“Are you all ready for the Mardi Gras festival this Saturday?” I asked Manuel, this year’s co-op president. He was a leather worker who combined his talent with woodworking. He made very unique and popular leather and oakwood coffee and end tables.
“Everything’s on schedule and ready to go,” he said. “I’ll be down there early to set up the booths. I’ve got Bob and Jared and Ricardo helping so it shouldn’t take too long.” We were going all out and renting three booths this year. At a hundred bucks a booth, it was a gamble for the co-op since the money came out of our always meager budget. The deal was that everyone gave ten percent of what they sold back to the co-op. That meant we’d have to sell at least three thousand dollars of merchandise for the co-op to just make its booth rental back. A couple of big sales like Manuel’s tables would help, but most of the artists did well if they sold three or four hundred dollars’ worth of merchandise.
“I’ll be in the booth a good part of the day,” I said. “We’ve got to move that merchandise, so I’ll be donning my ‘Let’s Make a Deal’ personality. I will have to leave the cleanup for you all, though, as I have to be in Cambria by six to see to the last-minute preparations for the charity ball.”
“No problem, chiquita,” he said, flashing me a white, outrageously flirtatious smile that never failed to make me laugh. “You just be your muy bonita self and the art we make, it will fly into the people’s hands.”
“Manny,” I said. “You are nothing but a big ole flirt and I think you’ll have a better time talking women out of their hard-earned cash than I will.”
He shook his head, his smile still teasing. “Any sacrifice for the co-op . . .”
Ten minutes later I pulled into Liddie’s parking lot, Manuel’s reminder causing me to contemplate another anniversary. Gabe’s and my second anniversary was this Sunday and I hadn’t thought of a thing to buy him. Which traditional present was it for the second anyway—paper was first, then was it wood or brass? Did anyone follow those rules anymore? Besides, after Lydia’s visit and her revelation about Del, I wasn’t sure what kind of celebration Gabe and I would be having. I tried to ignore the mental picture of Gabe and Del laughing together, working together, not to mention other even more disturbing pictures of them together. Every time I thought of sitting last night at dinner with them being completely ignorant of the situation, I became angrier.
Liddie’s Cafe was, thankfully, in one of its slow times. A twenty-four-hour restaurant that served huge portions of good home-style food, it was a Central Coast landmark beloved by locals, students, and tourists alike. Its lobby harked back to the fifties with a glass counter packed with Wrigley’s chewing gum, Hershey bars, Necco wafers, and cinnamon toothpicks. A new hand-lettered sign next to the cash register admonished cash-strapped students and frugal senior citizens: TIPPING IS NOT A GAME PLAYED WITH LIVESTOCK. Nadine’s doing, no doubt. As head waitress, she ruled the roost of this particular chicken coop.
After calling hello to Jake, the fry cook, I slid into a red vinyl booth in back. I gazed out the window and mentally tried to organize the next week. After a few minutes, I gave up and fiddled with the salt and pepper shakers, trying not to think of what Gabe and Del might be doing right now.
“What do you want?” Nadine’s screechy-tire voice demanded.
She startled me into dropping the salt shaker, spilling a thin layer of salt across the dark brown Formica table.
“And quit making a mess.” She yelled over at Monica, one of the buspersons, to come over and wipe down the table.
Nadine was also a local landmark. Though she kept her age a secret, she had to be in her mid-seventies, though you’d never be able to tell it from her energy level. In her pink waitress uniform and teased beehive hairdo dyed a shade of pinkish-tan never seen on any Miss Clairol box, she ruled the roost at Liddie’s. She and I had a loving, if prickly, relationship. She’d known me since I was, as she liked to say, “little biddy.” Once in a while, when she was in a good mood, she called me “Lil Bid.” Today was obviously not a “Lil Bid” day.
“You’d better comb that tangled hair of yours,” Nadine said, “and put on some rouge.”
Monica wiped down my table, glancing up apprehensively at Nadine. She was obviously a new hire from the college and hadn’t learned yet that Nadine barked more than she bit. Usually. I gave the girl an encouraging smile before she hurried away.
“And why is that, Nadine?”
“I seen that old friend of Gabe’s and she’s after your man sure as my name is Nadine Maeleen Johnson.”
I sat back in the booth, keeping my elbows away from the still wet table. “Your middle name is Maeleen? I didn’t know that. Nadine Maeleen. Lovely cadence.” I made myself smile. There was no way I was getting into this with her or anyone else. At least not before I talked to Gabe.
She smacked the top of my head with her order pad, then slid into the bench seat across from me.
My mouth dropped open in surprise. In all the years I’d know Nadine, I’d never seen her sit down on the job. Even when she had an appendix attack about ten years ago, she refused to sit down until the paramedics came and forced her to lie down on the gurney.
“Close your mouth,” she said. “It looks cheap.” She tested the table top for dryness, then rested her age-spotted elbows on it and leaned close to me.
“Now me and your gramma go way back. You’re like one of my own grandbabies, and I just got to tell you, that woman friend of Gabe’s is big trouble. You got to get rid of her quick.” She smacked her hands flat on the table in emphasis.
I was so surprised by this I didn’t know what to say. When, after a minute or so, my speech came back, naturally it was a smart remark, my first response in all situations too confusing for me to handle.
“Uh, my husband’s the chief of police. Having a wife who murders his ex-partner might hurt his next merit raise and we were counting on it to pay for our new house.”
She glared at me from behind her pointy fifties-style eyeglasses, her brown eyes bulging like a blow fish. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Miss Smarty Mouth. See if I care if you rattle around that fancy new house all by yourself.” She slid out from the seat. From behind the front counter, Monica and Jake were staring over at us, as surprised as I was at Nadine’s sudden change of habit.
“Nadine, wait. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sass you.” I didn’t want her mad at me, especially since I hadn’t ordered yet and didn’t want to wait an extra half hour for my food.
Her well-traveled face softened slightly . . . I think. Then again, it could have just been the early afternoon sun shifting.
“I’m not teasing you now,” she said, her gravelly voice low and serious. “I think you got real problems on your hands. They ate lunch here and your husband was laughing.”
“They’re old partners. They worked together. They know a lot of the same people.” Nadine was trying to help in her own way, but I didn’t need anyone ringing a warning bell for me. It was already clanging loudly enough on its own.
“They was laughing too much, Lil Bid.” Her eyes were truly worried.
“Thanks, Nadine,” I said softly. “I’m aware of the situation. Don’t you worry now. I swear, I have it under control.” I gestured over at the seat. “Now, sit back down because I have a question for you.”
She slid back across from me and nodded, assuming it was about Gabe and Del. On some level, I appreciated her concern, but I was determined to deal with this situation on my own. Though I suspected that might prove impossible in a town where everyone knew us. But since I had her sitting down, I could pick her brain about some other gossip, gossip going a little farther back in San Celina history and that didn’t concern me.
“Tell me about Maple Bennett Sullivan,” I said.
Her face froze, her bottom lip, painted the same cotton candy pink as her nails, narrow to a thin, bright slit. “Why?”
“I’m cataloging her trunks for the historical society. They couldn
’t get anyone else to do it because of, well, you know . . . her alleged crime. I figured you were around back then and I wondered if you’d heard about it.”
She closed one dark brown eye, as if readying to shoot a rifle. “Alleged crime, my aunt Sadie. Of course I heard about it. She killed her sweet husband in cold blood, shot him in the head and ran away with her lover. What else do you need to know?”
“It was never proved that she actually did it,” I said, still not understanding why I felt so protective of this woman whom I actually knew nothing about. Maybe if I did find out more about her, I’d be as convinced of her guilt as everyone else.
“My girl, who else would have done it? Garvey Sullivan was one of the most respected and loved men in this county. Didn’t have one single enemy far as I know. And the man that Maple Sullivan was spooning with was gone same time as her. Neither were ever heard from again. His best friend and his wife. What an old, sad story.” She closed her eyes briefly and shook his head.
“The man she supposedly had an affair with was Garvey Sullivan’s best friend?” Edna hadn’t told me that. Their life was beginning to sound like one of those afternoon talk shows . . . or a soap opera.
“Name was Mitchell Warner. We called him Mitch.”
I stared at her. “As in the sporting goods store Warners?” The Warner family had owned a sporting goods store downtown for over sixty years. They were a prominent local family who spanned five generations. One of the Warner boys, Frankie, was my age. He and I danced to every song at our junior high school graduation dance. He’d gone into the Navy after high school, become a SEAL, then after ten years decided to join the family business. Last I heard, he worked at one of their new stores up in Paso Robles.
“That’s the ones. Mitch was Micah’s younger brother.”
“Micah’s the oldest, right?” Micah was Frankie’s father.
“Yep, he’s still going strong too, I hear. Works at the store in Paso Robles twice a week. Turned eighty-seven last month. Mitch was ten years younger than him. There was six of them, all boys. Mitch was the baby, which is probably why he stole someone’s wife.”
I protested her cock-eyed psychology. “Wait a minute, Nadine. I believe somewhat in the study of birth order, but I don’t think being the youngest makes him more prone to adultery.”
“Spoiled rotten, he was. I ought to know, went to school with him clean through the twelfth grade. Always got what he wanted, and as I heard it, he wanted Maple Sullivan. There you go.”
“Okay, so the rumor was that Mitch and Maple were lovers. Is there any proof?”
“They say she was pregnant when she ran away right after she killed Garvey. Had to be Mitch’s.”
I didn’t add “allegedly” except in my mind. “Who is ‘they’? And why did it have to be Mitch’s? It could have been her husband’s.”
She patted the left side of her stiff hair. “Jemima Smith. She worked for old Doc Goldstein until his business fell off so bad during the war. His wife was pure German from Germany. They moved away about 1944. Winter, I think it was. Just up and left his office and Jemima had to pack it all up without a lick of help. Have to say, though, he did send her some money after the war was over. From Canada, I hear.”
“So she told you Maple Sullivan was pregnant.”
“Yes, ma’am. It was right there in her file. She wasn’t too far along.”
So much for doctor-patient confidentiality, I thought.
“Then that hussy ups, shoots her husband dead, and runs away. Now, why would she do that if it was his? Guess we know where she’ll be spending eternity, that one.” Nadine’s eyes glistened with anger.
I wasn’t about to start discussing eternal justice with Nadine when she was so worked up. I was curious, though, about why this made her so angry.
“Did you know Garvey very well?” I asked.
Her spine straightened just a centimeter. “He ate lunch here every day. Tuna salad and a dill pickle. Iced tea and pie of the day. He liked raspberry best, but would eat anything but rhubarb. Sometimes he ate dinner here too, when his wife was too busy writing away at those stories of hers to be bothered to cook.”
“You remember what he ordered? His favorite pies?”
Her face turned a dull red beneath her pink face powder when she slipped out of the booth for a second time. “I remember what you eat every day too, young woman. I do all my regulars because I’m a good waitress. Now if you’re done badgering me, I’ll get that cheeseburger, fries, and vanilla Coke ready for you.” Her eyes challenged me to say anything more about Garvey Sullivan.
“Thanks, Nadine,” I said and left it at that.
She’d had a crush on Garvey Sullivan, I’d bet my truck on it. That meant I couldn’t believe half of what she told me about Maple Sullivan. I needed to find a more objective source. Of course, with what she’d been accused of doing, killing the town’s favorite son, that might prove difficult.
When Nadine brought me my late lunch, I asked, “Is Jemima Smith still alive?”
She slapped my bill down on the table. “No, why?”
I shrugged. “Just trying to figure out Maple Sullivan’s story. I thought Mrs. Smith might be able to shed some light on it.”
“Sometimes the past is best left in the past,” Nadine said.
“I’m a history major,” I said, opening my hamburger and grabbing the ketchup bottle. I hit the bottom of the bottle and sent a huge surge of ketchup over my steaming patty. “I believe in studying the past.”
“Some things don’t need studying. They are what they are.”
“I don’t agree. Sometimes things aren’t at all what they appear to be. And if something is wrong, if we can understand how it happened, maybe we can keep it from happening again.” But my words, the words of every student who studied history and sociology, even sounded lame and clichéd to me.
She sniffed audibly, letting me know what she thought of my theory. “I’m a lot older than you and I’ll tell you this. There ain’t no figuring out why folks do mean things. It’s just in some of them to do it. She was a selfish, self-centered woman who wanted what she wanted with no regard to anyone else. I think you’d best leave it all alone.”
“Well, I’d like to, except Edna McClun has talked me into cataloging Maple’s personal effects, so as long as I’m stuck doing that, I’m going to do a little research. I think I’ll go to the library after I eat.”
She shook her head and stuck her order pad in the pocket of her pink polyester dress. “You’re as stubborn as a clingstone peach pit.”
“Which reminds me, is there any peach cobbler today?”
“I’ll wrap it up to go,” she said, turning to walk away.
“That’s okay, I have plenty of time.”
“No, you don’t. You’re due over at Beckah’s Bridal Shop for a fitting at three o’clock. Then you have to go to Costume Carnival to pick up your outfit for the dance Saturday night. And they close at six today because Cathy’s going down to Santa Barbara to fetch some costumes she’s borrowing from her sister. Better eat quick.”
“Shoot,” I said, staring after her. I’d completely forgotten about both appointments. There went my leisurely afternoon in the library. I didn’t even bother to ask Nadine how she knew my schedule. That was like asking someone to paint a picture of the wind.
I pulled my date book out of my purse just to doublecheck. It was right there in my handwriting if I’d bothered to check it this morning. I managed to eat half my burger and take a few gulps of Coke before dashing back through the cafe. I handed a twenty-dollar bill to Nadine, grabbed my papersack of cobbler, and yelled out, “Keep the change.” An eight-dollar tip. That ought to buy me back into her good graces.
I was only ten minutes late to Beckah’s. Elvia was already in her wedding gown, standing in front of the threeway mirror, looking so gorgeous she could have posed for a fashion layout.
“You’re late!” she wailed. Her wedding preparations had acquired the overtone
s of boot camp and I was, no doubt, her most unresponsive grunt. Next to her in an overstuffed pink brocade armchair, her mother, Señora Aragon, glowed. The bridal consultant, Tia, smiled at me and continued fluffing out Elvia’s full skirt.
I blew my nervous friend a kiss, then went over to hug her mother. “Buenas tardes, Mama Aragon. Como estas?” I flopped down in the armless chair next to hers upholstered in the same stomach-cramping pink. I shifted from one cheek to the other, trying to find a comfortable spot. I’d sat on concrete curbs that were more forgiving.
“Muy bien, Benni, muy, muy bien,” Señora Aragon said. “Isn’t she preciosa? Mi bella niña is finally going to be a bride. Thanks to the Virgin.” She crossed herself, her dark eyes welling up with tears.
“Oh, Mama, don’t start crying again,” Elvia said, swirling around in her dress to pat her mother’s hand. It had a tightly fitted pearl-embroidered bodice, tiny cap sleeves, and billowing layers of netting under the thin chiffon-covered skirt. I wanted to tell her she looked just like a perfect little Latina Barbie doll, except I knew she’d kill me. Emory was going to pass out from joy when he saw her float down the aisle.
“She’s going to be the most beautiful bride that old Mission has ever seen,” I said, shifting again in my uncomfortable chair.
“Oh, you two just stop it,” Elvia said, blushing with pleasure. She took her shoulder-length black hair, twisted it, and held it on top of her head. “I’ve decided on wearing my hair up. What do you think?”
Mama Aragon just wiped away the tears running down her wrinkled brown cheeks and nodded.
“I think that’s a great idea,” I said for at least the hundredth time. She’d waffled back and forth between wanting her hair upswept or down for the last two months. Like a good matron of honor, I agreed with whatever she said.
“Okay, Benni, your turn now,” Tia said. She took my gray silk bridesmaid dress out of its off-white garment bag and handed it to me. It was a gorgeous dress, formfitting, but comfortable with a V neckline with just a touch of lace and cap sleeves that matched Elvia’s. She wanted each of us to wear silver jewelry that reflected our tastes and personalities. I was still thinking about what to wear.
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