I wanted to point out that people made plans all the time, and death intervened. Death doesn’t call and make an appointment; how well I knew that.
She sat up straight, her momentary emotional outburst over. General Patton had returned. “You work for me, and since your husband won’t do his job, I demand you investigate this crime.”
I couldn’t help it. Despite my pity for her loss, and even though her cheekbones were tinged a very familiar angry pink and in spite of the fact I knew I’d live to regret my action, I couldn’t help it. I laughed.
“Investigate? Constance, I am a museum curator, not a private eye. If Gabe doesn’t think there is a crime, what can I tell you? He’s the expert.”
“You’ve done it before. Found killers.”
Though she was technically right—I’d been involved in a few incidents where I’d done some investigating on my own—I’d sworn to Gabe I would stay away from playing detective. And, frankly, after what had taken place less than a month ago with the hostage situation, I was more than happy to leave the bad guys to my husband and his officers.
“Yes, I have,” I said. “But those incidents were all accidental.”
“But you solved them when the police couldn’t.”
That was true. It was also the reason I was determined to stay away from this disagreement she had with the police about her friend’s death. My and Gabe’s marriage had enough problems without me getting involved with something like this. Not to mention his mother was coming to town in—I glanced up at the schoolhouse clock on the wall—seven hours.
“Constance,” I said, looking directly into her red-rimmed eyes. “I am truly sorry about your friend, but I can’t go against Gabe’s decision. I assure you that he and his detectives are very good at their jobs, and if they say that there was nothing suspicious about your friend’s—”
“They are wrong,” she interrupted. “I’ll pay you overtime. All your expenses, gas and meals and whatever equipment you need to solve the case. Isn’t that what you do with private detectives?”
“I wouldn’t know because I’m not a private detective.” I took a deep breath, working particularly hard at keeping my voice from sounding irritable. After all, she’d just lost a close friend, and perhaps this was her way of working it out. Besides, I reasoned, it was good practice for the next two weeks with Kathryn who, I was willing to bet, could give Constance a run for the roses in the intimidation department.
“Benni, please.” Her normally commanding voice sounded odd saying those words. “I’ll do anything. I’ll pay anything.”
I looked at her a long moment, wishing like anything that I’d called in sick this morning. “I wish I could help you, but if Gabe says there’s nothing suspicious about Pinky’s death, why would you doubt him?”
“Because I know what I know.” She wagged a long, elegant finger at me. It sounded like something my gramma Dove would say.
“C’mon, Constance,” I said, finally getting frustrated enough to nip this in the bud. I had too many things to do today. “Who would possibly want to murder your friend?”
Her triumphant smile told me immediately that my question was the wrong one to ask. She opened up her purse and took out a folded sheet of paper.
“I have a list,” she said.
Of course she did. I groaned out loud. “I didn’t mean I actually wanted to know—”
She slapped the paper into my hand. “There are three names on there, the women who are next in line for 49 Club membership. One of them did it.”
I stared at her like she was a fire-breathing dragon come to life. “The 49 Club? You think someone killed Pinky to take her place in the 49 Club?” The idea was so outlandish, I couldn’t even laugh.
“I know it.”
The 49 Club was San Celina’s most exclusive female-only society club. Formed seventy-five years ago, faithful to its name, it was comprised of only forty-nine members. They were the elite of the elite, and a woman could only become a member after one of the forty-nine died and then only by a unanimous vote of the other forty-eight members. They put on an invitation-only Christmas Ball and Silent Auction every year that was the most talked-about holiday event in the county. Last year it was five thousand dollars a head and limited to three hundred people. Tony Bennett, a personal friend of one of the 49ers, attended and sang a medley of Christmas carols. All the money raised was directly donated to various charities helping women and children in the county. I’d never gone to the ball, something like that being far out of my price and social range, but Elvia attended last year with Emory and said it was even more amazing than what the newspapers reported. The club met once a week for lunch in their historical landmark clubhouse in San Celina designed for them by Julia Morgan, the architect of William Randolph Hearst’s infamous castle.
I clutched the sheet of paper in my hand, fighting the temptation to read her list. “You can’t be serious. I mean, I know the 49 Club is . . . well, many people are . . .” I almost said dying to join, then caught myself. “Many women would love to join, but I find it hard to believe that anyone would actually kill to become a member.”
She stared at me silently for a moment, her eyes bulging with some kind of emotion. At our feet, Boo gave a little chirrup, then rolled over on his back, splaying his back legs out in a pose that would have been X-rated had he been a human.
“Please, Benni,” she finally said. “Just consider my request. I have nowhere else to go.”
I felt myself weakening. It was the second please that did it. Constance had never uttered the word please to me. She’d likely never said it to anyone in her life.
“I don’t know,” I said, still attempting to maintain some boundaries with my boss. “It—”
She stood up and closed her purse with a snap. “One day to look at what I’ve written. That’s all I ask. I’ll pay you five hundred dollars for a retainer. Right now.”
I gave a big sigh and stood up. “I don’t want your money. I’ll see what I can find out from Gabe. That’s the best I can offer.”
She gave a sharp nod. “Fair enough. Are we set for the exhibit opening?”
“Yes, the wine arrived yesterday. I have it stacked in the storage room. The caterers are all set. I’ll come in early tomorrow to make sure everything is in order.”
“What about the painting?”
“It arrived this morning and is probably in Gabe’s office right now. I called him the minute it came. D-Daddy’s waiting for the alarm people today to double-check the system. I’ll bring it to the museum and hang it tomorrow.”
“Good. We want this event to be special. Maybe Miss Finch will tell some of her artist connections, and the museum will receive even more donations.”
“I’ll do my best to make sure everything’s perfect.”
“See that you do.” She brushed past me without even a good-bye, the familiar autocratic Constance returned. Had I just imagined the sobbing and vulnerable Constance of a half hour ago?
“Okay, my little Bugaboo,” I said, waking the puppy up. “Let’s get you fed, and then let’s go visit your Uncle Gabe. We have to run this whole thing by him before we become involved.”
Boo, unaware of the hullabaloo he’d just entered, pounced at my loose shoelace, capturing it with a triumphant bark.
CHAPTER 3
WHEN I WENT OUT TO MY TRUCK TO DIG THROUGH Boo’s stuff, I found a note stuck to my windshield. It was from Hud.
“Hey, ranch girl,” it read. “I realized I forgot to give you Boo’s schedule, his likes, dislikes, etc. He’s sort of house-trained, ha-ha. (Sorry.) I’ll donate five hundred bucks to the folk art museum if you can accomplish that. When I came back inside the museum, your door was closed. It sounded like there was some kind of emotional crisis going on, so I decided not to disturb you. Call my cell or the ranch if you have any questions about Boudin. Thanks again. You’re a stand-up broad. Your buddy, Hud.”
So, I thought, the going rate for finding a killer and pott
y-training a puppy seemed to be the same in San Celina. I wasn’t sure which one would be harder.
“Okay,” I said to Boo, who was now scampering about my feet, playing with a dandelion sprouting from the gravel, “according to your schedule you are due for lunch. But I suspected that.” I looked at my watch. “Then it’s time to meet perro grande, and I don’t mean Scout. Be on your cutest behavior, because I’m not sure how he’s going to take sharing his home with a semi-housetrained corgi.”
Boo yapped, then chased a bee. I found his food and a black and red ceramic dish that had Yummers! printed on the bottom. I fed him, then took him to the side of the building to do his business. I put him in the pickup’s bed while I struggled to secure his padded car seat with the passenger seat belt. I recaptured him, slipped his tiny halter on and hooked him into his fancy car seat.
“You know,” I said, starting my truck. “Traveling with Scout is a whole lot easier.” After introducing Boo to Gabe, I was going to spend some of that thousand-dollar retainer at All Paws on Board. He’d be in expert and loving hands with Suann, the day care’s owner and head dog wrangler.
At the police station, it took me twenty minutes to maneuver the short walk to Gabe’s office. There was something about a puppy that softened the eyes of even the most hardened street cop, cynical detective or seen-it-all dispatcher. Before I made it to Gabe’s office I heard three long-winded memories of a special dog in someone’s life. Gabe’s oak door was closed when I walked up to his assistant’s desk. Maggie, a fellow rancher and dog lover, had to spend her requisite minutes fawning over Boo and telling me about a corgi-beagle mix her grandfather once owned.
“Is Gabe in?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said, cuddling Boo to her chest. “But he’s only got fifteen minutes to spare before he has a meeting.”
“More important, is he in a good mood?” He had been when he left this morning, but being a police chief, that could change in a flash-bang.
“Reasonably so. He’s excited about his mama coming out for Christmas.” She grinned at me. “Said you were excited about it too.”
I grinned back. Maggie knew me too well to believe that. “More like anxiously anticipating. Kathryn and I came to something of a truce when I visited Kansas a few years ago. Except for three or four short phone conversations, we haven’t talked since.”
Maggie rubbed her cheek against Boo’s head. “The only advice I have is that a person can fake anything for two weeks.”
“I certainly intend to try.”
The door opened as soon as the words came out of my mouth.
“Try what?” Gabe asked.
I looked away from Maggie, afraid the amused look in her shiny black eyes would cause me to start laughing. “Try to figure out how to tell my darling husband that he’s the most wonderful, understanding, open-minded, caring and generous person I’ve ever known.”
He gave a disbelieving grunt and raised his thick eyebrows. “What do you want? I’m already tempted to say no.” He glanced over at Maggie. “Who’s this cute little guy?” He reached over and scratched Boo under the chin with his forefinger. “Bet you can pick up fifty channels with that ear.”
Maggie carefully handed Boo back to me. “That’s my cue to head for the snack machine. I hear a Snickers calling my name.”
The situation dawned on Gabe. He had, after all, been a detective for the LAPD for many years before he took this police chief job.
“Oh, no,” he said, holding his hands up. “We’re not getting a puppy.” But the indulgence in his voice told me that, if a puppy was what I wanted, he wouldn’t fight me on it.
“That’s not what I’m asking.” I followed him into his office. “Boo belongs to Hud, and he asked me to baby . . . uh . . . puppy sit for the next two weeks.”
Gabe turned to study me, his jovial expression suddenly careful. He knew how Hud felt about me but had reluctantly conceded to my absolute assurance that Hud’s crush would pass and that Gabe had nothing to worry about. Gabe was sympathetic to Hud and what he’d gone through last month when his daughter was held hostage and, I guessed, felt a little guilty for the part his cousin played in it.
“Hud is going with Laura Lee and Maisie to Texas for Christmas. He bought Boo for Maisie at the suggestion of their family counselor.”
“Hud’s going to Texas with his ex-wife,” Gabe repeated, looking thoughtful.
I smiled. “I told you there was still something between them. Think of taking care of Boo as our way of helping reignite their love.”
“Don’t count on it,” he said, ever the cynic. “But, since you’ll be doing most of the work taking care of the little guy, I can’t say much.”
I set Boo down on the floor, where he promptly squatted and presented Gabe with a highly personal and aromatic gift.
“Stop him!” Gabe said. “The DA is meeting me here in ten minutes.”
“Relax,” I said, laughing. “I’m sure it won’t be the first time he’s smelled crap.”
“Very funny.” Gabe took a box of tissues from his credenza and held it out to me. “You can do the honors.”
I picked Boo up and handed him to Gabe. “Keep him out of trouble while I clean this up.” I picked up Boo’s mess with a doggie bag I’d stuck in my back pocket. “I have something else to discuss with you.”
He glanced up at the wall clock. “Can it wait?”
“It’s quick, I promise.” As I scrubbed the spot with some alcohol I found in Gabe’s desk, I told him about my odd encounter with Constance and her belief that Pinky Edmondson was murdered.
He groaned and shifted Boo in his arms. “That woman is nuts. Her friend died of a heart attack, plain and simple. Arva Edmondson’s doctor and the medical examiner both said there was absolutely no sign of foul play. The only family Mrs. Edmondson had was some distant cousins back East. They would not give permission to do an autopsy, and I don’t blame them. She was cremated, and her ashes will be flown to some family crypt in Philadelphia. Case closed.”
“I agree with you, but she’s all over me, Friday. Did she tell you she’s convinced that one of the aspiring members to the 49 Club offed Pinky to claim her spot? She also tried to hire me to investigate.”
Gabe threw back his head and laughed. “That’s the craziest thing I’ve heard all week.”
“Which statement are you referring to?”
He wisely refused to say. “Go ahead.”
I cocked my head, confused. “With what?”
“Tell her you’ll investigate. But don’t sign anything or make a statement that says she is hiring you to investigate. You’re not licensed, and that could get sticky. Call yourself an artistic consultant or something.”
I opened my mouth and clutched my chest, feigning a heart attack. “Am I hearing correctly? You actually want me to investigate Pinky Edmondson’s death?”
“I want you to keep Constance Sinclair off my back. If she thinks you’re investigating, she’ll leave me and my detectives alone.”
I nodded my head, grinning. “I wish I could get this on tape.”
“Don’t look so smug.” He handed Boo back to me. “If I really thought there was even a hint of truth to her story, I wouldn’t ask you to do this.”
“I’m just enjoying the moment. It’ll probably never happen again.”
“We agree on that.” He leaned down and kissed me lightly on the lips. “So what do you say, Mrs. Ortiz?” His voice caressed the words. I could tell it still thrilled him that I’d officially taken his last name a month ago. “Meet me at the train station at five forty-five? The other Mrs. Ortiz’s train is arriving at six.”
The first Mrs. Ortiz was the unspoken statement. I wondered briefly what she would think about me finally taking her son’s last name. “I’ll be there. What do you think we should do for dinner? Go out or eat at home?”
“You decide.”
He stuck his hand in his pants pocket and jiggled his keys. Gabe wasn’t the type of person who had nervou
s habits. Maybe it was his time in Vietnam as a foot soldier when he learned the art of perfect stillness, or maybe it was just his guarded personality, but it was hard for people, except the few who knew him very well, to tell when he was apprehensive. Anger and frustration he had no trouble showing. Fear or anxiety, that was something else. He was obviously more nervous about his mother visiting than I realized.
“How about my beef and barley soup, a green salad, baking powder biscuits and Dove’s peach cobbler?” I had all those things ready to throw together at home.
“Sounds perfect. I imagine Mom will be tired. Eating at home would be more relaxing.”
“Her room is ready down to her favorite Ivory soap and Meyer lemon hand lotion.”
He gave me a puzzled look. “You know her favorite soap and hand lotion?”
I shifted Boo to my other arm. “No great detective work there. I called your sister Becky. You should try it once in a while. She says you never call her back. Angel says the same thing.”
“I always mean to.”
I just rolled my eyes at him.
“Actually,” he said, changing the subject from his lack of communication with his sisters, “what you did is exactly what a good detective would do. Check the obvious source, those closest to the . . .” He stopped, obviously not wanting to compare his mother to a homicide victim.
“I’ll keep that in mind when I work on my new case.”
“Pretend case.”
I just shrugged. “Did you send someone to pick up Abe Adam Finch’s painting?” I’d called Gabe as soon as it was delivered at home this morning.
“Miguel picked it up. He’s the only one of my officers that Scout was likely to let in.” He nodded across the room at a locked closet. “It’s right there. Just let me know when you want it delivered to the museum.”
“Probably tomorrow. The security people are supposed to come by today and check the system.”
The intercom on his desk buzzed, and Maggie informed Gabe that the district attorney had arrived.
Tumbling Blocks Page 4
