“I didn’t mean—”
He held his finger and thumb an inch apart. “I’m this far from charging someone, but if everyone doesn’t get off my back—”
“Who?” I asked before I could stop myself.
He narrowed his eyes. “I told you to go home.”
I held back the urge to ask more. Right now Nora’s killer took second place to my husband’s precarious mental state. “No, I won’t.” I stretched up and kissed him gently on the mouth.
He hesitated, then set the bottle on the floor. He put a cold palm against my cheek. “Poor little niña,” he whispered. “You had no idea what you were getting into when you married me.”
“I’m not a little girl.” I kissed him again, not as gently this time, and he responded. The whiskey taste of him was startling and unfamiliar, like kissing a stranger.
He started unbuttoning my chambray shirt. “You shouldn’t have come here,” he murmured against my throat, then groaned softly. “Querida, querida, estas una frego en mi alma.”
I felt myself tremble slightly. Something in him echoed the feeling, and a shudder ran the length of his body. He pulled us to the floor, and moments later we were frantically tearing clothes away, trying to find skin for our lips and tongues to touch. We made love quickly and silently, desperate to connect in the only way we never seemed to get wrong.
As our breathing slowed back to normal I lay with my cheek pressed against his neck, feeling the hard pulse of his heart. After a few minutes he pushed me away, standing up to slip on his Levi’s. He immediately reached for the bottle, drinking long, without taking a breath, his throat a small moving animal in the moonlight.
Anger and humiliation rose up in me, bright and hot as a fever. Anger at his stubbornness, his stupid pride, and for turning to the one thing that held such horrible memories for me. And humiliation for thinking I had any kind of power to keep him from it. “That won’t solve anything,” I said bitterly, buttoning my shirt.
He shrugged. “My business.”
“As long as we’re married, it’s my business, too.”
He turned away and lifted the bottle again. I stared at the tattoo on his bare upper back of the snarling marine-corps bulldog. The tattoo I’d traced so many times with my fingers and my lips. He turned back to me.
“The only business I’m interested in is how quickly I can finish this bottle. So unless you want to stay and watch, I suggest you run along home.”
I grabbed my purse and walked over to him, so angry I could barely say the words. “Give me your car keys.”
Surprise, then disbelief darkened his face. “What?”
“You heard me.” I held out my hand.
“You’re kidding.”
I gritted my back teeth and spoke very slowly. “Listen up good, Chief Ortiz, ’cause I’m only going to say this once. I am not ever going to bury another husband because of that.” I pointed to the bottle in his hand. “Not if I can help it.”
His harsh laugh reverberated across the empty room. “Believe me, sweetheart, I’ve seen more than my share of bodies scraped up off the asphalt. Unlike your dear, departed Jack, I’m not that stupid.”
I flinched as if physically struck, but continued to hold out my hand, hoping he was too drunk to notice its trembling.
He let out an angry breath, dug into his pocket, and tossed the keys at me.
“One more thing.”
He waited.
“Give me your gun. I know you keep one in your car.”
His voice was cold. “No one takes my gun.”
“Give me your gun.”
“No.”
I took a deep breath. “If you don’t give it to me, I will call Jim Cleary and tell him you are drunk and—”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.”
He let out a long string of Spanish words, most of them too garbled for me to understand. I stood with my arms at my side, refusing to budge. He stared at me a long moment, then went over to the fireplace, his bare feet making a slurring sound across the carpet. He took his 9mm from where it lay on the floor and shoved it into my hands.
“Now get out,” he said.
“With pleasure. Enjoy your whiskey.”
Clutching the heavy pistol to my chest, I opened the front door, feeling like someone had sliced my heart in half with a razor blade. But a faint surge of hope blossomed when the last thing I heard before the oak door slammed behind me was the unmistakable sound of glass shattering against brick.
14
IT WAS PAST midnight when I finally stopped driving and ended up where I always ran when I had nowhere else to go.
The comforting thing about Liddie’s Café was that it never changed. At least not for the thirty some-odd years I can remember. It had the same red leatherette six-person booths, the same black-and-white photographs of lambs and steers from the Junior Livestock Auction, the same speckled commercial-grade carpeting, the same cigarette-scarred Formica tables, and the same glass case in front containing faded packages of Juicy Fruit gum, Red Man chewing tobacco, rum Life Savers, and ratty old postcards showing Liddie’s famous neon coffee-cup sign: OPEN 25 HOURS—GOOD FOOD.
I grew up having breakfast there every Saturday morning. Daddy and the other local ranchers always commandeered the back tables, pushing them into two long ones. While me and the other ranch kids carved pictures in our butter-soaked pancakes and shot straw-wrapper bullets at each other, our fathers would discuss for hours the price of calves, the price of feed, the price of gasoline, stopping every so often to drawl at us kids to quit our tomfoolery or next time they’d be leavin’ us home.
But now, at midnight, the back room was full of students. They always took over after the nine o’clock dinner crowd. Their high, excited chatter struck a familiar chord. I experienced a few all-night study marathons here myself when I was preparing for finals at Cal Poly. Even Gabe held a place in my memories of Liddie’s. The first time we kissed was in the parking lot on a cold moonless night last November.
I slipped into an unoccupied booth, ordered coffee, leaned my head back, and closed my eyes. My mind whirled with thoughts about what had just taken place between me and Gabe. How close to the edge was he? Should I go back? Should I call someone? Who? His grief was so deep and unreachable I felt powerless. I remembered how three days before Aaron died, he had tried to prepare me for this.
“Benni, come sit over here,” he’d said, patting his hospital bed with a weak hand. He’d sent his wife, Rachel, and Gabe on a manufactured errand so he could talk to me alone. His red hair was sparse and pale from the chemotherapy treatments, but his smile was as warm as always. I’d never known Aaron until he was sick, and could only imagine the huge, deep-chested man who, according to his delighted telling, could pin Gabe to the ground no matter how much Gabe worked out at the gym.
“I’m going to get right to the point,” Aaron said. “When I go, Gabe’s going to be in tough shape. You’re going to have to be strong.”
“I know,” I replied, taking his hand in mine.
“I’m not sure you do. Gabe’s had a lot of hurt in his life. He keeps things inside too much and then explodes in unpredictable ways. You have to be ready for that. But he’s a good man. A man I’ve been honored to call my friend.” A coughing spell interrupted his words.
“Aaron, he’s going to be all right. I’ll make sure of it.”
He studied me with sad brown eyes. Eyes that had seen a lot of the same pain as Gabe. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him.”
I smiled and rubbed his icy hand, trying to massage some of my own warmth into it. “We’d have never gotten married if it hadn’t been for you. You’re the one who convinced us that waiting is crazy in this unpredictable world. I’m glad we listened.”
He chuckled softly. “I knew if you and Gabe didn’t get hitched fast, he’d pussyfoot around until someone else snatched you up. I wasn’t about to let that happen.”
“Our own pe
rsonal Tevye,” I teased. “We didn’t have a chance.”
We sat for a moment without talking. He squeezed my hand gently. “My little shiksa cowgirl,” he said. “Don’t give up on my buddy, okay? Promise me. No matter how hard it gets?”
I leaned over and kissed his dry, rough cheek. “I promise, Tevye.”
“He said you’d be here.” A voice interrupted the scene in my head.
I lifted my head and blinked my eyes under the golden glare of the overhead light. Jim Cleary slid into the seat across from me. The waitress was there in seconds with a steaming pot of coffee. He poured cream into the thick white mug and stirred it, his black eyes watching me with a quiet scrutiny I was growing used to since being married to a cop.
“What are you doing here?” I finally asked, reaching for my coffee. It had gotten cold, but I took a deep drink anyway.
“Gabe called me.”
“He did?” I wondered how much he told him.
“He said he was in no shape to drive, that he’d been drinking, that you’d had a fight, and you’d taken his car keys and his gun.”
I nodded silently, surprised at Gabe’s honesty.
“Good girl,” Jim said, and sipped his coffee.
“Is he all right?”
“Yes, he said he’s just going to sleep it off now. Gabe’s not a foolish man, Benni. He handled it exactly how I would have.”
“Not exactly,” I said, tearing my paper napkin into strips. Jim was a man with a deep faith in God who, according to Gabe, never lost his temper even when he’d been called names that would have caused other men to draw their guns.
Jim laughed softly. “Obviously Oneeda hasn’t filled you in about my misspent youth yet. I know you think I’ve never done anything stupid, but I have. We all have. No one’s perfect, Benni. We all need grace. Need it more than water and air. God gives it to us first, and then we give it to others. I know you’ve heard a few sermons on that in your lifetime.”
I stopped tearing the napkin and looked up at him, knowing he was right, but wanting to stay mad. “He won’t let me help him, Jim. Tough macho cop going to handle it all on his own.” Remembering who I was talking to, I gave a sheepish half smile. “Sorry.”
His answering smile smoothed out the two deep lines next to his mouth. “That’s the grace part, honey. Just give him some time. When the hurt gets bad enough, he’ll come to you.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
Jim patted my hand. His palm was big and warm, and I fought the urge to hold on to it. “Then there’s nothing you can do. He had to swallow a huge chunk of pride to call me and ask me to look for you. That right there should tell you something.”
A deep fatigue flooded through me. “I should go home.”
“I think that would be a good idea,” Jim agreed.
He walked me out to my rented Taurus. I pulled Gabe’s gun from under the front seat and handed it to him. “Maybe you should take this.”
He took the pistol and stuck it in the pocket of his leather jacket. “If you want, I’ll go by tomorrow and give him his car keys, too.”
“That would be great,” I said, handing him the keys. “Thanks, Jim. For coming by tonight and, well . . . just thanks.”
He looked at me silently for a moment. “Don’t give up on him, Benni. He’s a good man and a good leader, no matter what the press says. He really cares about his officers and about the people in this town. All the people, not just the ones with money. Aaron was right to recommend him.”
“I know,” I said. “Tell Oneeda I’ll call her this week.”
“Will do. You take care now.”
It was past one A.M. when I arrived home. Sam was asleep on the sofa, and I managed to sneak into bed without waking anyone. Exhausted, I fell into a deep sleep.
The house was silent when I woke the next morning. The day was cloudy, so I was disoriented, thinking it was early, until I looked at the bedside clock—ten o’clock. I threw back the covers. Because of what happened last night I hadn’t told Gabe what I’d learned about Evangeline and Ash. Though I didn’t relish the idea of talking to him this morning, I really did want to keep our relationship aboveboard. That meant not hiding anything else from him. If we fought again, so be it.
When I turned my head I saw them sitting on the dresser. A bouquet of red roses and white daisies in a crystal vase. An odd combination of flowers that somehow didn’t surprise me. I must have been sleeping like the dead because I never heard him come into the room. The small white card on the plastic holder read: I’m sorry. I love you.
Short and to the point. So enigmatic in some ways. So completely straightforward in others. Worry, anger, and sadness all intermingled when I thought about what happened between us. But I temporarily shelved those feelings while I took a hot shower and dressed. After inspecting my now green-purple-yellow eye, I decided to forgo makeup. At this point I couldn’t care less what people thought.
As I gulped a glass of orange juice I peered through the kitchen curtains. The darkening sky threatened rain. Perfect weather for my somber mood.
At the museum, D-Daddy was busy overseeing the final dismantling of the booths. The curt nod he gave me revealed that Evangeline had told him I knew about her background. I hid in my office drinking coffee and shuffling through paperwork rather than actually doing any. Finally, knowing I shouldn’t put it off any longer, I headed for the police station.
I was on the way downtown when I remembered the homeless man’s keys. I swung by the house and picked up the Tupperware container. I still wondered if the Datebook Bum saw something and had a record of it somewhere and that maybe these keys were involved somehow. Where would the homeless lock something up? All I could think of was school lockers, lockers at the roller-skating rink, lockers at the gym where Gabe exercises. In front of me, a school bus belched exhaust that was immediately picked up by my vent. I gagged, closed the vent, and then it occurred to me.
The bus station. It was as plain as that yellow school bus in front of me. I must be tired, I thought. That’s a clue Nancy Drew would never have missed. I fought the urge to run by the bus station and check myself and decided, for once, I’d tell Gabe immediately and let him decide what to do.
It was almost one o’clock when I reached downtown. The spots in front of the police station were blocked because the city was working on the streets . . . again, and all the spaces in the parking garages were full ... again. I was forced to park five blocks away and walk to the station. I was a block away when I saw Gabe come through the glass doors and start walking up the street with a determined stride. I started to call out to him, but something held me back. Instead, feeling slightly ridiculous, I followed him at a discreet distance. With his hands in his pockets and his head slightly bent so he wouldn’t catch anyone’s eye, he walked until he reached St. Celine’s Catholic Church. He walked up the steps, stopped for a moment to read something on the door, then went inside.
In front of the church a table was set up where a group of citizens were collecting signatures to try to get a proposal on the next ballot to change San Celina’s grammatically improper adulterated name back to its original Santa Celine in celebration of the mission’s upcoming two hundred-and-twenty-year anniversary. I told them I’d catch them later and followed my husband up the stairs. When I reached the top and read the small sign underneath the times for masses, I felt really embarrassed and more than a little pathetic.
CONFESSIONS HEARD—MONDAY AND THURSDAY—1:00 P.M. TO 3:00 P.M.
I turned to leave when the heavy wooden door of the church flew open and a person barreled out, almost knocking me down. I found myself staring into the stricken face of Dolores Ayala. Her dark eyes were full of tears. A look of panic contorted her face when she recognized me.
“Are you all right?” I said, putting out a hand to steady her.
She gave a small cry and shoved me away, running down the steps.
I watched her hurry through the square and disappear around the c
orner. Questions swirled in my head as thick as the flocks of seagulls circling the mission’s bell tower. Had Dolores just been at confession? What had she confessed that made her so upset? Could she be involved somehow with Nora’s death?
The door of the church opened behind me, and an older woman wearing a white lace covering over her gray hair came out. It occurred to me that Gabe could come back out anytime, so I started walking back toward downtown. The murder of Nora Cooper had so many loose ends that I could imagine how crazy Gabe and his detectives felt. Between that and the pain of grieving for Aaron, I was truly afraid for him. I’d definitely have to tell him about Dolores, too, but this was not the right time. I glanced at my watch. What I could do was go down to the bus station and check my theory about the keys. Maybe I’d be able to hand some evidence over to him that would help solve this case. Then he’d at least have one monkey off his back.
If San Celina had a bad side of town, the area around the bus station would definitely qualify. I was right about one thing. It was the place for the homeless to hang around without being harassed too much. Inside, the smell of Lysol, exhaust, and fried food made my stomach churn. I walked past a group of teenagers sitting on huge duffel bags and smoking cigarettes. Their conversation was in German, and one bare-chested boy sported pierced earrings on both nipples plus one on his upper lip in the shape of a black bat. When Gabe regained his sense of humor, I’d have to point out to him that there were definitely worse things than a small tattoo of a sun.
I checked out the locker situation. They were the type where you put four quarters in and removed the key. The kind we used as kids at the roller-skating rink. There were approximately thirty of them. The price was one dollar for the first twenty-four hours and two dollars each additional twenty-four hours with a ten-dollar lost-key charge. I read the notice on the front. ARTICLES LEFT WITHOUT PAYMENT AFTER TWENTY-FOUR HOURS SUBJECT TO IMPOUNDMENT. Then I carefully studied the key. I had a feeling with those sort of prices I was barking up a wrong tree, but I sat down on one of the blue plastic chairs and dug through the Tupperware container. The attendant behind the counter must have seen stranger things because he didn’t even look twice at me. None of the keys matched.
Goose in the Pond Page 27
