State Fair (15 page)

He chuckled. “I agree, but there’s no way she’ll leave while Garnet is visiting.”

“Maybe her visit will be a quick one.” I walked around the counter and slipped my arms around his waist, giving him a warm hug. “I imagine I’ll see you at the fair . . . if not sooner.”

Before going home, I dropped by the folk art museum. Since I started working there almost five years ago checking on the museum daily had become second nature. The day didn’t feel right if I didn’t go in at least once and make my rounds of the premises, like a Great Pyrenees dog checking its flock. Saturday was usually our busiest day, both with artists working in the studios and patrons visiting our exhibits. Since the quilt and doll exhibits opened three weeks ago, they’d received rave reviews and visits from many local and out-of-state quilters, folk art lovers, doll lovers and African American history buffs. Though the museum had been closed since six o’clock, and it was now almost eight, a few docents were still working at the boutique and artists were still back in the studios. Every month a different co-op member had responsibility for locking up.

Behind the counter, Kay Pulcini, one of our long-time docents, was dusting the shelves.

“Hey,” I called. “Need some help?”

“I’m almost done,” she replied, running a hand through her short, silvery bob. She held up a drink coaster made in the geometric style of the Gee’s Bend quilts. “These are flying off the shelves faster than the Ebony Sisters can make them.”

“That’s great!” We planned for the exhibits to continue until the end of September when the quilt exhibit would move on to the Rocky Mountain quilt museum in Golden, Colorado, and the dolls would return to their owner in Oakland.

In my office, I called Hud on his cell. I still hadn’t told him about Milt’s remarks. The sooner I dumped the information into Hud’s lap, the sooner I could check it off my mental list.

“What’s shakin’, Inspector Clouseau?” I said.

“Just sitting here in my office at the fair contemplating the mysteries of the universe. Think I almost have them figured out. What’s up with you?”

“Any suspects for Calvin Jones’s murder yet?”

“A few.”

I waited, hoping he’d elaborate. No such luck. “I had to try.”

“Would have been disappointed if you didn’t, my nosy little beignet. Anything else?”

“Actually, there is. So much was going on at the crime scene that I didn’t want to bother you, but there’s a conversation I overheard last night that I think might have some significance.” I repeated Milt Piebald’s words. “I’m guessing he was talking about Levi.”

“And you might be guessing right. What a jackass. Have any idea who he was talking to?”

“Not a clue.”

“I appreciate you telling me this and it certainly makes him a
bourriquet,
but I’m not sure it makes him a suspect.”

“A what?”

“A stupid man.”

“He could be trying to sabotage Levi’s job.”

“Believable, though killing someone to do so is—hate to use a bad pun—overkill.”

I groaned. “That is bad. I know you’re probably right. It was just a thought.”

“Maybe a wish?”

“The thought of Milt doing jail time does bring a smile to my face.”

His heavy sigh filled the phone’s earpiece. “Justice is a long and winding road. And there are lots of potholes that never get filled.”

“On that truly dried-up old metaphor I will say good night.”

“
Bon soir, catin.”

After giving my inbox a sincere promise that I’d revisit it on Monday, I headed for home. While Gabe took Scout for his evening walk, I made one last call to Maggie. “How’s Jazz?”

“She’s finally sleeping, poor girl. I didn’t think she’d ever stop crying. This boy must have really meant something to her.”

“No sign of any reporters sneaking through the woods?”

“Not so far. With Bess and Harry on the job, we’d know in two seconds.” Bess and Harry were two rescue German shepherds adopted by Maggie and Katsy. The dogs, no doubt sensing their great fortune at being adopted into the Morrison clan, had instantly bonded with the women and with the ranch. No one would sneak past their vigilant guard.

“Jazz will need all the rest she can get,” I said. “Eventually she’ll have to go back out in public and face people’s questions.”

“That’s what Katsy and I figure. I know Levi can’t come all the way out here during the fair, but I wish he could sneak out for a break. The poor man is probably sleeping only two or three hours a night and Katsy swears that dang walkie-talkie is surgically attached to his hand.”

“I tried squeezing some information out of Hud about who they suspect, but he’s keeping things pretty much to himself.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow. Let me know if I can do anything.”

“We’re such a boring old married couple,” I said to Gabe a little while later when fluffing our bed pillows. He was brushing his teeth. “Going to bed early on a Saturday night.” It was ten thirty and though cooler than in North County, it was still too warm for me. I was thankful for the air-conditioning system we’d installed last year.

“Want to go back to the fair?” Gabe called from the bathroom. “It’s open until midnight.”

“No, but I feel like I
should
want to go.”

He walked back into our bedroom. “Why?”

“When I was a kid, we would go every day the fair was open. We almost always stayed until it closed. And I loved it.” I sat down on the bed, running my bare toes across Scout’s exposed stomach. He was sprawled across the oak floor trying to soak in every inch of coolness. I could relate. I lifted up my hair, holding it on top of my head.

“There’re other entertaining things to do on a Saturday night,” he said, smiling at me.

I wrinkled my nose. “Oh, please, it’s too hot for that.”

He walked over to our new thermostat and turned it down.

I laughed and let my hair drop. “Okay, but no matter what the environmentalists say, we’re not doing one single thing until it is at least sixty-five degrees in here.”

“I won’t tell if you won’t,” Gabe said, slipping off his boxer shorts.

“
L
OCAL MAN KILLED AT THE FAIR” READ THE SUNDAY
TRIBUNE
headline. Beneath it was a color photo of Jazz, her face buried in her father’s shoulder. They were surrounded by sheriff’s deputies and fair security people.

In the caption under the photo the reporter wrote, “Levi Clark, controversial new manager of the San Celina Mid-State Fair, comforts daughter when she hears of her fiancé’s alleged homicide. Sheriff’s department homicide detectives are investigating.”

“Controversial?” I said, looking across the kitchen table at Gabe. “Is that another word for black? And since when was Cal her fiancé?”

Gabe reached for the coffeepot. “Since when has that birdcage liner ever told the truth?” The
Tribune
had often misreported, exaggerated and even ridiculed Gabe in the years he’d been San Celina’s police chief, so there was no love lost between my husband and our local newspaper.

I scanned the article. It didn’t say much because there really wasn’t much to report yet. Calvin Jones had been killed by blunt force trauma, and the case was under investigation. According to the paper, Cal didn’t have much history in San Celina—in foster care in the Central Valley until he aged out of the system, lived alone in a rented room in Atascadero. He worked odd jobs around the county, at the Mobil station part time for the last year. All of that I knew from Katsy and Maggie. The paper said the police were searching for next of kin and that any help from the public would be welcome.

I pushed the paper aside and stared down into the steel-cut oatmeal Gabe cooked for us. Tiny bits of brown sugar floated atop the steaming, nutty-scented cereal, but the sparse facts about Cal’s short life dulled my appetite.

“It’s always sad when a kid is murdered,” I said, resting my chin on my hand. “But when it’s someone like Calvin Jones, who has no family, no one who will really miss him. It makes me wonder if . . .”

Gabe looked up from the sports page. The wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose made him look like a sexy professor. “If what?”

“If maybe I’ve lived too sheltered a life. That I don’t spend enough time getting to know and care about people who are alone. People like Cal.”

“You can’t befriend the whole world,” he said practically, looking back down at the paper.

“I know.” I stared at the photo of Jazz and Levi. Levi’s face was stoic, his eyes unreadable. What
had
he thought about Cal? What did he think about the statement that Cal was his daughter’s fiancé? “At least Cal had Jazz.” I stood up and carried my uneaten cereal to the sink. “What’s on your agenda today?”

“Some paperwork I brought home. Thought I’d wash the Corvette. Maybe take Scout for a run before it gets too hot.”

I stooped down and scratched behind Scout’s velvety ears. “Sounds like a nice day. Scout could use some fresh air and exercise.”

“What’re you going to do?”

I straightened up, stretched out my arms. “Go by Blind Harry’s and visit Elvia. Then back to the fair. I promised Mac I’d attend Cowboy Church this afternoon.”

MacKenzie “Mac” Reid was an old friend and the minister of the church my family belonged to—San Celina First Baptist. A local boy whose late grandmother had been one of San Celina County’s ranching icons, he had special sermons and music that he provided for rodeos and fairs.

I started upstairs to get dressed, but stopped when I reached the kitchen threshold. “Friday?”

“Hmm?” He didn’t look up from the paper. In the bright August morning sunlight his hair shined black and glossy as crow feathers.

“Do you think that anyone from around here would actually kill Cal because he was white and Jazz is biracial?”

Gabe’s head slowly came up. “Are you serious? Reread your history books.”

I felt my face turn red. “Thanks for making me feel like a total dolt.”

“You are not a dolt. Just a little too idealistic about your community here on the Central Coast.”

“Is it a bad thing to hope it wasn’t a race issue that brought about his murder?”

“Not bad, just not realistic. I’d bet a thousand bucks that her race had something to do with it.”

“Jazz told me she gets annoyed when people only see one side of her—her father’s side—and completely ignore her mother’s heritage. You, of all people, should understand that.”

He folded the paper in half and set it next to his bowl. “And I think she’s also being idealistic. When people first glance at me, I’m Mexican. In that important first five seconds when human beings classify one another, I’m a brown man. There’s no getting around that. No one cares my mother was white. Trust me, even after they find out I’m from two cultures no one has yet to ask me for a DNA sample to determine which race dominates. My skin informs them which dominates, at least in their minds. The same goes for Jazz. The sooner she gets used to that, they happier she’ll be.”

This conversation was rapidly becoming more political than I meant it to. “I understand . . .”

He interrupted, looking straight into my eyes. “Actually, you don’t.”

“Let me finish. I was going to say I understand that race makes things more complicated. So do you think the picture the newspaper took exacerbates the problem? Look how Levi and Jazz are surrounded by whites . . .”

He stared at me without answering. His expression appeared impatient.

Were we arguing? I had no idea how our conversation took this awkward turn.

“It is complicated,” he finally said. “But this time, despite my misgivings about this paper’s integrity, I think the photo is simply the one that the photographer was able to snap. What are our plans for dinner?”

Like that, the conversation was dismissed. Somehow I felt like we hadn’t resolved whatever it was that had become awkward between us, the divide that race brought into even our relationship. “I don’t know yet. Let me see how things are going at the fair and I’ll call you.”

He looked back down at the newspaper. Uncomfortable moment over. For him, anyway.

An hour later I was sitting in my best friend’s office on the second floor above Blind Harry’s bookstore. “Did you see the newspaper’s photo of Jazz and Levi? What do you think?”

“I think using the word
controversial
was in extremely bad taste. But, as Emory pointed out, good taste doesn’t sell papers.”

“Do you think they’re subtly trying to make it a racial issue?”

“What’s so subtle about it?”

“Gabe and I sort of argued about it this morning.”

Elvia fiddled with some papers on her desk. “How?”

“Maybe it was my fault. I wondered if it were believable about whether Cal might have been killed because he was dating Jazz.”