Spider Web (7 page)

About half of the red vinyl booths and Formica-topped tables were occupied, mostly by local senior citizens and in-the-know tourists who found out that Liddie’s served the best home-style food in town. At nine p.m. was when the real action started at Liddie’s, which claimed to be open “twenty-five hours a day.” That was when students, who stayed long but spent little, took hostage most of the café’s booths and tables. But the owner of Liddie’s was an old Cal Poly student himself, so he tolerated them. Jack, Elvia and I had certainly spent our fair share of time lingering at Liddie’s.

I was in luck and my favorite booth in the back corner was free. I could enjoy my dinner while observing Lopez Street and all its nightly drama. The rain had almost stopped, and the streets were as black and shiny as fresh tar.

From behind the long counter, Nadine waved at me and held up one finger, communicating that she’d be with me in a minute. Nadine Brooks Johnson had been serving folks breakfast, lunch or supper, depending on her schedule, for the last fifty years. No one knew exactly how old she was, but the popular guess was she was closing in on eighty years old.

“Where’s the chief?” she said a few minutes later, pulling a pad out of her ruffled apron pocket. Though the café’s owner required the other waitresses to wear black slacks, white blouses and red and white checked aprons, Nadine refused to change from the same uniform she’d worn when his late father owned the café: a pink polyester waitress uniform, starched white apron and old-fashioned white nurse’s shoes. She looked like Hollywood’s idea of a vintage fifties waitress. I had no idea where she still bought the uniforms and never had enough nerve to ask her.

“He’s having dinner with the sheriff and the new prison warden.” I pulled off my denim jacket.

She cocked one skinny hip. “Hear the guy’s from Utah. Raises corgis. He and the sheriff oughta hit it off like gangbusters.” She took a pencil out of her silvery pink beehive hairstyle. Her standing Friday morning appointment at Playgirl-A-Go-Go Coiffures was legendary. Before Gertie, the owner, died, she taught the other two stylists who worked there how to concoct Nadine’s teased hairdo.

“See, you know as much as I do.” I didn’t even bother to look at the menu. “I’m here for the special. And I’ll just have water tonight.”

“No Coke?” She looked up at the sky. “What’s this crazy old world coming to? Benni Harper Ortiz is not drinking a Coca-Cola.”

“I still think Coke is God’s choice of beverage,” I retorted, “but I’ve had too much caffeine today. I need my sleep. Especially this week.”

“That Memory Festival took off like a rocket, didn’t it? You’d think this town would be sick to death of festivals, but everyone I’ve talked to is really looking forward to this one.”

I rested my chin in my hand. “It really struck a collective nerve. Maybe it’s because it’s so inclusive. Everyone has memories.”

Nadine’s face softened, her moist brown eyes crinkled behind her pink cat’s-eye glasses. “Isaac asked me to pose for a picture for that book of his. Says I need to talk to you about what home means to me.”

“I’ll be at the story booth this Saturday. We can do it then, if you want. Or I can interview you another time.”

She nodded. “All this memory talk makes me think of my mother. Did I ever tell you she owned a truck stop café on Route 66? Outside Oklahoma City. Knew every trucker’s name that came through. Their families too. She made the best butterscotch pie. Back then they used real lard in piecrust. Made it so flaky you’d want to cry with every bite.”

I smiled. She’d told me the story only about a thousand times. “We need to get that recorded this Saturday so I can type it up for the book.”

“I’ll be there. Makin’ the young’uns work on Saturday.”

“Good for you.”

“Your chicken and dumplings will be right up, kiddo.” She gently bopped the top of my head with her order pad—Nadine’s version of an affectionate hug.

I stared out the dark window, my mind on autopilot, so I didn’t notice when someone walked up to my booth until I heard a soft “Excuse me?” If the person had been the sniper, I’d’ve been dead.

My head popped up. For a minute, I didn’t recognize the smiling woman. Then I remembered—Amanda’s new friend, Lin something.

Her smile faded a little. “I’m sorry, am I disturbing you?”

“Not at all. I was just woolgathering. It’s, uh, Lin, right?”

She nodded and brushed a lock of silvery hair from her eyes. “Lin Snider. Where did that saying come from anyway? Woolgathering, I mean.”

“Good question, but I don’t know. I’m a cattle rancher, not a sheep farmer.”

“Really? Amanda didn’t mention that. You’re not just a museum curator but an authentic cowgirl?”

I held back my impatient sigh at the clichéd word. “We don’t actually call ourselves cowgirls. We prefer ranchers.” The words came out crankier than I intended.

“Duly noted,” she said with a quick nod.

There was an awkward moment of silence. Was she expecting me to ask her to join me? Though I sympathized with her search for a place to call home, I was tired, a little cranky and not particularly in the mood to make conversation with a stranger. I just wanted to eat my chicken and dumplings and go home to wait for my husband.

“I won’t keep you from your supper,” she said, touching a tentative hand to her neck. “I suspect this is a little forward, but I was wondering if we could get together sometime. At your convenience, of course. Amanda told me that no one knows this county better than you, and I’m assuming she told you I’m looking for a place to retire . . .”

I nodded my head, definitely feeling like the biggest heel in the world. Had my impatient feelings been that apparent on my face? Where was my Southern hospitality? Dove and Aunt Garnet would skin me alive if they saw me act like this to anyone, but especially someone who was new to the community.

“Not very Martha and Mary–like,” I could hear my aunt Garnet say.

“Yes, she did,” I said, trying to keep my voice light. “San Celina
is
a great place to live.”

She bit her bottom lip, obviously embarrassed. “Maybe you could give me a quick tour of the county. I’ve explored on my own already . . . but it’s always better to have someone who knows the area show you around. Maybe you could give me some idea about where the nicer places to live might be.”

I was tempted to tell her that I was a museum curator, not a real estate agent, but that was, again, being more snarky than this woman deserved.

“Oh, nicer doesn’t sound right,” she said. “I’m really not a snob. I just would like to weigh all my options.” She inhaled deeply, her expression a little embarrassed. “I’d be happy to pay for your time, of course.”

Now I felt like a complete jerk. How would I feel if I had to travel around the country looking for a place to call home? My better angel finally kicked in. “I’d be happy to show you around, and I wouldn’t dream of taking money for it. This week is packed because of the Memory Festival. How about one day next week?”

“That would be wonderful,” she said, obviously relieved. We both turned to look at Nadine bringing my plate of chicken and dumplings. “I’ll leave you to enjoy your supper. Looks delicious.”

“First nugget of San Celina insider information,” I said when Nadine slid the platter in front of me. “This place has the best food in town.”

Nadine pulled a bottle of Tabasco sauce from her apron pocket. “Your water’s on its way.” She glanced over at Lin. “Hey there, Miz Lin Snider. There’s lemon chess pie on the menu tomorrow. Come for lunch’cause there’s a good chance it’ll be gone by supper.” Nadine gave me the eye. “Lin loves her lemon chess pie.”

Lin laughed, touching Nadine’s forearm. “You know me already. My grandmother Lois made the best lemon pie. It’s always been my favorite.”

“Then see you tomorrow,” Nadine said. “I’ll put that on your tab, Benni. Tell that good-lookin’ husband of yours that I’m getting a little miffed. He hasn’t been here for lunch in four days.” She pulled a white paper bag from her apron pocket. “Here’s a couple of snickerdoodles for him.”

“Hey, what about me?” I called to her retreating back.

“You need to cut back on your sugar,” she said over her shoulder. “You’re starting to get some thighs on you. Ain’t that attractive.”

I turned back to Lin and smiled, holding up a palm. “There’s a small town for you. Everyone’s your mother.”

“I think it’s kind of nice. Reminds me of a time in my life—” She stopped and gave her head a little shake. “One more question, and I’ll get out of your hair. Where’s a good place to get a car repaired?”

“Depends on the car.”

“I have a Ford Taurus. It’s only a small problem. I backed into a tree stump, actually. I need a taillight and the cover for it.”

“Ouch,” I said, sprinkling Tabasco sauce on my chicken and dumplings.

“Depending on how much time you have, the best bet is to go to the Ford dealer over by the Madonna Inn. It’s right off Interstate 101. There are other shops where you could go, but they’d most likely have to order the part. If your car is new enough, the dealer may have any part you need right there. It’s more expensive, but quicker.”

“Thanks. Maybe I’ll see you Wednesday at the museum when I’m using the wheel.”

“Good chance I’ll be there.”

“Enjoy your supper.” With that, she turned and walked out of Liddie’s.

It took about thirty seconds before it clicked. I threw down my napkin and hurried for the door in time to see her pull out of Liddie’s parking lot. Only one taillight glowed when she put on the brakes on her Ford Taurus sedan. Her dark
gray
Ford Taurus sedan.

CHAPTER 4

I
WENT BACK TO MY MEAL, FEELING A LITTLE FOOLISH. A GRAY sedan with a burned-out taillight. It was odd that the gray sedan I spotted leaving the Harper Ranch this morning had the same problem, but there were hundreds of cars similar to Lin Snider’s. Probably a few of them had broken taillights. Why was I looking for something suspicious in a perfectly believable coincidence?

My reputation as the police chief’s wife who seemed to constantly stumble into crime scenes was already carved in granite. My name was probably right at the top of the ballot for town eccentric. Much to Gabe’s relief, I had managed to maintain a crime-free profile for the last six months, and I was determined to keep it that way. Even if it
had
been Lin Snider out at the ranch, she said she’d been driving around the county. She found the old Harper Ranch accidentally, discovered an open door and decided to investigate. That’s all.

I was finishing my meal, idly contemplating my busy day tomorrow, the Mexican hot chocolate I’d make for Gabe tonight, my interviews for Isaac’s book, when another person interrupted my reverie.

“Hey, ranch girl,” said my friend and verbal sparring partner, Detective Ford “Hud” Hudson of the San Celina Sheriff’s Department. Our relationship consisted of a juvenile combination of harmless flirtation and smart-ass insults. But, in spite of our constant bickering, in the last few years a real friendship had developed between us. Actually, he was an upright guy and I’d trust him with my life . . . and had a few times. Even my husband was beginning to like Hud a little. Or at least tolerate his presence in my life without too much grumbling.

“Hey, Clouseau,” I said, my nickname for him simply because he was as far from the loopy fictional detective as someone could be. “What’s cookin’?”

“Just dodging sniper bullets and searching for justice for poor lost souls,” he said, sliding into the bench seat across from me.

Hud wore a faded plaid flannel shirt, an olive green and blue Tulane University Green Wave baseball cap and dark blue Wranglers. His warm brown eyes and smooth-cheeked, country boy face looked every inch like a mother’s dream of the dependable L.L. Bean–clad boy next door who would tame and marry her wild daughter. In reality, he’d probably be the one buying her illegal moonshine and taking her skinny-dipping at midnight. My lost souls remark to him referred to his job at the sheriff’s department—investigating cold cases.

“Yeah, that sniper thing stinks,” I said, looking down at my watch. “Shoot, I missed the six o’clock news. Did our lovely Miss Tiffany have any breaking news about the incident?”

“Not much more than this afternoon. The four young men who live in the apartment were all cleared. Apparently they have handed out keys to their bachelor pad with gracious and unrestrained hospitality. Not to mention that they often leave it unlocked. So anyone and her brother could have simply walked in and out of the place. But I’m assuming you know this already.” He removed his hat and set it on the table. His short brown-blond hair stood up in funny little peaks.

“Part I knew, part I assumed. I spoke to Gabe at three o’clock, and they were stymied. They’ve apparently got a brand-new crackerjack detective working on it. She’s from Louisiana.”

“Yvette Arnaud. Yeah, we’ve met. She’s sharp, but no surprise there. She’s Cajun.” He grinned at me. He was half Cajun on his mother’s side. “Moved here from New Iberia.”

“Dave Roubicheaux’s stomping grounds.” A love for James Lee Burke’s books was one of the things Gabe, Hud and I had in common.