We pulled up in front of Pinky’s Victorian house. The sun had already dipped behind the hill in back of the house, and the yard was full of yellow and orange mums and neatly trimmed emerald shrubs, even though it was December. I really looked at the exterior this time, realizing what a beautiful house it was and how much care had been lavished upon it. It had undeniable flair. The flowers, shrubs, even the natural walk leading up to the front porch, seemed all of a piece, like great thought had been put into where each stone was placed, the shape of each shrub. It had balance and was gently pleasing to the eye, yet you had the feeling there were surprises to be found among the warm-colored flowers.
I realized in that moment how little I knew about Pinky Edmondson. She was definitely a woman who marched to her own drummer. Most society women like her lived closer to town, didn’t feel comfortable in such a rural environment. But Pinky had been a widow for a long time. Maybe this house, as isolated as it was, was the last connection she had with her husband. I remember how difficult it had been when I lost Jack and then not too long after that, his mother, brother and I lost the Harper ranch. At the same time I ached for my young husband, I also missed the house we’d lived in, the rooms we’d decorated and the flowers we’d planted in the window boxes. Where we live with those we love is so tied up with our memories of them. I could understand why she’d stay here long after her husband was gone.
A little white Toyota was parked in front of the quaint little guesthouse. I assumed it was May Heinz’s vehicle. I dialed her number on my cell phone and told her not to worry, that I had Constance’s permission to show the house to Nola. May came to the front window and waved at us. Next to her I could see a large German shepherd dog, ears stiff and alert.
“Remember to shut off the alarm,” she said. “The code is 5219.”
“Okay,” I said.
“What a lovely place,” Nola exclaimed, climbing out of her car.
“Yes, it is,” I agreed, slipping my phone into my pants pocket. “This is not the first time I’ve seen it, but I just now noticed how together everything seems, how peaceful, really.”
“Yes,” Nola said, gazing up at the house. “It really does give off a feeling of peace, not isolation. It just might be perfect for . . . me.”
I punched the numbers into the pad next to the front door, disarming the alarm system. Then I opened the front door with the key Constance had given me and stood aside, gesturing for Nola to go ahead of me. She stepped inside the foyer without hesitation, with a promising familiarity. Maybe she’d buy Pinky’s house, eventually move her uncle here and make it their home. I imagined briefly the artists at the co-op coming here to pay homage to Mr. Finch, him giving talks about his art, perhaps revealing one of his newest works, our museum and co-op becoming his home away from home.
“May I look around?” Nola asked, interrupting my fantasy.
“Oh, sure,” I said, flipping on the foyer light. It bathed the entryway in a soft, yellow glow. “That’s the whole idea. Who knows, this might be your dream house.”
She touched one of the textured walls, almost caressing it. “Who knows indeed?”
She started for the large living room to our left, so I decided I’d go upstairs. I remembered when Gabe and I were looking for a house I was always happy when we were left alone to poke around on our own, trying to imagine a life in that particular house, even though it was filled with someone else’s possessions.
At the bottom of the stairs, I encountered the cat May was holding the last time I was here. What had she said his name was? Leonardo? No, Lionel. That was it. Like the model trains.
“Hello, Mr. Lionel,” I said, bending down to stroke him as he wound around my legs. “I take it you’re in charge of mouse patrol.”
I briefly wondered who would take this cat when the house was sold. May Heinz? I assumed she was feeding him. Maybe the new owner would inherit him with the house. Did Nola like cats?
The interior of the house was bigger than it appeared outside, something I found to be the opposite in many Victorian houses. I wandered through the rooms, half-embarrassed and half-excited to be looking through someone’s personal things. Most history buffs and even academic historians, though they’d hate to admit it, are basically your nosiest neighbor times one hundred. History is, first and foremost, about people, so any chance a history lover has to peek inside someone else’s life, it is like being given a precious gift. And, when you thought about it, the minute a person passes away, they pass out of the present into history. Looking through Pinky’s possessions felt like studying a piece of history.
As I casually touched her things, the silver hairbrush laid just so on her carved mahogany vanity, or ran my fingers across the fringe of her bedside lampshade, making it dance in the yellow light, I was poignantly aware of Constance’s grief and her insistence that Pinky was murdered. There was nothing in the rooms I walked through, her bedroom and three other beautifully decorated guest rooms, that supported that. I truly had to convince Constance to let her friend go, that it was more important to start planning Pinky’s memorial service. Maybe it was a good idea for Nola Finch to buy this house. Maybe it would help Constance move on.
In the large upstairs sunroom, I found most of Pinky’s impressive collection of folk art displayed across one large, eggshell white wall. She seemed to prefer paintings, though there were a few sculptures and one bright red and yellow Tumbling Blocks quilt draped over a wooden quilt rack. I also recognized a small original Howard Finster painting and another painting that was unsigned depicting a baptism in a bright green and blue river with shocking pink caps on the small waves. The white-robed believers’ faces held expressions of rapturous joy.
She owned an original Abe Adam Finch, something that would please Nola, I was sure. It showed an oak tree blooming with the faces of children. Each child’s face, though of a different shade of complexion ranging from pale pink to light goldenrod to burnished copper, shared one characteristic, eyes made up of blue, green, brown and black hues, all exactly alike, as if the artist was saying, Though we possess different skin tones, we all see the world through the same eyes. It was one of his smaller paintings, about eight-by-ten. I studied his signature, trying to see if there was any difference between it and the one on the painting he gave the folk art museum. Looked the same to me. Then again, I had no idea when Pinky purchased this painting.
The collection in this room alone had to be worth close to a hundred thousand dollars. It worried me that these paintings were out here unprotected except for May Heinz, her German shepherd and Lionel the cat.
I walked over to the large picture window that looked out over the garden. It didn’t fit with the Victorian style of the house. It slid open to reveal an unobstructed view of her property, the edge of her garden, the tiled roof of the guesthouse and in the distance tall pine and oak trees etched against the darkening sky. Without screens, the view was spectacular. It mimicked a painting, really, though more realistic than most of the artists whose work Pinky owned. I stood at the window for a moment, admiring the view, especially of the massive old pine tree directly in back of the guesthouse. Its tall, strong presence against the lavender and blue sky reminded me of my mother-in-law’s imposing six-foot frame. I thought of her height, how intimidating I found it the first time we met. I couldn’t help wondering what the MS would do to her frame. Oneeta was hunched over in her wheelchair, had been round-shouldered and frail from the first time I met her.
I hoped that Kathryn would tell Gabe tonight about her condition. It weighed on me knowing this intimate information about his mother and not being able to talk to him about it.
I heard Nola call my name as she came up the stairs.
“In the sunroom,” I called back, picking up a china dog and a crystal box as my “reason” for coming here. This whole charade was ludicrous.
“What wonderful light,” Nola exclaimed, coming into the airy room. “An artist’s dream!”
She was right
. The light in here would be perfect for an artist. “Look at the view.” I pointed to the wide-open window, the towering grandfather pine that seemed to be framed like a painting.
She walked over and gazed out across the meadow and trees. I heard a very distinct sigh. “This is the perfect place to paint.”
I smiled at her. “Think your uncle would like it?”
She blinked rapidly, touching a hand to her chest. “I guess I was thinking more of myself.”
“You paint?” I flinched inwardly, embarrassed by the surprise in my tone. “I mean, I think that’s great.” That had probably happened to her before whenever she told someone that she painted. Would there be anything more difficult than a relative who was both critically and commercially successful at something you aspired to do?
A flash of consternation told me that she was sorry she brought it up. “There’s no reason you or anyone else would know that I’ve studied art myself. Just a few art retreats, some private lessons, a semester of college classes. I’m mostly self-taught.”
“Why did you stop?”
She shrugged, turned back to the view. A sharp, close breeze rattled the open window and caused the top of the pine tree to dip and sway. A bird of some kind sat on one of the top branches, swaying with the wind. “You know, taking care of my uncle’s business. All the marketing, finances, making sure he has what he needs. It’s a full-time job.”
“I can believe it, but it’s a shame you have to put your own dreams on hold.”
She turned away from the window to look at me. The wind whipped up her red-blonde hair, causing it to fly around her head. She laughed, tried to hold it down with both hands.
“Let me get that window,” I said, rushing over to slide it closed. “The one thing about living here on the Central Coast: you better be able to tolerate wind. I imagine you’ve already discovered we get quite a bit of it.”
“I don’t mind wind.” She wandered around the room, touching her fingers to the pale walls. “Who knows, I might try painting again. This room . . .” She swept her hand to take it all in. “Perfect light, as I said before.”
I glanced at my watch. “I hate to rush you, but I need to head back to San Celina. I hope you saw enough of the house to get a feel for it.”
“Thank you so much for letting me tag along. Did you find what you came for?”
I nodded, holding up the china dog and the crystal box. Though I hadn’t gone through every room like a real search, I reminded myself that this wasn’t a real search.
We were at the front door when I couldn’t remember whether I locked the window in the sunroom. “The alarm will probably not work if it’s not locked,” I said to Nola. “I’d better go check.”
“I’ll wait outside.”
Sure enough, the window was closed but not locked. I locked it up and ran back down the stairs. On the bottom step, Pinky’s striped cat sat with its tail wrapped elegantly around its body. It looked like a statue. I reached down and stroked its head. “Good night, Mr. Lionel. Guard the house.”
He merely lifted his single eyebrow and yawned in reply.
CHAPTER 11
IT WAS FIVE MINUTES AFTER SIX AND DARK BY THE time I picked up Boo and drove home. Ray sat on the porch swing waiting for me, his hand resting on Scout’s head. Scout bounded down the steps to greet me and Boo. Ray stood up and waved.
“Sorry I’m late,” I said, setting Boo down and giving my own dog a hearty belly rub. “It’s been a crazy day. Have Gabe and Kathryn left already?”
He nodded. “About a half hour ago.”
I pressed my lips together, trying not to worry.
“They seemed fine. This’ll all turn out okay, Benni. Your husband and his mother will work this out.”
“I hope you’re right.” I wished I was as certain of that as he was. “At any rate, I can’t do anything about it. But I can feed these canines and then take you out for some of the best vittles in the city.”
He laughed and scooped up Boo, who was dancing around his feet. “Sounds wonderful. Why don’t you let me feed the pups? I’ve seen how you do it. Then you can go do whatever it is women do to freshen up.”
I smiled gratefully at him. “Do I look wilted?”
“Nah,” he said, laughing. “Just a little soft around the edges.”
“Like I said, it’s been a nutty day.”
“I’ve been told I’m a good listener.”
While he fed the dogs, I washed my face and quickly braided my hair. I pulled a green wool sweater on over my shirt, changed my dressy wool slacks for jeans and was ready to go.
I slipped my arm through his and told him about Liddie’s Café on our walk there. “One of the best things about this house is that Liddie’s is within walking distance.”
Most of our walk, we strolled down Lopez Street in a companionable silence. Though it was a cool evening, it was busy downtown because of the holidays. With the tiny twinkling lights in the trees that canopied most of Lopez Street and the sounds of Christmas music filtering out from different stores and cafés, it truly was beginning to look a lot like Christmas.
Liddie’s Café, about two blocks from the civic center and the police station, was packed with its usual assortment of ranchers coming to town for supper and shopping, chattering students who elected to stay in town over the holidays, police officers on break, retirees who liked Liddie’s inexpensive diner food and everyone else who just flat-out loved big portions of home-style cooking. The sign above the café read Open 25 Hours! Indeed, the owner of Liddie’s didn’t even close on Christmas, even though he was a good Catholic boy, but, instead, gave a free meal to any homeless people who came in and provided a place where lonely people could partake of a holiday meal.
“Liddie’s has been here as long as I can remember,” I told Ray when we slid into one of the red vinyl booths in back.
“There aren’t too many places like this anymore. Not even in Kansas,” he said, looking around at the brown and red fifties decor.
Lucky for us Nadine, Liddie’s head waitress and the heart of the restaurant, was working tonight. I couldn’t wait to introduce Ray to San Celina’s most famous waitress, a woman who’d served me pancakes and chicken-fried steak through all of my most troubled moments as a child, teenager, dates, breakups, squabbles with Elvia and two marriages. Nadine knew everything about everyone in this town. If she didn’t know something, it truly wasn’t worth knowing.
“Benni Harper Ortiz, I haven’t seen you in a coon’s age,” she said, pulling a pencil out of her pinkish-gray beehive hairdo. Her upswept hairstyle and pink plastic cat-eye glasses hadn’t changed style, I’d been told, since Eisenhower was in office. Like the mashed potatoes and the golden French toast made with double-thick slices of sourdough bread, why change what worked?
“My life has been crazy,” I said, opening a plastic menu even though I’d memorized everything on it years ago. “Nadine, this is Ray Austin. He’s—”
“Gabe’s new stepdaddy,” Nadine interrupted. “Good for his mama and, I’ll venture, good for you. Congratulations, and nice to meet you.”
I stared at her, struck dumb for a moment.
“Close your mouth, Benni,” she said, giving a screechy cackle. “I knew about Ray and Kathryn ten minutes before they hit town.”
I looked at an amused Ray and shook my head. “For years I’ve said the CIA should look into Nadine’s information gathering methods.”
She gave a sharp nod, taking my comment seriously. “I could clean this country up in no time. First thing I’d do is make it a law that everyone eat a hearty breakfast and get at least eight hours’ sleep.”
“Hear, hear,” Ray said, lifting up his water glass. “You’ve got my vote.”
She narrowed one tobacco-brown eye at me. “I like this man. But I hear Gabe doesn’t.”
“Nadine!” I felt my neck turn warm.
She shrugged and pulled her order pad out of her apron pocket. “I’m only repeating what I’ve heard.
”
Ray reached across the table and patted my hand. “I understand small towns, Benni. And I keep telling you, Gabe will come around.”
“He’s right,” Nadine said. “Gabe will eventually accept his new stepdaddy. He’s just still all in pieces about his cousin and whatnot. Mark my words, this will all turn out for the better.”
I looked up at her, wanting desperately to believe that. “I guess we’ll have to wait and see. Gabe and Kathryn are having dinner tonight in Morro Bay . . .”
Nadine checked her large Timex wristwatch. “They finished their shrimp cocktails about ten minutes ago and have just started on their main course of mahimahi.”
I could feel my eyes widen.
Nadine gave another loud cackle. “I was just putting you on. I have no idea what they are doing.”
Ray laughed, and so did I. Coming here had been the perfect thing. She took our orders; hamburger for me, grilled cheese with beefsteak tomatoes for Ray. In no time, Nadine delivered our food, including a strawberry malt for me.
“I didn’t order this,” I said, accepting it gladly. So what if my jeans were already pinching my waist?
“You look like you need it,” she said, glancing at me over her pink glasses. “Not your thickening waist, mind you. But psychologically.”
“Thank you, I think.”
“Constance has you running around with this Pinky Edmondson silliness like you were her personal slave.”
This time I didn’t act surprised that Nadine knew about what Constance had me doing. I took a long drink from my malt. “So, what do you think?”
“I think Constance Sinclair is completely bonkers, you know that,” Nadine said. “But this time . . .” She clamped her thin lips together. “Pinky Edmondson did her share of stepping on people’s toes. The things I hear would put hair on a seal.”
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