Goose in the Pond

by Earlene Fowler

  “Why?”

  “Apparently our boy is one platinum-tongued devil. He’s convinced more than one group of investors into putting money into a business he has proposed. Then he does very well for the first year, paying them their dividends and a year-end bonus. Then the second year the business takes a dive and the investors lose all their money. I don’t know the particulars—you know the only thing I know about money is how to spend it—but apparently Mr. Stanhill always comes out of it with a pocketful of change and smelling like a truckful of magnolia blossoms heading to a cotillion.”

  “How many times has he pulled this scam?”

  “About four times in Mississippi that Neil knew about. Mr. Stanhill’s been involved with an ice-cream parlor, an arts-and-entertainment magazine, a fried-chicken restaurant, and an art gallery. Every one of them made tremendous profits the first year and bombed the second.”

  “So you’re saying he embezzles money?”

  “That’s such an ugly word, sweetcakes, and so inflammatory. Don’t forget, nothing was ever proven in any of the cases. His paperwork was meticulous. The man is Teflon-coated down to his Calvin Klein boxers.”

  “It certainly sounds like he wore out his welcome in Mississippi.”

  “Truer words. California was probably looking very good to him. He missed being indicted on the last one by the hairs of his chinny-chin-chin.”

  “And if Nora found out about it, and I’m assuming she did, that could ruin his new image here in San Celina. Quite a few important people have invested in Eudora’s. The question is, would he kill to keep it quiet?” I wrapped the phone cord around my finger. “Okay, what about Evangeline?”

  “All I have to say is y’all are sitting in a real sweet little nest of water moccasins there.”

  “What?”

  “Just a minute, let me decipher my notes here.” I heard a shuffling of papers. “Evangeline Yvette Boudreaux Savoy. She has quite the dramatic history, little Evangeline Yvette does. Got this from a stringer for the New Orleans Picayune. Met her at a newspaper convention five years ago. Gorgeous little Cajun girl. Man, that girl could dance, not to mention—”

  “Twenty-five words or less, Emory.”

  “All right, keep your britches on. It appears Evangeline is very fond of target shooting—”

  “Emory—” I whined loudly, and slumped down in my chair.

  “Using her husband as the target.”

  I bolted up. “What?”

  “In shorthand, cuz, she blew her husband away.”

  I switched the phone to the other ear, not quite certain what I was hearing. “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely. Your little quilter killed her hubby in cold blood with one gunshot wound to the chest. Then again, with a shotgun I guess one’s all you’d need.”

  “But . . . what . . . how . . .” I stuttered, trying to connect this with the gentle, peace-loving woman I thought I knew.

  “Here it is in jingle length, as you requested. Husband drank. When he drank, he beat her. She didn’t leave, heaven knows why. She had a baby. Baby cried one night and irritated drunk husband. He backhands baby. Baby dies. Your friend gets a shotgun and pumps him full of buckshot. She gets off with temporary insanity. Case closed.”

  “And apparently she and D-Daddy moved as far away as they could to start a new life.”

  “Appears so. She and Mr. Stanhill both had very valid reasons to leave their respective homes and head west.”

  “And reasons to kill someone who might reveal their secrets.”

  “Like I said, a nest of water moccasins. But tell me, wouldn’t your dear husband be privy to this sort of sordid background history?”

  That was a very good question. “Thanks, Emory. Can’t wait to get together. Hugs and kisses to you and Uncle Boone.”

  “Don’t forget our agreement,” he was saying as I hung up the phone. “Tell Elvia my lips are anxiously awaiting hers.”

  I hung up. “Over my dead body,” I said to the phone, knowing that’s exactly what it would take for him to get a kiss from Elvia.

  I leaned back in my chair and pondered the information Emory had given me. A soft knock sounded at the door. “Benni?” Evangeline’s soft voice called through the door.

  “Come on in,” I said, feeling a spasm in my stomach.

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “Sure, have a seat.” I started shifting things around on my desk, picking up my stapler and setting it neatly next to the tape dispenser. Then I started fiddling with the pencils in my pencil cup, hoping my face didn’t reveal the shock I was feeling.

  Her gaze was cool and level. “I saw my file open on your desk the other day. You know, don’t you?”

  I nodded, not knowing what to say.

  “I didn’t kill Nora,” she said, lifting her heavy black hair and laying a hand on the back of her neck. “Let me try and explain. She and I became pretty close, as you probably guessed. We were drinking wine one night at her place, and she started telling me about how she felt when her son was dying. After a couple of glasses, I don’t know, my guard came down and I hadn’t talked to anyone about it for so long. And with her losing a child, too, I just thought—” Her eyes darkened. “I told her about Antoine. He was my little boy. I had no idea she wrote that column. And I had no idea what sort of person she was.”

  “Was she going to put it in her column?” The thought of it shocked me as much as the discovery about Evangeline. “How could she do that to you when you both had lost a child?”

  Her laugh came out harsh. “Because after she heard my story, she became furious. She said that, unlike her, at least I had some control of the situation. I could have saved my child. That I could have left or shot Joe before he killed Antoine.” Her chin dropped to her chest, and her voice became a whisper. “Didn’t she think I’d thought of that so many times myself? Those same thoughts keep me up night after night until sometimes I feel like I’ll go crazy. That’s why D-Daddy brought me here. Everything in Louisiana reminded me of Antoine and how I failed him as a mother. But I guess Nora felt I hadn’t been punished enough. She was going to make sure people knew just what sort of mother I’d been.”

  The barbecued chicken rose up sour in the back of my throat.

  Evangeline looked up, her cheeks wet, and said, “Gabe knows.”

  “He does?”

  “He didn’t tell you? I thought you were looking in my file for him.”

  I just shook my head no.

  She stood up, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand. “I have an alibi for that night. D-Daddy and I were at home.”

  I nodded, but even she had to realize it wasn’t an airtight alibi. D-Daddy was an old man whose hearing wasn’t necessarily that good. She could have left and come back with him none the wiser. He could also lie to protect her. Knowing D-Daddy’s fierce loyalty, he probably would.

  “They’ll find the real killer,” I said, with more confidence than I felt. “I’m sorry.” I lifted my hands in helplessness. “About . . . everything.”

  “Me, too,” she said sadly, walking toward the door. “I liked it here. It was almost beginning to feel like home.”

  I went over to her. The scent of her fear was sharp as a lemon. “There’s no reason why you should leave. That column hasn’t been found yet. There’s a good chance no one will ever know.”

  “The one thing I’ve learned is that nothing is predictable. And once one or two people know, it doesn’t take long. Look what happened with Nora.”

  After she left I sat in my chair for a long time. The first thing I should do when I got home was tell Gabe I knew about Evangeline and Ash and how I found out. With his irritable mood, it wasn’t something I was looking forward to. Most likely we’d end up in a fight about me getting involved after promising I wouldn’t. So I procrastinated around my office, cleaning my desk and picking dead leaves off plants, avoiding the inevitable. It was past six o’clock when I finally emerged into the parking lot. The last of th
e storytellers had spun their tales at five, and the vendors were busy packing up their unsold wares. Most of the campground was empty and the campers on their way home. By tomorrow all traces of the festival would be gone.

  “You look beat,” Burl, one of the co-op board members, offered. “Go on home and get some rest. I’ll lock up here.”

  I thanked him and headed for my rental car. On the way home, I fervently hoped that the drive along the coast had mellowed Gabe’s mood. I was too tired and sad after hearing Evangeline’s story to be very supportive and upbeat tonight.

  He and Dove were in the kitchen, where the comforting scent of frying chicken greeted me. Gabe was laughing at something Dove had said to Rita while handing her a paring knife and a potato. My tense neck muscles started to relax. Maybe I’d wait until tomorrow to tell him what I’d learned about Evangeline and Ash. It would be nice to have one calm, quiet evening.

  “What’s so funny?” I asked, setting my purse on the counter.

  Before they could answer, Sam walked in behind me.

  “Hey, what’s for dinner?” he asked, peering over Dove’s shoulder. “Some poor chicken gave up its life for us. Watch out, Dove, I’ll sic the chicken-rights people on you.”

  “I’ll chicken rights you,” she said, reaching back and smacking his shoulder. He continued to tease Dove until she pushed him toward the table and said, “If you want to eat anytime soon you’d best start peeling those potatoes with Rita so I can fry them up. There’s a bowl in the top cupboard.”

  “We’re having the heart-attack special tonight, huh?” Sam pulled off his sweatshirt and threw it over a kitchen chair. He wore a sleeveless denim shirt. A tanned biceps flashed when he reached for the bowl.

  “Sam, what’s that?” Gabe said, his voice sharp.

  Sam turned around and faced his father. “What?”

  Gabe crossed the room and grabbed Sam’s upper arm, lifting it slightly. “That.” He pointed at the inside of his biceps.

  Sam’s expression lost its animation. “A tattoo.”

  Dove turned and watched them, her metal spatula dripping grease on the floor. Rita stopped peeling mid-potato. I walked over to get a closer look. The tattoo was of a grayish-green Polynesian-style sun with jagged flames. The words TRIBAL SUN were tattooed underneath.

  “When did you get it?” Gabe asked flatly.

  Sam shrugged. “Me and some buddies did it a few months ago.”

  “What does Tribal Sun mean?” Gabe asked.

  “Just a surfer thing. You wouldn’t understand. We were kinda ripped when we did it. Someplace in Long Beach, near the docks, gave us a deal—two for one, I think.”

  A muscle in Gabe’s cheek jumped. I put a hand on his arm. “Gabe, it’s just a tattoo,” I said, trying to head off the explosion.

  He ignored me and said in a dangerously low voice, “A lot of those tattoo parlors have sanitary procedures that aren’t worth shit. You could have gotten hepatitis. Or worse. And what have I told you about drinking? Was there anyone in your group sober enough to drive?”

  “What do you care?”

  “I care because you’re underage, and it’s against the law. Besides, someone who is too immature to drink responsibly is certainly too young to get a tattoo.”

  Sam’s dark eyes flashed. “Aaron told me you were drunk when you got your tattoo in Saigon. And you were eighteen, just like me.”

  Gabe inhaled deeply and answered, “It was different circumstances. I was a man.”

  Sam laughed bitterly. “Oh, yeah, that’s right. You were in a war. I forgot.” He turned and looked at the rest of us, his lip curled in a sneer. “In my dad’s eyes you don’t really grow cojones until you kill someone.”

  We all froze. Gabe’s face turned pale with rage. Sam’s brown eyes widened when he realized he’d gone too far this time. Gabe jerked his arm out of my grasp and slammed through the kitchen door. I ran after him and stood on the front porch watching as he jumped into the Corvette and backed out of the driveway, wheels screeching. In seconds, the car disappeared around the corner.

  Inside, Rita and Dove had gone back to preparing dinner, and Sam leaned against the counter, his arms folded, staring at the floor.

  “Dinner will be ready in about fifteen minutes,” Dove said, her voice serene. “Sam, you get those plates and glasses out and start setting the table.” After raising four sons and spending countless summers watching passels of grandsons, the pawing and snorting of the male sex didn’t faze her in the least.

  “Benni, you get over here and watch these potatoes,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron. “I’m fixin’ to die if I don’t have a glass of iced tea.”

  We ate the meal in silence. We were almost finished when the phone rang. I jumped up and answered it, disappointed when it was for Sam. He had a quick conversation, then hung up.

  “Gotta go in to work,” he said, crumpling his napkin and throwing it on his half-eaten dinner. “Two people called in sick. I’ll probably close.”

  “Be careful,” Dove said automatically, picking up her plate and his. She and I cleared off the table while Rita retired to her bedroom to call her mother and various girlfriends in Little Rock.

  Dove and I did the dishes and cleaned the kitchen without talking about what just happened. Then we went into the living room and turned on the television. She gave me a skein of red yarn and told me to starting rolling. Three quarters of the way through a boring disease-of-the-week movie, I finally said, “This can’t go on.”

  Dove gave me another skein of yarn. “It’ll go on as long as it takes. These things always work out, just never in the time we’d like.”

  “I hate seeing Gabe torn up like this. I want to do something.”

  “Sometimes, honeybun, the only thing you can do for someone is just be there when they’re ready for someone to be there.”

  I set my half-rolled ball of yarn down and grabbed my purse. “It’s ten-thirty. If I have to sit here and wait any longer, I’ll go crazy. I’m going to find Gabe.”

  She picked up the yarn and continued where I left off. “Have any idea where he might have run to? Gabe’s not one for bars and such.”

  “I have a pretty good idea.”

  13

  I WAS RIGHT. At Gabe’s old house, the Corvette was parked in the driveway at a crooked angle as if the driver was in a hurry to see someone inside. I pulled in behind it. The night air was quiet and cool; dampness from the salty ocean breezes sidled over the hills and settled on my skin like a thin layer of spicy cologne. I walked through the opaque shadows cast by the towering pine and ash trees, glancing at the empty home to the left of Gabe’s and at the dark Cal Poly pasture to the right. Gabe had rented the house because of its large garage and its privacy. When we were dating, it was one of the places we’d come when we truly wanted to be alone. I’d often wondered if we’d been better off moving here when we married rather than into my house.

  One of the miniature horses from Cal Poly’s animal-husbandry department lifted its shaggy head and gave an anxious whinny as if sensing the same emotion in me. The tiny horses liked to scratch their haunches on his backyard fence and beg for the sugar cubes Gabe always kept next to the back door. When I accused him of breaking some kind of dietary control-type rule and ruining someone’s weight statistics by feeding them, he just laughed and asked when had I all of a sudden become such a law-abiding citizen.

  When I reached the front porch, I could hear music vibrating through the solid core door—a sad Spanish song that throbbed like a fresh bruise. I stood for a moment with my hand on the doorknob, letting the cold metal soothe my sweating palm. Taking a deep breath, I opened the door.

  Inside, the music was louder, the sweet, clear voice of Tish Hinojosa, the only country-western musician Gabe liked. Her music, an unusual fusion of Texas roadhouse honky-tonk, sad Spanish love ballads, and high-energy Mexican folk music, had struck a kindred chord in him. The room was darker than outside; through the six-pane windows the thin
light of the moon and the flickering streetlight cast squares of gold across the carpeted floor. Blue light from the stereo glowed across the room as she sang in Spanish about being alone and the pain deep in her chest.

  “Gabe?” I called out softly.

  “Why are you here?” Gabe’s cold, husky voice asked from a dark corner. My eyes slowly started adjusting, and the outline of his white T-shirt emerged. He sat on the floor, his back against one side of the corner fireplace. He’d left so quickly he hadn’t put on shoes. For some reason the sight of his bare, vulnerable feet tightened my throat. His face was in shadows, but a flicker of moonlight caught a glint of liquid when he lifted the bottle and drank.

  I froze, shocked.

  His voice came from the shadows again. “Answer me.”

  I spoke through the dry cotton feel in my mouth. “I was worried.”

  “No reason.” He stood up and came toward me. His face moved in and out of the murky light until he stood close enough for me to smell the sharp, sweet whiskey on his breath. He brought the Jack Daniel’s bottle up and drank again.

  I stared up into his face, crisscrossed with shadow stripes from the windowpanes, his expression rigid and unassailable with that macho Latin bravado he did so well. An electric-quick memory jolted through me—Jack’s young face in his polished mahogany coffin, the lips I’d kissed so often as cold and lifeless as the wooden casket he was buried in.

  “Gabe—”

  “Go home,” he said, his voice as unyielding as his expression. “You shouldn’t be here.”

  “You’re wrong. This is exactly where I should be.”

  His eyes never left my face as he lifted the bottle and drank.

  “You don’t have to go through this alone,” I said quietly. “You can’t keep it all inside.” When he didn’t acknowledge me, I said, “Maybe you should take some time off—”

  “Stop it!” he snapped, his translucent eyes alcohol-bright and wild. “You’re just like everyone else. You think I can’t handle this? Well, you’re wrong. I’m handling it fine, but I’d certainly get a lot more done if everyone would just leave me alone and let me do my job.”