“Don’t kid yourself. I will.”
“Would I kid the police chief’s wife?” He turned and picked up his toolbox. “See you tonight.”
As I watched him walk away it occurred to me that he never mentioned the newspaper article. I couldn’t help wondering if he’d suspected that Nora was the Tattler. Being married as long as they had, I knew from my own experience that there were little patterns of speech, certain words that, if he was paying attention, might have tipped him off. On the other hand, maybe he didn’t even read the column.
I saddled up Tony, a three-year-old sorrel quarter horse, and headed toward the path behind Grace’s house that followed San Celina Creek. I rode for about an hour, enjoying the rhythmic creaking of the saddle leather, the soft hum of bees darting around the orange California poppies, and the smell of the wild onion and goldenrod. Tony’s smooth gait relaxed me, and I let my mind drift, idly identifying wildflowers from knowledge gained during my 4-H days—copper red and orange blazing stars, hairy prickly poppies, tall, prideful prince’s plume. About a half mile from the stable, I stopped under a blue oak tree next to the creek and dismounted, letting Tony graze for a few minutes. I was leaning up against the tree trunk, tossing ripe acorns into the creek, when Jillian rode up.
“Just the lady I needed to speak to,” she said. She stayed mounted on Fred, and from my place on the ground his eighteen hands made him appear as enormous as the Trojan horse. He blew wet air and shook his head.
She patted his huge neck. “I have something for you and the museum down at the library.”
“Really, what?”
“Money.”
I smiled up at her. “With humble apologies to Julie Andrews, I believe I like that a whole lot better than whiskers on kittens. Who’s giving it to us, and what do we have to do for it?”
“Some friend of Aunt Constance’s who collects quilts,” she said. “It’s only two hundred dollars, but money’s money.”
“I don’t care if it’s twenty bucks, I’ll take it.” I reached up and fondled Fred’s velvety muzzle. “Guess you’ll miss the after-hours storytelling session Saturday night.” Copying the Santa Barbara festival, we’d elected to have an adult storytelling hour featuring stories too scary or mature for kids.
“Unfortunately, yes. My event is at nine o’clock Sunday morning, and I want both of us to be rested for it.” Fred startled when a bumblebee swung past his head. I jumped backward as she calmly brought him under control.
“How’s things settling down at the library?” I asked.
She absently combed Fred’s glossy mane with her fingers. “Everyone’s still talking about it, but we’re basically back to normal.”
“Did you read this morning’s Tribune?”
She frowned deeply and moved both reins to her left hand. “Yes, and I think it’s rapidly sinking to the depths of the Freedom Press. Why can’t they just leave the poor woman alone? I feel so bad for Nick. This will devastate him.”
“Were you surprised? I sure was.”
She continued combing Fred’s hair, her eyes sympathetic. “You know, not much surprises me anymore. I liked Nora, but it was obvious she was a troubled person.”
I didn’t answer because I felt sort of foolish. It hadn’t been obvious to me. I’d found her pleasant and completely easy to talk to once I pushed all Grace’s prejudiced comments to the back of my mind. But then again, maybe I’d have felt differently had I known she was the Tattler. I tried to remember what all we talked about as we were labeling and folding festival brochures. I hoped it wasn’t anything she could use to embarrass Gabe. Not that I had to worry about it now.
She rode past me and called over her shoulder, “If I’m not there, just ask my secretary to give you the check. It’s under my crystal dolphin paperweight. See you tonight.”
I watched her move through the tall grass until she crossed the creek and rode up into a stand of oak trees. She appeared small and defenseless atop such a large animal, but I knew that was only an illusion. She was an expert horsewoman and, more importantly, hated to lose. I had no doubt she’d take first place in her event on Sunday.
After grooming Tony and putting him on the hot walker, I told Grace’s stable hand, Kyle, to let Grace know exactly what I’d done with Tony. Roy’s specially equipped farrier truck was gone, so I assumed he was out on a job. I decided to drop by the museum one more time on the chance that there might be more fires between the artists that needed tamping out. Though I loved the special festivals and programs we put on four or five times a year at the museum, I dreaded the inevitable clashes between the co-op members. The whispered topic of the day was, of course, the news of Nora’s secret job.
I spent the next few hours putting the finishing touches on my opening speech interspersed with people drifting into my office, asking me if I’d heard and giving me their two cents on Nora Cooper’s motivation. A story had started circulating about her being killed because of the last column she wrote. If they found the column, they’d find the killer. As intriguing as that speculation was, it was exactly that. We’d most likely never know what was in that column since all her computer disks were missing. That, apparently, was one piece of information that the Tribune didn’t know. More than one person tried to pry out of me what the police had found when they searched her place, but I was determined that no one was going to find out anything by looking at my face. To avoid more questions, I left for the library to pick up the check.
Once there, I headed straight for Nick’s office, purposely ignoring the library employees’ questioning faces. He sat at a computer typing words and symbols I assumed somehow correlated with the books on the shelves.
“Hey, guy, how’re you doing?” I sank down into the office chair next to his cluttered desk. He punched a few more keys, then swung his chair around to face me. His eyes were still red-rimmed, but the whites seemed a little clearer today.
“Okay, I guess. I’m letting my staff work the front desk for a few days while I hide in here.” He ran his hand over his face. “That newspaper article has everyone gawking at me like I’m a sideshow freak.”
“Did you know?” I asked, then instantly regretted it. “I’m sorry, that’s really none of my business.”
“It’s all right.” He leaned back in his chair. “I think I suspected, but she never came right out and said. I knew she wrote that art column for the Freedom Press and that she and Will Henry were pretty tight. I guess I was sort of hoping all the time she spent there was just the beginning of a romance or something. She needed something to get her mind off Joey’s death and getting revenge on Roy and Grace. We argued about it a lot, her getting on with her life. It seems like the last six months that’s all we did was argue. But she would never listen to me. I was just her little brother. She was acting crazy in so many ways, wandering around Central Park after dark, following Roy and his girlfriend until they called the cops on her, hanging out in bars over by the interstate.” Bitterness flickered in his eyes. “What could I do? All I wanted was for her to be happy. But it seemed like she was doing everything she could to avoid it, like it was some penance she had to pay.”
I chewed on my bottom lip for a moment. “Maybe we can’t help people in that kind of pain. Maybe the best thing to do is just be there when they need us.” Good advice, I told myself. Why does it sound so logical and easy when you’re giving it to someone else?
“And what if they never need anyone? Are we supposed to just sit there and let them destroy themselves without even trying to help?”
“I don’t know,” I answered honestly, thinking how similar all our human problems were. “I guess it’s just one of those things you have to play by ear.”
He turned back to the computer, studying the numbers and letters as if the answer could be there somewhere in all that brightly lit information. “If you find out anything more, will you let me know?”
I paused, not wanting to make a promise that might prove impossible to keep. “If I c
an.”
I went by Jillian’s office, but she apparently hadn’t gotten back from her lunch break yet. Her secretary, an auburn-haired girl with frizzy bangs and Ben Franklin eyeglasses, led me into Jillian’s neat, bleached-pine office.
The phone buzzed, and her secretary, gesturing toward Jillian’s desk, scurried out to answer it.
I walked over to the sliding-glass window and gazed out at the new patron’s patio and garden that overlooked Central Park. It was the library’s final construction project, and Jillian had personally thrown a T.G.I.O.—“Thank Goodness It’s Over”—after-hours party for the employees and other people who’d suffered during the construction. We’d eaten catered shrimp puffs, egg rolls, and chocolate fondue while strolling through the authentic English-style garden. The patio off Jillian’s office that led to the garden had been decorated with hundreds of pink and black balloons and blooming rose trees. Jillian looked gorgeous that night in a sparkly silver dress and her aunt’s ruby earrings. A trooper to the end, you never would have guessed she’d received a “Dear Jane” telegram that very day. Her tale of romantic misfortune spread with grass-fire speed as things always did in San Celina. But according to Nick, she never missed a day of work or ever let on she was hurt. She’d never even put away his picture, he’d said. Then he had added, “I think she’s still hoping he’ll come back.”
More forgiving than I’d be, I thought, picking up the glass dolphin. The check for the folk-art museum was right where she said it would be. When I turned to leave, my eye caught the silver frame that displayed her husband’s picture. I picked it up and studied it closely. He was indeed handsome, breathtakingly so, sitting on his polo pony, his blond hair shiny with damp curls, his grin self-assured and white as chalk dust. Around the eyes, he reminded me a little of Ash Stanhill.
“Find the check?” Jillian said, startling me. She was dressed in an tawny brown linen suit with a short skirt that showed off her slender legs. A gold horse-shaped pin decorated one wide lapel.
I set the photograph down, my face tingling with shame. “Yes, thanks.”
She walked briskly around her whitewashed pine desk. “Good. I’m sure you can use it.”
“Yes, we can,” I stammered, still horribly embarrassed. She sensed my discomfort and gave me a serene smile.
“I don’t mind you looking at my husband’s picture, Benni.”
“He’s very handsome,” I said.
“Yes, he is.” She ran her fingers over the top of the frame. “For a long time, I thought he’d come back. I know everyone laughs at me behind my back. I know how this town works, but sometimes it’s hard to let go of the past. Even when it wasn’t that great, at least it was familiar.”
I nodded. It was an insight that had never occurred to me, missing a troubling past simply because it was familiar. But losing as much as she did, so young, I could almost see how familiarity and consistency could be as important to her as love and loyalty was to me.
She sat down in her pale leather executive chair and started shuffling papers. “It’s Angelo’s at seven tonight, right?”
“Yes, and hopefully this meeting will be a bit calmer than the last.”
“Don’t place too large a bet on that one,” she said with a small laugh.
I was halfway out the door when she called me back.
Her small features pinched into a troubled look. “Benni, I . . . I have something I need to tell you. Could you close the door, please?”
I did as she asked, waiting expectantly.
Her deep blue eyes looked directly into mine. “There’s something I failed to inform the detectives when they questioned me.”
Though I knew the judicious thing would be to tell her to contact the detectives, I compulsively asked, “What?”
“On Saturday I told them the last people to leave were Nick, Nora, and Dolores.” She touched a finger to her mouth nervously. “Nick has keys and knows the lockup procedure. When I left, he was looking something up in Books in Print for Dolores, a book she needed for her storytelling performance this weekend.”
“Where was Nora?”
“I saw her through the window as I was doing the traditional last walk through the library. She was in the children’s computer room working on something.”
“Did you tell the detectives all this?”
“Yes.”
“Then what . . . ?”
“I came back.” She gave a jittery laugh. “I’d forgotten my briefcase and I came in the employee entrance, through Technical Processing. I was going to dash up the back stairs and pick it up. That’s when I heard them.”
“Who?”
“Nick and Nora. They were fighting. He was really yelling at her. I was shocked. I’d never heard him even raise his voice before.”
“What were they fighting about?”
She shrugged. “I didn’t stick around to find out. I was so horribly embarrassed that I just left my briefcase. At the bottom of the stairs, I bumped into Dolores. She heard them, too. You can ask her. We both mumbled something inane and went to our respective cars.”
“Do you think she told the police?”
“I have no idea, but that’s why I thought I’d better tell someone. If she did, I didn’t want it to look like I was covering up anything.”
I looked at her pointedly. “Except you were.”
Her cheeks flushed shell pink. “Yes, I suppose I was. It’s just that I know Nick wouldn’t kill his sister and I didn’t want him suffering any more than he already has.”
“I agree with you about Nick, but the police need to know everything possible about what happened the last few hours of Nora’s life even if it seems irrelevant.” Which, I thought, this was anything but.
“Could you tell Gabe for me?” she asked.
“Yes, but you know you’ll be getting another visit from a detective. They’ll probably want to corroborate your story with Dolores’s.”
“I know. Everything I told you was the truth. She’ll verify that.” Her voice trembled slightly. “Benni, I held back this information because I really care about Nick. When I first took over the library, he was one of the few people who had an open mind about me and didn’t assume I was just window dressing placed here by my aunt. Please make Gabe understand that. It wasn’t my intention to break the law or make the investigation more difficult.”
“He’ll understand, I’m sure.” Sure, and I’m going to be voted the next Miss Rodeo America.
I ate lunch at a new Mexican restaurant near the library where the owners didn’t know me. It was a relief to eat my chile relleños in peace without having to talk about Nora’s murder and answer the awkward question—just what is your husband going to do about it? Not to mention the somewhat embarrassing fact that everyone assumed I knew more than I did. That’s why I ended up with confidences like Jillian’s. Though there had to be some advantages to being the police chief’s wife, I’d yet to discover them.
Rooting around in my purse for something to read while I ate, I came across the maroon datebook I’d taken out of Gabe’s briefcase this morning. I idly flipped through the daily calendar part, sampling a piece of cramped writing here and there. Gabe was right, the Datebook Bum must have been an intelligent man. I went back to January 1 and started reading. The entries were short, to the point, and meticulously kept. They recorded everything from what he ate at the Mission Food Bank that day (January 27—“Baked chicken breast, mashed potatoes, and corn this evening. Ate all but two bites of corn. Chicken overdone.”) to whom he spoke to (February 9—“Ms. Aragon from Blind Harry’s said good morning. She wore her yellow suit today. Donna at San Celina Creamery gave me a vanilla cone. Turned down offer of sprinkles.”) to what junk he collected (“Deck of playing cards minus red diamond queen and ace of spades—table outside of Art Center; Six cans—three Coke, two Pepsi, one Dr Pepper—garbage bin outside Angler Sporting Goods; five ballpoint pens, two working, three not, plastic bag outside Bryant’s Business Supply”). This went
on for pages and pages.
After reading through three months of entries, I began to perceive a pattern. Like a milkman he’d established a regular route in a roughly two-mile radius. It began and ended at Blind Harry’s but took in at least fifty other stops including a health food store where the homeless could get free vitamins, St. Celine’s Catholic Church, where good people provided afternoon coffee and doughnuts in the recreation hall, the local YMCA that allowed free showers on Mondays and Thursdays. He even made a once-a-week trip to the library, where he recorded which magazines he read, what this week’s story hour was about, which library employee acknowledged him (“Nick in Reference said good morning. Offered me coffee. I declined. He wore a new red polo shirt”), and what was in the library’s huge trash bin outside (“Ingram’s shipment came in today. Half a tuna sandwich in white paper bag. Too much mayo and walnuts”).
I pushed the datebook aside while I finished my lunch and thought about the mysterious, secret world of the homeless. How they observed the rest of us as we went about our daily activities never realizing our every move and word was being scrutinized. I’d read through March and hadn’t seen my name mentioned yet. I would definitely have to flip through it tonight when I had time and see if I’d come under his astute powers of observation.
Back at the museum, I buckled down and worked on cleaning up the last few details of the festival. At five o’clock, I told the few artists left in the co-op buildings I was leaving and reminded them to lock up after themselves. Before closing up the museum, I took one last quiet walk through the quilt exhibit. Nine o’clock tomorrow the doors would officially open, with our first tour scheduled for nine-thirty. We’d have crowds for the next three days during the festival, so I knew this would be my last chance to really absorb the quilts.
I roamed through the exhibit randomly, standing for a long time in front of my favorites, amazed, as always, how each time you look at a story quilt, more details, more parts of the “story,” pop out at you. When I reached Evangeline’s, I remembered my promise to myself to look at that one square up close. Something in me whispered that there was more there than could be seen on a quick first look. And the fact that the woman was holding a blanket that at first glance appeared to be a baby, but wasn’t, certainly intrigued me. I stood on a stool and unfolded the miniature blanket again. It was, as before, empty. I studied the picture closely, trying to discern what the wide dark eyes of the mother were trying to convey, what the bead of a teardrop represented, why the man was sleeping while his wife cried and walked the floor with her empty bundle.
Goose in the Pond Page 17