Seven Sisters (31 page)

“I’ll explain when I get there,” I said, hanging up before he could harangue me. I wasn’t going to pay cell phone prices to be nagged at by the likes of a twangy-tongued detective. I called Gabe’s office where I got his voice mail so I called my house, hoping to find him there. When our answering machine replied, I left a quick message, trying not to project where or with whom he might be.

I sat for a moment staring at Eva Knoll’s address. She was a very old woman. Remembering Rose Brown and the guilt I felt about questioning her, I made a quick decision. What I was about to do would make Detective Hudson spit nails and quite possibly strangle me, but morally and humanely, it seemed my only choice. Before I went to his office, I dropped by the electronics store downtown and bought a small hand-sized tape recorder, the kind Emory used for interviews. I took it out of the box, slipped in one of the tiny tapes, and stuck it in my purse.

At the Sheriff’s Department, the front desk clerk, a young woman with a painfully sunburnt nose and dressed in a Hawaiian print dress, was hefting her red patent leather backpack over her shoulder, getting ready to leave. The offices appeared to be empty except for the departing receptionist.

“Benni Harper?” the young woman asked. She picked up a green apple from her desk and took a bite.

“Yes.”

“He’s really pissed,” the young woman said, around chews. “I’m a temp. Thank goodness. I’d never work full-time for these nutcases. And they’re supposed to be the good guys?
Sheesh
. Third office to your right. See ya.”

“Thanks,” I called after her, wondering if I should maybe follow her out and phone my information in.

I knew Detective Hudson was going to be annoyed that I didn’t run over to his office the minute my quilt class was over, but I hoped he’d be appeased when he heard I had the name and address, or at least the post office box number, of the nanny who cared for Rose Brown’s children. Not to mention the information I’d just gotten from Rose Brown herself. Maybe the killer of the babies had been living in San Celina all along, out in the desolate Carrizo Plains. That still didn’t explain why Giles would be killed, but I was confident that talking to this Eva Knoll would bring us one step closer to finding out who killed Giles and why.

When I came within his eyesight he bellowed, with a drill sergeant’s snappy bark. “Where have you been? Get in here. Now.”

“Unless you can the attitude,” I snapped back, “I’m outta here.” I added in a lower voice, “Jerk.”

He came barreling out of his chair. “What?”

Keeping my voice calm, I said, “Quit acting like a Nazi. I got here as soon as I could. What is your problem?”

Without answering, he inhaled deeply, sharp points of color staining his cheeks. He gestured for me to follow him into his office. He shut the door behind me and nodded at a visitor’s chair against the wall. I glanced around the compact office where two black-and-chrome office desks faced each other. One held a scattered group of Little League, ballet recital, and soccer team pictures, used coffee cups, a crumpled McDonald’s bag, a Beanie Baby snake, and stacks of files. The desk Detective Hudson sat behind contained only a green desk blotter, a black ceramic pencil cup filled with pens, a phone, and a picture of a redheaded girl about five years old sitting on the hood of his pickup truck. A sticker on his pencil cup showed a red circle with a slash through the word “whining.” Between the two desks was a calligraphy sign that mocked the Serenity Prayer—“God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the weaponry to make the difference.”

“Very inspiring,” I said wryly, nodding at the poster.

“What did you find out?” he asked.

“Geeze, let me take a breath. What’s the big hurry?”

“The big hurry is I’m getting my butt reamed out by my superiors because the sheriff is getting harassed from two prominent families—the Nortons and the Browns. One wants it solved, one wants us to quit poking around. I’ll leave it to you to guess who’s who.”

“Well, sor-ry,” I said, stretching out the word. “But that’s still no reason to be such a jerk. In case you forgot, I’m not on the payroll, buddy. This is purely voluntary on my part, so save your nasty remarks and bad attitude for someone collecting a county paycheck.”

He settled back in his chair, crossed his legs, and rested his hands across his flat stomach. Today he wore a pale yellow Arrow shirt and sedate, tobacco brown bullhide boots that looked like they cost a thousand bucks. “You’re absolutely right, Benni, and please accept my sincere and heartfelt apology. I’m just feeling like the rope between the cow and the cowboy. Know what I mean?”

I nodded, suspicious at his suddenly genial mood.

“So, what do you have for me?” he asked, keeping his voice even and pleasant. But I sensed the tension and determination behind his good-ole-boy demeanor. He really, really wasn’t going to like what I was going to tell him.

“I have the name and whereabouts of the nanny who worked for Judge and Rose Brown when she had the two sets of twins.”

He sat forward in his chair, his face amazed. I have to admit one-upping him, to quote Dove, dearly gladdened my heart. “Shoot, that’s great! But wait, that was back in the twenties. She’d have to be—”

“Ninety-seven and, according to my sources, still alive. Or at least someone is signing and cashing her Social Security checks.”

He jumped up and grabbed his pale cowboy hat from the credenza behind him. “Let me have her address. I’m going to talk to her right now before she croaks on me.”

I stood up and looked him squarely in the eyes. “No.”

He stopped dead, his hat still in his hands. Anger flashed like a dust devil across his face, then was gone. He took a couple of slow, controlled breaths then asked, “Why not?”

I already had my answer thought out. “What’s the difference between interviewing and interrogating?”

“What?”

“Tell me the textbook definitions.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Tell me.”

“Look, I’m not a barbarian.”

“The definitions, please.”

He gave a sharp, irritated sound, then said, “Interviewing is a non-accusatory, fact-finding mission where you let the suspect/witness do the talking. Interrogating is an active, confrontational method of questioning where you give the suspect a psychological reason to confess.”

“Now how old did I say Eva Knoll is?”

“Ninety-seven, but what’s that—”

“She’s an elderly woman, Detective Hudson. And no matter what she’s seen or done, I’m not going to let you browbeat her. I’m married to a cop. I’ve seen the techniques. I’ve
experienced
them. I know a so-called interview can turn into an interrogation in two seconds. I’m not going to allow that to happen. We’ll go see her tomorrow. It’s too late tonight and it’s a bit of a drive. Please note the pronoun we. And one other thing. I’m going to do the talking.”

He threw his hat down on the desktop. “There is no way you are interviewing this or any other possible witness. Give me that name and address now.”

“No.”

“I swear, if you don’t, I’ll . . . I’ll . . .” he sputtered.

“You’ll what? Call Gabe and tell on me? Inject me with truth serum? Lock me up for the night?” I held out my wrists. “Go ahead, book me.”

He literally growled at me, “Don’t think I won’t call your husband. I’ll tell him you’ve interfered in this from the very beginning, that I’ve asked you repeatedly to stay out of it, that you’re jeopardizing my investigation, and that I’ll have to go to my superiors if he can’t control you. I’ll embarrass you and him in front of all his colleagues.”

I smiled serenely, knowing I had him. “And you know what I’ll tell him and your boss? That you cajoled and harassed me into helping you on this case. That you didn’t have the resources or feel confident enough to solve it without the help of a lowly civilian. Worse than that, a
female
civilian. And then I’ll give the story to my cousin, the journalist. He’s always looking for amusing things to make fun of in his column. He’ll make mincemeat of your burgeoning career here on the Central Coast. You’ll be the laughingstock of every police agency in the county. Nope, you got me into this, and now I’ve got the upper hand. I suggest you deal with it.”

He gave a nasty smile. “With your reputation, who do you think they’ll believe? Admit it, I have you there.”

That’s when I pulled the ace out of my sleeve. Or rather, the tape recorder out of my purse. “They’ll believe me, Detective, because I’ve been recording key conversations with you for days, and the tapes are in my safety deposit box.” I wiggled the tiny tape recorder.

He stared at the recorder, opened his mouth and started to say something, then closed it. His brown eyes were dark and angry, and I tried to quell the anxiety in my chest and the truth on my face. It was the biggest bluff I’d ever attempted, me of the billboard face.

Slowly a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Then he let out a small laugh. Shaking his head, he said, “Oh, man, you’re good.”

Surprised, I laughed, too, and said, “Yeah, I know.”

“With an ego to match mine,” he added.

“Meet me tomorrow. Nine o’clock at the folk art museum.”

“I’ll be there with my whips and thumbscrews.”

“I told you, Detective, no browbeating on my watch.”

He lifted his eyebrows slightly. “My dear Mrs. Harper, who said they’re for the old lady?”

In the parking lot I called home again to see if Gabe was there. When the answering machine took the call, I hung up.

The driveway was empty. Inside the house, it was apparent Gabe hadn’t been home yet—no briefcase or dirty glasses in the sink. Another dinner with Lydia? Annoyed, I listened to my message to him on the answering machine, then the one after it.

“Sweetheart,” he said. “I have a dinner with the city manager and then I’m going to drop by Lydia’s hotel to talk about Sam. She and I have missed each other all day. I’ll be home as soon as I can.
Te amo
.”

“Yeah, me, too, Friday,” I said, feeling sad rather than angry. I fed Scout, then heated up a can of soup and watched a couple of sitcoms on TV before falling asleep. The sound of the shower running awakened me, and I glanced at the bedside clock—ten-twenty.

“How was your dinner with the city manager?” I asked when Gabe climbed into bed.

“Fine,” he said, turning to me and pulling me into his arms, nuzzling my neck.

I lay there for a moment, tempted by the masculine rasp of his beard, his gentle, seductive tongue, then pulled away. “I’m tired.”

“All right,” he said without argument. He kissed my temple, then settled into his side of the bed.

I lay there in the dark and listened to his breathing slow down until he fell asleep. The lacy curtains covering our bedroom window made snowflake patterns on the ceiling, and I watched them move and change, like all the lives surrounding me, like my own life.

SAM CAME BY the next morning and had breakfast with us, his dark eyes ringed blue with fatigue.

“How is Bliss?” I asked after Gabe left for work. I tossed some leftover bacon in Scout’s dish. His happy tail beat against my leg.

“She’s doing okay,” Sam said, leaning his chair back on two legs. “She still won’t talk about it, though. Says we just gotta move on.” His young face looked troubled. “What do you think she means by that?”

“I have no idea, Sam,” I said, taking his plate. “All I can suggest is give her time. Losing a baby and getting shot are both extremely traumatic.”

“What should I do?”

“Just listen. Don’t try to push her. Let her feel what she needs to feel. That’s all I know to tell you.”

“She told me last night she’s thinking about taking a leave from the police department. She said she might go up north for a while with her mom and sister. Don’t tell Dad. He doesn’t know yet.”

“How do you feel about that?”

“I don’t want to go up north. I just got my life together down here.”

I scraped a plate into the garbage can. “Only you can make that decision.”

“Do you think it’ll hurt our relationship?”

Determined to be honest, I said, “I have no idea, but it would be hard to build a relationship with someone if they aren’t around.”

“That’s kinda what I thought. Maybe we don’t love each other as much as we thought.”

“Then again, maybe a separation will help you both see what you really want.”

He nodded, his face miserable. “Like I said, don’t tell Dad any of this. Or Mom. I haven’t decided yet what I’m going to do.”

“You have my word,” I said, flattered he’d confide in me first. There was no doubt I’d miss him like crazy if he left.

He let the front of his chair drop on the kitchen floor with a thump. Scout went over and laid his head in Sam’s lap, and Sam massaged his ears, causing Scout to sigh deeply. “All I gotta say,
madrastra
, is being an adult sucks. It sucks big-time.”

“Yes, I know,” I said and poured myself another cup of coffee. “This I do know.”

DETECTIVE HUD ARRIVED at the folk art museum at five minutes to nine. He wore a pink shirt, another tweedy Western jacket and black-cherry-colored boots.

“Just how many pairs of boots do you own?” I asked, walking out to his truck.

“Twenty-two,” he said. “But that’s nothing. My mother owns forty.”

“The infamous mother. I don’t even believe she exists.”

He opened the passenger door, a bland look on his face. “Oh, believe me, she exists. Where’s your hound dog?”

“Left him home today. It’s a long, hot drive.”

He came around and climbed into the driver’s seat. “Okay, enough small talk. Where are we going?”

“Mariposa Valley.”

“Where’s that?”

“Out on the Carrizo Plains. Eastern part of San Celina County. Just get on 101 North, and I’ll tell you where to turn off.”

He put the truck into gear and pulled out of the parking lot. “Put on some music, or I’ll punish your insubordination by forcing you to listen to me sing.”

With Dale Watson singing low-down, truck-driving, honky-tonk country, I directed him to turn off on Highway 58 outside of Atascadero and headed east on the winding, two-lane highway toward Mariposa Valley. In the distance, the Temblor mountain range rose stark and forbidding against the white-blue morning sky. We passed small herds of cattle grazing among the long grasses, bunched together around an occasional wind-carved oak. Then the land changed to pure prairie, and the sky turned a deep solid blue. Birds flew high above us, swooping in the currents, too far away to tell if they were peregrine falcons or one of the many types of hawks that live out here on the desolate plains—red—tailed, Cooper’s, marsh, and rough-legged hawks.