Goose in the Pond (20 page)

“She tells me only that the Virgin Mary answered her prayers, and they got some money from heaven.” She rolled her eyes skyward as if checking to see if any bills would come floating down and bless her. She shrugged and handed me a ceramic bowl of the dessert. “When mass was over, we lit some candles like we
always
do.” She purposely avoided looking at her daughter. Elvia let out an irritable breath. Her mother had been lighting candles in an attempt to get her daughter married since Elvia turned eighteen. “She whispered to me—for the Sinclairs.”

“The Sinclairs?” I said, puzzled. “Did they loan them the money?”

Señora Aragon set a bowl in front of Elvia and gestured for us to start eating. “No loan,” she said, wiping her hands on her faded cotton apron. “She says they owe no one. She lit a candle for that, too. To thank God.”

I thought about that as I finished my dessert and helped clear the table. Brushing away our offer to do the dishes, Señora Aragon walked with us out to the truck and handed me a Tupperware bowl full of
atole
. “Tell Gabriel he has not been to see me in a long time and I am keeping count. Next time, he only gets
atole
if he comes to get it.”

“I’ll tell him,” I said, kissing her cheek. “He’s just been very busy these last few days. I guess Elvia probably told you his son is visiting.”

She nodded and smoothed back a strand of gray hair that had the nerve to sneak out of her tight bun. “It is good for a man to know his son better.”

Elvia hugged her mom and reminded her what the doctor said, to sit down and rest once in a while.

“Ah,” Señora Aragon replied, swatting irritably at the air around her. “Plenty of time to rest when I die.”

“Why would the Sinclairs give the Ayalas money?” I asked the minute Elvia closed the truck door.

“This is the most uncomfortable vehicle I’ve ever ridden in,” she complained, strapping the seat belt around her waist. “You know, Gabe makes a good salary. Why don’t you get rid of that old Harper pickup of yours and buy yourself a new car?”

“If I had a new car, I’d be having to cart Sam around everywhere because I wouldn’t let him drive it, and Gabe wouldn’t let him drive this truck or the Corvette.” I shifted into third with a jerk. I still had a bit of a problem with gears on the steering column. “This is a classic, Elvia. You of all people should appreciate that.” She owned a perfectly restored 1959 Austin-Healey with the original upholstery.

“I feel like a farmhand riding in this,” she complained.

“Don’t be a snob. We both come from a long line of farmhands. Why do you think the Sinclairs would give the Ayalas money?”

“I have no idea. They certainly run in different social circles. Maybe Constance just likes the restaurant and doesn’t want it to close.”

“Then I could picture them loaning the Ayalas money, but
giving
it to them? Remember, this is Constance Sinclair we’re talking about. She’s been very generous with the folk-art museum, but it is named after her grandfather. I don’t think she’s ever given any money where it wasn’t made very clear and public that she was the donor. She likes praise and gratitude. In great quantities and very openly.”

“Maybe Jillian gave them the money and Constance doesn’t know about it. Jillian’s pretty well heeled herself, I hear.”

“Maybe, but that would be even weirder.” I pulled in front of Blind Harry’s and idled in front.

“Why?”

“Let’s just say there is no love lost between Dolores and Jillian. They both want Ash Stanhill’s head in their trophy case.”

“Or whatever,” Elvia said, pulling out her purse and reapplying a layer of crimson lipstick. “I can’t abide that man. And it’s not jealousy because his restaurant is doing so well.” She twisted the gold tube closed. “Do you know he’s refused to join the downtown merchants’ association? Said he doesn’t have time to sit around with a bunch of small-timers discussing trash cans and washing sidewalks. Cretin.”

“Ask around about the Ayalas, okay? Just to ease my curiosity.”

She gave me a doubtful look. “Whenever you talk like that, I know you’re headed for trouble. Does Gabe know about this?”

“There’s nothing for him to know. I’m just curious, that’s all.”

She climbed out of my double-parked truck, giving a severe schoolmarm look at the car honking behind me. “I don’t like it. Whenever you use the word
curious,
I always end up having to visit you in the hospital.”

Since it was past three o’clock, I dropped by the museum one last time to check on things, gave a few final orders, and headed home. I was pleased to find the house empty, but assumed that by suppertime the others would be wandering in, so I put on a chicken to bake and then checked the answering machine.

The first message was from Gabe. “I’ll be home by six. Love you.”

The second was from Dove. “I’ll be home for supper, honeybun. I’m starved. Spent the day cataloging farm utensils at the Historical Society.”

The third was from Sam. “Don’t wait up. Bye.”

Great. Gabe was going to love that one.

The last message was in a strong, Arkansas twang. “Micah 6:12.” The click of the slammed receiver echoed across the empty room.

The Old Testament not being my strong suit, I pulled out my Bible and looked it up. This verse was a new one in Dove and Garnet’s battle of the memory verses.

“Her rich men are violent; her people are liars and their tongues speak deceitfully.”

Oh, that’ll get a rise out of Dove,
I thought, setting the leather Bible back down on the coffee table. Her people are liars . . . was Aunt Garnet calling me a liar, too? Geez, I didn’t want to be included in this biblical Hatfield and McCoy feud.

I sliced unpeeled potatoes and laid them in a long casserole dish, covered them with garlic pepper, drizzled butter and chopped red onions, and parked them next to the chicken in the oven. I was washing fresh green beans when Gabe walked into the kitchen.

“Smells good,” he said, nuzzling the back of my neck. “And the food does, too.”

I turned around and kissed him. “Have a good day?”

“Not really, but I don’t want to talk about it.”

He pulled off his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt. “Need some help?” I purposely stayed away from the topic of Nora’s murder while we finished washing the green beans and put them in the steamer. As he set the table I told him about my lunch with Elvia and her mom. Not certain yet whether it meant anything, I left out the part about the Sinclairs saving the Ayalas’ restaurant.

“Did Señora Aragon send any
atole
?” he asked hopefully.

“Yes, but next time she says you have to come get it yourself.”

Dove walked in just as Gabe was carving the chicken. Rita came in a few minutes later.

“We can get started. Sam has other plans,” I said, ignoring Gabe’s scowl. Make up your mind, I wanted to snap. Do you want him here or not?

After supper, I casually mentioned to Dove that she had a message on the answering machine.

“From who?” she asked, her blue eyes flashing.

I shrugged. “They didn’t leave a name.”

As she listened to the message her cheeks turned pink. “That . . . that . . .” she sputtered. “Of all the nerve.” She glared at all of us, then fled to the guest room, slamming the door behind her. Rita rolled her eyes and took her iced tea out on the front porch.

Gabe looked at me, confused. “What in the world does that Bible verse say?”

I smiled. “Oh, it’s not so much what it says, although that’s going to make her mad, too. It’s where it’s from. They’ve had this battle of verses before, but they’d always stuck to the New Testament, which both of them have practically memorized. By giving a verse from the Old Testament, she’s making Dove actually look it up, which gives Garnet the upper hand. That means Dove will have to find a suitable rejoinder from the Old Testament so Garnet will have to look it up. It’s a whole new spin on their old game.” I groaned and flopped down on the couch. “This could go on for decades.”

He shook his head and laughed. “Your family is certifiably nuts.”

“Tell me a new story, Chief.”

He glanced around the empty living room. “If I’ve learned nothing else these last few days, it’s that I’d better take a shower when the bathroom is free.” He started unbuttoning his shirt. “Then I have some reports to read.”

I joined Rita out on the porch swing. Dusk had begun to fall, cool and silky, bringing the ocean breezes and the clean smell of Mr. Treton’s freshly mowed lawn. We swung silently for a few moments, the squeak of the swing imitating the late summer crickets.

“You doin’ okay?” I asked. She’d been unusually quiet during supper.

She shrugged, then drew her knees up to her chest and rested her small, pointy chin on them. Across the street, three knobby-kneed boys in baggy shorts tossed a Nerf football back and forth, calling out plays as they wrestled each other to the ground.

“How did your date with Ash go?”

“All right,” she said. “We went and heard a blues band. Then we had dinner at his restaurant, but something came up and he had to leave. So I called here, and Sam came and got me.”

We didn’t speak for a few more minutes. “So what did the lawyer say?” I finally asked.

I heard a small sniffle. “I can get a divorce anytime. Daddy said he’d wire me the money. All I had to do was ask.” Another small sniffle.

For the first time since she arrived, I felt sorry for her. “Rita, is that what you want?”

“I want him to never have screwed around on me,” she said bitterly. “I want—” She started crying softly. “Shoot, Benni, I still love him. What a stupid fool, huh? The guy’s a lyin’ cheat, and I still love him.”

“You’re not a stupid fool,” I said, putting my arm around her. “The problem is we can’t always choose who we fall in love with. I don’t know what to tell you, though. This is something only you can decide.”

“The lawyer said I should think about it for a few weeks.”

“He’s right.” A part of me panicked. “Uh, are you going to be heading on back to Arkansas soon? I bet your mom really misses you.”

She stood up and stretched. “Haven’t really thought about it. I’m here to tell you, though, Mama’s about the last person I feel like seeing now.” She tugged down her tiny denim shorts. “Well, I’m beat. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

I sat on the porch for a long time afterward, enjoying the solitude and the falling dusk. The streetlight at the end of the street flickered on, and the boys across the street went inside. I stared up into the black sky, the stars sprinkled across it like a dusting of confectioner’s sugar, and thought of Rita and Skeeter, Roy and Nora and Grace, of Jillian and Dolores and Ash, of Dove and Garnet, me and Gabe, of the betrayals, big and small, we enact on people we loved or claimed to love or once loved. I rubbed my arms briskly and sat up. It was getting late, and my thoughts were getting depressing.

I was opening the screen door when the red Harper truck pulled up in front of the house. Sam popped out, grabbed his surfboard from the bed, and started across the lawn. I sat down on the steps and waited for him.

“Hi,” he said, propping his surfboard on the porch and sitting down next to me. “How was your day?”

“Busy. How were the waves?” I smiled teasingly and bumped his shoulder with mine. “And the chicks?” He smelled clean and slightly salty.

He grinned. “Dove squealed on me, huh? It was great. But that’s not all I did today.”

“What other kind of mischief did you get into?”

“I got a job.” His face glowed with pride, like a five-year-old showing his first finger painting.

“A job? Where?”

“At Eudora’s. I’m working the counter four nights a week. I started tonight. I hope it’s okay, but I used your name as a reference. I was going to ask you first, but I saw the ‘Help Wanted’ sign and just went for it.”

“No, that’s fine.”

“Mr. Stanhill said you and he were old friends. When I told him who I was, he said he’d give me a try. I mean, if you can’t trust the police chief’s son, I guess you can’t trust anyone. That’s what he said, anyway.” He tightened his bottom lip. “I don’t know how Dad’s going to take it, but I want to pay you that money back and I need to save some so . . .” He left it open.

“I’ll tell him. I’m sure he’ll be happy for you.” Actually, I didn’t know how he would feel. I don’t think he intended on Sam setting up shop here in San Celina, and then there was the question of where he would live. I rubbed my forehead.

“No, he won’t. He’d be happy to see me split,” Sam said, standing up, his voice cool. “You can tell him I will as soon as I save some money. Until then, just let him know I’m looking for another place to crash.”

“Don’t worry about that. We’ll figure something out that everyone can live with.”

“Just tell him, okay?”

As he started up the steps a paperback book fell out of his sweatshirt pocket. I picked it up and glanced at it before handing it back to him.

“Pascal?” I commented. “Is that your father’s book?” Gabe had been doggedly working on a master’s thesis in philosophy since I met him. His books and notes were scattered around the house like confetti.

He glanced over his shoulder furtively, as if expecting Gabe to storm out of the house and demand the book back. “I just saw it lying around. Is he looking for it?”

“No, he’s too busy with Nora’s murder to be working on his thesis right now. He probably doesn’t even miss it.” I looked at him thoughtfully. “Are you finding it interesting?”

He lifted one shoulder in an indifferent shrug. I felt like hugging him. I knew exactly what he was doing because I’d done it myself: trying to find a clue to Gabe’s personality in the underlined passages of his schoolbooks. I wish I could tell him that it was futile, that his father was more complex than that, that those underlined passages were only vague hints about who he was.

“I think I’ll go to bed now,” I said. “Congratulations on the job. And don’t worry about repaying the money. I told you it’s a gift.”

“I’ll pay it back,” he said, his voice firm and unyielding. “I’m
not
a flake, no matter what my dad says.” He touched my arm lightly when I brushed past him on the porch. “Thanks,
madrastra
. Thanks for being cool about all this.”