I walked around and faced him. “That’s ludicrous. They have to know you won’t give in to this kind of threat.”
His face hardened. “You should go out to the ranch for a few days.”
“No way. The festival starts tomorrow. I have a speech to give and a billion other things to do. I refuse to let this person intimidate me.”
He touched my cheek, his face softening slightly. “Very brave sounding, sweetheart. But foolish.”
I put my hand over his. “Gabe, about you and Sam. Maybe you should try to mend some fences.”
The softness went out of his face. “What I said to him still goes. It was stupid and thoughtless to confront those men. He put his life as well as yours in danger just because he wanted to play Rambo.”
“He only did what any eighteen-year-old boy who was raised by a macho-cop father would do.”
“Are you implying his behavior is my fault?”
“All I’m saying is I suspect at eighteen you would have reacted in a very similar way.”
“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” he snapped, walking around and sitting down at his desk. I perched on the edge of his desk, facing him.
“Fine,” I said. “But think about it.”
He leaned back in his tall executive chair and rested his chin on his hand. “What I need to think about is who among our many suspects in this case could have arranged to have this done.”
“Where’s the truck?” I asked.
“I had it towed to Bill’s Auto Body over on Broadway. He’s done some good work for the department. He’ll give me an estimate tomorrow.”
“Guess I’ll have to find some other wheels for the time being.”
“Get your truck back from Sam.”
I didn’t answer, but made a mental note to call about renting a car tomorrow. “So, who is tops on your suspect list?”
He gazed at me silently for a moment.
“You might as well let me in on what’s going on. Everyone thinks I know everything anyway, so keeping me in the dark is no protection.”
He nodded, a look of reluctance still coloring his face. “I suppose you’re right. Especially when the Freedom Press hits the county tomorrow.”
“I forgot, how was your meeting with Michael Haynes?”
“I let him rant and rave and threaten and then I made all the comforting sounds a police chief is supposed to make. What I wanted to do is tell him that if he didn’t like the way I was running the department to just shove it.”
I smiled at him. “Very grown up.”
He gave me a weak smile back. “Yeah, I know, it’s just that I’m just so friggin’ tired.” He ran a hand over his face. “And this case has got me baffled. When I was working homicide, I always hated cases like this.”
“Like what?”
“So many suspects. No witnesses. Sex, money, and jealousy. All the biggies when it comes to motive. It’s messy and disjointed, and I feel like every time we make progress on one little point, a hundred others come up.” He pulled a small tape recorder out of the top drawer of his desk. “Tell me what happened from the beginning. I want to get a statement before you forget anything.” He punched the recorder on.
I told him everything I could remember, though like most highly charged emotional incidents, your memories are selective and somewhat convoluted. My voice shook a little when I told him about the man backhanding me. He reached up and gently touched my swollen eye, the skin around his eyes taut.
“I’ d like to kill him,” he said softly.
“I’ll heal,” I said. “Who do you think might be involved in this?”
“Those two guys were probably just hired thugs. You and Sam need to look through some pictures and see if you can pick out anyone, but I’m willing to bet that they were paid a couple of hundred bucks to vandalize my truck. There’s enough unemployment in San Celina County these days that finding people to do this sort of thing is getting easier and easier.”
“So, if you find these guys you’ll know who the killer is.”
“Not necessarily. They probably don’t even know who hired them. There’s a lot of ways to pay people to do illegal things without the employee ever knowing who employed them.”
I slipped down off the desk. “There’s not much you can do about it right now, is there?”
“Not unless you feel like looking through some pictures tonight.”
“Would it make any difference if I wait until tomorrow?”
“Not really.”
“Let’s go home, then. I’ ve got an incredibly packed day tomorrow.” I glanced at my watch. “It’s past eleven already. Did you call Dove?”
“Yes, and she’s all primed to chew your tail when you walk through the door.”
I shook my fist at him. “That’s why you didn’t yell at me.”
He ruffled my hair and gave a halfhearted laugh. “I figured I may as well leave it to the expert.”
And I did get a tongue lashing when I got home.
“Albenia Louise Harper, I’m surprised at you,” she scolded. “No, I take that back, I’m not surprised at all. You were full of the dickens when you were a child, and it’s only getting worse as you get older.” As she inspected the now purple-and-green bruise under my right eye, she continued to scold me. I countered with the fact that my impetuousness was obviously genetic (Let’s not forget that incident in Bakersfield four years ago, I reminded her. That was different, she said, that little punk was trying to take my purse. I’d have caught him, too, if I’d been wearing my sneakers). Gabe sat on the sofa drinking a grape soda, enjoying every minute of Dove’s lecture. She only stopped when Sam walked in. After an uncomfortable silence, Gabe went into the bedroom. Sam stared after him, his face angry.
“Let it go,” I told Sam. “He’ll get over it.”
“Who cares?” Sam said. “As soon as I’ve saved enough money, I’m gone.”
Dove gathered up her study books. “Honeybun, you’d best get some sleep now. You have a big day tomorrow. You, too, Sam.”
During the night something woke me. Not a sound exactly, more of a feeling that things weren’t right. I turned over and touched Gabe’s side of the bed. The quilt was thrown back, the sheets empty and cool. Over at the window there was a movement, and in the pale light filtering through our sheer curtains, I could see Gabe watching the shadowy front lawn. Navy sweatpants rode low on his hips, and he hugged his bare chest as though he were cold. I could see his body rock back and forth slightly in a self-comforting way that reminded me of a child. I wanted to go to him, hold him, and murmur words that would make the hurt of losing Aaron disappear. But I didn’t. I knew at this particular moment this was a road he needed to walk alone.
For weeks after Jack’s death, I rode my horse over miles of cow trails, ranting and railing against God, my head lifted up and shouting at the pale gray sky. Agitated blue jays flitted from tree to tree, screaming back at my violent words. My anger and blasphemy was so venomous, I expected to be struck down, a lightning bolt straight from the God I’d trusted since I was a child. And I wanted to be struck, to feel an electrified physical sensation of such mind-numbing proportions it would blot out the pain eating my insides like the maggots I pictured devouring my husband’s body.
God’s only answer was a piercing silence.
Eventually, when my torrent of words had been expelled, in the forgiving quiet, healing began. A still, small voice, like the gentlest wind, reminded me that death was as much a part of life as love. That with death, life doesn’t end, love doesn’t end. I started letting Jack go that day, and though there were still times when I longed to hear his laugh, moments when it seemed the sound of his voice would be the only thing that would ease the hurt deep in my chest, I was able to turn back to life and appreciate again the wet delicate nose of a newborn calf, the sweet, hopeful taste of an early strawberry, the solid feel of another man’s chest.
I watched my husband’s broad shoulders slump in the dim light, an
d my heart swelled with grief for him. I could not share this lonely journey with him or make it any less difficult. All I could do was stand at the end of the rugged, rock-strewn path and wait.
11
“DON’T FORGET TO come down and look at some pictures,” Gabe said the next morning. “It’s probably a waste of time, but you never know.”
I stuck a slice of sourdough bread in the toaster. “Before I do anything I need to rent a car.”
He turned his head away from his glass of orange juice to look at me. His face held his autocratic-ruler expression. “I told you to get your truck back from Sam.”
“He has to get to work.”
“His problem.”
I turned my back to him and concentrated on my toasting bread. This morning there was no way I was getting pulled into an argument about Sam, who had wisely left before Gabe woke up. The air vibrated as we nonverbally struggled for control. His fatigue was deeper than I realized; he conceded much quicker than usual.
“I have to get down to the office,” he said, tossing his plastic glass into the sink with a clatter. “Let me see what I can do about a car.”
“I need to leave by ten o’clock.” I smiled sweetly at him.
“I’m only doing this because I’m too tired to argue.”
“You are a wonderful husband,” I said, not flaunting my win.
With his forefinger, he carefully traced the area underneath my swollen black eye. “People are going to think I beat you,” he said softly.
“Especially after they read the Tattler.”
He drew his hand back, his eyes full of pain.
I grabbed his hand, regretting my flippant teasing. “I was just kidding. No one would ever think that about you.”
The look on his face said he didn’t believe me.
“Friday, anyone who even suggests you wailed the tar outta me gets this.” I brandished a fist at him.
That made him laugh. He kissed my clenched fist.
“Don’t forget my speech at six o’clock,” I said, handing him his briefcase.
I was spreading blackberry jam on my toast when Rita walked in.
“What happened to you?” she exclaimed. Before I could open my mouth, she promptly started telling me about her date with Ash. “Ash is so much fun. He always has money and is not afraid to spend it. It’s nice to be treated like a lady for a change.” She grabbed the jam-covered toast I’d just put on a plate and poured herself a cup of coffee. “Good kisser, too.”
“All that practice,” I muttered, taking another slice of bread out of the bag and dropping it in the toaster.
“I know he’s a runaround, Benni,” she said, sipping her coffee, “but at least he’s up-front about it. I really respect that.”
There was no way I would even attempt to explain to her that a man being honest about the fact that he cheats on you is not exactly a virtue. I pulled my bread out of the toaster, catching a glimpse of my face in the appliance’s shiny exterior. My purple, green, and yellow eye looked like a $1.99 Mardi Gras mask. I let out a soft groan.
“I’ve got some makeup that would cover that right up,” Rita said.
I sighed. “Bring it on, then. I’ve got a speech to make tonight and I don’t want to scare the little kids.”
“Where’s Dove?” I asked when she returned with her tackle box of cosmetics. She pulled out a tube of beige goop and started smearing it on my face.
Rita shrugged, unconcerned. “She gets up so dang early. Gramma Garnet left a message this morning after Dove left. I erased it.”
“Smart move,” I replied, impressed with her cunning. I flinched when she blended the goop over my face with a cosmetic sponge “Ow, watch it.”
“Hush, you know what they say. Sometimes looking beautiful hurts,” she said. “So, what door did you run into?”
I told her the story as she finished with my skin, and we wrangled over whether iridescent pink eye shadow would or wouldn’t draw people’s eyes away from my injury (it would, but I’d rather have people gossiping about my black eye than my lack of makeup sense).
“Heavens,” she said, her eyes wide. “What a close call.”
“You’re telling me.” I inspected her work in the plastic makeup mirror she handed me. I had to give Rita credit for expertise in one area. Except for the swelling, the rainbow bruises were almost hidden.
“Oh, my, he could of slashed your face,” she said. “You would of had a scar!” Her round little mouth gaped in horror.
“Rita, I could have been dead.”
She blinked. “Oh, well, that, too.”
While dressing, I contemplated who might have been involved in the attack on me and Sam last night. Gabe was right; anyone could have arranged it. At any time. Still, I couldn’t help but wonder what Ash was doing last night around the time Sam, Gabe’s truck, and I were being bashed around. I quickly changed into new black jeans, a maroon silk cowboy shirt, and maroon Justin boots.
In the living room, Rita was lounging on the sofa painting her nails with a gruesome shade of reddish black.
“Vampire night at McClintock’s Saloon?” I inquired.
She held out her hand and studied it. “It’s the latest color. I had to wait three weeks before I could get a bottle.”
I paused, trying to make up my mind about whether I should do this, then ignoring the reprimanding voice inside me, asked, “So, where exactly did you and Ash go last night?”
I listened to her ramble about this bar and that bar, glancing at my watch impatiently. “Rita, where were you all around eight o’clock?”
She flipped her hair out of her face and looked bemused. “Heavens, I didn’t keep track of the time. We ate right after he did his story, then we went to a couple more places to listen to music.” She carefully painted a thumbnail. “Why?”
“No reason.” It was a pointless question. If Ash had arranged it, he’d done it before his date with Rita. I grabbed my leather backpack from the coffee table and started out the door before it occurred to me that I had no vehicle. I was picking up the phone to call Avis when a police car pulled up in our driveway. It was followed by a bright red Ford Taurus. Elvia’s brother Miguel climbed out of the Taurus just as I stepped out on the front porch.
“Chief sent this over.” He handed me the rental-car keys. “Heard you and Sam took a beating last night. You don’t look too bad.”
“My cousin Rita did the beauty bit on me this morning so I wouldn’t scare too many people. Has anyone heard anything about the people who attacked us?”
Miguel crossed his arms over his wide chest, his muscular legs spread wide. “We’ll probably never find them. Scumbags like that are a dime a dozen.”
“That’s what Gabe said. He wants me to come down to the station and look through some pictures anyway.”
“Sam already dropped by this morning, and he didn’t find squat.”
“Then I doubt I will either.”
“The chief’s got extra patrols going by the folk-art museum today, and we’ll be cruising by your house a lot. He’s real jumpy.”
“I know.” I glanced over at the bright red Taurus. “Is that why he rented such a bright car so you all couldn’t lose me?”
Miguel just grinned. “You keep your eyes open, Benni.”
“I will. At least the good one anyway.”
After a few minutes of getting used to the bells and whistles of an unfamiliar car, I drove to the museum. D-Daddy’s commanding voice could be heard the minute I stepped out of the car. I waved at him across the parking lot and headed straight for our small kitchen. Someone had been astute enough to bring another coffeemaker, and there were two full pots. I poured a cup and hightailed it to my office. There was no doubt that people would be taking numbers today and waiting in line for me to deal with some horrible catastrophe. Before that line started forming, I needed to inhale a few more ounces of caffeine.
On top of my desk lay a copy of the Freedom Press. I wondered if it was friend or f
oe who left it. I’d checked the Tribune on my way in, and the attack on me and Sam wasn’t in it. Apparently we’d been mugged too late to make the Friday-morning edition. Maybe, I thought optimistically, they’ll forget about it by Saturday. Yeah, right. I compulsively turned to the Tattler page, cringing inwardly when I read the sarcastic words about Gabe and me. Hearing about it was bad enough, but to actually see it in print gave it a potent reality that tasted like a mouthful of sour milk. I thumbed through the rest of the paper, which also carried a flattering article about the storytelling festival and praise for the number of community-oriented activities the museum had sponsored in the last year.
But my thoughts kept compulsively returning to the Tattler column. Where was that last column written by Nora? What was in it? I agreed with Will Henry about one thing. It had to be about the storytellers, and so that narrowed down, in my mind, the suspects in her murder. But there was still Roy to consider. I couldn’t imagine what it must have felt like to be killed by someone with whom you’d once made love. I shivered and threw the paper in my trash can. This whole thing reminded me of something a minister once said that always stuck in my mind—that the line between hate and love is as thin as a strand of baby’s hair. That the people who profess to hate the most are the ones peering the most furtively over their shoulder, the ones desiring love in the most basic way. Hatred, he contended, was much easier to change to love than indifference was.
Was that the true story of Roy and Nora? Was their hate just one step away from turning back into love? Had it been on the verge of doing just that? If that was true, I knew one person who would have been devastated. But would Grace be crushed enough to kill? To kill the object of love in hopes of killing the love? I didn’t want to think that about my new friend, but she was a passionate woman, a woman who never did things halfway. I leaned back in my chair and pressed my warm mug of coffee against my temple.
“Headache?” Evangeline asked as she walked through my open door. She was dressed in a long, gauzy dress the color of celery. Tiny silver stars embossed in the fabric caught the light when she moved. Her black hair was piled high in a chignon with curly tendrils trailing down. Her only jewelry was a large silver pendant depicting a Pueblo storyteller doll.
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