Tumbling Blocks

by Earlene Fowler

  At least the Santa Claus dilemma kept my mind off what was really worrying me: Gabe and Kathryn’s dinner tonight. Would she tell him at the restaurant or when they were walking along the Embarcadero? Personally, I thought a conversation like that was better off inside the privacy of our home, but no one was consulting me on the matter.

  The Brambles was one of the oldest restaurants in Cambria and deserved its long tenure as one of the town’s favorite eating establishments. I could remember coming here as a child for Dove’s birthday every year, the one time Daddy consented to dress up and “do the town,” which meant dinner at The Brambles, then back to San Celina for a movie at the Art Deco Fremont Theater. Dove and I wore dresses, and she made Daddy wear a tie and his best western-style sports coat. She always ordered the split pea soup, prime rib, garlic mashed potatoes and crème brûlée for dessert. As a child, I loved their tiny loaves of molasses bread served in a big basket, a loaf for every diner. Dividing my loaf into as many doll-size slices as my knife would allow kept me occupied during the wait for our food.

  Constance, Dot and Nola had already been seated when I arrived five minutes late. I knew I’d catch heck from Constance, but I’d gotten behind a slow RV and didn’t dare try to pass on the busy highway.

  “Finally,” Constance said when I walked up.

  “Sorry I’m late,” I said, sitting down in the one empty ladder-back chair. We were in the best spot in the room, next to the stone fireplace. The room’s dark burnished paneling glowed in the light from the silk-shaded wall lamps. From the shades dangled sparkling jewels that had fascinated me as a child.

  “No matter, we’ve just ordered drinks,” Dot said, waving away Constance’s admonition. “What’ll you have, Benni?” Her voice was as bright as a chirping bird. She wore a black and white diamond-patterned dress that I was willing to bet cost more than my first car.

  “Mineral water with lime,” I said.

  “Oh, live it up,” Dot said. “Try one of their marvelous dirty martinis.”

  “No, thanks, Dot. I have to drive back to San Celina after this, and one drink puts me in the over-the-limit class.”

  “I suppose,” she said, waving down our waiter and giving him my drink order. “With a husband who’s chief of police, I suppose you can’t be too careful. But you won’t tattle on me, will you?” She giggled and toasted me.

  “Is it hard?” Nola Maxwell Finch asked, sipping at what appeared to be a cosmopolitan. “Being the wife of the chief of police, I mean.”

  “Sometimes,” I said. “We’ve been married over four years. I’m almost used to it.”

  “He’s quite handsome,” Nola said, setting her drink down carefully.

  “Gorgeous, actually,” Dot piped up. “He could slip his shoes under my four-poster bed any old time he likes.”

  “Dot!” Constance’s face flushed with embarrassment.

  I tried not to burst out laughing at Dot’s unexpected remark. I couldn’t imagine it coming from a less likely person. I guessed this wasn’t the first martini she’d had today. She also wasn’t the first woman who’d been attracted to my husband and wasn’t shy about admitting it. My mineral water arrived just in time.

  “I’m parched,” I said, busying myself squeezing my lime and stirring my drink.

  “I would love,” Dot said, catching our waiter’s eye and pointing at her drink, “to hear more about our chief of police’s nocturnal habits.”

  “So,” I said, picking up my menu. “Are there any specials?”

  Luckily, Dot was sloshed enough that it was easy to distract her. “The lamb is delicious. They have the most divine mint sauce, though I have to admit, the thought of eating baby lambs can often bring me to tears.” She gave a loud sniff and fumbled for the bread basket.

  I looked over at Nola, whose face was thoughtful. I imagine Dot wasn’t the first tipsy society lady she’d lunched with.

  “My gramma always gets the prime rib here,” I said. “I really like their roasted chicken pie.”

  “Chicken pie sounds wonderful,” Nola said, setting her menu down. “What about you, Constance?”

  “I’ll have the duck,” she said.

  “Me too,” Dot said, giving a soft hiccup.

  The sound startled me, and I had to keep myself from laughing. I thought drunks only hiccuped on television comedies.

  After our waiter brought Dot another drink, then took our orders, I asked Nola, “Do you like Cambria?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I absolutely fell in love with it the first time I drove through town. I have a little house over by Moonstone Beach.”

  “Beautiful little cottage,” Constance said. “Gorgeous view.”

  “It’s a little small, though,” Nola said. “I’m trying to find something a little bigger. Perhaps with a studio.”

  Constance straightened in her seat, looking like she wanted to crow. I could guess why. Maybe Abe Adam Finch was thinking about moving to Cambria. What a coup that would be for Constance. Maybe Nola telling me about her uncle’s fragile health was a precursor to this development.

  Nola shook her head. “I’m afraid I’m driving my realtor a little crazy. I can’t seem to find a suitable house. Privacy is a real issue.”

  “Well, there’s one really nice house going on the market soon,” Dot said, finishing her martini. “If you don’t mind living someplace where someone died. Then again, I guess most of the houses in Cambria fit that description. We’re an aging bunch here.”

  It took me a few seconds to realize that Dot meant Pinky Edmondson’s house. I glanced over at Constance to see what she thought about Dot’s outrageous comment.

  “That’s a wonderful idea, Dot,” Constance said. “I think Pinky would be honored to have Nola live in her house.”

  “What type of house is it?” Nola asked, her expression curious.

  During the rest of our meal, Constance told Nola every detail about Pinky’s house. Dot, the martinis finally catching up with her, seemed to have lost steam and picked at her duck. While we waited for our crème brûlées to arrive, Constance and Nola excused themselves to use the restroom.

  “Nola seems nice,” I said.

  Dot shrugged, obviously not as enamored of Nola Finch as Constance. “She’s just another of Constance’s fancies. She’ll pal around with her for a while, then move on to someone new.”

  “Well,” I said noncommittally and took another small sip of water.

  I knew Dot and Constance were old friends and so had a tendency to freely gossip and snipe about the other one, but I also knew they had a sense of class loyalty that precluded me actually giving my opinion about Constance and her infatuation with Nola. I suspected Dot was right. But Constance’s relationship with Nola, whether real or fake, had benefited the museum, so I wasn’t about to complain.

  “I suppose,” Dot said, “it’s better that she focus on Nola Finch than continuing on with her ridiculous obsession with Pinky being murdered by me or one of the other aspiring 49ers.” She glanced into her martini glass, which had nothing left in it but a green olive. She picked the olive up and gave it a quick lick before popping it in her mouth.

  “You know about that?” I stammered. Had she known about it when I conducted that fake interview a few days ago?

  “Of course I do. How dim does Constance think I am? Someone should probably warn her that her housekeeper loves to dish about her to anyone who’ll listen, including my housekeeper.” She gave a wicked smile. “But it’s not going to be me, because I like knowing the inside scoop.”

  Then she frowned, her eyes bleary from the alcohol. “Honestly, I think she’s gone round the bend this time. There are plenty of reasons people would want Pinky dead, but getting into the 49 Club is not one of them.”

  “There are?” I said, hoping that Dot was drunk enough to elaborate.

  I was in luck.

  She gave a crooked half smile, then pulled at the collar of her expensive dress. “It is common knowledge that Pinky was, sha
ll we say, a bit crazy.” Her expression turned dark. “Actually, if she had been murdered, which I don’t think for a moment she was, I would be the perfect suspect.”

  I sat there, stunned, not moving a muscle.

  She looked down at her uneaten duck. “Did Constance tell you that Pinky and my husband had an affair?”

  I shook my head no, still not speaking.

  “Right under my nose when we first moved here twenty-eight years ago. I was pregnant with my daughter.” She touched a trembling hand to her perfect curls. “When I confronted her, you know what she did? She laughed. Told me not to worry, that she wouldn’t tie him up for very long, that he was a foot doctor, for heaven’s sakes, not someone she’d ever consider having a real relationship with. Of course I slapped her. That was for me, not him.”

  It took me two seconds to guess who blackballed Dot both times there was a membership opening.

  “I know she was the one who blackballed me,” she said, verifying my guess. “As much as I enjoyed it, that slap cost me plenty.” She pulled her napkin from her lap and threw it across her plate. “She broke up with my husband the next day. Everyone knew about it, and guess who was shunned? It took my husband and me years to get asked to any of the important parties. You just didn’t do something like that to Pinky Edmondson.”

  Why in the world, I wanted to ask, would you even want to be friends with any of these people?

  Dot looked liked she would start sobbing any minute. I remembered from her information that her daughter had a jewelry boutique here in Cambria. I wondered if Dot would allow me to call her. She looked like she could use some help getting home.

  “She could always get away with the craziest behavior and still be accepted,” Dot said in a hoarse voice. “That’s what I can’t figure out. How do people like her do it? If I’d done half the things she did, Constance Sinclair and the rest of them would not even give me the time of day.” Her thin-lashed brown eyes filled with tears. “I follow all the rules, all of them, and still I’m not really accepted. How fair is that?”

  I shook my head, not knowing what to say. Fair? What was fair about life at all?

  She abruptly stood up, just the slightest bit shaky on her feet, and picked up her black leather clutch. “There’s my daughter.” She waved over a young woman dressed in a long, gauzy dress standing in the lobby. “This was lovely, but I have an appointment. Tell the restaurant to put my lunch on my tab.”

  I watched her walk toward her daughter in that careful way that someone who has drunk too much does, like a tightrope walker without a balance stick. Her daughter’s face looked resigned when she took her mother’s arm, as if this was not the first time she’d done this.

  I was staring at the cracked surface of my crème brûlée when Constance and Nola returned.

  “Where’s Dot?” Constance asked.

  “She went home,” I said, looking up at my employer’s sharp, enquiring face. “She didn’t feel well.”

  Constance rolled her eyes.

  For the first time since I took this job, I seriously considered quitting. I didn’t need it now. I had a husband who had a good job and a life that didn’t need the folk art museum. Why was I still working for this insane woman who had never had any respect or feelings for me and, it appeared, anyone else?

  Constance, being Constance, didn’t even notice that I was upset. “Dot needs to see someone about that drinking problem,” she said, sitting down. “I certainly hope she doesn’t expect us to pick up her check. She had four martinis or my name isn’t Constance Sinclair.”

  “She said to tell the waiter to put it on her tab.” I stuck my spoon into my crème brûlée, breaking the crusty top with a snap. Normally, I loved this dessert, but I no longer had an appetite.

  Nola, obviously more sensitive than Constance, said, “Benni, are you all right?”

  I looked up. Her clear blue eyes, the lashes tinged a soft black from mascara, looked genuinely concerned.

  “I’m fine,” I said, putting down my spoon. “I just . . . I have some errands to run. It was wonderful seeing you again, Nola. I hope you’ll enjoy what I have to say about your uncle on Wednesday.”

  “I’m sure I will,” she said, her voice warm.

  “Where are you going?” Constance demanded.

  I folded my cloth napkin carefully and placed it next to my plate. “Like I said, I have errands to run. And a dinner date at six p.m.”

  “You can run your errands after work hours,” Constance said. “Because I just came up with a marvelous idea when Nola and I were in the ladies’ room. I think Pinky’s house is just what Nola is looking for. You can take her over there and see if the house interests her.”

  “I don’t know, Constance,” I said, wondering if somehow we weren’t breaking some kind of probate law by going inside the house.

  “It will be fine,” Constance said. “Who will know? And if Nola likes it, she can be the first to make an offer. Pinky would approve.” Constance sat back in her chair, a smug and satisfied look on her face.

  “I don’t know,” Nola said, appearing uncomfortable with this turn of events. “If it’s not even on the market yet . . .”

  “It will be soon,” Constance said. “I know you only met Pinky a few times, but she found you delightful. She was one of my very best friends, and her cousins back East couldn’t care less about her or her things. They’ll want to unload everything as quickly as they can.”

  Constance’s eyes started blinking rapidly, and she opened her purse, fumbling for a tissue. Was she going to start crying again? Despite how much she drove me crazy, I realized at that moment that she really did miss Pinky. Though after hearing what Dot had to say about Pinky, I wondered just what kind of a person she was, but it was apparent that Constance really cared about her. Constance had no close family, much like Pinky. It made me feel a little ashamed when I thought about how many people I had who cared about me. Maybe Pinky, with all her faults, was the only person Constance truly felt cared about her. The sister or even the daughter she never had.

  Nola looked over at me, her expression a little uneasy. “If you’re in a hurry . . . I wouldn’t want to impose.”

  “You’re not imposing,” Constance answered for me, sitting up straight, her face a mask again. “Benni’s going there anyway.”

  “May I ask why?” Nola said.

  Constance’s eyes darted from Nola’s face to mine. “I have some things that I left at Pinky’s before she died. Benni is picking them up for me.” She flashed me a triumphant, aren’t-I-clever look.

  I wanted to smack her. What a big fat lie! I was certain some kind of law would be broken if I removed anything from the house. But if I gave it to Constance and she put it back or gave it to May, wouldn’t that cancel out any law I broke? Right now I wanted to strangle Constance, but I also wouldn’t mind the feel of my own husband’s neck in my hands. He was the one who got me into this crazy situation.

  I looked down at my watch. “If we’re going out to Pinky’s house, we’ll need to leave. It’s two o’clock already, and I have—”

  “Yes, yes, we heard,” Constance said. “Dinner plans. Just don’t rush Nola. Pinky’s house is gorgeous. She spent a lot of time and money making it a showplace. And it’s about as private as a house can be. In all the years she owned it, she only allowed it to be used for a charity event once. And believe me, everyone made a point to come to that benefit.”

  “I can’t wait to see it,” Nola murmured.

  After we paid for our lunches, we walked out to the parking lot.

  “You can follow me,” I told Nola. “I’m easy to spot.” I pointed at my purple Ford Ranger pickup.

  She gave a delighted laugh. “I bet you never have trouble finding your car in any parking lot.”

  “That’s the whole idea.” Then I turned to Constance. “Let me walk you to your car.”

  “Don’t bother,” she said, waving me away.

  I grabbed her upper arm in a firm gri
p. “No, Constance, I insist. Let me help you.”

  She tried to shake off my grip, but I wasn’t letting go. “Benni, what is going on . . .”

  Once we got out of Nola’s earshot, I snapped. “Constance, what in the world were you thinking in there! I’m going in the house to get some things of yours? Nola Finch will be watching to see what I pick up now!”

  “So?” she said, pulling her arm away from me. “Just pick up a few things and say they are mine. Heaven knows I bought Pinky enough gifts. Probably half the silver and crystal she has I’ve given her.”

  “Constance, some people would call that stealing! Including my own husband. You remember him. The police chief!”

  “Calm down. Anything you pick up you just give to me, and I’ll give it back to May. Simple as that. Do I always have to figure out everything?”

  I walked away from her, too furious to reply. I didn’t understand why she was so insistent on Nola Finch seeing Pinky’s house right now.

  Just get it over with, I said to myself as I started toward my truck. The sooner you show Nola the house, the sooner you can wipe your hands of this whole ridiculous situation. After the opening on Wednesday, I would call Constance and tell her to stop this silly pseudo-investigation. I’d tell her that all her society friends, including the three women up for Pinky’s position in the 49 Club, know about her suspicions, even though I didn’t know if Francie suspected anything. I would tell her that she was a laughingstock. It would anger her beyond belief. It might even cost me my job, but at this point, I didn’t care. Frankly, the museum might be better off with fresh blood, maybe with someone who didn’t let Constance get away with murder.

  Great choice of words, I thought. I pulled off onto the highway that Elvia and I drove only yesterday. Nola stayed close behind me in her gray Volvo. Her face seemed stressed and intent, hunched slightly forward over the steering wheel in that way a person often does when they are not sure where they are going.