Seven Sisters

by Earlene Fowler

  Another pop cracked through the silence. Dirt and leaves jumped a few feet from our prone bodies. His thighs tightened again.

  I moaned, trying to get a breath, trying to tell him to get off me.

  “Hush,” he said, pushing my face into the sharp, dry leaves. They scratched my face, and I squirmed, trying to get a hand out to push them away.

  “Lie still!” His harsh voice caused me to freeze. My heart thump-thumped in my ears, sounding as loud as the ocean.

  Though his body grew heavy on mine, gradually my breath came back, and I managed to take short gulps of cool, soil-scented air. As we lay there, the noise of the forest slowly resumed, the chirping of crickets and the chattering of birds telling us our assailant had departed. I could feel Detective Hudson’s breath warm and rapid on my neck, then gradually felt the muscles in his arms and legs relax around me.

  “Listen,” he whispered. In the distance the rumbling sound of a truck’s engine moved farther away.

  “Good,” I mumbled into the dirt and leaves. “You can get off me now.” With the immediate threat of danger gone, our position was entirely too personal for my tastes, though I had to admit he had pretty nice thighs.

  He laughed softly in my ear, his lips brushing against my hair. His thighs tightened around mine again, voluntarily this time. “I don’t know, it was just starting to get fun.”

  I spit a leaf out of my mouth. “Get off me, you jerk.” I shoved my elbow as hard as I could into his chest.

  He laughed again, then rolled off me and stood up, reholstering his pistol. He held out his hand. “Someone sure isn’t happy with us finding these graves.”

  Ignoring his offer of help, I scrambled up. “Where’s Scout?” I looked around frantically for my dog.

  He lay flat on the ground a few feet away, whimpering.

  “Scout, come,” I said. He jumped up and ran over to me. “What a good, good boy you are.” He licked my face as I ran my hands over his body, checking for injuries. “Are you okay, Scooby-doo?” I crooned, hugging his thick body.

  “Shoot, he’s fine,” Detective Hudson said, rubbing his lower back. “I’m the one who just pulled a muscle because of that dimestore Daniel Boone sniper. Bet you a taco dinner it was someone hired by the Browns. They must’ve been following us all day. Dang it all, I was so busy haggling with you I let them get the slip on me.”

  “So why didn’t you go after them, Mr. Purple Heart, and find out who they were?” Hair at the back of my neck was damp from heat and fear. I lifted it up, letting the small breeze cool my skin.

  “My mama might’ve raised a fool, but my daddy taught me never to get into a fight I didn’t have at least a fifty percent chance of winning. No way was I running into those woods. They had the advantage and they knew it. There wasn’t a chance this side of Lubbock I would be able to catch them.”

  “Hmmp,” was all I said, tenderly touching a raw place on my cheek.

  “Sorry I had to throw you down so hard,” he said, tilting his head to look at me. His grin belied his apology. “But you were a perfect target.”

  “Some excuse.”

  “I saved your life!”

  “Don’t deny you enjoyed knocking the air out of me.”

  “Well, it was right peaceful for a few minutes there, what with your mouth not moving and all.”

  “Eat dirt.” I walked back over to the babies’ graves, took a notebook out of my back pocket and started writing down the information on the headstones.

  Detective Hudson went over and picked up the camera that had flown out of my hands when the sniper shot at us. He turned it over in his hands, inspecting it. “Think this will still work?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why I’m copying down the information.”

  He came up behind me and took a dozen or so shots of the markers. These did have dates, though nothing else appeared on the plain white marble stones except the lily of the valley.

  DAISY JEWEL BROWN—May 1, 1925-November 3, 1925

  DAHLIA JEWEL BROWN—May 1, 1925-March 12, 1926

  BEULAH JEWEL BROWN—January 25, 1927-June 15, 1927

  BETHANY JEWEL BROWN—January 25, 1927-September 9, 1927

  “I wonder what they died from?” I asked out loud.

  Detective Hudson shrugged. “Does it matter?”

  I looked at him, surprised. “Of course it does! It’s obvious that whatever Giles was blackmailing the family with has something to do with these babies. How they died might be the key. I mean, maybe someone killed them or something.”

  He pointed to the lichen-covered markers. “The dates of death don’t support that theory. They most likely died of influenza or diphtheria or who knows what else. Look at all the other graves of children here. You’re really reaching now.”

  “If they died innocently, why is someone shooting at us?”

  He was silent for a moment, knowing I had him there. Then he said, “I don’t know. Might just be that this person wanted to scare us off investigating altogether and after following us all day decided that out here in the boonies was the safest place for him . . .”

  “Or her,” I said.

  He rolled his eyes. “Okay, Miss Feminist, or her, to shoot at us. I mean, when else would they? When we were at the folk art museum? Or in the San Celina’s Cemetery? This was the best opportunity.”

  “Except we’ve been in other isolated graveyards today, like the Estrella one. Nobody shot at us there. They were warning us away from this particular cemetery.”

  “Benni, if they didn’t want us to get here, they would have done something while we were out on the road. There’s absolutely no evidence to support your theory.”

  “You haven’t even looked for evidence to support it! You’re dismissing it without any serious consideration. That’s very poor detective work. I find it hard to believe your success rate is as good as you say with a pessimistic attitude like yours.”

  “Don’t tell me how to do my job! Criminy, you can be a pain in the ass.”

  I ignored his comment and crossed my arms. He knew I was right. Eventually he’d admit it, though not without some whining.

  Back at his truck, he searched the ground for tire tracks. The grass had definitely been flattened, but the dirt was too hard to leave any hints as to what kind of vehicle the shooter was driving.

  “You know,” he said, driving back down the winding country road toward the interstate, “there’s a good possibility that all of this is a ruse to distract us from who the real killer is. Did you ever think about that?”

  “Okay,” I finally conceded. “You could be right. So where does that leave us?”

  “Not much of anywhere, but it’s something to consider. Do you happen to be carrying your cell phone?”

  I dug through my purse and handed him the phone. While trying to ignore his exaggerated excuses to Heidi, I thought about what he said. If it didn’t have to do with the babies, then why was Giles killed? His determination to take over the winery was still a possibility, so maybe it was Etta who shot him in a passionate moment, and her sisters helped cover it up. I thought about the Seven Sisters quilt pattern I’d looked up the other day—how it was a pattern of six stars revolving around one in the center, much like the constellation Bliss and I had searched for. Like the pattern and the constellation, there was a center to this, a something or someone all the other events circled around. Was it the grandmother, Rose Brown, and her four dead children? Or was it simpler than that—a moment of anger, a handy loaded gun, a family adept at covering up, showing a good face to the world? After he was finished with his excuses to Heidi, I tried calling Gabe at the office and got his voice mail. Then I called home and got the answering machine, a practice that had been happening a little too frequently this week.

  The detective dropped me off at the folk art museum at seven o’clock, and we said a quick good-bye without any more discussion about what we should do next. He was anxious to get to his date, and I was eager to go home and tell G
abe about what had happened, come truly clean about how much I was involved. Then what? Those tiny graves kept reappearing in my head. I wanted to know more about the four babies even if they didn’t have anything to do with finding out who killed Giles. I knew someone who worked in the county records department—a girl I went to college with. Tomorrow I’d go downtown and see if she could find their death certificates for me.

  The house was dark when I got home. I immediately went into the kitchen and fed Scout, who was two hours past his regular dinner time and was giving me a soulful look telling me so. As I watched him gobble his dinner, I went in and checked the answering machine. There were only two messages—mine and an old one that told me Gabe had most likely been home and gone out again after listening to the message. It better not be Lydia’s voice, I thought as I hit replay.

  “Chief!” Miguel’s voice croaked over the phone. “I’m down at General Hospital. I couldn’t find your cell phone number so I hope you get this soon. Bliss took one in the shoulder. I thought you’d want to know.” The message time was 5:02 p.m.

  I ran for the car, yelling at Scout to stay. On the drive down there, all I could consciously pray over and over was, Oh, Lord. Make her okay, please, please make her okay.

  12

  INSIDE THE EMERGENCY room, there were a few families with sick, cranky children and the requisite medical personnel milling about. There was no sign of Gabe, Sam, or Bliss’s family. I asked at the desk, and while the nurse was checking the computer, I spotted Miguel down the hall putting money in a coffee machine.

  “Never mind,” I told the nurse. “That’s her partner over there.” I rushed over to him. “Miguel, what happened? Is Bliss all right? What about the baby?”

  He watched the liquid splash into the paper cup, not answering me for a moment. His hand shook slightly as he picked up the steaming cup.

  “Miguel,” I said softly. “Are you okay?”

  He looked down at me, his eyes rimmed red, fighting tears with all his Latin-bred masculine resolve. I wanted to put my arms around his broad shoulders and hug him the way I used to when he was three and was startled awake from his nap by a bad dream.

  He took a gulp of the hot coffee, then said, “She’s upstairs. The asshole got her in the shoulder. She lost a lot of blood and, well, they say it shouldn’t affect the baby, but they can’t promise...” His voice choked.

  “What happened?” I asked again.

  “A friggin’ traffic stop over by the bus station,” he said. “She was driving today so she made the approach. He shot her before she could get halfway to the car. I fired two shots, hit his back window, but he got away.” He took another gulp of coffee. “They caught him up in Paso about an hour later. He had a half gram of cocaine under his seat. She was almost killed for a stinking half gram of cocaine.”

  His hand jerked, causing some coffee to slosh onto the shiny hospital floor. He looked down at it, his face a mixture of agony and dismay.

  “I’ll get it,” I said, taking a tissue out of my purse and bending down to wipe it up. “Is her family here yet?”

  “They’re upstairs. Fourth floor. She’s in intensive care, but the doctors say she’ll be all right. They just want to keep a close eye on her tonight.” He gestured with his cup. Coffee splashed out on his hand. He flinched and said, “Shit.”

  “Here, give me that.” I gently took the cup out of his hand and handed him a dry tissue. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

  He wiped his wet hand, then handed me the damp tissue. “No, thanks. My shift’s over, so I’m going home. They said there’s nothing anyone else can do tonight, and she’s got her family up there.” His dark eyelashes were shiny with unshed tears. “I shouldn’t have let her approach that driver. I should have taken it.”

  “There was nothing you could do. It’s not your fault.”

  He gripped the butt of his gun and looked down at the floor.

  “Bliss didn’t like being coddled or treated special. It was her turn, and she would have fought you to take it. It was just the luck of the draw, Miguelito,” I said, using his childhood nickname.

  He gave a tremulous smile. “Go on up. I’m sure the chief wants to see you.”

  I squeezed his upper arm, then walked over to the elevators. Upstairs, I asked the desk clerk which way to the waiting room. Halfway down the hall I could see Bliss’s mother, JJ, and Cappy sitting together on a sofa. Gabe’s back was to me. Lydia stood next to him, and Sam sat on the wood coffee table, his face in his hands. A doctor walked out of a glass door next to them, and they eagerly gathered around him, blocking him from my view. But even from down the hall, I could hear Sam’s agonized cry and watched his mother encircle him with her arms. Susa and JJ clung together, weeping. Gabe stepped over to Lydia and Sam and put his arms around both of them.

  I froze, not knowing what to do. Watching Gabe so tenderly hold his son and ex-wife caused a pain in my heart that I couldn’t ignore, but to go up to them now seemed like a crass and self-serving invasion of privacy. Trembling, I turned and walked back down the hall and sat down on a chair near the nurses’ station, wondering what had happened and what I should do. Was Bliss all right? Was it her or the baby? Or both? Finally I went up to a nurse with a friendly face, trying not to stutter, explained briefly who I was and asked if she could find out.

  “Honey, I understand,” she said. “I’m a number two myself. It’s an awkward place to be at times like this. Let me find out for you.”

  She came back a few minutes later, her round face regretful. “Your stepson’s girlfriend is going to be okay, but she lost the baby. I’m sure sorry.”

  “Was it the gunshot?” I asked.

  She shook her head no. “Most likely not. Pregnant women are tougher than people realize. Unless she’d been shot right in the stomach, her baby, even at two or three months, was capable of surviving quite a lot of trauma. It seems strange, I know, but most likely she would have lost the baby whether or not she’d been shot. Most miscarriages are caused by chromosomal or genetic abnormalities that can’t be prevented or treated. There’s nothing for anyone to feel guilty about here.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  Back at my car I couldn’t help worrying that my decision not to break into the Brown and Ortiz family tragedy would be taken as a sign of not caring. At home, I cleaned up the kitchen and waited for Gabe and prayed for them all, especially Bliss, who would suffer with this the longest—her whole life. And I tried to erase the picture in my head of Gabe with his arms around Lydia and Sam. Jealousy had no place in this situation, but I couldn’t get rid of the sad feeling that somehow Gabe had slipped away from me. When I wasn’t paying attention, his old life, his old love came back and lured him away. Fight for your man, Elvia and Emory had encouraged me. But I knew fancy nightgowns, fierce demands, and pieces of paper that say you’re a couple can’t buy the human heart.

  Finally I called Dove and told her.

  “Those poor kids,” she said. “Should I come out? Or is there a wagonload of people already seeing to them?”

  “I came on home. Sam and Bliss seem to have plenty of emotional support. I’ll send flowers and a note tomorrow. I don’t know what else to do.”

  “Not much else we can do. Life’s tragedies come and go. I don’t have to tell you that. We stand up through them or we fall like saplings in a windstorm. All depends on how deep of roots you’ve grown before they happen. I surely do hurt for them, though. Losing a baby’s got to be the hardest thing a woman ever goes through.”

  “Have you ever? Lost a baby, I mean?”

  “Once. Lord, it was so long ago, but there’s times it still seems like last week. A little girl in between your daddy and your aunt Kate. I was six months along, and she just came. Back then we didn’t have the fancy incubators and such they have now. They let me see her before they took her away. Prettiest shaped head I’d ever seen on a baby. She looked perfect. But God knows best. It wasn’t her place to be born to this earth.�
��

  “Do you ever think about her?”

  Dove was silent for a moment, then said softly, “Every May 3rd.”

  “Oh, Gramma, I’m so sorry.” So many dead babies in the last few days. It was more than my heart could manage.

  “It was a long time ago, honeybun. Hurts don’t go away, but they gentle.”

  “Is that a guarantee for all hurts?” I asked, trying not to sound desperate.

  “Some take longer than others. And it all depends on the person. A hurt can soften you like a good, wool blanket, or, if you let it, turn you into a pile of dried leaves, ready to crumble at the first footstep. Your choice. Our hurts are what make us human. It’s why God had to become a man, to see what it was we were all whining about, see if maybe He’d made things too hard for us.”

  Thinking of all the little graves in the Adelaida Cemetery, I said, “Sometimes I think He did.”

  “Well, He also came to rescue us and did a fine job of it, though some might not think so at first. And it’s okay to have a doubt now and then. What riles Him is folks not carin’ enough to even wonder. Now, come on out to the ranch tomorrow, because me and Isaac got something to show you. I think it’ll cheer you up. And besides, I’m going to bake Sam some of his favorite peanut butter cookies, and I need you to fetch them to him.”

  “Okay. By the way, I have a message I forgot to give you from Miguel. We saw him on Sunday. He said, and I quote, ‘No. Absolutely not. No way.’ ”

  She laughed softly under her breath. “No problem. I’ll just pull some strings, go over his head to his boss.”

  “What’s Gabe got to do with this?”

  She snorted. “I mean his real boss. Now, are you coming out?”

  “What time do you want me?”

  “Before noon. You can help serve lunch to the crew.”

  “The crew? The crew for what?”

  “Never you mind. Just be here.” She was quiet for a moment. “And don’t worry. Things’ll work out for the best with all this. That’s a promise from me to you.”