Steps to the Altar

by Earlene Fowler

  Remembering her long legs and rich brown eyes, I thought, well, a little different. I rubbed the dampness off the backs of my legs before crawling under our flannel-covered comforter.

  “Did you ever mention Del being your partner to me?” I asked as casually as I could manage. What I really wanted to ask . . . accuse . . . was did you ever mention her being a woman to me? Of course, I knew the answer, which was no. I’d have remembered that little fact, I’m absolutely certain.

  He slipped under the covers and settled down next to me. The heat from his body smelled a soapy, musky clean.

  “I’m sure I did. She wasn’t exactly a partner like Aaron was. We didn’t ride in a car together. But she and I worked a lot of busts. They liked pairing us because the Mexicans trusted us and would sell us dope. In East L.A. the dealers didn’t always trust the white guys. Usually made them for cops right off. So she and I were more often out making buys rather than sitting in the surveillance van.”

  “With her blond hair?”

  “She used to dye it brown. She’s half Anglo, half Mexican, like me.” He chuckled and folded his arms behind his head. “We always got a kick out of that, how similar our backgrounds were. Mexican dads and Midwestern Anglo moms.”

  “So, she’s leaving for her brother’s house tomorrow? Was it Seattle where he lives?”

  “He’s a fire fighter up there. She’s feeling a bit out of sorts so she’s taking some time off. Wants to be near family.”

  “I can understand that.”

  “Her other brother’s up there too. An insurance guy, or something like that. She likes his wife, so she’s looking forward to seeing her.”

  Okay, Benni, I told myself. Crisis averted. She’s just passing through on her way to her family up north. So what if he forgot to mention her to you? Nothing to worry about.

  “She’s decided to stay in San Celina for a few days, see the sights before going up to Seattle. I’m giving her a tour of the station tomorrow. She thinks it’s hilarious that I’m a suit now. To be honest, I just think she needs to talk about Rudy.”

  I didn’t answer. She was staying for a few days. Not with us, I hoped.

  Before I could ask, he said, “She’s over at the Embassy Suites.”

  “That’s nice,” I murmured. I had enough to worry about without entertaining some woman who might know my husband in some ways better than me.

  “So, how was the rest of your day?” he asked.

  Glad to be discussing something else besides Del, I told him about what I had bought for Elvia’s shower, Dove’s quandary about her wedding, and about Edna McClun’s request about cataloging Maple Bennett Sullivan’s personal effects.

  “Killed her husband, huh?” he said, his voice slowing down and lowering in pitch as he neared sleep. “Nice woman.”

  “Allegedly,” I said, feeling irrationally defensive about Maple Sullivan.

  “I’d say a fifty-year disappearance of her and her lover might be a good indication of guilt.”

  “I suppose. Anyway, there’s no time limit, thank goodness, because it feels like I’ve got every hour in the next three weeks booked solid. Which reminds me, did you go get fitted for your tux?” Gabe was best man to my matron of honor at both weddings.

  “Yes, I did, querida. And I dropped my navy suit at the cleaners in preparation for the Ramsey-Lyons nuptials though it sounds like we’re not certain what we’ll be wearing yet. I’ve also thought about toasts for each wedding and have my department on call to chase down any and all nervous, runaway grooms. I’m organized and ready for both happy events.”

  “I’m impressed,” I said, turning on my side and smiling at him. “But I’m feeling a bit displaced. What do you need me for?”

  He slipped his hand under my T-shirt, caressing me with an experienced hand. Instinctively, I moved toward him.

  “I can think of a few things,” he said.

  5

  BENNI

  THE PHONE RANG the next morning while Gabe was out jogging.

  “Benni?” Del’s crisp, businesslike voice was already familiar to me.

  “Oh, hi.”

  “Is Gabe there?”

  Luckily I’d had two cups of coffee so my voice was semipleasant. “He’s out jogging. Want me to have him call you back?”

  There was a slight hesitation in her voice. “No, that’s all right. I was just going to check to see if his offer for a tour of the department today was still on, but knowing Gabe, he wouldn’t have suggested it if he had something more important planned.”

  “I’m sure you’re right.” This time I hesitated, then said, “I’m sorry about your dad. Gabe said you were very close.”

  “Yes,” she whispered. “We were. Thank you.”

  A half a minute passed in silence. “Well, I’ll tell him you called.”

  “Thank you, Benni. Really, thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  As I put a chocolate iced Pop-Tart into the toaster, I discussed our short, but awkward conversation with the other important male in my life.

  “What do you make of that?” I asked my dog, Scout.

  His German shepherd ear perked up jaunty as a beauty queen’s wave. A low rumble in the back of his throat told me he’d tell me anything I wanted to hear for a piece of my Pop-Tart. I reached into a glass jar on the counter and threw him a dog biscuit instead.

  “I think I’m being paranoid.” His tail beat the tiled floor in agreement . . . or in enjoyment of his biscuit. “You know, it’s a pain in the butt to be married to such a good-looking man.”

  Scout swallowed his biscuit and lifted one paw, begging for another.

  “Not a chance, Scooby-Doo,” I said, juggling my hot Pop-Tart back and forth before dumping it on a plate.

  I was halfway through my third cup of coffee and my toaster pastry when Gabe came in, all sweaty and slick from his run. I smiled a good morning and continued eating. Scout trotted over to the biscuit jar, his ocher eyes hopeful.

  “Don’t fall for it,” I said. “He’s scored his morning biscuit already.”

  “Hope springs eternal in a dog’s heart,” he said, kissing the top of my head. “Is that your breakfast?” His bottom lip tightened in disapproval.

  “You get your vitamins your way, I’ll get them mine,” I replied, unperturbed. My eating habits were a constant source of irritation for my health-obsessed husband. I conceded to his concerns by taking the plate of vitamins he left out every day, but that was as much control as I would allow him.

  “You know, an orange once in a while wouldn’t kill you,” he said, reaching for one in the glass bowl next to the bread box. “I bought these at Farmer’s Market last week. They’re incredible.”

  I blew him a kiss and popped the rest of the disputed pastry in my mouth. “Umm, umm, good.”

  He just shook his head and laughed, efficiently peeling the orange. The sweet, mouth-watering scent of citrus groves filled our warm kitchen.

  “Here,” he said, taking a slice and rubbing it across my lips. I opened them and took the fruit, licking his fingers as I did.

  “That really is pretty good,” I said.

  “Told you so.”

  I grinned at him. “Yeah, and the orange was all right too.”

  After he’d taken a shower and was dressing for work, I told him Del called. I sat on the bed, my legs crossed underneath me.

  The subtle brightening of his face did not make me happy, but remembering my worries a couple of months ago about Lydia and how they came to nothing, I pushed them away. I was going to trust my husband. That was all there was to it.

  “What did she want?” he asked.

  “Just to make sure everything was still on with your tour today.”

  He nodded, turning to the long mirror to fix his subtly printed maroon necktie and button his cuffs. In the lightly starched white shirts he always wore, his dark skin looked wonderful. How could I blame any woman for looking twice at this man?

  Just so l
ong as he didn’t look back.

  “Luckily, she chose to visit on a day I have only one meeting,” he said, critically eying his Windsor knot, then pulling it apart to retie it. “I expect to get lots of teasing today.”

  “Why would the guys tease you about her?”

  “Not the guys, her. Don’t forget, she’s never seen me in a ‘suit’ position. She’s used to a whole other side of me. A definitely wilder side.”

  I silently contemplated the meaning of his words.

  After he left, I straightened up the kitchen, threw back the comforter on the bed, and dressed in my everyday working clothes of a plaid flannel shirt and faded Wranglers. As I cleaned my muddy boots in the bathtub, I worried his relationship with Del like a dog with a marrow-filled bone.

  Let it go, I commanded myself while drying my boots with an old towel. You knew this man had a very complicated personal life before he met you, so grow up and accept it. Quit being such a small-town girl. You have shower gifts to wrap, paperwork to do, a multitude of problems to be solved at the museum. Besides, she’ll be gone soon. Get over it.

  After that lecture, I called to Scout. He jumped into the back of the truck and I sat down in the driver’s seat, enjoying for a moment the still new car smell. To force myself into a more amiable mood, I slipped a Tish Hinojosa cassette into my new truck’s player and sang along with “La Rancherita”—“The Little Ranch Girl.” Its buoyant melody and touching love story never failed to make me smile.

  My mood was much cheerier when I pulled into the folk art museum’s parking lot. The museum had become truly a home away from home for me. I knew every inch of its white-washed adobe interior as well as I did my rented bungalow. Better maybe. I parked under my favorite spot at the back of the lot, under an initial-scarred oak tree, where I noted with consternation a fresh carving—RICHARD LOVES KATHY. (Though I wished he’d found a different place to show his love, I also wished the couple well in their relationship.) The museum looked warm and welcoming under the gray February sky.

  Once a ranchero for the Sinclair family, deeded to them by the then ruling Spanish government, the two-story adobe house and attached stables with their dusky red-tiled roofs now housed a constantly changing crew of folk artists and volunteer docents. Constance Sinclair, our own personal patron, donated the hacienda to the historical society about ten years ago and still helped out by hosting the occasional fund raiser and by paying my salary. But the museum and the artists’ co-op affiliated with it were supposed to be self-sustaining. Which meant I spent a lot of time writing grant proposals, figuring out fund raisers, and begging money from rich, hopefully folk-art-loving people. Now that Isaac Lyons was about to become my stepgrandpa, I was finding it much easier to acquire funds from people wanting to meet and mingle with him. At first I was hesitant to cash in on my relationship with him until he told me in no uncertain terms that we were going to be family and that he was more than happy to use any influence he had over people’s pocketbooks to help the museum.

  “Frankly, Benni, I’d be supporting this museum even if you weren’t involved, so take advantage of me. Please.” He punctuated that last word with a huge bear hug, which was not just a cliché with him but a reality, seeing as he was six-four and large-boned as a grizzly.

  That was why, even though he was to be married in three weeks, he was the main attraction at the Mardi Gras Costume Ball that Constance was holding at her mansion in Cambria, a small, affluent town north of Morro Bay. It was the social event of the season with a price tag that irked me a bit . . . three hundred dollars a person. It limited the people who could attend, giving it an exclusivity that pricked at my egalitarian sensibilities. But as Elvia pointed out with logical pragmaticism, the whole point of the event was to make money for the museum so it made sense to appeal to people who had most of the green stuff.

  Of course, that meant I had to attend also . . . in costume. A costume I still had to pick up at Costume Capers downtown, a store owned by an old friend of mine. Cathy Gustavson and I had attended San Celina High School together and had shared not only the giggly experience of dissecting a sheep’s eye in sophomore biology (she held, I cut), but the wonderful agony of a crush on a young, bearded psychology teacher who didn’t know either of us existed. My time being so tight these last few weeks, I’d given her full authority to choose my costume with the only stipulation that I not be a cowgirl (too predictable) and it not be low cut. She knew me well enough to know that comfort was my main criteria for a costume so I was secure in the knowledge that a Mae West dress or skintight Cat Woman jumpsuit was not in my immediate future.

  Inside the museum itself, it was quiet, since the doors didn’t officially open until 10 A.M. Behind the counter of our gift shop, Edna McClun was cleaning the glass counter top with a solution that, by the smell, contained a large amount of vinegar.

  “Hey, Edna.” I walked behind the counter and checked my mail tray. Two letters and a catalog for leatherworking supplies. “We’re running into each other everywhere these days.”

  “It’s because I’ve got too much on my plate,” she said. “The trunks are being brought over today by one of our young men volunteers. He’s a real sweetie. Been working every weekend on the octagonal barn. Real talented carpenter, this boy.”

  “Trunks?” I said.

  She reached over and thumped the top of my head. “Anyone home? Remember yesterday? Maple Sullivan’s trunks. The murderess. You said you’d catalog the contents.”

  “Oh, those trunks,” I said, shaking my head. “I’d already forgotten about them.”

  “Like I said, we aren’t in any hurry, but the sooner you do them, the sooner I can mark them off my list.” She gave me an encouraging smile and rubbed vigorously at a stubborn spot on the counter. I felt sorry for the spot.

  “I’ll do my best,” I said, trying not to heave a big sigh. What difference did it make when this woman’s last effects got cataloged? She’d probably been dead for years. For a moment, I pondered on where she and her lover might have gone after she killed her husband and how she’d managed to stay uncaught all these years. The historian in me, the person who had irrationally decided to major in history in college and minor in agriculture rather than the other way around, couldn’t help wondering about her life before she came to San Celina, what drove her to murder her husband, a man, I assumed, she’d once loved.

  No time for speculation, I told myself, sticking the mail in my back pocket and saying over my shoulder to Edna, “Just have your talented carpenter boy put them in my office. No, have him check with me first. My office is pretty small. I’ll have to find someplace else to work on them.”

  “He said he can come by around noon. Is that okay?”

  “That’s fine. Just send him back to my office.”

  I walked through the current exhibits, both upstairs and down, making sure everything was in place and noting any repairs that I’d need to report to my very capable, senior citizen assistant, D-Daddy Boudreaux, a retired commercial fisherman from Louisiana. In theory and on paper, his work schedule was three days a week, two hours a day, because that was all the museum could afford. In reality, he worked many more hours than that and claimed he was paid in the joy of being needed.

  The current exhibits were of local wedding and anniversary quilts and samplers. The samplers were upstairs, the quilts downstairs. There were many traditional Double Wedding Ring patterns, most of them in the pastel prints popular in the thirties when that pattern was in its heyday, but there were other more unpredictable patterns like Alaska Territory made for a local woman’s grandmother who married a man from Alaska whom she met through the mail, Bachelor’s Puzzle for a woman who’d been engaged for ten years before marrying another man she’d known only three days, and Steps to the Altar done in gold and white made for a woman who married the Church by becoming a nun. That was the pattern Dove and I had decided to make for Elvia and Emory’s wedding quilt, though we chose dark green, maroon, and off-white, the colo
rs of her bedroom.

  My favorite quilt was a story quilt made by a local artist who also taught women’s history at Cal Poly, our local university. In its colorful story squares it incorporated many of the folk sayings and superstitions about quilting:

  If you’re the last to place a stitch in the quilt, you’ll have the next baby. Always make a deliberate error in your quilt to avoid bad luck. Don’t let your son or daughter sleep under a Drunkard’s Path quilt or they’ll turn to drink. The first person to sleep under a quilt just off the quilting frame will have their dreams come true. If you break a needle while quilting, you will have the next baby. If you begin a quilt on Friday, you will never live to finish it.

  That last one gave me pause. What day did Dove and I start Elvia’s quilt?

  All was well among the exhibits, which according to our daily head count, had been our most popular one so far, so I headed through the back, under the thick canopy of honeysuckle vines toward the old stables that now held the co-op workshops and my office. It was quiet for a weekday. No quilt guild was meeting here today to stitch a quilt, and even the wood shop held only one lone carver sitting on a stool hand-sanding to the sound of a classical music station.

  Scout settled down on his rug and I was in the middle of writing the short speech I’d have to give at the Mardi Gras ball thanking everyone for their generous support of the folk art museum, when from the doorway, there came the sound of a clearing voice. I turned my head toward the sound and resisted the urge to groan out loud.

  Lydia, Gabe’s ex-wife, stood in the doorway in a dark green suit looking gorgeous and a little embarrassed.

  My first thought was, Dang it all, what does she want?

  6

  GABE

  HE POURED HIMSELF a cup of coffee and took it back to his desk. Del would be here any minute. His heart sounded like a drum in his ears.