“Like what?” I said.
She narrowed her eyes. “You know I don’t gossip, Benni.”
“Of course not,” I said, not looking at Ray for fear I’d laugh out loud. “But I do want to know what you know about Pinky’s affair with Dot St. James’s husband.”
She looked at me over her glasses again. “Wasn’t very long, and Dot knew about it from the first time they do-si-doed.”
“I knew she knew. But she didn’t say when she found out.” I glanced over at Ray, who was calmly chewing his grilled cheese sandwich. He’d certainly have a lot to tell his cronies about San Celina when he went back to Kansas.
“Yes, and despite her moaning and groaning, she really didn’t care.”
I cocked my head. “Oh, c’mon. She didn’t care that her husband was having an affair with one of her friends? I know everyone’s trying to be all modern and stuff, but people still care about adultery. I watch Dateline NBC.”
She gave a triumphant smile. “Not if a person is busy do-si-doing themselves.”
“Dot St. James was having her own affair? She didn’t tell me that!”
“You’re surprised? Those 49 Club women are like a bunch of rabbits from what I hear. Lucky for us they are all too old to procreate.”
“Who was she seeing?” I picked up a French fry and took a small bite.
Nadine’s white eyebrows scrunched together in frustration. “I don’t know.”
“What?” I said. “The great Nadine Brooks Johnson does not know a significant piece of San Celina society gossip? Call the newspaper.”
She bonked me over the head with her order pad, causing Ray to chuckle. “You watch your mouth, missy. I told you, I do not gossip.”
“Okay, important social commentary,” I said, not wanting to annoy the woman who brought me a significant portion of my meals. “So, who do you think it might be?”
She bent closer and said sotto voce, “No one knows. But whoever it was, it was happening at the exact same time as Pinky was seeing Mr. St. James.”
After she left, I mulled over this new piece of information as I ate my hamburger and fries.
“What do you think?” Ray asked after his second cup of coffee.
“I don’t really know what to think,” I said. “You know, somehow I have the feeling all of this is connected, but I don’t know how.”
“Do you really think this woman, Pinky, was murdered?”
I pondered his question while stirring the last of my strawberry malt. “I don’t know, but there is something fishy going on, and I’m nosy enough to want to know what it is.”
He leaned back in the booth. “I wish I could offer you some wise insight, but it all looks as clear as pea soup to me.”
“On that we agree, Ray.” I drank the last swallow of strawberry malt and looked up at the Elvis clock hanging above the kitchen pass-through. “Want to head back home? Maybe Gabe and Kathryn are back, and everything is hunky-dory.”
He raised his gray, bristly eyebrows. “One can hope.”
Gabe’s car was in the driveway when we got back home, and the porch light was on. I said a quick prayer that everything had been settled between him and his mother. When Ray and I walked into the empty living room, I didn’t get a good feeling.
“It’s too quiet,” I whispered to Ray.
“Yes,” he agreed. “I’ll go check on Kathryn.”
“I’ll lock up and go upstairs. Maybe they’re just having an early night.”
When I opened our bedroom door, both dogs jumped up to greet me. Gabe was lying in bed reading. Though I tried to immediately get a vibe from him, all I felt was . . . nothing.
“Do the dogs need to go out?” I asked.
He looked up at me over his wire-rimmed glasses. “Yes.”
That one word said it all. The evening did not go well.
I took the dogs downstairs, let them out in the backyard and contemplated how I would handle this. Like many times when I was faced with an emotional dilemma that confused me, I tried to channel my gramma Dove and consider what she’d likely advise. It was past nine p.m., and though I could call her and get real live advice, I was trying to learn to figure things out on my own. I would be thirty-nine years old in March, it was time for me to stop running to my gramma every time I had a problem.
While the dogs sniffed around and had their last constitutional, I thought about what I would say to Gabe when I went back upstairs. When the dogs had their bedtime treat and we went back upstairs, I heard Dove’s voice in my head: “Sometimes, honeybun, the best thing you can do for a man is absolutely nothing. Just let him be.”
So that’s what I did. I took my shower, settled Boo in his crate and climbed in bed. Gabe was still reading, so I turned on my bedside lamp and picked up the book I’d been reading on outsider art.
“Ray and I went to Liddie’s,” I said, settling down under the covers.
He nodded but didn’t smile. I resisted the urge to ask how his night had gone. I scooted across our wide bed and laid my head on his shoulder.
“What’s on the agenda for tomorrow?” His answer would tell me in a roundabout way what happened.
He set his papers down on the floor next to him. “I’m going to work. I couldn’t tell you what my mother is doing. She might go home.”
I bit my bottom lip, holding back my cry of surprise. It was worse than I thought. I decided to override Dove’s advice—or rather the advice I thought she’d give—and just spit out what I was thinking. Who was I kidding? I’d never be as wise as Dove. “What happened?”
He stared straight ahead. “She has multiple sclerosis. She’s known about it for six months.”
When I didn’t exclaim in surprise, his head jerked over to look at me. The truth was written all over my face.
“You knew?” Anger darkened his high cheekbones.
My words tumbled over themselves like water over river rocks. “Not for very long. Ray told me last night when I commented that she didn’t seem herself. He asked me not to tell you. He felt so bad, but your mom wanted to tell you herself. It was—”
He held up his hand for me to stop. “I suppose you all had a great time discussing this behind my back.”
I sat up, shocked at his remark. “Gabe, that’s a horrible thing to say. No one was talking behind your back. I found out accidentally.”
“No, my mother’s husband told you.”
He had me there. I knew it looked bad. I knew that he was hurt deeply, just as I would have been in his position. But I didn’t know what to say, how or why I should defend my position or Ray’s or his mother’s.
“My sisters knew.” His voice was bitter. “She told them before she came out here.”
And Kathryn told them not to tell him. I understood why his mother wanted to be the one to tell her son, but this whole situation had gotten completely out of control simply because she just didn’t pick up a phone the day before she flew out here. Oh, Kathryn, I thought. What was it you were trying to accomplish with this trip? To see how many ways you could hurt your son?
I waited to see what he would do. There was nothing I could say to defend what I’d done. Maybe I had been wrong not to tell him the minute Ray told me. But I knew my husband. If I’d told him, he’d have gone straight to his mother and demanded to know why she hadn’t come to him. So, we’d have been in the same spot as we were now. Well, I thought, not exactly the same spot. He wouldn’t be angry at me. Still, a small part of me was glad I wasn’t the one who told him about his mother’s illness. I guess in this situation there was no winning position.
“I’m sorry, Gabe,” I said. “I was in a no-win position. I wanted to honor your mother’s request—”
“Why?” he said, his voice harsh. “She’s never been anything except hostile to you. Why would you care what she thinks of you?”
“I . . . I don’t know,” I stammered. “Because she’s your mother.”
“I’m your husband. You should care more what I think of
you.”
“I know that.” I blinked my eyes, trying to hold back the tears. “I know I blew this. I should have told you, but I just . . . it was just . . .”
“Forget it.” He threw back the covers and grabbed a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. “I’m going out for a while.”
I started to ask where, then bit back the words.
He pulled on his topsiders and grabbed his keys.
“Be careful,” I called after him.
He didn’t answer. I could hear his footsteps go down the stairs.
“I love you,” I whispered to the empty doorway.
THE NEXT THING I REMEMBER WAS THE ALARM GOING OFF at two a.m. I stumbled out of bed and pulled on my sweatpants. I glanced over at Gabe’s side. At some point he’d come home, though I’d obviously slept through his return. He’d been able to do that to me before, despite me being a pretty light sleeper. He’d learned a stealthiness as a soldier in Vietnam that had never completely left him. It was kind of creepy sometimes, I’d told him. He’d just laugh and say, “One of the many fascinating yet charming aspects of my complex personality.”
Boo murmured a doggie protest about being woken up. I stuck my nose in the warm, downy ruff of his neck and made comforting sounds as I carried him downstairs, thinking about my sleeping husband.
Though he joked about it, he was, indeed, one of the most complex people I’d ever known. I couldn’t even imagine what it must have been like for his mother raising him. Was she a little afraid of him? I had to admit, sometimes I was. Not physically, of course. Gabe would cut off his own arm before he’d harm a woman, a child or anyone weaker than him. It was his unpredictability that was disconcerting. But it was also part of what made him so interesting. Predictable people were wonderful, but so were the less predictable ones. I mean, in some ways my own gramma was about the most unpredictable person I knew besides Gabe, and I wouldn’t want one thing changed about her. Daddy was as predictable as a sunset, and I wouldn’t want him any different, either.
Where was I in all that? Predictably unpredictable is what Gabe called me one time. I suppose it all came down to accepting ourselves for who we were. You needed predictability in dentists and train engineers and unpredictability in artists and inventors. The rest of us fell somewhere in between.
CHAPTER 12
GABE WAS UP AND GONE BEFORE I WOKE UP AT SEVEN a.m. A note waited for me on the kitchen counter next to the coffeepot.
“I’ll try to make the exhibit opening tonight. It will depend on my workday. Love, Gabe.”
I stared at the note a moment, trying to discern his mood from the few dashed-off words. Of course, I couldn’t. I didn’t have a clue what was really going on inside him.
I checked my calendar and for the first time in weeks, my day was relatively free. Maybe I’d have time to take a nap this afternoon, so I’d be rested for the opening tonight. The phone rang when I was standing in front of the refrigerator trying to decide what to make for Kathryn and Ray’s breakfast. It was Constance.
“There’s an emergency,” she said, her voice harsh and panicked.
My thoughts flew immediately to the Finch painting. Had someone broken into the folk art museum and taken it? Had something happened to the museum itself? Was anyone hurt?
Her voice broke through my racing thoughts. “Our speaker for the 49 Club Christmas luncheon canceled on us. You’ll have to take her place.”
“What?” My panic turned to annoyance in a millisecond.
“Which part don’t you understand?” she asked, her voice impatient. “The luncheon is at noon at the Forum downtown. You’ll be speaking at one thirty. Wear nice clothes.”
“I thought Nola Finch was speaking today.”
“Fifteen minutes is all we need from you. Nola Finch was only half the program. The other half was . . . well, never mind, doesn’t matter, she canceled. Don’t be late.” Then she hung up.
I stared at the phone, whose buzzing dial tone was eerily reminiscent of Constance’s voice. This was all I needed. What would I speak about? The only thing I could think of was tweaking the speech I was going to give tonight. I knew Constance would complain after the fact that I used the same speech twice, but what could I do? I had less than five hours before I had to give a talk to forty-eight snooty society women plus three wannabes. So much for my nap.
Twenty minutes later, Ray and Kathryn came into the kitchen just as I was pulling a pan of muffins out of the oven.
“Good morning,” I said, my voice unnaturally cheery. “Banana muffins coming right up.”
“Sounds wonderful,” Kathryn said, her cheeks looking a little drawn. I hurt for her; I hurt for my husband. What if they couldn’t resolve this before she left?
“What are your plans today?” I poured Ray a cup of coffee and started the electric teakettle for Kathryn’s morning tea.
“Your neighbors, Beebs and Millee, kindly offered to give us the grand tour of San Celina County,” Kathryn said, sitting down at the table.
“Apparently we have quite a full agenda with wineries, old cemeteries, and a tour of the San Miguel mission,” Ray elaborated. “If I heard Beebs correctly, we’re eating lunch in a cave?”
I set the platter of hot muffins on the table. “That’s one of the wineries in north county. Gabe and I attended a fund-raiser there. It is literally a cave.” I gave Kathryn a worried look. “You’ll take time to rest, won’t you?” Then I realized it might not be my place to make that comment. Fortunately, Kathryn took it with grace.
“Don’t worry, Benni,” she said, her voice warm. “Ray watches me like a hawk. We’ll take it easy. I don’t want to be sick on Christmas Day.”
I gave an inward sigh of relief. Gabe was wrong. She was planning to stay through Christmas. That meant there was still a chance that they would patch things up. “I have a full day myself. I’m a last-minute speaker at the 49 Club Christmas luncheon today, and then there’s the outsider artist exhibit opening tonight at seven o’clock. I’d love for you to come if you’re not too tired.”
“We’ll see,” Ray said.
“We’ll be there,” Kathryn said. “We wouldn’t miss it for the world. Gabe’s told me how hard you’ve worked on this. Isn’t it quite an honor to have such a valuable painting donated to your museum’s collection?”
I nodded, setting out plates, napkins and silverware for three. “Yes, there’s a newspaper reporter coming from Los Angeles. The outsider art movement is just exploding, and our little museum is starting to carve a small place on the map for itself.” I opened the refrigerator and took out a pitcher of grapefruit juice.
“Because of your hard work and expertise, no doubt,” Kathryn said, smiling.
Her praise, so unexpected, caused me to blush with pleasure. “A lot of people’s hard work and help. Even as annoying as our patroness, Constance Sinclair, can be, she’s worked tirelessly to promote the museum.” I set the pitcher on the table.
“Will Scout be all right being alone all day?” Kathryn asked.
“Ordinarily, but I think I’ll drop him off at All Paws with Boo,” I said. “It will be his first time in day care, but I think he’ll like it.”
By nine o’clock I had the kitchen cleaned, was dressed in brown tweedy slacks, a pale green shirt and golden brown cowboy boots. I dropped the dogs off at All Paws and was reminded by Suann that Boo still needed his picture taken with Santa.
“Yes, yes,” I said. “I know. Did Hud call you?”
She nodded. “I don’t mean to bug you about it, but he mentioned it when he was calling to see how Boo was doing.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll call and reassure him.”
Out in my truck, I dialed the number he’d given me and got the housekeeper.
“Mr. Hudson and his family are off on a ride,” she said. “May I take a message?”
“Yes, tell him Mrs. Ortiz called and said not to worry. Boudin and Santa, it’s going to happen.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the woman said, her voic
e not missing a beat. She’d probably taken more than her share of weird messages for Hud. I then dialed the ranch and got the answering machine. I sure wished Sam had convinced Gabe to buy him a cell phone.
“Never mind,” I told Dove’s recorded voice. “I’m looking for Sam.”
I dialed the bookstore and hit pay dirt. Sam himself answered.
“What’s up, madrastra?”
“Want to earn forty bucks?”
“Sure. I still have to buy Dad and Grandma a Christmas present. Who do I have to kill?”
“No death involved. I need someone to take Boo to see Santa.”
His laugh almost rattled the cell phone in my hand. “You’re kidding? No problema. Easy money.”
“You’ll have to find a Santa and convince him to have his photo taken with a dog.” I had a feeling it wouldn’t be as easy as he thought.
“Just a minute.” He went away from the phone for a few minutes. I could hear people talking in the background. Elvia must be opening the store at nine a.m. instead of ten during the holiday season. “I’m back,” Sam said. “I have a lunch break at noon. Where can I find the little guy?”
“All Paws on Board Doggie Daycare. It’s in back of the folk art museum.”
“Okay, cool. I’ll do it during my lunch hour.”
“I’ll leave his car seat with Suann. Make sure to buckle him in. And thanks. You’re the bomb.”
“I know,” he replied.
I got out of the truck again and took Boo’s car seat inside All Paws, informing Suann that Sam would be by to pick up Boo for his photo op.
“Check that off my list,” I said to myself on my way back to the museum. I spent the next hour at my desk at the folk art museum editing my speech for the exhibit opening. With a few modifications, I could use the same one for the luncheon. True, some of the people hearing it would overlap both events, but many more wouldn’t. I called the catering company and made sure they had the time and menu right for the opening.
“White and rosé wines,” I read off my list. “Sparkling water and ginger ale, cheese platters, crackers, tiny cream puffs, vegetable plates, mini-chicken tacos and those little cherry tomato thingies with the mushrooms.” Constance was footing the bill for the opening tonight. There’d be, if everyone we invited attended, about one hundred people. Tonight would be the unveiling and official presentation of the painting to the museum with Nola Maxwell Finch standing in for her reclusive uncle. We’d pulled every string we had to obtain as much media coverage as possible. This was the big time for the Josiah Sinclair Folk Art Museum.
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