Goose in the Pond
Page 15
“Benni, what you doing?”
Grabbing the adobe wall for support, I turned and faced D-Daddy. The severe expression on his weathered face reminded me that he once captained a fishing boat full of rough, sea-hardened deckhands.
“Nothing,” I said, climbing down from the teetering stool. “There . . . I thought I saw a loose thread in one of Evangeline’s squares. I took care of it.” I startled myself with the quickness of my lie. What instinct kept me from revealing the real reason I was inspecting the quilt?
He gave me an odd look and took the stool from my hands. “Better be careful, ange,” he said. His black eyes held tiny pinpoints of light.
“What?”
He held the stool up and jiggled the loose legs. “These chairs, they aren’t too steady, no. You could fall and hurt yourself. I’d better take this out the back and glue it.”
“Okay, thanks.” Following him to the studios, I wondered if this twinge of foreboding I felt was real or just a figment of my sometimes overactive imagination. D-Daddy didn’t seem happy I was inspecting his daughter’s quilt so closely, and that made me wonder why. I’d learned one thing about story quilts as I’d talked to the quilters and fabric artists as they made and discussed them these last few months. They were often like personal journals and used to either celebrate some wonderful memory or sometimes purge a bad one. I wanted to take another look at Evangline’s quilt, only now I would have to be more discreet about it.
At eleven-thirty, Elvia called.
“Mama’s serving lunch at noon,” she said “Pick me up, okay?”
“Sure. What’s she making?”
“White enchiladas.”
“I’m on my way.”
On the drive over, my thoughts compulsively turned back to all the tiny connections and ambiguities that surrounded Nora and her murder. What did we know so far? That Nora owned Bonita Peak and was going to sell it to developers. That made Peter a more than likely suspect, and he had plenty of access to ropes through the mountain climbing store where he worked. Both Roy and Grace had grudges against her and also had access to ropes. Oh, for cryin’ out loud, Benni, I said to myself. Everyone in San Celina County has access to ropes. Then there was the new development of her being the Tattler. If someone besides Will Henry knew her identity, it was possible other people knew it, too. Would they kill her over a nasty piece of gossip? I thought back over the last few months of the Tattler’s column. Was there anything there bad enough to kill someone over? Not that I could remember. It would have to be something so terrible it would ruin someone’s life. It all felt like a game of Scrabble when you get your letter tiles and, no matter which way you arrange them, can’t make any words. If you just had a few vowels—
Elvia was waiting for me in front of Blind Harry’s. “Mama’s really looking forward to seeing you,” she said, climbing into the truck.
“I’m looking forward to seeing her, too. Not to mention her atole. Gabe asked me to sneak him some.”
“We’d better get some while we can. The brothers and their familias are coming over tonight. That’s the equivalent of a swarm of locusts.”
The house where Elvia grew up was in an older section of San Celina where the houses were as individual as the people who lived there, many of them, like the Aragons, for more than forty years. Her parents’ neat yellow-and-white woodframe house sat on a huge corner lot that was the envy of the neighborhood. Flowering beds of red and pink impatiens and dozens of blooming rosebushes surrounded the house. They received almost as much loving care from Elvia’s mom as her fourteen grandchildren. Two huge walnut trees thick with leaves shaded the green lawn, trunk sections slick as glass from the decades of children who’d shimmied up and down them like little spider monkeys. I’d spent many cool and comfortable hours perched on one of the tree’s massive branches, reading or giggling with Elvia as we threw green walnuts on her protesting brothers below us. The house itself always reminded me of a patchwork quilt, with rooms tacked on like bright happy squares, making it bigger as each new baby came into the family.
Inside Señora Aragon’s red and yellow kitchen, the smoky smells of hand-burned chilies and simmering pinto beans flooded me with warm memories of rainy afternoons after school sitting at the round maple dining table doing math homework with Elvia, waiting for Dove to pick me up. Elvia hugged her mom and set a basket of fresh strawberries on the table.
“Chiquita,” Señora Aragon said, taking my face in her plump, brown hands and kissing my cheek. “You look bueno. The señor, he is treating you right?” She searched my face with inquisitive eyes.
“Yes,” I said, smiling. “He’s a pain sometimes, but he’s treating me fine. He’d have to answer to you and Dove otherwise.”
She clicked her tongue. “Sí, he is a pain. He is a man, no?” She pointed at the strawberries and said to Elvia, “M’hija, put these over on the counter and help Benni set the table. The enchiladas are ready.”
We spread the red-and-white plastic tablecloth over the table and helped Señora Aragon set out the creamy white enchiladas, Spanish rice, pinto beans, and hot flour tortillas. After answering Señora Aragon’s questions about the health of my family and how my job was going, I fell into silence and listened to her and Elvia discuss the latest family gossip, which was, by sheer virtue of its size, quite detailed and extensive. As their conversation gradually fell into the half-Spanish, half-English they felt comfortable speaking around me, I let my mind wander, remembering the happy hours I’d spent in this kitchen and anticipating the sweet-tasting atole I was going to eat in the next few minutes. A familiar name caused me to mentally rejoin the conversation.
“Juanita Ayala,” Señora Aragon was saying.
“Ayala?” I repeated. “Is she related to Dolores Ayala? The Ayalas who own the Celina Cantina Restaurant on Marsh Street?”
Elvia nodded. “Her mother. Mama was just telling me about talking to Señora Ayala after mass on Sunday. Apparently they almost lost the restaurant a while back. They were damaged heavily during that horrible rain last winter because their roof was bad, and they never completely recouped their losses.” Elvia shook her head, her thick-lashed eyes narrowing in disapproval. “They only carried the minimum insurance and didn’t keep it current. Really stupid move, business-wise. Insurance is the one thing I never scrimp on.”
“Don’t be so hard on them, m’hija,” her mother said. “They lose so much money when Roberto was in hospital with his kidneys.” She stood up and picked up my empty plate. “Sometimes the times are harder than the money you save for them.” Her voice held a gentle reproof.
“I know, Mama,” she said. “I’m not saying anything against them, but it wasn’t a smart business move.”
Señora Aragon stacked my plate on Elvia’s and said to me, her eyes dancing with amusement, “Not everyone is as smart as mi hija la patrona, eh, chiquita?”
“I’ d venture to say no one,” I answered, laughing as I dodged Elvia’s swatting hand.
As Señora Aragon dished up the vanilla-scented puddinglike atole, making sure I got plenty of pineapple chunks just like when I was a girl, I asked, “You said almost, Mama Aragon. Did they get a loan or something?”
“She tells me only that the Virgin Mary answered her prayers, and they got some money from heaven.” She rolled her eyes skyward as if checking to see if any bills would come floating down and bless her. She shrugged and handed me a ceramic bowl of the dessert. “When mass was over, we lit some candles like we always do.” She purposely avoided looking at her daughter. Elvia let out an irritable breath. Her mother had been lighting candles in an attempt to get her daughter married since Elvia turned eighteen. “She whispered to me—for the Sinclairs.”
“The Sinclairs?” I said, puzzled. “Did they loan them the money?”
Señora Aragon set a bowl in front of Elvia and gestured for us to start eating. “No loan,” she said, wiping her hands on her faded cotton apron. “She says they owe no one. She lit a candle for t
hat, too. To thank God.”
I thought about that as I finished my dessert and helped clear the table. Brushing away our offer to do the dishes, Señora Aragon walked with us out to the truck and handed me a Tupperware bowl full of atole. “Tell Gabriel he has not been to see me in a long time and I am keeping count. Next time, he only gets atole if he comes to get it.”
“I’ll tell him,” I said, kissing her cheek. “He’s just been very busy these last few days. I guess Elvia probably told you his son is visiting.”
She nodded and smoothed back a strand of gray hair that had the nerve to sneak out of her tight bun. “It is good for a man to know his son better.”
Elvia hugged her mom and reminded her what the doctor said, to sit down and rest once in a while.
“Ah,” Señora Aragon replied, swatting irritably at the air around her. “Plenty of time to rest when I die.”
“Why would the Sinclairs give the Ayalas money?” I asked the minute Elvia closed the truck door.
“This is the most uncomfortable vehicle I’ve ever ridden in,” she complained, strapping the seat belt around her waist. “You know, Gabe makes a good salary. Why don’t you get rid of that old Harper pickup of yours and buy yourself a new car?”
“If I had a new car, I’d be having to cart Sam around everywhere because I wouldn’t let him drive it, and Gabe wouldn’t let him drive this truck or the Corvette.” I shifted into third with a jerk. I still had a bit of a problem with gears on the steering column. “This is a classic, Elvia. You of all people should appreciate that.” She owned a perfectly restored 1959 Austin-Healey with the original upholstery.
“I feel like a farmhand riding in this,” she complained.
“Don’t be a snob. We both come from a long line of farmhands. Why do you think the Sinclairs would give the Ayalas money?”
“I have no idea. They certainly run in different social circles. Maybe Constance just likes the restaurant and doesn’t want it to close.”
“Then I could picture them loaning the Ayalas money, but giving it to them? Remember, this is Constance Sinclair we’re talking about. She’s been very generous with the folk-art museum, but it is named after her grandfather. I don’t think she’s ever given any money where it wasn’t made very clear and public that she was the donor. She likes praise and gratitude. In great quantities and very openly.”
“Maybe Jillian gave them the money and Constance doesn’t know about it. Jillian’s pretty well heeled herself, I hear.”
“Maybe, but that would be even weirder.” I pulled in front of Blind Harry’s and idled in front.
“Why?”
“Let’s just say there is no love lost between Dolores and Jillian. They both want Ash Stanhill’s head in their trophy case.”
“Or whatever,” Elvia said, pulling out her purse and reapplying a layer of crimson lipstick. “I can’t abide that man. And it’s not jealousy because his restaurant is doing so well.” She twisted the gold tube closed. “Do you know he’s refused to join the downtown merchants’ association? Said he doesn’t have time to sit around with a bunch of small-timers discussing trash cans and washing sidewalks. Cretin.”
“Ask around about the Ayalas, okay? Just to ease my curiosity.”
She gave me a doubtful look. “Whenever you talk like that, I know you’re headed for trouble. Does Gabe know about this?”
“There’s nothing for him to know. I’m just curious, that’s all.”
She climbed out of my double-parked truck, giving a severe schoolmarm look at the car honking behind me. “I don’t like it. Whenever you use the word curious, I always end up having to visit you in the hospital.”
Since it was past three o’clock, I dropped by the museum one last time to check on things, gave a few final orders, and headed home. I was pleased to find the house empty, but assumed that by suppertime the others would be wandering in, so I put on a chicken to bake and then checked the answering machine.
The first message was from Gabe. “I’ll be home by six. Love you.”
The second was from Dove. “I’ll be home for supper, honeybun. I’m starved. Spent the day cataloging farm utensils at the Historical Society.”
The third was from Sam. “Don’t wait up. Bye.”
Great. Gabe was going to love that one.
The last message was in a strong, Arkansas twang. “Micah 6:12.” The click of the slammed receiver echoed across the empty room.
The Old Testament not being my strong suit, I pulled out my Bible and looked it up. This verse was a new one in Dove and Garnet’s battle of the memory verses.
“Her rich men are violent; her people are liars and their tongues speak deceitfully.”
Oh, that’ll get a rise out of Dove, I thought, setting the leather Bible back down on the coffee table. Her people are liars . . . was Aunt Garnet calling me a liar, too? Geez, I didn’t want to be included in this biblical Hatfield and McCoy feud.
I sliced unpeeled potatoes and laid them in a long casserole dish, covered them with garlic pepper, drizzled butter and chopped red onions, and parked them next to the chicken in the oven. I was washing fresh green beans when Gabe walked into the kitchen.
“Smells good,” he said, nuzzling the back of my neck. “And the food does, too.”
I turned around and kissed him. “Have a good day?”
“Not really, but I don’t want to talk about it.”
He pulled off his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt. “Need some help?” I purposely stayed away from the topic of Nora’s murder while we finished washing the green beans and put them in the steamer. As he set the table I told him about my lunch with Elvia and her mom. Not certain yet whether it meant anything, I left out the part about the Sinclairs saving the Ayalas’ restaurant.
“Did Señora Aragon send any atole?” he asked hopefully.
“Yes, but next time she says you have to come get it yourself.”
Dove walked in just as Gabe was carving the chicken. Rita came in a few minutes later.
“We can get started. Sam has other plans,” I said, ignoring Gabe’s scowl. Make up your mind, I wanted to snap. Do you want him here or not?
After supper, I casually mentioned to Dove that she had a message on the answering machine.
“From who?” she asked, her blue eyes flashing.
I shrugged. “They didn’t leave a name.”
As she listened to the message her cheeks turned pink. “That . . . that . . .” she sputtered. “Of all the nerve.” She glared at all of us, then fled to the guest room, slamming the door behind her. Rita rolled her eyes and took her iced tea out on the front porch.
Gabe looked at me, confused. “What in the world does that Bible verse say?”
I smiled. “Oh, it’s not so much what it says, although that’s going to make her mad, too. It’s where it’s from. They’ve had this battle of verses before, but they’d always stuck to the New Testament, which both of them have practically memorized. By giving a verse from the Old Testament, she’s making Dove actually look it up, which gives Garnet the upper hand. That means Dove will have to find a suitable rejoinder from the Old Testament so Garnet will have to look it up. It’s a whole new spin on their old game.” I groaned and flopped down on the couch. “This could go on for decades.”
He shook his head and laughed. “Your family is certifiably nuts.”
“Tell me a new story, Chief.”
He glanced around the empty living room. “If I’ve learned nothing else these last few days, it’s that I’d better take a shower when the bathroom is free.” He started unbuttoning his shirt. “Then I have some reports to read.”
I joined Rita out on the porch swing. Dusk had begun to fall, cool and silky, bringing the ocean breezes and the clean smell of Mr. Treton’s freshly mowed lawn. We swung silently for a few moments, the squeak of the swing imitating the late summer crickets.
“You doin’ okay?” I asked. She’d been unusually quiet during supper.
“How did your date with Ash go?”
“All right,” she said. “We went and heard a blues band. Then we had dinner at his restaurant, but something came up and he had to leave. So I called here, and Sam came and got me.”
We didn’t speak for a few more minutes. “So what did the lawyer say?” I finally asked.
I heard a small sniffle. “I can get a divorce anytime. Daddy said he’d wire me the money. All I had to do was ask.” Another small sniffle.
For the first time since she arrived, I felt sorry for her. “Rita, is that what you want?”
“I want him to never have screwed around on me,” she said bitterly. “I want—” She started crying softly. “Shoot, Benni, I still love him. What a stupid fool, huh? The guy’s a lyin’ cheat, and I still love him.”
“You’re not a stupid fool,” I said, putting my arm around her. “The problem is we can’t always choose who we fall in love with. I don’t know what to tell you, though. This is something only you can decide.”
“The lawyer said I should think about it for a few weeks.”
“He’s right.” A part of me panicked. “Uh, are you going to be heading on back to Arkansas soon? I bet your mom really misses you.”