Before he could answer, Suzy appeared, perky smile and order pad all ready.
“You know what’s good,” Clay said to me, tapping a finger on the menu. “I’ll leave myself in your hands.”
I ordered two tri-tip dinners, medium rare—one regular cut, one cattleman’s cut—with all the trimmings, fresh green salads with ranch dressing, corn on the cob and huge Idaho potatoes, heavy on the sour cream and butter, and of course, an order of San Celina’s famous salsa. I had a feeling Clay was one of those guys who had no idea what his cholesterol count was and didn’t give a pig’s snout.
Through the rest of the meal, whenever I tried to steer the conversation back around to his uncle, Clay wriggled out of it by replaying some incident of that short, hot summer we shared seventeen years ago. More than once he had me laughing at some crazy thing we did that I’d completely forgotten about. But something in me couldn’t let up about his uncle. I don’t know what I was searching for, maybe assurance that Clay had nothing to do with the murder, that Mr. O’Hara had other enemies who might want him dead. Or, as Gabe would more than likely say, maybe I was being just plain nosy.
“What do you think of that new Lorrie Morgan song?” he said at one point, after I asked him another question about his uncle. He speared a large chunk of salsa-covered beef and chewed thoughtfully.
“Which song is that?” Though I listened to KCOW on a regular basis, I never was one to pay attention to who was singing what.
“I think the title is ‘What Part of No Don’t You Understand?’”
A flush of embarrassment crept up my neck. I finished the rest of the meal in relative silence, only uttering the occasional polite response as he rambled on about his ranch in Colorado, the Triple O, where they were experimenting with a particularly hearty crossbred mix of Brahma and Red Angus. On the drive back, he didn’t press me for conversation, but instead sang along softly with the radio in a decent baritone. Through the filmy truck window, I watched the dark shapes of fences and oil wells move swiftly past us in the opaque darkness and wondered just where this Colorado cowboy fit into the whole business.
The museum was locked up tight and the parking lot empty when we pulled up next to his white rental car.
“Thanks for the steak,” he said. “But I owed you dinner. My debt’s not paid.”
“Don’t worry about it. It was paid for ahead of time.”
“So I guess I stole someone else’s Valentine present.” By the smirk on his face, it obviously didn’t bother him much.
I ignored his remark and stared out the windshield, not knowing exactly what to do at this point.
“Hey, I did appreciate your company.” He reached across the distance between us and touched my cheek. His hand felt just like I thought it would and my heart took a low hurdle. “It’s the first meal I haven’t eaten alone since I came to California.”
“No problem,” I said. “It was fun talking about old times.” I stiffened slightly when his hand moved down and started stroking my neck. I turned my head and looked at him. His brown eyes looked almost black in the semidarkness of the truck’s cab.
“Well now, Happy Valentine’s Day,” he said in a husky voice, sliding across the bench seat. His hand slipped to the back of my neck and the next thing I knew, he kissed me. His lips were cool and slightly chapped, mimicking his rough hands. I felt surprised and excited and seventeen again. As quickly as it happened, it was over and he glided back across the seat and opened the door.
I slipped behind the steering wheel and started the truck, my face on fire, my heartbeat roaring in my ears as loud as the truck’s eight-cylinder engine. He tapped on the glass. I took a deep breath and rolled it down.
He leaned through the window, resting his sandy blond forearms on the door frame. He loomed close enough for me to smell the sharp tang of salsa and beer on his breath and notice that one side of his mustache was slightly shorter than the other. “What is it?” I said, attempting to keep my voice cool and level.
“I had one fine time tonight, Widow Harper,” he said. “Even if you do think I had something to do with my dear uncle’s unfortunate departure from this earth.”
What could I say to that? He had a heck of a way of phrasing things so that whatever I answered would appear awkward. I decided to go for flippant. “Did you?” My laugh came out shakier than I intended.
“Well, now,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. “If I did, you must be one brave woman, being alone here with me like this.”
I felt my mouth turn to cotton. Or a stupid one, I thought.
“See you around?” he asked.
“Maybe.”
“You know, the best way to find out if I did or didn’t is to keep a sharp eye on me.” He pulled at his mustache and winked.
“Be careful,” I said with more boldness than I felt. “I just might.”
“I’ll look forward to it.”
I rolled up the window and watched him walk over to the Ford. He took his time, knowing my eyes were on him, his sharp-toed boots pointing slightly inward, his hips moving with that arrogant rhythm that always seems a natural companion to expensive boots.
He was, as Daddy had so severely lectured me seventeen years ago, one slick-oiled piece of machinery. That was in the lobby of the old police station, where Daddy was picking me up because Clay, then nineteen, was being held for speeding, resisting arrest, and for having an open container of beer in the car. I realize now how scared Daddy must have been, but at the time all I could think about was Clay’s smoldering brown eyes and the way his lips made me forget about everything practical and sane.
One slick-oiled piece of machinery. Slick enough that I didn’t find out one real piece of information about him or why he was here taking care of his uncle’s business in San Celina. Slick enough that I almost didn’t care. Slick enough, maybe, to have gotten away with murder.
“Clay O’Hara,” I said out loud, following his white car out of the parking lot. “You’d better not have. You just better not have.”
I could have sworn I heard him laugh.
7
IT WAS TEN o’clock when I arrived home. Three messages blinked a cheerful Morse code on my answering machine, making me feel, if not popular, at least not friendless. The first two didn’t require an answer—Dove reminding me again of the meeting with the Historical Society tomorrow morning; Elvia informing me the books I’d ordered about compiling oral histories were in. The third was short, to the point, and demanded acknowledgment.
“Are you there? Pick up.” A long pause. “Call me at home.” Click. Sergeant Friday strikes again. He must not be making any headway on the murders; his cop voice was still intact. I’d complained about it before—him using that autocratic tone on me. Always apologetic, he would improve for a while, then fall back into it. Dialing his number, I thought about his eighteen-year-old son, Sam, whom I’d never met, and wondered if Gabe talked to him like that when he was growing up. Though it was over twenty years since Gabe had served in the Marines, there was still something of the military about him at times, especially when he was under stress.
“Hello?” His voice was sharp, stringent. In the background, I heard saxophone music. Bobby Watson, I’d be willing to bet. Brain-clearing music, he called Watson’s wild modern jazz.
“Officer Harper reporting in as commanded, sir.” I put a Marine grunt’s emphasis on the “sir.”
“I’m sorry,” he said automatically, his voice softening. “It’s been a long day. I was worried about you.”
“You’re always worried about me,” I said flippantly. “I’m fine. What’s new on the case?”
“Benni.” His voice held a warning.
“Can’t I even ask you about your day?”
“Try ‘Hi, honey, how was your day?’”
“Hi, honey, how was your day? Anything new on the case?”
Silence.
“Okay,” I conceded. “Did you ever eat dinner?”
“Yes, we sen
t out for Chinese. Did you?”
I hesitated for a moment. Why had I brought up dinner? Was it subconscious revenge? “Yes,” I said.
“What did you have?” What a considerate guy, always so concerned about my dietary habits.
“Steak.” Did he know already? San Celina’s grapevine usually burned swift as a grass fire, but I didn’t think even it was this fast. He was getting as bad as Dove. Then again, maybe it was just my guilty conscience. Only what did I have to feel guilty about? We weren’t married, engaged, or anything. In irritation at myself and at him, I blurted it out.
“I went to dinner with Clay O’Hara.”
Another stony silence, then: “Why?”
“Because he asked me. And because I wanted to.”
“What I had to say about him didn’t even cross your mind?”
“It crossed.”
“And was this personal, or are you just sticking your nose in where it doesn’t belong?”
He and Clay certainly had one thing in common. There was no way I could answer that question without hanging myself, so I kept quiet.
“Look,” he said. “I’m dead on my feet. I really don’t have it in me to get into this right now.”
“That’s certainly fine with me. I’m tired too. Any other orders before I hit the sack?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. You still need to come down and sign your statement.”
“I’ll do it tomorrow. Is that all?” I tried hard to keep the snap out of my voice. I don’t think I succeeded.
“Sweetheart, Clay O’Hara is a suspect. I can’t tell you to quit seeing him, but I can ask you. We don’t know yet where he fits into this.” He spoke each word slowly and distinctly, straining to keep his voice pleasant.
I’m not sure why, but I found myself in the uncomfortable position of defending Clay, even though I suspected him myself. “He hasn’t been charged with anything yet, has he?”
“Not yet.”
“And he’s not your only suspect, is he?”
A reluctant “No.”
“Gabe, don’t you think that because of the way they were killed it was someone who did it on the spur of the moment? I mean, if the killer had been planning this ahead of time, don’t you think—”
“That does it,” Gabe interrupted in a cold, fed-up voice. “This is the way it plays, Benni. I am not asking you now, I’m telling you. Stay out of this. This is not a game or a movie or a novel. This is real. People have been killed and the person who did it would probably not hesitate to kill you or anyone else if they felt threatened. Am I making myself clear?”
“Yes, sir,” I said coolly. “Anything else?” I had just about had it with being talked to like a junior-high student caught smoking in the bathroom.
“Yes. You’re a babe in the woods when it comes to men like Clay O’Hara. Trust me, his prurient interest is only going to hurt you.”
“You know, contrary to what your overinflated male ego would like to believe, I am not a naive teenager. I’m thirty-four years old and have been around a few men in my life—some even rougher than Clay O’Hara. I was watching out for myself long before you came into my life, Ortiz, and I’m certain I’ll be doing it long after you’re gone.”
The silence was as thick as pecan pie filling.
“Anything else?” I asked.
“No.” His voice could have been the ice cream on top of that pie.
“Then I guess I’ll see you around.” I hung up before he could answer. When the phone rang ten seconds later, I ignored it. And whoever called hung up in the middle of my answering machine message.
The next morning I woke up in an appropriately foul Monday mood after tossing and turning all night, first replaying Mac’s conversation with me, then Clay’s, then Gabe’s. By the time I poured enough caffeine into me to jumpstart a Clydesdale and smooth out the grainy feeling behind my eyes, I had less than forty-five minutes to make the Historical Society meeting in the old library building downtown. I stood in front of my closet for ten of those forty-five minutes trying to decide what to wear that was both comfortable and somewhat professional-looking. I settled on my new black Wrangler jeans, a pumpkin-colored linen shirt, a black wool jacket interwoven with a rust-colored Southwestern pattern, and my black boots. I gave the pale lavender circles under my eyes a second glance, then decided that I’d known these ladies all my life—they’d seen me plenty of times without makeup; one more time wouldn’t kill them.
According to Hereford Hank, KCOW’s new morning deejay, San Celina had no rain ahead at least until Sunday. He predictably followed that pronouncement with Willie Nelson singing “Blue skies, nothing but blue skies do I see.” I hoped my own day would be as balmy. Elvia would be ecstatic. The Mardi Gras festival and parade were going to be held this Saturday rain or shine, but she’d get a better turnout if things were dry. I knew Gabe would be glad, too. Trying to maintain peace and order at a street festival and a parade in the rain would have been a nightmare.
You are not going to think about him today, I told myself sternly. Him or Clay or Mac or any other man. You have your own work to do. I picked up my notes for the Historical Society and headed for the door.
The San Celina Historical Society was located on Santa Rosa, two blocks north of Lopez Street, the city’s main drag, where Blind Harry’s bookstore and all the best parking spots were. I pulled my truck into the municipal parking lot nearest Blind Harry’s, my destination after the meeting. I paid the city its two-dollar ransom with the quarters I always kept handy now that Gabe made me keep current on my parking tickets, and even though I was five minutes late, strolled leisurely down Lopez, enjoying the Mardi Gras window displays. Since it was Monday, dirt-splattered trucks and mid-size American cars crowded the streets. Ranchers, as well as many of the county’s senior citizens, preferred to do their shopping on the first day of the week when the downtown area was less congested by sidewalk-hugging groups of college students. In front of Blind Harry’s, a lone street musician perched on an overturned plastic trash can and strummed a small acoustic guitar with Bruce Springsteen’s face painted on the front. I dug through my purse and dropped a handful of change into his overturned Giants baseball cap.
“May your husband always desire you and your children be accepted at Harvard,” he sang.
I smiled my thanks and turned to study Blind Harry’s window display, which without a doubt, outshined everyone else’s with its gaudiness. One of Elvia’s clerks was a Commercial Art major at Cal Poly and it showed. Feathered and sequined Mardi Gras masks in the shapes of birds, mimes, and eerie-looking humanoids were hung among curly strands of metallic ribbons in the official Mardi Gras colors of royal purple, bright yellow and grass-green. A giant red crawfish with evil, crustacean eyes stood stirring a huge black cauldron filled with mannequins dressed in blue gingham shirts and straw cowboy hats. A poster advertising the rules of the Greatest Gumbo in the West Contest was posted in the window.
I passed a comer bakery, tempted for a moment by the warm almond and cinnamon smells wafting from its open door, but continued toward the old library. For years the Historical Society had met in a cold damp basement storage room of the city hall. When San Celina constructed the new library on a bluff overlooking Central Park last year, Dove and all her cronies used every bit of political influence they’d acquired in their years of volunteering and snatched up the old brick Carnegie library for the official San Celina Historical Museum. Walking up the natural stone steps through the arched entrance of the museum brought back fond memories of Saturday afternoon story-hour with Miss Delilah Seems, the children’s librarian for almost thirty years, of the sticky vinyl sofa next to the checkout desk where I first read My Friend Flicka while waiting for Dove to finish her shopping in town, and of Jack and me kissing on the marble bench under the willow tree off the magazine room.
As I suspected, no one at the Historical Society even noticed I was late. I’d spent my whole life attending these things with Dove and I knew the f
irst thirty minutes was always spent eating and indiscreetly criticizing the refreshments provided by some hapless member. The victim today was Sissy Brownmiller. I was glad I hadn’t stopped for a croissant at that bakery. Sissy’s pastries have won first place at the Mid-State Fair ten years in a row.
“About time you got here. Have some of this corny coffee,” Dove said, pointing to the coffee maker.
“That’s Kona coffee, Dove,” Sissy said with a sniff of her sloped, pump-handle nose. She’d run against Dove three times for Historical Society President and never won. It was a bee the size of a 757 in her bonnet. “It’s a special Hawaiian blend. I acquired it on my last trip to the Islands.”
“Tastes like that diesel sludge they serve up at Hogie’s Truckstop on the interstate,” Dove whispered to me. “It’s got a lovely aroma, Sissy,” she said in her normal booming voice, then clapped her hands sharply. “Ladies, let’s get seated, we have a full agenda today.”
I grabbed a coconut eclair and a cup of the disputed coffee, which was actually quite good, and sat in the back row of metal folding chairs in what was once the reception area of the library.
The first half hour was taken up discussing Rose Ann Violet’s thirty-nine-year membership with the Society, the shock of how she died and just how much should be spent on flowers. The next half hour was spent deciding what type of floral spray should be sent; there was a short, heated debate between Sissy Brownmiller and Edna Steinburg about what color roses represented what sentiment. Dove presided behind the fold-out table in front, gavel clutched in her plump hand, looking like she’d dearly love to bop both Sissy and Edna a good one over the head. I caught her eye and pointed at my watch. This was the highlight of the day for most of these thirty retired ladies, but it was only the beginning of mine. Dove pounded the table and glared at the squabbling ladies.
“White roses with pink carnations,” she decreed and they knew better than to argue. “Now, Benni has a report on her progress with the history book.”
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