“She’s real pretty,” he said, grinning. “Sometimes that interferes with my brilliant detective’s radar.”
I shook my head. “You’re a hound dog, Detective Hudson. A real hound dog.”
“I’ve been called worse. Speaking of stupid, what are you doing here alone this late at night? Being a police chief’s wife, I would assume you would understand the possibilities of robbery, assault, and rape that coming here alone might engender.”
“Not that it’s any of your business, I’d already decided that coming by here to pick up something wasn’t too smart and was going to drive on by until I saw your truck. Maybe I forgot to tell you, but we have a rule that no one can work up here past nine o’clock. Because of its isolated location, the co-op board decided it was too dangerous.”
“Hey, don’t vote me out yet. I didn’t know, and besides, I didn’t realize how late it was. When I started at six, there was a whole crowd of people here. Before I knew it, it was nine-thirty.”
I couldn’t help smiling because I understood the feeling. Only someone who was fascinated by history and the past could get that lost in time when surrounded by old teacups, pocket watches, magazines, and fountain pens. Time had just flown by for me in a similar way at the library.
“So, how’s it going?” I asked, picking up an ivorybacked hairbrush. A few dark hairs still clung to the bristles. Hard to believe they were still there after fifty years.
“It’s taking longer than I thought,” he admitted. “I’ve only finished one page.” He held up a cataloging page where twenty items had been listed. I took it from him and read his first entry.
Dark brown kidskin women’s gloves. Eight leather five-petal daisy-like flowers on each cuff. Size six and a half. Made in Paris. (Markings inside right glove) Aris of Paris. (Markings inside left glove) Real Kid.
I handed it back to him. “Very thorough. I’m impressed.”
“Well, my mama owned an antique store for a while when I was a boy—”
“Stop it!” I said sharply, holding up my hand. “We’re not going to start on the phony mother stories again.” He’d driven me crazy the last time we’d worked together with all the things his mother had supposedly done or worked at—an interior decorator, a Cajun restaurant owner, a wedding photographer who’d once worked for Life magazine. He even claimed she’d been a clown with the circus. Tonight particularly, I was in no mood for any kind of lying from any man.
“You think I’m lyin’?” he asked, his face amiable.
“I think you think it’s funny and it’s not.”
“I swear everything I told you was true. Swear it on the Alamo.”
“You need to get all this put away. You can’t stay here.”
“Okay,” he said, getting up slowly, watching my face with a curiosity. “As my pawpaw Boudreaux would say, what’s got you all het up?”
“Nothing. Just get that stuff put away. And remember you can’t stay here after nine o’clock. You got it?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said in a slow, sarcastic drawl. “I definitely got it. So, havin’ a little trouble down at the ranch house with the big boss?”
“Why don’t you just shut up?” I snapped, annoyed that he’d zeroed in on exactly what was bothering me. I walked past him to the trunk that had held Maple’s scrapbook to look for Garvey’s letters.
“Well, no need to sharpen your claws on my balls, Miz Harper,” he said. “Bein’ divorced and all, I reckon I’ve experienced that particular pleasure already.”
Ignoring him, I dug through the trunk of old Life and Look magazines and novels that were obviously hers—all of them matched the titles on the embroidered tea towels. There was no packet of letters from Garvey. Maybe, when she left, she took them with her. Now that would be odd. Murder your husband and then take his love letters with you. What a crazy thing to do.
If, the little voice said, she murdered him.
What I really needed to see was the police file on Garvey Sullivan’s murder. And the newspaper stories. I knew it was wishful thinking, but I wanted Maple and Garvey’s love to have been real, not just some marriage of convenience because of the war or her desire to escape Appalachian poverty.
But first I had to go home and fight with my husband.
I inhaled deeply, wishing like heck that Del Hernandez had never shown up.
And I was feeling a bit guilty for snapping at Detective Hudson. He was annoying with his mother stories, but he didn’t deserve the brunt of my anger at Gabe.
I turned to apologize just as I saw him folding up a small quilt.
“Wait,” I said. “Let me see that before you put it away.”
“It was at the bottom of the trunk,” he said. “Wrapped in paper. But the paper just disintegrated when I took it out so we’d better get some of that acid paper you were talking about.”
“Acid-free,” I corrected, taking the quilt out of his hands. It was a baby quilt. Exquisitely hand quilted, the stitches almost perfect. It was an unusual pattern for a crib quilt—bow tie. And unusual colors, red and green striped print fabric used on the bow ties with an overall white background. Individualistic and bold. Uncaring of convention. I knew it had to have been made by Maple herself.
“Oh, Maple,” I murmured, running my hand over the stitches. “You always had to be different.”
Why didn’t she take it with her? If she’d been pregnant, that would have made sense. But then, nothing about the scenario around her disappearance made sense. Definitely tomorrow I was going to visit my old history professor Russell Hill and not only get his take on the Sullivans, but perhaps find out whom I could talk to who knew them back then and had more impartial memories than Nadine.
I carefully folded it and handed it back to the detective.
“I do that with my murder victims,” he said, placing the quilt back in the trunk, then shutting it.
“Do what?”
“Talk to them. It’s kinda weird, I know. But it helps me remember they were real living human beings, not just a name in a police report.”
We looked at each other for a long ten seconds. His deep brown eyes were pink-rimmed with fatigue and so dark I couldn’t see his pupils. Eyes so dark they didn’t tell you anything about the man. Eyes that fit more with my husband’s black hair than Detective Hudson’s brownish-blond. I broke away before he did, suddenly feeling disoriented.
“I have to get home,” I said. “Let’s get these trunks locked.”
Outside, the rain had slowed down to a heavy mist.
“Good luck back at the ranch,” he said as I climbed into my truck.
I didn’t answer or even glance at him in my rearview mirror as I pulled out of the parking lot and headed toward the unavoidable conflict I knew was waiting for me at home.
11
BENNI
“WHERE HAVE YOU been?” Gabe demanded the minute I walked through the door. “It’s past ten o’clock. I called your cell phone three times and you never answered.”
“I turned it off,” I said, setting down Maple’s scrapbook and bending down to scratch behind Scout’s ears.
“Why?”
“Because I wasn’t in the mood to talk to you. Besides, I thought you’d be plenty busy being a big broad shoulder for Del-li-lah to cry on.”
“We were finished with dinner by eight o’clock.”
“You say that like I’m supposed to give you a medal. Gee, I’m so proud of you, Gabe. You only managed to spend two hours comforting your ex-lover. What a good husband you are. I guess I should thank you for not spending the whole night holding her hand. Or whatever.” I peeled off my damp jacket, threw it on the sofa, and headed for the bedroom to take off my wet shirt and jeans.
“You’re being childish,” he said, following me.
“Just call me silly and immature, but not wanting my husband to date an ex-lover while we’re married is just one of my childish little demands.”
“How many times do I have to tell you we’re just frien
ds.”
“Men and women can’t be just friends.”
“You have male friends.”
“Not ones who’ve seen me naked.”
We glared at each other, both too angry to go on.
He broke the impasse, inhaled deeply, and said, “Look, I know this is hard for you to understand, but Del and I . . . we . . . it’s a cop thing. We were partners. She saved my ass more times than I can remember. For pity’s sakes, Benni, I’ve known her since she was fifteen. Her dad died and she’s depressed. There is nothing happening between us except talk. Can’t you be a little more understanding? Please?” He held out his hand.
I stared at him a minute, ignoring his outstretched hand. Was I being unreasonable? Or was I being the most naive wife in San Celina? Heaven knows, I wanted to believe him. But the memory of them sitting there last night at Ling’s laughing and teasing each other, knowing their history while I sat ignorant and smiling, was like eating a mouthful of clay.
“You should have told me your history with her before we went to dinner. I feel like a fool.”
“When was I supposed to do that? Right after I introduced you in my office? Benni, meet Del, my ex-partner who will be joining us for dinner. Oh, by the way, I’ve also made love to her. Any questions before we order our sweet and sour pork?”
His words struck with the force of an axe blow. How I wished he would have used “had sex” or “slept with” or even any of the cruder terms to describe the act. Saying he made love to her told me something about them I didn’t want to know.
“I can’t talk about this anymore,” I said, choking on the words. “Let’s discuss it tomorrow.”
He shrugged. “I don’t see what there is to discuss. As far as I’m concerned, you are overreacting.”
I bit back my response, knowing that there was no point in fighting about this anymore tonight. We’d just have to go to bed angry at each other. Not, I’m sure, a therapist’s preferred method to resolving marriage conflicts. How many times had I heard and read that couples should never go to bed angry? I guess those people had never had jobs and lives they had to see to the next day. Sometimes things just looked better in the morning . . . or at least easier. We went to sleep with our backs to each other, the storm beating hard outside, rattling the thin glass of our bedroom window.
I woke up earlier than usual after a restless night full of dreams I couldn’t recall in detail. It took a moment after my eyes opened to remember why I felt so sad and abandoned. The storm had passed and the sun was shining through the pale lacy curtains. Snowflake patterns fluttered across the oak floor. Next to me, Gabe’s side was empty and cool.
He was sitting at the kitchen table reading the newspaper, his T-shirt and shorts still damp from his run.
“Hi,” I mumbled, heading straight for the coffeepot.
“Good morning.” He didn’t look up from the paper.
We didn’t exchange more than a few more words before he stood up and went into the bedroom to shower and dress for work.
“What’re our plans for dinner tonight?” he asked, coming back into the kitchen carrying his leather briefcase. He checked his tie in the toaster’s reflection.
“I have a dinner date with Elvia,” I lied. “So you’re on your own. I might be late. We’re going over wedding stuff so I won’t have any time to pack or move anything tonight. Are you free to move some stuff?”
He shrugged and didn’t answer my question. “Guess I’ll see you when I see you then.”
“Yep.” Fine, I thought. We’ll just leave it all to the last minute.
He gave Scout a pat on the head and left without another word.
Well, fine, I thought. That was sure smart of you, Benni Harper. Give him another night free so he can see Del.
Oh, can it, the cynical side of me said. You can’t make someone want to be with you. Or love you.
“Enough whining,” I said out loud, abruptly pushing back my chair and standing up. Scout jumped up, hoping for a biscuit or a trip.
“We’re getting on with business, Scooby-Doo,” I told him, picking up the breakfast dishes and dumping them in the sink. “This is just a bump in the road. I’ll just hold on and wait for her to leave.” He barked in response.
I quickly pulled on clean black Wranglers, a sage green handknit sweater that always brought me compliments, and shined my black boots. I would look good even if I felt like crap. “We’ve got a lot to do today, my boy. And it’s your lucky day because you’re coming with me.”
He ran over to the sofa, stuck his nose under the cushions, and brought out a shocking pink tennis ball, dropping it at my feet.
I scratched under his chin. “No time for ball today, my friend.”
We started off at the folk art museum, where at eight o’clock things were already busy as a Christmas Eve bus station. The frantic catastrophes were something I welcomed. Anything was preferable to thinking about my own problems. I managed to solve everyone’s immediate dilemmas and was back out the door by 10 A.M. I called Russell Hill and he said he had a free period from eleven to one and to meet him at his office. I was anxious to pick his brain about Garvey and Maple Sullivan. I left Scout in D-Daddy’s capable care and promised I’d be back in a couple of hours.
“I’ll be here all day, chère,” he replied.
“Hey, Benni,” Bobbie Lee called as I walked through the museum on my way out. “Met your buddy the Cajun cop yesterday.”
“Part Cajun,” I said. “Or so he claims. I wouldn’t take anything he says real seriously, if I were you. He’s kind of a bullshitter.”
“Be that as it may, he’s a cutie,” she said. “If I wasn’t already romantically attached, I’d go for him myself.”
“You girls talking about that sheriff’s detective in here yesterday?” Ruth Gibson said. “The one combing through those trunks?” She was the president of the Wandering Foot Quilt Guild in Los Osos. A snowy-haired woman with a bawdy sense of humor, she’d raised four sons and one daughter, all attorneys, so she was never without an opinion. “Can’t be shy after raising that group,” she’d always say.
“I like him,” she said, elbowing me in the side. “That husband of yours is a good-looking man, but I’d leave him in a New York minute for that sheriff’s detective.” She snapped her fingers for emphasis.
“Well, Ruth, wait’ll you get to know him a little better before making any plans to leave your husband,” I said, glancing at my watch. I didn’t want to be late for Professor Hill so he could tease me about how some things never change. It became a real joke between us by my senior year, my inability to make it to any of his classes on time. “He gets more annoying with time.”
“Oh, sweetie, you’ll learn when you’re my age that kind of annoying’s fun,” she said laughing. “Keeps you on your toes.”
“I’m spending more than enough time on my toes these days. You can have him.”
Walking through the Cal Poly campus always made me feel young again. Because of its agricultural roots it seemed to have a homier feel to me than other college campuses I’d visited. Being able to buy milk and ice cream in the student store produced by the Ag Department’s cows gave it a connection with our country’s rural roots that most other California universities had long lost.
Professor Hill was already in his cramped, book-lined office even though I’d arrived fifteen minutes before our scheduled appointment.
“I can come back if you’re busy,” I said, poking my head through the open door.
“You’re early!” He stood up behind his beige metal desk, brushing crumbs off the front of his dark blue widewale corduroy slacks. “What a surprise! Cookie? My granddaughter made them.” He held out a tin of oatmeal cookies. “Would you like some coffee?”
“Thanks,” I said, taking a cookie. “And yes, coffee would be nice. Cream and sugar and I am known to be on time once in a while. When the company deserves it.”
“Sit down, sit down.” He gestured at the chair next to his d
esks. While he fixed my coffee, I nibbled on the moist cookie, the first thing I’d had to eat all day, savoring its sharp cinnamon taste.
“It’s so good seeing you, my dear,” he said, setting the steaming mug next to me. His neat salt-and-pepper goatee and kind gray eyes seemed unchanged from seventeen years ago when I’d been a student in his classes. “How’s married life treating you? I must admit, the missus and I get quite the kick out of seeing your picture every so often in the society pages. Wearing a dress yet.” His eyes twinkled with amusement.
I gave a half smile. “The sacrifices one makes for love.”
“And is love treating you well?” He settled back in his chair, stroking his goatee. His voice, as even and calm as his gray eyes, beckoned confidences I wasn’t willing to give.
“Pretty good,” I said, trying to keep my face neutral.
His shaggy gray eyebrows lowered in question.
“Gabe’s a handful,” I admitted. “But we’re doing fine. Really.”
He nodded his head, watching me over tented fingers. I could tell he didn’t believe me. Was my life that much of an open book? How did people acquire a poker face? If there were classes, I needed to sign up.
“I’m here to ask you some historical questions,” I said, putting down my cookie and reaching inside my backpack for a notebook. “About an old San Celina family.”
“You know there is nothing I love better than pontificating on the foibles of our local historical figures,” he said cheerfully. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Fire away.”
“Maple and Garvey Sullivan.”
His pale lips turned up into a small, sad smile. “Ah, yes, San Celina’s infamous murderess.”
“Alleged murderess,” I said.
He nodded his head in approval. “You are technically correct, my dear. They never actually proved she killed her husband. But even I, who have a fondness for soiled doves, and for her in particular, must admit the evidence points overwhelmingly in her direction.” He picked up his chipped mug which was printed with the saying DON’T KNOW MUCH ABOUT HERSTORY. . . . , and took a sip. “What’s brought Maple Sullivan to your attention?”
Steps to the Altar Page 11