Goose in the Pond (23 page)

“Could you tell Gabe for me?” she asked.

“Yes, but you know you’ll be getting another visit from a detective. They’ll probably want to corroborate your story with Dolores’s.”

“I know. Everything I told you was the truth. She’ll verify that.” Her voice trembled slightly. “Benni, I held back this information because I really care about Nick. When I first took over the library, he was one of the few people who had an open mind about me and didn’t assume I was just window dressing placed here by my aunt. Please make Gabe understand that. It wasn’t my intention to break the law or make the investigation more difficult.”

“He’ll understand, I’m sure.” Sure, and I’m going to be voted the next Miss Rodeo America.

I ate lunch at a new Mexican restaurant near the library where the owners didn’t know me. It was a relief to eat my chile relleños in peace without having to talk about Nora’s murder and answer the awkward question—just what
is
your husband going to do about it? Not to mention the somewhat embarrassing fact that everyone assumed I knew more than I did. That’s why I ended up with confidences like Jillian’s. Though there had to be some advantages to being the police chief’s wife, I’d yet to discover them.

Rooting around in my purse for something to read while I ate, I came across the maroon datebook I’d taken out of Gabe’s briefcase this morning. I idly flipped through the daily calendar part, sampling a piece of cramped writing here and there. Gabe was right, the Datebook Bum must have been an intelligent man. I went back to January 1 and started reading. The entries were short, to the point, and meticulously kept. They recorded everything from what he ate at the Mission Food Bank that day (January 27—“Baked chicken breast, mashed potatoes, and corn this evening. Ate all but two bites of corn. Chicken overdone.”) to whom he spoke to (February 9—“Ms. Aragon from Blind Harry’s said good morning. She wore her yellow suit today. Donna at San Celina Creamery gave me a vanilla cone. Turned down offer of sprinkles.”) to what junk he collected (“Deck of playing cards minus red diamond queen and ace of spades—table outside of Art Center; Six cans—three Coke, two Pepsi, one Dr Pepper—garbage bin outside Angler Sporting Goods; five ballpoint pens, two working, three not, plastic bag outside Bryant’s Business Supply”). This went on for pages and pages.

After reading through three months of entries, I began to perceive a pattern. Like a milkman he’d established a regular route in a roughly two-mile radius. It began and ended at Blind Harry’s but took in at least fifty other stops including a health food store where the homeless could get free vitamins, St. Celine’s Catholic Church, where good people provided afternoon coffee and doughnuts in the recreation hall, the local YMCA that allowed free showers on Mondays and Thursdays. He even made a once-a-week trip to the library, where he recorded which magazines he read, what this week’s story hour was about, which library employee acknowledged him (“Nick in Reference said good morning. Offered me coffee. I declined. He wore a new red polo shirt”), and what was in the library’s huge trash bin outside (“Ingram’s shipment came in today. Half a tuna sandwich in white paper bag. Too much mayo and walnuts”).

I pushed the datebook aside while I finished my lunch and thought about the mysterious, secret world of the homeless. How they observed the rest of us as we went about our daily activities never realizing our every move and word was being scrutinized. I’d read through March and hadn’t seen my name mentioned yet. I would definitely have to flip through it tonight when I had time and see if I’d come under his astute powers of observation.

Back at the museum, I buckled down and worked on cleaning up the last few details of the festival. At five o’clock, I told the few artists left in the co-op buildings I was leaving and reminded them to lock up after themselves. Before closing up the museum, I took one last quiet walk through the quilt exhibit. Nine o’clock tomorrow the doors would officially open, with our first tour scheduled for nine-thirty. We’d have crowds for the next three days during the festival, so I knew this would be my last chance to really absorb the quilts.

I roamed through the exhibit randomly, standing for a long time in front of my favorites, amazed, as always, how each time you look at a story quilt, more details, more parts of the “story,” pop out at you. When I reached Evangeline’s, I remembered my promise to myself to look at that one square up close. Something in me whispered that there was more there than could be seen on a quick first look. And the fact that the woman was holding a blanket that at first glance appeared to be a baby, but wasn’t, certainly intrigued me. I stood on a stool and unfolded the miniature blanket again. It was, as before, empty. I studied the picture closely, trying to discern what the wide dark eyes of the mother were trying to convey, what the bead of a teardrop represented, why the man was sleeping while his wife cried and walked the floor with her empty bundle.

The tiny crazy quilt the man slept under was incredibly intricate and not any bigger than a Fig Newton. It was a separate piece, appliquéd onto the bed with only the back of the man’s head showing. For some reason, I had the strongest urge to see what was under that quilt.

I dug through my purse and found my Swiss army knife and with its compact scissors carefully snipped at the delicate stitching along the edge of the blanket and slowly lifted it up. Involuntarily, I held my breath, not knowing what I’d find.

There was nothing there.

Staring at the plain muslin fabric, I let out my breath and laughed at my own silliness. What was I expecting to find?

You’re really getting a sick way of looking at things,
I told myself. Just because one time the clue was in the quilt doesn’t make it automatic. I looked in dismay at my handiwork. Though it wasn’t obvious when you stood in front of it because the square was on the highest row, if anyone studied it carefully, the side I’d snipped would be obvious. I’d have to take the whole blanket off and restitch it to make it look right. Even then Evangeline might notice. But she’d certainly notice if I left it the way it was. I glanced at my watch. I was fifteen minutes late already for the meeting at Angelo’s, so I couldn’t resew the blanket now. I’d have to swing by here afterward and repair it before the exhibit opened tomorrow.

On the way out, I told the security guard that I would be back to finish up some work, so not to worry when he saw my truck later on tonight.

Angelo’s Big Top Pizza was wall-to-wall students, office workers, and noisy kids by the time I arrived. Knowing that Wednesday night was popular ever since Angelo started his “All-you-can-eat-pizza-and-spaghetti-feed” to attract more weekday business, I’d reserved the small back room they normally used for birthday parties. When I arrived, Roy was busy playing a pinball machine with Grace cheering him on, while the rest of the group had already finished two pitchers of beer and was starting a third.

“I called the order in from the museum,” I said, flopping down on the redwood bench next to Jillian. “Hope four large pizzas are enough. I ordered two thin, two thick crusts. Pepperoni, sausage, vegetarian, and black olive.”

“Sounds good,” Ash said. “Want a beer?”

“No, thanks.” I held up my Coke. “Sorry I’m late. Had a few last things to take care of down at the museum.” I deliberately avoided Evangeline’s smiling face, afraid I’d give away my silly and presumptuous escapade with her quilt.

“You’ve done a great job with the festival,” Jillian said, patting my hand. “I honestly don’t see how you pulled this all together.”

“Thanks,” I said. “But I didn’t do it alone. Believe me, it would not have been possible without all of you. We’ve collectively done a good job and now we can hopefully enjoy the fruits of our labor. So tonight, even though we still have a few strands of barbed wire to repair, I want us just to have fun and prepare ourselves psychologically for tomorrow.”

“Here, here,” Roy said, turning from the pinball machine and lifting up his mug of beer. “Let’s just all have a good time. That’s what storytelling is all about.”

“As well as teaching truth,” Peter said, speaking up for the first time. “And for passing on the survival wisdom the next generation is going to need to keep from having to live in a totally concrete, strip-mall world.”

“Ah, put a lid on it, Greenpeep,” Roy said. “The only reason you guys want to save the environment is so you rich kids will have something to play in while the rest of us poor working slobs who can’t even afford one of your expensive yuppie climbing ropes are working to pay the taxes that buy those greenbelts and open space you all want.”

Peter glared at him. “That’s not true. The greenbelts and open-space lands bought by the conservancy are for everyone—”

Roy interrupted. “Sure, everyone who isn’t working fifteen hours a day to make ends meet and can’t even afford to buy a condo in Santa Maria.”

“The pizzas are here,” I said brightly. “C’mon, eat up, everyone, before they get cold.” I gritted my teeth and wondered if there was anyplace in this town I could go where someone wasn’t fighting.

Roy and Peter glared at each other, then sat down at opposite ends of the long table. Grace gave me an apologetic look, turned and whispered sharply to Roy.

“Nice save,” Ash said, sitting down next to me. “Pepperoni?” He picked up my paper plate.

“Sure,” I said absently. He pulled off two slices and slipped them on my plate. I stared down at it, my appetite suddenly gone.

“Don’t worry, darlin’,” Ash said. “Those two aren’t going to ruin the festival. They’re just snappin’ at each other for the pure fun of it.”

I picked up a piece of pizza and bit off the tip. “It’s not fun to me. I’ve got enough to worry about without them sniping at each other.”

“Like finding Nora’s killer?”

I finished chewing my small bite, studying his face warily. “What do you mean by that?”

He shrugged. “Just that being the police chief’s wife, I figured you have the inside track on information.”

“You’re wrong there. Gabe and I agreed from the beginning of our marriage that his work life and home life are completely separate.” I looked back at my pizza, hoping my face wouldn’t give away that blatant lie. Composing my features into what I hoped was a neutral expression, I looked back to him and answered, “You probably know more about it than I do.”

His eyes blinked rapidly, though his slick smile never lost a kilowatt. “I doubt that.”

I took another bite of pizza and didn’t reply.

“You became pretty good friends with her, didn’t you?” he asked.

“We weren’t best friends or anything, but I liked her.” At least I liked who I thought she was.

“Did you know she was the Tattler?”

“Oh sure, Ash. I even helped her write the columns.”

His eyes widened slightly.

“For cryin’ out loud,” I said when I realized he was taking me seriously. “I’m kidding, Ash. I was as much in the dark as anyone else. Why are you so nervous? Did she have something on you, too?”

His hand froze on the handle of his beer mug. My stomach flip-flopped when I realized that I hit the fence post square on the head. I laughed, trying to cover up that I’d noticed his reaction. “Ash, she probably made up something about all of us. Don’t forget, she was a storyteller.”

He gave me a long look, rubbing his thumb absently on his chin. “Yes, but her stories hurt people. That’s not what storytelling is about.”

“I agree. Stories should build people up, not tear them down.”

“It would be well for more people to remember that.”

“Yes, I guess it would.”

His gaze remained steady. “Seems to me anyone who could write the stuff the Tattler did ... was a completely cruel and heartless person.”

“I’m not sure I agree with you there. All the facts aren’t in. The whole story of her life and motivations isn’t known yet.”

“But you’re going to make sure it is.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Your face did.” He drained his mug of beer. “I’m going to get another one. Want anything from the bar?”

“No, thanks.” I pointed to my half-empty glass of Coke.

“Just remember one thing, Benni. It was something that Nora obviously had a problem with. ‘A prudent man keeps his knowledge to himself, but the heart of fools blurts out folly.’ ”

“Sounds an awfully lot like a proverb.”

“Chapter 12, verse 23. I’m not as decadent as I look.”

“Even the devil quoted Scripture,” I replied flippantly.

He grinned. “Touché, darlin’. You’d best remember that.”

I stared after him as he walked toward the bar.

“What was that about the devil and Scripture?” Evangeline said, scooting closer to me. She offered me the vegetarian pizza. I declined, pointing at my still-uneaten slices. “You and Ash looked like you were debating the world’s problems. Was he trying to put the make on you? That man sure has the nerve.”

I picked up my cooling piece of pizza and took another bite, trying not to look Evangeline in the eye. If what everyone said about me was true, she’d be able to tell in one glance that I’d ripped apart her quilt looking for a clue. I needed to get a handle on myself. My mind was beginning to work like one of those characters in a mystery novel, looking for clues in everything people said and did.

“No,” I replied. “He was just shooting off his mouth, like usual. He’s gotten it in his head that I know more about Nora’s case than I do.”

She looked at me thoughtfully. In the background, Bonnie Raitt sang from the jukebox: “Let’s give them something to talk about. . . .” She listened for a moment. “I’ve always loved that song.” She drank from her glass of iced tea. “It could be about my life.”

“Why?”

She shook her head and gave her musical laugh. “You know, life, love, men. I always seem to pick the ones like Ash. The smooth talkers. They’re like irresistible honey to me.”

I looked at her curiously and asked, “Did you and Ash ever have anything going?”

“No. At least I was smart enough not to fall for that one. Not that I wasn’t tempted. He does have a certain charm.” She swirled the ice around in her tall plastic cup. “But that man is definitely a
serpent d’eau
.”