Dove in the Window (22 page)

“What’s going on here?” Greer asked, her voice shaking with anger. I looked down at Shelby’s signed photograph. It was one of me, though I wasn’t easily recognized. The shot showed me in the distance chasing an uncooperative cow, the San Celina hills cut stark and black against the gray afternoon sky. Nipping at the heifer’s heels was Repeat, the daughter of one of Daddy’s best Australian shepards. I glanced at the discreet white tag in the corner. Roland had indeed tripled the price, just like Parker told me earlier.

“Now, don’t get mad, Greer—” he started.

“Mad! I’m triple-time pissed off, Roland Bennett. What in Sam Hill do you think you’re doing with my paintings?”

He shook his head, arranging his face in a sad expression, but the light in his eyes revealed his true feelings. “You know people, Greer. They grab on to something whenever there’s a scandal. I’m trying to do right by Shelby and get the most I can for her work. The money all goes to her estate, of course.”

“At my expense?” she said, her complexion white with anger.

“Now, I’m putting your paintings right here so people can see them just as they walk in ...”

“Not good enough, Roland. You put those back in the front window, or I’ll pull them out of your gallery altogether.”

He gave a slimy little smile. “Not possible, Greer. You signed a contract.”

“Well, I’ll unsign it!”

“Not possible.”

“I’ll go to a lawyer. I’ll sue your fat little butt. I’ll ...”

I grabbed Greer’s arm. “Let’s go outside for a moment. We can deal with this later.” I knew Greer, and if she got going she’d end up saying things she’d regret later. I didn’t know how much influence Roland had in the western art field, but I did know it was never good to burn a bridge until you decided whether you’d ever need it to get over that particular river again. If Greer acted rash, he might be able to ruin her career permanently. I tugged at her arm. “C‘mon, Greer. Let’s come back later.”

She shook off my arm and pushed through the door. I gave Roland’s smirking face a disgusted look and followed her.

“That jerk. That lowdown, miserable jerk...” She pounded her leg in frustration as I followed her down the street. In front of Sweet Dreams, I grabbed her arm and stopped her.

“Greer,” I said firmly, pulling her inside the warm, steamy coffeehouse. “We’re getting something to drink. You have to calm down.”

I finally got her seated in the outdoor garden patio in back with a cup of hot herb tea and got her vehement words and declarations down to an occasional “shit.” Above us, the sky turned the dusky lavender of early evening. A green finch sang in a cage just inside the back door.

“I could kill him,” she said.

“What he’s doing is despicable, no doubt about it,” I agreed. “But don’t you think you’re making too big a deal about it? His little gallery is nothing in the larger scheme of things.”

She stared at me over her steaming tea. “To you it’s a small thing, Benni, but sometimes the small things are all we can control. I fully expect to be treated like a second-class citizen when I eventually start rubbing elbows with the biggies, but I’d like to have some respect in my local area.”

“And you do,” I insisted. “He’s just trying to make as much from Shelby as he can while her death is still an item of curiosity. It’s despicable and certainly straddles the fence of professional integrity, but I still don’t think what he does in his little gallery is going to affect you long term.”

She took a long drink of her tea. “It better not. It’s just that a lot of important people are going to be looking at his gallery this whole week and him moving me out of the window is humiliating. I guess young and pretty isn’t enough these days. You gotta be dead, too.”

Her words shocked me silent. Before I could think of an answer, she stood up. “I have to go,” she said. “Parker and Olivia need my help.”

“Are you going to be all right?” I asked, following her out to the street. We stood under the flickering old-fashioned street lamp. They were decorated this week with twisted silk poppies and ivy interspersed with small wooden cutouts of the mission, covered wagons, and Chumash Indian symbols.

“I’m fine. Thanks for trying to help, but this is just as much a part of being an artist as figuring out what shade of blue to use. I’ll deal with Roland. In my own time and in my own way.”

“Just don’t do anything rash. Remember, you have more important things to think about than Roland Bennett and his puny little gallery.”

“I know.” She nodded sharply and started walking back toward the Mission Plaza. I watched her straight back until she turned the corner.

I headed back toward my car thinking about all that just took place in the last hour and a half—Parker’s and Olivia’s comments on looks and youth, Roland’s greedy brazenness, Greer’s understandable anger and humiliation. Maybe I should ask Emory to look into Roland’s background. What did we really know about Roland? He’d only been on the Central Coast for a couple of years. He could be anyone, with any sort of sordid background. He breezes into town, opens up a gallery, and immediately talks two of our most talented artists into signing a contract with him. And I had no idea how many other artists had signed contracts with him. His was the only gallery in town that specialized in western art, so it might be more than I realized.

Could the utterly fantastic accusation of Parker’s be true—could Roland be involved with Shelby’s death just so her photographs would be worth more? Wouldn’t that be self-defeating in the long run? She hadn’t become big enough yet for her work to be worth much. Then again, she was Isaac Lyons’s granddaughter. Could Roland have found out Shelby’s connection to Isaac? Would that have made her work more valuable to collectors? Would Shelby have told Roland something like that to convince him to represent her work? Shelby had been ambitious and probably would use what she could, but she was also so youthfully idealistic about her art. I knew that from long days spent with her as she photographed me at the ranch, listening to her ramble and enthuse about art as compared to what she disdainfully called “commercial dreck.” I think a part of her really did want to succeed on her own without help from either her socially connected parents or her famous step-grandfather.

I turned the truck toward home, knowing I should drop by the museum to see how things went today, but it was already past seven o‘clock and I was tired of being a problem solver and sympathetic ear. Besides, I was hungry. Really hungry. Gabe and I hadn’t made any plans, so I decided to wait at home and see if he called. The phone was ringing when I unlocked the door.

“Glad I caught you,” Gabe said. “My duties are completed. What did you have in mind for dinner?”

“I was contemplating that very subject as I walked in the door. Nick’s Pizza has a strong lead in the race. How does that sound?”

He hesitated. “Dean asked me to join them at that new Cajun restaurant over by the college. May’s going to be there.” Dean Pendleton was the district attorney, a greyhound-thin man who was an avid windsurfer and strong supporter of the Special Olympics. I liked his wife, May, a Chinese-American mathematics professor at Cal Poly whose family had lived in San Celina County for five generations. She and I shared a common passion for oral history and were always exchanging books on the subject. I thought for a moment. Usually I enjoyed going out with May and Dean, but I didn’t know if I was up to social chitchat at this particular moment.

“No pressure,” Gabe said. “He and I are going to be talking business mostly. She was only going to come if you did.”

“I’m really tired,” I confessed, knowing how long Gabe and Dean’s conversations could sometimes run. “Can you ask her for a raincheck?”

“No problem. I’ll be home whenever.”

Since I had no idea where Emory was or what his dinner plans were, I decided to go with my original craving and order a pizza. Since I didn’t have to consider Gabe, I ordered a sausage, pepperoni, and double cheese. After totally gorging myself, I lay back on the sofa and cruised the TV channels until I settled on a PBS rerun of
Pride and Prejudice.
I promptly fell asleep and was awakened by a shrilling phone. Disoriented, I stumbled over to it.

“Hello?” I peered through the dark room at the clock on the wall. In the shadows it seemed to read ten-thirty.

“Benni?” a familiar male voice answered. I searched my addled brain for a connection.

“Yes?”

“You better get yourself down here real quick before someone gets hurt bad.”

“Who is this?” I demanded.

11

“IT’S TONY.”

Tony,
I thought. My still sleep-groggy brain zipped around like a lightning bug. Tony? Oh,
Tony.
He was one of the artists at the co-op, a metal sculptor who worked part time as a welder and sometimes, like Olivia, as a bartender. Was he the artist overseer of the week? My heart started pounding. Had something happened at the museum?

“What’s wrong?” I said. “The museum ...”

“It’s not that. Everything’s copacetic. Greer’s the overseer this week. No, I just thought I’d better call you before things get out of hand.”

“What do you mean?” I clicked off the TV set, which was now showing some type of show about the dangers of dust mites in our beds. They looked like huge Godzilla-like fleas, and I shivered at the thought.

“I’m working at the Frio Saloon tonight, and we’ve been having a problem with your brother-in-law. Thought you might want to come down here and talk him into leaving before he gets himself into trouble.”

“Shoot, how drunk is he?” I asked.

“He’s had eight beers and three shooters of tequila,” Tony said. “Not that I’m counting.”

“Oh, great.” I sat down on the sofa, clutching the phone to my ear. “Has he gotten into any fights yet?”

“Not yet, but his attitude’s gettin‘ uglier with each drink. The only reason I’m calling you is I know he’s already kinda in hot water over that thing with Shelby. I figured it would probably be better for him to keep kind of a lower-type profile. You get my drift?”

“Yes, I get it.” How to accomplish
it—that
was the problem. “Look, try to stall serving him any more booze. Water it down if you have to. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Forty-five minutes, tops.”

“I’ll do my best, Benni. Just thought you’d want to know.”

“Thanks, Tony. I owe you one.”

I grabbed my purse and started out the door, then stopped. Gabe would probably be home any minute and wonder where I’d gone. I dashed off a quick note saying I had to help a friend and would be back in a couple of hours. I didn’t dare add any details. The Frio Saloon at night was a rowdy, anything-goes kind of place full of oil-field workers, cowboys, bikers, and a few brave yuppies looking to temporarily rub elbows with the working class for stories of bravery around their office’s Braun coffeemakers the next morning.

Santa Flora had long rolled up her sidewalks by eleven o‘clock. Ten miles out of San Celina, one mile off the freeway, the small country town consisted of a Moose lodge, a post office, the Rainbow Hut cafe, a liquor store, a volunteer fire department, and a large feed supply building that glowed huge and silver in my truck’s headlights. At the far end of Main Street was the almost imperceptible turnoff for the town of Frio, whose own claim to fame was a U.S. Department of Forestry station and the Frio Saloon. The trip to it would entail twenty miles on a two-lane snake-twist highway where a large share of cars and pickups piloted by tipsy Frio patrons ended up plowed into hillsides or nose-driven into weedy ditches. It wasn’t the first time I’d made a trip to the Frio Saloon to pick up a drunk and disorderly Wade, but it was the first time I’d done it alone.

As I pulled the truck over the bumpy railroad tracks and headed down the narrow road toward Frio, Jack’s presence seemed to permeate the truck’s cab. His face, lost to my conscious memory in the last few months, suddenly flared up again, burning itself into the passing landscape. I saw his hands in the jagged ink spots of oak trees dotting the moon-lit hills, his eyes in the blurry stars dotting the cobalt sky, his laugh in the engine’s rumble coursing through the thick, chilled air. I passed small ranches and farms, their windows glowing yellow and welcoming, the road rough and bumpy beneath my tires; my kidneys felt bruised and beaten, and the undulating road caused a sour, sick feeling in my stomach. When the road started to climb, the truck wheezed and I downshifted. I’d forgotten this hilly part of the drive. I struggled with the truck, urging it silently in the misty night, encouraging it and myself, talking to the engine, to Jack, to God.

C‘mon now, don’t conk out on me. Oh, Jack, I’d like to kill your brother. Lord, please make all this okay. Protect Wade, protect me through this terrible night.

Twice I saved “suicide squirrels” when I caught their bright, panicked eyes in my headlights, swerving and readjusting as they scampered through the maze of my moving tires. At the bridge crossing Frio Creek, I slowed down reluctantly, wanting to flee, knowing I couldn’t. The square, dark green ranger station was locked tight, a lone amber light shining over the solid door. Across the road, the Frio Saloon peeked out of the haze, damp air staining its red clapboard walls dark with spots the color of old blood. The dirt parking lot was packed with dusty, ten- and twenty-year-old ranch trucks with an occasional new Jeep Cherokee or Toyota Landcruiser decorating the mixture like rainbow sprinkles on chocolate icing.