Goose in the Pond (36 page)

In front of the church a table was set up where a group of citizens were collecting signatures to try to get a proposal on the next ballot to change San Celina’s grammatically improper adulterated name back to its original Santa Celine in celebration of the mission’s upcoming two hundred-and-twenty-year anniversary. I told them I’d catch them later and followed my husband up the stairs. When I reached the top and read the small sign underneath the times for masses, I felt really embarrassed and more than a little pathetic.

CONFESSIONS HEARD—MONDAY AND THURSDAY—1:00 P.M. TO 3:00 P.M.

I turned to leave when the heavy wooden door of the church flew open and a person barreled out, almost knocking me down. I found myself staring into the stricken face of Dolores Ayala. Her dark eyes were full of tears. A look of panic contorted her face when she recognized me.

“Are you all right?” I said, putting out a hand to steady her.

She gave a small cry and shoved me away, running down the steps.

I watched her hurry through the square and disappear around the corner. Questions swirled in my head as thick as the flocks of seagulls circling the mission’s bell tower. Had Dolores just been at confession? What had she confessed that made her so upset? Could she be involved somehow with Nora’s death?

The door of the church opened behind me, and an older woman wearing a white lace covering over her gray hair came out. It occurred to me that Gabe could come back out anytime, so I started walking back toward downtown. The murder of Nora Cooper had so many loose ends that I could imagine how crazy Gabe and his detectives felt. Between that and the pain of grieving for Aaron, I was truly afraid for him. I’d definitely have to tell him about Dolores, too, but this was not the right time. I glanced at my watch. What I could do was go down to the bus station and check my theory about the keys. Maybe I’d be able to hand some evidence over to him that would help solve this case. Then he’d at least have one monkey off his back.

If San Celina had a bad side of town, the area around the bus station would definitely qualify. I was right about one thing. It was the place for the homeless to hang around without being harassed too much. Inside, the smell of Lysol, exhaust, and fried food made my stomach churn. I walked past a group of teenagers sitting on huge duffel bags and smoking cigarettes. Their conversation was in German, and one bare-chested boy sported pierced earrings on both nipples plus one on his upper lip in the shape of a black bat. When Gabe regained his sense of humor, I’d have to point out to him that there were definitely worse things than a small tattoo of a sun.

I checked out the locker situation. They were the type where you put four quarters in and removed the key. The kind we used as kids at the roller-skating rink. There were approximately thirty of them. The price was one dollar for the first twenty-four hours and two dollars each additional twenty-four hours with a ten-dollar lost-key charge. I read the notice on the front. ARTICLES LEFT WITHOUT PAYMENT AFTER TWENTY-FOUR HOURS SUBJECT TO IMPOUNDMENT. Then I carefully studied the key. I had a feeling with those sort of prices I was barking up a wrong tree, but I sat down on one of the blue plastic chairs and dug through the Tupperware container. The attendant behind the counter must have seen stranger things because he didn’t even look twice at me. None of the keys matched.

Disappointed, I put the lid back on the container and thought for a moment. Where else could the homeless store things? I got up and went to the phone and dialed an acquaintance, Sister Clare, down at the Mission Food Bank. A nun who was also a social worker and ombudsman for the homeless, she probably knew their world better than anyone else. I’d met her when the co-op had donated a quilt for a benefit auction to raise money for the food bank’s new commercial-size freezer.

“Sister Clare, this is Benni Harper. I’m not sure you remember me—”

“Sure do,” she said, her slight Scottish accent denoting her birthplace. “Run that museum, you do. What’s up? Got a pretty penny for that quilt. We do thank you.”

“Anytime, really. Our artists have a real commitment to helping the community. I have a question about the homeless.”

“Shoot.”

“Where do they keep their possessions?”

“What they don’t keep with them, they usually keep down at their camps. But they sometimes split their stuff up and store it in different places around the city. Lots of times they even forget where, poor souls. A lot of them just are singing their own tune, you know? Why? You looking for something specific?”

“Not really. It was just a question.”

“Doing a little investigating, are you?”

“Well . . .” I hedged, not wanting to lie to a nun.

“You don’t have to answer to me. I think a wife should be involved in her husband’s life. And I think the journalists in this town are doing a real injustice to Chief Ortiz. He’s a fine man. Since he’s been chief, his officers have treated the homeless with real dignity. He concentrates on the real criminals, not the poor disenfranchised souls the rich folks think muck up our pretty streets. The only other thing I can tell you is that the shelter down by the bus station keeps lockers for the homeless. They have to be looking for a job, though, and they’re inspected regularly. First sign of drugs or booze, they kick ’em out.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll give them a try.”

“Tell Frank I said you were okay. He’s a little distrustful sometimes.”

The shelter was only two blocks away. Frank’s suspicious demeanor disappeared when I dropped Sister Clare’s name.

“Sister Clare’s good people. There’s about fifty lockers. We provide the locks, but we keep a copy of their key. We do spot inspections, but usually everyone follows the rules. They use them mostly to keep clothes in.”

I described the Datebook Bum to him.

“Oh, you mean, Mr. Iacocca.”

“What?”

He laughed and brushed some invisible dust off the sleeve of his green double-knit shirt. “That’s what we call him. Sure, he kept some stuff here. Haven’t seen him for a few days, though.” He leaned close and said in a confidential voice. “Technically I shouldn’t keep his stuff. Guy’s never going to get a job, but he’s a nice old coot and doesn’t bother nobody. I made an exception.”

I told him about the police finding the man’s body and the futile search for any family.

“That’s real pissant,” he said, his voice genuinely sympathetic. “I always wondered about him. Figured a guy like him musta been somebody at one time.”

“About his stuff—”

“Ain’t much, but you’re welcome to look at it. Long as Sister C says you’re okay, you’re okay.”

He brought back a small stained duffel bag. “You may as well keep this junk,” he said, sliding it across the counter to me. “Nobody else is going to claim it, and we’ll just throw it out.”

“Thanks,” I said, grabbing the bag.

In the car I unzipped it. There was a pair of clean khaki pants, a bunch of pens, and wrapped in a threadbare towel about fifty rainbow-colored computer disks with all the labels torn off. Deep in my gut I had a strong suspicion, or hope, that they were Nora’s missing disks. Would her last column be on one of them? And the question remained, where did the Datebook Bum find these and who threw them out?

Now
you should go to Gabe.
I glanced at my watch. But if he’d just got back from confession, the last thing I wanted to do was start another fight. At least give him time to do penance before I forced him to sin again.

One more hour or so wouldn’t matter, I convinced myself while heading for Elvia’s store, the only place there was a computer at my disposal. She wasn’t working tonight, but her clerks knew me and let me into her office. I switched on her IBM and pulled out the disks, my heart sinking just a little. It was going to be a tedious business. I glanced at her expensive desk clock. Five-forty. I could work until about six-thirty or so without anyone wondering where I was. Then I’d have to call home and make some excuse as to why I was late.

Not being an expert on the computer by any means, it didn’t take me long to realize that Elvia’s software program was different from the one Nora used. No matter what I tried, I couldn’t get the disks to read. I’d have to take these somewhere else, someplace that had a large variety of software programs on the hard drive. A computer store? I wasn’t sure that they’d let me use a computer for hours. If I walked in carrying fifty some-odd disks, it would be pretty obvious I wasn’t there to buy a computer. The only other place I knew with that sort of equipment was the library. I hesitated for a moment, then shook off my uncertainty. It was a public place, and no one would have a clue as to what I was doing.

I glanced at the clock again, then picked up Elvia’s phone. Rita was the only one home, and I quickly told her to leave a note telling Dove and Gabe I’d be at the library for a few hours. I shoved all the disks in my backpack and headed for the library.

I was disappointed to find all six computers in the computer lab full, with no time slots open until the next day.

“Is it always this crowded?” I asked the clerk.

“Sorry, school’s back in session. You know how that goes.”

My desperate look must have touched him.

“Say, you could always use one in the children’s department,” he suggested, “if you don’t mind sharing the room with kids. The computers are a little older, but they still work okay.”

“Do they have a variety of software programs in them?” I asked.

“Not if you’re looking for the absolute latest, but they have the old standards.”

“I’ll give it a try. Thanks.”

I only had to wait a half hour in the children’s department.

“Monday nights aren’t as popular,” the library clerk told me when I paid my two dollars. “Parents are still recuperating from the weekend. Wednesdays are another story. You’d have to sign up a week ahead of time for Wednesday.”

The computer room was in the corner of the children’s department, with a small glass window and a cooling system that obviously needed work. The air in the room was freezing. There were four computers, but only one was occupied. The young girl and her mother were using Print Shop to make invitations for her upcoming birthday party. I switched on the old IBM, pulled out the stack of disks, and stuck the first one in.

My prayers were answered when I saw that one of the software programs matched Nora’s. I opened the first file and scanned the table of contents. It was a list of stories based on African animals and folklore. I opened each file and read the first few lines to make sure that’s really what the file contained, then opened the next file. When I finished one disk, I popped it out and opened another one. It was a tedious search. Nora had accumulated a vast library of stories and storytelling reference materials, and she was a meticulous recorder. I finished scanning the twenty-third disk and leaned back in my chair, rubbing my neck, almost ready to toss in the towel and take these to Gabe. Let his detectives perform this excruciatingly boring work.

Number twenty-seven changed my mind.

15

IT WAS NORA’S last column. The one that should have run this week instead of the one about me and Gabe. And would have if she hadn’t been killed.

I scanned down the page looking for a clue as to who might have killed her. As with all the other Tattler columns, she didn’t name names, but there were a few people I didn’t have trouble picking out. She hinted at a deadly secret in the past of a storyteller known for her animal tales with a touch of Tabasco: “Believe me, this storyteller’s secret will give y’all more bang than a sawed-off shotgun,” Nora had written. I flinched inwardly at her cruel remark. Nobody who knew Evangeline would miss that one.

Nora also wrote about the financial background of another storyteller who was “mired so deep in Mississippi mud it’d take a semi to pull them out.” I knew that was Ash, and so would anyone else with half a brain. Then she wrote about a library employee involved with the storytelling festival who had quite an exciting story involving lust, revenge, and murder. That maybe it was time the tale was told. She was deliberately obtuse with this one. A library employee? The three employees affiliated with the storytelling festival were Dolores, Jillian, and Nick. What secrets could each of them be hiding? Lust, revenge, murder? Certainly secrets many people had killed for. But I couldn’t imagine her deliberately revealing something that could hurt her brother. They’d always been so close, but Nora, even according to Nick, had changed after her son’s accident. And then there was the disagreement they had over the land she inherited, that last argument in the library—

I rubbed my temples. Three library employees. A body that would have been literally deadweight. I couldn’t see how either Jillian or Dolores could physically manage to move the body out to a car and down to the lake. That left Nick. No, I protested mentally. No way. Not Nick.

The only thing to do was give Gabe the disk and let him and his investigators decide what to do. Maybe information on it would correspond with something said in one of their suspect interviews.