Seven Sisters (12 page)

8

“YOU’RE LATE,” EMORY complained. “I ordered for you already.”

“I was detained by the authorities,” I said and told him the whole story. By the time I finished, my hamburger and fries and his turkey sandwich had arrived.

“Hud?” Emory said. “You mean, like the Paul Newman movie?”

“Believe me, he’s no Paul Newman. And there was a book first. It’s ten times better than the movie.
Horseman, Pass By.
Larry McMurtry wrote it.”

“You don’t say?”

I rolled my eyes. “If you want to marry Elvia, you’d better bone up on your literature, my friend. Cliff’s Notes don’t count. Apparently, this cop’s given name is Ford Hudson.”

“Oh, lordy, and I thought being named after a school and a woman’s nail care product was bad.”

“I can think of worse nicknames for a Texan.”

“Like what?”

“Bubba, for one. Joe Bob. Tex.”

“You’ve got a point.” He reached over and snatched one of my steak fries. “Are you going to tell Gabe that this sheriff’s detective, this Hud”—he shook his head and laughed again—“is putting you on his payroll?”

“I never agreed to anything and since I don’t plan on
doing
anything, I don’t think it even warrants repeating to Gabe. Especially when he has so much to worry about with Sam and Bliss.”

Emory chewed thoughtfully. “Whatever you say.”

“Let’s forget about this problem that isn’t really ours and concentrate on the ones that are. Has Dove approached you about any money-making ideas for the senior citizen center?”

“She was askin’ about a walkathon, but I told her that the paper’s already sponsored three this year, and though a new stove, refrigerator, and Martha Stewart wallpaper might be important to them, it would have a hard time competing with muscular dystrophy, diabetes, and breast cancer. She made me ask anyway, and our editor-in-chief nixed it.”

“I told her I’d try to come up with an idea. The problem is there are so many fundraisers that it’s hard to think of one that hasn’t been done. Are you going to the Harvest Wine Festival this weekend?”

He pushed his lunch plate aside. “Yep, I’ve got a full week with the crush activities starting Friday. Seems like every winery in San Celina County has something going on, and my esteemed editor-in-chief wants as many of them covered as possible for a special insert. I’m suspecting the powers that be in the local government are pressuring him to play up the wine aspect of our fair county to better compete with big brother Napa up north.”

“That’s all we need, something to bring even more tourists into the county,” I grumbled.

He patted my hand. “The times they are a-changin’, sweetcakes. Cows are out, grapes are in.”

“I know, but I don’t have to pretend to be happy about it.”

We were on our way out when we ran into Bliss and Miguel, one of Elvia’s younger brothers and a four-year veteran of the San Celina PD. They were waiting at McClintock’s long wooden bar under the TAKE OUT sign. Seeing him in his dark blue uniform carrying a loaded gun and steel handcuffs never failed to amaze me since the memory of cuddling him in my thirteen-year-old lap and singing him to sleep when he was three was still so strong in my mind.

“Hey, Miguel, Bliss,” I said. “Who’s protecting the streets of San Celina while you two are goofing off?”

“How’s it going?” Miguel said, pulling out his wallet when the waitress walked up with two brown paper sacks. Bliss handed him a ten-dollar bill. She nodded at me without saying a word.

“Okay, I guess.” I turned to Bliss. “How are you?”

“Just fine,” she said, her voice tight. “Have you seen JJ today?”

I shook my head no.

“We had breakfast this morning in town, and she said she was going into the museum to talk to you. Something about giving you tickets to a reception she’s going to.”

“Oh, yeah, the barrel tasting and artist’s reception at the San Patricio Resort in Eola Beach. She was supposed to get me a couple of tickets.”

“I’m covering that for the paper,” Emory said. “Sunday afternoon, right? Seven Sisters and a bunch of other wineries are hosting a tasting from some vintages that will come out in a couple of years and showing some of the label art being produced by local artists.”

“JJ’s designing some new labels for the syrah and pinot noir vintages,” Bliss said. “One’s named after Churn Dash. She’s been watching me train him for months, taking pictures and making sketches.”

“Who’s Churn Dash?” Miguel said, counting out her change.

“A two-year-old quarter horse they’ll be running at the track soon,” I said. “He’s a real beauty.”

“I’m working him every evening and the weekends,” Bliss said. She lifted her chin slightly and looked into my eyes, as if to say, “we’ve got nothing to hide.” “Whenever you’re free, come on out and watch.”

I smiled at her. “I’d love to. Is it all right to bring my dog with me?”

“As long as he doesn’t go crazy around horses.”

“No problem, he’s extremely well trained. I’ll surprise you one day and take you up on it.”

“Ready to split?” Miguel said.

She nodded, taking her paper sack from him. “See you at the ranch,” she said to me.

“Count on it,” I said.

Outside, Emory clapped me lightly on the back. “Very good, Detective Harper. Now you have free access. Hud will be right proud.”

“I’m not going out there to snoop,” I said, pulling on my leather barn jacket. “I’m just trying to establish a relationship with the girl who’s marrying my stepson. That’s all. And the horses do interest me.”

“Take a notebook,” Emory advised. “Believe me, at our age relying on our memory is death.” He laughed. “Whoops, bad choice of words.”

“Oh, go find a grocery store opening to cover,” I said.

“Now, now, as dear Aunt Garnet would say, let’s not let the nasty bird land in our apple tree. Where are you headed?”

“I’m dropping by the Historical Museum to pick up some research one of the ladies there has done for me on early California Chinese folk art and Hmong quilting. We’re thinking about having an Asian exhibit next spring.”

He kissed me on the cheek. “Be careful in your investigating, sweetcakes.”

“I’m
not
doing any investigating,” I called after him. His laughter was drowned out by two Ford Ranger pickups dragging down Lopez.

In front of the old brick Carnegie Library building, which Dove and her historical society friends had managed last spring by somewhat radical means to lease from the city for the next twenty years, I ran into JJ coming down the stone steps.

“Benni! What a lucky break for me. Now I don’t have to go out to the museum. I have your tickets right here.” She opened her small crocheted purse.

“Thanks,” I said, taking the tickets. “It’s Sunday, right?”

She touched her hair, the green slightly less bright today. “I’m so nervous about it. I’m showing my designs for the new labels and I’m always apprehensive about people’s reactions. This is the first time Aunt Etta’s let me design the labels, so I want to do a good job. I’m going to actually be working on one there—a watercolor of Churn Dash running, with Great-Grandma’s quilt in the background.”

“I’m sure they’ll be great. How are things at home?” JJ was much easier to ask than Bliss, and for a split second I couldn’t help but wish it was JJ Sam was in love with, not Bliss. On the surface, it seemed as if they would be better matched. Then again, I knew better than anyone else that love never paid attention to who matched and who didn’t.

“Everyone’s in a tizzy, of course. That weird detective left a message for me on my answering machine. Said he wants to talk to me again. Is that normal? I told him everything I knew the night it happened.” She rubbed her lips together, slightly smearing her burgundy lipstick.

I stuck my hand deep into the pockets of my coat. “It’s not just you. He dropped by the museum this morning to talk to me, too. I couldn’t tell him anything else either. I think he’s just fishing.”

“Giles’s family is having a fit about it, as you can imagine. His father is a very powerful man. He flew down in a private jet as soon as he was told. I wasn’t at the ranch when he arrived, but I called Jose, and he said there was quite a shouting match between him and Cappy. He claimed we were harboring a murderer.”

She was understandably upset by the accusation, obviously not wanting to face the fact that he was probably right. I couldn’t help asking, “Who do you think might have wanted Giles dead?”

JJ’s face twisted in thought. “I have no idea. He was a jerk, but exactly the type of guy I’d expect Arcadia to marry. Bliss would probably know more than me. She’s lived here since she was eighteen. I’ve only been here a few months.”

“I just saw her and Miguel at McClintock’s buying lunch. We didn’t talk about Giles, but then, Miguel was there and so was my cousin Emory. Emory writes for the newspaper, so that would tend to keep her from saying anything.”

“I’m worried about her.”

“We all are, but she’ll be okay. Pregnancy isn’t a disease. She and Sam will work things out.”

She reached up and fiddled with the four silver dangly earrings trailing down her left ear. “It’s not just the baby. She’s been upset about something else, and she won’t tell me what. That’s not like her. She usually tells me everything.”

“Have you asked her about it?”

Her dark lips turned up in a wry smile. “Get Miss Closed-Mouth Cop to talk when she doesn’t want to? I figured it had something to do with work. I knew about her and Sam, so it wasn’t that. And she told me when she first suspected she was pregnant, even before she told Sam. Like I said, we usually tell each other everything.”

I gave a deep, dramatic sigh. “If it has to do with her work, welcome to the wonderful world of law enforcement relatives. We should start a group. Cop-Anon.”

She giggled. “I forgot, you know all about that.”

“Trying to get them to talk to you when they don’t want to is, as my gramma Dove would say, like trying to milk a two-thousand-pound bull. Ain’t possible. Also, don’t forget, she’s got Sam now, so that might be where some of her confidences are going.”

“He’s her first boyfriend, you know. I always knew when she fell it would be hard.”

“If it makes you feel any better, even though he’s young, he’s a really decent human being. And I’m not just saying that ’cause he’s my stepson and I happen to be crazy in love with his dad.”

She touched my forearm lightly. “I know, Benni. It just seems like so much has changed so fast.”

“I hate to break the news to you, but as you get older, it only gets worse.”

She shook her head, her earrings making a soft, tinkling sound. “What a depressing thought.”

I WALKED THE three blocks to the Historical Museum where I interrupted a meeting of the San Celina Senior Citizen Kitchen-Raising Committee, the honorable Dove Ramsey presiding.

“Sit down, honeybun,” she said, pointing her gavel at an empty chair in front. “We’re almost done.”

After an excruciating half hour of listening to the seven people on the committee carp and pick at each other’s suggestions, Dove brought the gavel down with an angry slam. “People, the bottom line is we need twenty thousand, we’ve got three, and the insurance will pay ten. We need seven thousand dollars and we need it fast.”

“What’s the hurry?” I asked.

“The kitchen has to be rebuilt soon,” Sissy Brownmiller said. “There’s lots of seniors who depend on the hot meal they get there. It’s sometimes their only good meal of the day. It’s already been shut down a month. We’ve borrowed the kitchen at First Baptist, but they’re getting kinda restless about us going back to our own place.”

“I’m telling you,” Dove said, “we need something that no one’s ever done here before. I’m sick of bake sales and quilt raffles. We need something that’ll stand out. Something people really want. Something they’re willing to shell out lots of their hard-earned money for.”

“Like what?” Sissy countered. “Bake sales and quilt raffles are all we know how to do.”

Dove smacked the gavel down again. “Ten-minute break! Get something to eat and drink, and we’ll study on this some more.”

At the dessert table, filled with apple turnovers, oatmeal cookies, cream puffs, and Sissy’s blue-ribbon-winning black walnut-chocolate chip coffee cake, I grabbed a cream puff, a slice of coffee cake, and a cup of Folger’s coffee. Though this group was high class in their home-baked goodies, they’d never bought into the baby boomers’ addiction to gourmet coffee. Theirs was hot, black, and strong. I put an extra dollop of milk in it to cut the stoutness.

Dove pulled me aside. “Have you heard how things are doing at Seven Sisters?”

“I just talked to JJ. She’s pretty agitated, with good reason. She doesn’t want to admit it, but everyone knows the killer had to be someone in the family. I don’t think she’s ready to face that yet.”

“It’s hard thinking one of your kinfolk would have that kind of meanness in them, but it wouldn’t be the first time. That little Texas boy working on the case is a sharp one. I fathom he’ll ferret out the bad apple in the bunch right quick. His mama raised a good boy. He donated a hundred dollars to our new kitchen.”