Steps to the Altar

by Earlene Fowler

  He made the statement with such authority.

  “He’s dead?” I asked, trying to pull my arm from his strong grip without actually jerking it away. “How do you know that? Have you heard from him in the last fifty years?”

  He released my arm abruptly, giving me a slight push. I fell awkwardly against the side of my truck. He stared at me a long minute, then said, his voice less harsh, but still tinged with anger, “What he did or didn’t do is between him and his God. Do everyone a favor. Stay out of it.” He turned and started back around the house.

  Trembling slightly, I gave the house one last look and got into my truck, wondering if Rosie had seen my encounter with Micah. There was no doubt he knew more than he was telling and also no doubt that he was not willing to share it with me.

  “Okay, Mr. Warner,” I said, maneuvering the truck down the long tree-lined driveway back to the main road. “I’ll just have to find out on my own.”

  It was seven o’clock and already dark by the time I got back to San Celina. I cruised by our old house and noted that Gabe’s Corvette was gone. Obviously off drying the tears of the beautiful, yet deeply troubled Delilah Hernandez.

  I pulled into the driveway and went inside. The house had that sad, pocked-wall look of a place in transition. I sent up a quick prayer that the next person who lived in this house would not have as much emotion-filled upheaval as I’d had in the time I’d lived here.

  I let Scout in from the backyard, which told me Gabe had never come home. I fed him, hid a couple of biscuits in his toy box for him to root around and find later, then headed back out. Neither house in their half-empty–half-filled states felt enough like a home for me to settle down. What an odd and sad coincidence that Del would show up right at the time when I felt like Gabe and I were finally starting a real life together.

  Restless and disturbed by the small bit of information Micah had let out about his brother, I wanted something to do that would completely occupy my mind. What I really wanted to do was run this whole situation with Gabe and Del by someone I trusted. Normally I’d go to either Elvia or Emory with a crisis like this, but it was only a week before their wedding and I was not going to lay any kind of marriage woes on them now. The same with Dove, who didn’t need one more distraction in her harried life.

  “So it’s time to solve your own problems, Benni Harper,” I said out loud. But darned if I could figure out what to do. Wait and see what would happen—that seemed my only mature option. My other option was shooting Del in the heart, which would certainly only add to my problems.

  I drove through McDonald’s and drank a chocolate shake while listening to the radio and watching teenage kids loiter in the parking lot, moving from car to car, talking and laughing. I sat there until nine o’clock, my mind hopping from Maple’s situation to my own, not allowing myself to cry even though my chest grew tight and hard begging for the release. I wouldn’t give Gabe or Del that power over me. At nine-twenty, I still didn’t want to go home. I was determined to stay out longer than Gabe, though I had no idea why I thought that would prove anything.

  Needing to kill more time, I decided to drive by the Sullivan house and take a look at it.

  The last half-mile stretch before the house was lit only by my headlights, city streetlights not reaching this far out. As I turned a sharp corner, the work light shining in the octagonal barn next to the house was like a beacon. There were obviously some people up there working. When I pulled into the gravel driveway and saw who it was, I put the brakes on and threw the transmission in reverse. But not before he saw me.

  I watched Detective Hudson slip his hammer into his leather toolbelt and start down the little slope toward my idling truck. He waved a hand in recognition. If I pulled away now, I’d look even sillier than I already did. I reluctantly rolled down my truck window.

  “What are you doing here so late?” he asked, his dark eyes sympathetic as if he knew exactly what I’d been doing the last two hours.

  12

  GABE

  WHAT IS WRONG with her, Gabe thought for the fifth time as he stared at the unfinished paperwork on his desk. He’d been irritated by Benni’s stubborn refusal to understand his relationship with Del since he’d first walked in this morning. Maggie, his assistant, had noted his mood from the moment he passed her desk hours earlier.

  She’d silently handed him his mail, raised her dark eyebrows, and gestured at the full coffeepot on the credenza next to her. “Would you like a cup?”

  “Yes, please,” he said. “Black.”

  “Morning’s problems haven’t even started yet, boss,” she murmured, pouring him a cup. On good days, he took cream and sugar.

  “On the contrary,” he’d replied, without elaborating. He mumbled his thanks and went into his office, closing the heavy oak door behind him.

  He’d attended his morning meetings and said the appropriate things, trying not to think about Benni’s words. But their persistent points kept intruding into his thoughts.

  Was he wrong in not telling her about his and Del’s personal relationship? Should he have pulled her aside and whispered a confession to her before they had dinner? The thought seemed ridiculous to him. What would he have said? What would that dinner have been like had she known? Women were so irrational about that sort of thing. He wasn’t forcing details about her love life with Jack out of her, was he?

  He knew her so well, he could almost hear her tart voice. Yeah, well, he’s not sitting at our dinner table either.

  It was late afternoon now and he rested his hand in his chin, too weary after his restless night to contemplate all these figures and facts spread out in front of him. He let his mind wander back to a time in his career when paperwork didn’t encompass ninety percent of his time. He missed the drama of the street, the adrenaline of a good bust, even the crazy people he’d met and grown to like, the snitches and the liquor store owners, the pawn shop men with their hungry eyes, the fast-talking prostitutes who were there one day, gone the next, like a whisper of fog. He never felt more alive than when he worked the streets.

  Except for Vietnam. There, each morning he woke still living, all his parts still attached, was a gift gladly accepted, unquestionably taken. He tried not to think too long about all the guys who didn’t receive it, but instead were surprised by death with a bouncing Betty or the exploding burst of a sniper’s bullet.

  His phone rang, and after three rings, he reluctantly picked it up. He should have told Maggie to hold his calls. The late afternoon sun coming through his window warmed the back of his neck.

  “Hey, Chief Ortiz,” Del’s voice said in a mocking tone. “How many paper cuts have you survived in the last hour?”

  “Screw you,” he said good-naturedly, glad it was her voice and not Benni’s on the phone. At least with Del he didn’t have to explain or apologize. She never asked and he never offered. It was so easy to fall back into their joking, easy partner relationship.

  “Been there, done that,” she said, giving a rumbling, deep laugh.

  It was a laugh that brought back more memories, a low, cynical laugh that always connected with something broken and angry inside him. That laugh had always made him feel she understood, as much as any woman could, the edge he walked, the edge all men walked.

  “Are you busy after work?” she asked, her voice flippant, but with that sadness he recognized. During dinner last night, she’d cried for her father, for the emptiness in her life. When she ran out the door, he followed her to the dark, empty parking lot and he’d held her for a moment, fearful yet excited by the quickening of his blood when he caught the sweet coconut scent of her hair.

  He glanced at his wall clock. Four-thirty. “Actually, I was thinking about leaving early.”

  “I’m free for dinner,” she said.

  “Great. How about Italian?”

  “Sounds wonderful. Will Benni be joining us?”

  He pressed the phone closer to his ear, listening for any artifice in her voice
, for the duplicity of Benni’s accusations. In his mind, there were none. Only the sound of a friend asking for some of his time. If she were a man, this wouldn’t even be a problem between him and Benni.

  “No,” he said. “She sends her regrets, but she’s in the middle of wedding preparations with her best friend. She’ll be really busy the next week or so.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad,” Del said. “I guess I’ll have to help you kill time so you don’t get lonely.”

  He laughed, aware of every movement of his body. He picked up a metal paper clip and bent it into tangles with one hand.

  “So,” she continued. “Let’s not eat in town tonight, what do you say? I’m a little embarrassed about making a fool of myself in one of your local restaurants last night. Is there anyplace we can go where we can talk without being so scrutinized?”

  “Sure. There are plenty of restaurants between here and Santa Barbara.”

  “Thanks, Gabe. You don’t know how much it means to me, you taking the time to talk. I really hope Benni doesn’t mind me borrowing you for a little while.”

  “No problem,” he said. “Absolutely no problem.”

  13

  BENNI

  I TOOK A few seconds to answer Detective Hudson, not knowing exactly what to say.

  He bent down and rested his elbows on the truck’s window frame. “Want to come up and see what we’re doing to the barn?”

  I hesitated for a moment, then said, “Sure.”

  He opened my door and swept his hand out in front of him. “After you, Mrs. Harper.”

  I walked up the rough driveway, gravel crunching like hard-packed snow under my boots, acutely aware of his presence behind me. When I reached the barn door, I stepped inside and stood for a moment, looking around. This barn was a local landmark, one I’d driven by hundreds of times. I was glad one of the groups of people in San Celina who cared about preserving San Celina heritage had decided this was worth saving. Too many of our old buildings were being torn down in the name of progress.

  “We’re working on the framing first,” the detective said, coming up beside me. He pushed up the sleeves of his gray sweatshirt and pointed toward the barn rafters. “Another year or so, this baby would have tumbled to the ground, the wood was so rotten. That would have been a shame.”

  “Yes, it would,” I said, my eyes following his finger to the newly replaced framing inside the weathered structure. There were gaps in the roof wide enough to see the stars, visible now that the storm clouds had moved south. A chilly wind blew through the barn, causing me to shiver inside my flannel-lined jacket.

  “Hey, I’ve got some hot coffee here,” he said, stepping over a pile of lumber and picking up a large red thermos. “There’s only one cup, but I swear I don’t have any infectious diseases.”

  “On your mawmaw’s grave?” I asked.

  He laughed and untwisted the cap. “Absolutely. On my mama’s good name too.”

  I shook my head and frowned. “Please, Detective, let’s not even get into the mother thing or I’m outta here.”

  He held out a steaming cup of coffee. “Could you please do me one favor? Call me Hud. I think we’ve known each other long enough for first names, don’t you?”

  I took the cup and brought it up to my lips. “I suppose.” One swallow of the strong, black coffee caused me to gasp, “Geeze Louise, this isn’t coffee! It’s hot mud.”

  He threw back his head and laughed. “None of that Starbucks dishwater for this Cajun boy. That there’s Community brand coffee. Best on earth. Guaranteed to put hair on your chest . . . or wherever you want it.”

  “It’s terrible,” I said, handing the cup back to him.

  He took it, drank after me, then said, “Say it.”

  “What?”

  “Say my name. I won’t believe you until you say it.”

  “Oh, for cryin’ out loud . . .”

  “Say it.”

  “You’re nuts.”

  “Say it or I’ll make you finish this coffee.” He thrust the cup back into my hand.

  “Okay, okay,” I said, setting the cup down on a makeshift table of plywood and two sawhorses. “Hud. Hud - not - the - government - agency. Hud - like - the - movie. Hud - who - doesn’t - look - at - all - like - Paul - Newman.” I looked directly in his eyes. “Are you happy now?”

  He gave a slow, thoughtful smile. “Ecstatic.”

  I cleared my throat and said, “Actually, the reason I drove by—”

  “Was because you’re investigating this murder of Garvey Sullivan and wanted to see the murder scene. You’ve decided Maple’s innocent, haven’t you?”

  I didn’t answer. It was annoying that he could read me so well.

  “You hate it that I know what’s going on inside you, don’t you?” he said, still smiling. “Drives you crazy.”

  “You don’t know squat,” I snapped.

  He shrugged. “My mistake. I was going to offer to let you inside the house, but if you’re not interested . . .”

  I bit the inside of my cheek, thinking. I did want to go inside the house, not necessarily to see the murder scene but to see if I could find any of Garvey’s letters to Maple or anything that told me something about his side of the relationship. Something that would either confirm or disprove Maple’s guilt. I didn’t particularly want Hud involved. This was a personal quest for me and I didn’t want to share it with anyone.

  “Why do you have access to the house?” I asked, sticking my hands deep into the pockets of my denim jacket. The temperature had dropped at least another ten degrees in the last hour, and irritating husband or not, my warm bed was looking better and better.

  “I’m kind of the unofficial caretaker,” he replied. He picked up a flashlight sitting on the ground and switched it on, motioning me to follow him. We left the barn and started up the sloping gravel driveway toward the Victorian house, towering dark and menacing ahead of us. Wisps of fog were already starting to form and drift around the house, and the overgrown oak trees around it gave it a traditional haunted house look. His police issue flashlight was a single white beacon up the dark path. Feeling the sudden urge to grab the back of his belt, it occurred to me that coming back tomorrow in daylight might be a better idea.

  “I live here, as a matter of fact,” he said over his shoulder.

  “In the house?” It was definitely in the middle stages of restoration so I couldn’t imagine anyone living there. It couldn’t possibly have working plumbing or safe electricity. Not to mention it would creep out anyone with an ounce of imagination.

  “Not in the big house,” he replied. “There.” He pointed behind the barn toward a wooden clapboard house whose windows shined yellow bright and comforting in the dark hazy night. “Old caretaker’s house. It’s not huge, but it’s great for a divorced guy who only has his daughter every other weekend. Maisie loves coming out here. She’s become quite a little nail banger.”

  “Doesn’t it get lonely?” I couldn’t help asking.

  He stopped at the Sullivan house’s steps and turned to look at me. I couldn’t see his eyes in the smoky black shadows. “Sometimes. But I don’t mind. Contrary to my party-loving demeanor, I’m actually quite a loner.”

  “Why?” The question popped out of my lips before I could stop it.

  His smile was sad as his left shoulder lifted in an almost imperceptible shrug. “Guess you’d have to ask my mama. She’s the psychology expert.”

  I blew out an angry breath. “She probably studied under Sigmund Freud too.”

  His laugh was softened by the rapidly thickening fog. “She’d scalp you if she heard you say that. Not only is it an insult to her age, she never did cotton to Freudian theory.”

  “And she’d know the proper way to scalp me, right?” I said. “Because she’s half Cherokee and learned how to scalp the white man at her own mama’s knee.”

  He grinned. “You been peekin’ in our windows, ranch girl?”

  “Let’s just see the hou
se,” I said, annoyed that my sarcasm didn’t even faze him.

  “There’s a lot to see,” he said, walking up the steps. “Careful now, some of these aren’t nailed down too good. What are you exactly looking for?”

  I hesitated, not wanting him to know any more than he had to. But if I wanted to find out anything tonight, he was the only one available to ask. Unfortunately, patience has never been my strong suit. “Actually, I was interested in looking at some of Garvey’s things. I’m kinda looking for some letters . . . or something like that.”

  “His love letters to her,” Hud said, unlocking the elaborately carved front door. It was in the mid-stages of restoration, the bottom half painstakingly hand-sanded. When this house was in its prime, it must have been incredible. What a lifestyle change for little Maple Bennett of Mercy Ridge, Kentucky.

  I didn’t answer him, not wanting to verify what I was trying to do.

  “You want to see if he loved her as much as she professed to love him,” Hud said softly, holding the door open for me.

  I ignored his comment and stepped over the threshold. The spacious entry hall smelled of a mixture of sweet mildew and grainy sawdust. I caught the faint scent of a skunk and wondered just how neglected this house had become before the historical society claimed it. I swallowed hard, a deep sadness coming over me. Her hopefilled letters were such a contrast to how their lives eventually turned out.

  He waved the flashlight around the entry hall so I could see the carved moldings and the hammered copper ceiling. “You really can appreciate it more in daylight. Want to see where it happened?”

  “Yes,” I said, feeling unexplainably pulled to the spot. But what did I think it would tell me?

  “It’s up in the attic. Watch yourself on the stairway. It’s not carpeted and kind of slippery.”