He contemplated me silently. The camera stopped rewinding. Without taking his eyes from my face, he opened the back of the camera, removed the film, and put it in his pocket. “You think so? Is it so hard to believe I would be attracted to your grandmother?”
Before I could answer, he continued.
“Your grandmother is a remarkable woman and an excellent photographic subject. Very natural. My project on California western women is not entirely a sham. It’ll sell well, no doubt about it.”
“But you’re not here just to take pictures of women roping cattle and canning peaches.”
He smiled and fitted the lens cap back on his camera. “Dove said you were a sharp one, that it would be, to quote her, pretty near impossible to pull one over on you.”
I pressed my lips together, determined not to let his compliment affect my goal. “So why are you here?”
“I don’t have any children,” he said, locking his thick fingers around one knee. “And I’ve been married five times. Sounds impossible, I know, but somehow with each one it was either too early or too late or some other crazy reason why we didn’t have a family.” He looked past me to the water spilling into a miniature waterfall formed by a dam Emory and I had tried to build the summer he stayed here. Moss had grown furry and green over the rocks we’d hauled from the lower creek with overly enthusiastic plans for a swimming hole. “A part of me regrets it now that I’m old. Especially when I see the family surrounding your grandmother. I envy the love that would cause a granddaughter to forge in and butt heads with someone just because she thinks he’s going to hurt her grandmother.”
I bit the inside of my cheek, fighting the empathy I was starting to feel toward this man.
“We childless people are a special group, whether it’s by choice or not. We love intensely because when we do we can focus on one person. But we at times can also feel an incredible loneliness that no one with children will ever truly understand.”
I swallowed hard, knowing exactly how it felt. I stared down into the clear, running water, wanting to scoop some up and cool my burning face. “Why are you telling me this?” I asked in a low voice.
“My fourth wife, Catherine, was the love of my life. She was ...” He paused for a moment, remembering. “She was the photograph I’d been searching for my whole life. It was her second marriage. Her first husband was an aviator, a career Navy man. Their daughter, Gina, was twelve when he died. An experimental plane he was flying went down at Edwards Air Force Base. When Catherine and I married, Gina was thirty-five and already had three sons. They were close to their teens and didn’t pay much attention to the old man with a camera around his neck who married their grandmother. Then Gina got pregnant one last time, and my whole life changed.” He looked down at me and smiled. “She looked just like pictures of her grandmother at that age. To me, she looked just like what I’d always pictured my own daughter, or granddaughter, looking like. And she was fascinated by cameras from the time she was a baby.”
My eyes widened. “Shelby,” I said. “She’s your granddaughter.”
He nodded. “Catherine died four years ago from a heart attack. Happened just like that.” He snapped his fingers softly. “I married again, but it didn’t work out. I should have known better, but I was looking for what I had with Catherine and I know I’ll never find that again. Shelby and I were close from the very start. She truly accepted me as her grandfather even though I technically wasn’t. She called me Papa Lyons.” His voice caught. “It was me who encouraged her to go away to college here in the West. I told her if she wanted to be a true artist she needed to first discover who she was and I knew that would be impossible while she lived in Chicago.”
“You’re here to find out who killed her.”
His brown eyes grew glassy and hard as creek stones. “Gina and Marcus—Shelby’s father—just wanted her body shipped back, and that’s that. Gina said it didn’t matter what happened, that it wouldn’t bring Shelby back.”
“But it does matter to you.” I looked at him steadily.
“Whoever did this will be punished. It won’t bring her back, but I need to have justice. For her ... and for myself. Otherwise, I won’t be able to let her go.”
A cool breeze blew through the thick trees. I hugged my knees and burrowed deeper into his jacket. It smelled of Polo cologne, the aftershave Gabe wore, and a sharp, metallic scent I couldn’t name. “I know,” is all I answered.
He held my gaze for an uncomfortable minute. “I know you do. Dove told me about Jack.”
“His brother, Wade, is a suspect.”
Isaac nodded.
“I don’t think he did it.”
“Dove doesn’t think so either. She said he was raised good. That his mother was an honest, hardworking woman.”
“She was,” I said, remembering my former mother-in-law, who had been warm and loving to me and her sons the whole time I lived on the ranch. “She is.” What Dove didn’t know was Wade’s little foray into delivering drugs last year when he was trying to save the Harper ranch.
Isaac’s camera-trained eyes narrowed; the deep crevices in his face seemed to fold inward. “But you’re not entirely sure of him.”
I didn’t answer.
“It appears, Ms. Benni Harper, that we’re both after the same thing, but the question is, are you willing to take a chance on finding out the truth?”
“Do I have much of a choice?”
“I suppose not.” He pushed himself up from his rock and held out his hand. “So, partners?”
I hesitated for a moment, then stood up and took it. We shook solemnly, like two horse traders sealing a deal. His hand was cold and uncalloused and completely enveloped mine.
“Partners,” I said.
10
BACK AT THE ranch Dove had ham and cheese sandwiches and freshly baked cinnamon rolls waiting for us. She looked from my face to Isaac’s, appraising us like a couple of yearlings she was about to buy. “So, you two get your fence lines all sorted out?”
Isaac smiled at me. I gave him a small smile back.
“Yes, ma‘am,” he said. “I believe we have.”
She nodded her head in approval and pointed to the breakfast counter. “Then y‘all better get some food in you. Hot coffee, too. It’s a cold day.”
I went over to her and slipped my arms around her neck, burying my face in her sweet, almond-scented skin. “I’m sorry, Gramma, for being such a brat. Will you forgive me?”
She lightly slapped my shoulder. “Get along and eat, honeybun. You’re so mean flies wouldn’t light on you, but I reckon I’ll keep you since I’m so used to you.”
I turned to Isaac, who was already at the counter putting mustard on his sandwich. “That’s about as close as she gets to saying ‘I love you.’ ”
“But she does make a mean ham sandwich,” he said, grinning.
IT WAS FOUR o‘clock when I arrived home. One message flashed on the answering machine.
“I have some paperwork to clear up,” Gabe’s voice said, “so I’ll meet you in front of the mission at six o‘clock.”
Tonight was the blessing of the animals, the dedication of the new mission bell, and the crowning of the new Miss San Celina, which Gabe had been talked into doing. After the ceremonies, Parker and Olivia were giving an hour-long painting class to children twelve and under at the San Celina Art Center across the creek from the mission.
When I arrived, the children were already lined up with their pets, ready to stroll past Father Martinez for the blessing. I threaded my way through a line of squirming, captive kittens, puppies, hamsters, tiny greenish-yellow finches, squawking chickens, and even a snake in a homemade cage belonging to a grinning freckle-faced boy with glasses. He wore a tee shirt that said, “Jesus walked on water. Imagine how He could surf!”
“His name is Rodney D.,” he said when he saw me look at his treasured pet with apprehension. “‘Cause he don’t get no respect.”
Gabe waited on the top
steps by the mission’s double-wide church doors. Against the whitewashed walls, he surveyed the crowd with searching eyes. I stopped, waiting for that moment his eyes picked me out of the crowd. He spotted me, and his face lit up. We met halfway up the steps.
“Hola, preciosa,” he said, dropping a kiss on top of my head. “How’d it go at the ranch?”
“Fine. Isaac and I have an ... understanding. Sort of.”
“Good.” He slipped an arm around my shoulders, and we walked down the steps toward the stage that was set up for the coronation and dedication. A rooster flew in front of us chased by a young girl wearing pink gardening gloves. A saucer-pawed yellow Labrador puppy wiggled out of his young master’s arms and started chasing the rooster, which had flown over the railing and was splashing around in San Celina Creek. The puppy stood at the railing and barked hysterically. The rooster girl’s mother dashed in front of us.
“We’ll all need to go to confession after this blessing ceremony,” she said wryly as she hopped over an escaped rabbit and headed for the steps down to the creek. The puppy, claimed by a young Latino boy with braces and Clark Gable ears, continued to bark as the boy carried him past us, the puppy’s back paws bouncing against the boy’s knees.
“He’s not mean,” the boy assured us.
Gabe smiled down at him. “Perro que ladra no muerde.”
The boy grinned and maneuvered back in line. “My dad always says that.”
“What’d you say?” I asked.
“Barking dogs seldom bite.” He put a warm hand on the back of my neck. “So, what do you have planned after this? I’m starved.”
“After I watch you crown the queen, I’m going over to the Art Center to help Parker and Olivia set up for their painting class. I should be home after that. I haven’t even thought about dinner.”
He looked up at the stage where the mayor was tapping his finger on the microphone. “Guess I’d better get to my post. I’ll see you at home.” He brushed a kiss across my lips and sidestepped a baby goat being pulled by a teenage girl.
I watched part of the ceremony, then wandered over to the Art Center where I found Olivia, Parker, and Greer laying white butcher paper down on the long, foldout tables.
“You’re missing the crowning of San Celina’s newest queen,” I said, picking up a bunch of paint brushes.
“Beauty pageants,” Olivia said, scowling. “Haven’t we women made any progress in the last thirty years?”
I shrugged, understanding her frustration, but not feeling as virulent about the subject. “They’re all over eighteen,” I said. “To each her own.”
Olivia scowled deeper at my bland response. “Sorry, Benni, but I think this overriding infatuation with youth and good looks, which beauty pageants are distinctly promoting, preserves the myth that women’s only contribution to society is decorating some man’s arm and making babies—nice-looking babies. And we all buy into it. Women are the worst perpetrators. We are our own worst enemies.”
Parker stopped unrolling the white paper, looked up, and nodded. “She’s right, Benni. If you’re a homely woman in this society, you’d better be ready to work twice as hard as a pretty one because there’s not anyone there paving the way for you.” Greer continued picking through a red coffee can of old paintbrushes, a concentrated frown on her face.
“You’re right,” I conceded. “But that’s not really what we’re arguing here. We’re discussing what feminism really is. Don’t you think that the whole point of feminism is allowing women to do whatever they want whether we agree with it or not?”
“Not,” Olivia said, “if it sustains this adoration of youth and good looks. What about experience, wisdom ... talent?”
“Those things count,” I said. “Maybe not in beauty pageants, but in—”
“The arts?” Parker said. Sharp points of color dotted her cheekbones. “Don’t bet on it, Benni. You like country music. Take that as an example. Have you listened to who’s being played on the radio these days? When was the last time a new Willie Nelson or Loretta Lynn song was played? The song that was number one for the last three weeks was sung by a thirteen-year-old. A thirteen-year-old! And a very pretty one, I might add.”
“There’s always Tony Bennett. He’s old and he’s not that pretty and look how popular he’s become ... again.”
“But he’s a man ...” Olivia started.
“Lord, have mercy,” Greer interrupted, giving a dramatic sigh. She picked up a plastic container of red tempura paint and held it up as if making a toast. “For us old broads, may there always be Tony Bennett. And Paul Newman. And Clint Eastwood.”
“And don’t forget Tom Selleck,” Parker said. “He’s getting up there in age, too.” We all laughed.
“Do you all need any more help here?” I asked, using Greer’s joking as a way to change the subject. The whole youth versus talent topic seemed an impossible problem to solve, and Olivia especially needed to chill out before attempting to teach the joy of painting to young children.
“We’re fine,” Parker said, giving me a sympathetic look. “Sorry we’re so snappish, Benni. We artists always get a bit testy when we’re around people too much. We do much better staying in our little holes inhaling turpentine and linseed oil.”
A sheepish expression smoothed out Olivia’s face. “I guess I did get on my soapbox there for a minute. Lo siento, mi amiga. I’m just more sensitive than usual these days about age. I’ve been working as a bartender to support my painting for fifteen years and I don’t know how much longer I can do it. Sometimes I feel like my time has come and gone.”
“No way,” I said. “Think of all the artists still producing in their eighties and nineties. I know our society has gone youth crazy, but I’ve said this before and I really do believe it. Good art will eventually triumph. Not every time, but enough times. Don’t get discouraged. Think of Harriet Doerr. Or Georgia O‘Keeffe. Think of Isaac Lyons.”
Olivia walked over to the closet and pulled out a paint-splattered smock. “Easier said, my friend, easier said.” The agitation of a moment ago was replaced with resignation.
Unable to think of anything else to say to appease her, I just said, “See you all later,” and started for the door.
“Where are you headed?” Greer asked.
“Thought I’d go on home and think good thoughts about dinner. Maybe something will appear by the time Gabe gets home.”
“Maybe a stop off at the market might be smarter,” she said, laughing.
“Or Nick’s Pizza.”
“I’ll walk a few blocks with you,” she said. “My car’s parked downtown, and I left my smock in the back seat. With this group, I’m sure I’ll need it.”
“Are Parker and Olivia doing okay?” I asked as we walked down Lopez Street. “I’m worried about them.” Their attitudes troubled me, though they didn’t come as a complete surprise. I had no idea until I became so directly involved with the arts how complicated life became as an artist climbed higher up the public scale. Like most people, I idealized the artist’s life, assuming that their lives were somehow fuller, happier, and less conflicted because they were able to work at something they loved. I was beginning to realize that very few things in life were as simple as they looked.
“They’re just letting off steam,” she said. “It’s really difficult in the arts these days. For everyone, no matter what your age or talent. Takes a tough nut to hang in there for the long haul.”
“Do you think what they say is true? Does youth matter that much? More than talent?”
She pondered my question a moment, then brushed a strand of white hair from her tanned face. “Not youth only, though that’s certainly something that a company investing in your future thinks of, if nothing else but for the sheer economics of it. It’s more like—to steal a Cajun word—lagniappe.”
“D-Daddy uses that word. It means a little something extra. Sort of unexpected.”
“Right. Like that artist Bev Dolittle.”
&
nbsp; “I know her. Her paintings are everywhere.”
“Back in ninteen seventy-nine she painted that watercolor—‘ Pintos’—and it was issued in prints by the Greenwich Workshop for sixty-five dollars. The public took a fancy to her work ... and her ... and ten years later those same prints were selling for ten thousand dollars. Her original works go for as much as a hundred and fifty thousand dollars now, and there isn’t one of her limited edition prints that doesn’t sell out on release.” She glanced sideways at me, her blue eyes clear and determined. “You know, they’ve started calling that the ‘Dolittle Phenomenon.’ The fact that one painting can change an artist’s life. Though most artists would rather die than admit it—a lot of us hope that will happen to us. But it doesn’t to very many, and some artists—good ones, ones even better than Bev Dolittle, give up.”
“That doesn’t seem fair,” I said.
Greer laughed and slapped me lightly on the back. “Honey, as my dear old granddad used to tell us kids, ‘Fair is something you pay to ride the bus.’ ”
I laughed with her. “Sounds like Dove. The art world sounds so ... so calculating.”
“And what isn’t in this grand world of ours, dear girl?”
We passed by Roland’s gallery, where he was directing a young man in the replacement of Greer’s paintings with more of Shelby’s photographs.
“What the ... ?” Greer said and burst through the front door.
Inside Roland’s harsh voice echoed in the small gallery. “Be careful, you idiot! That’s a signed photograph.”
The young man gave Roland a bland look and set down the wooden frame. He ran his hand over his freshly shaved head as if to nervously stroke hair that was no longer there. “Gotta hit the john, man,” he said, hitching up his loose khaki pants.
“I simply despise hiring college kids,” Roland said, watching the boy walk away. “But I don’t have any choice in this town.”
“What’s going on here?” Greer asked, her voice shaking with anger. I looked down at Shelby’s signed photograph. It was one of me, though I wasn’t easily recognized. The shot showed me in the distance chasing an uncooperative cow, the San Celina hills cut stark and black against the gray afternoon sky. Nipping at the heifer’s heels was Repeat, the daughter of one of Daddy’s best Australian shepards. I glanced at the discreet white tag in the corner. Roland had indeed tripled the price, just like Parker told me earlier.
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