Steps to the Altar

by Earlene Fowler

  I bent my head back over my square. “I’m fine.” But I knew I wasn’t fooling her a bit.

  “Did you go see Mac?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “And I’m fine.”

  There was a moment of silence, then I couldn’t stand it. “Gabe thinks he might be in love with someone else,” I blurted out.

  She never dropped a stitch. “Go on,” she said.

  I stopped sewing and poured the whole story out. By the time I was done, tears were flowing down my face and I could barely talk.

  Dove got up, fetched a clean embroidered tea towel, and handed it to me, patting me gently on the back. “It’s going to be okay, honeybun. It’s just a little hitch in the rope.”

  “Hitch! Try a big old slip knot that gets tighter and tighter every day. Geeze, I want to kill him. Not to mention her! I wish I’d never met him. I truly do. What a total loser. What a jerk. I hope he ends up toothless and impotent. And I hope she, I hope she . . .” I just couldn’t think of something bad enough. “I hope she develops canker sores the size of Kansas. I can’t believe I’ve been sitting around moaning and groaning about this. Let them have each other. It’s just what they deserve. I was fine before he came into my life and I’ll be fine long after he’s gone.”

  She let me rant and rave for a good ten minutes. The flat-out anger dried my tears so I tossed the tea towel aside. When, like an old-fashioned windup toy, I’d finally ran out of steam, she spoke in a clear, calm voice.

  “You two can survive this, you know. Sometimes in a marriage, one person has to be the stronger, the more forgiving. If you’re together long enough, it evens out. Trust me, honeybun, a marriage can even survive one of the partners thinking they are in love with someone else. Usually, those feelings aren’t real, they’re just something hurting inside that person.”

  I gazed at her in misery, my anger dissipated and replaced now by an overwhelming sadness. “I’ve done the best I can, Gramma. I’ve been the best wife I know how to be. I know I’ve failed in some ways . . .”

  “This is not necessarily something you could have prevented,” Dove said. “This is old business that he never took care of when he should have. And business like that tends to come back to bite us in the butt. Trust him, Benni. Trust yourself. Trust that you and he were meant to be together. And if he wants forgiveness, give it to him. In the long run, it will make you both better people.”

  My temper flared again. “Trust him! You are kidding. Dove, you’re not hearing me. He told me he thought he might be in love with another woman. Shoot, maybe he’s always been in love with her. Maybe I was the mistake. Trust him? Right now I trust him about as much as I would a rattlesnake. For all I know, they’re in bed together as we speak.”

  She tsked under her breath. “My hearing’s just fine, young lady. And I’m telling you, I doubt what he feels for that woman is love. This I do know. He’s an honorable man. He would never cheat on you.”

  Anger melted back into misery. “You don’t know that for sure.”

  “No, not for sure, but I trust my instincts and they say he’s suffering over this as much as you. He’ll come around. And just remember one other thing. There’s not a one of us that can’t be tempted in that way and lots of others. It’s not the temptation that does us in, it’s the giving in to it that seals the bargain with the devil.”

  I shrugged, feigning indifference, though I knew I wasn’t fooling Dove a bit. “Right now, I’m not sure I care whether he gives in to temptation or not.”

  Her eyes gave me a disbelieving look over the top of her glasses.

  I sighed. Not only was I losing my husband, but I was obviously disappointing Dove with my reactions. “Did anything like this ever happen to you and Grampa?”

  She nodded, her eyes growing hazy with memory. “It’s not that unusual. Sometimes a person thinks they want this, that, or the other when what they really want is just not to feel bad inside. And it might take them a while to figure out that all those things won’t heal that longing inside. That you got to face the fact you have the longing, then let God fix it.”

  “So when Grampa—” Before I could go any further, my cell phone rang. It was Joan Sackett from the police department.

  “Hey, Benni, I’ve got some information for you.”

  “Great!” I said, fumbling around for some paper and pencil. “What did you find out?”

  “That old cop I saw at the festival called me back with Bob Weston’s phone number. Believe it or not, he doesn’t live far away. Up around Jolon.”

  Jolon was a very small town about seventy-five miles north near the San Antonio Mission in Monterey County. The mission was the only one located on an active military base—Fort Hunter-Leggitt. I’d visited the mission once for a high school history class field trip.

  “What’s his story?” I asked.

  “He must be in his late seventies, early eighties,” she continued. “He was one of the detectives who worked on the Sullivan murder. I gave him a call and paved the way a bit for you. Seems like a nice old guy. Pretty talkative once he was convinced I was really a cop. I flirted with him a bit so he’d let me interview him for the department’s oral history project. Can you imagine the untold stories knocking around in that man’s head?”

  I took down his number and thanked Joan profusely for getting back to me so quickly. Then I called the number. Mr. Weston answered on the third ring.

  “Mr. Weston? This is Benni Harper. Joan Sackett of the San Celina Police Department said she—”

  His voice was strong and blunt as a brick. I would have known he was a cop without ever being told. “Yes, yes, young woman. I was just on the phone with her. Tell me, is she married?”

  “Uh . . . divorced, I think.”

  “Fine, fine. What about you?”

  I hesitated a moment, then said, “Married.”

  “You sure?”

  I cleared my throat. “Absolutely.”

  “Hmp,” he answered as if he already knew everything that had taken place between me and Gabe. I bet he’d been a good detective. “So, when do you want to meet?”

  “As soon as you can,” I said.

  “How about tonight? The Hacienda Restaurant at Hearst’s old hunting lodge? Know where that is? It’s the Monday night steak special. Two top sirloin dinners for nine-fifty. I’m not averse to a woman buying me a meal, by the way. How’s six o’clock sound? I don’t want them to run out of lime sherbet. It’s my favorite.”

  “Of course,” I said, a bit unnerved by his shotgun approach. “I’ll meet you there. Did Joan tell you my husband—”

  “Is the chief of police. She did. I’ve heard about him. Fine police officer, I’m told, even if he did sell out to management. Cares about the ranks. Not too full of himself. Too good-looking, they say, which is never a plus in our business, distracts the females too much, interferes with investigating except on the rare occasion when you can use it. But there you go. We all have our crosses to bear. Joan said you wanted to discuss the Sullivan mess. Been a long time since anyone’s wanted to know about that. Don’t know if I can help much. Will your husband be joining us?”

  “No, it’s just me. I’ll explain my involvement when I see you, Mr. Weston. Six o’clock is great. Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”

  “No problem, missy. Old man like me doesn’t get to have dinner with a young woman too often. Looking forward to it. And you tell that Joan that I’ll be calling her.”

  “I sure will,” I said, smiling in spite of myself.

  “What’s that all about?” Dove asked when I got off.

  I explained the latest twist in my search for the truth in the Sullivan murder.

  “That man will have some interesting stories, no doubt,” Dove said. “And who knows? Maybe he’ll give you something you can use.”

  Since it was only three o’clock, I continued working on the quilt until four. We had only one square left, which Dove assured
me she could finish tonight. “You get on the road. And keep that cell phone with you. That’s a lonely drive out to The Hacienda. Me and Isaac went there a while back for some real good prime rib.”

  “It’s two-for-one steak night apparently.”

  “Well, then, eat up. The protein will make you feel better.”

  As I gathered up my jacket and purse, I turned back to Dove, determined to hear the whole story of Grampa falling in love with someone else. I wanted to know how long it took her to forgive him, did she feel differently about him, did she ever regret not just kicking his butt out.

  “When Grampa fell in love with that other woman,” I said, “how long before you and he . . . before things were okay?”

  She looked up from the last square she was quilting. I knew Dove. She was superstitious, though she would deny it. She would deliberately drop a stitch in this square so, like the Amish, she would not insult God by attempting a perfect quilt. I could have told her there were plenty of dropped stitches in my squares. Not unlike my life.

  Her white eyebrows went up slightly. “Who said it was Grampa?”

  20

  BENNI

  ON THE DRIVE out to The Hacienda I marveled at how my gramma could still surprise me. I didn’t have time to find out the details about this other man she’d thought she’d loved, which was probably why she didn’t mention it until I was ready to leave.

  “We’ll discuss it someday,” she said, walking me to the door. “Just remember it was your grampa who understood what true love was. He waited for me until I came to my senses. And for that, he owns a piece of my heart that no one else ever will.” With that statement, she kissed my cheek, bopped me on the butt with her palm, and told me to get along, find out the truth about Maple Sullivan, and bring it on back to her. She needed a good story to take to the next historical meeting.

  The shadows were growing long when I made the turn off Interstate 101 for The Hacienda. I passed an empty guard shack, the only indication that I was now on military property. It had been a rainy winter and the hills were a brilliant green dotted with yellow ground clouds of wild mustard and Bermuda buttercups, a flower whose stems tasted sour when you chewed them, somewhere between lemon and lime. The early rain guaranteed that feed would be abundant this year. Not one car passed me as I drove into the hills dotted with white clusters of early popcorn weed. A diamond-shaped yellow-and-black sign flashed by on my right—TANK CROSSING—reminding me that this wasn’t just an ordinary country road.

  The Hacienda Restaurant and Lodge was located near a group of obviously military buildings. Though I’d lived in San Celina most of my life, I’d never come to this restaurant in southern Monterey County. I didn’t even remember these buildings from my school field trip. I drove up the small hill to the mission-style lodge and parked next to a Monterey County Sheriff’s car. Once in a spacious courtyard covered with flattened grass, I followed a couple who appeared to know where they were going. We passed under one of the archways and had a choice of two glass doors. The left went into the restaurant, the right into a cocktail lounge, which was just starting to fill with people. The couple chose the restaurant and I followed.

  The restaurant was one large room lit by rustic, octagon-shaped chandeliers resembling wagon wheels. The high-beamed ceilings and adobe walls echoed the mission theme. Greco-style painting with a slightly Native American and Mexican motif edged all the deep windows and the archways leading to the kitchen and the small-windowed back room that seemed to serve as the salad bar. Above this archway, there was, incongruously, a lighted bingo board. Behind the entry an elaborate mural had been painted of the early military history of California. In calligraphic lettering it announced:

  The Military Come to the Providence of California.

  While I waited behind the couple, I picked up a brochure with The Hacienda pictured on front. The buildings were designed in 1929 by Julia Morgan, a close friend of William Randolph Hearst and the designer of the infamous Hearst Castle. The rooms in the lodge were originally built for the workers of Hearst’s vast cattle ranch and were also used to provide Hearst’s myriad of friends with a “ranch” experience including barbecues, dances, and impromptu rodeos. The brochure claimed the ranch had enjoyed visits from Clark Gable, Spencer Tracy, Herbert Hoover, and other celebrities and politicians. Now it was a semisecret spot for birders, hikers, and vacationers looking for an inexpensive, low-stress hideaway.

  The couple was seated and I moved forward. “I’m meeting someone . . .” I started to tell the ponytailed waitress.

  “Yeah, Mr. Weston. He’s already got a table. Over there.” She pointed across the wide adobe-colored room. A gray-haired man wearing a pale blue sports shirt stood up and gave a quick wave.

  “Thanks,” I said and headed toward him, weaving through the already crowded room. The tables were simple Formica-topped restaurant tables and the chairs armless, padded highbacks with teal-colored cushions.

  “Benni Harper?” The man pulled out my chair. He was about five-six with a straight-backed, military-style bearing. His blue shirt was without a wrinkle and his thin gray hair short and tidy. He smiled widely, revealing a perfect set of dentures that seemed a little too large for his mouth. Blue-gray eyes that reminded me of Gabe’s gave me a brief once-over in a gesture that was in every cop’s permanent repertoire.

  “Yes. Mr. Weston?”

  He gave a small chuckle and helped me scoot in my chair. “Humor me, young woman, and call me Bob.” He sat down across from me. “This is a big deal for me, you know. Don’t get many phone calls from the ladies anymore. Spent the last two hours primping.”

  “Now I find that real hard to believe,” I said, instantly charmed by his honesty. I just hoped he’d be as forthcoming with his knowledge of the Sullivan murder.

  We ordered our steaks and shot the breeze a little while, discussing the history of these buildings, how he liked living in a town as small as Jolon, how I liked being a cop’s wife.

  “My dear Beth,” he said, his lined face going soft in memory. “God rest her soul, she had the patience of a saint. Takes that to be married to a career police officer. I don’t know how she put up with me all those years.” His eyes grew teary over his salad.

  I touched the top of his rough hand. “I’m sure it was worth it to her. She must have loved you very much.”

  He gave a brusque nod, embarrassed by his emotional lapse. “She always claimed to.”

  Halfway through our steaks, I managed to steer the conversation to the actual reason I was meeting him. He talked about the Sullivan murder with a reluctance that I suspected had to do with the frustration of remembering an unsolved case.

  “I never thought she did it,” he said, chewing his steak carefully.

  “Why’s that?” I tried not to sound too eager. I wanted his honest opinion, not just someone who would tell me what I wanted to hear.

  He paused for a moment and sipped his iced tea. “Now, that’s a good question. I don’t really know why. I suppose if you held a gun to my head, pardon my analogy, and made me explain myself, I’d have to say it just wasn’t in her.”

  Playing the devil’s advocate, I said, “She was pretty darn smart. You must have read some of her newspaper articles. Maple Sullivan was more than capable of planning a murder.”

  “Now, I didn’t say she wasn’t smart enough. I mean she wasn’t hard enough. I saw the crime scene. That took someone who had a cold heart and a strong stomach. He was shot in the temple. Bullet went right through the cheekbone and blew his left eye plumb out. The person who did that calmly walked away and left him there. I don’t believe she had it in her to do that.”

  “On what basis?” I asked, setting my fork down. The medium-rare steak in front of me suddenly lost its appeal. “Had you ever met her?”

  “Nope,” he admitted. “But she was a woman, after all.”

  I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from blurting out a protesting squawk. Waiting until the urge passed, I said, �
��A woman is perfectly capable of being that calm and calculating. And of murdering someone.”

  He grinned at me. “You one of them women’s libbers?”

  I studied my fork, then looked him straight in the eyes. “If being a women’s libber means I believe women are just as capable as men of cold, calculating behavior, then I guess I am.”

  He chuckled, speared a large piece of dripping meat, and shoved it between his lips. “Now don’t go getting your knickers in a bundle. I’m not sure I agree with you. Women certainly can be mean and cruel, but in my long years of watching the human race, I’d say men got ’em beat ten to one.”

  “Maybe,” I hedged. “But you still haven’t given me a concrete reason why you think she didn’t kill her husband.”

  “You know, I got the distinct impression when we first spoke that you didn’t think she did it.”

  “I don’t, but I want to be fair. It’s important to find out the truth even if it proves what I don’t personally want to be true.”

  He nodded, chewing thoughtfully. He placed his knife on the plate and tented his fingers, thinking before he answered. “You’d have made a fine detective, young woman.”

  I smiled at him. “Thank you. Now, tell me why you don’t think she did it. Give me some concrete reasons why you don’t think she killed her husband.”

  He held up his right index finger. “One, when women kill, they tend to use poison, not guns. Especially during the era we’re talking about. Might be different now, but back then, with all the research I did, women poisoned when they wanted to kill.” He held up a second finger. “Two, she was afraid of guns. I mean, she had one of them phobias. There’s a name for it, can’t recall at the moment. The old brain isn’t as quick as it used to be. But she wouldn’t even allow them in the house. I contacted her parents back in Kentucky to confirm it and it wasn’t just something she told people to set the whole thing up. She really was scared to death of firearms of any kind, had been since she was a little girl. They told me that before they even knew Garvey Sullivan had been shot.” He held up a third finger. “Three, she didn’t stand to inherit much. Not until she gave birth to their first child. Signed a document stating that if the marriage didn’t work out and there were no heirs born, she’d get a flat ten thousand dollars and all the personal items he’d given her. One of the first prenuptial agreements, I gathered. His father talked him into it, and apparently, she went along. She wouldn’t have gained much by killing him.”