Steps to the Altar

by Earlene Fowler

  “I’m sorry,” I said softly. “I’ll go see to the caterers.”

  She remained in the brocade chair, staring at her hands, when I backed out of the room.

  By nine o’clock the party was in full swing and all the guests had arrived. Constance, like the true diva she was, had set our conversation aside and resumed her role as queen of the Mardi Gras ball. I purposely avoided her, spending most of my time in the kitchen making sure the food and drinks were flowing smoothly. I knew that tomorrow, when the effects of the champagne had worn off, she’d regret telling me about her and Mitch Warner. I still felt ashamed for bringing it up, but it had also given me another piece in the Sullivan puzzle. Could I trust Mitch’s implication to Constance that he wasn’t protecting Maple because they were in love? Or was that just what he’d said to let her down easy and to keep her from calling the police?

  Then why call her at all? That was the conundrum. If he’d helped Maple kill Garvey or even did it himself, why call Constance at all?

  I worried over the new information as I studiously tried to ignore the feelings of anxiety about my own troubled relationship. I’d fretted about what I’d say to Gabe when he came to the ball, but then realized by eight-thirty that he had probably decided not to attend. Part of me was glad. Another part of me despaired that he’d honored my request and not tried to talk to me. Though I knew we’d only fight, I wanted him to care enough to pursue me.

  I was killing time in Constance’s huge kitchen rearranging some canapés on a large silver tray when a warm hand squeezed the back of my neck.

  “Why are you hiding out in here?” Isaac asked. “You should be out dancing. And where’s that husband of yours?”

  I turned to look up at my future stepgrandpa and smiled. He was dressed as the Lone Ranger. The Lone Ranger with a long white braid and an earring. “I’m working tonight, Isaac. My fun will come when I go home, take off this ridiculous dress, and make myself some cocoa. And I imagine Gabe probably ended up having to deal with some crisis downtown. He wasn’t sure if he was going to make it.” The lie sounded convincing even to me.

  “I think you look cute as a bug’s ear, but I am a little biased. You sound a little under the weather. Might better add some rum to the cocoa tonight,” he said, his dark raisin eyes crinkling.

  “Might better,” I agreed. “So, how are things with the great wedding site search? Is it just me Dove’s been harassing or have you been getting daily updates too?”

  He leaned against the tiled counter and sighed. “I wish she’d quit worrying so much about it. I just want to get married and start living our life. Neither of us have that much time to ponder over the styles of print on our wedding napkins.”

  I pushed shrimp-topped crackers around on the tray. “She wants to be special to you. She wants this wedding to be unique.”

  He reached up and scratched the side of his broad nose. “Benni, she is special. How can she not know that? She doesn’t need a wedding in a glass-bottomed boat to prove that she’s special.”

  “A glass-bottomed boat? I haven’t heard about that one yet. I’m still bowled over by the cave.”

  His eyes widened. “Cave? I hadn’t heard anything about a cave. I’m not crazy about being underground until I actually am forced to be.”

  I laughed and held out the silver platter. “To be honest, I don’t think you have to worry about it. It was in Arkansas, and after pointing out Garnet would most likely be involved, she nixed it.”

  “Thank you, Lord,” Isaac said. He took a canapé and popped it into his mouth. “Could you talk to her? Tell her she doesn’t need to prove anything to me.”

  I was still apprehensive about getting involved, but unable to say no to this man I cared so much about. “Sure, Isaac. I’ll talk to her. I’m not certain it’ll do any good, but I’ll try.”

  He leaned down and kissed my forehead. “Thank you. You don’t realize how much she respects your opinion. She’ll listen to you.”

  The door of the kitchen flew open and Constance’s shrill voice called out, “Isaac, darling, what are you doing in here with the help? People want to meet you. That’s what they came for.” She glanced over at me, her eyes locking with mine for a moment, their message indecipherable.

  “Is everything going well, Benni?” she asked stiffly.

  “Just fine, Constance. I’m just helping the caterers get more food out to the guests. A couple of their helpers didn’t show up.” I picked up the silver tray of stuffed mushrooms.

  Her nose quivered like she’d smelled something bad. “Probably off drunk somewhere. Then again, what can you expect with those sort of people.”

  I felt anger heat up my chest. Those sort of people? Like working people? Her tone was the same as when she’d been talking about Maple Sullivan. I’d held my tongue then, but I wasn’t about to now.

  “Those sort of people, Constance, are what make your sort of people able to have parties like this.”

  “Young lady!” she said, pulling herself straight. “You’d better watch your tone. I’m paying good money—”

  “Canapés coming right up,” Isaac interrupted, taking the tray out of my hands. He said in an aside to me, “Go get some air, kiddo.”

  I frowned at him, annoyed he was taking her side.

  “Constance, we’ll be with you in a minute,” he called across the kitchen.

  She glared at me before giving him a flirtatious look. “Of course, dear Isaac, I’ll let you handle it.”

  After she’d left, I growled at Isaac, “Why did you stop me?”

  “Because that fire coming out of your eyes tells me you’d be better off thinking before speaking right now. Now Constance has said worse things than that around you before. You know you can’t change attitudes like hers. Why is it bothering you tonight?”

  I inhaled deeply, not wanting to go into the whole story about Maple Sullivan one more time. “I’m just tired. You’re right, I shouldn’t let her get my goat. Thanks for stopping me before I blasted her.”

  He laughed and held out the tray. “Not that I wouldn’t have thoroughly enjoyed seeing you argue the rights of the working class with her, I just felt that you’d be the one who ended up suffering more.”

  I took a mushroom and popped it in my mouth. “I think I will go out to the garden and get some air.”

  “And I’ll soothe the snapping greyhound for you,” he said.

  His comment made me giggle. “I thought I was the only one who thought she looked like one.”

  “That’s better.”

  “Thanks, Pops. You’re the best.”

  “And you’re the Tower of Pisa.”

  Outside, it was cool enough that I had the garden to myself. The quiet, green-scented pathways were just what I needed. At the back of the garden, I found a cold marble bench and sat down, staring back at the lit-up house. The hum of the party, in full swing now, filtered through the thick trees. No one would miss me at the ball. I could probably sit out here until it ended and I had to supervise the catering crew’s cleanup.

  I closed my eyes, my mind completely blank for one glorious moment.

  “That is some kinda dress, darlin’. You know, every time I see you, I have to rearrange my fantasies. The way that fringe moves when you walk away . . . why, it’s a true gift from the gods.”

  Hud stood in front of me wearing a pin-striped twenties-style suit complete with a fedora and two-toned shoes. He looked like a bad imitation of F. Scott Fitzgerald. There was no way it could have been a coincidence.

  “Like my costume?” he said, giving me a wide smile. “Wanna do the Charleston?”

  “You are a royal jerk,” I said.

  “Hey, that’s better than a common one. And I may be a jerk, but baby, I’m a jerk who has something you want.” He wiggled his eyebrows.

  “You couldn’t possibly have anything I want.” I contemplated getting up and leaving, then decided I was here first and he needed to leave. “Go away, Hud. I’m truly not in the m
ood to banter with you right now.”

  He ignored my request and sat down beside me, his face suddenly sober. “You’re upset about something.”

  “Go away. I mean it. I don’t want to talk to anyone right now.”

  “Where’s your husband? You two on the outs?”

  I turned, put my hands on his chest, and shoved as hard as I could, knocking him off the bench. “I said get lost!”

  He lay awkwardly on the ground, his face comical in shock. I almost laughed, but knew that would only encourage him. His shocked look slowly turned into a grin. Geeze Louise, I thought, doesn’t this guy ever get a clue?

  “My pawpaw Gautreaux always said the feisty ones were the ones who’d last. Bet you live to be a hundred and five.” He stood up, brushing leaves and dirt off his suit. “If there’re any stains, I’m sending you the bill.”

  “Turn blue,” I said, getting up to leave.

  “I wasn’t lyin’ when I said I have something you want.”

  “And I said you have nothing I want. Not now, not next week, not next year, not ever. Clear enough, Detective Hudson?” I started walking toward the house.

  “Are we back to formal names again?” he said, moaning. “After we made so much progress. Guess I’ll just put this diary back where I found it.”

  I stopped dead and turned around to face his smirk. “Diary?”

  He pulled a small bound book from inside his suit coat.

  “Whose diary?”

  “One Maple Bennett Sullivan’s.”

  17

  BENNI

  “GIVE IT TO me!” I dashed across the brick walkway, holding out my hand. When I reached him, he held the thin book above his head.

  “Not so fast. I want an apology first for your unnecessary rudeness and unfriendly demeanor.”

  Instead I slammed my fist into his stomach.

  He anticipated me this time and my fist hit clenched muscle. I pulled it back, rubbing my throbbing knuckles.

  “Ha!” he said. “Outfoxed for once. All you have to do is be nice and I’ll give it to you. I swear, darlin’, I’d give you anything you want if you’d just sweeten that sour attitude a little.”

  I stood back and glared at him. He was lucky I didn’t have a gun because I swore at that moment I’d shoot him right in the heart without one ounce of regret.

  He threw back his head and laughed. “That’s murder I read in those pretty hazel eyes. Pawpaw would just plumb love you to death. I may have to fly him out from Baton Rouge just so you two can meet.”

  Forget the gun. I wanted him to dangle at the end of a rope. For a long, painful time. Then have wolves chew the meat off his bones.

  “Here, take it.” He held out the cracked leather journal. “Found it this morning inside a box of old books. Can’t believe nobody found it in all these years. I haven’t read it, I swear. I knew you’d want to be the first.”

  I searched his dark eyes. He wasn’t lying. Just when I wanted to leave his carcass to the buzzards, he did something incredibly thoughtful. I took the diary and held it against my chest. “Thanks.”

  He stuck his hands deep into his pants pockets. “One favor? Let me know if you find anything interesting in there?”

  “Sure,” I said, then shivered.

  “You’d better get inside. You can’t solve a fifty-year-old murder mystery if you’ve got pneumonia.”

  Back inside, I put the diary in my leather backpack, wishing this party were over and I could rush home and read Maple’s journal. Would the answer to the tragedy be there in her own words?

  Dove and I eventually crossed paths over the punch bowl. She was dressed as a pioneer woman in a full calico dress and sun bonnet, which was now dangling down her back much in the same way it probably would have if she’d actually been a pioneer woman.

  “Hey, honeybun,” she said. “What in the world did you do to get Constance’s dander up?”

  I leaned my head down and rested it a moment on Dove’s shoulder. “She was just being a snob and I called her on it.”

  Dove patted my back. “What else?”

  I straightened up and reached for a crystal punch glass. “What do you mean?”

  “She told me to reel you in. That you were sticking your nose in old business that was better left alone.” She took my glass, filled it full of punch, and handed it to me. “What’s she talking about?”

  Knowing better than to try and hide anything from Dove, I quickly told her the story of Maple and Garvey Sullivan, why I was involved, and what had taken place between Constance and me.

  Dove clucked her tongue when I was through. “Always knew there were shenanigans in ole Connie’s background. Her fancy act never fooled me.”

  “So, are you telling me to back off?”

  Dove looked at me thoughtfully, fingering the ties of her bonnet. “Honeybun, you just do what you have to do and don’t pay no never mind to Constance Sinclair. Whatever was going on between her and Mitch Warner fifty years ago doesn’t change the fact that she withheld information that should have been told to someone in authority. What’s your next move?”

  Sipping the punch, I told her about the possible link to the retired cop Bob Weston.

  “Sounds like you’ve got things covered. Speaking of covered, how’s Elvia’s shower doing?”

  “Everything’s ready to go for tomorrow,” I said, setting down my empty glass. It suddenly struck me at that moment that tomorrow was not only Elvia’s shower, it was also my second anniversary.

  She gave me a sharp look. “Is everything okay?”

  I knew I wouldn’t be able to hide our separation forever, but I was not ready to talk about it yet. I held her watchful gaze. “Fine.”

  “I’d go see Mac if I was you.”

  I froze for a moment. Why should I go see our minister? Did she know about Gabe and me? How could she know already?

  “Why?” I said, trying to keep my voice from shaking.

  “He could probably find out something from Oralee. I wasn’t around these parts back then, but I’ll gander she was part of that crowd. She’s got to know something, but the strokes have made her kind of stubborn. Mac’s about the only person can get her to do anything.”

  “Good idea,” I said quickly. “I’ll talk to the other ladies in my quilt group at Oak Terrace Retirement Home. They might know something too.”

  She searched my face another moment, then kissed my cheek. “Give my love to Gabriel. I’m assuming he’s still cleaning up the streets of San Celina.”

  “Probably so,” I said, hugging her.

  I spent a few more hours mingling, including some time spent with Emory and Elvia, where I excused Gabe’s absence with the explanation I’d given to everyone else.

  “He really should learn to delegate,” Emory said, refilling my punch glass.

  “You know him,” I just said.

  After checking with the catering staff and being assured that they’d attend to the cleanup detail, I was ready to go home.

  Finally, by 1 A.M. I was unlocking the door to the new house. I spent a few minutes petting Scout, then peeled off my costume, tossed it over a pasteboard box, and pulled on thick, warm sweats. With a cup of instant cocoa, I settled down in the bedroom in my sleeping bag with Scout stretched out next to me and opened up Maple’s diary. I flipped through it quickly to get an overview of the time it covered. The first entry was in June when she’d been married only a few weeks. The last entry was a month before Garvey was killed. She didn’t keep it up on any sort of regular schedule, but seemed to write when the mood struck. I punched my pillow so it supported my neck, then started reading in the yellowish-orange light from the Tiffany floor lamp.

  June 30, 1942

  Everything is so beautiful here! I am especially charmed by the smell and long-limbed beauty of the eucalyptus trees, something I’d never seen before coming West. Someone told me that whenever you see a row of them there had once been a field or a homestead, that the pioneers used them for windbr
eaks. People here complain about their sharp, medicine-like smell but I find them exotic and fascinating. The adobes that dot this county are equally fascinating to me. I picture Spanish señoras waiting on their wide verandas for their dashing husbands with their tall leather boots and handlebar mustaches to ride up on a wild black stallion. Sometimes when I spin my tales I can even make my dear husband smile. He doesn’t smile very often these days. He has so much to worry about with the building of Camp Riley. It was a very wet winter and construction was halted many times due to rain. Garvey and I have settled down in his family home. Its extraordinary elegance leaves me feeling more than a little like a country bumpkin. I’ve not much to do as there are people who clean and a woman who cooks our meals. Though there is rationing, we seem to want for nothing, which bothers me. I’ve spent a lot of time sitting on the front porch reading and watching the green hills turn a soft, caramel brown. I’ve written Mama and Daddy twice and have not gotten a response. Without me to come home once a month to read and answer their mail, I wonder what they do now.

  September 9, 1942

  A letter from home arrived today. Brother Perimon at the church wrote it for them. Mama said it was a hard summer and the tobacco crop has not done well. They are further in debt than ever. Daddy has even taken to hiring out to other farmers though there isn’t even much field work to go around. It makes me feel so selfish and privileged to enjoy fresh milk and butter whenever I desire. I’ve mentioned to Garvey that it didn’t seem quite fair for us to have so much when others had so little. He looked at me with such bemusement. Has he never been without in his life? Perhaps not. He gave it over to me to do what I see fit with our rationing stamps. I have informed our cook to heed the recipes in the newspaper that use little from rationed food and to give the rest of the stamps to me. I’ll find some family with children who need them worse than we do.