Tumbling Blocks

by Earlene Fowler

  “See you tonight,” Gabe said. “Have fun playing Nancy Drew.”

  “Don’t kid yourself, Chief. You owe me big time for this.”

  On the way out to my truck, the more I thought about it, the more difficult it seemed. Would Constance fall for it? And how long did I need to keep up the charade? Maybe I needed a little coaching, so I decided my next stop would be my friend Amanda Landry’s office. Though she’d been a private attorney for years, she’d recently accepted a deputy district attorney position with the county. She specialized in crimes against women and children. Maybe Amanda could give me a few tips about what I could do to make Constance believe I was really investigating this alleged crime.

  I hooked Boo in his car seat and headed for the government offices downtown. It was only when I parked on the street across from the county courthouse that I realized, unlike my well-trained, adult dog, whom I could, on a cool winter day like today, leave for a half hour or so in the cab of my truck with a dish of water and the windows rolled down, I couldn’t leave this little puppy for one second. And I doubted that he’d pass for a Seeing Eye or companion dog, so I couldn’t take him inside the county buildings.

  “You are already beginning to put a crimp in my style,” I told him. He was sleeping peacefully in his padded bed. I sat there contemplating my next move when luck smiled upon me. I spotted my stepson, Sam, walking down the opposite side of the street.

  I rolled down my window. “Hey, Sam! Want to make twenty bucks?”

  He waved at me and called back, “Sure, I’m flat broke.”

  That’s what I was counting on. Sam, Gabe’s only child, had lived in San Celina for the last few years, most of the time out at my dad and gramma Dove’s ranch. He worked as a part-time ranch hand for his room and board, and at various other jobs around town, including Elvia’s bookstore, for his spending money. In between that and his extensive social life, he attended Cal Poly University. Right now, his major was culinary arts, his latest ambition to be a chef. He’d stuck with this major longer than any other and worked occasionally for a couple of the town’s catering companies, so it looked like this major might be the one.

  Sam loped across the street toward my truck. Though my husband was a handsome and distinguished-looking man, his son was magazine model material. His once short, black, shiny hair was shaggy and wild, a new, slightly artsy look for him. He wore black jeans and a red T-shirt that said, Chicks Dig a Man who Bastes. He and Gabe had an often fractious relationship, but Sam and I had hit it off from the beginning, mostly because, not ever being a mother, I didn’t have any interest in mothering him.

  “Who do I have to kill?” he asked when he reached me. He leaned inside the open window, resting his tanned arms on the frame. “Wow, cute puppy.”

  “Glad you think so. That’s what I need you to do for the next hour. Take care of Boo while I investigate a murder for your father.”

  “Who and what?” His dark brown eyes sparkled with questions.

  I gave him the quick rundown on Boo’s name, his temporary visit, Constance Sinclair’s assertion about her friend and Gabe’s request of me.

  “Man, Pinky is dead?” Sam said. “That stinks. She was a cool lady. Outstanding tipper.”

  “You knew Pinky Edmondson?” Today offered one surprise after another. Sam and Pinky were about a thousand miles apart on San Celina’s social scale.

  “Met her when I worked a couple of gigs for Jacques.” Jacques of San Celina was one of the oldest caterers in the county. Many Cal Poly culinary students had learned their catering chops working for Jacques.

  “Pinky liked real traditional catering,” Sam said. “Stuffed mushrooms, shrimp puffs, Brie, French Chardonnay. You know, old-school finger food. She belonged to some ladies’ club that we did a couple brunches for. Unlike some of the women there, not mentioning any names . . .” He raised one dark eyebrow. “She was real nice. Like I said, good tipper and didn’t throw any crazy fits.”

  I knew he was referring to Constance, whose fits were legendary. “Pinky actually died of a heart attack, but Constance has been haranguing your dad with her absolute belief that Pinky was murdered. Your dad has passed her obsession on to me.”

  “Harsh,” he said sympathetically. “You have to, like, fake her out?”

  “Exactly. I decided to get some tips on how I could do that from my friend Amanda in the district attorney’s office, but then I remembered my furry little friend here.”

  “No problem. I’ll watch the little monster while you learn how to lie.”

  I grimaced at the word lie. “There’ll be no actual lying taking place. I’m just going to . . .” I faltered.

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “Okay, okay,” I conceded. “There might be untruths spoken, but it’s in the name of harmony.” That certainly didn’t justify it, but it was all I had.

  “Whatever,” Sam said. “Tell it to your priest. No judgment here.” He walked around to the passenger side and opened the door. Boo was awake now and ready for some new fun.

  “Meet me back at the truck in an hour. Here’s a leash and some plastic bags. Don’t forget to clean up after him.”

  “Got it, madrastra.” Sam stuffed the leash and bags in his pocket, then picked Boo up. “This’ll be sweet,” he called over his shoulder. “Women love puppies.”

  “An hour,” I called back. “Then you get your twenty bucks.”

  I watched him walk down Lopez and, sure enough, before he reached the end of the block, two college-age girls had stopped him and were cooing over Boo. I had a feeling after an hour, I’d have to search him out and pry that girl-attracting puppy out of his arms.

  Inside the gray concrete government buildings, I took the elevator up to the district attorney’s offices on the third floor. The cool, nondescript foyer was empty. Behind the bulletproof, Plexiglas window a clerk asked me if I had an appointment with Ms. Landry.

  “No,” I said.

  “I’ll see if she’s free.”

  I flipped through a three-month-old Time magazine, thinking that this bland office was a huge change from the one Amanda had leased above the Ross Department Store. Earlier in her law career she worked for the San Francisco district attorney’s office. When her father, a retired Alabama judge, died and left her a small fortune, she moved to San Celina and went into private practice. She was tired of dealing with sociopaths every day, she’d told me the first time we’d had lunch when she dropped by the museum and offered her pro bono services to the museum and co-op.

  “It feels like you’re a cat in a roomful of mice on speed,” she’d told me. “You might catch one or two, if you’re lucky, but, mostly, they just jump out of your clutches. I’m just plumb tuckered out.”

  So it surprised me when a month ago she called to tell me that she was closing her practice and accepting a job with the district attorney’s office.

  “I’ll keep y’all on, of course,” she’d said. “But I’m just flat-out bored out of my skull drawing up trusts and fighting fencing issues. I need to feel like I’m doing something useful. Besides . . .” I could imagine her wide, Carly Simon smile. “I kinda miss them ole bad guys. Always loved growling back at them in court when they thought they could intimidate me with their high-hat prison sneers.”

  Amanda, almost six feet tall, with a kudzu-thick head of auburn hair that she wore, more often than not, to her shoulders in full, shoulder-length curls, was both überfeminine and strikingly Amazon-like, which fascinated and scared most of the men she met.

  She was out in the lobby in minutes, pulling me up into a huge, warm Southern hug. “Benni Harper Ortiz, where have you been? I’ve missed you, girl. Come on in and see the hovel these people call an office. If I wasn’t having such a good ole time, I’d quit this place and buy myself one of your cousin’s smoked chicken franchises. I swear, it’s the best chicken I’ve ever eaten.”

  I followed her through the rabbit warren of cubicles and offices. She called out greetings as she p
assed by open offices filled with overflowing desks. You would have thought she’d worked here two years, not two months.

  “Wow, you’ve really settled in,” I said when we reached her tiny office. “You seem to know everyone.” One small window looked out over the parking lot where they loaded and unloaded prisoners.

  “Have a seat,” she said, pointing to the government-issue vinyl and metal visitor’s chair in front of her gray metal desk. “Don’t forget, I’ve been practicing law here in San Celina for a while. Ran across most of these folks at one point or another. Not that I had a lot of criminal cases, but I do belong to every law association in the county. Schmoozing is the one talent I inherited from my dear sweet daddy.” She gave me a broad wink. “I like to think of using my talent for good rather than evil.”

  Her father had been a prominent and, according to her, absolutely corrupt-to-the-marrow Alabama judge. She’d once said that fifty thousand dollars’ worth of psychotherapy, a fraction of the money she inherited from him, was the reason she could laugh about him today.

  She folded her hands on her maroon desk blotter. “So, what can I do for you? Got any criminals you want me to persecute?”

  “Don’t you mean prosecute?” I said, laughing.

  Her eyes twinkled. “Whatever.”

  “You’re having fun, aren’t you?”

  “You bet. I’d forgotten how satisfying it is putting away bad guys.”

  “I won’t keep you long,” I said, sitting forward in my chair. “I have a favor to ask. How do I fake investigating a homicide?”

  She cocked her head, her sculpted eyebrows knit in question. “That sounds downright intriguing.”

  I smiled. “Don’t worry, I have Gabe’s permission. As a matter of fact, it’s at his request.”

  She unfolded her hands. “The plot thickens.”

  I quickly filled her in on the whole Constance-Pinky dilemma. “In a nutshell, Gabe wants me to keep her busy and off his back. I think he thinks she’ll eventually just move her attention to something else.”

  “He’s probably right. She sounds as nutty as peanut butter pie.”

  “Maybe, but it also might be her grief talking. I can’t help feeling sorry for her. If one of my friends died and I even had an inkling that something was amiss, I’d probably throw as big a hissy fit as she’s doing.”

  I meant what I said. Though I only knew Constance as a boss and, despite having felt many times the sting of her snobbery, I still felt sympathy for her. She’d never had children and had been widowed for years. I suspected her friends were a big part of her life. Not having children myself, I could definitely relate.

  “So, what do you suggest?” I asked Amanda.

  “This should be easy. Like most everyone else, her ideas about how a person investigates a homicide are probably from television shows. Her reference would likely be Jessica Fletcher or that show with Dick Van Dyke. You know the routine. First, get a small notebook and one of those little portable tape recorders. You can find them at the drugstore.”

  I nodded. “Then what?”

  “She said she thinks that one of the aspiring 49ers is the killer?”

  “She’s positive.”

  “Boy, there’s a picture for you. If I were you, I’d just casually question each one using your position as curator and your background as a historian. Tell them you’re thinking about writing a history of their club.”

  “Except that the people I’ll be talking to aren’t actually members of the club yet.”

  “Then tell them it’s an article for a history magazine. Make one up. Trust me, they won’t bother to check. Once you get people talking about themselves, they often won’t shut up.” She lifted one eyebrow. “As a matter of fact, we prosecutors count on that. Many a criminal has talked himself or herself directly into jail simply because they admired the musical sound of their own voice.”

  “Everything you’ve said was along the lines of what I was thinking about doing.”

  “Why the visit then?”

  I stood up. “For one thing, I just wanted to say hi and see your new office. It’s been too long since we’ve seen each other.”

  “You’re right as rain there. What else?”

  I laughed. “It won’t be a lie when I tell Constance that I’m in contact with the district attorney’s office about Pinky’s case.”

  “You sly dog,” she said, standing up. “It’s been good seeing you. What’re your plans for the upcoming holidays?”

  I grimaced and gave a dramatic shudder. “Mother-in-law coming in on the train tonight. Wish me luck.”

  “Do you one better. I’ll offer my guest room when you need a place to hide.”

  I went around the desk and gave her another hug. Her perfume, smelling like spring rain and sweet magnolias, reminded me of my late mother. “I might take you up on your offer. What’re your plans for Christmas?”

  “Got about twenty people coming for a potluck supper. Not an in-law in the bunch, though there’re a few that might qualify as outlaws.” She winked at me. “Friends of Eli’s.”

  “I’m not even going to ask.” Eli was her housekeeper and, for some time now, as she liked to put it, her gentleman caller.

  “Best you don’t,” she agreed.

  After tracking Sam down in front of the Tastee-Freez, where a bevy of females was spoiling my foster puppy, I asked him to stay put while I ran across the street to Longs drugstore to buy a notebook and tape recorder. Soon I was on my way back toward the folk art museum, Boo exhausted and snoozing in his car seat.

  I stopped off at All Paws, told Suann my story of being Boo’s foster puppy mama for the next two weeks and asked them to watch him for me.

  “I’ll be back in a few hours,” I promised. Then it dawned on me. “Darn, I’ll have to take him with me to pick up Gabe’s mom.” All Paws closed at seven p.m.

  “He’s still a little guy,” Suann said. “You could carry him into the station. Usually no one will say anything. Or I can let you borrow this carrier.” She pointed to a leopard-print dog carrier that resembled a piece of luggage.

  “I think I’ll just carry him. Or I’ll wait in the car with him.”

  After temporarily relieving myself of my little charge, I went back to the museum, where the docent manning the gift shop gave me a large manila envelope left by a messenger. It was, of course, from Constance.

  “Dear Benni,” read the letter on top of the thick sheaf of papers. “Here are the backgrounds on the ladies who are applying for the open spot in the 49 Club. Please keep me informed on your progress. Also enclosed is your retainer fee. Sincerely, Constance Sinclair.” Attached to the letter was her personal check for five hundred dollars. Under the memo part of the check she’d written “consulting fee.”

  “Well, well,” I murmured as I walked back to my office. “My first money as a private detective. Maybe I should frame it.” I stuck the check in my wallet, not certain if I would cash it or not. It seemed deceitful of me to accept money for what was essentially a fake investigation. Then again, I could donate the money to the co-op’s Art for Kids program.

  Once inside my office, I sat down and looked through the other papers. She had three women listed, all with, it appeared to me, impeccable society credentials. I couldn’t imagine one of them killing to gain membership to some lame society club.

  First was Dorothea St. James. Nickname was Dot. I had seen her photos frequently on the society pages of the San Celina Tribune. She was sixty-eight years old and the widow of a local podiatrist. She had one daughter who owned a jewelry boutique in Cambria. She’d been involved with just about every San Celina society club in her twenty-eight years living in this county. The committees she chaired and charity events she hosted at her huge house in Cambria filled three pages. Her list was neatly typed with detailed explanations of each event. She’d been on the 49 Club waiting list for twenty years, passed over twice for women who hadn’t lived here as long as she. That, I thought, had to cause so
me resentment. What had kept her from being accepted by the 49 Club before?

  Second was Frances McDonald. Called Francie by her friends. She was applying to the 49 Club for the first time. She’d only lived in San Celina County for five years since her husband, a retired federal judge, decided he wanted to spend their golden years in the Golden State. They’d lived and raised their family in Philadelphia, where she listed two very impressive pages of charitable works to recommend herself. I’d also seen her photos in the Tribune, though, unlike Dot, who had attended a few events for the folk art museum, I’d never seen Francie in person. Under her references there were two state senators and a congresswoman. Under the question what would she have to bring to the 49 Club, she wrote: “I have a long list of connections throughout the United States and at three Ivy League colleges that I would happily put at the disposal of the club’s discretion for either personal or charitable use.”

  “In other words,” I mumbled out loud, “you’ll help anyone’s kid or grandkid get into Yale or Harvard when they don’t have the connections or grades to do it themselves. Dot, you might get shut out again.”

  “Did you say something?” asked Janet, one of our docents, standing in the open doorway of my office.

  “Just talking to myself,” I said, realizing it might be prudent to keep my sarcastic remarks to myself.

  “I hear you,” she said, smiling. “Sometimes, in my house, I’m the only one who’ll listen when I talk.” She had four sons, fourteen to nineteen, all still at home. “D-Daddy sent me to tell you the exhibit’s ready for your final inspection. The only thing missing is Mr. Finch’s painting. I can’t wait to see it.”

  “I’ve only seen photos of it myself. It came wrapped up, and I didn’t want to unwrap it until I got it here. Tell D-Daddy I’ll come check out the exhibit in a minute. I want to finish reading these papers.”

  “More grant proposals?” she asked, knowing from my past whining that writing proposals begging for money was a never-ending job for me.

  “Umm,” I said, noncommittally. After she left, I speed-read through the third candidate’s application, the only person I actually knew.