Irish Chain (2 page)

I closed and locked the heavy Spanish door of the old Sinclair Hacienda, now the Josiah Sinclair Folk Art Museum and Artists’ Co-op, thanks to the generosity of our rich benefactress, Constance Sinclair. When I reached my old red Chevy pickup with “Harper’s Herefords” still stenciled on the doors, I turned and surveyed the newly painted two-story adobe house and stables with a bit of a proprietary air. Two weekends ago the entire co-op had banded together and whitewashed the outside walls, restained the rough wood posts supporting the front porch and planted the huge brick-colored clay pots in front with flowers native to San Celina County—tiny purple Shooting Stars, yellow Bermuda Buttercups, and exotic Leopard Lilies with their long stamens and polka-dotted petals. The building positively gleamed in the muted sunlight of the February morning. A crisp breeze whipped at the eucalyptus trees circling the gravel parking lot in a silvery-green windbreak. Tilting my head back, I took deep breaths of the spicy air, reveling in the unaccustomed warmth of the sun on my face. It was the first morning in over a week that the Central Coast hadn’t been startled awake by one of the violent rain and wind storms that had ended California’s drought this winter with a fervor not usually seen on the West Coast.

I’d grown to love the museum and co-op almost as much as the ranches I’d lived on all my life. After Jack died and I moved off the Harper Ranch, which he’d owned with his brother, this job had been my lifesaver. I threw myself into the daily rhythms of the museum and co-op, and with time, forged a new life. Though not one I would have necessarily chosen, I’d come to the point where waking up every morning was something I actually anticipated. Losing Jack taught me one important lesson. You had to enjoy each day given you, because it just might be your last. Something so simple to know, so hard to do.

Within a half hour, I was in the bedroom of my rented Spanish-style bungalow, jeans and pink flannel shirt on the floor, balanced on a makeshift dressmaker’s platform of three old San Celina telephone books, doing what comes naturally to me when I’m around Dove—whining.

“I can’t believe I’m going to wear this.” Frowning at my image in the long brass mirror in the comer of my bedroom, I tugged at the tight bodice of the banana-yellow, hoop-skirted formal that was squeezing my midsection into jelly. From the waist down, I resembled a dime-store boudoir lamp shade.

“Quit wiggling,” Dove said. “You’re worse than a two-year-old.” She gave my butt a whack with the back of her hand. I barely felt it under the layers of netting and filmy chiffon.

When I acquired the job as curator, I’d anticipated, between eccentric artists, rich patrons and the dependably crazy public, having to deal with a variety of unusual circumstances. Nothing in my imagination ever included hoop skirts. Except when Constance brought around the occasional dignitary in hopes of finagling a donation and I wore my calf-length black skirt with a silk cowboy shirt and my good Tony Lama deerskin boots, my work attire consisted of the same uniform I’ve worn most of my life—brown Justin Ropers and Wrangler jeans laundered soft enough to sleep in.

“Turn around so I can get the other side done up,” Dove said. With tiny steps, I shifted position, trying not to topple off the slick phone books.

“Do I look as ridiculous as I feel?” I asked my best friend, Elvia Aragon. She lounged across my brass bed in a three-hundred-dollar Tabasco-red silk jogging suit, looking beautiful enough to grace a cover of
Elle
magazine.

“I don’t know,” Elvia answered. “How ridiculous do you feel?”

“On a scale of one to ten, I’d say nine and a half.”

“Oh, no. Eight, tops.” She laughed and crossed her dainty size five feet. They were clad in sparkling white Nikes that no doubt cost half my weekly salary at the museum and probably had only jogged the distance from the front door of her new lakefront condo to her perfectly restored 1959 British Racing Green Austin-Healy. That she was wearing American-made tennis shoes was a reluctant concession to the rabid second-generation patriotic sensibilities of her six younger brothers. As proud as she was of her Mexican heritage, in her heart, Elvia was a European, preferably French. She eyed me critically. “It is a sort of a Glinda the Good Witch look, isn’t it? Being from Kansas, that should light Gabe’s pilot, so to speak.”

“Thank you, Ms. Blackwell, for that insightful fashion review.” I hiked up the low-cut, sweetheart neckline and adjusted one tiny puffed sleeve. “What was your sister-in-law thinking when she picked out these bridesmaid dresses?”

“I have no idea.
Menudo
had more taste than Gilberto’s wife. She’s from Mississippi.”

“Watch it, girlie,” Dove mumbled, her mouth full of pins.

“I said Mississippi, not Arkansas,” Elvia said. “Big difference.” Her smooth milk-chocolate cheeks dimpled with a held-back smile.

“And don’t you forget it,” Dove said.

I ran my hands up and down my bare arms. “Are you positive you don’t have something else in your closet? I feel so . . . exposed.”

“That dress was made for a July wedding, not the end of February,” Elvia answered. “And we dug through every piece of clothing I own. This is the closest thing I have to anything that remotely suggests the Civil War. Why in the world didn’t you pick an easier theme for this Senior Citizen Prom than
Gone With the Wind?
”

“That was
your
little brother’s doing. Ramon and his Adult Recreation 101 Class at the university. I’d have chosen a shuffleboard tournament.”

“I think it’s real sweet of those kids to go to all that trouble for a bunch of old folks,” Dove said.

“Well,” I countered, “they do get out of writing a twenty-page term paper for it. That’s pretty strong motivation.”

Elvia picked up her cup of Raspberry Delight herbal tea sitting on my nightstand and took a sip. “I’m still vague on how you became involved. I thought your teacher assistant days were over.”

“Two of the ladies in my quilting class at Oak Terrace are on the Residents’ Board there. When Ramon and his class presented their project to the retirement home’s board but couldn’t find an adult sponsor, Thelma Rook volunteered me. I think she did it just to force me into wearing a dress.”

“Makes her a stronger woman than me,” Dove said.

“You’re one to throw stones,” I said, reaching down and pulling at the strap on her faded denim overalls. “Are you anywhere close to being through? My toes are waving the white flag here in these pumps.”

“Keep your britches on, I still got one little part left to do.” Dove stood up with a groan, tossed her waist-length white braid over her shoulder and turned sharp blue eyes on Elvia. “What did you do, dance with a gorilla in this thing?”

“Gilberto’s brother-in-law, Dwayne, from Tupelo,” Elvia said. “A reasonable facsimile.”

“I think I’ll rest my knees and have a piece of that peach cobbler I brought you.” Dove reached over and pinched my forearm. “Word to the wise, honeybun. If you want that man of yours to stay sniffing around, you best start keeping something more to eat in your icebox than Coca-Cola and Hostess Cup Cakes.”

“If he wants food, let him date a chef,” I said to her retreating back. She snorted in reply.

I kicked off my half-size-too-small satin pumps and sat on the bed, carefully avoiding the pins still holding part of the hem in place. “How’s the Mardi Gras festival coming along?”

Blind Harry’s, the combination bookstore and coffee house Elvia managed in downtown San Celina, had been chosen by the Chamber of Commerce as this year’s official Mardi Gras headquarters. She was in charge of the Mardi Gras Street Festival and Parade to be held a week from today. It was, according to our own
San Celina Tribune,
the most authentic Mardi Gras celebration in the United States outside the state of Louisiana itself. It was started fifteen years ago by a bunch of Louisiana natives transferred to the Central Coast by the various oil companies to work on the offshore drilling rigs. When the drilling stopped, many of the workers stayed, along with their festive and sometimes rowdy customs. They fit right in here in festival-loving San Celina County, where any excuse to “let the good times roll” was welcome.

“Everything’s on schedule so far,” she said. Elvia was in her element with a project like this. Nothing made her happier than being in charge. “It’s been more work than I anticipated, but the money we’ve taken in selling Carnival beads, trinkets and Mardi Gras masks has already made the books look better than the last five Februaries. That should upset Cameron a bit.” Her delicate red lips relaxed in a tiny satisfied smile. Cameron McGarry, the mysterious Scottish owner of Blind Harry’s, had originally intended the bookstore as a tax write-off to defray some of the profits of his three casinos in Reno. When Elvia took over the store five years ago, amidst all predictions to the contrary, she built the business into the most popular and profitable bookstore in three counties by adding a basement coffee house, special sections for mysteries, romance and science fiction and acquiring the largest commercial inventory of ranching and animal husbandry books in the state.

The phone on the nightstand rang. Elvia handed the receiver across the bed to me and stood up, pointing toward the kitchen.

“Save me some,” I said, my hand over the receiver.

“Benni?” The caller was female and distinctly aged.

“Yes?” I searched my brain trying to place a name to the semi-familiar voice. All fifteen women in my quilting class at Oak Terrace Retirement Home, a class sponsored by the Artists’ Co-op and a small city grant, had my phone numbers at home and at work. While working on the projects for the coming Spring Has Sprung boutique two months from now, they’d taken to using them indiscriminately.

“Miss Violet,” she said, her shaky voice sounding exasperated.

“Oh, yes, Miss Violet.” I made a face at myself in the mirror. “How are you?”

All the ladies in my group had asked me to call them by their first names, except Miss Rose Ann Violet, who wasn’t about to allow that sort of informality at this late date in her life.

“She said she was going to kill him.”

“What?”

“She used the ‘A’ word, the ‘B’ word and the ‘D’ word. Twice.”

I shifted the phone to my other ear, wondering if senility had finally become brave enough to move in on the indomitable Miss Violet. “What are you talking about?”

“Oralee Reid,” she said. “And Brady O’Hara. Of course, I’m not surprised it has come to this. Poker is the devil’s own game. After Hattie told us everything, he turned mean as a snake and never could be trusted. We had to watch him every minute. Nickels or M&M’s. Doesn’t matter to them.”

“Excuse me?” It wasn’t the first time one of my ladies had strung together a group of sentences that didn’t quite fit with each other. Many of them were at Oak Terrace because of slight strokes, not just old age.

“Haven’t you been listening, Benni Harper? My goodness, you haven’t changed much, have you?”

She reprimanded me like my fourth-grade teacher, which was entirely natural, because she had been. Besides me, there were forty-two years of San Celina’s most upstanding citizens who had felt the sting of her tart voice and the humiliation of having their name scrawled in chalk on the comer of her clean blackboard. She didn’t teach everyone in San Celina the intricacies of fractions and the history of California missions, but there were enough of her alumnae around to swing a vote if they were so inclined.

“I am too listening,” I said, my tone reverting to a childish grumble. I cleared my throat and attempted a more adult tone. “I’m sure Oralee was kidding.”

“I think not. She swore on King Enoch’s head.”

“Really?” That shed an entirely different light on the matter. Oralee did not toss King Enoch’s name about frivolously. He’d been her prize Black Angus bull, the core of her herd for years. About six months ago, he broke out of his pasture and was trotting across the highway, equipment waving in the breeze, heading toward a bunch of unsuspecting heifers, when he was struck and killed by a one-ton Ford pickup hauling five-strand barbed-wire fencing. The rancher driving the truck came through without a scratch, but a lot of people believe the shock of King Enoch’s untimely death brought on Oralee’s stroke and her subsequent stay at Oak Terrace.

“I think we should inform the authorities,” Miss Violet said. “Isn’t your new beau connected with the police department in some way?”

“In some way,” I said vaguely, hoping she wouldn’t remember how. “What exactly is the problem between her and Mr. O’Hara?”

Miss Violet sighed. “Oralee said that he’s been cheating at poker for the last two months. They play for nickels. Or M&M’s.”

Well, that explained the earlier comment. The temptation was too great for me. “Plain or peanut?”

She sighed again. Louder this time. “Albenia Louise Harper, are you taking me seriously?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said. When Miss Violet used your full given name, it was time to stop joking. “I’m sorry. Can’t you speak to Mr. Montrose about it? As manager of Oak Terrace, it seems to me he should be the one to straighten this out.”

“That man!” Her voice grew as shrill as a parakeet’s. “All he’s concerned about is how many sugar packets we’re using in our cereal every morning. He’s absolutely no help whatsoever. He thinks he’s going to save himself watching those horses. Why, we told him he was going to have to pay. Did he really think he would get off scot-free? You know, he never was dependable. Oralee should have known that, but a body can’t tell her anything.”

I didn’t even attempt to figure that whole story out. “What exactly would you like me to do?” I asked with as patient and pleasant a tone as I could manage.

“Speak to Oralee,” she said. “For some incomprehensible reason, she listens to you. Some control must be gained over that temper of hers or I shall be forced to officially place a request for a more agreeable room companion.” Her voice lowered. “She smokes cigars, you know. In the bathroom at night. She thinks I don’t know, but I do. Papa always said I had the nose of a bloodhound.”