Spider Web (21 page)

“Much more accurate description. You
is
a college-educated woman.”

“I’m starting to get hungry myself.” The clock above Marshalls Jewelry Store read seven thirty. Still an hour and a half to go before the farmers’ market closed. I turned to Jan Nixon, a fiber artist from the co-op whose hand-loomed Navajo-style blankets depicting traditional quilt patterns sold for thousands of dollars to collectors. “Mind if I take a break?”

“Sure, I can handle things,” she said. “I’m going to start rationing this candy, though. Some of the college boys have been here three or four times.”

“I trust in your ability to fend them off,” I said. She’d raised five boys on a cattle ranch in Southern Arizona before she and her husband retired to the Central Coast. If anyone could handle smart-mouthed college boys, it was Jan.

“Walk with me to the bookstore,” Emory said. “I told my sweet wife I’d take Miss Sophie Lou to have her photo with Mr. Easter Bunny. I was waiting for the line to become shorter, but that doesn’t look like it’s going to happen.”

“Seriously, Emory, more pictures?” I asked, walking with him toward the store. The three long blocks, closed off by sawhorse barricades, were as crowded as opening day at the Mid-State Fair.

Emory just grinned and licked barbecue sauce off his upper lip.

“I hope you two have another kid soon,” I said. “Otherwise Sophie’s going to develop cataracts from too many flashbulbs in the face.”

A flash of worry furrowed his brow.

“Kidding.” I elbowed his rib cage. “I’m sure that’s not possible.” Never, I reminded myself, underestimate the irrational worries of first-time parents.

We parted ways in front of Blind Harry’s, and I kept walking, always interested in seeing what new products were for sale. At the end of Lopez Street, while standing in line for a grilled hot dog, I noticed Van Baxter’s small booth. I remembered him mentioning he’d have a booth here when we spoke at Sophie’s appointment the other day. Despite my growling stomach, I abandoned my spot in line and weaved my way across the crowded street. I was curious about his work, especially his career with the Associated Press and
National Geographic
. It must feel like such a letdown to take photos of college girls and babies after that kind of illustrious career.

As I made my way through the crowd, it occurred to me that he might like to join the co-op. Maybe the camaraderie of other artists would help him adjust to his new life here on the Central Coast. Tempting him with meeting Isaac Lyons might do it. Again, I sympathized with Van, thinking how hard it must be to uproot and change your life because of your spouse’s family responsibilities.

The white canvas booth sat at the very end of the farmers’ market, where people with less influence with the Downtown Association Committee were assigned. A hand-painted sign hung over the entrance—Van Baxter Photography. On one side of his booth was a woman selling gold and silver body jewelry. On the other side sat a booth with an astrologist who gave readings for ten dollars and sold homemade soaps. The jewelry booth and the soap-astrology booth both had more customers than Van Baxter Photography.

Van’s back was to me when I walked up. He stood in front of a twelve-by-sixteen photograph of an exploding oil derrick, talking to a man in a red Hawaiian shirt. They appeared to be haggling price. I paused in front of a photograph of some young children playing hopscotch on a cracked sidewalk. Behind them loomed a tank bearing an American flag. Next to the tank stood an American soldier in a wrinkled uniform, his rifle slung casually across his chest. The caption stated simply—“Beirut.” Another photo showed a lone cross-country skier standing in the middle of a snowy field pointing a rifle at some unseen target. The caption read—“Winner.”

A woman who appeared to be around my age walked up to me. She was taller than me by a head and had sorrel-colored hair pulled back in a low ponytail. She wore snug jeans and a white, tailored shirt with the cuffs rolled to her elbows. A filigree butterfly necklace was her concession to femininity. Her skin was an ivory color, finer than my freckled complexion. She, no doubt, spent less unprotected time in the sun than I did. Her features were sharp, her eyes slightly too close together but a beautiful shade of pewter.

“A good photograph actually needs no caption,” she commented. Her voice was the exact opposite of her features—smooth as warm milk. Only because of my own background did I catch the slight slur at the end of her sentence, suggesting a Southern background. “My husband’s words, not mine.”

I stuck my hands in my back pockets. “That one of the tank and the kids. It feels like we’re getting ready to take the next turn in the game. And the skier, it’s . . . well . . . mysterious and . . . stunning.”

She laughed deep in her throat. “The skier is me. In another, younger life I competed in biathlons.” She held out her hand. “I’m Van’s wife, Yvette.”

“Oh,” I said, taking her hand.
Of course.
Her handshake was confident. “I should have realized. I’m . . .”

“Benni Ortiz.” She smiled at me, an open, woman-to-woman smile now, no need to impress or seduce. “I’ve seen your photograph in the chief’s office.”

I grimaced. “The one on the horse. That photo totally embarrasses me, but for some reason, Gabe adores it.”

Isaac had taken it at last year’s roundup. I was riding a neighbor’s green-broke horse. We were in a corral about a quarter mile from the herd. Isaac caught me when the brown-and-white paint horse was rearing. With my white Stetson and old leather chaps, I looked like something out of an iconic thirties Western, one of the original Pendleton cowgirls. The horse looked great, in my opinion, but I cringed at my serious and determined face. All I could think of when I saw the photo was I wasn’t in control of my horse.

“A real Annie Oakley moment,” she said.

Though her face appeared guileless, I wasn’t sure if she was being sarcastic. Since being married to Gabe, I’d met quite a few female police officers, and I’d learned to be wary. Most female officers were great, just as down-to-earth as any of my civilian female friends. However, like some of their male colleagues, a few women became police officers for questionable reasons. They often started out with a chip on their shoulder, determined to prove they were as tough as any man was and certainly tougher than any other woman. And some resented my position as the police chief’s wife. No doubt my face held a leery expression.

“I meant that as a compliment,” she said quickly. “Seriously, I’m terrified of horses, so that photo really impressed me.”

I felt my spine relax and made a dismissive gesture with my hand. “My dad threw me up on a horse when I was six months old. Riding is second nature to me.” I cocked my head, thinking of the photograph and that she’d been a SWAT team sharpshooter. “Probably similar to the way you feel about your weapon.”

She laughed, subconsciously touching her side, reaching for the spot where she usually kept her weapon. “You’re right. My dad taught me to fire a twenty-two when I was seven years old. When I hear someone say they’ve never fired a gun, I’m amazed. I can’t even imagine that.”

“Was your dad in law enforcement?”

She shook her head no. “Just an avid hunter. He died when I was ten. That’s when we moved from Louisiana to Santa Maria to be near my mother’s people.”

“I heard you were a Central Coast girl.”

She crossed her arms loosely over her chest. “Half Californian, half Louisiana swamp rat. After I graduated high school and left for college in New Orleans, Mom moved to Arroyo Grande. I came back once a year to visit, eat a little Santa Maria barbecue. I do have a special feeling for the Central Coast.” She didn’t mention her mother’s illness.

Van finished with his customer and walked over to us, his disappointed expression revealing he’d failed to make a sale. “Hey, Benni. I see you’ve met the better half of the Baxter-Arnaud household.”

Yvette’s cheeks flushed with rosy circles of color. The shine in her clear eyes as she looked at her husband told the world she was in love with this man.

“How’s it going, Van?” I asked.

“Sales are slow to nonexistent, but then there’s always the Memory Festival on Saturday.”

“Don’t worry,” I said, “People tend to be a little looser with their money at the festivals rather than at the farmers’ market.”

“We’ll have a better spot, for sure,” Van said. “Luckily, the spaces were chosen by lottery, rather than seniority like tonight. I lucked out. I’ll be over by the Santa Celine Mission, next to the fountain.”

“That is a good place. A lot of tourists visit the mission.” I was glad the committee had agreed to a lottery system in terms of deciding which vendor got which space. That way, no one could complain that certain vendors were getting special treatment.

Before we could continue, a group of women came into the booth and started asking about his photographs of Eola Bay and Port San Patricio, a few miles south of San Celina.

“I’ll let you get back to work,” I said, holding up a hand. “Good luck.”

“Thanks,” Yvette said. “We sure need it.”

For a quick moment, Van’s expression darkened, then turned neutral. Had Yvette realized how her comment sounded? I sympathized with Van, but I also understood her position. There had been many times I had said things that Gabe took the wrong way simply because I didn’t think before the words tumbled out of my mouth. I sighed, feeling bad for them. Relationships were as precarious as minefields; there was no getting around that. And they seemed to get harder the longer you were together, not easier.

I lingered in the booth a few minutes, looking at Van’s photographs. His style was emotional, intense and eclectic. He photographed everything from an exploding oil derrick to a group of protestors at the nuclear power plant to a series of shelter dogs up for adoption. The dog photographs were incredibly moving. He managed to capture their sad history with his close-ups of their liquid eyes and scraggly coats. Those might sell well as would his scenic shots. It must be hard to try to figure out where you wanted your career to go when you were used to being more controversial and important. I briefly wondered if he would be interested in coming out to our roundup next week. It might be something different for him to photograph, maybe the start of a new direction in his career.

As I stood at the front of the booth and studied one of Van’s recent photographs of two elephant seals squaring off, their barrel-shaped bodies glistening, their necks arrogant and threatening, out of the corner of my eye I caught a familiar face.

In the astrology-soap booth next to us, Lin Snider studied the pastel-colored soaps. I knew I should go right over and say hello, but something in me decided to observe her without her knowledge. I edged closer to the neighboring booth, letting the thin canvas block me from Lin’s view.

“That’s pomegranate and lime,” I heard a woman tell Lin. “My newest line.”

“Smells heavenly,” Lin said. “I’ve always loved homemade soaps, especially now that I’m older. They seem to react less harshly on my skin.”

“I know what you mean,” the woman replied. “Would you like some samples? I’m here every Thursday night. Are you local or just visiting?”

“A little of both. I’m searching for a place to retire.”

At least she was sticking to the same story.

“San Celina’s a wonderful place to live,” the woman said. “Where are you from?”

“Seattle. From what I hear, the weather’s practically perfect here, despite the last few stormy days.”

“Yes, it is. Say, would you like a reading? I could tell you what your astrological chart says about what’s coming up in your life, maybe give you a hint about where you should settle down. What’s your sign?”

Lin gave a small chuckle. “I’m not much of a believer in astrology.”

The woman laughed with her. “A skeptic. Are you by any chance a Scorpio? Persistent, passionate, secretive and a bit suspicious?”

“Yes, I am! And I am embarrassed to admit that is a good assessment of me. I have nothing against astrology, it’s just that . . .”

“No worries,” the woman said. “Just take my card. It has my info on it—the soaps and the stars. I’m a pet psychic too, in case your puppy or kitty cat is having any issues. Diversification is the key to survival in these tough economic times.”

“So I’ve heard,” Lin said, her voice growing fainter.

I moved back, stepping deeper into Van’s booth, and began flipping through a bin of five-by-seven matted photographs, my back to the street, hoping Lin wouldn’t notice me.

Yvette came up beside me. “Can I help you find something specific?”

“Looking for something for my uncle,” I mumbled, hoping my voice didn’t carry. “For his birthday.” I grabbed a shadowy photo of the San Miguel Mission and handed it to her. “He’s fascinated by the California missions. He’s from Arkansas, but he lives here now.” I dug into my jeans pocket and pulled out two twenties.

“Van likes them too,” Yvette said, taking both the photograph and the money. “The architecture is so different from the Catholic churches in Louisiana. Van’s gone to buy me a corn dog, or I’d have him sign this to your uncle personally.”

“No problem,” I mumbled and didn’t speak again while she wrapped the photograph, not certain why I was so worried about Lin spotting me. I mean, it was logical that I’d be at the farmers’ market and that we might run into each other. And she’d been perfectly normal with the astrology-soap lady, actually verifying the story she’d told me. So, why was I still suspicious?

“Are you okay?” Yvette handed me the photograph and my change. “You look a little stressed.” She lowered her voice. “If it’s about the sniper, please don’t worry. There’s a huge police presence here tonight.”

“No, it’s not that,” I said, probably too quickly. “Actually, I just realized I’ve been gone from the museum’s booth too long. Got to give Jan a break.”

“Okay,” Yvette said, tilting her head, her expression curious. “See you around, I guess.”

“Definitely.”

By the time I exited Van’s booth, Lin had disappeared into the crowd. Ridiculously, I felt relieved, as if I’d dodged a stray bullet.