Dove in the Window (31 page)

“At least not for a while,” Gabe said. “Most detectives aren’t stupid. Eventually one of them would probably have thought of that angle.”

“So all we’re doing is speeding up the process.”

He shook his head, unconvinced, but didn’t argue.

“There’s got to be something on them that got Shelby killed.”

Once inside the house, he pulled off his jacket and started unbuttoning his shirt. “Tell Isaac not to be surprised if the sheriff’s detectives want to go through her apartment again.”

“He said he looked everywhere.”

“He’s not a trained detective.”

THE NEXT DAY the cold front that had hovered over San Celina for the last week moved, and the temperatures soared to a pleasant seventy-five degrees. On the way out the door, I opted for my plain Levi’s jacket rather than my fleece-lined one.

“So, want to have lunch today?” Gabe asked, gulping down a glass of grapefruit juice. “I’ve got a pretty free schedule for a change.”

“I wish I could, but we’ve got more schoolkids coming in for tours, so I’ll probably hang out at the museum all day helping out where I can. I need to check the exhibit again, make sure it’s holding up all right. I’m always nervous when we’ve borrowed from another folk art museum. I picture some kid throwing one of those boxes of red punch at one in a fit of temper.”

“And, of course,” Emory said, walking into the kitchen, “don’t forget your royal appearance at the fashion show. I can’t wait to see you in all your corseted glory.”

“You’ll probably have to have the paramedics give me oxygen if I wear it longer than thirty minutes,” I grumbled.

At the museum, I walked through the exhibit to make sure all the Oregon Trail quilts were still undamaged. As with the first time I’d studied the pictures of them in the catalog book the Oregon museum had sent with them for inventory control, I was amazed at the movement and energy of the patterns chosen by these women who had left their homes back East and started out on a journey that almost certainly would, in the four to nine months it took the wagon trains to get to Oregon, gift them with both exhilarating and tragic experiences. The patterns nonverbally reflected their feelings and their impressions of the things seen along the arduous journey—the visual forward movement of a Double Irish Chain, the busy windmill-like feeling of a Flying Star that emphasized the excitement of migration, a Wheel of Fortune made with obvious optimism and hope, and a multicolored album quilt with the names of family members embroidered in the center of each ten-inch block. The wedding quilts especially touched me. Many of the women bravely made the long, dangerous journey to join their fiances or new husbands. Their quilts were often stitched with intersecting circles and perfect little hearts, the hearts representing love and the circles representing divine guidance.

I couldn’t help but think how, even as far back as the middle 1800s when these quilts were made, women were seeking to express their feelings through their art. It made me recall the comment Parker had made a couple of days ago about having to explain your art, that the art itself whether a quilt, a painting, a story, or a photograph, should be self-explanatory, and that if it wasn’t, the artist had essentially failed. Then again, it might just be that people were too impatient, wanted things spelled out for them too quickly, without any work on their part. That was the problem these days; people wanted ideas and themes given to them in thirty-second sound bites—or a two hour movie—without understanding there was so much more to be gained by the slow personal discovery of what the artist was trying to say.

“Looks like you’re contemplating the mysteries of the universe,” Greer said behind me. I turned and smiled at her and Olivia.

“Or,” Olivia said, “the overthrow of the government.”

“Neither,” I countered. “I was just thinking about something Parker said a few days back about hating to try and explain her art to people, that it should speak for itself.”

Olivia nodded, but Greer shook her head in irritation. “She’s young and idealistic. She hasn’t figured out yet that not everyone has the time or the intelligence to study art and figure out the difference between a good picture and a mediocre one. Every time I give a talk, I figure I’m helping to educate a few more people about what good art is.”

“That’s commendable of you,” I said, thinking, not for the first time, how unpredictable people are. Here was Greer, from a somewhat privileged background with a college degree in art and time spent in the city around a very sophisticated crowd, being more tolerant about people’s lack of education and opportunities than Parker, who actually lived it. “You’re right,” I said. “She is young. But then, we all were at one time.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Olivia said.

“You’ll drink to anything,” Greer teased.

Olivia grinned. “Especially if someone else is buying.”

“I didn’t see her at the party last night,” I said. “Did I miss her in the crowd? There must have been a hundred people there.”

“She didn’t go,” Greer said.

“Why?‘

Greer lifted her shoulders, unconcerned. “I have no idea. I saw her yesterday, and she just said she wasn’t going.”

EVEN THOUGH IT was Thursday, it ended up being one of our busiest days at the museum. The weekend tourists had already started arriving for the Heritage Days celebration and were looking to be entertained. Elvia called at three o‘clock to make sure I remembered my hair and makeup appointment and to crow about the prepaid attendance to the fashion show.

“Three hundred twenty-seven,” she said, her voice gleeful. “And we’ve even been promised a thirty-second spot on the local news tonight.”

“That’s great,” I said. “Just make sure it’s not the thirty seconds I’m stumbling around on stage.”

“Did you get fitted?” she asked.

“Why are you asking me that when I know darn well you probably called the costume shop and checked on me after I left?”

“You’re going to look beautiful,” she said, sidestepping my accusation.

“So when’s the date with Emory?” I asked in return.

“Saturday,” she snapped. “Then he’d just better get on that midnight train to Little Rock.”

I just laughed softly, suspecting she wouldn’t get rid of him that easily. “See you tonight, pal o‘ mine.”

I decided to stop off at home briefly to check the mail and grab a bite to eat. Our neighborhood was quiet and empty, as it usually was during the day in the middle of a work week, but today not even Mr. Treton’s old Chrysler was parked in his driveway. He was probably down at the VFW Hall giving his quarter’s worth of opinion on the float he’d be riding on Saturday. In front of the door sat a gold Blind Harry’s bag, stapled shut.

I smiled. Elvia was feeling guilty about forcing me into this ridiculous fashion show. Good. A little bit of deserved guilt never hurt anyone. I opened the bag and found a large gold box of Godiva’s chocolates.

“Great!” I said, prying it open eagerly.

Then, with a small scream, I dropped it.

15

THE GRAYING COW’S tongue had obviously been purchased at a local supermarket. I looked around to see if anyone had witnessed my dramatic and somewhat embarrassing reaction. Using the lid, I scooped the tongue back into the candy box and quickly went inside, locking the door behind me. I stuck the box back into the bag and set it on the kitchen counter. Grabbing a Coke out of the refrigerator, I sat down on a wooden chair, contemplating who had done this. The why was pretty obvious. Apparently someone had found out I was looking into Shelby’s and Kip’s deaths and that someone wasn’t happy about it.

That someone was also very clever. He or she knew I’d be suspicious of just about anything that showed up on my doorstep except something that appeared to be from Elvia. I held the icy Coke can against my temple, willing my heart to stop thumping so hard in my chest. It did make me nervous, thinking about someone who was obviously a killer coming that close to where I lived.

But it also pissed me off.

If that person thought playing a juvenile trick like leaving grocery store animal parts on my doorstep was going to stop me from doing what I could to see that Shelby’s and Kip’s killer was caught, he or she obviously didn’t know me very well.

I immediately dialed Gabe’s number. Maggie told me that he was out of the office for the rest of the afternoon, but that he’d be at the Elks Club in time to go on in his costume.

“Do you want me to beep him?” she asked.

“No,” I said. There was nothing he could do at the moment. “It can wait.”

I picked up the bag by its handle and carried it out to the garage where I hoped by the time Gabe saw it tonight, it wouldn’t smell too ripe. But there was no way I was keeping this thing in my refrigerator. I locked the garage and walked out to the truck, nervously glancing into the long afternoon tree shadows, more nervous than I would ever admit to anyone.

This person had the advantage of knowing where I lived, knowing my movements, and being able to observe the habits of my neighborhood. I was willing to bet that this delivery took place when Mr. Treton, our only neighbor who was consistently home during the day, was gone. That meant someone was watching where I lived. And watching me.

I locked the doors of the truck before putting it in drive, slowing down and looking carefully at the few parked cars on the street as I passed them. They were empty, of course. Whoever left my macabre little present was long gone. The question was, what else did they have planned ... and when? The thought of me walking out on a stage was nervewracking enough, but now it was even worse. If I’d wanted a reason to back out of the fashion show, here it was. There was no way Gabe or Elvia would want me to strut down that runway after this incident.

Which was exactly why I now decided I wasn’t going to tell them about it until after the fashion show. I was sick and tired of cowardly criminals manipulating the lives of their victims. Judging by the juvenile method of intimidation, I surmised that this person wasn’t very experienced at terrorizing victims. This was strictly amateur hour, and I wasn’t about to let this person think I was spooked, which is exactly what it would look like if I pulled out of the fashion show. I was raised to meet cowardice like this straight on without blinking. I’d walk down that runway with my head held high.

A little voice argued with my bravado as I drove downtown.
Amateur are the most unpredictable criminals, because they don’t have the sense to know when to quit.

I pulled into the spacious parking lot of the San Celina Elks Club. Elvia decided to hold the fashion show here rather than at the Forum so the large crowd she so optimistically expected would have no trouble finding parking spaces. The low-roofed, 1950s buildings sprawled across the street from the cemetery where my mother and Jack were buried. I gazed over at the green lawn of the darkening cemetery and wondered briefly if Wade had visited Jack’s grave. I slung the heavy garment bag over my shoulder and hiked across the already half-full parking lot.

Handmade signs with florescent orange arrows directed me through the maze of back rooms of the Elks Club to a large, airy room that had been turned into a surprisingly efficient beauty parlor. Almost before I could get my name out, my dress was whisked out of my hands and I was being primped and coiffed for my one-minute performance. In less than a half hour, they’d twisted my hair into a complicated nineteenth-century upswept hairstyle. The woman who layered on my thick makeup worked at the college as a fashion design instructor and apparently did a term paper once on late nineteenth-century clothing styles.

“You know, technically the ball gown you’ve got there is from eighteen eighty-five. Shirtwaists were a big fashion item for women in the nineties. Did you know that?” she asked, slapping thick pancake makeup on my face. I shook my head slightly.

“Yep,” she continued. “They were as hot as bellbottoms in the sixties. They didn’t have many mannequins then so they used to display them in store windows stuffed with paper. They looked sturdy, but actually weren’t. People used to say they were as flimsy as a pompous man’s opinions. That’s where we get the term ‘stuffed shirt’ from.”

“I know some people that would fit,” I said, picturing Roland in late nineteenth-century clothes.

“Me, too.” She stroked deep brown eye shadow across my lids.

When she was done she directed me toward the dressing rooms, where it took a girl of great youth and strength to squeeze me into my boned corset.

“I
read somewhere that the average waist in the late eighteen hundreds was twenty-two inches,” she said, breathing hard as she yanked the ties. “Pull your stomach in.”

I held on to a table edge and squeaked, “It’s already touching my backbone.”

She finally got it tied and strapped on the basketlike contraption that supported my dress’s bustle. She slipped the bright blue satin gown over my head and started the long, arduous task of buttoning me up.

When she was through and I was struggling into my pointy-toed shoes, she nodded toward a double door. “That’s the designated green room,” she said. “There’s water and fruit juice and cookies provided by the Historical Society.”