Tumbling Blocks

by Earlene Fowler

  She shook her head and stood up. “I’ve paid for our tea already. Please feel free to enjoy the rest of it, but I must get to an appointment.”

  Before I could say boo, she was walking toward the door, her back as straight as one of Dove’s quilting seams. Our tea sandwiches and scones arrived just as she was walking out the door.

  “Where is Mrs. McDonald going?” asked Christine, the owner of the teahouse, rumored to have once been a Vegas showgirl. Today she was wearing a flowing dress adorned with sparkling teacups and a headband with feathers that recalled the roaring twenties.

  “She had another appointment,” I said, grabbing one of the teahouse’s signature cashew chicken salad sandwiches. “That’s okay, this is actually just enough for me.” Each sandwich was one bite, one of my biggest complaints about teahouses. Every time I went to one I had to go to Taco Bell afterward to assuage my hunger.

  “So,” Christine said, sitting down in Francie’s vacated chair. “What case are you working on?”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, popping another tiny sandwich in my mouth.

  She wagged a red-nailed finger at me. “Don’t try to fool me, Benni Harper Ortiz. You only frequent my establishment under duress of work or someone’s wedding or baby shower. What’s cooking with Mrs. Francie McDonald?”

  I smiled. “Okay, you got me. And you reminded me of something. I need to start planning Elvia’s baby shower.”

  “Call me after Christmas, and we’ll talk,” she said. “Baby’s not due until the summer, right?”

  “July first. I want her to have it on July fourth. That way, every year on her or his birthday, there’ll be fireworks.”

  Christine shook her head and smiled. “With Emory as a daddy, that little child’s going to get fireworks every day of its life.” She leaned closer to me. “So, what’s the scoop on Francie?”

  I knew Christine was the soul of discretion, so I filled her in on Constance’s new job for me. I left out the part about Gabe asking me to fake an investigation. He’d be in a large vat of hot water if that ever got out.

  Miss Christine shook her head, her lips pursed. “It is a shame about Pinky—she was a good customer—but I think Constance has a head full of bumblebees flying around in that champagne-blonde head of hers.”

  I nodded in agreement. I glanced down at my watch, then picked up one more peach and almond scone. “I gotta go. I have to meet my last suspect at the historical museum. Dorothea St. James.”

  Miss Christine looked both ways, then scooted her chair a little closer to mine. “There’s something you should know about Francie.”

  My ears immediately perked up. “What’s that?”

  “She was blackballed by Pinky three years ago, the first time she applied for membership in the 49 Club. I was told it had to do with Francie making fun of some artist that Pinky loved.”

  I stopped chewing my scone and stared at Christine. Some investigator I was. While I was stuffing my face, a nugget of information just fell into my lap, like an overripe apple. “How do you know it was Pinky who blackballed her?”

  Christine just placed a long, elegant finger to her lips. She was keeping that to herself.

  “Any other little tidbit you might want to share?” I asked, brushing the crumbs off my fingers onto my flowery china plate.

  “That’s all I have for now,” she said, glancing over my shoulder at someone coming into the tea parlor. A sudden burst of cold air caused the crystal chandelier in the middle of the room to tinkle. It was dramatic enough to cause a ripple of laugher to flow through the crowded room like a wave.

  “Nola!” Christine stood up and, like an elegant yacht, sailed across the room toward the thin, elegant woman standing in the parlor’s doorway. “Thank you for gracing my establishment with your lovely presence.”

  While I watched Christine weave her way through the tables, I quickly assessed the woman who’d donated the museum’s now most prestigious acquisition. Though she’d lived in Cambria over a year now, I’d never met her in person. She apparently spent a lot of time traveling, speaking about and promoting her uncle’s work. We’d spoken by phone a few times concerning the security of her uncle’s painting before it was officially shown at the museum. I’d assumed I would meet her at the opening, but it appeared it would happen sooner.

  The photographs I’d seen of Nola Maxwell Finch didn’t do her justice. In a word, she was gorgeous. With wavy, shoulder-length hair the color of apricots and wide-set, chambray-blue eyes, she was the type of woman that caused men to act courtly and other women to feel like bull moose. She was thin with an almost flat chest and features that were just this side of sharp, though not unattractively so. She was dressed in tailored, camel-colored slacks and an icy blue sweater set.

  Christine said a few words to her, then turned to point at me. Then she gestured at me to come to her.

  “Benni Ortiz?” Nola Finch said when I reached them. Her complexion was almost transparent, with a light sprinkling of pale orange freckles.

  “Yes,” I replied. “It’s so nice to finally meet you.” I held out my hand and was surprised by the firmness of her grip.

  “Nola Maxwell Finch,” Christine said. “It is an honor to welcome you again to my humble establishment. The town is just thrilled about your generous donation to our beloved folk art museum.”

  I smiled at Nola, who seemed a bit taken aback by Christine’s enthusiasm. “I second that wholeheartedly,” I said. “Everyone’s really looking forward to your presentation at the California Outsider Art exhibit on Wednesday evening.”

  “So am I,” Nola said, her voice soft and cultured, with just the touch of a Chicago accent. “My uncle is thrilled to be giving your museum one of his paintings.”

  “There’s a reporter from the Los Angeles Times coming up to cover it.” I couldn’t help the pride in my voice. It took quite a bit of finagling on my part to convince the arts and leisure editor that this event was worth covering. That and Emory’s generous offer to pay for the reporter’s two-night stay in San Celina’s best bed-and-breakfast.

  “That’s wonderful,” she said. “I’d love to come by the museum and see where you’ve hung his painting.”

  “Absolutely,” I said, reaching into my backpack and finding a business card. “The museum’s number is on the card, and so is my cell phone. If you’ll call me, we can set up a time, and I can meet you there. I’ll give you the two-dollar tour.”

  “I’ll do that,” she said, taking the card and slipping it into her small leather clutch. Her eyes flickered, looking at someone behind me. “I think I see my lunch date. I’ll call you.”

  “I’ll look forward to it,” I said, stepping aside.

  “What a delightful woman,” Christine said. “Such a nice addition to our town. So generous.”

  “Yes,” I agreed. “I have another appointment, so I have to boogie. I’ll call you soon about a baby shower for Elvia.”

  Christine clasped her hands together. “I have some wonderful ideas already brewing.”

  Fortunately, it was a short walk to the historical museum for my last interview with Dorothea St. James. On the way, I called Constance on my cell phone to find out why she hadn’t told me about Francie being blackballed by Pinky. Constance’s phone rang six times before her housekeeper answered.

  “I’m sorry, but Miss Constance is resting right now,” she said.

  “It’s an emergency. Don’t worry, I’ll take full responsibility for disturbing her. I’ll tell her that I harassed you into it.”

  A huge sigh came over the phone telling me that my words didn’t hold much water. “I’m sorry, but she said she is exhausted and absolutely must not be disturbed.”

  I felt like giving a Tarzan yell into the phone, except that the person who deserved to hear it was peacefully snoozing the afternoon away. “All right, then would you please ask her to call me the minute she wakes up?”

  “I’ll tell her you called.” Her long experience with Const
ance had clearly taught her not to promise anything. Her tone told me it was doubtful that Constance would call me back.

  I growled at my cell phone. “I will track you down sooner or later, old woman. And I’m going to cash that check as soon as the bank opens on Monday. And buy dog toys with it.”

  Dog toys. Yikes, I’d completely forgotten about Boo. I was going to owe Dove big time for watching him for me. What kind of puppy godmother was I? I hadn’t even checked on him. Before I could dial home, the phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Benni? It’s Hud.”

  “What a coincidence. I was just going to call and see how Boo is doing.”

  “Where is he? At All Paws?”

  “Not today. Dove is watching him while I do a little . . .” I paused, not wanting to go into this with Hud. “Work for the museum. I’m interviewing some society ladies for an article. How’s Texas?”

  “Big,” he said, laughing. “We’re having a great time, though Maisie misses Boo. And I have to confess, I miss the little peckerwood myself. How’s he doing?”

  “Just fine. You really owe me for this one, Clouseau. I won’t be getting a full night’s sleep until you get back. Next time, make sure you potty train a dog before you leave him with someone.”

  “Ah, what fun would that be, ranch girl? But you’re right, I do owe you a Texas-size favor. But I have one more tiny thing to beg of you.”

  I groaned out loud. “What?”

  “I need to have you take Boo to see Santa.”

  “What?”

  “I said . . .”

  “I heard what you said, I just can’t believe it.”

  “I promised Maisie that Boo would go see Santa and have his picture taken. It’s killing her that he’s spending his first Christmas away from us, so this was my way of appeasing her. I’ll wash your truck. I’ll massage your feet. I’ll pay extra.”

  “Leave my truck and feet out of this. I’ll settle for a generous donation to the folk art museum.”

  “As soon as I get back. Be sure to get pictures. Maisie needs to believe that Boo actually saw Santa.”

  “I cannot believe I’m agreeing to this. If you knew how busy I am . . .”

  “I’m writing the check now,” he interrupted. “Josiah Sinclair Folk Art Museum. Five hundred? Six hundred? A thousand?”

  “All of the above. Now, go back and do whatever it is people do when they go to Texas.”

  “You’re my hero. Kiss the Booster for me.”

  Dorothea St. James, aka Dot, arrived at the front doors of the San Celina Historical Museum at the same time as me.

  “Benni!” she exclaimed in a voice that always said a person’s name as if they were the exact person she wanted to see at that exact moment.

  “Hi, Dot,” I said, opening the heavy wooden door of the old redbrick Carnegie Library. “Shall we go inside out of this cold wind?” As happens so often in San Celina, one moment you are toasty warm, peeling off your layers, the next moment a cold, damp wind descends upon you, chilling your bones.

  “Good idea!” she said with as much enthusiasm as if I’d said, hey, what do you think about using mold to make a medicine that will cure life-threatening infections? I’d met Dot many times at different historical society functions. She was one of San Celina’s most beloved and respected society ladies. She was tiny and fast and had the biggest wardrobe of St. John’s knits in three counties. That last bit of information was given to me by Elvia, who was impressed, and that was saying something about my clotheshorse best friend.

  Dot never seemed to stop moving. Her husband, a local doctor, was respected and admired in San Celina. Her children turned out well, something that can’t be said for many of the affluent members of San Celina society. Her son followed in his father’s footsteps and was a local podiatrist who also raised wine grapes, and her daughter owned a boutique in Cambria and was active in local charities. A genuinely nice woman with impeccable credentials, I couldn’t help but wonder why she hadn’t been elected a member of the 49 Club a long time ago. Did she have something in her past like Francie did that irritated one of the 49 Club members enough to blackball her? If she did, I just couldn’t imagine what it might be. Serving the wrong kind of finger sandwiches at a charity tea, not bidding enough at a charity auction, wearing white shoes after Labor Day?

  “Let’s go see if the downstairs meeting room is empty,” I said. “It might be a bit cool, but at least it will be private.”

  “Let’s just go into the volunteer break room. I could use a hot cup of tea. How about you?”

  I was about hot-drinked out, but I gamely agreed, and we went down the wooden stairs to the small room used for the volunteers to take a break or work on some project. Luckily, it was empty for the moment, though we couldn’t be sure when someone would walk in.

  After fixing herself a cup of tea, she sat down across from me at the communal table. “Constance said you’re writing some kind of article about the 49 Club. I can’t imagine why she’d want you to speak to me. I’m not even a member.”

  I shifted in the folding wooden chair, causing it to squeak. “She told me you were up for the empty spot, and I thought it would be interesting to not only interview members, but soon-to-be members.”

  Her face brightened. “Have you heard something?”

  I felt my neck grow hot. “Actually, no, that was . . . just a figure of speech.”

  “Oh.” Her lips turned down slightly in what was the closest she’d probably ever come to a grimace. She sat up straight and smiled. “Of course you wouldn’t know anything. You were just trying to be diplomatic. You know, I’m sure, that I’ve missed being asked twice.”

  “Oh,” I said, not knowing what else to say. “That must be . . .” I almost said painful, but for crying out loud, it was just a silly little club. Why in the world did these intelligent, successful women care one iota about being asked to join? And why didn’t the club just open up the membership and change the doggone name to the Infinity Club?

  Because, honeybun, I could hear my gramma Dove’s voice say, that would make it entirely too democratic and equal and not nearly as much fun for those crazy old snobs.

  “I’m sure I’ll be chosen this time,” Dot said, waving her hand. “What would you like to know?”

  I pulled out my notebook and pretended to read through my notes. “I guess I’m curious . . . and your readers would be curious about what is so special about the 49 Club as compared to other clubs you are associated with.”

  I hoped I’d flatter her with the phrase, your readers. She started rambling on about the uniqueness and quality of the 49 Club and its members, how making it exclusive kept up the quality of the work they did, how the quality and dedication of the members made the club more successful. I let her talk while I pretended to take notes. If she said anything that sounded suspicious, I was sure I’d catch it. After about twenty minutes, I closed my notebook and said, “I think I have enough. Thank you so much for taking time out of your busy schedule to talk to me.” If I heard the word “quality” one more time, I’d blow my top.

  She stood up, brushed down the front of her tailored blue skirt. “You’ll send me a copy when it’s finished? My secretary keeps a file of my clippings.”

  “Uh, sure. Constance has your address, right?”

  “Yes, she does.” Dot gave me a sparkling smile. “Give Constance my best. Tell her I’ll see her at Pinky’s memorial service.”

  “When is that?” I knew that real investigators often went to the funerals of victims to see who attends. It might be beneficial for me to go to Pinky’s memorial service. Oh, for cryin’ out loud, I said to myself. You’re acting like this is a real investigation.

  “I’m not sure,” Dot admitted. “But I’ll attend if it’s not private, of course. I know how close she and Constance were. I truly admired Pinky Edmondson.”

  I noticed that she used the word admired, rather than liked. Was that significant? Did any of these society ladie
s who spent so much of their time together on charity committees truly like each other? It was probably like the ag community; some people you served with you liked, others you tolerated, some you flat-out avoided.

  “I’m sure Constance will let people know when or if there is a service,” I said, even though I didn’t have a clue if she would or not. “I think all of Pinky’s family lives out of town, so I’m not sure what the plans are.”

  On my walk back to my truck, I mulled over the three interviews. Frankly, I felt like I’d wasted an afternoon that I could have spent doing something useful. I didn’t find out one thing about these women that wasn’t pretty much common knowledge. Still, the reason I was doing this was to humor Constance, so once I made my report to her and to my husband, I was through. There was nothing that led me to believe any of those three women wanted the spot in the 49 Club so bad they would kill for it. As far as I was concerned, I’d done my due diligence, and the case was closed. But I should have known better. Few things in my life have ever turned out to be what they initially appeared to be.

  CHAPTER 7

  WHEN I WALKED INTO MY HOUSE, I IMMEDIATELY smelled something was up. Supper, to be exact. Dove’s chicken and dumplings, if my nose served me right. No one greeted me at the door, but I could hear the sound of laughter coming from the kitchen.

  Inside the warm, butter-scented room I found Dove, Kathryn, both dogs and Ray. Dove stood in front of the stove dropping her homemade dumplings in one of my six-quart pots, while Kathryn tore lettuce for a salad. Ray was teaching Boo to play tug of war with someone’s athletic sock.

  “Thanks a lot, Ray,” I said, smiling at the tiny growl coming from Boo’s fuzzy little body. Scout lay in the corner watching the game with a huge doggie grin on his face. “You know he’ll start thinking all socks are toys now. But since he’s not my dog, I actually don’t care.”