Steps to the Altar

by Earlene Fowler

  The new house was cold and lonely; the oakwood floors echoed with emptiness. But I didn’t mind. They mimicked what I felt, the chilling heaviness weighting my heart. The walnut mantel clock chimed five o’clock. The Mardi Gras parade started at four fifty-seven and I’d promised Elvia I’d take pictures of her employees and their well-rehearsed and very popular “March of the Banned Books.” I’d also promised Constance I’d be at her house before the party started at seven to supervise the caterers’ setup. At least I’d be busy tonight, hopefully too busy to contemplate the disintegration of my marriage.

  As I walked through the rooms that had so delighted us both when we first saw this gray-and-blue California bungalow, my heart throbbed in my chest. The large picture window looking out over a huge old rosebush, red ones the realtor had promised, the tiny alcoves and built-in bookshelves, the natural stone fireplace in the living room, all seemed to echo with a mocking sound. I had pictured the Mission-style furniture I wanted to buy, the soft rugs I wanted to put on the shiny oak floors, the lacy curtains on the four-pane windows. I had imagined us growing old together in this house. I had imagined us making love in every room.

  Now I could only wonder if we’d be able to sell it easily. And wonder where I would live then. My throat tightened as if someone were choking me.

  Upstairs, the master bedroom had new, double-padded plush carpet in a soothing honey beige. I unrolled my sleeping bag, hung the garment bag containing my costume in the walk-in closet, and set up the bathroom with minimal grooming supplies. I took a quick, hot shower even though it meant I had to rush to put on my costume.

  Wrapped in my terry bathrobe, I unzipped the garment bag, then moaned out loud.

  A flapper?

  I held the off-white dress in front of me and shook it, the rows of pale pink fringe shimmering in the soft multicolored glow of the Tiffany floor lamp Emory had bought us for a housewarming gift.

  Cathy hadn’t lied. It wasn’t low cut and it wasn’t a cowgirl outfit, but it was very, very short. And a little snug.

  I slipped it on and jumped up and down a few times trying to see myself in the bathroom mirror. The fringe went wild.

  “Oh, geeze,” I said. “I look ridiculous.”

  Scout just beat his tail on the floor and stared at me in curiosity, no doubt wondering what sort of new game this was.

  “You don’t know how lucky you are to be a dog,” I said to him, sitting on the closed toilet lid and pulling on the stockings and thick-heeled strapped shoes that came with the costume. At least they’d be easy to walk in. I grabbed the head-hugging hat or whatever it was called, put on my wool-lined trench coat, and fed Scout down in the box-filled kitchen.

  After reminding him about the doggy door in the kitchen that led out to the fenced backyard, I kissed the top of his head and promised I’d be home as soon as I could manage.

  Home, I thought grimly, pulling out of the wide, short driveway. Would this be my home? I couldn’t picture living here alone. Not to mention I couldn’t afford the mortgage payments on my part-time curator salary. No, if we split up, we’d definitely have to put this house on the market . . . before we’d even lived a day in it together.

  You’re washing the pie plate before you’ve even rolled out the crust, Dove’s voice reverberated in my head. My heart beat faster. Dove. How would I ever break the news to her about me and Gabe? Her hurt and disappointed look was something I wasn’t sure I could survive.

  I parked on a side street near the end of the parade route for an easy getaway, sitting for a moment with my head resting on the cold steering wheel. I wanted so badly to find Dove and beg her to tell me what to do. But I was determined to deal with this on my own. I wasn’t a child and she had her own life and impending marriage to worry about.

  As if she’d sensed my worry in the wind, my cell phone rang and Dove’s voice blared out from the palm-sized instrument.

  “Cosmic Cavern!” she yelled, her voice broken by static.

  “What?”

  “In Berryville, Arkansas. They got a room there called Silent Splendor that you can get married in. The brochure says there’s a trout there in Mystery Lake that’s the size of a six-year-old child.”

  “You want to get married in a cave?”

  “Bet Isaac would remember that.”

  “No doubt.”

  “You don’t sound very enthusiastic,” she said in an accusing tone.

  I couldn’t help myself, “Dove, a cave? A cave?”

  “It’s God’s creation,” she said, her voice getting huffy in that way that told me I was tap dancing on thin ice. “It would be special.”

  “And damp,” I couldn’t help adding.

  “You have no imagination.”

  I sighed. The thought of traveling back to Arkansas to go to a cave wedding sounded less inviting than walking all night with a colicky horse.

  Then an idea flashed in my head like a cartoon light bulb. “Well, since it’s in Arkansas, I imagine Aunt Garnet will insist on taking my place as matron of honor. She’ll probably want to help you with the reception too. And don’t pick out a dress yet. I’m sure she’ll want to help with that.”

  The line grew silent except for pops of static. “I forgot about Garnet.”

  “She’ll be thrilled about it being in Arkansas.”

  “You know, I don’t even know if Isaac is claustrophobic,” Dove said. “Let me get back to you.”

  “Over and out,” I said.

  Clutching my camera, I made my way to a spot next to the section reserved for the elderly and handicapped. It wasn’t as crowded here as at the parade’s beginning, where college students and rowdier Mardi Gras revelers liked to carry on and act outrageously, yelling the traditional “Throw me some beads, mister,” begging for the colorful plastic beads and metal Mardi Gras coins stamped with this year’s date and theme. I found an empty place behind the three-foot chain link barriers lining the parade route, a safety precaution Gabe had just implemented this year, and wiggled my toes in my twenties flapper shoes, wishing I’d thought to wear wool socks and boots. By the time the parade made its way down here, my feet would be popsicles. But I’d also be less likely to run into Gabe, who would probably be wandering around the section that held the most potential problems.

  Up and down the parade route rode San Celina bicycle officers and Parks and Recreation officers. At each corner stood uniformed sheriff’s deputies and San Celina patrol officers. I knew that Gabe had arranged for twice the number of officers this year owing to the near riot that had occurred after last year’s parade.

  “Hey, Benni!” A helmeted police officer stopped his bike in front of me. When I looked closer, I realized it was Joan Sackett.

  “Hey, yourself,” I said. “You really are a Jill-of-all-trades today.”

  She grinned and grabbed the fence next to me, keeping herself balanced and upright. “Hey, rank does pull some privileges. It’s a lot easier riding this bike than walking.”

  “I bet.”

  “I’m glad I saw you. I’ve got some information about that Sullivan murder. Talk about serendipity. Matt, one of our former sergeants, came by the booth with his granddaughter shortly after you did. He just retired six months ago. Anyway, I told him about your quest and he said he was still in contact with some old guy who was an officer here back in the forties. Said the guy lived up around Jolon, was kind of a loner. His name is Bob Weston. Matt didn’t have his phone number on him but he’s going to call me on Monday. I’ll give you a ring when I get it.”

  “Thanks, Joan,” I said. “Let me give you my cell phone because I’m in and out of both houses so much I might miss your call.” I copied it on one of Elvia’s business cards I found floating around the bottom of my purse.

  Joan stuck it inside her knee-length sock. “I heard you and the chief bought a new house. Good for you. Bet you’re really excited.”

  I nodded, unable to make a sound for fear I’d start crying again.

  “Hey,
moving’s the pits,” she said, her voice sympathetic, mistaking my obviously troubled expression for stress. “But it’ll be over before you know it.”

  “I know.” Her words and their possible double meaning tore at my heart. “Thanks, Joan. I’ll be waiting for your call.”

  “No problem, Benni. You enjoy the parade now. And be careful.”

  It took a long time for the parade to reach where I was standing, and the numbness I’d felt inside since that moment with Gabe so many hours ago was beginning to be matched by a real physical numbness in my hands and feet.

  Belly dancers slunk by, people dressed as sparkling playing cards weaved in and out of each other in some rehearsed formation, masked people in animal print tights cavorted and preened, throwing beads and coins at the surging crowds. I gripped the chain link fence, determined not to lose my spot so I could snap as many pictures of Elvia’s Krewe as possible.

  My mind was only vaguely on the parade when I looked up and noticed a man in an Old West frock coat, tall white cowboy hat, knee-length boots, and revolvers strapped to his legs coming toward me. A shiny gold six-pointed star glittered on his chest. Around him, girls dressed in saloon girl outfits smiled and threw beads, every so often doing a short can-can dance. Behind him, a man in a black outfit with a rubber Simon Lagree mask skulked and mimed shooting him in the back.

  The man in the white hat walked slowly toward me, his face completely covered by a Clint Eastwood mask. He held out a strand of shiny purple beads.

  I watched him approach, mesmerized by his intense and obvious focus on me. Around me the crowd pushed me into the fence, a huge roar like one voice surrounded me, “Throw me some beads, mister! Hey mister, hey mister, throw me some beads!”

  He was two feet from me now, close enough for me to see his dark eyes peering out of the mask. Eyes the color of French roast coffee beans. I held out my hand for the beads.

  He pulled them back, holding them just out of my reach. He pointed at his mouth and shook the beads. Without a word, he was telling me the price I’d have to pay for them.

  I leaned toward him, unable to stop myself, thinking, why not? He moved closer. I reached out and grasped the beads. His face was close enough for me to see the clear white around his brown eyes.

  Then, at the last moment, I turned my head and let the mouth of his mask touch my cheek.

  The man gave a low laugh, took the beads, and solemnly placed them around my neck. Then he turned and strode back to the cavorting saloon girls.

  I stood there for a moment, breathing hard, staring at the shiny purple beads in my hand. What was I thinking? I shook my head, amazed and a bit irritated at how the frenzy of Mardi Gras could cause me to almost kiss a stranger. Or maybe someone who wasn’t exactly a stranger, a voice inside chided me.

  “Tell me the truth,” a voice behind me said next to my ear. “Were you tempted to kiss him because you thought it was me?”

  I whirled around and faced Hud’s grinning face. I glanced back at the masked sheriff, who had already been replaced by some dancing giraffes and a pirate ship from Krewe Creole.

  “You wish,” I muttered, my neck hot as an iron.

  “See you later,” he said and melted back into the crowd.

  After I took twenty-four shots of Elvia’s dancing books, I pushed my way back out of the crowd and headed toward my truck. The drive to Cambria was not long enough for my taste and I was at Constance Sinclair’s huge Julia Morgan–designed Craftsman-style mansion before I wanted. It sat on a hill high above all the other expensive newer homes built on land that had once been only pine trees. I gave my keys to the parking attendant and went inside the brightly lit foyer. People dressed in black-and-white tuxes bustled around like ants on a collapsed anthill.

  I grabbed the arm of a young man with a red goatee and said, “Excuse me, but do you know where Mrs. Sinclair is?”

  The skin around his eyes turned white. He pointed upstairs. “Better watch your step,” he whispered. “She’s not a happy camper.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said, patting his arm. “That’s her normal state of being. Just nod and agree with whatever she says and you’ll be fine.”

  He gave me a tentative smile, but didn’t look convinced.

  I found Constance up in her sitting room drinking a glass of champagne. Constance Sinclair, thin as a greyhound and just as overbred, had been born into one of San Celina’s oldest families. She could trace her lineage back to the days when the Spanish owned most of San Celina County, which made her the closest thing to royalty that San Celina had. She used to scare the stuffing out of me until I learned how to deal with her. Which was let her do whatever she wanted and clean up her mistakes behind her.

  She and Dove were good buddies, a friendship that defied explanation but certainly made it easier for me to work with her. Constance never got away with the queenly act around Dove and I think that’s why Constance respected and liked her.

  “How are you, Constance?” I said, putting a large spoonful of fake sympathy in my voice.

  “Exhausted,” she said, sipping her champagne. A bottle of Dom Perignon sat on the Chippendale table next to her brocade chair. Her silver-white hair looked like a mound of glittery cotton candy under the soft yellow light of a fringed twenties-era lamp. She was dressed in a long off-white gown that probably cost as much as my truck. On the delicate table lay an elaborate black-and-white sequinned Mardi Gras mask, her one concession to the party’s theme. “I’m so glad you’re here. Please check to see that the caterers have done everything they’re paid to do. I need a few moments to gather my wits before my guests arrive.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll make sure everything’s okay.”

  “Thank you, dear.” She drained her glass and closed her eyes. I wondered how much of that bottle of champagne she’d consumed in the last hour or so. Constance had been known to enjoy her champagne, especially under stressful circumstances. And she got more uninhibited with her comments when she did, which was obviously what had panicked the young man downstairs.

  I watched her fluttery eyelids for a moment. Constance had most certainly been around in the forties when the Sullivan murder had taken place. She could be an invaluable source of information. And this was my only chance to talk with her privately. Once her guests had arrived, I’d most likely not catch her alone for the rest of the night.

  “Constance, did you know Maple and Garvey Sullivan?”

  Her eyes flew open, their pale blue depths impaling me with some emotion I couldn’t decipher. “Why?” Her voice cracked like a broken branch.

  Surprised by the angry tone in her voice, I stuttered, “I . . . I’m . . . doing some research on them. I’m cataloging—”

  She interrupted me with a wave of her hand. “Of course I knew him. Garvey’s father and mine worked on many of the same projects. Garvey and I attended high school together. He was a fine man. Until that cheap . . . until Maple Bennett turned his head.” She struggled up, using the end table as a crutch, and pointed a long finger at me. “Why are you asking about Garvey and . . . that woman?”

  “I’m cataloging the contents of Maple Sullivan’s trunks for the historical society and I just became interested in the story of their life. I want to try and understand why she might have wanted to kill him.” I reached down and pulled at one droopy stocking. “I mean, if she really did kill him.”

  “Oh, she did, all right,” Constance said. “I told him when he brought her out from that Kentucky backwoods he found her in that no good would come of it. But he was crazy in love with her.” Her blue eyes turned narrow and mean. “Or maybe he was just crazy.”

  “So, do you think that she and Mitch Warner were having an affair? That they killed him so they could run away together?”

  “No! Absolutely not!” Her bony shoulders stiffened.

  Her strong reaction caused a small thrill inside me. She knew something and I was determined to find out what. “Why not?”

  “She w
as a low-class nobody who ended up showing her true colors once she got what she wanted, Garvey’s money and good name.”

  “So,” I said carefully, not wanting to stop the flow of information. “She didn’t fit in very well with Garvey’s crowd. You didn’t like her.”

  She looked directly in my eyes. “Maple Sullivan murdered him just as sure as I’m standing here. That’s all you need to know. Now please go check on the caterers.”

  I knew I was risking her wrath, but something in me caused me to keep pushing. “But it just as easily could have been Mitch who killed him. Why does everyone assume it was her?”

  Her voice turned into a quiet hiss. “Mitch Warner was a fool, but he didn’t kill Garvey Sullivan.” She stated it with absolute certainty.

  “How do you know?”

  “He was a good Catholic man. He wouldn’t murder and he wouldn’t commit adultery.”

  “Even good men sometimes do wrong things,” I said, swallowing over the lump in my throat.

  She paused for a moment, hesitating.

  I could tell she was torn between telling me to get out and wanting to defend Mitch Warner. I stood my ground, determined to find out as much information as I could. Constance Sinclair’s snobbery had always annoyed me, and after hearing what she said about Maple, I was tempted to leave this party completely, but she had information I wanted. More than ever I was certain that Maple hadn’t killed her husband and that the elite of this county was covering something up.

  She finally said, “I know he didn’t kill Garvey because he told me so.”

  I drew in a surprised breath. “You were in contact with him after Garvey was killed?”

  She nodded.

  “Why . . . why didn’t you go to the police?”

  Her blue eyes turned glassy and sad. “Because he asked me not to.”

  “Where was he?”

  “He didn’t say. He just wanted to let me know he was all right. That . . . that it was . . . it had nothing to do with us. He said she was innocent. That was a lie. There wasn’t an innocent bone in her body. But he told me that he and Maple . . . they weren’t together. He swore . . .” She sat down heavily on the brocade chair. “I never heard from him again.” By the stricken look on her face, I realized why she’d jumped to his defense. Constance had been in love with Mitch Warner and he’d put the welfare, maybe even the love, of another woman before her. I felt ashamed for bringing up such a painful part of her past. Still, after all these years, she defended him. Without a doubt, we women were a pitiful lot sometimes.