Steps to the Altar

by Earlene Fowler

  I followed him up the steep stairway, feeling the wood creak and give with the pressure of each step. Halfway up, I stumbled and fell to one knee.

  “Dang it!” I exclaimed, rubbing my throbbing knee.

  “I told you to be careful,” he called over his shoulder.

  “I’m fine,” I mumbled, scrambling to keep up with him and his flashlight. The stairs up to the third floor were just as steep, but I managed to maneuver them without a mishap.

  A door closed off the attic to the third-floor hallway. He opened it and shined the light up the stairs. These were enclosed and I felt like I was suffocating when I followed him up.

  The attic was empty except for one old metal trunk.

  He nodded at the trunk. “There’s nothing in it.”

  I gazed around the room. There was nothing special about it except for the weirdness of seeing it in the shadowing frame of Hud’s police-issue flashlight.

  I expected to feel something—a leftover sadness, violence, something—that verified that a tragedy had happened here. That a life . . . no, more than one life . . . had ended here fifty years ago.

  But things like that only happened in cheesy horror novels and cable TV movies. All I felt was the cold dampness of an empty room in an old house. Whatever feelings that had taken place in this room fifty years ago were not soaked into this wooden floor.

  “Where did it actually happen?” I whispered, though I wasn’t sure why. Who was I afraid would hear me?

  “I have no idea,” Hud said, turning the flashlight square on me.

  I held my hand up to shield my face from its brightness.

  He pointed it down at our feet. “Sorry.”

  “I wonder if I could find out.” It seemed an important fact to know.

  “This is technically within city limits. It was fifty years ago so that depends on whether the San Celina Police Department keeps murder books that long. You certainly have the resources to find out.”

  “I’ll ask Gabe,” I murmured. I gazed around the room and then back at Hud. “Don’t you find it odd she would shoot him up here?”

  He tilted his head, jiggling the flashlight in his hand in a nervous gesture. “Not especially. People kill people in the strangest places. There’s no real logic to domestic murders. Most of the time, it’s just an unplanned moment of anger. In my opinion, we all walk that edge in our relationships. Any of us could pull the trigger given the right circumstance.”

  “You really think so?”

  His face was grim in the shadowy light. “Yes, I do.”

  “So do I.”

  His eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Now, I didn’t expect that coming from you.”

  “Shows that you don’t know all that much about me then, doesn’t it?” I said coolly. “But I still don’t buy her shooting him up here. If what you said is true, I would have expected her to have shot him in the bedroom . . . or the kitchen. That’s where people fight. It just doesn’t make sense up here.”

  “Like I said, domestic homicides hardly ever make sense.”

  I shook my head. “Not make sense, maybe, but most people do things in a basically logical way. I mean why would they be up here? I bet this was the maid’s quarters back then . . . or storage. What reason would he have to come up here and what reason would she have to follow him? If they were arguing about some other man, it would probably have taken place downstairs.”

  “That’s the most convoluted reasoning I’ve ever heard and it is just pure speculation on your part. Not an ounce of logic in it. Besides, there’s no way to find out now.”

  “Maybe there is, maybe there isn’t.” After seeing the place where she’d supposedly shot and killed her husband—aided, some believed, by her lover—I was more convinced that there was more to their story than we knew. “I’m going to try and find out, though.”

  “How?”

  “I’ve got some ideas.”

  “Need help? I have plenty—”

  “No,” I interrupted, turning to leave. “Let’s get out of here. What I want isn’t up here, but thanks for showing it to me.”

  We didn’t talk again until he’d locked the front door and we were walking back toward my truck. A breeze had come up, swirling the fog around us. The setting was so perfect for the story, it could have been a movie set.

  “You know, they don’t keep any of his possessions in the house,” he finally said.

  “So I guessed.”

  “I know where they are.”

  I stopped and turned to glared at him, fully annoyed. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You didn’t actually ask.”

  “But you knew that’s what I wanted!”

  “You wanted to see the scene of the crime too, didn’t you?”

  He had me there. It just made me mad that he’d withheld information he knew I wanted until he felt like revealing it to me.

  “So, where are they?” I asked, still irritated.

  He pointed over at the caretaker’s house. “Some of his things are in the garage behind my house. Some are kept at the historical museum. Some are at the college.”

  “What about written things?”

  “Like his letters, you mean.” He smirked at me.

  I was sorely tempted to smack his face. “Yes, his letters. Do you know where they are?”

  He started walking toward his house. I followed after him, stumbling once on the rough path when his flashlight’s beam got too far ahead of me.

  “Be careful,” he called cheerfully over his shoulder.

  “Eat dirt,” I mumbled.

  Inside the caretaker’s house, it was warm and yeasty smelling, like someone had just baked bread. From the living room, where the decor could be called early bachelor since it consisted of a sofa, recliner, a couple of plain tables, a wall clock, and a stereo, I could see into the small yellow-and-white kitchen. On the gray formica counter sat two round loaves of freshly baked bread covered by plain white tea towels.

  “Baking bread relaxes me,” he said, noting my observation.

  “You baked it?” I couldn’t help laughing. Somehow the thought of Hud up to his elbows in bread dough struck me as funny.

  “I make great bread,” he said, his face turning a bright pink.

  “I’m sure you do, Martha,” I teased, gratified to see him disconcerted for once. “Where are the letters?”

  He pointed to the hallway. “First door on your right.”

  Inside the room were a couple of long folding tables with papers laid out on them in colorful stacks, an old rolltop desk, and dozens of pasteboard boxes labeled GARVEY SULLIVAN. I opened one and it contained letters, accounting books, and piles of papers.

  “Are they all like this?” I asked.

  He nodded. “I’m going through them slowly. A little bit every night.”

  “You’re sorting Garvey Sullivan’s papers?” That surprised me.

  “What’s so weird about that? I told you my major in college was history. It’s a great hobby. And one that has some benefit to the community. He was one of your county’s most prominent citizens. He’s a fascinating man. Ahead of his time in a lot of his thinking about preserving the environment, things like not letting cattle graze an area until it was bare, but moving them around on a rotating basis and letting the land renew itself naturally.”

  “Holistic ranching,” I said.

  “Exactly. And it was very radical thinking back then. If he’d lived until the fifties, he probably would have been called a socialist. And he was an extremely well-read man, if his collection of books tells anything and I think they do. He liked biographies, was especially fascinated by Lincoln. Had a dozen books about him, a lot of them rare. There’re a lot of first editions in his collection. They look well read and he refers to them in letters to friends and in many of the newspaper articles about him.”

  “You’re more involved in this restoration . . . in the Sullivan lives . . . than I thought.”

  He gave me a level, unr
evealing look. “Got involved before you did.”

  He was right about that. So he did have some sort of stake in finding out what happened between Garvey and Maple that day.

  “So,” I said. “If you’ve been learning about him, what do you think? Do you think she killed him?”

  He leaned against the paneled wall. “I’m reserving judgment until I know more. That’s why I offered to help you with the trunks.”

  “You mean until I find out more.”

  “Do you have any reason why I shouldn’t know what you find out?”

  Except for the fact that he personally irritated me and I was beginning to suspect that hanging around him might not be the wisest thing for me to do when my own marriage was at this bumpy spot, I couldn’t think of one.

  “Let me read his letters to Maple and I’ll see,” I hedged.

  “Just what I’d expect you to answer,” he said, amused at my reluctance. “Benni, these people are dead. The case has been gathering dust for a long time. What harm would it be for me to know what you find out? As one history buff to another?”

  He was right, I was being a dog in the manger. “Okay,”

  I conceded reluctantly. “But I don’t know much yet. Only that Mitch’s older brother, Micah, is very bitter about Maple Sullivan and wants me to stay out of their past.”

  “You talked to Mitch Warner’s brother?” he asked, his eyes widening in interest.

  I quickly told him about my connection to the family and my encounter with them today.

  “Interesting,” Hud said. “So you’re convinced he knows more than he’s telling.”

  “Absolutely. I mean, the comment about letting Mitch’s soul rest in peace reveals a lot. That perhaps he knows his brother is dead and that he must have had contact with him after Garvey was killed and Maple and Mitch disappeared.”

  “I agree. What’s your next move?”

  “Read Garvey’s letters to Maple and . . .” I paused. “And then I don’t know.” I did, but I just didn’t want to tell him.

  “Aren’t any,” he said.

  “What?”

  “After I started on Maple’s trunks, I came back here and did a quick look through. There isn’t one letter from him to her in all of his papers.”

  “See!” I said, excited. “She probably took them with her! That means she didn’t kill him. She wouldn’t have taken his love letters if she was in love with another man.”

  “Or in a fit of anger or hatred, she could have destroyed them,” he said.

  I brushed his comment away, not willing to be swayed though his counterpoint was justified. “I know I’m right. If what you said was true, she would have destroyed her letters too. I think she took his with her so she could remember him.”

  “Why wouldn’t she have taken hers too? Not to mention her scrapbook about him. Their marriage certificate. The jewelry he gave her. All these things were left behind.”

  I had to admit he was right, but I was sure there was an explanation for all that. “She didn’t kill him.”

  His country boy face remained skeptical. “That remains to be seen.”

  Out in the living room, a clock struck once for the half hour. I glanced at my watch. “Dang it, it’s ten-thirty,” I said. “I have to go.”

  “Past curfew, huh?” he said. His lips turned up in a mocking smile. “Hope the big Kahuna doesn’t restrict you for being late.”

  “Oh, shut up,” I said and headed toward the front door. He would have to end the night on a sarcastic note.

  “Wait,” he said.

  I ignored him and kept on going right through the open door.

  He caught up with me when I was opening my truck’s door. He held out something wrapped in a white paper bag. “I’m sorry for my smart-ass remark. Please take a loaf of bread in apology. You and the chief enjoy it.”

  I looked at him for a long moment, reluctant to take his gift.

  “Please,” he said. “I was a jerk and I’m trying to make amends. Don’t your religious beliefs say that you’re supposed to forgive people?”

  “You don’t know anything about my religious beliefs,” I said.

  “I know you’re not a person who holds a grudge,” he said, holding out the bread. “I know you have a kind heart.”

  A sharp wind blew through at that moment, causing a shiver to run down my spine. He shoved the package in my hands. “I promise, it’s great bread. Sourdough from my mama’s own starter. She once owned a bakery in Beaumont.”

  I started to open my mouth to squawk a protest. He reached over and laid a finger on my lips. I froze at his touch. His finger was warm and I felt a shock run through me.

  “I swear,” he said, his dark eyes solemn. “She really did own a bakery, but I learned to make bread from my ex-wife.”

  He tapped his finger lightly on my lips, then turned and started toward his house. “I’ll let you know if I learn anything new about Garvey that supports your theory,” he called.

  I arrived home at ten forty-five. Gabe’s Corvette was in the driveway. I laid my hand on the hood. It was still hot, telling me that he’d not been home long himself.

  The minute I walked through the door he said, “I was getting ready to go out and look for you.” The air inside the house was freezing, though I could hear the heater running. Another clue that he’d just come in.

  Scout bounded up to me demanding attention. I walked into the kitchen and laid the bread on the counter. Then I knelt down and gave my dog a thorough chest scratching. His tail thumped the tiled floor in pleasure. Gabe followed us and stood there waiting, his breathing slow and measured. I didn’t have to look at his face to know he was annoyed.

  “Why would you do that?” I finally asked, still not looking at him.

  “I was worried. I called Elvia. She said she hadn’t seen you all night.”

  “Couldn’t have been too worried since you obviously just got home yourself.”

  I stood up and looked into his face. Annoyance had been replaced by another expression, guilt, fear? I couldn’t tell. His deep-set eyes seemed the color of frosty steel.

  “Where were you?” he asked, his voice controlled and as chilly as his eyes.

  Deliberately taking my time to answer, I hung my still damp jacket over the back of a pine kitchen chair, unwrapped Hud’s bread, and slipped it in a large plastic bag so it would stay fresh. “You know, unless both of us want to give a detailed reports on our respective evenings, perhaps it might be better if we just go to bed.”

  “I had dinner with Del. I haven’t done anything wrong. You have to just trust me with this, Benni.”

  “Likewise, Chief,” I replied, walking out of the kitchen and switching off the light.

  I lay in bed a long time unable to sleep. The parallels between my marriage and Maple’s were not wasted on me. She married a man she barely knew though she was certainly braver than me—she actually picked up her whole life and moved cross-country to be with him. Would I do that for love? Gabe had asked me once if I’d leave my family, our ranch, my roots, to follow him somewhere else. I had to admit, a part of me rebelled against it, that giving up of everything for a person. Was that what love was all about? Total surrender? Maybe I didn’t love anyone enough to do that. Or maybe, unlike Maple, I had a lot more to lose. Maybe her family wasn’t much to leave behind. If you hated your life, had no strong connections to your family, then creating a new life wouldn’t be a struggle, it would be a blessing. In my case, I wasn’t looking for a new life when Gabe had come into it. I was perfectly happy before he blew into town.

  Well, not perfectly happy, a small voice inside reminded me. You were still mourning Jack. You were just getting through each day with no hope that happiness would ever touch your life again.

  Gabe did change that. He did bring joy back into my life.

  And now, it appeared, he was going to take it away.

  14

  BENNI

  GABE AND I didn’t say much to each other the ne
xt morning. We were painstakingly polite, which saddened me more than a screaming fight. It was like talking to a stranger.

  “I’ll be at the hairdresser until ten,” I said, picking up my backpack. Gabe, still in sweats and a T-shirt from his run, sipped coffee at the kitchen table. His sharp cheekbones seemed stretched across his olive skin. Was his night as restless as mine? It didn’t seem so to me. Every time I woke up, he seemed to be sleeping fine. “Then I’m at the Mardi Gras carnival. Then the parade, then the charity ball at Constance’s.”

  He bit a piece of toasted sourdough bread. “I’m meeting with my department heads to check on parade control. Do you want to go to the ball together?”

  “I have to be there early. I’m not staying through the whole parade.” Scout nudged my leg. I stooped down and scrubbed behind his ears. “Not this time, Scooby-Doo. I’ve got too many places to go to worry about you.”

  “We’ll meet there then. I’ll probably be a little late depending on what kinds of problems we run into at the parade.” He took another bite of bread. “Is there a new bakery in town? This bread is great.”

  “A friend gave it to me yesterday,” I said, trying not to move a muscle on my face. I had to admit, it gave me a tiny bit of pleasure for him to rave over Hud’s bread. If he knew who made it, it would irritate him to no end.

  “Tell her it’s wonderful.”

  I gave a half smile. “Okay.”

  At the door, I stopped and turned back to face him. “Oh, one question. Do you keep crime files as far back at the forties?”

  He set his bread down. “I’m not sure, why?”

  “This project I’m working on for the historical museum. The Sullivan restoration.”

  He nodded, comprehending. “We might have kept an unsolved homicide, but all other 1940s cases would likely be long gone. We have some old photos, I think, and some booking logs, but I’m not sure about any other documentation.”

  “You mean, they didn’t microfilm old files like the library does old newspapers?”

  “Nope. I imagine they didn’t have the manpower or the money. Captain Joan Sackett is our unofficial department historian. You met her at the last picnic. She played shortstop.”