Spider Web

by Earlene Fowler

  “What’re you doing?” Dove asked.

  “I’m wearing about twenty hats on Saturday. Just pray that no huge problems occur and for sunny weather.”

  “I’ll make a special request to the Lord,” said Aunt Garnet.

  “Gracias, tía grande.”

  “Duh nah dah,” she replied slowly, enunciating each syllable. Then she giggled. Aunt Garnet’s rudimentary Spanish tinged with her Arkansas drawl always made me smile. Her enthusiasm for her new life as a Californian, not pining for the past, for accepting this new season of her and Uncle WW’s lives, made me realize how courageous she was. I was proud of the women in my family. If I had half their courage, I’d be set for this second part of my life.

  We were in the lobby, discussing the display of books that Elvia had helped me pick out that taught how to record family histories, when Laura, one of our docents, dashed through the back door, her face flushed with panic.

  “Benni, you have to come see what’s happening on TV.”

  “What?”

  “Over by the courthouse. A sniper shot at a police car!”

  CHAPTER 3

  MY FIRST INSTINCT WAS TO CALL GABE, BUT I RESISTED. HE didn’t need any distractions.

  We followed Laura into the woodworker’s room. The room smelled toasty and sharp from sawdust and linseed oil, and the equipment, normally whining and buzzing so loud the men shouted their conversations, was silent.

  Six men gathered around a small color television propped on a card table. The woodworkers liked watching sports or one of the cable home improvement stations while they made their tables, chairs, duck decoys and fancy shelving.

  The men moved aside, making a spot for me.

  “What’s going on?” I asked, peering into the small screen filled with cop cars and people. My heart raced, like I’d just run a fifty-yard dash.

  Ray, a longtime member of the co-op, pulled at his shaggy, brickcolored mustache and said, “Some punk shot at a police car parked on a side street next to the courthouse. It’s a spot reserved for officers bringing prisoners to their arraignments and trials. The driver’s-side window was shattered. Thank God, the officer had stepped out of the vehicle a minute before.” He crossed himself.

  “Lord, have mercy,” Dove murmured behind me, resting a hand on my shoulder.

  Filling the screen was one of San Celina’s local news anchors, Tiffany Connors. She stood across the street from the scene, shifting from one high-heeled foot to the other. Big Top Pizza’s large plate-glass window, painted with bright red, yellow and blue balloons, loomed behind her, an improbable backdrop. With her smooth blonde pageboy, twitchy upturned nose and enthusiastic voice, she gave every story the same high school “Let’s put on a play!” tone.

  “Why in the world is she reporting on this?” one guy asked.

  “Guess,” another replied.

  Tiffany was a local joke because she insisted on writing her own news copy, which, because of her lack of journalistic education or experience always stated the obvious. No one dared criticize her simplistic style to her face or in print because her father, Deck Connors, was the new owner of the San Celina Tribune and KSCC, our hometown television station.

  “At approximately twelve thirty-five p.m. a sniper fired at a San Celina police vehicle.” She flipped her head around to gaze up at the secondfloor apartments over Big Top Pizza, San Celina Fitness and a new coffeehouse called Bitter Grounds. Students primarily rented the cheap, noisy apartments, built in the thirties. “The alleged shooter broke into an apartment . . .” She turned stiffly and pointed to the second floor above the pizzeria. “. . . and used it for his dastardly deed, then disappeared, like a thief in the night. San Celina detectives are investigating. More information at our four p.m. broadcast. This is Tiffany Connors reporting for KSCC.” Before the camera was turned off, she’d already pulled a compact out of the pocket of her fitted black leather jacket and was checking for smudges underneath her spiky eyelashes.

  “Dastardly deed?” One of the woodworkers snickered. “Where did she go to broadcasting school, Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood?”

  “I resent her sexist use of the male pronoun,” Ray said. “It could have been a woman. San Celina’s SWAT team’s best sharpshooter is a woman, I hear.”

  “Maybe they should be checking to see if that officer has kept up with his child support payments,” one man commented.

  “Gabriel is probably fit to be tied,” Dove said. “You know he feels very protective about his officers.”

  “I’m going to the station,” I said. “Maybe Maggie can fill me in.”

  “Please call us as soon as you find out anything,” Aunt Garnet said, leaning on her cane. “We’re going on back to the ranch.”

  I drove the half mile to the police station where I was surprised to find the lobby completely empty. Then again, it was the middle of the day. All the officers were either out patrolling or down at the shooting scene, along with any reporters. Jacob, the officer behind the front window, recognized me and buzzed open the side door, letting me into the offices.

  “Hey, Mrs. Ortiz,” he said, his freckled face and spiky red hair reminding me of a grown-up Opie from the old Andy of Mayberry television series. “Chief’s still down at the shooting scene. Crazy, huh? Who would, like, shoot at a police car in the middle of the day? And right next to the courthouse. That’s crazy, huh?”

  “Unfortunately, there are lots of crazy people out there. Is Maggie here?”

  “Hasn’t left all day. Hey, how’d you hear about it so fast?”

  “I was at the folk art museum, and it came on the television. We caught the tail end of Tiffany’s report. Any information about a suspect?”

  He shook his head no.

  Maggie, Gabe’s assistant, was making a cup of tea at the credenza behind her desk. Both lines on her phone were lit, but she was obviously allowing them to go to voice mail.

  “Hey, Maggie. I came over as soon as I heard.”

  “Bad stuff,” she said, shaking her head while she dunked a tea bag. “Want some tea?” She wore a maroon business suit with thin black piping. Maggie and I had known each other since she was a girl. She and her sister, Katsy, owned a small cattle ranch outside Santa Margarita, near the Frio Inn. She’d worked for Gabe for a couple of years now, keeping his work life running smooth as a dish of flan.

  “No, thanks. Any word about which officer had a really lucky day?”

  “Or unlucky if you think about the nightmares he’ll likely have for the next, oh, ten years. It was Ryan Jacoby. He was taking a prisoner in for arraignment. It was actually supposed to be Miguel’s assignment, but he took the day off.”

  Miguel was one of Elvia’s younger brothers. Long before he was a police officer who worked for my husband, I had helped Elvia babysit him. I’d given that tough, barrel-chested cop more piggyback rides than I could remember. “Any leads on who did this dastardly deed?”

  She cocked her head, her dark brown eyes confused.

  “A direct quote from Tiffany Connors, girl reporter.”

  “Heaven help us,” Maggie said, giving a dainty snort. “Was Bart Simpson on another assignment today?”

  “Have any inside scoop?”

  “Nothing of significance. The detectives found the room where the shot was fired, but it’s just some college kid’s apartment—four college boys, to be exact—and they were all in class, perfect alibis. Still, they’ll be investigated—as the detectives like to say—down to the gnat’s ass. Pardon my French.”

  “Was the place broken into?”

  She sat down behind her desk, took a sip of her tea. “According to the detectives, there’s no evidence of it. Then again, it’s four college guys living there. My guess is there are probably a dozen keys to that apartment floating around this county and beyond. Or they might not even lock it. But you can count on anyone who has passed through those apartment doors during the last year will be found and interviewed.”

  I sat down on
one of her padded visitor’s chairs. “I’ll make a wild guess that there’s little physical evidence of the shooter’s presence.”

  “From what Detective Arnaud told me a few minutes ago the place is a pigsty—big surprise there, huh? And that finding clues was going to be like searching for an old copper penny in a swamp.”

  “Interesting turn of phrase. I don’t recognize that detective’s name. Who’s he?”

  She gave a half smile. “She’s a new detective. Gabe hired her about three months ago. She’s a very experienced investigator.”

  I held up my hands. “As Sam would say, my bad.” Sam was Gabe’s son, a student at Cal Poly and part-time ranch hand for my dad. “What’s she like?”

  “Yvette’s about your age, maybe a little older. Early forties? She and her husband moved here from Louisiana, though she’s originally from Santa Maria. I hear he’s a pretty famous photographer who has won some big awards.” She shrugged. “Not my area of expertise. They actually moved out to care for her sick mama. They’re living with her over in Arroyo Grande. It’s nice having more women hanging around this good ole boy’s club. She and I have talked a few times in the lunchroom. I like her. She keeps me posted on things.”

  “And you keep me posted, so I like her too. Do you think Gabe will be here soon, or should I just talk to him tonight?”

  “Actually, he called right before you walked in. He’s on his way back to the office. There’s not much more to do at the scene, and he has a meeting with the new prison warden at three p.m.”

  “Thanks, I’ll wait in his office.”

  I sat down in his high-backed leather chair and amused myself by doodling laughing dog faces on his official San Celina Police Department, Chief Gabriel Ortiz message pad. He walked through the door fifteen minutes later.

  “Give us five minutes, please, then get the mayor on the phone,” he called to Maggie, closing his office door.

  “Hey, Friday,” I said, standing up and going to him. “Sorry about the shooting.”

  He hugged me hard, resting his cheek on the top of my head. “How did you hear?”

  “I was at the folk art museum, and it was on the television in the woodshop. Is it true you have no idea who did this?”

  He kissed the top of my head and walked behind his desk. “Yes, and there’s not much to go on. I have my best investigators on it.”

  He sat down, glancing at his memo pad. My doodles made him smile briefly.

  “Do you think it could happen again?”

  His full bottom lip disappeared under his thick black and silver mustache.

  “For now, we’re treating it as a random act.”

  “Okay, what’s on for dinner?”

  “I forgot to tell you I’m having dinner with the sheriff tonight. She and I are taking out the new prison warden, filling him in on the way this county runs, and just getting to know him.”

  “Do you like him?”

  “Seems like a decent guy. Comes from Utah. You’re not going to believe this. His wife raises Pembroke Welsh corgis.”

  “That is an amazing coincidence.” Sally Schuler, San Celina’s sheriff, bred Pembrokes. “We were possibly invited to Emory and Elvia’s for a barbecue. Emory has a new gas grill. I’ll tell them we’ll take a rain check, and I’ll go to Liddie’s. It’s chicken and dumpling night.”

  “I’m jealous,” Gabe said.

  “Every third bite will be for you.”

  There was a soft tap-tap on the door. I stood on tiptoe and kissed the bottom of his chin. “My meter’s run out. See you tonight. Stay safe. If someone starts shooting at you, run like a rabbit.” That scene in the Pink Panther movie always made him laugh.

  He ruffled my hair, though he didn’t crack a smile. “You always make me feel better.”

  After talking a few more minutes to Maggie, hearing the latest gossip about the June wedding plans for her sister Katsy and her fiancé Levi, I headed for my car. It was almost three o’clock. Too early for dinner, so I decided to drop my truck off at the house and walk downtown to Blind Harry’s Bookstore to discuss the sniper shooting with Elvia.

  Blind Harry’s, the largest independent bookstore between Los Angeles and San Francisco, was Elvia’s biggest dream come true next to marrying Emory and having Sophia Louisa (or Sophie Lou as Emory and I called her, to Elvia’s consternation). She’d taken a small, semi-successful bookstore that she’d worked at since she was sixteen and turned it into one of San Celina’s crowning business jewels, a true destination bookstore. She’d been slowly buying the owner out when she married my cousin, and he bought the rest of it for her as a wedding present. And, because my cousin was the nicest, most liberated man on earth, Blind Harry’s was solely and completely in her name.

  The bookstore was one of the most enthusiastic sponsors of the Memory Festival, and it showed in their amusing front window display. Elephants—stuffed, china, bejeweled and books about them—dominated the scene. A clever touch, I thought. Inside the store, there were at least a dozen displays of books that celebrated anything to do with memory or oral history. There was even a section that promoted mnemonics, the study of tricks on how to remember things.

  Blind Harry’s was busy as always. The bookstore was popular with the town’s retired folks and tourists, and the downstairs coffeehouse was one of the favorite meeting places for college students and the town’s young professionals.

  I waved at the cashier, a young woman named Tara, whom my stepson Sam had recently started dating exclusively, though I’d been informed by him that it wasn’t actually called “dating”—that was apparently an “old-school” term. They were “hanging out” with each other on an exclusive basis, which sure sounded like dating to me.

  I headed upstairs to Elvia’s French country–style office and found her bundling little Sophie into a white fuzzy snowsuit-like outfit. Two floppy bunny ears sprouted from the hood.

  “Sophie Louisa Aragon Littleton, you are just downright cute enough to eat,” I said, bending close to her and making exaggerated smacking noises with my lips. I loved how a grown person was allowed to behave like a reject from clown school as long as it was in the interest of entertaining babies.

  “I’m going to confiscate your cousin’s credit cards,” Elvia said, zipping up Sophie’s bunny suit. “He wants photos of her in this costume for our Easter cards, which I’ve informed him he gets to address. Want to come with us? We’re going to that new photography studio next to Zack’s Photo Shak.”

  “I’ve walked by that place but have never gone inside. Looks cute. What’s it called . . . back something?”

  “Backdrops. The Cal Poly girls like it because they have lots of clever backgrounds like the Hollywood sign or Mammoth ski slopes.” She handed Sophie to me while she pulled on a gray wool jacket. “Is it still cold and rainy out? I haven’t left this office in hours.”

  “Pretty chilly. There are dark clouds, but no rain in the last few hours. So far, it’s looking good for the festival. Fingers crossed that Saturday stays dry, because we foolishly have no alternative plan.” I bounced Sophie up and down in my arms, making kazoo music with my lips. She giggled, smiling a wide, toothless grin.

  “Watch it, I just fed her,” Elvia warned.

  “I’ve helped deliver calves since I was eight years old. Baby barf doesn’t scare me.”

  “I wasn’t thinking about you. She just ate some peas. I don’t want her bunny suit messed up, at least until her pictures are taken.” She held out her arms.

  “Gotcha,” I said, handing Sophie back to her mama. “Where’s her stroller?”

  “Downstairs in the storeroom.”

  By the time Elvia had rounded up Sophie’s black and white polka-dotted designer diaper bag and her own purse, I had the stroller ready. Downtown was busy for a Monday afternoon. I wondered if there was something going on this week at Cal Poly. First week of March? Nothing going on that I could recall. Mardi Gras was last week, and the town had been relatively quiet since Ash Wed
nesday. It appeared that most Cal Poly students, as well as San Celina itself, were still recuperating from an always raucous Fat Tuesday celebration.

  At Backdrops we had six spring- or Easter-themed backgrounds to choose from. I liked the giant Easter basket filled with jelly beans and chocolate bunnies, but Elvia preferred the windmill and pink tulips background. While she consulted with Emory on her cell phone, I wandered around the studio’s lobby looking at the framed photograph samples. The photographer on duty was a man who appeared to be in his late forties with wavy, shoulder-length silver hair and a gold hoop earring in one ear. His even-featured face was conventionally handsome and unmemorable, like the perpetually grinning star of a cable cop show set in an unexpected, funky town like Oxford, Mississippi, or Eugene, Oregon. Right at this moment he looked extremely bored. I wondered how he ended up in this studio taking photos of college girls on fake surfboards and babies in bunny suits.

  “You and Benni think just alike,” I heard Elvia say. “I honestly think the bunny costume takes care of the cute department. An Easter basket background is going too far. No, it isn’t up for discussion.” Elvia made a face at me and then pointed at the door. Apparently it was going to be discussed. I gave her the okay sign that I would watch my goddaughter.

  While Elvia took the discussion outside, Sophie slept peacefully in her stroller, unconcerned with such a monumental decision.

  “She doesn’t seem to care one way or the other,” the long-haired photographer commented. He sat behind a fancy carved wooden desk, playing with a decorative pen and pencil set. “But then, they never do.”

  I looked at him curiously, not certain if his words were meant to be sarcastic. “It’s my friend’s first baby.”