“Thank you, thank you,” the mother said while I helped her brush grass and dirt off Ashley’s pink corduroy. “We were at the cotton candy booth and I turned my back and then the shots started and she lost sight of me and ran and . . .” The mother herself was two seconds away from complete hysteria.
“It’s okay,” I said, putting my arm around her gangly shoulders. “She’s okay and so are you. It was just firecrackers. Look.”
I pointed to the activity about twenty feet away. Four plainclothes and two uniformed officers had surrounded three very scared-looking teenage boys. We watched while they handcuffed them and walked them toward a cruiser parked in front of the historical museum.
“Jerks,” the young woman said.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” I asked her.
The woman nodded, clutching her little girl to her. “Yes, we’re fine.”
“Okay, don’t let this ruin your day. Don’t forget to go paint a square on the Memory Painting.”
“We won’t,” the woman said. “Thank you again.”
I caught up with D-Daddy. “Walk through the festival with the PA system and reassure people for as long as you think necessary. I want to find Dove and Aunt Garnet, make sure they’re okay.”
“Saw them over at the historical museum,” D-Daddy said.
Trailing behind the officers and the boys, I circled wide around them and ran across the museum’s grass. Dove and Aunt Garnet stood on the top step rubbernecking.
“What in heaven’s name is going on?” Aunt Garnet said. She looked at the front of my sweater. “And what happened to your sweater?”
I looked down at the beautiful sweater she’d made me and felt sick. My slide to catch the fleeing girl had added mud and grass stains to the hot cocoa stain. “Some idiot teenagers decided to shake everyone up by setting off firecrackers, and I had a mishap with a cup of cocoa and a scared little girl.”
“Hooligans,” Aunt Garnet said, patting her hair. “I hope they send them right up the river. Give me the sweater. I’ll take it home and get the stains out.”
“Typical teenage boys,” Dove said, rolling her eyes as I pulled off my sweater. “They just don’t think. Or rather they think for about two seconds and not always with their brains.” Dove, having raised three teenage boys, was a little more tolerant of their craziness than Aunt Garnet, whose only son had been a mild-mannered boy whose favorite pastime was reading Isaac Asimov and playing chess.
“Still, they need to be severely reprimanded,” Aunt Garnet said.
“Oh, Sister, they will be, I’m sure, once their mamas hear about it.”
We watched as the boys, who looked around fourteen or fifteen, were helped into the backseat of the police car.
“I hope it doesn’t cause people to leave the festival,” I said with a sigh. “D-Daddy’s going around with his portable PA and reassuring everyone. Maybe I should go by all the booths and do the same.”
“I’ll come with you,” Dove said. She turned to her sister. “I’ll meet you back here in about an hour. Do you want me to bring anything from any of the food booths? A doughnut, perhaps?” She grinned wickedly.
“You are a disgrace,” Aunt Garnet said but smiled back. “Don’t worry about your sweater, Benni. I am the queen of stain removal.”
“She is, indeed,” Dove said.
While my gramma and I walked toward the plaza, I asked, “Are you and Aunt Garnet doing okay?”
She waved her hand. “Pshaw. We’re just frustrated and taking it out on each other. It’s your daddy we’re really annoyed at. He is just flat-out avoiding us.”
“Gee, for the life of me, I can’t imagine why.”
“Do I hear sarcasm?” She pinched my upper arm.
“Maybe Daddy doesn’t want a woman in his life.” I thought about the red-haired woman with the leopard headband in Kitty’s Café. Maybe he already has one.
“Okay, I’ll lay off Ben for a moment and concentrate on you. What’s going on between you and Gabe?”
I kept walking and didn’t look at her. It appeared that the little firecracker incident hadn’t scared the crowds away. Everything looked like it did an hour ago. “We’re fine.”
“Huh.”
“No, really.”
She grabbed my upper arm and pulled me toward a bench next to the creek. “You look about as happy behind that phony smile of yours as a duck in a desert. Now sit yourself right down and tell me what’s going on, or I’m going to go directly to the chief himself and ask.”
I sat down hard on the stone bench. “Please, don’t call him. Gabe is under enough stress. He’s just having nightmares, and we’re both having a hard time sleeping. I think this sniper thing has rattled him. We’re handling it.” I stared down at the tips of my dirt-smudged boots. I’d scraped one toe when I hit the ground in Van’s booth.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” she said, placing her hand in the middle of my back.
I swallowed hard, wanting to lay my head on her chest like I did when I was a child. But I wasn’t a child anymore and this wasn’t her problem to solve. “I can handle it. We’ll be fine.” I said the words, but I couldn’t look at her. If I did, I knew I would burst into tears, and I couldn’t afford to do that right now. I had to be strong.
“Okay,” she said softly, reaching her arm around me in a hug. “But, remember, don’t become weary in doing this good thing. In the right time, if you don’t give up, God promises you will reap a harvest.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said.
“And, honey bun. Trust your heart. It’ll tell you what to do.”
I rested the side of my head on her shoulder for just the tiniest moment, swallowing my tears. “I’ll sure try.”
CHAPTER 13
THE MEMORY FESTIVAL CONCLUDED AT FIVE P.M. WITHOUT ANY further excitement. At four thirty, Tiffany Connors took a break from her father’s booth and interviewed me for the evening news. When I dressed that morning, it never occurred to me that I would be on television or that my beautiful fisherman’s knit sweater would be out of commission. I bemoaned those facts later that evening while we watched the eleven p.m. news and Gabe massaged my aching feet.
“Look at my hair!” I said. “My French braid looks like I slept in it for three days. Look at what I’m wearing!” Front and center on the television screen was a T-shirt that I’d never have chosen to be interviewed in. It had been a gift from Emory last Christmas. Across my chest in bold, black letters it whined—“I Feel Like a Banjo ’Cause Everyone’s Pickin’ on Me.”
“You look cute,” Gabe said, his fingers kneading the ball of my right foot.
“Yes, cute is exactly the professional image I was going for. Oh, right there. Yes, yes!” I gave a loud, dramatic groan. “That feels better than sex.”
“Thanks a lot.” He tickled my instep.
“Stop, stop, stop!” I struggled to pull my foot away. He laughed, held tight and then started massaging my left foot.
When he hit a particularly sore spot, I groaned again. “I just meant right at this moment it feels better than sex. Don’t get your Jockey shorts all in a wad.”
“Tell me, Mrs. Ortiz,” Tiffany said on the television. “Do you think we’ll be having a second Memory Festival next year?”
“I have no idea,” the TV me replied, looking wild-eyed. “Any volunteers to head the committee can contact me at the Josiah Sinclair Folk Art Museum.” I grinned at her, looking a little maniacal. “Are you busy, Ms. Connors?”
She gave a practiced chuckle. “I’ll leave the memory making up to you. This is Tiffany Connors for KSCC signing off.”
“Sky King, over and out,” I said, leaning my head back and closing my eyes.
“I loved that show.”
“Me too, though I actually saw the reruns, whereas you are so old you probably saw the original episodes.”
He good-naturedly slapped the bottom of my foot. “The last original episode ran in 1954. I was four years old. I saw the reruns to
o.”
“Well, excuse me, Mr. Trivial Pursuit,” I said, laughing. “I pined to be Penny King and have Daddy change his name to Sky. I used to bug Daddy about getting an airplane. I had visions of us flying over our cattle herds in a spiffy little Cessna.”
When the news was over, I turned off the television, and we were quiet for a moment. Bedtime had definitely become awkward between us. I contemplated whether I should mention Dr. Kaplan, how he seemed like a nice man and, even more important, was recommended by Cy Johnson, whom Gabe respected. But something inside warned this wasn’t the right time. Trust your heart, Dove had said. My heart was saying, Keep your trap shut . . . for now.
“What happened to the boys who set off the firecrackers?” I asked, trying to ease the discomfort between us.
“All three were fifteen years old, so we scared them a bit, then called their parents. They weren’t bad kids. None had records. They were just being squirrely and used some very poor judgment, considering the situation right now.”
“For a few seconds there, it really did scare people. This sniper has the county on edge.”
“The reward is up to $100,000. Deck Connors put up $25,000 himself.”
“Really? That’s interesting. Wonder why?”
He patted the top of my feet before lifting them off his lap. “No doubt he plans on running for some political office.”
While Gabe took a shower, I let Scout out for his final constitutional. Normally I’d walk him up and down the street, but with the sniper out there, I heeded Gabe’s request and stuck to our own backyard.
I took my shower, wrapped my robe around my still-damp body and padded across the hallway to the guest room. Gabe was already under the covers, hands laced behind his head, staring at the ceiling.
“Quarter for your thoughts,” I said, sitting down on the edge of the bed.
“Not worth that much. Just trying to relax. Tomorrow will be another stressful day.”
I gave him a long kiss. “Want company?” I murmured against his lips. Both his hands were already tangled in my hair.
He pulled back slightly, his eyes dropping down to my chest, hidden by my robe. “Benni, I don’t want . . .”
I touched his lips with one finger. “Shhh. Not all night. Just long enough to help you relax.” I undid my robe and let one side, the side without the bruise, slip off my shoulder, revealing his favorite thing for me to wear to bed—nothing.
“That ought to do it,” he said with a smile, reaching over and trailing a finger down the center of my damp breasts.
I reached over and turned out the bedside light, knowing that if he saw the bruise, it would break his heart again. I let my robe slip to the floor and I crawled under the covers, pressing myself against the hard length of his body, forgetting everything except this moment, this time and place where the world went dark and all I felt were his hands on my skin and his lips on my mouth.
Early the next day, when the light coming through our lacy curtains was still gray and dawn a rosy hint behind the hills, Gabe came into the master bedroom where, after we’d made love, I’d slept alone.
“I’m taking Scout for a run. Sleep in, querida.” He nuzzled my neck, his early morning beard as scratchy as a cat’s tongue. “You earned it.”
“I did . . .” I agreed, burrowing deeper into the quilts.
The next thing I heard was a dresser drawer open. I sat up, yawning, in time to see the bathroom door close.
“Gabe?”
“Sorry,” he called. “Didn’t mean to wake you, but I put off taking a shower as long as I could. I’m going down to the office for a few hours.”
“What time is it?” I mumbled, stretching the kinks out of my legs. The bedside clock read ten forty-five. “Shoot, I need to get up. I have to be at the folk art museum by noon.”
“What?” Gabe yelled over the shower flow.
“Nothing,” I called back, swinging my legs out of bed.
I was dressed and downstairs in fifteen minutes, attempting to smooth the wrinkles out of a dark blue plaid flannel shirt while waiting for a piece of toast.
“Where’re you off to in such a hurry?” he asked.
“Folk art museum. I promised someone they could use the pottery wheel today at noon.” Oh, I’m also going to do a little breaking and entering, but enough about my plans . . .
“Don’t you have people there who open up on Sunday?”
“This person is new to the co-op,” I said quickly, concentrating on my toast. “I want to show her around.”
“You’d better wear a jacket,” he said, pulling on his hiking boots, not suspecting a thing. I must be getting better at lying. “Looks like rain.”
I glanced out the kitchen window. Murderously dark clouds filled the sky. “If it rains, maybe the sniper will stay home.”
Gabe gave a noncommittal grunt.
I spread peanut butter on my toast and folded it in half, so I could eat it on the run. “Now that I think about it, jogging this morning probably wasn’t your smartest move. What if he was out there waiting for you?”
He was silent, which usually meant I’d struck a nerve and he agreed with me but wasn’t going to admit it.
“I stayed close to home,” he finally said.
I shot him a look because we both knew it was an illogical remark. No one could predict this sniper’s agenda. “I’m just saying . . .”
“Your comment is duly noted.” He came over, lifted up my hair and kissed the nape of my neck. “You were incredible last night. Have you been reading Cosmopolitan or something?”
“Oh, please,” I said, pushing him back with my butt. “A Cosmo girl I’m not.”
“Well, ma’am,” he drawled, encircling me with his arms. “I thank you kindly for the scintillating and titillating evening.”
“You are so full of baloney, but you’re welcome.” I took a bite of my sandwich. “How long will you be at the office?”
“I have no idea. I’ll call you. Want to go to Morro Bay for dinner tonight? I’ll buy.” His smile was more relaxed than I’d seen it in days. It never ceased to amaze me how a roll in the hay could totally transform a man. Temporarily, anyway.
“Sounds good to me. It also sounds like a bribe.”
“I prefer the word seduction.”
“Shoot, I’d sleep with you for half a shredded-beef taco, but if you’re offering a lobster tail and some clam chowder, I’ll take it. Love you mucho muchly.” I blew him a kiss and headed for the front door.
“Te amo mucho, querida,” he replied.
I arrived at the museum by eleven forty-five. Lin pulled in as I was stepping out of my truck.
“Do you mind if I start early?” she asked, while we made our way to the co-op buildings.
“Go right ahead. No one is using it before or after you. Take all the time you need.”
She walked down the hall, and I went into my office. I paced back and forth in the small room, realizing I finally had to get on the bus or watch it drive away. There was only a small window of time for me to drive to Morro Bay and attempt to break into her room. I looked down at my black plastic Daffy Duck watch. Gabe had given it to me a few years back with the comment that Daffy and I had similar smart mouths. I pictured the silly watch being listed under “prisoner’s personal property” after I was arrested. That would give everyone at the station a big laugh. It would also be an amusing anecdote at my funeral, because after the Morro Beach police arrested me, I had no doubt that Gabe would kill me. But my determination to find out what Lin was doing in San Celina was stronger than my fear of Gabe’s wrath.
Please, I thought, not calling it a prayer as that would be wrong on so many levels, let the hotel patrons be transient tourists and the maids be uninterested or deaf or blind or all of the above. Let me be a ghost.
And, I added, help me find a way into the room. Because it now occurred to me that was the part of my plan that I’d not figured out. A possible scenario rattled around in my head. Maids usual
ly cleaned rooms around noon while people were busy checking out. I could pretend Lin’s room was my room and I forgot something in it and my key was in my car . . . yes, that was good. Except for one thing . . .
I didn’t know her room number.
Dang. How would I find that out? What was a believable reason for me to ask her that information? Why hadn’t I worked all of this out last night?
Okay, I knew the Spotted Pelican was probably new because I knew most of the hotels in Morro Bay and the name didn’t sound familiar. Maybe I could ask Lin about the hotel, if she liked it, did her room have a view and, by the way, what room was she staying in?
Lin had already set up and was starting the wheel when I walked into the small back room.
“If you need anything, just ask one of the other co-op members,” I told her. Though it was slow, there were a couple of other artists working. “Or ask the docent in charge.”
“Thank you so much for arranging this,” she said, rubbing her wide forehead with the back of one hand. Pale lavender stained the thin skin under her eyes. Though it had only been a few days since we’d spent the day together, something about her seemed different, an air of desperation or fatigue. “I’m stressed and need time with the clay.”
“No problem,” I replied, feeling like the biggest phony on earth.
I lingered for a moment, trying to figure out a way to ask about her hotel, when I saw her large leather handbag sitting on the floor.
“Would you like to keep your purse in my office?” I asked. “It might get dirty out here. I’m on my way to run some errands. I can stick it in there on my way out.”
“I suppose,” she said, staring at her lump of clay, already in that artistic fugue I’d become familiar with working with artists. “But it’s already pretty dirty.”
“No use making it worse,” I said, keeping my voice light. I picked the bag up and slung it over my shoulder. “It’ll be in the right bottom drawer. My office door will be closed, but feel free to go right in.”
“Thanks,” she murmured, starting the wheel.
Once I was in my office, I closed the door, almost crowing like a rooster at my cleverness. I dug through her purse, past her wallet, some prescription medicine bottles, a couple of energy bars, tissue and a brush. I finally found the paper key packet stuck in an inside pocket. A cartoon character of a pelican who appeared to have chicken pox was printed on the packet along with the address—55 Ocean Bluff Way. Room 312. And there were two plastic room keys. So even if she looked through her purse while I was gone, there was a good possibility she wouldn’t immediately realize one of her keys was missing.
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