Spider Web (5 page)

Dove pointed her cane at me. “One never knows. We could be hit by a bus.”

“Or mugged for pocket change,” Aunt Garnet said, her face serious.

“Or kidnapped by pirates,” I added, not holding back my smile.

“Laugh all you want, missy,” Dove said, pointing her cane at me. “But no one knows the time or place of their last breath. We just want your daddy properly situated in the love department before we go.”

“ ‘Properly situated in the love department,’” I repeated. “I think I’m going to have that printed on a T-shirt: ‘Are You Properly Situated in the Love Department?’ ”

“Don’t sass me,” Dove said.

“Us,” Aunt Garnet added.

So now I had two of them. Great. I almost preferred when they squabbled with each other. With those two joining forces, Daddy . . . and the rest of us . . . didn’t stand a chance.

Daddy, dearest, you’re on your own here. Good luck.

“Have you both received your assignments for the Memory Festival?” I asked. Since someone else had been in charge of booth sign-ups, I had no idea who was where, doing what.

“Uncle WW and I are at the 1940s booth for two hours,” Aunt Garnet said. “He’s wearing his army uniform. It still fits!” She gave me a tremulous smile. “That’s about as long as he can handle, I’m afraid.”

“Wow, I’m impressed. I haven’t been able to fit in my wedding dress since I was twenty-two.” I looked over at my gramma. “What about you, Dove?”

“Historical society booth,” she said. “Isaac will be speaking at the bookstore. And we’re both signed up to be interviewers in the story booth.”

The historical society, having heard about the project that Isaac and I were working on, decided to expand on the idea and start collecting oral histories of San Celina. It was something the historical society had done a little bit of a few years back trying to record local residents’ stories about World War II. I’d helped with that, going around and speaking with many of our Japanese residents who’d been interned during the war. This time people could just say what they wanted, though their memories did need to include San Celina.

“What’re you doing?” Dove asked.

“I’m wearing about twenty hats on Saturday. Just pray that no huge problems occur and for sunny weather.”

“I’ll make a special request to the Lord,” said Aunt Garnet.

“Gracias
,
tía grande.”

“Duh nah dah,” she replied slowly, enunciating each syllable. Then she giggled. Aunt Garnet’s rudimentary Spanish tinged with her Arkansas drawl always made me smile. Her enthusiasm for her new life as a Californian, not pining for the past, for accepting this new season of her and Uncle WW’s lives, made me realize how courageous she was. I was proud of the women in my family. If I had half their courage, I’d be set for this second part of my life.

We were in the lobby, discussing the display of books that Elvia had helped me pick out that taught how to record family histories, when Laura, one of our docents, dashed through the back door, her face flushed with panic.

“Benni, you have to come see what’s happening on TV.”

“What?”

“Over by the courthouse. A sniper shot at a police car!”

CHAPTER 3

M
Y FIRST INSTINCT WAS TO CALL GABE, BUT I RESISTED. HE didn’t need any distractions.

We followed Laura into the woodworker’s room. The room smelled toasty and sharp from sawdust and linseed oil, and the equipment, normally whining and buzzing so loud the men shouted their conversations, was silent.

Six men gathered around a small color television propped on a card table. The woodworkers liked watching sports or one of the cable home improvement stations while they made their tables, chairs, duck decoys and fancy shelving.

The men moved aside, making a spot for me.

“What’s going on?” I asked, peering into the small screen filled with cop cars and people. My heart raced, like I’d just run a fifty-yard dash.

Ray, a longtime member of the co-op, pulled at his shaggy, brickcolored mustache and said, “Some punk shot at a police car parked on a side street next to the courthouse. It’s a spot reserved for officers bringing prisoners to their arraignments and trials. The driver’s-side window was shattered. Thank God, the officer had stepped out of the vehicle a minute before.” He crossed himself.

“Lord, have mercy,” Dove murmured behind me, resting a hand on my shoulder.

Filling the screen was one of San Celina’s local news anchors, Tiffany Connors. She stood across the street from the scene, shifting from one high-heeled foot to the other. Big Top Pizza’s large plate-glass window, painted with bright red, yellow and blue balloons, loomed behind her, an improbable backdrop. With her smooth blonde pageboy, twitchy upturned nose and enthusiastic voice, she gave every story the same high school “Let’s put on a play!” tone.

“Why in the world is
she
reporting on this?” one guy asked.

“Guess,” another replied.

Tiffany was a local joke because she insisted on writing her own news copy, which, because of her lack of journalistic education or experience always stated the obvious. No one dared criticize her simplistic style to her face or in print because her father, Deck Connors, was the new owner of the
San Celina Tribune
and KSCC, our hometown television station.

“At approximately twelve thirty-five p.m. a sniper fired at a San Celina police vehicle.” She flipped her head around to gaze up at the secondfloor apartments over Big Top Pizza, San Celina Fitness and a new coffeehouse called Bitter Grounds. Students primarily rented the cheap, noisy apartments, built in the thirties. “The alleged shooter broke into an apartment . . .” She turned stiffly and pointed to the second floor above the pizzeria. “. . . and used it for his dastardly deed, then disappeared, like a thief in the night. San Celina detectives are investigating. More information at our four p.m. broadcast. This is Tiffany Connors reporting for KSCC.” Before the camera was turned off, she’d already pulled a compact out of the pocket of her fitted black leather jacket and was checking for smudges underneath her spiky eyelashes.

“Dastardly deed?” One of the woodworkers snickered. “Where did she go to broadcasting school,
Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood
?”

“I resent her sexist use of the male pronoun,” Ray said. “It could have been a woman. San Celina’s SWAT team’s best sharpshooter is a woman, I hear.”

“Maybe they should be checking to see if that officer has kept up with his child support payments,” one man commented.

“Gabriel is probably fit to be tied,” Dove said. “You know he feels very protective about his officers.”

“I’m going to the station,” I said. “Maybe Maggie can fill me in.”

“Please call us as soon as you find out anything,” Aunt Garnet said, leaning on her cane. “We’re going on back to the ranch.”

I drove the half mile to the police station where I was surprised to find the lobby completely empty. Then again, it was the middle of the day. All the officers were either out patrolling or down at the shooting scene, along with any reporters. Jacob, the officer behind the front window, recognized me and buzzed open the side door, letting me into the offices.

“Hey, Mrs. Ortiz,” he said, his freckled face and spiky red hair reminding me of a grown-up Opie from the old
Andy of Mayberry
television series. “Chief’s still down at the shooting scene. Crazy, huh? Who would, like, shoot at a police car in the middle of the day? And right next to the courthouse. That’s crazy, huh?”

“Unfortunately, there are lots of crazy people out there. Is Maggie here?”

“Hasn’t left all day. Hey, how’d you hear about it so fast?”

“I was at the folk art museum, and it came on the television. We caught the tail end of Tiffany’s report. Any information about a suspect?”

He shook his head no.

Maggie, Gabe’s assistant, was making a cup of tea at the credenza behind her desk. Both lines on her phone were lit, but she was obviously allowing them to go to voice mail.

“Hey, Maggie. I came over as soon as I heard.”

“Bad stuff,” she said, shaking her head while she dunked a tea bag. “Want some tea?” She wore a maroon business suit with thin black piping. Maggie and I had known each other since she was a girl. She and her sister, Katsy, owned a small cattle ranch outside Santa Margarita, near the Frio Inn. She’d worked for Gabe for a couple of years now, keeping his work life running smooth as a dish of flan.

“No, thanks. Any word about which officer had a really lucky day?”

“Or unlucky if you think about the nightmares he’ll likely have for the next, oh, ten years. It was Ryan Jacoby. He was taking a prisoner in for arraignment. It was actually supposed to be Miguel’s assignment, but he took the day off.”

Miguel was one of Elvia’s younger brothers. Long before he was a police officer who worked for my husband, I had helped Elvia babysit him. I’d given that tough, barrel-chested cop more piggyback rides than I could remember. “Any leads on who did this dastardly deed?”

She cocked her head, her dark brown eyes confused.

“A direct quote from Tiffany Connors, girl reporter.”

“Heaven help us,” Maggie said, giving a dainty snort. “Was Bart Simpson on another assignment today?”

“Have any inside scoop?”

“Nothing of significance. The detectives found the room where the shot was fired, but it’s just some college kid’s apartment—four college boys, to be exact—and they were all in class, perfect alibis. Still, they’ll be investigated—as the detectives like to say—down to the gnat’s ass. Pardon my French.”

“Was the place broken into?”

She sat down behind her desk, took a sip of her tea. “According to the detectives, there’s no evidence of it. Then again, it’s four college guys living there. My guess is there are probably a dozen keys to that apartment floating around this county and beyond. Or they might not even lock it. But you can count on anyone who has passed through those apartment doors during the last year will be found and interviewed.”

I sat down on one of her padded visitor’s chairs. “I’ll make a wild guess that there’s little physical evidence of the shooter’s presence.”

“From what Detective Arnaud told me a few minutes ago the place is a pigsty—big surprise there, huh? And that finding clues was going to be like searching for an old copper penny in a swamp.”

“Interesting turn of phrase. I don’t recognize that detective’s name. Who’s he?”

She gave a half smile. “
She’s
a new detective. Gabe hired her about three months ago. She’s a very experienced investigator.”

I held up my hands. “As Sam would say, my bad.” Sam was Gabe’s son, a student at Cal Poly and part-time ranch hand for my dad. “What’s she like?”

“Yvette’s about your age, maybe a little older. Early forties? She and her husband moved here from Louisiana, though she’s originally from Santa Maria. I hear he’s a pretty famous photographer who has won some big awards.” She shrugged. “Not my area of expertise. They actually moved out to care for her sick mama. They’re living with her over in Arroyo Grande. It’s nice having more women hanging around this good ole boy’s club. She and I have talked a few times in the lunchroom. I like her. She keeps me posted on things.”

“And you keep
me
posted, so I like her too. Do you think Gabe will be here soon, or should I just talk to him tonight?”

“Actually, he called right before you walked in. He’s on his way back to the office. There’s not much more to do at the scene, and he has a meeting with the new prison warden at three p.m.”

“Thanks, I’ll wait in his office.”

I sat down in his high-backed leather chair and amused myself by doodling laughing dog faces on his official San Celina Police Department, Chief Gabriel Ortiz message pad. He walked through the door fifteen minutes later.

“Give us five minutes, please, then get the mayor on the phone,” he called to Maggie, closing his office door.

“Hey, Friday,” I said, standing up and going to him. “Sorry about the shooting.”

He hugged me hard, resting his cheek on the top of my head. “How did you hear?”

“I was at the folk art museum, and it was on the television in the woodshop. Is it true you have no idea who did this?”

He kissed the top of my head and walked behind his desk. “Yes, and there’s not much to go on. I have my best investigators on it.”

He sat down, glancing at his memo pad. My doodles made him smile briefly.

“Do you think it could happen again?”

His full bottom lip disappeared under his thick black and silver mustache.

“For now, we’re treating it as a random act.”

“Okay, what’s on for dinner?”

“I forgot to tell you I’m having dinner with the sheriff tonight. She and I are taking out the new prison warden, filling him in on the way this county runs, and just getting to know him.”

“Do you like him?”

“Seems like a decent guy. Comes from Utah. You’re not going to believe this. His wife raises Pembroke Welsh corgis.”

“That is an amazing coincidence.” Sally Schuler, San Celina’s sheriff, bred Pembrokes. “We were possibly invited to Emory and Elvia’s for a barbecue. Emory has a new gas grill. I’ll tell them we’ll take a rain check, and I’ll go to Liddie’s. It’s chicken and dumpling night.”