Spider Web (12 page)

“The sheets are new,” I said. “Just bought them from L.L. Bean. You’ll be sleeping on flannel pinecones.”

One side of his mouth came up in a smile. “Sounds painful.”

I slipped my arms around his waist and laid my face on his chest. The hair was soft under my cheek. I inhaled, holding his scent, like the deep breath a smoker would take from a long-anticipated cigarette. “I’ll miss you.”

He nuzzled the top of my head. “Me too. We’ll figure this out.”

“I know,” I murmured.

While he set his alarm and placed his cell phone on the nightstand, I fussed with the blankets and pillows as if he were an invalid child.

“Go to bed,” he said. “We both need some sleep.”

After he crawled under the covers, I stood next to the bed, not wanting to leave.

“Come here,” he said with a sigh.

I sat on the bed and leaned toward him. We kissed deeply, and the taste of him was still as intoxicating as a shot of whiskey; it made the hallway separating us feel like a vast canyon.

“Trust me,” he said, cradling my face in his hands. His thumbs stroked my cheeks.

“I do, Friday.”

On my way out, followed by a confused Scout, Gabe called out, “Close the door.”

I turned to look at him, hesitating.

“Do as I say, Benni.” His voice was firm, uncompromising.

I shut the door softly and went back to our king-size bed. It felt like a giant’s bed without Gabe’s presence. Scout stood next to me, bewildered by the unexpected change of routine. Gabe and I had slept apart before when we’d argued. Those times had upset Scout, who possessed a true diplomat’s heart. He seemed to understand that it was a squabble, and he’d move between us, nudging our thighs with his nose, trying to communicate in doggie language—can’t we all just get along?

But this situation confused him. There was tension but not anger. And his pack was sleeping apart. He whined, licked my hand, then went over and stood in the bedroom doorway, looking over his shoulder at me.

“I agree, it doesn’t feel right, Scooby-Doo. But we have to let him handle this in his own way.”

I read until past midnight, unable to sleep. Scout lay with his head on his front paws, his chocolate eyes wide and worried.

“All right,” I whispered, crawling out of bed and tiptoeing down the hallway. I placed my ear against the guest room’s cold door. I could hear Gabe’s snoring, a soft rumbling that wasn’t unpleasant, had never kept me awake. I carefully turned the knob and opened the door. Normally the sound would have instantly awakened him, but he must have been exhausted and in a deep sleep, because he didn’t stir.

Scout watched me from the middle of the hallway. I left the guest room door open and walked back to our bedroom. “Is that better? You can get to him now. And so can I.”

Like so many other times when I swore he knew exactly what I was saying, he sighed and went over to his bed, curling up in a tight ball, his nose pointed toward the bedroom where Gabe slept. In a few minutes, he was asleep and so was I.

CHAPTER 7

“
Y
OU LOOK AUSTERE,” I SAID THE NEXT MORNING WHILE spreading blackberry jam on my English muffin. Gabe was dressed in a dark gray suit wearing another small-patterned tie, gray and burgundy this time. “And sexy,” I added, hoping to make him smile.

Deep lines formed between his slightly bloodshot eyes. “I’ll probably be talking to the press today.”

“Well, you look very in control.”

“Wish I felt that way.”

“You’ll rally, Chief. So, do you think the city will cancel the Thursday night farmers’ market?”

Gabe shook his head, his jaw tense. “The town can’t come to a sliding stop because of this idiot.”

We finished the rest of our meal in silence.

Once he was gone, I called Dove. Though we’d always kept in close touch, once Aunt Garnet and Uncle WW moved to the ranch, I tried to call more often to see if there was anything she needed.

I was surprised when Daddy answered on the second ring.

“I’m leaving now,” he said, his voice grumpy. “They . . .”

“Daddy? Is Dove there?”

“No one’s here. They all left for town. Just me here. Me, the cows and the chickens.” He gave a forced laugh.

“Is everything okay?”

“Just fine and dandy,” he snapped. “Except for your gramma and her crazy sister trying to marry me off like some geisha girl up for sale.”

The simile was not even close to accurate, since geisha girls were entertainers, not prostitutes, but I wasn’t about to correct him and get my own head bit off. “Well, enjoy your time alone. I’ll track Dove down.”

“Whatever. I’ve got things to do.” He hung up without saying good-bye.

“You have a nice day, too,” I said to the dial tone. A cranky day for all the men in my life. Even Scout gave me a baleful look when I fed him dry kibble with his normal spoonful of canned dog food. Fortunately, his problem was easier to solve than Gabe’s or Daddy’s. I added a couple strips of cooked boneless chicken. His wagging tail was the nicest comment I’d received this morning.

This dating thing was really starting to upset my dad. It was past being funny now. I might have to take a chance on getting my nose bit off and speak to Dove and Aunt Garnet about poking into his love life. Though their intentions were honorable, maybe they needed to accept the fact that some people might be happier being single. Daddy certainly didn’t seem dissatisfied with his life. But I’d talk to my gramma and aunt later. Right now, I had enough to worry about with the Memory Festival.

I dressed in comfortable old jeans, sneakers and a sweatshirt because I would be at the folk art museum today getting things ready for the museum’s booth at the farmers’ market. It would promote both the Memory Festival and the new museum exhibits. Would the fair be safe tonight? So far, there’d been no pattern to the ambushes—one in midday, the other after dark. Would there be a third attack?

I called Elvia at home to tell her what I knew about the latest attack. Her answering machine came on after the fourth ring. When I tried Blind Harry’s, the clerk said that Elvia and Sophie were at the doctor’s office.

“No message. I’ll call her later. How’s the Memory Fair flyer situation?”

“We’re low,” the bookstore clerk said. “People seem real interested.”

“I’m heading downtown, so I’ll bring more.”

After dropping off the flyers, I decided to visit my cousin Emory. His office was located a couple of blocks from the bookstore on the second floor above the Ross department store.

Boone’s Good Eatin’ Chicken’s West Coast offices were decorated with burnished natural oak furniture. Framed photos of 1950s advertising pages depicting chickens and eggs lined the sage green reception-area walls.
Oxford American
and
Reader’s Digest
magazines flared out on the antique oak coffee table and an old wooden bowl filled with butterscotch and peppermint hard candies perched on the edge of the receptionist’s desk, which was neat and empty this morning. The offices had the slightly distressed style of a Depression-era country lawyer. I think my cousin had grand illusions of looking like Gregory Peck playing Atticus Finch. The offices had not gotten any bigger now that my uncle Boone had moved out from Arkansas. Uncle Boone left the daily running of the company to Emory now, something that my cousin, who dearly cherished his leisure time, complained about constantly. “Welcome to adulthood,” I always replied to his whining.

“Hey,” I called out. My voice was a tinny echo in the empty reception room. Normally, one of two women ruled this area—a receptionist named Caitlyn or Emory’s assistant, Birdie, whose office door, next to Emory’s, was closed. No answer.

“Is anyone home?” I called.

“Only me and the chickens,” my cousin replied from his office, whose door was partially open. “Come on in, sweetcakes.”

“Where is everyone?” I asked, glancing around his normally tidy office. Birdie was a fanatic about keeping it neat. Today there were files and papers everywhere, and the air smelled like burned almonds. “What have you been cooking?”

The smelly culprit turned out to be the coffeemaker on the credenza. I picked up the carafe and twirled the sluggish black liquid. “How long has this been sitting here?”

He ran both hands through his thick blond hair. “The ladies left for a computer seminar in Santa Barbara yesterday. I’ve been on my own. I made a pot yesterday and just turned on the coffeemaker to heat it up.”

“Then forgot about it, right?”

He lifted one shoulder and grinned.

“Pathetic,” I said, turning off the coffeemaker and unplugging it for good measure. “Why are they both gone at the same time? It’s dangerous leaving you here by yourself.”

He leaned back in his leather executive chair. “It’s our new computer system. It’ll hook us right up with the plant in Arkansas. The ladies need to take classes to learn how to use it and said it was better if they did it together. I was trying to catch up on some paperwork, but I’m thinkin’ it might be smarter to close up shop until they return.”

“I’m thinkin’ you might be right,” I said, flopping down in one of his visitor’s chairs. “Is there anything so desperately important that you can’t wait until they get back . . . when?”

“Friday. Not really.”

I held up a palm. “Then you have time to talk to me. I need a sympathetic listening ear. Preferably male.”

He grabbed the coffee brown Hugo Boss jacket slung haphazardly across his chair. “Trouble in paradise?”

“Something like that.”

“Let’s walk,” Emory said, taking my hand and tucking it into the crook of his arm. “Tell Cousin Emory all about it.”

Outside, a weak sun had made an appearance, drying patches of wet pavement. But, in the distance, dark clouds seemed to be gobbling up huge sections of the clean blue sky, warning us that another storm was on its way. Emory glanced up. “Looks like God is getting ready to spit on us real soon.”

“I do hope you don’t plan on explaining rain to Sophie with that particular metaphor.”

He smiled. “Speaking of the most beautiful girl in the world next to my darlin’ wife, we got the proofs back of the Easter photos.” He let go of my arm and reached inside his coat, pulling out a thick envelope. “I paid extra to have them sent overnight.”

On the way downstairs, I flipped through the photos, impressed by Van’s ability to pick the exact right moment to snap the shutter. There were so many cute ones. “Wow, this Van guy really is good.”

“Not bad for a guy who’s more used to taking photos of hurricane damage, bombed-out cities and other natural and unnatural disasters.”

“Really? Who did he work for?”

“Associated Press, I was told, and
National Geographic.
Then he went independent for a while, took some incredible photos in Beirut. And now he’s a baby photographer. What a comedown.”

“I’m sure that’s not all he does.” Out on the street, the sidewalks were busy with people trying to run their errands before the next storm hit. In California, when it rained, people stayed inside as if it were a blizzard.

“That’s right, he also does college coeds . . . that is, he takes photos of them.” He chuckled at his own joke.

“Why didn’t he get a job at the
Tribune
? It seems to me they would snatch someone with his talent and experience right up.”

“Ageism bites,” Emory said as we passed by the studio where Van Baxter worked. Today there was a younger man sitting behind the desk, talking to three women holding babies. “I don’t really know his story, but he is a bit long in the tooth . . .”

“That’s crazy. He looks like he’s around Gabe’s age. Forty-eight is not old. Besides, isn’t that against the law?”

“Call Gloria Allred and see if she’ll take the case. These days a journalist in his late forties is considered over the hill and through the dale and way past great-gramma’s house.” He pulled out a photo of Sophie laughing at the camera, both her dark eyes wide open, sparkling like sunlight on water. “I like this one best. What do you think, three hundred cards?”

“Who in the heck are you sending three hundred Easter cards to?”

He looked chagrined. “Crazy, huh? I was thinking about sending them to all the employees at the plant back in Sugartree. With a Visa gift card for twenty-five bucks?”

“The gift card is thoughtful, but you should restrain yourself to sending her photo to those of us who love her. Her godmother would like five copies.”

“Absolutely,” he said, taking my elbow and leading me into the new coffeehouse I’d seen on the news the other day, Bitter Grounds. Two uniformed police officers sat at a table near the window. Emory lowered his voice. “So, how is Gabe handling this crazy-ass sniper business?”

“That’s what I want to talk to you about. You know, this is the weirdest name for a coffeehouse.” I chose a table in the corner, far from the officers, hoping that no one could hear our conversation. “Seems to me people would steer clear of a coffeehouse that advertises bitter coffee.”

“You know college kids. They adore absurdity. This is a happening place, I’ve been told.” He put a finger over his lips. “We can’t tell my lovely wife we were drinking at the competition, but I figure less chance of people we know overhearing us here.”