Dove in the Window (12 page)

“I told the detective about Wade and Shelby’s argument,” I said. “He didn’t react too much.” I watched Gabe’s skeptical face, my voice hopeful.

“It certainly doesn’t make him look like a class act, but it doesn’t necessarily mean he killed her,” he conceded.

“Why would he?” I asked. “It doesn’t make sense. It makes more sense if Kip killed her.”

Gabe pushed the swing back and forth with his foot. “Because, sweetheart, a lot of homicides don’t make sense. Usually it just takes a split second of someone losing control. They won’t be ruling out anyone this early in the game.”

“I know Wade,” I said. “He might be a cad, but he’s no murderer.”

Gabe reached over and tickled me. “A cad? Been watching a little too much PBS, don’t you think?”

“Stop it!” I wiggled away from his hands. “You’re one to talk, Mr. I-Don‘t-Read-Anything-But-Literary-Fiction.”

“Louis L‘Amour lover.”

“Book snob.”

We were squabbling good-naturedly in an attempt to keep our minds off the rough ending to the family gathering, when Emory walked up.

“Are we heading back to San Celina tonight?” he asked. We’d invited him to stay with us since he’d probably be bored out on the ranch, especially with no vehicle to get into town.

Gabe slipped his arm around my shoulders. “Whatever the
señora
wants.”

“To be honest, I’d like to sleep in my own bed tonight,” I said. “The gallery opening is tomorrow night, and I want to be rested for it.” I laid my head back against the swing. “It’s going to be sad. Shelby’s photographs are featured along with Greer’s paintings. She asked me to take pictures at the opening to send to her family, to prove she’d finally become a success.”

A sobering silence enveloped us. We were all old enough to grasp the real tragedy of a life lost so young.

“Who will notify her family?” Emory asked.

“The Sheriff’s Department will take care of that,” Gabe answered, his deep-set eyes turned down and serious. “I don’t envy that assignment. It’s something you never get used to doing.”

We went inside the house to get my things and say good-bye to Dove and the aunts. “Don’t you keep him to yourself the whole time,” Dove scolded me, giving Emory a big hug.

“Believe me, I won’t,” I said. “As soon as I get sick of him, I’ll ship him back out here to you.”

“Excuse me, ladies,” he said, “I
am
in the room.”

“Oh, hush,” Dove and I said simultaneously, causing everyone to laugh.

Gabe, driving his sky-blue Corvette with his usual disregard for speed limits, beat me and Emory home and was boiling water when we walked in.

“Spaghetti okay with you two?” he asked.

“As long as I don’t have to make it,” I said. “I made enough sandwiches today to feed a small Latin American country.”

After showing Emory to the guest room, I checked the answering machine. Between Gabe and me we had eleven messages. Nine were artists from the co-op wanting me to call them back with details about Shelby’s murder, and two were for Gabe—one was Jim Cleary, the other, the sheriff himself. Gabe returned his calls. I didn’t. I’d see all of them tomorrow night at the gallery opening and I had no doubt that Shelby would be the biggest topic of conversation that night as well as the remainder of the week. Until I was forced to, I didn’t even want to think about it.

During dinner, we deliberately didn’t discuss anything of more importance than the activities of the upcoming Heritage Days.

“Cow Plop Contest? Kiss the Pig Contest?” Emory asked toward the end of the meal. “Please explain these peculiar western competitions to this poor, ignorant southern boy.”

“Just for the record, it was not my idea,” Gabe said, standing up and taking his plate over to the sink to rinse off.

“The Cow Plop Contest benefits the homeless shelter,” I answered. “There’s a big corral at the rodeo grounds that’s painted into square yards. You pay five bucks for a square and hope the recently fed cow does his business there. The winner gets a year’s free ice cream from the San Celina Creamery. The losers just get a lot of fun.”

Emory grinned. “Yes, but the real question is what does the cow get?”

“Relief,” Gabe said.

We groaned, but laughed anyway.

“And the pig kissing?” Emory asked.

Gabe groaned on that one.

“That’s one you’d better make sure and see,” I said. “The money raised for that is for Corrie’s House, a shelter for abused and neglected children. People vote by paying a dollar, and whoever gets the most votes has to kiss a pig on Thursday night at the farmer’s market. And guess who’s rumored to be winning?” I giggled and jerked my thumb in my husband’s direction.

Gabe rolled his eyes and stuck his plate and silverware in the dishwasher.

“We will definitely have to immortalize that on film,” Emory said. “Tell me, Chief, will you shave first?”

“Oh, no,” I said. “If I have to suffer, so does the pig.”

“Just for that remark, you two get to finish kitchen detail,” Gabe said.

“I’ll take you around town tomorrow,” I promised Emory when we all said good night at ten o‘clock. “Show you the museum and all the changes.”

“The bookstore will be one of our stops, I trust,” he said, his eyes lighting up.

“Masochist,” Gabe said, shaking his head.

“Aren’t we all when it comes to our women?” Emory said, arching one eyebrow in my direction.

“Touché,” Gabe replied.

In our bedroom, pulling on one of Gabe’s long sleeved tee shirts, I said, “Elvia would not have liked being referred to as Emory’s woman.” I crawled under our flannel-covered down comforter, snuggling next to his warm body.

“She could do worse.”

“You try to convince her.”

“No, thanks. That’s your department.” He pulled me under his arm. “Man, it feels good to be back in our own bed.”

I draped my leg over his and curled close, listening to his breathing slow down as we both neared sleep, my thoughts moving back over the incidents of the day.

“Gabe?”

“Hmm...”

“Do you think things really are getting worse? I mean, in San Celina this last year or so. The violence. I mean ...”

His body stiffened slightly, and I knew he’d taken my words in a personal way. He’d only been chief a little over a year and was sensitive to the
Tribune’s
recent assertions that the crime rate had risen since he’d been hired. I rubbed my hand across his bare chest in a slow circle. “I don’t mean it’s your fault,” I said, trying to backpedal. “I mean things are so different than when—” I stopped, realizing I’d gone too far.

“When you were married to Jack.”

“No! I mean, maybe, during that time it was ... less ... scary. It’s just that things now ...” I inhaled a shuttering breath. “It scared me that Shelby was killed at our ranch. The ranch has always been a place where I felt safe, where it seemed like nothing could hurt me or anyone else.”

He didn’t answer. I crawled on top of him and looked down into his face, stiff with anger in the dim light. Gingerly, trying to avoid his prickly whiskers, I brushed a kiss across his lips.

“Gabe, don’t be upset. I’m sorry if I made you feel bad. I’m not blaming you.” I nibbled his unyielding bottom lip. “C‘mon, Friday, don’t be mad. You’re a wonderful chief of police. Absolutely the best I’ve ever slept with. I’ll do anything to make it up to you.” His mustache tickled as I felt his lips turn slightly up under mine.

“Anything?” he said, rolling me back over and taking my face in his big hands. “Not being a man who foolishly passes up any golden opportunity, I’m afraid you just may regret those words,
querida.”

But, of course, I didn’t.

5

AFTER EMORY’S FAVORITE breakfast the next morning—jack cheese, green onion and guacamole omelettes—the three of us lazed around trading sections of the Sunday paper. I eagerly read the article about the women’s western art show in the Lifestyles section of the
Tribune.
It was titled “Making Art Equal—A Lifetime Journey” and had quotes from many of our artists including Olivia, Greer, and Parker. Emory kept Gabe and me in stitches as he critiqued the paper in a way that only a veteran journalist could. Around noon, we all finally showered and dressed, and Gabe headed down to the sheriff’s office to see what was going on with the investigation, while Emory and I drove to the bookstore to update Elvia.

Her tiny MG was parked in front. Though it was her day off, she was there as usual. Her employees one time threatened to pitch in and have a Murphy bed installed in the wall of her office so she’d never have to leave. People laugh, but that was why Blind Harry’s was so successful.

“She works too hard,” Emory said, already sounding proprietary. “She needs to learn to have a little fun.”

“Right, and you’re the one to show her how,” I replied. “If you’re wanting to impress her, cuz, I’d suggest finding a different tactic than criticizing her work habits.”

“That’ll change when we get married,” he said.

I stopped, blocking the front door, and turned to gape at him. “Pull back on them reins there, honey. You sound like you honestly believe that.”

His face was serene. “Sweetcakes, I’ve believed it since I was eleven years old.”

We entered the bookstore, and before I could even reply, something happened that, if it were possible, made it even less likely Elvia would ever exchange wedding vows with my lovesick cousin.

First, I need to explain about Sweet William.

Elvia has never had a pet. A workaholic since she was five years old and operated her first Kool-Aid stand (sugar five cents extra), she never had time for pets. Not that she hates animals. She just never had time in her quest for some ambiguous work-oriented goal to bond with anything but the cyber-fish on her computer’s screen saver. To tease her, I often threatened to buy her one of those fancy little dogs who look like mops with eyes.

“Don’t you dare,” she’d said. “If I need any animal companionship, I’ll take one of my brothers to lunch.” So I didn’t. But that didn’t keep someone else from doing it.

A longtime customer of hers, an elegant, elderly lady named Evelyn Mullar, loved Elvia so much because of the time she took to talk to her and help her, she left her entire estate to Elvia—twenty thousand dollars in stocks and bonds and a mint-condition ‘57 Chevy Coupe her brothers were currently fighting over.

And Sweet William. A championship Persian cat the color of undercooked pancakes, he had an attitude that can only be described as Elvia-like—temperamental and definitely high class. And picky about who he deemed worthy of his affection. Of course, he loved Elvia immediately—cats of a feather, so to speak. The rest of us he tolerated. And that was on his good days. All her employees ... and

I ... had the thin, white scars on our hands as proof of our sincere intentions and his fickle personality. Elvia ignored our complaints and said she could appreciate his discriminating taste.

Like I said, a match made in Hallmark heaven.

The minute he set his golden eyes on Emory, he adored him.

“What in the world did you do to that cat?” I exclaimed as Sweet William jumped down off his customary perch next to the cash register (we swore he liked the sound of money dropping into the coffers almost as much as his owner) and wrapped his perfectly groomed body around Emory’s gray wool slacks, purring like a small expensive Cadillac.

“What a lovely creature,” Emory said, bending over and picking Sweet William up. He tucked him under his arm as naturally as if he’d raised him from a kitten. Sweet William’s eyes closed, and he hummed in ecstasy.

“Amazing,” the spiky-haired clerk behind the counter said, her kohl-darkened eyes wide with surprise. “That cat hates everyone except Elvia.”

Emory winked at the clerk, causing her to blush a bright pink. “He’s just particular about his friendships. I can ‘preciate that.”

I just shook my head and laughed. Just then Elvia’s office door opened, and she started down the stairs. Her face was in that concentrating work scowl until she got halfway down the stairs and she spotted Emory holding Sweet William. She stopped, looked at me, her expression turning into an I‘m-going-to-kill-you-when-I-get-you-alone scowl. Only someone who knew her as well as me could tell the difference. I gave her a big smile, thankful I’d eaten breakfast. At least I’d die with a full stomach.

“Hi, Elvia,” I called. “Look how Sweet William just took to Emory right off. Isn’t that great?”

She reached the bottom of the stairs and strode across the floor to us. That is, if a five-foot-one-inch woman can stride. Her tiny heels click-clacked across the glossy wooden floor. I looked up at my cousin’s face as he watched her walk across the room. His eyes announced to the world that all he wanted to do was just tuck her Chanel-suited little figure under his other arm and walk off into the sunset. When she reached us, she grabbed Sweet William from Emory and dumped the cat on the counter. Sweet William looked astonished and hurt, having never been treated so unceremoniously. Emory’s eyes sparkled with amusement.

“What do you two want?” she snapped.

“I was just giving Emory a tour of the town’s hot spots,” I said. “How could I pass up Blind Harry’s? The most successful bookstore on the Central Coast. Shoot, in California, I bet.” I knew the way to Elvia’s stubborn heart. “C‘mon, give us the fifty-cent tour. Emory hasn’t ever seen your bookstore. I’ve been bragging about it for years.”