Dove in the Window (19 page)

Gabe’s and Emory’s voices woke me, and I lay in bed listening to them laugh and discuss the bids made at the auction. The shower ran, then went off, and I eventually felt the bed move. I contemplated telling Gabe the whole story now, getting it over with, then decided I just wasn’t up to the task. The tears that had been teetering on the edge of my eyelids all night flowed silently down my cheeks.

“Benni,” he whispered. I slowed my breathing and pretended to be asleep.

He kissed the back of my head, then touched his lips to the skin just below my eye. He froze for a moment and I held my breath, bracing myself for his questions.

“Yo te amo, niña
,” he said in a low voice and curled around me without another word.

9

“I MAY AS well tell you before you hear it on the streets,” I said to Gabe the next morning while waiting for my bagel to toast. Emory was in the shower, and though it was a given that we’d discuss the encounter with Wade in minute detail later, I wanted to tell Gabe first.

“Tell me what?” Gabe asked. He reached into the refrigerator and pulled out the low-fat cream cheese.

“I saw Wade last night. We stopped off at The Steerhead Tavern. Tracianne Doyle and her husband, Dr. Doyle, were walking by when I was leaving. I was ... kind of in a hurry.”

“That place is a dump,” he said mildly, spreading cream cheese on his plain bagel. He poured a cup of coffee and sat down.

“It was Wade’s idea. He needed to talk and he feels comfortable there.” My bagel popped up. I put it on a plate and sat down across from him.

His face was expressionless, which could mean anything from he was extremely pissed or just thinking about whether to have cereal with his bagel. I wondered if I’d done the right thing by telling him. He was angry at Wade already, and this would only make things worse. But he was my husband, doggone it, and I wanted things to be open between us. It was what I was always ragging on him about, so in all fairness, the situation went both ways. Besides, no doubt he’d hear about it from someone today anyway.

“So, what exactly did he want to talk about?” Gabe asked.

My mouthful of bagel stuck dry and hard in my throat. I sipped my coffee, then said, “You know, stuff. Memories. He’s ... he’s kind of having a hard time moving on. Emotionally, that is.”

His eyes fixed on me intently. “Is that why you were crying last night?”

“I’m fine.” There was no way was I going to tell him word for word what Wade said.

“I ought to run him out of town,” he said calmly. “I ought to kick his ass.”

I made a noise in my throat that was neither positive nor negative, not wanting to help that smoldering fire along. “I just wanted to tell you because Tell-all Traci will be on the phone first thing this morning, and I was sure it would eventually filter down to you.”

He stopped chewing. “Tell-all Traci?”

“Tracianne Doyle. That’s what she’s called. I’m sure the fact that the police chief’s wife was seen running out of The Steerhead Tavern will be a switch from their usual conversation of which designer dress they’re going to wear to which social event.” I stood up and went over to him, touching his shoulder. “I’m sorry if this causes any problems for you.”

He pulled me down onto his lap. “
Querida
, I think we both know that I don’t especially like you going there, particularly with Wade Harper, but that has nothing to do with what Mrs. Doyle and the rest of the society matrons in this county think. What they say doesn’t bother me in the least, and if my job depends on what these women or their husbands think of my wife’s companions”—his eyebrows went up—“as sleazy as they might be, or the way she chooses to spend her evenings, then it’s not a job I want or need. What matters, or should matter, is that I do my job policing this city. Frankly, I’ve only lived here a year and a half. I could leave anytime and start over.” His eyes bore into mine. “The real question is, could you?”

“What?”

“Start over somewhere else. Where you didn’t know anyone but me.” He watched my face, his blue eyes steady and waiting.

I knew what he was asking and, to be truthful, I hadn’t ever thought about it. Except for a few fleeting moments right after Jack died, when I wanted to run as far away from San Celina and the Central Coast as I could, I’d never even contemplated living anywhere else.

I was saved from answering by my cousin strolling into the kitchen smelling of Ralph Lauren aftershave.

“What a marvelous picture of domestic bliss,” he said, walking over to the coffee pot. “I hope you both act this lovestruck in front of Elvia. Positive reinforcement is always helpful.”

“You’re hopeless,” I said, standing up, not looking at my husband though I sensed his gaze on me.

“Not hopeless, hopeful,” Emory countered. “Blissfully hopeful. Eternally hopeful. My faith would move mountains.”

“Yes, but will it move one stubborn hundred-pound
señorita
?” Gabe asked. “Pigheadedness is a trait that seems to run in the San Celina female.” He turned to me, his face neutral. “Refresh my middle-aged memory. What’s on your agenda for today, sweetheart?”

“I’ve got to pull my shift giving historic house tours—two of them, actually. One to a group of Constance’s rich friends from the city. Then I’m going out to the ranch to see Dove. Then it’s the blessing of the animals tonight and watching you crown the new Miss San Celina. That’s about it.” Emory and Gabe looked at each other, then looked back at me. I started cleaning up the table.

“Benni,” Gabe said, “Don’t start a fight with Dove about Mr. Lyons—”

“Gabe,” I snapped back, “don’t tell
me
what to do with my family.”

He held up his hands.
“Lo siento, mi amor
. Do what you want. See you tonight.”

After he left, Emory sat quietly watching me clean up the kitchen. “He’s right, you know,” he finally said. “You should just leave Dove alone on this one.”

I whipped around and shook a paring knife at him. “Don’t you start, too, Emory Littleton. I have to warn her about this man. My gosh, she’s been widowed for almost forty years. What does she know about men?”

“She only raised a few of them,” he answered, leaning back in his chair. “I think she can take care of herself.”

I threw the knife in the sink. “And I think you should mind your own dang business.”

“Sweetcakes, much as I think you’re cute as a bug when you’re all riled up, this is gettin‘ old, real old. I think I’ll mosey on out of here until you buzz back down to earth.” He stood up and started for the living room.

I sailed across the room and encircled his waist with my arms. “I’m sorry, Emory,” I said, burying my face in his chest. “Don’t be mad. But I just feel like I have to talk to her, that I’d be a rotten granddaughter if I didn’t at least try.”

He hugged me tightly. “I know, kiddo. Just don’t push too hard, okay? You can be a might like a foamy-mouthed pitbull at times, you know?”

I smiled up at him. “I’ll be diplomatic.”

He tugged at a strand of my curly hair. “And I’m next in line to marry Princess Di.”

The historic homes tour was a project that was a joint money-making venture between the folk art museum, the Historical Society, and the local quilt guilds. This week the homes had guild members wearing period costumes while they worked on quilts and other pioneer crafts during the tours. The tour itself consisted of ten houses and adobes within a one-mile radius with a stop at Elvia’s bookstore and coffeehouse at the end for refreshments and a talk on the county’s history by Mr. Bulfinch, the head of Cal Poly’s history department. A shuttle would be available six times a day for a side trip out to the folk art museum should anyone opt to add that to the agenda. There was also art by our women artists displayed at each home, as well as in many of the galleries downtown. We’d had a surprising number of reservations, considering it was the first week after Thanksgiving, but the Christmas frenzy had not entirely taken over the world yet, and people were in just a festive enough mood to travel and perhaps do a little early Christmas shopping, which of course was just what we were hoping.

I finished both tours by one o‘clock and decided to grab a quick cup of coffee at Blind Harry’s before heading out to the ranch. I hadn’t seen Dove all day, but I didn’t think her turn guiding tours came until later in the week. As I dumped milk and sugar into my coffee, I couldn’t help but wonder what she and Isaac were doing today and hoped it wasn’t a day that Daddy decided to fix fence on the other side of the ranch. I looked over the crowded coffee house trying to spot an empty table.

An auburn-haired woman in a yellow and brown calico dress from the Oregon trail days stood up and waved at me over the noisy crowd. I threaded my way through the chairs to the small round table in the back.

“Hey, Benni Louise, set your old self on down here and rest up a spell. We’ve both done served our time in the support of San Celina history.”

“Hey, Amanda Aurora Lucille Landry, I’ll do just that.”

Amanda Landry, a local attorney with her own private practice, was named by a romantic and slightly batty southern mother who loved George Sand, mint juleps, and blues musicians—not necessarily in that order. Almost six feet tall with hair the color of cordovan leather, she was a native of the grand state of Alabama, a fact that was obvious the minute she opened her wide, Carly Simon mouth.

“Ah think y‘all just have the cutest accents hea-yuh out west,” she said the first time we met when she joined the artist’s co-op a few months back. She made the most astounding pictorial quilts and vests that she’d been giving away to friends for years. Finally a friend in her quilt guild convinced her to start selling them, and though she told me the thought of going commercial just plumb tuckered her out, she did like the idea of her quilt creations being taken seriously.

“And,” she said at our requisite meeting where we discussed the rules of the co-op, “Ah know you’n me are going to get along just fine, ‘cause Ah’ve been following your crime-fighting career in that rag of a daily paper since Ah got here. Not to mention that you tend to be one of the favored topics on the DA grapevine. Ah just told those ole graysuits, ’Hey, if y‘all do a better job at keeping them criminals behind bars, then itty-bitty cowgirls wouldn’t have to be rounding up the bad guys.’ ”

I definitely had a fan in Amanda Landry. Her friendly relationship with the DA’s office came about before she set up her private practice with a substantial inheritance from her father, whom she cheerfully labeled the crookedest judge in Montgomery County’s history; she had worked in San Francisco as a deputy DA in charge of the sexual assault/ child abuse unit. She successfully prosecuted the nastiest bad guys this side of a Hollywood producer’s nightmare ... or dream, depending on their values. She accepted the same job down here in San Celina when she grew tired of big-city politics.

“Small-town politics are so much more petty ... and fun,” she’d said with her hearty, slap-your-back laugh.

She’d worked in the district attorney’s office until even small-town politics got on her nerves ... about a year. Luckily (according to her), old Judge Landry finally saddled himself a cloud and rode off to that great coon hunt in the sky, and she collected her long-awaited inheritance.

According to Gabe, the DA was sorry to lose her. She’d won cases ... a lot of them. They’d taken to calling her “Queen of the Sex Team.” Now, because of her private income, she could pick and choose her clients.

“So,” she asked. “What’re you up to? It has to be better than what’s back at my office—two wills, a yuppie adoption, and yet another lawsuit against McDonald’s. Guy claims they put too much ice in his drink and it cracked a tooth. For this I gave up rapists and wife beaters?”

I told her I was going out to see Dove and, before I knew it, had spilled out the whole story about her and Isaac and my misgivings about him. Then I lapsed into the whole Gabe/Wade thing, my worries about Wade being involved with Shelby’s death, what Olivia had said last night, and whether I should tell anyone. She listened intently, her intelligent brown eyes blinking rarely, leading me on with short, direct questions.

“Shoot,” I said, pausing to take a breath, a bit embarrassed that I revealed so much. “No wonder the criminals hate you. I’ll be telling you my deepest, darkest sex fantasies next.”

“Please, save those for Gabe,” she said, patting my hand. “You just needed to talk, and I was an understanding ear. That’s the thing, you know, about all human beings, including criminals. We all love to talk about ourselves, and that’s what cops and prosecuting attorneys count on, that eventually a criminal feels the urge to brag to
someone
about how they pulled one over on all us symbolic parental figures. Bragging trips them up more times than not.”

“Well, sorry for bending your ear,” I said, standing up “Send me a bill.”

“Don’t worry about it, girlfriend. It all evens out in the end.”

I turned to leave, then stopped and said, “Amanda, I know this is probably a bit premature, but Wade’s so certain that they’re going to pin this on him ...”