Goose in the Pond (15 page)

“Miz Jillian all through playing horsewoman?” Grace finally asked.

“I don’t know,” I said, leaning against the metal post of the rack. “Look, we weren’t talking about you, Grace, but we were talking about Nora’s murder. I don’t know how else to say this, but you’re going to have to get used to that over the next few weeks. You know we don’t have many murders here in San Celina, so it’s bound to be big news.”

She flicked the water off the scraping blade and continued to run it down the horse’s flank. He shook his head, spraying water in my direction. “I know, it’s just that I’m already tired of the weird looks people are giving me.” She wiped the back of a wet hand across her forehead. Sun-bleached ringlets of copper and gold had escaped from her braided hair and feathered her oval face. “When I stopped off at the feed supply this morning to pick up my order, the two girls behind the registers actually whispered ‘that’s her’ behind my back when I was looking at some new halters. I feel like I’m wearing a big scarlet
A
.”

“I’m sorry.”

She threw the scraper into a nearby bucket and untied the Arabian. “I know a lot of this is my own fault. Shoot, I’m living with her husband. I slept with him when their son was dying. She was holding up their divorce so we couldn’t be together. Honestly, if I was looking for a suspect in this, the first one I’d pick would be me.”

“Or Roy,” I said, then regretted it.

She looked at me blankly. “Yes, I guess he would be just as obvious as me. But he didn’t do it. And neither did I.” She led the horse toward the hot walker, where Fred was already meandering in a circle. “We are each other’s alibis that night. Did Gabe tell you that?”

“He doesn’t talk about his cases at home, you know that.” She and I had discussed our men’s lack of communication many times over glasses of lemonade and bags of Doritos in her large country kitchen. She clipped the Arabian to the walker and gave him an affectionate pat on the haunch. Then she turned and faced me. “I know you never approved of my relationship with Roy, but I appreciate the fact that you never preached at me.”

I smiled. “Except once or twice.”

She smiled back. “Everyone is entitled to an opinion, and I do respect yours. I’m not proud of the way he and I got together, but that’s water under the bridge now.” Her face sobered. “I just want you to know that I didn’t have anything to do with Nora’s death, but I’m not sorry she’s dead. She wasn’t as sweet and innocent as she led everyone to believe.”

I didn’t answer, not knowing quite what to say. Grace’s stories about Nora were colored with the prejudice of a woman in love with a man in the midst of a bitter divorce. How much could I believe?

“I didn’t kill her,” Grace repeated. “And Roy didn’t either. You believe me, don’t you?” Her face tensed as she waited for my reply.

“Of course I do,” I said, flinching inwardly at the tiny lie. Did I think she killed Nora? Though she was quiet and easygoing most of the time, I’d seen Grace lose her temper before. It was as quick and volatile as an illegal firecracker and just about as predictable. Once Roy had to physically hold her back when she took a pitchfork and went after a teenage boy who’d jerked the mouth of one of her horses so hard it broke skin. If Roy hadn’t caught her, I have no idea what would have happened. Could that protective instinct toward her animals carry over to her lover? Though I hated admitting it, both she and Roy had the motive, means, and opportunity to kill Nora. They both had bad tempers, a reason to want Nora dead, access to ropes....

She looked past me to the thick oak groves that bordered her property. “Thanks for the lie, but like I said, I’d suspect me, too.”

There didn’t seem to be anything else to say. I toed the ground with my boot tip. “Need any help today?” I asked, changing the subject.

“Thanks, I’ve got things pretty much under control. Want to have a ride? Tony can always use the exercise.”

I glanced at my watch. It was close to three-thirty, and in the next half hour the arenas, small rings, and hot walkers would be as crowded as rush-hour traffic in Orange County. “I’ll take a rain check. I’m really just avoiding work, but I needed a quick animal fix.”

She grinned. “Then stick around. I’m giving the Three Amigos a flea bath this afternoon. They’re about ready to drive me nuts.”

I automatically scratched the back of my neck at the thought. “No, thanks, I don’t miss them that much.” As if on cue, Dos, the second of her three male Kelpies named Uno, Dos, and Tres nudged my leg, wanting to be petted. I bent down and vigorously scrubbed behind one upright brown ear. He smiled his little dingo smile. “You shameless old beggar, I’m going to take you home with me.” He yelped in answer, blinking his golden eyes.

“Please, take them all,” Grace said.

“After their flea dip,” I answered.

“Coward.”

“We sold three of your wreaths over the weekend,” I told her as she walked me out to Gabe’s truck. As a sideline, Grace made bay leaf wreaths out of leaves she gathered off the Ramsey Ranch. Decorated with dried native flowers and cleverly laced thin satin ribbon, they’d become a popular gift item in the museum’s gift shop.

“Great, we need the money. Roy’s doing okay now that he’s got regular customers, but that can change in a heartbeat.” She bit down on the corner of her lip, her face worried.

I hadn’t even thought about Roy’s connection with the murder affecting his farrier business. Horse people were particular and fickle about who took care of their babies. There were quite a few good farriers practicing their trade in San Celina County, so Roy did have something to worry about. I touched Grace’s hand. “I’m sure Gabe will find who did this fast, and things can get back to normal.”

“Whatever
that
is,” she said, then laughed uneasily. She ran her hand down the old Chevy’s shiny blue fender. “Why’re you driving this old thing? Or more accurately, why is Gabe letting you drive it?”

“That’s right, we haven’t had time to talk about
my
problems. You aren’t going to believe it.” I quickly told her about Sam and Rita’s spontaneous arrivals and the aftermath. “And I won’t even go into my great-aunt Garnet’s marital problems,” I added.

“I’ll stick to being a murder suspect, thank you, ma’am,” she said. “Less stressful. With this storytelling festival coming up, sounds like you’ve really got your hands full.”

“No kidding.” Her mention of the festival reminded me of Peter’s complaint about Roy’s story. “Have you heard Roy’s story for the festival?”

“Only about a hundred times. Why?”

I explained about Peter’s objection.

“For cryin’ out loud,” she said. “There’s not a thing wrong with the story Roy’s telling. It’s all about a cow-camp cook and his rock-hard biscuits. There’s not an environmentalist within a hundred miles of it.”

“What do you think this is all about, then?”

“Roy’s probably just making up stuff to irritate Peter. You know how Roy feels about those open-space people. They’ve tangled before at city council meetings.”

“Roy wouldn’t do anything to cause a ruckus at the festival, would he?”

“Like what?”

“Like tell this story that he’s been teasing Peter with.”

She shook her head. “No way. That would only make Roy look bad. He’s just starting to make a name for himself and he wouldn’t do anything to screw that up. I’m telling you, he’s just poking at Peter. If Peter was smart, he’d just ignore him.”

I sighed and gave Dos one last scratch behind the ears. “I hope you’re right.” He arched under my petting, then took off after a squirrel that darted across the gravel driveway and sped around the corner of the barn.

“Trust me, Benni.”

I gave her a crooked smile. “Why do those words always evoke fear and trepidation in my heart?”

“Girlfriend, you are getting as cynical as that husband of yours. See you tomorrow?”

I opened the truck door. “I’m not sure. My days are pretty full this week. But you’ll be at the final committee meeting Wednesday night at Angelo’s, won’t you? Remember, I’m paying for the pizza.”

“With my best boots on.” She grabbed my arm before I climbed into the truck’s cab. “Benni?”

I turned and looked at her in question.

“I know this is asking a lot.” Her nostrils flared slightly, and she took a deep breath. “If you find out anything, could you let me know? I mean, this looks real bad for me and Roy, and I’m not asking you to break any laws, but you talk to so many people, and if you hear anything, could you . . . you know, just clue me in? As a friend?”

Feeling emotionally torn, I struggled for an honest answer. “I’ll try,” I finally said. “But Gabe’s not telling me much. He’s trying to keep me out of it.”

She looked up at me with pale green eyes as translucent as opals. “I know. I guess I was just trying to find out if this was going to affect our friendship.”

“Not if I can help it,” I said, and meant it.

“Thanks. I have a feeling I’m going to need all the friends I can get.” She let out a low whistle, and Uno and Tres appeared from behind the house. “Where’s your pesky brother at?” she asked them.

I watched her in my rearview mirror as she walked back to the barn, the two perky-eared dogs bouncing around her feet. It occurred to me that I never asked her if any detectives had questioned her and Roy. They must have, recalling her remark about being each other’s alibis. That was almost as good as no alibi when both of them had very good reasons to want Nora dead.

Stop it,
I told myself.
She’s your friend, and the least you can do is believe she’s innocent until it’s proven otherwise.
One thing I knew for sure, if they were guilty, I sure didn’t want to be the one to discover it.

It was almost four o’clock when I reached the museum. There was less activity going on, though a few people still milled about with hammers and saws. D-Daddy’s old Toyota station wagon was gone, so I safely assumed that he’d completed all the things on my work list for today. He wouldn’t have left otherwise. In the studios, a couple of quilters had a double-sized story quilt spread out on a wide worktable and were discussing it in low tones.

“What’s happening?” I asked, walking over and peering down at the intricate quilt. It was the
We Are All God’s Children
quilt that was a joint co-op project and was being raffled off at the festival, the proceeds going to our local hospital children’s wing, which had taken severe cuts with the last city budget. Twelve squares showed scenes of family life from twelve different cultures that thrived in San Celina County. The Latino square showed a Christmas Eve celebration that included a Santa Claus piñata and a colorful Mexican crèche scene on the fireplace mantel. The square, which I’d designed and quilted, was adapted from an old photograph of Elvia’s family.

“We’re checking it over one last time,” said Meg, a thin woman who was partial to long, baggy cotton dresses and musk perfume. Her specialty was modern quilts based on paintings by women artists.

“Looks perfect to me,” I said.

She and the other lady chuckled. “You know quilts are never perfect or finished,” Meg said. “Just abandoned.”

I smiled at the comment I’d heard so many times from artists. “Well, I’ve bought twenty-five dollars’ worth of raffle tickets, so I’m hoping it comes home with me. I have the perfect spot for it in my living room.”

“Good luck,” Meg said, laying tissue paper across the top of it and rolling it up. “I can’t think of a better home for it.”

After checking with the security guard we’d hired for the week to make sure he knew the proper way to lock up after the last artist left, I headed home, wondering what interesting scene awaited me tonight.

Ash’s new Mustang convertible was arrogantly parked in the driveway, blocking the garage. He and Rita emerged when I was halfway across the lawn. She wore a pink lace dress that would have made a good doily and matching four-inch heels.

I scowled at him, hoping I conveyed my mental disapproval of him dating my cousin who was still a married woman. He answered with a smooth, knowing smile.

“Don’t wait up,” Rita called over her shoulder, climbing into his car. “I’ve still got my key. And you got a message from Dove.”

“What?” I stuttered, watching the silver sports car back out of the driveway and resisting the temptation to throw something at it. Who would have ever expected her to keep a key after all this time? And what did Dove want? I found Sam in the kitchen tossing a salad in a large glass bowl and singing. The table was set for three. A basket of whole-wheat dinner rolls sat in the center of the pine dining table.

“Rita won’t be joining us,” Sam said, setting the salad on the table. It was a green salad using romaine lettuce, radishes, cherry tomatoes, and Parmesan cheese. He pointed at the salad. “It doesn’t exactly go with the chicken, but it’s all you had.”

“Looks wonderful,” I said.

“I called Dad’s office,” he said, turning back to the oven and pulling out the chicken. A heavenly aroma of garlic and ginger filled the room. “According to Maggie, he left about ten minutes ago.” He opened a pot on the stove and poked at the rice, then checked the vegetables he was steaming.

I picked up a roll and tore off a bite. “The station’s only a mile away. He should be here any minute.”

Sam set the food on the table, and we tried to make light conversation and not watch the cow-shaped kitchen clock. After thirty minutes it became pretty clear that he wasn’t going to show up.

“Maybe he got called back to the station,” I said. “That happens sometimes.”

He gave me a cynical look. “Right. Well, enjoy it.”

Before I could answer, he was out of the kitchen, and I heard the front door slam. I looked at all the food spread out in front of me. Resigned, I picked up the salad tongs and served myself. I was in the middle of my second helping of the ginger-garlic chicken when I remembered that Rita said Dove left a message. I chewed my chicken thoughtfully, wondering if she was trying to pawn Garnet off on me. She obviously knew by now that Rita was here as well as Sam and that I didn’t have any spare bed space.