Roberta “Bobbie” Everette was one of the biggest landowners in San Celina County. Her family went back as far as Constance Sinclair’s, to the time when California was still a part of Mexico. The Everette family owned a ranch that abutted the northeast section of my dad’s ranch. They’d always been good neighbors, and we’d never had a negative fencing issue with them. Their family ran primarily Black Angus and even owned a restaurant on Interstate 5 in the Central Valley that was a popular stopping place for thousands of tourists traveling up that long road through the center of California. I knew Bobbie from the Cattlewomen’s Association, where she’d been voted president an unprecedented four times.
Everyone loved Bobbie. She was one of those women, I’d venture to say, who could be president of the United States if she set her mind to it. Both men and women liked her, and she managed to fit in wherever she was. Not only was she intelligent and practical, she also knew how to have a good time, had never met a stranger and was interested and knowledgeable on a wide variety of subjects. She was a longtime, though not particularly active, member of the historical society, a frequent and generous contributor to the folk art museum simply out of her love for the art form. No strings were ever attached to her donations, and she was the major contributor as well as instigator of the new San Celina Humane Society building. She owned six dogs herself, all rescues. She donated time and money to more charities than any of the other candidates and belonged to every club of note in San Celina. Which made me wonder why in the world she’d apply for membership to the 49 Club. She was sixty-seven years old, had money, influence, popularity and not enough time for one more club. Why did she care about adding the 49 Club? I had to admit, that made me a little curious. Though I could imagine Bobbie shooting a poacher or cattle rustler, or even strangling with her bare hands someone she caught mistreating an animal, I couldn’t imagine her killing one of her peers just to add one more stuffy club to her résumé.
I sat back in my chair, contemplating the three women, a bit chagrined at myself. I was going over their backgrounds as if they actually were suspects. I needed to get my mind off that and on to how I’d chat with them long enough to fool Constance but not make the women suspicious.
Talking to Bobbie would be easy enough because we ran in some of the same circles. The others would call for a cover just like Amanda suggested. An article for a fictional history magazine would be good, though I wouldn’t put it past any of these women to check out whether my magazine existed. It would have to be a real magazine. Emory could help me with that. He’d worked for the Tribune when he first moved to California, so I was certain he’d acquired connections with the various county magazines. There was San Celina Today and a new tourist-oriented magazine, Central Coast News. Maybe I could use one of them as a cover. Or, even better, maybe I could actually get an assignment to write about the 49 Club. It was county history, and both of those magazines had articles every month about some small segment of San Celina history.
I wrote “ask Emory about magazine contact” on my list. I’d probably see him either tomorrow at the Christmas parade or Sunday at the traditional Santa Maria-style barbecue that Dove had planned to welcome Kathryn to San Celina. That reminded me to call Dove and ask her if there was anything I could bring to the barbecue.
She wasn’t at home, so I tried her cell phone. She hadn’t had it long but had already declared that she didn’t know how she’d gotten along without the darn thing.
“Hello!” she yelled, causing me to hold the phone away from my ear. “Let me step outside!” I heard rustling and voices, telling me she was moving toward a quieter place. She still believed that cell phones were not much above the tin-can-and-kite-string method of communication, but she was always polite enough to not make anyone except the person calling her suffer with her loud conversations.
“Okay,” she yelled. “I’m out in the historical society’s garden now. Can you hear me now?”
“I can hear you fine. Don’t strain your voice.”
“I’m talking perfectly normal,” she yelled.
“Okay,” I answered, giving up. “Do you need me to bring anything for the barbecue Sunday?”
“Got it covered. You pick up Kathryn yet?”
“Not until six o’clock. We’re having soup at home,” I told her before she could ask. “Also baking powder biscuits and a green salad. And your peach cobbler.”
“Perfect. I can’t wait to see Kathryn again. What did you get her for Christmas?”
“Still looking. Elvia promised to help me.” I was stymied about what to give my mother-in-law. The last few years we’d sent her various packages from Harry and David’s, Wolferman’s Bagels, See’s Candy and magazine subscriptions to Real Simple and National Geographic. All suggestions from Gabe’s sisters, Becky and Angel, because, unlike their brother, I called them once a month. This year, since she’d be here, I wanted to buy her something really thoughtful. I’d been shopping three times and come home with nothing. Gabe was no help, no surprise there.
“How about a gift certificate?” he’d suggested.
“We can’t give her a gift certificate.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s not personal enough.”
“So, ask my sisters.”
“I want to do it myself this time.”
He shrugged. “Well, spare no expense. Buy her something nice.”
But no amount of money was helping me come up with something that I thought would impress her. One more thing to try to fit into the dwindling days before Christmas.
“I made her a lap quilt,” Dove said. “Rocky Road to Kansas pattern.”
“Sounds great,” I said, wishing I’d thought of it. Then again, I already had four unfinished quilts in the closet. Dove was much better than me at finishing the quilts she started. How did she get so much accomplished in a day? It remained a mystery to me.
“You’ll think of something,” she said. “Guess you’ll be out early tomorrow to help your daddy tack up the horses for the parade.” The parade this year was at ten a.m., something Gabe pushed through the city council because it cut down on the students’ drinking and made it more of a family affair.
“Tell him I’ll be there by six a.m.” Normally, I’d go out to the ranch tonight and spend the night, but it seemed rude to do that on Kathryn’s first night here. Then again, she probably would have loved having her son to herself. At least my early morning date with my dad would give me a valid excuse for going to bed early. I’d only have to be convivial for a few hours.
“Oh, no,” I said, glancing at the clock, which now showed almost five p.m. I suddenly remembered that my life was not entirely my own right now. What would I do with Boo tomorrow morning? I couldn’t leave him for Gabe to care for, since he’d probably want to show his mother around town. All Paws wasn’t open on the weekends. I’d have to think of something.
“What?” Dove yelled.
“Nothing,” I said. “I’ll tell you tomorrow.” I knew she’d be up early too, being a true ranchwoman and not a layabout, as she liked to call me these days. I’d beg her to watch Boo while I helped Daddy, then I’d figure out something for during the parade.
I headed for the museum’s main gallery. We had two galleries, with a third one being considered in part of the stables that the co-op currently used to store supplies. We were looking into either buying a shed for supplies or having D-Daddy build one. The main gallery, the largest room, always held our current exhibit as well as a section for our few permanent pieces. The upstairs gallery, half the size of the main, was used for smaller exhibits. Right now we were showing an exhibit of antique toys on loan from a sister museum in Ohio. That exhibit would be here for one more month. Then I was considering having D-Daddy do some renovation upstairs before we used the space again.
This California Outsider Art exhibit was a first for us. When we put out a call for outsider artists who lived or worked in California or used the state as a subject in the
ir art to send in photos of their work for possible inclusion in our show, the response had been overwhelming. Outsider art had always been popular and prolific in the Southern and Southwestern states, but it was, I thought, not as common on the left coast. In reality, there was a large semisecret cache of California artists whose work could be considered outsider. I had so many submissions, we were forced to form a committee to help decide who qualified and then decide who to include in the exhibit.
We finally settled on twenty-five artists, the most our main gallery could accommodate. We sent a letter to the others telling them if this show was successful, we might do another outsider exhibit in the spring. We tried to include an array of art forms that represented the many manifestations that outsider art could encompass: painting, sculpture, fabric arts, kinetic art, woodworking and my favorite, art made from only found objects, the ultimate in recycling. Those pieces told a particularly unique story about twentieth-century life in California.
The centerpiece of the exhibit would be Abe Adam Finch’s painting, even though, technically, he wasn’t a California artist. It was said he lived in Nevada, though no one knew for sure. When his niece, Nola Maxwell Finch, said he wanted to donate a painting to our museum now that she lived here in San Celina County, it only took our committee ten seconds to decide he was sort of an honorary Californian. At least that’s what I explained to the co-op artists who complained to me about Mr. Finch’s inclusion in the exhibit. It was a weak argument, I was the first to admit, but I said that I felt we didn’t have a choice if we wanted this exhibit to garner media interest outside of our own county, something that Abe Adam Finch’s celebrity could accomplish. Newspaper articles in Los Angeles and San Francisco newspapers brought tourists, which brought potential buyers of their art. After I pointed that out, there wasn’t too much of a protest. We all understood the economic need for celebrity endorsement.
Though there were rumors that the reclusive artist might show up to the opening, they were just that, rumors. To be honest, no one except his niece would know if he showed up, since there wasn’t a clear picture of him to be found. One of the few interviews I’d found of him, apparently one done through the mail, stated that he preferred to let his work speak for itself.
“Pretentious snob,” I’d overheard one of the co-op artists say to a colleague at the downtown gift shop recently. Both women were putting in their requisite volunteer hours manning the cash register. I’d been taking inventory of the quilted items so I could let the quilters know if we needed more table runners or coasters.
“Now, Lilah,” the other artist said, mildly protesting. “Maybe he’s agoraphobic.”
Lilah, a painter who favored bold, abstract birds in her paintings, snorted. Her work hadn’t been accepted for the exhibit. “I daresay he keeps himself scarce just to triple the price of his paintings.”
The other artist laughed and shook her head.
A part of me sympathized with Lilah. It was true that often the odd personality or unique background of an artist gave that person’s art an aura of significance that it sometimes didn’t deserve. As with all the arts, sometimes it wasn’t the most talented artist who succeeded, but it was just a matter of being in the right place at the right time and having someone with influence single out your work. Even worse, sometimes it was just a matter of being born in the right family.
According to his official biography, Abe Adam Finch’s work had been discovered ten years ago by a famous San Francisco collector, Lionel Bachman, on a trip with friends to Las Vegas. The story went that he’d seen one of Abe’s paintings for sale in the back of a funky souvenir shop downtown. It was of a walnut tree with tiny faces painted into the hundreds of walnuts hanging on the branches. The name of the painting was Family Nut Tree. He bought it for twenty-five dollars, took it back to San Francisco and hung it in his living room. Six months later, a spread in Architectural Digest showing the collector’s living room made Abe Adam Finch the outsider artist to collect. Mr. Bachman died last year, and that same painting was auctioned off for twenty-eight thousand dollars.
I walked through the exhibit amazed at the complexity of many of the pieces, the attention to detail that is often very apparent in outsider art as well as the messages that many were unafraid to present. Unlike a lot of highly educated, marketing-savvy fine artists, the majority of outsider artists never expected to make a living with their art, often didn’t even think about selling it unless they needed the money for food or rent. Many, I’d read and been told by the collectors I’d met, were so happy someone liked what they did that they often tried to give it away. Having an exhibit like this was the epitome of what I’d hoped this museum would be: a combination of art and history, a place where artists and those who appreciated their art could meet on equal ground, where it didn’t matter where they went to school or who their parents were. There was only the fact that something compelled them to make art, to communicate with paint and clay and fabric and words to represent what was wonderful and terrible about this one particular speck of time we lived in.
These thoughts were part of a talk I was scheduled to give on this very topic of outsider art and how it was similar to oral history. My talk would take place at the opening of the exhibit this Wednesday night. Nola Maxwell Finch, Mr. Finch’s great-niece, would be there to officially present his painting to the museum. I’d not met her yet and, to say the least, I was nervous. There wasn’t a lot of information available on her uncle, and I didn’t want to say anything about him that wasn’t absolutely true.
But I had miles to go before making that speech, and right now I needed to go pick up my pudgy little charge and figure out what I should do with him so that I could make it to the train station in time.
I drove to All Paws and found the place a bit more quiet than when I dropped Boo off a few hours ago. Only Henry, a beagle not much bigger than Boo, and a perky little Chihuahua named Peanut, were left.
“How’d he do?” I asked Suann, who was sitting in the front office. You could see the rooms where the dogs played through a clever porthole window behind the front desk.
“Oh, he’s a little knucklehead, but he fit in fine,” she said, laughing.
“What did he do?” I asked, feeling a twinge of anxiety, as if he were a child who didn’t fit in at preschool.
“He already loves the sound of his own voice,” she said ruefully. “He and Henry really enjoy their little barking contests.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, something I don’t think I’ve ever had to say about anything involving Scout. Then again, he was grown and trained by the time he came into my life.
She waved her hand. “It’s part of the job.”
I glanced up at the boat-shaped clock behind her head. I had an hour before the train arrived, time enough to go home, introduce Boo to Scout and see if either of my neighbors, Beebs and Millee, were home. I knew they’d watch Boo for the time it took for me to go to the train station.
Luck was on my side in both cases. Scout, as I expected, accepted Boo with a noblesse oblige that any royal prince should envy and emulate. After a few sniffs, Scout allowed Boo to dance around his sturdy legs, nipping at them. He seemed to even give a doggie smile at Boo’s high little puppy barks.
Only Beebs was home when I called, but she happily agreed to puppy sit. I was feeding Boo on the front porch when she arrived bearing a macaroni and artichoke salad for us to enjoy with our soup.
“Thanks, Beebs,” I said, hugging her. “If nothing else will impress my mother-in-law, your macaroni salad will.”
“She’d be nuts not to adore you like we do,” Beebs said, her silvery hair catching the glow of the fading sun. The sky, ragged with clouds, was painted turquoise and gold, carmine and tangerine, one of those breathtaking California winter sunsets that caused people to sell their homes in Kansas and Michigan and move to our already overcrowded Golden State. I hoped Kathryn was taking a nap right at this moment.
“I did pretty much ruin any c
hance of her baby boy ever going home to Kansas to live,” I said, walking back into the house. “Not that he would have anyway. I think I just didn’t make a great impression when we first met.”
“You’re on your home turf now,” Beebs said, picking up Boo and gently scratching him underneath his chin. He yawned, showing sharp little puppy teeth. “She’ll see you in a whole different light.”
“I hope so,” I said, putting a bouquet of mixed flowers in a Mason jar and setting it in the middle of the table. “Darn, I really need to get some good vases.”
“I have plenty I could loan you,” she said.
“No time. As always, I think of stuff like that at the last minute. Maybe she’ll see it as retro chic or something.”
Beebs gave her high, distinctive laugh. “Don’t worry, dear. It’s only two weeks. She’ll be gone before you know it. A body can suffer through anything for two weeks.”
“You’re the second person who’s told me that.”
“Must be true then. I have a pie in the oven, so if you don’t mind, I’ll take little Boo home with me. I’ll bring him back in a few hours. Once Millee sees this handsome little guy, she’s going to want to play with him.”
“Be my guest. Bring him back whenever you want.”
As she started out the door, Scout got up from his customary place in the hallway and followed her.
“Oh, my,” Beebs said. “Looks like I’ll be watching two dogs.”
I laughed. “Scout’s no dummy. He knows who’s got the good dog treats.”
“C’mon, big brother,” Beebs said. “Let’s go find your aunt Millee.”
I made it to the train station five minutes before Kathryn was due to arrive.
“Where have you been?” Gabe asked. He paced across the shiny floor of the mission-style Amtrak train station located a mile from our house.
“Had to find a sitter for Boo. Doggie day care closes at seven p.m. Beebs is watching him until we get home.”
He slipped an arm around my shoulders. I could tell he was nervous by the slight vibration in the air surrounding him.
Tumbling Blocks Page 6
