State Fair (28 page)

I gave him a hug. He smelled faintly of Old Spice, the same after-shave my dad used. “How’s things, Captain Cleary?”

“Pretty fine. Oneeda says y’all have a doll crisis on your hands. I went home for lunch and she’s been working like a madwoman instructing our granddaughter Danisha the proper way to cut out these tiny pants and dresses. And those little bodies. Looks creepy if you ask me.”

I laughed, thinking about all the truly creepy things he’d seen in his years at a law enforcement officer. He’d worked the most gang-ridden sections of East LA when he was a younger man, which was why he spoke Spanish like he was born in Tijuana. “I’m glad you reminded me. I have a bunch of dresses to cut out myself tonight.”

He gestured to one of his visitor’s chairs. “Maggie says you have something serious you need to discuss.” He sat back down behind his desk, his face relaxed and curious.

I sat down, took a deep breath and told him everything. Though I’d been a little embarrassed telling Maggie, not certain of her reaction, I didn’t have those qualms with Jim. Maybe it was his fatherly appearance or because he and I had talked intimately many times about race issues and my relationship with Gabe. If I was out of line, he’d gently tell me so without making me feel stupid. He’d been an ordained deacon at St. Stephen’s Baptist Church for years and took his spiritual position seriously. There was no one I knew who lived the Bible more completely than Jim Cleary. I trusted his opinion as much as Dove’s.

He leaned back in his chair when I was through, his dark brown face troubled. “The sheriff’s department and the Paso police should know about this.”

“I don’t want Levi to be mad at me. He said he was going to report it, but I was afraid he wouldn’t. I left a message for Hud, but he never called me back.”

Jim sat forward, started drumming the square fingers of one hand on the desktop. I could hear laughter coming from the outer office where someone had brought in donuts and was complaining that the icing was smashed. “I’ll call Levi first, talk to him. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.”

“Thank you so much,” I said, relieved. “I have a sort of personal question for you. Feel free not to answer, but have you and Oneeda ever considered leaving the Central Coast?”

They’d lived here for over twenty-five years, had raised the last three of their five children here. Oneeda and he were quilted into the fabric of this community more than anyone I knew. Still, there had to be times when they longed for a larger community of people who understood what it was like to be people of color. That had to be why they belonged to a church that was primarily black and why Oneeda helped form the Ebony Sisters Quilt group.

He scratched the side of his nose. “I think most people who are in the minority sometimes long to be where they don’t stand out. But Oneeda and I love the Central Coast. We’ve never considered leaving for long.”

“I think that’s how Gabe feels. But, you know, we’ve never talked about it.”

Was Gabe happy living here? When we got married, it was an unspoken agreement that we’d live in San Celina. He had a good job, one he loved, and I . . . well, my whole life was here. Still, had he ever thought that he might be happier somewhere else? He grew up in Kansas, but had spent most of his adult life in Southern California. I thought about how relaxed Gabe became when we visited his Uncle Tony down in Santa Ana. When he and his dad’s side of the family got together, the Spanish flew around me like darting swallows. I understood a word here or there, but mostly it was like an Italian opera where I enjoyed the music and the general story line without actually understanding exactly what was going on every minute. I was used to it from weekends visiting Elvia and her family. During those visits, Gabe was transported to his childhood, to familiar days with his father in his Kansas garage, repairing cars and talking to his
tios
visiting from Mexico.

Maybe it was similar to the way I felt when I was with Emory, drinking the sweet tea that people not raised in the South found so cloying, eating boiled peanuts and Aunt Sally’s pralines he had shipped in from New Orleans, arguing about which soda pop was more Southern—Coca-Cola or RC. Everyone longed for a place where people spoke their cultural language.

I stood up, hitched my backpack over my shoulder. “Thanks for taking care of this, Jim. And for not making me feel like an idiot for what I said.”

Jim came around his desk, pulling me into another hug. “I have no doubt about one thing, Benni. Your heart is always in the right place.”

I felt my eyes sting a little, my cheek touching the rough tweed of his jacket. “Tell Oneeda I’ll see her tomorrow evening. We’ve got dolls to make.”

“Praise the Lord there’s a deacon’s meeting otherwise she’d have
me
sewing doll clothes.”

“And you’d do it with a smile, mister.”

He gave one of his wonderful belly laughs. “You know it, Sister Ortiz.”

I stopped back by Maggie’s office to say good-bye and found her on the phone. I contemplated just waving, but the agitated look on her face compelled me to wait. She practically threw the phone receiver back in its holder.

“What’s wrong?”

“My car needed a new water pump and they promised it would be done today. Of course, they lied. Katsy is probably working at the fair and since she refuses to get a cell phone, I have no way home.”

A ride home. That was a fixable problem. I was afraid that something else had happened like the vandalism at Levi’s house. “Shoot, I can take you home.”

Her face relaxed, the furrows between her eyes softened. “Benni, you’re a lifesaver. I know it’s really out of your way, but I do appreciate it.”

“I’ll call Beebs and Millee and ask them to feed Scout. He’s the only one in my family whose meals are actually on a schedule. They have a key to our house.”

After calling the twins, Maggie and I walked out to my truck. While we drove over Rosita Pass to the Santa Margarita turnoff, I told her about my conversation with Jim. “I’m so relieved to dump it all in his lap. It’s horrible having information like that and feeling responsible.” I slowed down as we hit what we in San Celina County called a traffic jam—that is, being forced to go from seventy miles an hour to fifty. It usually lasted about ten minutes. When I dared to grumble about it in front of Gabe I was always rewarded with scorn.

“You wouldn’t know traffic if it bit you in the tailpipe,” he always said with that superior tone that Southern Californians always took when comparing traffic stories.

In a few minutes, we were back to our normal ten miles above the speed limit and soon were traveling down the two-lane highway that led to the Morrison ranch. When we drove up, Katsy was outside the house watering the bright red and orange geraniums blooming in their brick flower beds.

“I was certain she was at the fair!” Maggie said. “I guess I should have called home. I’m so sorry.”

“Forget it. I didn’t have anything planned for tonight. Honestly, you got me out of doing laundry. Big thrill.” Katsy turned off her hose and waved.

Maggie opened her car door. “Sister, what are you doing home? I thought you were going to be at the fair.”

“I traded shifts with Pat. Chores were getting behind here. I’ll do double on Sunday. She’s got family visiting on that day. Where’s your car?”

“Still in the shop. Benni was nice enough to give me a ride home.”

I came around the truck and leaned against the front fender. “Gabe’s out painting the town a pale pink with Father Mark.”

“Then how about staying for supper?” Katsy asked. “We have potato salad, fresh tomatoes picked only ten minutes ago and some rib eyes that are tender enough to make your gramma weep.”

“You’re on, Miz Katsy. Let me just leave a message for
mi esposo
so he doesn’t worry about me.”

In a half hour we were sitting on their back patio devouring those rib eyes. While we ate we talked about how their new heifers were doing, the mini-roundup they had planned for October and a possible trip they were taking to Alaska. It was a relief to discuss mundane subjects.

I told them about the emergency doll- making marathon at Flory’s. “It’s tomorrow night. Do you think you can make it?” I asked.

“I’ll be there,” Katsy said.

“Me too,” Maggie said.

“Katsy,” I said, “have you talked to Levi today?” I wasn’t sure if she’d heard about the vandalism at Levi’s house.

She chewed a bite of steak, her face thoughtful. “I went by his office about a half hour after you left. He told me everything.”

“Jim Cleary’s looking into it.” It suddenly occurred to me that Hud never called me back. That bonehead. Apparently he was still annoyed at me.

“Good.” Katsy took a last bite of pink beans, then stood up. “I told Levi he needed to tell the police, but honestly, I think he’s got his head in the sand. All he can think about that dang fair.” She picked up my empty plate and stacked it on top of hers.

“He does have a lot on the line,” Maggie said, grabbing the bowl of salsa and our drinking glasses. “You know how opinionated people are about the fair. They’ll be doubly judgmental of Levi.”

“I know,” Katsy said, opening the wooden screen door with her foot. “I wish that he worried half as much about our relationship as he does his job.”

I chuckled, following her through the back door. “You’re preaching to the choir, Sister K.”

Maggie called after us, “You two make me want to remain a spinster forever.”

“Spinster, my foot,” I called back. “You are an independent woman. I think the word
spinster
should be struck from the English dictionary.”

After a refusal for my help with the dishes, I said I’d better get home. “Gabe might actually start to miss me though I think there might be a Dodgers game on tonight so I bet he and Father Mark will watch it to the bitter end.”

It was around nine o’clock when I finally left their ranch. I’d given Gabe a call from their house and I’d been right about the ball game.

“Dodgers just won and Father Mark just left,” he said. “He sends his greetings. I’ll make you a chocolate sundae when you get home.”

“You’re on, Friday. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

“You’d better not be. That road from the Morrison ranch alone
should
take you thirty minutes. Take your time. The ice cream isn’t going anywhere.”

When I passed the Frio Saloon, the small parking lot was jammed with pickup trucks and cars. That was unusual for a night during the fair. Most people who frequented this out-of-the-way bar would be at the fair. Maybe there was a special musical group playing tonight or some group meeting for dinner.

Three trucks passed me on the winding road. Yep, there had to be some kind of event at the Frio. On the radio, Angus Andy, one of our local DJs on KCOW was taking requests. A deep male voice asked for “Ring of Fire,” dedicating it to his ex-wife. Because the two-lane highway was abnormally busy, I didn’t think twice about the vehicle behind me. Until the jolt.

“Hey!” I yelped in surprise.

In the rearview mirror a large white truck hovered inches from my bumper. Before I could react, another bump threw my head back against the padded headrest. My foot moved to the brake pedal, but then a thought flashed:
Don’t brake!
I pushed down on the accelerator. The truck behind me fell back, sped up and bumped me again.

“No!” My voice reverberated in the cab.

A curve up ahead forced me to slow down. The third bump pushed me into the other lane. Up ahead, headlights appeared, like twin trains approaching. I whipped the steering wheel to the right, back into my lane, sending up a frantic prayer for help. The car whizzed by, its horn blaring.

I glanced in my mirror in time to see the white truck pull around me. It barreled past, the engine roaring so loud it seemed to rattle my truck windows. The windows were tinted dark, the driver indiscernible. It left me in a puff of exhaust. I strained to see a license plate, but something white covered it. Paper? Paint? I could only make out a shiny flash on the bumper.A sticker of some kind? Pointy at the bottom, like part of a star. Then it was gone.

I was tempted to pull over to catch my breath, but I knew it would be dangerous to stop on this road where the traffic was sporadic. The truck might come back. I forced myself to keep driving, my hands shaking so badly I could barely grip the steering wheel. When I reached the tiny town of Santa Margarita, I again resisted the urge to stop despite the open café and grocery store. It was still too far from law enforcement help. Only a few more miles over the grade and I’d be back in San Celina. Every few seconds my eyes darted to my rearview mirror. All the headlights behind me stayed at a safe distance. In twenty minutes, I pulled into my driveway. Yellow light glowed from our front window. I could see Gabe sitting in his leather chair. I turned off my engine and rested my head on the steering wheel. It felt cool and solid.

After a few seconds, I straightened. I was thankful to be home, but now I had another problem—telling Gabe what happened. He would go ballistic.

I was wrong.

“I’d tell you to stay out of this case,” he said, sitting next to me on the sofa and kneading my tight shoulders with his strong hands, “but I’d be talking to myself. So, my next suggestion is keep your eyes open, don’t be alone
anywhere
and call your buddy Hud and tell him what happened. We all know it’s probably related to the Calvin Jones case.”

I twisted around to look at him. “You’re sounding amazingly calm.”

He lifted one eyebrow. “Would my getting angry change anything about what you are doing?”

I gave him a half smile. “Probably not.”

“There you go.”

It sounds crazy, but a part of me was kind of sad. His getting angry at my getting involved in criminal cases was, well, part of our relationship. Did this mean he didn’t love me as much as he once did?