Except sometimes you had to bear it.
I’d never know what my mother would have told me to do about Gabe. I didn’t have a clue as to what type of person she was, what type of person she would have ended up being by the time she was fifty-three. In my mind she would always be twenty-five. I had no sense of her voice anymore, the smell of her, the way she walked, the way she cleaned a house. Did she vacuum or dust first? For some reason, I desperately wanted to know that one small detail.
The house was dark when I parked in front. The skeletal shell of the garage roof looked spooky in the shadows. The pungent, dusky smell of burnt wood still permeated the air. Thankful that Scout was with me, I walked up to the front door, my stomach feeling like a chunk of ice. The doorknob was cold in my hand as I fumbled with the lock. Underneath my foot, plastic crunched. I flipped the porch light on and bent down to pick up the cassette. I’d cracked the case, but the cassette inside was intact.
I quickly closed the door behind me, went through the house switching on every light, and turned the wall furnace on high to eliminate the damp chill. Standing in front of the heater, I contemplated the unmarked cassette, wondering if it was another clue from Jacob Chandler. But who had left it here? He had so many people involved in this stupid game that it could have been anyone. I stuck the cassette into his stereo and after fiddling around with the unfamiliar knobs and switches, music started to play.
It was an old eighties pop song. One you still heard too often in elevators, in dentists’ offices, and on oldies stations. The music had always intrigued me, but the words left me feeling a little sick, a little scared.
I stood there, feeling my heart beat faster as I listened to Sting and the Police sing the line “. . . I’ll be watching you.”
12
THE NEXT DAY I moped around the house until past noon, wanting to call Gabe but refusing to give in. Finally I decided to call Emory at the newspaper and see what he’d come up with in his investigations.
“Sweetcakes, are you doin’ okay? Rumor on the street has it you and the Man had words last night.”
“Geeze, Emory, do you have the tables at Blind Harry’s bugged?”
“No, but thanks for the idea. Seriously, is everything okay?”
“Gabe and I just had a small disagreement about the words control and concern and how they are not synonyms in any way, shape, or form.”
“Hmm, sounds serious enough for me to steer clear of. What can I do for you?”
“I was wondering if you’d found out anything on Duane and Cole Briggstone.”
“Sure did. You were on my list to hunt down today anyway so you’ve saved me some time.” I heard him shuffle some papers. “Okay, here we are. Duane is a lowlife, but then, we already knew that.”
“Details, Emory, details.”
“He was busted five times in the last two years. Twice for drunk driving. Once for possession of illegal narcotics—speed. And twice for petty burglary. His mama bailed him out every time, by the way, but he did spend a little time in the county jail. Got all that from a cute little receptionist who works for a bail bondsman who’s a friend of a friend.”
“You know, if Elvia finds out you’re flirting with other women, she’ll drop you like the proverbial hot tamale.”
His laugh rumbled over the phone. “Never fear, cousin dear, I only did what was absolutely necessary to obtain needed information for Elvia’s very best friend in the whole world, so how could she be upset with me?”
“You’re incorrigible, but I still love you. What else?”
“Nothing on the older brother, Cole. He appears to be the good son or at least the smart one who never gets caught. Here’s another interesting fact, Mama Briggstone’s store is in Chapter Eleven.”
“Really? That explains why her sons are so upset about me being named Mr. Chandler’s heir. Their gravy train will be shut off. How bad off is she?”
“It was hard getting details since I haven’t cultivated any contacts yet in Morro Bay, but I did find out who owns the building where her store is located and tracked down the property management company in charge of it. Tess Briggstone is three months behind in her store rent.”
“What about their house?” I walked over to the window, Scout following me, and peered through the blinds at their house. It was closed up tight, and no one appeared to be home.
“It’s a rental, too. The owner is an attorney in Santa Monica. His office says he’s out of the country until Memorial Day, and I couldn’t even pry out of his secretary who the management company was so I have no idea if they are also behind on that rent. I could keep digging if you want.”
“No, that’s okay. It really doesn’t matter. All your information just confirms what we already knew, that these people are desperate for money. The question is how desperate.”
“That fire tells me they’re pretty desperate,” Emory said, his voice worried. “I’m chancing your wrath here, but are you sure that house and Chandler’s measly savings account is worth risking life and/or limb?”
“Don’t be so dramatic, Emory. You’re beginning to sound like Gabe. I have to see this thing through to the end.”
“Why?”
I paused a minute, thankful we had the distance and physical anonymity of the phone between us. One look at my face, and he’d instantly know there was something I wasn’t telling him. It had been that way since we were children—this ability to read each other. “I just have to, Emory. You know I hate quitting anything.”
He was silent for a moment. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“Now you’re really beginning to sound like Gabe.” But I didn’t answer his question.
His exaggerated sigh was audible over the phone. “Fine, have it your way. You’ll tell me when you’re ready.”
“Thanks for getting me the information. You’re definitely in the running for being my favorite cousin.”
“Ha, I won that award years ago. I’m in the cousin Hall of Fame.”
I laughed. “What are your plans for tomorrow?” I knew, just like me, Mother’s Day was hard for him. It was our tradition to call each other and talk for hours, but this was the first Mother’s Day he lived near enough to visit. We’d have to figure out a new custom.
“I’m invited to the Aragon house for their traditional fete.”
“What a treat for you. That’s the only day of the year the Aragon men cook. Don’t be surprised if you’re handed an apron.”
“I’ll do whatever it takes to fit in. What are your plans?”
“Same as always. I’ll meet Daddy at Mama’s grave and put flowers on it, then we’ll probably eat at Liddie’s. Oh, and I’m bringing pizzas to the San Celina Seven. That was Dove’s Mother’s Day dinner request.”
“Their little escapade has made the Associated Press, you know. That means any paper in the country could pick it up.”
“No, I didn’t know. Think they’ll hear about it back in Sugartree? Aunt Garnet will burst a blood vessel. Worse, she might feel compelled to fly out here and set Dove on the straight and narrow.”
He chuckled. “Heaven help us all. I’ll see you later.”
“If not today, then definitely tomorrow. I always bring flowers to Elvia’s mom for Mother’s Day. Besides, I have to get a picture of you in an apron for future generations to ridicule.”
“Just make sure you get my good side.”
Talking to Emory raised my spirits considerably, so I took a shower and planned my day. As I dressed, I studied Gwen Swanson’s embroidered signature on the baby quilt I’d left draped over the footboard. Maybe Daddy would know who she was. The only way to find out was to drive out to the ranch and ask him.
Before I left I called a florist and ordered flowers for Señora Aragon and for my mother’s grave. Yellow roses for Elvia’s mom, pink roses for Mama. The same as every year. I assumed my dad initially started the custom of pink roses for my mother, and I just took over the ordering when I was sixteen. Were pink roses my mot
her’s favorite flower? Did they have some personal significance to my dad? I’d never asked because we never talked when we took the flowers to the cemetery. Our yearly visit consisted of the same ritual—my father taking off his hat, standing silently for a few minutes staring at her headstone, then walking away, leaving me to arrange the flowers in the sunken vase and brush the grass off her stone. We always ate at Liddie’s afterwards. We never talked about her.
Outside, the private investigator and his wife were loading up their Taurus. I walked across the street to them.
“Sorry I blew the gig for you,” I said.
The woman smiled at me and shrugged. “Happens,” she said.
Gabe’s friend hefted a leather suitcase into the trunk and slammed it shut. He turned to me and said, “Gabe’s a good man. He was just trying to look out for you.”
“Yeah, well, it’s more complicated than that.”
He tossed his camera bag into the backseat. “Good luck. Maybe we’ll meet again under more agreeable circumstances.”
“Maybe.”
“Just one piece of advice.” He jerked a thumb over at the Briggstones’ house. “Watch your back with those two jokers. They’re not very smart, but they’re mean.”
“Don’t worry, I intend to.”
THE RANCH FELT empty and sad without Dove’s visible and often audible presence. The clothesline was bare, and no crackly voice singing, “Bringing in the Sheaves” or “My Bucket’s Got a Hole in It” greeted me. Even the chickens pecking at the bare ground seemed unusually quiet. I wandered back to the barn where Bobby, one of my dad’s hands, told me he was in the tack room searching for a snaffle-bit.
An old plastic radio played Johnny Cash’s “Ring of Fire” when I walked in. Daddy was rummaging through a desk drawer.
“Haven’t heard that song in years,” I said.
He looked up and smiled at me. “Hey, squirt. Found this new station that only plays real country music.”
“An oldies country station? That’s great. I wondered when someone would come up with the idea.”
“What’s up?” he asked, pulling a bit out of a drawer, looking at it with a frown, then throwing it back in.
I reached over and ran my hand over the seat of my saddle sitting on a wooden rack. Daddy and Dove gave it to me for my sixteenth birthday. My name was carved across the back of the cantle. I cleaned and polished it so many times that year that Daddy teased I was going to rub my name down to his. I looked at the dust on my hand and laughed. “Needs a good cleaning.”
He nodded over at a metal cabinet. “Saddle soap’s cheap. Elbow grease a little higher.”
“I’ll do it soon. Want to meet tomorrow at the cemetery at six?”
“Sure.” He dug through the drawer and pulled out another bit, studying it with exaggerated interest.
“Can I ask you something?”
He nodded without looking up.
“Do you know anyone named Gwen Swanson?” I watched his face for any reaction.
He furrowed his silvery brow, then shook his head slowly. “Don’t believe I do. Why?”
I hesitated a moment. “It’s just . . . well, her name was on that baby quilt Mama’s friends back in Little Rock made her, and I was just wondering.”
“Didn’t really know your mama’s old friends from Little Rock that good. We lived on the farm outside of Sugartree, and she’d see them when she went to visit Emory’s mama, Ervalean. We went to Sugartree Baptist after we was married until we came out west.” His pale blue eyes studied me intently. “There’s lots of names on that quilt. What’s so particular about this Gwen?”
I shrugged and looked down at the ground. “It just caught my eye. I ... had a teacher named Mrs. Swanson in college.” The lie stuck in my throat a moment before going down.
He nodded, his face unbelieving.
“So even when you were dating you never went to church with her? She never introduced you to any of her friends?”
“I went to church with her a few times. Maybe I met this person you’re asking about, but if I did, she didn’t stick in my memory.”
“What about when you got married? Didn’t any of them come to the ceremony?” It occurred to me at that moment that I had no idea where my parents got married or even what day their anniversary was. I felt a deep sadness knowing the date had gone by every year without me even knowing it.
“We got married at the church on a Sunday afternoon with just Ervalean and Boone there. Ervalean played the organ, then stood up for your mama.”
“That’s it? You didn’t even have a reception? What did you do?”
“Your mama didn’t want a big fuss. The four of us ate in a nice restaurant in the city, then we called Dove and told her. Your mama’s only family was Ervalean, and she already knew. Me and your mama stayed in a hotel in Little Rock for two days, then fetched her things from Ervalean’s house and went home to the farm. We lived with Dove until we came out west when you was three.”
“What day was your anniversary?” I asked.
His face closed up, and he asked sharply, “Benni, why are you asking all these questions?”
Surprised at his tone, I said, “I just wanted to know what day your anniversary was. What’s wrong with that?”
He rubbed a hand over his face. “Nothing, squirt. You know I just ...”
A twinge of guilt hit me. I knew talking about my mother had never been easy for Daddy, and because of that I’d never asked him why, when she had died so young, he had never remarried. Wasn’t he lonely? Did he ever do anything for female companionship? My brain nervously skirted around the idea of sex. Like most people, the idea of a parent enjoying anything of that nature was something I never wanted to dwell on.
He gave me an odd look, then said, “August second.”
“Thanks, Daddy,” I said softly, hugging him quickly. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He patted me on the back and murmured, “Reckon so.”
I went back inside the house, which smelled strangely bland and empty. A scraped-clean casserole dish sat in the sink along with four dirty coffee cups. Without Dove’s presence, the house had become just a place for Daddy to eat meals and sleep. What would he do when Dove was no longer here? The thought of our lives without Dove pierced me like a sharp knife.
Before going back to Morro Bay, I called Emory again. “Do you know any friends of your mom’s who might have known my mom?”
“Not offhand, but I could call back home and sniff around. Anyone in particular you huntin’?”
“Actually there is. A Gwen Swanson.”
“Any particular reason?”
“Yes, but I’m not ready to talk about it yet.”
There was a moment of silence. “You know I’ll do anything for you, Benni, but it would be a lot easier if I knew what I was lookin’ for.”
“I’d like to talk to her or anyone who knew her or my mother.”
He sighed. “I’ll do my best. I’ll see you at Elvia’s tomorrow at one o’clock. I should have something by then.”
“Thanks, Emory. You’re the best.”
“Back at you.”
On the drive back to Morro Bay, I thought about my dad’s reaction. Maybe it was my already suspicious frame of mind, but it felt like my father was hiding something. But what? What could he possibly have to hide?
Back at Mr. Chandler’s house, I wandered around the living room trying to decide what to do next. The trail seemed to have grown cold after the trip to Bakersfield. I took all his wood carving lessons out to the patio and sat in one of the padded redwood chairs. The sun was bright and warm, and Morro Rock glistened. Saturday was a busy day on the Embarcadero, the day tourists flocked from Bakersfield, Fresno, and points north and south, to enjoy the natural ocean breezes and manufactured nautical ambiance.
While sipping a Coke and occasionally scratching Scout’s stomach with my foot, I reread the lesson/clues left by Mr. Chandler. I kept coming back to the sentence The stone is impor
tant. I turned the two flat, white stones over and over. Then it dawned on me what I still hadn’t done, talked to anyone in the Wood-carvers’ Guild. I drove over to the folk art museum and made my obligatory appearance. While I was there, I looked up the number for the San Celina Wood-carvers’ Guild. My contact had been a Mr. Ron Staples, president of the guild. Fortunately he was home. Unfortunately he vaguely remembered meeting a Jacob Chandler, but that was it.
“You say you’re looking for him? Have you tried the north county guild? Most of our members are from south county.”
I didn’t want to go into detail, so I asked, “Do you have the number for the president of the north county guild?”
After thanking him and saying good-bye, I dialed the number he’d given me. A man answered, “Wood-carvers’ Museum. Can I help you?”
“Is ...” I checked my scribbles, “Don Ferron there?”
“He moved to Salt Lake City last month. Can I help you?”
“Who is the guild president now?”
“We’re coasting right now. Lucinda Mackey is the vice president, so I guess she’s in charge.”
I thought for a moment. Should I call this Don Ferron in Salt Lake City? Would Jacob Chandler have made a contingency plan in case one of the people he’d given instructions to moved . . . or died?
“Ma’am, is there something I can help you with?” the man asked.
To get the person’s phone number in Salt Lake City, I figured I’d have to at least identify myself and give some explanation. “Well, my name is Benni Harper . . .”
“Oh, Ms. Harper!” he exclaimed. “I have a package for you. Don said you’d probably be calling.”
My stomach tightened again. It was getting more than a little eerie how thorough this man had been. “How late are you open?”
“Until five o’clock.”
It was three o’clock now, so if I broke a law or two, I could make it. I dropped by the house in Morro Bay briefly to pet Scout and promise him a meaty bone if he’d forgive me for leaving him to guard the place one more time.
“I know you want to go,” I said as he whined plaintively behind the gate, “but I really feel better with you protecting the place. Besides, with the speed I’ll have to drive, I don’t want to risk both our lives. Now remember, Duane and Cole are bad guys. Bite them if they come into the yard.”
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