Goose in the Pond

by Earlene Fowler

  She stood up and stretched. “Haven’t really thought about it. I’m here to tell you, though, Mama’s about the last person I feel like seeing now.” She tugged down her tiny denim shorts. “Well, I’m beat. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  I sat on the porch for a long time afterward, enjoying the solitude and the falling dusk. The streetlight at the end of the street flickered on, and the boys across the street went inside. I stared up into the black sky, the stars sprinkled across it like a dusting of confectioner’s sugar, and thought of Rita and Skeeter, Roy and Nora and Grace, of Jillian and Dolores and Ash, of Dove and Garnet, me and Gabe, of the betrayals, big and small, we enact on people we loved or claimed to love or once loved. I rubbed my arms briskly and sat up. It was getting late, and my thoughts were getting depressing.

  I was opening the screen door when the red Harper truck pulled up in front of the house. Sam popped out, grabbed his surfboard from the bed, and started across the lawn. I sat down on the steps and waited for him.

  “Hi,” he said, propping his surfboard on the porch and sitting down next to me. “How was your day?”

  “Busy. How were the waves?” I smiled teasingly and bumped his shoulder with mine. “And the chicks?” He smelled clean and slightly salty.

  He grinned. “Dove squealed on me, huh? It was great. But that’s not all I did today.”

  “What other kind of mischief did you get into?”

  “I got a job.” His face glowed with pride, like a five-year-old showing his first finger painting.

  “A job? Where?”

  “At Eudora’s. I’m working the counter four nights a week. I started tonight. I hope it’s okay, but I used your name as a reference. I was going to ask you first, but I saw the ‘Help Wanted’ sign and just went for it.”

  “No, that’s fine.”

  “Mr. Stanhill said you and he were old friends. When I told him who I was, he said he’d give me a try. I mean, if you can’t trust the police chief’s son, I guess you can’t trust anyone. That’s what he said, anyway.” He tightened his bottom lip. “I don’t know how Dad’s going to take it, but I want to pay you that money back and I need to save some so . . .” He left it open.

  “I’ll tell him. I’m sure he’ll be happy for you.” Actually, I didn’t know how he would feel. I don’t think he intended on Sam setting up shop here in San Celina, and then there was the question of where he would live. I rubbed my forehead.

  “No, he won’t. He’d be happy to see me split,” Sam said, standing up, his voice cool. “You can tell him I will as soon as I save some money. Until then, just let him know I’m looking for another place to crash.”

  “Don’t worry about that. We’ll figure something out that everyone can live with.”

  “Just tell him, okay?”

  As he started up the steps a paperback book fell out of his sweatshirt pocket. I picked it up and glanced at it before handing it back to him.

  “Pascal?” I commented. “Is that your father’s book?” Gabe had been doggedly working on a master’s thesis in philosophy since I met him. His books and notes were scattered around the house like confetti.

  He glanced over his shoulder furtively, as if expecting Gabe to storm out of the house and demand the book back. “I just saw it lying around. Is he looking for it?”

  “No, he’s too busy with Nora’s murder to be working on his thesis right now. He probably doesn’t even miss it.” I looked at him thoughtfully. “Are you finding it interesting?”

  He lifted one shoulder in an indifferent shrug. I felt like hugging him. I knew exactly what he was doing because I’d done it myself: trying to find a clue to Gabe’s personality in the underlined passages of his schoolbooks. I wish I could tell him that it was futile, that his father was more complex than that, that those underlined passages were only vague hints about who he was.

  “I think I’ll go to bed now,” I said. “Congratulations on the job. And don’t worry about repaying the money. I told you it’s a gift.”

  “I’ll pay it back,” he said, his voice firm and unyielding. “I’m not a flake, no matter what my dad says.” He touched my arm lightly when I brushed past him on the porch. “Thanks, madrastra. Thanks for being cool about all this.”

  “You’re welcome, stepson.”

  In our bedroom, Gabe was propped up against our pine headboard, reading a thick file. He peered at me over his gold wire-rim glasses.

  “Was that Sam?” he asked.

  “Yes.” I undressed, pulled on a clean T-shirt from his dresser drawer, and crawled into bed.

  He went back to reading his files. I picked up an oral-history book Elvia had just given me on rodeo cowgirls in the first part of the century. Without looking up from his files, Gabe asked, “Is he okay?”

  I laid the book down. “Gabe, he’s just fine, which you’d know if you’d gone out to see him.”

  His head didn’t move. “We’d just start arguing again.”

  I sighed and scooted under the covers. “Yes, you’re probably right. If it’ll make you feel any better, he got a job today and is planning on not only paying me back, but saving money so he can leave. He told me to tell you he’d find another place to live as soon as he could.”

  A muscle in Gabe’s jaw twitched. “I’ll believe that when I see it.”

  I punched my feather pillow irritably. “You’re impossible.”

  “So you’ve told me once or twice.” He flashed a smile that could rival Sam’s on the devastation meter. “Kiss me good night anyway?”

  I bared my teeth at him, and he laughed. His lightheartedness made me feel a little more hopeful. Maybe there was a chance for him and Sam to reconcile yet.

  “Anything new on Nora’s case?” I asked after we’d turned out the light.

  “Benni—”

  “I know, I know, not my business. So what else is going on among the criminal element of San Celina? What about that underwear bandit those two bimbos were telling you about Sunday?”

  “Caught him with the goods, so to speak. A security guard at Mountain Meadows Apartments saw a man behaving suspiciously in the laundry room and called us. Once we got him down to the station, he confessed to all the thefts.”

  “What was he doing that tipped the security guard off?”

  Gabe’s soft laughter filled our small bedroom. “Had his jeans off and was pulling on a pair of Victoria’s Secret lace panties he swiped from the dryer. In a very attractive shade of teal blue, I’m told.”

  “That’s gross,” I moaned.

  “You asked. Oh, one more thing you might be interested in. As a matter of fact, I brought you something.”

  “What?”

  “You know that homeless guy who sits out in front of Blind Harry’s all the time? The one Elvia feeds?”

  “Sure, we call him the Datebook Bum. What about him?”

  “Found him dead in a storm drain over by the Von’s grocery store on Ryman Avenue. I brought you his diary. Thought you and Elvia might like to look through it.”

  I felt my throat constrict. “How did he die?”

  “They’ll do a quickie autopsy tomorrow. Probably some infection or pneumonia, like it usually is with street people. We didn’t find any identification. We’ll try running his prints through the FBI, but most likely he’ll be buried as a John Doe.” He shifted next to me. “We went through the canvas bag we found with him. Nothing but junk. Neat junk, but just junk. He was clean. No needles or drug paraphernalia.”

  “He’s been around here a couple of years,” I said. “He just showed up one day. We tried to help him, but he never wanted—” My voice cracked; tears started flowing before I could stop them. “What about his family? What if they’re looking for him?”

  “Querida, don’t cry.” He pulled me to him. “We’ll do our best to find them, but you know a lot of these homeless people don’t even have families.”

  “Oh, Gabe, that’s even sadder.”

  He hugged me tightly. “I should
have waited until tomorrow to tell you. I didn’t realize it was going to upset you like this.”

  “I’m okay. It’s just all the emotional stuff that’s happened the last few days. I guess this was just the icing on the cake. You know, even as irritating as our families can be, we’re lucky to have them.”

  “I suppose,” he said, his voice neutral in the darkness.

  9

  FOR A CHANGE, I beat everyone getting dressed. While Gabe was still shaving, I was pulling on my denim jacket.

  “The homeless man’s business diary is in my briefcase,” he said when I kissed him good-bye.

  “Do you need it back?” I asked.

  “No, we’ll probably just toss the rest of his stuff. I flipped through it. He was apparently a pretty sharp guy at one time. Very organized.”

  “I won’t be home for dinner tonight,” I said. “Have a final meeting at Angelo’s with the festival committee. I’m treating them to pizza in hopes of bringing a little harmony to the group.”

  He looked at me with concern, his face half-covered with shaving cream. “Are you all right?”

  I kissed the clean side of his face. It was slightly wet and soapy tasting. “I’m fine. Just got a little emotional last night. It’s so easy to see the homeless as an ambiguous social issue. It’s different when it’s someone you know. I wish now I’d tried a little harder to find out more about him. Maybe I could have helped him better.”

  He turned back to the mirror and ran the blade under his chin. “Querida, sometimes people just can’t let others get too close. Maybe you helped him the most by letting him be who he wanted to be.”

  “I suppose,” I said, not certain whether he was talking about the homeless man or himself.

  As I wandered through the house picking up things I’d need today, I discovered Dove on the sofa perusing her large-print Bible for a suitable comeback to Garnet, Sam in the kitchen scrambling eggs, and Rita, I assumed, still lingering in bed. I found the maroon datebook and stuffed it in my purse.

  “I won’t be home for dinner,” I called to Dove. She nodded and licked her finger, flipping rapidly through her Bible. She paused at a passage, then jotted something on a tablet.

  The early-morning air was brisk and refreshing; the sky as bright as a new dime. I picked up the San Celina Tribune, unfolding the paper and pulling out the lifestyle section. There was a major write-up on the storytelling festival I wanted to read. I’d leave the rest for Gabe to peruse while he ate breakfast. When I saw the front-page headline, I froze.

  MURDERED STORYTELLER NAMED AS TATTLER

  I quickly scanned the article. “An unnamed source tells the Tribune . . . ” The article went on to question how long the police had known this information and what else they were hiding from the public.

  I rushed into the house, where Gabe was already on the phone, his freshly shaven face steely with anger. Apparently someone had just called and informed him about the article.

  “Find out,” he demanded. “I’ll be there in a half hour.”

  He turned and saw me standing there holding the newspaper.

  “I guess you heard,” I said, handing it to him.

  He glanced over the story. “This screws up everything. That was the first solid lead we’ve had, and now that it’s public, we’re back to where we started.”

  “Who do you think told the newspaper?”

  “I don’t know,” he said grimly, taking the towel draped around his shoulders and wiping his neck clean of shaving cream. A tiny spot of congealed blood dotted his chin. “But I’m going to find out.”

  The phone rang again, and I hightailed it out of there. His day was going to be a stressful one, no doubt about it. I fervently hoped Sam was working late tonight.

  I drove to McDonald’s and bought a large coffee, an Egg McMuffin, and another newspaper. I read every word of the article twice. As usual, the Tribune wasn’t kind in its assessment of how the police were handling the investigation. They even took a few potshots at their rival, the Freedom Press, too. Not that Will Henry would mind. It would only help him sell more newspapers. On the way to Grace’s stables for the early-morning ride I’d been promising myself for the last few days, I wondered how this would affect the festival and whether it would help or hinder the police in their investigation. It could drive the killer underground or make him nervous enough to slip up and reveal himself. Or herself, I reminded myself. I shouldn’t make generalities. It all came back to words again—how they can build up or tear down, make things easier or harder for people, cause wars or negotiate peace. The power of words to help or heal.

  At the stables Jillian’s silver Jaguar and Roy’s old pickup were the only vehicles in the gravel parking lot. Roy was repairing one of the wooden jumps in the front arena, so I assumed Jillian was working Fred in the back one. I opened the gate and walked through the dusty arena.

  “Hi,” I said. “Where’s Grace?”

  He stood up, slipped his pine-handled hammer back in his tool belt and squinted at me. A trickle of sweat dripped off his narrow nose. “Went to pick up an order at the feed store. She knew you was comin’, though. Said Tony needs to be taken out if you feel like it.”

  “Sure. Me and Tony are old buddies.” I ran my hand down the white-painted jumping post. “What happened?”

  “Some smart-ass kids messin’ around. I spend more time around here repairing things than anything, but those little brats are our biggest business. I’m trying to get caught up’cause I’m hitting the road for a few weeks.”

  “Got some rodeo gigs lined up?” His specialty act, performed with an Appaloosa he’d trained himself, included fancy roping tricks à la Montie Montana.

  “Yeah. A couple of them are running cowboy poetry performances along with the rodeo. I’m hoping to make a few extra bucks and sell some books.” Recently, with the financial help of Grace, he’d self-published a book of his cowboy poetry and sold it whenever and wherever he could. He hacked and spit. “Providing I’m allowed to leave town, that is. Nora’s murder has really screwed things up.”

  I looked at his sun-webbed face, half-shaded by his straw cowboy hat. Did he feel any sorrow over Nora’s death, or had the bitterness gone so deep and hard that he truly didn’t care?

  When I didn’t answer, he said, “I know you think I’m a real asshole.”

  I shrugged. That’s exactly what I thought, but wasn’t about to say it.

  He pushed his hat back and rocked on the heels of his cracked leather boots. “Look, I’m sorry she’s dead. I never wanted anything like that to happen. Shit, when things were good between us, they were really good. Then the accident happened, and everything changed—” His voice shook on the last word. “We just couldn’t make it, and I hope they catch the garbage who killed her, but I’ve got to go on with my life.”

  I still didn’t reply. I wanted to understand both sides, but it was hard to forget how he cheated on her when their son was dying, when she needed him the most. Disloyalty was tops on the list of things I despised.

  He looked at me with glazed eyes. “You know, when Joey was dying, I felt so mad, so useless, all I wanted to do was kill something. I was raised by my pa that a man takes care of his family, that he goes after whoever messes with them. But who was I going to go after? After the accident all we could do was watch him die. Little by little, he went farther and farther away from us. Every minute of the day was taken up watching him die. It took nine months. And she couldn’t think or talk about anything else. So many people were good to us . . . to her. She belonged to this group, had other mothers to talk to. I didn’t have anyone. She was lost to me from the day the doctors told us Joey would probably never come out of the coma. I was shoeing for Grace at the time, and she listened to me. The thing between me and Grace just happened. We didn’t plan it. It just happened.”

  I knew this story, having heard Grace’s version. Though deep in my gut I abhorred the act of adultery, and I instinctively drifted in the direction of f
eeling more sympathy for Nora, I couldn’t deny that Roy’s pain from his son’s death ran deep and sincere.

  But all that had happened a year ago, and a lot of bitterness had overshadowed the sadness they both felt over Joey’s death. I knew from Grace that Roy and Nora had not only fought over Zar’s ownership, but also the money from a trust fund that had been set up for Joey from donations and from an insurance policy they’d taken out on him when he was born. Roy, anxious to get his breeding herd started, fought her for every penny.

  “I told him to just let it be,” Grace had told me after he’d interrupted one of our kitchen-table talks with an angry diatribe about Nora. “That we’d save the money on our own. But I think he’s just so angry, he has to take it out on something . . . or someone.”

  I stared down at Roy’s rough, strong hands. Had he finally gotten angry enough to kill? I shook my head slightly, trying to dislodge the thought. “Don’t forget our final meeting and pizza at Angelo’s tonight.”

  “What time are we all supposed to be there?”

  “Seven. Remember, this is the last meeting before the festival, so any concerns you have need to be taken care of tonight ’cause it’s going to be crazy starting tomorrow.”

  “Everything’s jim-dandy with me.” He settled his hat on his head and checked the post he’d just fixed by giving it a firm shake.

  “Including your story?”

  He grinned slowly. “Mr. Greenpeep still all a-twitter? Grace said she told you I was just razzin’ him.”

  “Try and cool it with Peter during the festival, okay? I don’t care what kind of personal problems you two have, I just don’t want any shenanigans at the festival.”

  “Shenanigans?” He laughed and spit again.

  “I mean it, Roy. I’ll throw you out of the festival right in the middle of your story. And that’s a promise.”

  He swept off his hat and bowed. “Yes, ma’am, Madam Chairman. This cowboy will be on his best behavior, or you can kick my sorry butt out.”