Seven Sisters (32 page)

“Hard to believe we’re in the same county,” the detective commented. “How far are we going?”

“It’s about seventy miles to the fire station. That’s where the post office and the library is, too. I’m hoping someone there will give us an address.”

We passed a huge sun-faded billboard. He slowed down and read out loud, “WELCOME TO MARIPOSA VALLEY—2 1/2-ACRE PLOTS—GOLF COURSE, POOLS, SHOPPING CENTER, GOOD SCHOOLS—TOMORROW’S PLANNED COMMUNITY TODAY.” He glanced over at me. “What is this place?”

“That sign is almost as old as me. Back in the early sixties Mariposa Valley was apparently being advertised as the up-and-coming place to buy property. There were twenty-five thousand acres to be sold, as the sign said, in two-and-a-half-acre plots, and a whole town was going to be built. They wanted to name it Paradise Valley, but I think that name was already taken. Anyway, except for some die-hard desert rats of the human variety, the only things that prosper out here now are a lot of mule deer, lizards, coyotes, sandhill cranes, and the occasional rattler. The only time it really gets crowded is when the bird-watchers flock out here to add to their life lists.”

“What happened to the developer’s great plan?”

I reached for my purse and dug around for a rubberband. This time of year out here, it would probably get close to ninety, and the sun coming in the window was already turning my thick hair into an uncomfortable blanket on my neck. “It was missing one important element—water.” I zipped up my purse, irritated because I spend a fortune buying those fabric-covered hair scrunchies, yet never seemed to have one when I needed it. “You have a rubberband or a piece of string or something?”

“Check the glove compartment.”

I opened it, and next to the neat black leather map holder was a bright pink Barbie scrunchy. Good enough. I pulled my hair into a high ponytail and turned to stare out the window. “It shouldn’t be real hard to find her. I don’t imagine there’s more than a couple of hundred people who live out here these days.”

“Then maybe we can get this cleared up today.”

“I sure hope so,” I said.

We passed only one other vehicle in over an hour, a San Celina Sourdough Bakery truck. Except for a couple of wind-blasted farmhouses, miles of black sage, manzanita, and chaparral, and a cluster of rusty combines laced with shiny-feathered crows, we could have been driving on Mars. Every once in a while we passed an abandoned car skeleton, bleached almost colorless by the harsh, prairie elements, squatting among the grasses—a twentieth-century reminder of nature’s uncompromising power. The desolation out here had always slightly unnerved something deep inside me and though I’d eat a plateful of hay before admitting it, I was glad for Detective Hudson’s presence and especially the gun underneath his tweed cowboy jacket.

“We’re almost there,” I said when we passed by the closed Butterfly Cafe and the graffiti-decorated, abandoned motel. I pointed to our right at a group of buildings about a mile away.

Outside the combination fire station/community building a single person stood watering a struggling section of lawn. We pulled into the parking lot next to the only other car, a tan Toyota pickup. I was right about the temperature. The hot and dusty air hit us with a slap when we stepped out of his air-conditioned truck. The person watering, a tall, proud-looking Latina dressed in engineer-striped overalls and a white tank top, watched us curiously. There was something vaguely familiar about her, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.

“Let me do the talking,” I said in a low voice.

“I will not,” he replied.

“You’ll blow it,” I spat.

He grabbed my elbow, then swung around to the front of me so his back was to the woman watering, blocking her from my view. “Look, I’ve been extremely patient so far, but I’m not going to let an inexperienced civilian screw up this chance for me.”

“
You
look. The people who live out here aren’t like regular people. Many of them are hermits and other loners who are very skittish about anyone they don’t know. I have connections with some of the ranching families out here and so have a better chance at getting them to talk.”

He stood with his hands on his hips, a condescending sneer on his face. “You honestly think you can do better than me?”

I folded my arms across my chest. “Yes, I do. If they find out you’re a cop, they’ll clam up, and we’ll never find out anything.”

He stepped aside and swept his arm out dramatically. “Then by all means, go ahead. But I’m warning you, if you blow it, I’ll—”

“Fire me?” I finished. “Detective, just follow me, keep your mouth shut, and your gun ready.”

“You are really asking for it, Mrs. Harper.”

I ignored him and started toward the woman in overalls, putting on a friendly smile. “Hey,” I said.

“Hey,” she repeated, her handsome face open but wary.

“My name’s Benni Harper, and this is... my friend... uh, Hud.”

Squinting into the bright sun, she nodded at the detective. The hose she was watering with sputtered, and she turned around, straightening the kink in it. “Harper,” she said, when the water started flowing smooth again. “I used to know a Wade Harper when I was a bartender in San Celina. A place called Trigger’s.”

“Wade was my late husband’s brother. Trigger’s closed awhile back. Lost their liquor license.”

“I heard. So, you’re Jack Harper’s wife? I remember him, too, ’cept he was a lot quieter than Wade. He left good tips. Nice eyes.” She put her thumb over the hose’s metal lip to make a thin spray.

“Yes,” I said, remembering Jack’s gentle brown eyes. “He did have nice eyes. He died a few years ago in a car accident.”

“That’s rough. I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.”

She peered at me closer. “You know, I feel like I’ve seen you somewhere. Did you hang out at Trigger’s, too?”

“Not much. But I know what you mean. You look familiar to me, too. I grew up in San Celina. My dad and gramma own a ranch east of the city.”

She walked over to turn off the spigot. “Cattle?” she said over her shoulder.

“Yep, some Angus, some Santa Gertrudis, some Hereford crosses. My dad likes to experiment with different breeds.”

She turned back to face me, her brown, oval face thoughtful, then said, “I got it! We sat across from each other at a Cattlewomen’s Association Christmas luncheon about five years ago. Over at that Mexican restaurant near the Goodwill store. A lady next to you was talking about antique buttons.”

“That’s right,” I said. “She had one that was worth two hundred dollars, remember? We were flabbergasted.”

“Yeah, I remember. That was when I was still with my first husband, Danny Wheaton.” She made a sour face that was more telling than words.

“I know the Wheatons. They own a ranch north of the city. Nothing but Black Angus. Danny and I went to high school together.”
And he was a spoiled, rednecked jerk if I remember correctly
, I added to myself.

“That’s them. Meanest bunch of people you ever saw. Especially the mother. Danny was her pride and joy, and he took full advantage of that.”

“How’d you end up out here?” I searched my brain for her name, it was something unusual . . . Danny and . . . Rolanda, Renata . . . Riccarla. That was it. “Riccarla,” I said.

A big grin spread across her face as she wiped her wet hands on her overalls, leaving dark spots. “That’s a pretty good memory you have. Met my current guy when I left Danny and was working at Trigger’s. Bobby’s great. He’s the mailman out here. I run the library three days a week and spend the rest of the time making bay leaf wreaths. I sell them at the Farmer’s Market.”

“You make those! They’re beautiful. I bought one for my gramma last year. She loves it.”

“Thanks. It keeps me off the street corners.”

Behind me I heard Detective Hudson impatiently clear his throat. Ignoring him, I said to her, “Being the mailman, I bet your husband knows everyone who lives out here.”

“Yeah, he does. Lived here his whole life. His family’s land goes back to one of the original Spanish land grants. We live out on the old place. Real log cabin. Takes us forty-five minutes just to get to the station here.”

“Guess you really like your privacy,” I said.

“After listening to those Wheatons yammer for six years, you betcha.” She stuck her hands deep into her pockets. “So, what are you two doing out here? Going to see the petroglyphs on Painted Rock? I think it may be closed right now. They’ve been having some trouble with vandalism.”

“No, actually we’re looking for someone.”

Her face instantly closed down. “Is that so?”

“Yeah, all we have is a post office box and we really need to talk to this person.” I smiled my friendliest, most disarming smile. “I promise, we’re not process servers.”

She gave a small smile. “Who’re you looking for?”

“Eva Knoll.”

Her face definitely took on a cool demeanor. “Why?”

“Just want to ask her some questions.”

She jerked her head over to the fire station, her friendliness gone. “Might be better if you talked to Lukie. She knows Eva best.”

“Lukie?”

“She’s the fire captain. Closest thing we have to the law out here. Talk to her.” A few feet away a faded green Chevy pickup pulled into the gravel parking lot. Five children under ten scrambled out of the bed and ran toward the small door marked LIBRARY. She waved at them. “My public beckons. Nice shooting the breeze with you. Tell Wade hey from Riccarla if you ever see him again.”

Behind me, Detective Hudson gave a mocking chuckle. “A half hour of playing ‘six degrees of separation’ and she tells you to talk to the fire captain. Very impressive interviewing. I was taking notes the whole time.”

I turned around and, without a word, punched him hard on the arm.

“Hey, hitting a cop is against the law,” he said, rubbing the spot.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Let’s go see the fire captain.”

“Are you going to let me do the talking this time?”

“No, I
still
know these people better than you.”

“Fine, screw up our only chance to find this old woman.”

“I’m not going to screw it up.”

Inside the sparsely furnished fire station office, it took three minutes to get from the fire captain, a tanned, athletic-looking woman dressed in the neat, green uniform of the Forestry service, that yes, she did know Eva Knoll, and no, she wouldn’t tell us where she lived.

Behind me, Detective Hudson started to say something. I turned around and held up my hand for him to keep quiet. He glared at me. I glared back.

“Why not?” I asked her. “Like I said, we don’t want to hurt her or anything. We just want to ask her some questions. Riccarla can vouch for my identity and integrity.” I decided to pull out what I hoped was my ace in the hole. “I’m married to San Celina’s police chief.”

“You’re Gabe Ortiz’s wife? He’s a nice guy. Talked to him about old Chevys a while back at a Chamber of Commerce thing. He said he’s restoring his son’s Malibu. Sixty-five, I think it was.”

“Yeah, Gabe loves old cars. We have a restored 1950 Chevy pickup. Original interior. His dad bought it in Wichita, Kansas, the same year Gabe was born.”

“Cool,” she said, nodding appreciatively.

“About Eva Knoll . . .”

“I’m sorry, but I just can’t.”

“But, honestly, we won’t hurt her. We just want to ask her some questions.”

A deep crevice formed between the woman’s clear blue eyes. “I’m not questioning your identity or integrity and I’m sure you’re a very nice person, but things are different out here. Our motto is ‘Don’t ask, don’t tell.’ Folks move out here because they don’t want to be bothered by people, and we try to accommodate them. Sometimes it’s for illegal reasons. I’m not saying we don’t have our share of drug labs, but most times it’s just that they want to be left alone. We’re a tight group. We look out for each other because we have to. If we called the Sheriff’s Department it would take an officer over an hour to get out here. That makes us pretty independent and self-sufficient. Eva’s our oldest citizen, and we all feel real protective about her. I can give her a message, and if she wants to get back to you, then it’s her choice.”

“But it’s very important I talk to her as soon as possible. It’s a long drive out here. Does she have a phone? Can you call her?”

Lukie hesitated for a moment, then said, “Sure, I’ll try.”

She punched the number in and waited. “There’s no answer. Guess she’s out back in her greenhouse. She can’t hear the phone out there. Like I said, I’ll give her your number.”

I bit my lip in frustration. “Isn’t there any way I can convince you to tell me where she lives?”

“Like I said we feel real protective of Eva.”

“Please, if I...”

Her eyes widened slightly as she peered over my shoulder. “Well, that would do it. Let me write down her address for you.” She turned back to her gray metal desk and started hunting through a Rolodex.

I whipped around to look at Detective Hudson. He was holding up his badge and wearing a smug grin.

“Smart-ass,” I muttered.

“Now, now,” he said, patting me on the shoulder. “Let’s not be a sore loser.”

After the captain showed us on the huge wall map where Eva Knoll’s house was, she said, “Please be careful. Eva’s very fragile these days.”

“I promise,” I said, glancing over at Detective Hudson, who was expressionless, “we will do our very best not to upset her.”

“WE’D HAVE THIS interview done and eating lunch back in San Celina if I’d done that sooner,” he said.

“Oh, pipe down,” I said halfheartedly, staring out the window. At the side of the road a gray pronghorn antelope, its stomach open and raw, sat waiting for the elements to clean it to bones. No animal control officer out here to shovel up death and dispose of it neatly. “And I meant what I said to the fire captain. If Eva Knoll shows any signs of getting upset, I’m going to stop you.”

He just shook his head and started humming the Dwight Yoakam song “A Thousand Miles from Nowhere...”

It took us forty-five minutes to find her place. For a little while we drove along the edge of Soda Lake. A silvery-white layer of water glimmered, miragelike, across the flat lake. The surrounding prairie mounds covered with bunch-grass were mirrored perfectly in the lake’s glassy surface.