Templeton’s ode to the West was obvious in the painstaking consistency in its main street buildings. Once an authentic cowboy town, it was rapidly becoming lined with upscale bistros and wine stores. Though the Templeton stock auction down the road was still as authentically Western as anyplace in Montana or Wyoming, the town of Templeton itself was succumbing to the Central Coast’s invasion of fringe-wearing, Ralph Lauren–clad stockbrokers and dot.com executives who wanted a rural experience without too much manure smell and accompanied by a nice crisp Chardonnay.
Mr. Downey was waiting for me in a back booth at The Lett’s Dine Inn, a small cafe that appeared to still be in the pancakes and chicken fried steak category rather than crepes with lemon zest and steak Diane. I recognized him from his candid description over the phone. “I’ll be the eighty-two-year-old geezer wearing a scraggly mustache, a cue ball head, and a red-checkered hunting jacket.”
“Mr. James Downey?”
“That’s my name last time I checked my driver’s license.” He gestured to the bench seat across from him. “What’ll you have?” He gestured over at the waitress, who yelled out, “Be right there, Jimmy.”
He grinned. “So, you’re looking into the Sullivan murder, eh? Land sakes alive, that was a long time ago. Why’re you interested in that old tragedy?”
Yet again I told the story of my involvement and interest up to and including Janet Nicholson’s refusal to share the information of the flower buyer to me this morning and how Leilani came up with his name. During my explanation, we were interrupted by the waitress, who took our orders—a grilled cheese sandwich and bowl of tomato soup for him, a BLT for me.
“So,” I said. “I was wondering, since you and Mrs. Downey owned the store before they did, maybe you’d remember something about this person and their order.”
“So you think this Maple Sullivan might have been the one sending the flowers?”
“Maybe, maybe not,” I said. “But it’s really the only lead I have to work on.”
The waitress brought our food and for a few minutes we concentrated on ketchup, salt, pepper, and Tabasco sauce. He took a small bite of his grilled cheese, chewed it slowly, then said, “What do you plan on doing with her if you find her?”
That stopped me cold, my sandwich halfway to my mouth. That was something I honestly hadn’t considered. All I’d concentrated on was finding her and talking to her, finding out what really happened if she’d tell me.
“You’re married to San Celina’s police chief, aren’t you?” Mr. Downey asked.
I nodded, not bothering to ask how he knew that.
“So, would you feel obligated to turn her in seeing as she’s still a suspect in her husband’s murder?”
Again, that was something I hadn’t even thought about. So I did for about thirty seconds. “No,” I said firmly. “I just want to talk to her. To be honest, I don’t think she did it.”
He ate a spoonful of soup, looking up at me as he did. “What if she did?”
This was getting much more complicated than I’d anticipated. To be truthful, deep inside I never thought of any of these people as still being alive. It had been more like a puzzle to me, a quest of sorts. If I hadn’t desperately needed something to keep my mind off the possibility of my own marriage disintegrating before my eyes, I’m not sure I’d have pursued it this far.
If she was still alive, the fact remained, she was wanted for questioning. What was my duty as a citizen in that regard? Since I hadn’t had any time to contemplate the moral and ethical ramifications of it, I fell back on my standard procedure.
“When I come to that bridge, I guess I’ll just have to trust my instincts,” I said weakly.
He nodded as if he understood. “I reckon you’ll make the right decision, young woman.” He pushed his half-finished lunch aside, reached down next to him, and pulled three stained green ledgers up and placed them on the table. “Me and Clara sold the place in the late seventies just like your friend told you. We’d owned it since 1939. Ran it on a shoestring all through the war. Kept all our own handwritten records in these ledgers until 1978 when we sold it to Janet Nicholson. We had a part-time accountant those last couple of years and he started sending out real bills and recording them in his own system. He’d give us a monthly statement all typed up nice and neat. That’s what went with the business when we sold it to Janet. She didn’t want our old ledgers, said they weren’t of any use to her. Clara and I kept them because they were kind of a record of our life during that time. We used to go through them when she was still with me and remember all the people we’d arranged flowers for.”
He opened the ledger sitting on the table. “The first request for the rose to be sent to Garvey Sullivan’s grave came on May 10, 1952. After that, we’d get a money order once a year for the exact amount a dozen roses would cost plus our standard delivery charge times twelve. Got it regular as clockwork until we sold the place.”
“Did the person leave a name?” I asked, trying to keep my excitement from grabbing the ledger from his hands.
He ran his finger down the ledger. “Only once, I remember. Oddest thing. It was long after that first request. Right around 1977. They wrote it on the money order, but it made me wonder if it wasn’t someone new and they weren’t thinking about being traced. Then they must have realized what they’d done and never did it again. But we recorded it that first time.” He turned the book around for me to read.
“Mrs. Albert C. Smith.” That was all it said.
I sighed, trying not to be too disappointed. The chance of me finding her by this piece of information was minute, to say the least.
“No address on any of the entries?” I asked. “Not even a city?”
He turned the ledger back around, grinning at me. “Now, I was waiting to see if you’d ask that. As a matter of fact, me and Clara were right curious about it seeing as we remembered the murder and all and we suspected that this Mrs. Smith might be Maple Bennett Sullivan.”
“You did?” I pushed my sandwich aside. “Why didn’t you go to the police?”
His lined face hardened. “Because we don’t think she did it. Lived here in this county all my life. Eighty-five years last month. And there’s one thing that’s as true as the day is long, there’s people in this county who made a lot of money off other people’s back-breaking work, there’s people in this county who’ve done bad things, terrible things, but never had to pay for them because their grandpas weren’t nothing more than robber barons stealing from the Indians and the Mexicans and the Japanese and the Chinese and whoever else they could plunder. The Warners and the Sullivans had some good people in their families, but they had more’n their share of bad apples. I think poor little Maple Sullivan got in way over her head and took the fall for that Warner boy, who was too dang cowardly to even fight for the country that made his family rich. And his daddy and his cronies made sure she appeared to be the one who pulled the trigger when anyone who’d ever met her knew that she wasn’t that kind. Me and Clara done lots of business with Maple Sullivan and she was the sweetest, kindest lady you could imagine. You know, she gave us all her milk rations for a year when our Janie was a little one and the doctor said she had weak bones, that maybe extra milk might help her. And we weren’t the only people she’d helped, not by a long shot. Besides, why in the world would a woman who’d killed her husband risk getting caught just so she could put a flower on his grave? That’s an innocent woman, I tell you.” He cleared his throat wetly. “No, sir, they weren’t going to hear about her from us. Not by a long shot.”
All those years they protected her whereabouts. It was amazing. I couldn’t help but wonder what Bob Weston would think about all this.
If, a little voice inside me said, you tell him. He is, after all, a police officer, retired or not. He might still feel duty bound to turn her in and let justice run its course. Another moral decision I’d have to face sooner or later.
“Did you ever talk to her?” I asked. “
Were you certain it was Maple Sullivan?”
He pulled his sandwich back in front of him and picked it up. “No, we never talked to her. And we weren’t absolutely certain it was her, but who else would it be?”
“There wasn’t any indication in the ledger of an address.”
“No, there never was a return address, but we did notice the postal mark. Guess she trusted us enough not to give her away. She was taking a big chance, especially when we sold the place. We wanted to let her know, but there was no way to get in touch with her. That Janet was new in town, fresh from Colorado. By the time we sold the store to her, Maple Sullivan’s story was old news. We just told her she was a relative of Garvey Sullivan’s who made this request every year. She didn’t even question it.”
“The return address,” I reminded him.
“Oh, yes, the postmark. It was Idyllwild, California. Out there near Palm Springs up in the San Jacinto Mountains. We looked it up on the map. Always meant to take a trip there when we retired but then Clara got sick. Heard it’s a real pretty little mountain town, but I really couldn’t tell you.”
21
BENNI
I WAS SO excited I could barely sit still. I managed to finish my lunch and chat with Mr. Downey without giving in to the urge to rush out the door and run for a phone. After insisting on paying for his lunch and after multiple promises that I’d let him know whatever I found out, I drove home in record time. Though my cell phone tempted me, I held back the urge to pull over to the side of the road and use it. This conversation was definitely not one I wanted to conduct over an uncertain cell phone connection.
My high hopes were smashed to gravel when there was no listing in Idyllwild for a Mr. or Mrs. Albert Smith. I stared at the phone in irritation. Did I really expect it to be that easy? I could go back to Amanda and ask to use Leilani’s expertise again, but I wanted to use up all of my own resources first. Amanda was a wonderful and helpful friend, but I didn’t want to overstay my welcome. I’d give myself the rest of the day, and if I couldn’t come up with something, I’d throw myself on her mercy one more time.
My laptop computer was at the folk art museum so, taking Scout with me this time, I headed there, intending on spending the afternoon searching the Internet myself for any Albert C. Smiths in the general vicinity of Palm Springs and Idyllwild. After checking my California atlas, I searched every possible combination of Albert C. Smith I could think of in the Internet phone books including any within a fifty-mile radius of Idyllwild. None of the phone numbers turned out to have people even remotely connected to Maple Sullivan. Or at least that’s what they told me. I was sitting back in my chair, feet propped up on my desk, frowning at my gray screen when the phone rang. It was Dove.
“Hi,” she said. “Did you get me a good shower gift? It’s tonight, you know.”
“I remember, and yes, I got you a—”
“Don’t tell me! I want it to be a surprise.”
I’d bought her a red silk nightgown from Angelina’s. It would be a surprise, all right.
“How are things going with the wedding plans?” I asked, afraid of her answer. I had good reason to be.
“I was thinking Caveman,” she said.
“No way,” I answered. “I look terrible in animal skins.”
“Skydiving?”
“Get someone else to be your matron of honor.”
“Roller coaster?”
“They make me queasy, you know that.”
“Hot air balloon?”
“Better not. Since Gabe is best man and I’m not feeling too kindly toward him right now, I might just push him out of the basket.”
She didn’t laugh.
“Hey, that’s a joke,” I said.
“My wedding’s not a joking matter.” Her voice went an octave higher with what sounded like panic.
“Dove,” I said, trying to keep her calm and me from screaming in frustration. “I truly, truly think that getting married to you in a plain old church is about as much excitement as Isaac can handle.”
“But I want it to be special,” she whined, sounding for all the world like me when I was sixteen and begging for a lower-cut prom dress than Dove thought proper.
“You’re going to have to decide soon.”
“Don’t pressure me!” she cried and hung up.
Desperately needing some caffeine after that little scene, I was rummaging around in the refrigerator of our small kitchen looking for milk that wouldn’t curdle when it hit my cup of coffee when Edna McClun walked in.
“Hi, Benni. How’s the cataloging going?”
“Hey, Edna. It’s . . . going.”
“Well, no hurry, but . . .” She gave me another bright, encouraging smile. She must have been a drill sergeant in her former life.
“I’ll be able to work on it more steadily after this Saturday,” I said.
She nodded. “Weddings can be distracting. See you tonight?”
“Sure,” I said. “I’ll pick up the cake in a little while and take it over to the restaurant.” I gave up looking for any milk. I’d drink my coffee straight.
“Oh, I can do that,” she said. “It’s over at Stern’s Bakery, right? I have to go by there anyway. And remember, you don’t have to hurry with Maple Sullivan’s cataloging. Just be ready to give a little report on your progress at the next historical society meeting. I think we’re all a tad curious about what you found in those trunks.”
“You got it, Edna,” I said with a false smile, which in a matter of seconds turned into a real one. Her mention of the historical society gave me an idea. If anyone knew the nitty-gritty about a town and its citizens, live and deceased, it was the people who belonged to these organizations.
Back in my office, I set my coffee on my desk and called Information for the number of the Idyllwild Chamber of Commerce, jotting it down on a note pad. I opened the atlas and found Idyllwild, figuring out it would be at least a seven-hour drive from San Celina. Before I could call the Chamber of Commerce and ask if there was a number for a local historical society, Hud walked through the doorway.
“Hey, ranch girl,” he said. “What’s new?” He was wearing a plain white T-shirt with a smudge of dirt on the front and dark blue Wranglers. He carried a sheet of paper.
“Not much. Are you working on the trunks?” I asked, gesturing at the paper in his hand and casually closing the atlas, hoping he hadn’t noted the page.
“Yes, ma’ am.” He dangled it in front of me before walking over to the credenza and slipping it into Maple Sullivan’s file. “And I’ve just finished my first trunk. Unlike some people in this room, I have been working real hard on this project.” He turned and pointed at the atlas on my desk. “Goin’ on a trip?”
“No,” I said, meeting his direct gaze. “Just doing some paperwork.”
He smirked at me. “You do not have a face made for poker playing. What have you found out about Maple Sullivan?”
I kept eye contact, determined not to appear suspicious. Mr. Downey’s questions about what I would do if I found her and she admitted to killing Garvey resounded in my brain. I thought I knew Hud well enough to know that his cop instincts would override his historian instinct and he would insist on reporting her whereabouts to someone in authority. Not to mention what a feather it would be in his cap to solve a fifty-year-old crime. He wasn’t going to find out a thing about where she now lived from me. At least until I could talk to her first.
He flopped down in one of my black vinyl and metal visitor chairs. “You have found out something! And you’re trying to decide how much to tell me.” His smirk turned into a grumpy expression. “I thought we were a team on this. You said we’d share information.”
“I will as soon as I get some.”
His face still irritated, he leaned over, grabbed my full cup of coffee, and took a swallow.
“I hate it when you do that,” I said.
“That’s why I do it,” he replied, making a face.
I picke
d up a small stuffed horse sitting on my desk and threw it at him. It hit the cup of coffee, spilling it across the front of his white T-shirt.
“Holy shit!” He jumped up, dropped the almost empty cup, and tore the coffee-soaked T-shirt off over his head.
I sat in my chair and laughed . . . the coffee wasn’t that hot . . . until he had his shirt off. My laughter instantly stopped as I stared in shock at the five raised horizontal scars spread across his tanned chest. I recognized their origin, having a small similar one on the back of my right leg, which had been inflicted by my uncle Arnie when he was a stupid fourteen-year-old boy messing around with a bull whip.
I stood up, my eyes traveling from the scars into his brown eyes. Their emotionless depths told me nothing. “Hud . . . I’m sorry . . . I . . .” My eyes dropped back down to his scars.
“Forget it,” he said in a gruff voice, mopping at his chest with the balled-up T-shirt.
“We have T-shirts in the back,” I said, rushing out of the office, my face flaming, slamming the door behind me. I ran down the hall and into the supply room, grabbed one of the large black folk art museum T-shirts we sell in the gift shop. When I came back, he was standing in front of my small window, his wide, muscled back to the door. The scars reached all the way around him, like some kind of endlessly cruel embrace. He turned when he heard me walk in. I forced myself to keep my eyes on his face as I softly shut my office door.
“Here,” I said, holding out the T-shirt. “No charge.”
He reached for the shirt and I stole another glance at the scars. They spanned his chest and just the thought of a whip tearing into human skin like that caused my throat to tighten.
“Go ahead, take a good look,” he said, his voice cool.
A sudden urge came over me to reach out and run my hand over them, to try and soothe the emotional pain these old physical wounds must still carry inside this man. I fought the urge, sticking my hands deep into my jeans pockets.
His voice was quiet and dispassionate when he said, “Only permanent thing I ever got from my dear ole daddy except for my ten-million-dollar trust fund.”
Steps to the Altar Page 25
