Seven Sisters

by Earlene Fowler

  His handsome face softened with a look of genuine contrition. He pulled me to him in a warm, brotherly hug. “You’re right. I’m just makin’ things harder for both y’all. I’ll keep my big mouth shut from now on. But if you need anything, you let me know. Promise, now?”

  I kissed his cheek. “Emory Delano Littleton, you know you’d be the first person I’d run to.”

  “Good. Now I’d better get to work if I’m goin’ to have an article to turn in tomorrow. Let’s meet back here in two hours.”

  “Sounds good. I’m going over to the artists’ tent and see exactly how a wine label is created.”

  I grabbed a bottle of sparkling water, twisted off the cap, and walked over to the second tent. Inside were a dozen different platforms where artists, using a variety of media, worked on paintings and drawings destined to be incorporated into wine labels. Some of the artists talked to their audience as they worked, explaining how they came up with the idea for each particular wine label.

  I wandered through the exhibit of original art displayed with the finished wine labels framed next to them. Seven Sisters labels were simple but elegant, with some of the last year’s vintage’s labels showing more variety with bold, brightly colored renderings of the rose garden, the adobe tasting room, and rows of thick, lush grapevines. Though I’d only seen her work on quilts, JJ’s slightly eccentric, free-form style was apparent on these labels.

  In a corner of the tent, JJ was working on a watercolor painting of a horse I instantly recognized as Churn Dash. I mingled with the crowd, watching her add subtle reddish shading to his brown coat. He was shown at a gallop, and in the background she’d painted in faint peaches and browns the pattern of a Churn Dash quilt. A photograph of the quilt made by her great-grandmother was taped to her stained easel. In her painting she’d captured the championship bearing of Churn Dash with the arch of his elegant neck straining toward an imaginary finish line and the subtle, powerful surge of muscles in his strong, solid hindquarters. She glanced up when someone asked her a question, caught my eye, and nodded at me. I waved and melted back into the crowd. I wanted to talk to her again about the grave rubbing, but this wouldn’t be the best time or place to do so.

  In the last tent the silent auction items were displayed, and the line for the gourmet buffet donated by local restaurants was at least a half-hour wait. The food didn’t interest me since I’d just eaten, so I headed for the auction items. There were dozens of things to be auctioned—cases of wines, bed-and-breakfast packages, limousine wine tours, and wine dinners for six hosted by celebrity chefs. Seven Sisters had sponsored a contest and silent auction for wine bottles decorated by local artists. The entries were spectacular with each artist vying for the most creatively original bottle. The auction bids were way out of my price range, but the money went for a good cause—the Rose Jewel Brown Children’s Wing at General Hospital. The artist won a free case of Seven Sisters’ most exclusive hand-crafted noble wines, wines that were like a stakes horse, the best of the best. An announcement from the stage informed everyone of the wine bottle design winner. On the stage behind the row of twenty or so decorated bottles sat Cappy Brown, her sister Etta, and dressed in white and sitting in a wheelchair, their mother, Rose Brown. Her face was lightly spotted with age, but her silver hair and soft makeup were perfect. She looked twenty years younger than her ninety-six. The advantages of wealth and good genetics, I supposed. She smiled at the audience with long, pale ivory teeth, giving a palm-out royal wave.

  After a long speech of gushing gratitude by the president of the vintner’s association to the Brown family for helping to sponsor the event and a retrospective of all the accomplishments and charities instituted by the Brown family and most of all, Rose Brown, Cappy addressed the audience.

  “On behalf of my mother and the rest of my family, I thank you for your kind words. Her health being quite fragile, she is unable to speak, but she wanted me to relay to all of you how privileged she’s felt to be a part of this county for so many years, how grateful she is for your generosity, and to encourage you to dig deep in your pockets today and support the Rose Jewel Brown Children’s Wing. As Mother has always said, without the children we have no future. Thank you.”

  After the applause, the winner of the bottle contest was brought up to receive his plaque. An artist who’d painted a 16th-century-style Madonna and child scene in exquisite detail won over bottles painted like rocket ships, Marilyn Monroe, Chumash Indian petroglyphs, peacocks, and the Mission Santa Celine. Starting to get bored, I decided to go back to the wine-tasting tent to see if I could find Emory and convince him to leave early. The lines were five and six deep at each booth as people twirled their glasses, sipped, and pursed their lips, searching for that perfect wine. I looked over the crowd and didn’t see my cousin’s blond head anywhere. To kill time more than anything else, I sidled close to people and eavesdropped on their comments about wine, which amused me to no end with their pretentiousness. I wished I had a tape recorder so I could replay some of them for Gabe later tonight.

  “Stylistically,” said a man wearing a baby blue golf shirt and white tennis shorts as he twirled a glass of straw-colored wine, “this would appeal more to the American palate than to the European, don’t you think?”

  The woman with him, wearing flat gold sandals and a bright pink spaghetti-strap dress nodded and added, “Its aroma is full and pretty, but not quite as multidimensional as I normally prefer.”

  He took another sip and said, “Yes, it has a ripe flavor. A bit earthy and tart, which is refreshing, but the finish is a little rough.”

  “There are so many wines like that,” she agreed. “More up front than on the finish.”

  “Many men, too,” a deep, familiar voice whispered in my ear. A gentle, bearlike hand slipped under my hair and gripped the back of my neck.

  I squealed and swung around.

  “Isaac!” I said, giving him a fierce hug. His massive arms lifted me up and swung me around.

  “Isn’t that Isaac Lyons, the photographer?” the lady in the pink dress exclaimed to her companion. They gazed up at his six-feet-four-inch frame topped with hair as white as a snow owl’s, their mouths slack with awe. A diamond earring in his ear caught an overhead light and twinkled. As did his dark raisin eyes when he winked at me.

  Isaac set me down and smiled at the woman, his arm still around my shoulders. “Isaac Lyons?” he boomed. “Why, I heard he’s bought the farm, that randy old goat. Rumor has it he was caught with another man’s wife and took three shots to the belly, but he went down kicking. Hemingway would have been proud.” His face grew serious. “Then again, that could have been Gregory Peck. They’re often mistaken for each other.” Before the woman could speak, he grabbed my hand and pulled me through the murmuring crowd.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked as he led me out of the tent.

  He pointed to a picnic bench out near the lagoon that flowed into Eola Bay. “Let’s talk away from the madding crowd.”

  We sat down underneath the cool shade of an ash tree. He leaned back on his elbows and I straddled the bench, just looking at him, unable to believe he was really here. Isaac had come into my life and, more important, into Dove’s last November, a little less than a year ago when we’d all become involved in a murder that took place on the ranch. Having no family of his own, he’d adopted ours, and we’d welcomed him with open hearts and arms. Well, I eventually did after a rather rough beginning. As famous as Ansel Adams, Isaac Lyons had traveled all over the world, been married five times, taken photographs of kings, popes, cowboys, ranch women, carnival workers, cotton farmers, bar maids and truck drivers. Not to mention five different presidents of the United States. But he was still as down-to-earth as homemade gravy and he was besotted with Dove, which revealed his excellent taste. After our rocky start, I gave this mountain-sized man my whole heart and treated him like the grandfather I’d never had. Dove and I completely agreed on how special he was and also agreed that i
t was a good thing he was forty years older than me, or we’d be cat fighting over his affections. He and I had kept up a regular correspondence via E-mail.

  He was dressed casually, as always, in faded Levi’s, a khaki cowboy shirt with embroidered red arrows on the yokes, and beaded leather moccasins. His long white hair was braided in a thick rope, the end tied with a piece of rawhide. It just touched the top of his hand-tooled belt.

  “Do I pass inspection?” he asked, chuckling.

  “Your hair’s longer than mine,” I said, flicking his braid. “My braid just barely clears my shoulders.”

  “So your grandma has pointed out. I told her I’m trying to catch up with her.”

  “Does she know you’re here?”

  His broad, wind-weathered face wrinkled in amusement.

  “Forget I asked that. Of course she does. Why didn’t she tell me?”

  “I flew in last night. She wanted it to be a surprise. She was supposed to come with me today, but she’s busy getting set up for tomorrow at the ranch.”

  “What’s going on at the ranch?”

  He shook his head, his little raisin eyes laughing at me. “Sorry, top secret. She doesn’t want to have her idea stolen by another fund-raising group.”

  “This has to do with the senior citizen kitchen?” Then I remembered what she’d said yesterday about her prayers being answered by something I’d suggested.

  “Apparently.”

  “Are you involved?” I poked his chest. “C’mon, Isaac, you can tell me. I won’t tell anyone.”

  “Ha,” he said, grabbing my finger and shaking it. “Not a chance, young Harper woman. I’m not procuring the wrath of Dove Ramsey down upon my grizzled old head. You’ll find out soon enough.”

  “Okay,” I said, giving in quickly only because I was so excited to see him again. “So, tell me what you’re working on now. I’m sorry I haven’t answered your E-mail in the last week. It’s been insane around here, and I would have needed five single-spaced pages to tell you everything.”

  He stretched his long legs out and rubbed his knees. “Dove clued me in. I can’t believe you’re involved in another homicide investigation. Is Gabe ready to lock you in your room?”

  I grimaced and picked at some loose paint on the wooden bench. “I’m not involved because I want to be, believe me. She told you everything, right? About Sam and Bliss and. . .”

  “And Lydia,” he finished.

  I made my cauliflower face at him. “Ex-wives. Guess you know about them.”

  “Do I. Dove says she’s quite a looker.”

  “She is gorgeous, I’ll grant you that. And, I’d only admit this to you, actually she’s a pretty nice woman from what I can tell.”

  “And after your husband?”

  I made claws at him. “Not you, too. I don’t know if she is. Dove and Emory sure are convinced that’s the case. Gabe is spending a lot of time with her and Sam, but what with Bliss and the baby...” I shrugged.

  “Sounds like you’re the only one being rational about it.”

  I looked up into his penetrating, photographer’s eyes. “What do you think? Am I being stupid and naive? I’ve never believed you can force a man . . . or anyone to love you. My cousin thinks I should invest in a closetful of Victoria’s Secret underwear. Dove thinks I should stick to his side like glue. My best friend thinks I should spike Lydia’s coffee with arsenic.”

  His thick white eyebrows moved upward.

  “She’s joking,” I said, laughing. “I think. Anyway, I’ve basically done nothing except sit on the sidelines and watch. You’re a man of worldly experience. What do you think I should do?”

  He took my hands in his. “Benni, all I know is it takes years for a couple to become a ‘we.’ Ultimately, some relationships make it, some don’t. Who knows why?” He rubbed his big thumbs over the tops of my hands.

  “In other words, it’s what I suspected. There’s nothing I can do.”

  “He has free will. But then, so do you.” He squeezed my hands. “Now let’s talk about your murder case. Who do you think did it? Do you need another investigator?”

  I slapped the top of his hands gently. “Did Dove ask you to look after me?”

  He laughed and shook his head no. “She’s so busy with this project, she’s barely had time to spoon with me on the porch last night.”

  “Spoon? Excuse me, you need to clarify to a concerned granddaughter just exactly what that term entails. In detail, please.”

  “Not on your life. Anyway, I’ve photographed this Capitola Brown twice, back in the fifties when she was working the rodeo circuit doing trick riding and later in the eighties when I was doing a book on horse racing. Dove says it’s pretty certain someone in the family did it. Any ideas who?”

  I told him everything I knew so far. “It could be any of them, though that note points strongly at Cappy. To be honest, she’s the only one I can picture having the nerve to pull it off. Dove told you the whole thing about the switched guns, right?”

  “Yes, so the only lead you have is the grave rubbing. Can I see it?”

  “Sure.” I pulled it out of my purse and handed it to him.

  He took a pair of tortoise-shell glasses from his shirt pocket and studied the rubbing. He handed it back to me. “I’m assuming you’re going to look for it.”

  “How can I? There’s too many cemeteries in San Celina County. There are probably some I don’t even know about. That would take weeks and even then might be a dead end.”

  “So you’re going to give up? That doesn’t sound like you. The Benni Harper I know would be lying in bed at night trying to figure out the puzzle.”

  “Are you saying I shouldn’t? Thank you, but I’ve already got one man encouraging me to go against my husband’s request to stay out of situations like this.”

  “Who’s that? And for the record, I’m not encouraging you, I’m only making an observation concerning your personality.”

  “You know, you can be real annoying sometimes.”

  “But I’m right, aren’t I?”

  “Sometimes I think my cousin Emory was right, and I should have been a detective. I don’t want to get involved, but something in me won’t rest until Giles’s murderer is caught. And it’s not because of some great humanitarian motivation, either. From what I understand, he was a real jerk.”

  “Even jerks don’t deserve to be murdered. I think you’ve got a strong streak of justice running through you, and that’s what compels you to get involved.”

  “You make me sound a lot more noble than I feel. How about you running that speech by Gabe the next time he gets upset at me?”

  His hearty laugh made me smile. “Not on your life. He has the power to lock me up, not to mention sic the parking ticket patrol on me. So, who’s this other man you say is encouraging you to get involved?”

  “A sheriff’s detective assigned to the Brown murder. For some reason, he’s gotten it into his fuzzy little Texas head that I’ll be able to ferret out information from this family that he can’t.”

  Isaac peered out from under his thick, white eyebrows, his mouth turned up into a wide grin.

  “Oh, shut up,” I said, good-naturedly. “Yes, he’s heard about my other experiences. That doesn’t mean I’m going to jeopardize my relationship with my husband or my stepson to solve his case.”

  “So, this detective. Does he wear starched Wranglers, a white cowboy hat, and fancy cowboy boots?”

  My eyes widened. “How did you... ?”

  He pointed behind me. I turned and saw Detective Hudson strolling across the grass toward us.

  “Oh, for crying out loud,” I said.

  “Looks determined,” he said.

  When Detective Hudson reached us, Isaac stood up. I swung my legs around so I wasn’t straddling the bench and leaned back on my elbows.

  “What do you want?” I said.

  “Isaac Lyons,” Isaac said, holding out his big hand.

  The detective took his
hand. “The Isaac Lyons? The photographer?”

  Isaac gave his deep laugh. “Depends on who’s asking. I think I may have a speeding ticket in Wyoming I haven’t paid.”

  “Ford Hudson. My friends call me Hud. I’m a detective with the San Celina Sheriff’s Department, and as far as I’m concerned, your need for speed is Wyoming’s problem, not mine. I bought your book on state fairs. Great photos of the carnies. My mother was a photographer with Life. She owns a studio now in Odessa. Mostly weddings and babies, bread-and-butter photography.”

  “Liar,” I blurted out.

  Isaac gave me a puzzled, then reprimanding look. “Forgive my young friend’s rudeness.”

  I shot Isaac a hard look. Sometimes he could be just a little too paternal.

  Detective Hudson grinned. “That’s okay, I’m gettin’ used to it. She’s like one of those snarly little terriers. Kinda grows on you after a while.”

  Isaac gave a small chuckle. “Yes, she does.” Then he turned to me. “Dove instructed me to ask you to dinner tonight. She’s making pot roast.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  He kissed me on top of the head and whispered in my ear, “Play nice, Ms. Benni Harper.”

  Giving him my sweetest smile, I replied, “Suck eggs, Mr. Isaac Lyons.”

  He gave a great booming laugh and ruffled my hair. “Oh, Lordy, I’ve missed you.”

  “Shoot,” Detective Hudson said as we watched Isaac stride across the grass. “Didn’t know you ran in such fancy circles. Is he a relative or something?”

  “What do you want?”

  “For you to come to my office at ten o’clock tomorrow.”

  “Why?”

  “Like I said so politely this morning, I have some ideas I need to discuss with you about our case.”

  “It’s. . . not. . . our. . . case,” I said. “Shall I say it slower? Write it in lipstick on your forehead? Send a telegram?”