chicken thoughtfully, wondering if she was trying to pawn Garnet off on me. She obviously knew by now that Rita was here as well as Sam and that I didn’t have any spare bed space.
After putting away the leftovers, I reluctantly checked the answering machine. To say she’d left me a message was an understatement. My answering machine looked like a Vegas slot machine that hit the big one.
“Honeybun, I need to talk to you. Please give your grandmother a call.” Monday—one P.M
., the automated voice informed me.
“Benni, I need to talk to you right away.” Monday—1:37 P.M.
“Benni, call me NOW.” Monday—3:14 P.M.
“Young lady, if you don’t get on the phone right now and call me, you’ll be sorry.” Monday—3:51 P.M.
“You’ve had it.” Monday—4:28 P.M.
I glanced at my watch. It was seven o’clock. I knew that her first day with Aunt Garnet was always the hardest. Maybe things had settled down by now. Maybe they were getting along for a change.
Then again, maybe I’d better leave the house for a little while.
7
DOWNTOWN WAS MORE crowded than usual for a Monday night. I finally gave up trying to find street parking and settled for a space on the top of the new four-story municipal parking garage. The air was pungent with the smell of coffee and cinnamon and car exhaust. Gangs of students bunched in front of every open coffeehouse and cafe. School had only been in session for about a month, and everyone was still in an insouciant summer mood. The frantic days of finals and term papers were a distant, unreal worry.
In front of Blind Harry’s, San Celina’s most infamous homeless person, the Datebook Bum, sat on the curb next to his huge canvas bag of junk. His tangled gray head was bent over a maroon leather business diary as he furiously wrote mysterious messages to himself. He was a lovable if sometimes cranky man who, like many longtime homeless, appeared ageless. His dirt-encrusted face and clothing-layered body could be anywhere from thirty to seventy. He’d stubbornly refused any help—only staying in the local homeless shelter when the weather was particularly harsh. No one had ever found out his name or whether he had any family. About six months ago, in exasperation, Elvia, who sent food out to him a couple of times a week, asked him if there was anything she could do for him. He shyly pointed to Blind Harry’s window display showing the latest in business books and products and asked her in a gentle, cultured voice for the maroon leather business appointment book. With the compulsion humans have for naming things, we’d taken to calling him the Datebook Bum, and in his eyes Elvia was the queen of San Celina. I dropped a dollar bill and all my change into his red coffee can. He looked up briefly and nodded.
I contemplated going into Blind Harry’s and perusing the new-book section, but I had a stack of books at home I hadn’t even started yet, so I continued walking down the crowded street all the way to the neon-lighted Art Deco Fremont Theater, where they were doing a Gene Autry Monday-night film series. I studied the old cowboy-movie posters, concluding that a movie wasn’t what I was in the mood for either. I finally ended up down at a small coffeehouse off the main drag called Coffee To Go Go. They had an outside patio with plastic chairs and glass-topped tables nature had decorated with red-and-yellow leaves from the surrounding maple trees. There was a raised concrete platform in one corner for musicians to ply their trade when the mood struck them. Some wonderful impromptu concerts were held there, especially on summer nights when the moon and stars lit it bright as the Grand Ole Opry stage. I sat down in the almost empty patio and waited for my cafe mocha to cool. It was quiet enough for me to hear the silvery rushing of San Celina Creek, which flowed next to the patio right through the center of San Celina. Across the creek, the mission’s outside lights flickered on as dusk started to lengthen the shadows of the buildings and bring a cool heaviness to the air. The falling sun turned the church’s pale adobe walls to a soft amber. I leaned my head back and closed my eyes for what seemed just a second. When I opened them again, it was almost dark. Somewhere a guitar played a hauntingly familiar blues riff that seemed to coil sensuously through the myrtle and pine trees hanging over the creek.
I threw my cold coffee away and followed the music, taking the wooden bridge over the creek. I found its source on the wide steps of the mission. Nick Cooper sat alone, playing his beat-up guitar.
“Hey,” I said, sitting down beside him. “You don’t have a hat out. Where am I suppose to put my money?”
He shook his head slowly and kept playing. “Free concert tonight, folks. I’ll share these blues with anyone.”
After the song was over, he laid the guitar aside and stared out over the creek. “Gabe called me and said they might be able to release Nora’s body next week and that he’d speed it up as much as possible.” He nodded slightly. “Thanks for taking care of that.”
“No problem,” I said, stretching out my legs. “How’re you doing?”
He shrugged. “Not so good. I can’t sleep. I’ve been living off coffee and glazed doughnuts. I feel like I’m walking through a fog.” His sharp laugh seemed to bounce off the shadowed walls of the mission. “Other than that, I’m on top of the world.”
I slipped my arm around his shoulders. “Let me buy you dinner.”
“Thanks anyway, but I’m not hungry.”
“I know food has no taste right now, but you need to eat.”
“Yes, Mom,” he said, giving me a slight smile.
I slapped his back playfully and laughed. “You know, I am beginning to sound like someone’s mother, but I have a good excuse. Let me tell you what’s going on at my house.” Hoping to take his mind off his sorrow for a moment, I told him about Gabe and Sam and Rita and Dove and Aunt Garnet and Uncle W.W. By the end of my story, we were both laughing.
“It sounds a lot funnier when I tell it to you,” I said.
“You’re lucky to have such a large, caring family.”
“We are large, I’ll give you that.”
“I’m thinking about leaving San Celina,” he blurted out.
I pulled my knees up and rested my chin on them, staring out at the dark trees shadowing the creek. “I felt the same way after Jack died. Everywhere I went, something reminded me of him. But I think you shouldn’t make that decision for a while. Everything’s too raw right now.”
He ran his plastic pick softly over the guitar strings. “Actually, I’m just wishing. Gabe pulled the old don’t-leave-town-without-reporting-to-us bit on me. He was nice about it, though.”
“I don’t think he really suspects you. Why should he?”
Nick held the guitar pick up and studied it as if it were some rare artifact. His hands were soft and white and long-fingered. “The land I’m going to inherit. I’m surprised he hasn’t told you about it.”
“What land?”
“The land that Nora owned. A little bit of dirt that’s causing a lot of ruckus with Peter and his friends.”
“Which one?”
“Bonita Peak and the land surrounding it.” He ran the guitar pick along the edge of his jaw. The rasp of his whiskers against the plastic sounded loud in the quiet evening air.
“Nora owns Bonita Peak? Since when? How did she get it?” Bonita Peak, next to Laguna Lake, where I’d found Nora’s body, was a popular hiking spot for locals. Covered with oak trees, monkey flowers, wild raspberries, and Indian paintbrush, it held a lot of personal memories for me as well as a lot of other San Celinans. From the peak you could survey the town of San Celina, watch the sun glint off Morro Rock as it protruded stark and black from the gray Pacific Ocean, while turkey vultures gracefully cruised air currents. The absentee owner had, for as long as I could remember, allowed public access. But in the last few months, something changed. A fencing crew had come in from Santa Barbara, strung barbed-wire fencing all around the bottom of the hill, and posted large “No Trespassing” signs. Local hikers, mountain bikers, and rock climbers had been attempting to find out what was going on. So far, all they’d gotten was a lot of double-talk from some L.A. law firm. Somehow one of them discovered that an expensive housing development complete with private golf course was being considered, with the peak being open only to the owners of the half-million-dollar homes.
“Since about three months ago. And she got it the same way I did,” he said, shrugging. “Someone died, and she inherited it.”
“What?”
“Let me tell you something right off that not many people know. Nora and I weren’
t technically full siblings.”
“You weren’t?”
“My father raised Nora from the time she was two years old, but her biological father owned an oil company. Our mother was his secretary for a couple of years. He was married, of course, so when she got pregnant, he paid her off, and she came up here and eventually married my dad. Nora never even knew until after mom died and we found the adoption papers.”
“That must have been such a shock.”
He leaned back on his elbows and stretched out his legs. “It was, but she handled it pretty well. After the initial discovery, we never talked about it again. As far as I’m concerned, she is . . .” He paused. “Was my sister. Period. Then a few months ago Nora got a letter from a law firm in Los Angeles telling her that her biological father had died and left her some land. Apparently he felt guilty in his old age. It turned out to be Bonita Peak and the land surrounding it.”
I gave a low whistle. “That land’s worth a fortune.”
“You bet, and she was determined to sell. The rumors about that housing development are true. The papers were being drawn up this week.”
“Why would she sell Bonita Peak to a developer? She grew up here. She knew how much it means to the people of San Celina.”
He sat up. Anger shadowed the planes of his face. “It was the only thing in our life that we ever really disagreed on. All our lives we depended on each other. Dad died when I was only eleven and Nora thirteen, and that’s when Mom started drinking. We had to grow up real fast and somehow we sensed early that fighting against each other would only make things harder. I was so happy when she inherited that land because I thought she felt the same way I did about it. But Nora went crazy after Joey died. She got it in her head if the hospital had only had the right trauma equipment and staff, Joey wouldn’t have lapsed into that coma . . . that he’d still be alive today.”
“Would it have made a difference?”
“Who knows? General Hospital had taken a lot of cuts in the last few years. You know they closed their trauma unit down five years ago. The closest one is in Santa Barbara now. The doctors won’t say, of course. All they’ll say is it never hurts to have the type of personnel and equipment trauma units provide. Who’s to say if they’d had all the latest equipment that Joey wouldn’t still have died? But when she inherited the land and the developer told her how much he was willing to pay for it, she decided to sell it and donate a big chunk of money toward revitalizing the emergency room at General Hospital and some to an AIDS hospice for children down in L.A. She got involved with this group of parents who lost children, and went down there to tell stories to the children four or five times. She said that it helped her to see that there were worse ways for Joey to have died.”
Goose in the Pond Page 12
