I pulled the quilt up to my chin and studied Jack’s brown leather recliner. Next to it, on my great-grandmother’s antique mahogany table, books were piled haphazardly, books Gabe was studying in preparation for writing his master’s thesis in philosophy—Kierkegaard, Pascal, Gabriel Marcel, C.S. Lewis, St. Augustine. I picked up the yellow legal tablet and glanced over the notes he was making. Most of it didn’t make sense, as personal notes usually don’t: Order of Precedence in Ethics; The Collision in Human Existence—a man who can bear being alone during a whole lifetime is farthest removed from the infant; Lying is a science, Truth is a paradox—if a person does not become what he understands, then he does not really understand it; Death is irreversible because Time is irreversible. He had drawn a square around one thought, as if by framing it in the heavy lead of his pencil, it would be engraved in his being: The only person who can do my real self harm is me. I wondered which philosopher that came from. Once or twice, I’d flipped through the books he read, hunting in the highlighted passages for clues to his thoughts. So many of them seemed to dwell on death, apparently a popular subject with philosophers, and because of what he did for a living, I suppose I could see why it was a subject that fascinated him. He was such an enigma—an odd, unpredictable mixture of the physical and cerebral that both excited and troubled me at times.
I reached over and grabbed the extra large navy LAPD sweatshirt hanging casually over the chair arm. Holding it up to my face, I inhaled the heady resonance of his herbal aftershave and a strong, almost gingery scent uniquely his own. Living all my life except for the last eleven months on ranches, smells were important to me—they told you things, like whether rain was coming, how sick a cow was, if there was mold in the hay, how hard a person really worked that day. But, somewhat reluctantly, my long-held beliefs were changing. Gabe sometimes worked long hours and never broke a sweat. And what he did had just as much, if not more, value than saving a sick calf. At thirty-four, I was learning that your senses can’t always discern the truth.
By ten o’clock, I’d had my third cup of coffee and was ready to face the day. I pulled on old boots, my most comfortable pair of Wranglers, a thick, off-white fisherman’s sweater that Dove had knitted for me last Christmas, and headed for the museum.
When I pulled into the gravel parking lot of the museum, a clap of thunder reverberated like a kettledrum, and hailstones the size of Grape Nuts pelted the Chevy’s cab. Since it was Sunday, fewer cars than usual were in the small parking lot, though it might have been the weather keeping the artists home next to their cozy fireplaces. Californians, even the semirural variety, didn’t possess the mental constitution to fight the elements that people further north and back East acquire as a matter of necessity. It was not something any of us cared to admit. I’d never pulled a calf in 20°-below weather, though I knew men and women who had. I always felt a bit diminished around those hearty Wyoming and Montana ranchers—some of them my own uncles and aunts—as if I never really belonged to the club, though I’d spent more than my fair share of time with an aching arm dripping long strands of mucus and afterbirth from a cow’s difficult calving.
Belonging somewhere. And with someone. What we search for our whole lives. What I had and lost. What Oralee was trying to reconcile at such a late date in her life. I sat in the truck and stared at the black steering wheel, touching the small groove on the right side where Jack used to nervously run a thumb back and forth as he drove. I couldn’t help but wonder if the anniversary of his death this coming week would change something in me. All the “firsts” were over now—first Christmas without him, first birthday, first wedding anniversary, first . . . everything. Would the second year be any easier, or just different?
Pulling out the museum keys, I unlocked the thick carved door. Whichever co-op member’s turn it was this month to open the studios, he or she had been thoughtful enough to turn on the heat. Saturday’s mail lay on the glass counter of the small lobby gift shop. Strolling through the main hall, I scanned the return addresses, bills mostly, one grant application, one letter of refusal for a grant from a civic foundation in San Francisco. It was getting harder and harder for the museum to acquire donations, what with the recession and all. I spent a good half of my working hours filling out grant requests and drafting letters of beggary to foundations and individuals who publicly professed, even in a small way, a love for the arts. We had operating expenses to last us three months, but after that, who knew? Luckily, my salary as well as basic expenses like electricity and water were funded personally by Constance Sinclair herself, bless her noblesse-obliging little heart.
A few remaining rolled quilts from our last exhibit of antique quilts by San Celina women were stacked in the comer for their owners to pick up, and stacks of cross-stitch samplers, framed and unframed, patiently waited my attention. The hailstones slowed to a light rain, so I took that opportunity to dash across the red-tiled patio between the museum and the studios. Honeysuckle vines canopied the wooden trellis connecting the buildings and dripped sweet-smelling drops of water on my head. Through the mist, the tiny windows of the old stables shined amber with warmth and welcome. Paperwork first, I decided, then the fun part of cutting mats, framing the samplers and deciding their arrangement on the adobe walls.
Both pottery wheels were churning away when I walked into the spacious main workroom. Sweet-eyed Roberto sat at one. He was one of our newest members, a talented young artist who specialized in brilliantly colored Brazilian pottery. Malcolm, our most experienced ceramicist and one of the original members of the co-op, sat at the other. As I walked past, heading toward the back rooms and my office, Malcolm gave me a pained look.
“Help,” he said, his arms gray and shiny elbow-high with wet clay.
I gave him a suspicious look. He was known for being a great practical joker. “How?”
He grinned under his granite-colored goatee, long and straggly enough to give him a rather devilish aura. “My back. Scratch. Please.”
I reached over and scratched the middle of his blue flannel shirt.
“To the left. Lower. Harder. Oh, yeah.” A deep moan of pleasure erupted from the middle of his chest.
“I don’t recall this being in my job description.”
“Thanks, don’t tell my girlfriend, but that was the best I’ve had all week.”
I slapped his back good-naturedly. “I am going to tell her.”
“Hey, heard there was a little excitement at that old folks’ dance last night.”
“You heard already?”
“Haven’t you seen the newspaper? There’s a special insert on the murders. Buddy of mine works there. Said they called everyone up at home and had them haul their asses down there early to get it out. They’re hunting bear for breakfast going after your boyfriend. The article said violent crime has done nothing but climb since he took over as chief.”
“I think that’s a bit of an exaggeration.”
“It’s those new owners. Ever since those sleaze buckets took over the Tribune, it’s sounded like one of those tabloids. Haven’t missed an issue yet. I left a copy on your desk.” He turned off the wheel, picked up a stained towel and started wiping his hands. “They happened to mention you found the bodies. And that it wasn’t your first time.” He smirked at me. “Finding bodies, that is.” Roberto’s dark eyes widened in alarm.
“Great,” I said. “I was hoping all that was in the past.”
“Benni, you know most of the people in this town are part pachyderm,” he said. Roberto’s smooth face looked confused. He was still new to this country and to English.
“Quit showing off that worthless college degree of yours. Elephants,” I said to Roberto. The confused look deepened. “You started this, Malcolm. Explain it to him. I have to get to work.”
Warming my hands with a cup of microwaved café au lait, I sat down in my chair and read the headline of the Tribune spread across my old wooden desk.
HOW SAFE IS SAN CELINA? INTERIM POLICE CH
IEF HAS NO ANSWERS. The picture of the body bags being loaded into the county coroner’s black van did have a tabloidish look to it. In the background, the photographer caught Gabe holding a paper cup of coffee, standing with military erect-ness, wearing that severe, somewhat unsympathetic expression he always assumes whenever he is really upset. Mac was in the picture also, standing to Gabe’s right, his face more visually acceptable, tense and somewhat worried. The article did cast a negative light on Gabe’s administering of the police department. His only comment had been “No comment,” obviously the reason for the headline. It went on to give the basic information the police were releasing to the media. The chief investigating officer and media liaison would be Lieutenant James Cleary, Chief of Detectives. And in true tabloid fashion it was noted that the person who found the bodies, one Albenia Harper, unavailable for comment at this time, was said to have a “relationship” with a certain high official in the police department. The reporter questioned whether this would hamper the investigation of the well-loved teacher and the prominent San Celina businessman.
I couldn’t help but feel a little irrational guilt, though it certainly wasn’t my fault I found Mr. O’Hara and Miss Violet. There was no doubt in my mind that Gabe was going to be in a bad mood today. He hated having his picture in the newspaper, almost as much as having aspersions cast upon his abilities.
I threw the article aside, propped my feet up on my desk and decided to concentrate on the more important issues of the day, namely Calvin and Hobbes’ latest dinosaur adventure. A few minutes later, Malcolm sauntered in.
“So, think the chief will sue?” he asked, plopping down on the old chrome-and-vinyl office chair in front of my desk.
“He’s going to be in one foul mood today,” I said, peering over the top of the newspaper at Malcolm. “And on Valentine’s Day too. Guess there’s no romance in my future tonight.”
“Valentine’s Day! Oh, no, I completely forgot. Judy’s going to kill me.”
“You still have time. I’m sure Sav-on Drugstore has a few Whitman’s Samplers left.”
“If it were only that easy. Since she went down to Orange County to visit her sister and got hooked on Godiva chocolates and South Coast Plaza, she hasn’t been the same. Drugstore candy would guarantee I’d be scratching my own back for a month.”
I folded up the comics and swung my legs down. “What’s that old saying? Can’t keep them down on the farm once they’ve seen the city or something like that. Guess it’s going to be a lonely Valentine’s Day all around.”
“Did you have big plans?”
“Not gigantic, but I did make reservations at The Rusty Spur. You know how hard it is to get those on holidays. We’ll probably go there at least. He does have to eat.”
“Well, hope your night goes better than mine,” he said morosely.
I glanced at my watch. “It’s only eleven-thirty. The mall is open until six. You have plenty of time to buy a present.”
“You’re right, but time isn’t my only problem.” He grabbed the comics, tucked them under his arm and headed for the door. “This calls for some serious concentration. I wonder how much credit she has left on her Master Card?”
After he left, I picked up the phone and dialed Gabe’s private line at the station. Lieutenant Cleary’s mild tenor voice answered.
“Jim? Is Gabe there?”
“He’s talking to the mayor on the other line. Want to hold?”
“Sure.” While waiting, I opened envelopes and sorted my mail. Five long minutes later, when I was almost ready to hang up, Gabe’s voice, terse and distracted, came on the phone.
“Yes, Benni, what is it?”
“Just wanted to say Hi.” I could hear him breathing, waiting. “And I wanted to see if we’re still on.”
“On? For what?”
“Dinner. You’re finally going to experience a true San Celina tradition. The Rusty Spur. My treat. We have reservations for seven o’clock.”
I swore I could hear gears grinding in his head. “Oh, sweetheart, I totally forgot. I don’t know, we’re up to our necks here.”
“But . . .”
“Just a minute.” I heard him put his hand over the receiver and a sharp, muffled conversation take place. In less than thirty seconds, he came back on the line. “Is that it?”
“You have to eat. Besides, reservations at the Spur aren’t that easy to get on ...” I paused, feeling a bit embarrassed reminding him about what day it was.
“I’ll see what I can do. You know the first forty-eight hours after a homicide are—” He stopped while someone spoke to him. His voice came back on the line, apologetic, but unwavering. “I’ll get right back to you, I promise.”
“Okay,” I said with a sigh.
I spent the next three hours at the word processor working on the brochure for the cross-stitch exhibit so I could drop it off at the printers the next day. After three refusals, I finally agreed to speak to a Tribune reporter. He wasn’t happy with my short, irritable answers to his questions. To recover, I retreated to our small kitchen where I was heating some milk for hot chocolate when Mac appeared in the doorway. He carried a brown package in his hands.
“That smells good,” he said. “Got enough for two?”
“Sure,” I said, walking over to the old refrigerator for more milk. “Have a seat.” I pointed to the pink Formica-and-chrome dinette table in the comer. “Gosh, you look gorgeous.” He wore an immaculate pin-striped navy suit, a stiff-collared white shirt and a burgundy and royal blue paisley tie. With his thick, longish hair and shiny beard, I could see what a powerful and appealing figure he could be standing behind First Baptist’s wooden pulpit. “This is the first time I’ve seen you in your Sunday-going-to-meeting clothes.”
He set the package on the table, and loosened his tie, giving a slight groan of relief. “Maybe you should come to church more often.”
I laughed. “I definitely walked into that one. I’ll start coming again, really. I’ve just been lazy.” I poured more milk into the beat-up aluminum pan, then added more cocoa. “Well, church attendance will probably be the least of your problems once it hits the singles grapevine that you’re up for grabs.”
His pale gray eyes squinted with attractive laugh lines. “It’s so refreshing talking to you, Benni. You always make me feel like a regular human being.”
“As compared to what?” I asked, stirring the milk.
“As compared to being a minister—as in ‘Watch what you say, he’s a minister.’ ”
“Gabe says the same thing about being a cop.”
I poured both of us a mug, then joined him at the table. “So, what brings you around on a Sunday afternoon?”
“Well, I was just visiting Mrs. Blakeman. She’s down with the gout again, but she had some samplers she wanted you to consider for this new exhibit, so I volunteered my delivery services.”
“Great, let’s take a look at them.” I carefully unwrapped the package and held the samplers out at arm’s length. “These are wonderful.” I read them out loud: “East, West, Home is Best—Myra Blakeman 1943” and ”The kiss of the sun for pardon, The song of the bird for mirth, One is nearer to God’s heart in a garden, Than anywhere else on earth—M.B. 1946.”
“Amy used to do this kind of stuff,” Mac said softly. He reached over and touched the tiny cross-stitches.
“It must be hard coming back here,” I said. He and his late wife, Amy, met in San Celina his second year of seminary when she was taking summer classes at Cal Poly and he was visiting Oralee. He married the bubbly, raven-eyed nursing student three months after they met, breaking quite a few female hearts when he did.
“It’s not too bad,” he said, sipping his drink. “It’s been five years. I know this might be hard for you to see now, but it does get easier.”
“I never really thanked you for all the phone calls last year. Your phone bill from L.A. must have been astronomical. Sometimes they were the only thing that saved my sanity.”
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br /> “I knew what you were going through and I’ve come to the conclusion, though some might argue with me, that’s one of the reasons we suffer.”
“Why’s that?”
“So we can truly empathize with others.” He picked up one of the samplers. “These are good, aren’t they?” He pointed to the date on one of them—1943. “Did you know Mrs. Blakeman’s youngest son was killed at Pearl Harbor?”
“Believe it or not, I do,” I said. “I thought her name sounded familiar. I’ve been doing a lot of reading about San Celina County right around that time. We lost quite a few guys from this area.”
“Working on a thesis?”
“Nothing that official. I’m writing the last section of the Historical Society’s book, San Celina—The War Years.”
“How did you get involved with that?”
“Dove, how else? She’s president, or maybe potentate would be a more accurate title.” I set the sampler down and picked up my cocoa. Talking about the Historical Society made me think of Miss Violet, who had been one of its oldest and most ardent members. The memory of Mac removing something from her room last night still pricked at my conscience. It was either confront him now or talk to Gabe. Mac was such an old friend, I really felt as if there was no choice.
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