Steps to the Altar (10 page)

I smiled to myself, amused at my own imagination. I was already giving this woman a life and a personality when all I really knew about her was she was married to the only son of a once-prominent San Celina ranching family, worked for a time as a journalist, and had killed her husband. And remembering the tea towels, she definitely had a mind of her own.

Allegedly killed her husband, the small voice inside me insisted.

Projecting undocumented feelings and possible scenarios into the lives of the people I was studying was one of the biggest problems, Russell Hill, my old history professor and mentor at Cal Poly, could find in my research papers. He once suggested that perhaps I should be minoring in creative writing and not agriculture and make my living writing historical fiction. This was all said in a gentle and amused manner as I was unabashedly one of his favorite students. I’d have to pay Professor Hill a long overdue visit in the next few weeks and see what he knew about Maple Sullivan. He had been born and raised in San Celina County and its history was his passion.

The fourth trunk, the older, cheaper one, was one that I would not trust to Detective Hudson’s inexperience. It held books, files of papers that appeared to be the original drafts of her stories, scrapbooks, including one that contained brittle yellowed clippings from the
Tribune
showing Maple Bennett Sullivan’s bylines. She had saved me from a lot of tedious research at the library. All I’d have to do was read this scrapbook. I pulled out one clipping and read her human-interest story about a man in a ranch outside of Cambria, back before rich people discovered the town, who had braided a rawhide riata for a war bonds drive. She described how he scraped the hair off the rawhide, cutting the strings from the full hide, beveling the strings so they would lay straight, and finally braiding the rawhide.

“It’s hard on the hands,” Abbott Fitzhugh, the cowboy artisan, said. “Even with hands as tough as these old paws. You get blisters and the muscles get real tired. You have to be careful to pull each string evenly so you don’t have a lumpy riata or it doesn’t pull itself into a circle.”

It was auctioned off for two hundred dollars to a Standard Oil executive. Fitzhugh, whose picture showed a man of lean handsomeness with thin, taciturn lips, had worked full-time as a wrangler up at the Hearst ranch, where he’d ridden for the rich newspaper man five days a week, then come home on the weekends and worked his own ranch. He was proud, he said, to help his country and had willingly and joyfully braided this rawhide riata in his spare time.

“And when, pray tell, would that be?” Maple Bennett Sullivan added in an authorial aside at the end of the piece.

Just that line alone made me like her. It told me she understood how hard this man worked and how precious his time was.

I picked up a packet of letters tied with a red ribbon. The top one was addressed to Garvey Sullivan, 112 Firefly Lane, San Celina, California. The return address was Maple Bennett, Mercy Ridge, Kentucky. Courting letters between Maple and Garvey? So, she was obviously a Southern girl, another thing that endeared her to me, seeing as I was technically born in Arkansas even if I had lived most of my life in California. I took the letters and the scrapbook of newspaper clippings to read when I found the time.

Underneath the packet of letters, in a tarnished silver frame, was a black-and-white photograph of a man and a woman. The engraving on the frame said MAPLE AND GARVEY—MAY 1, 1942. She had a sturdy thinness that suggested her tough, rural upbringing and a simple face with even, pleasing features. Her dark hair was shoulder-length cut in a modified Veronica Lake pageboy. Her eyes were also dark. In the black-and-white photograph, her red lipstick appeared the same color as her eyes. She wore a simple dark suit with a light-colored blouse pinned with a corsage of roses. He wore a dark suit with a small handkerchief tucked in the chest pocket. His hair was combed straight back from a high forehead. She smiled shyly at the camera while his face held a steady, solemn gaze.

Back in my office, I left a note on the front of the file containing the log sheets for the trunks.

“Leave the fourth trunk (the older one with the books and stuff) for me. And put everything back in the trunks
just like you found them.
” I underlined the last five words twice. Someone a long time ago had taken the time to pack her things neatly in her trunks and I didn’t want to dishonor that act. Of course, storing some of her things in the trunks might not be the best way, but I’d have to consult with Edna to see if she wanted to store them any other way . . . or even perhaps display them. There was a forties section of the historical museum where Maple’s things would fit in. On the other hand, some of the members of the society were probably put off by the fact that she was a criminal and didn’t want to celebrate that piece of San Celina history.

Alleged criminal, the voice corrected me again.

I sighed and left the file and note for Detective Hudson on the corner of my credenza where he couldn’t miss them. I was definitely going to have to find out more about this Maple Bennett Sullivan if for no other reason than to convince the skeptical little voice that there was no mystery here. A dead man, a rumored affair and pregnancy, a wife who disappeared leaving everything behind. Sounded just like what it was, a sordid mess of human emotion and pain, the breakdown of love between two people who couldn’t imagine that ever happening—a domestic disturbance that got out of hand—the stuff that patrol cops see every day of their lives. Today, the whole story would be dissected on a daytime talk show and the couple would be given their fifteen minutes of tacky fame before becoming another statistic.

Hunger pangs were telling me it was lunchtime, so I headed for my truck. It was past one o’clock, and on the way out, I met a couple of potters. Behind them trailed a group of quilters carrying an array of colorful bags containing supplies they didn’t store here. The co-op studios were always busier in the afternoons and evenings because many of the artists worked as housecleaners or other service-type jobs that were best done in the morning. That’s why I tried to go to the museum and get my work done before noon. When the co-op was full of artists, if I was in my office, it became the social and complaint center of the building, which I mostly enjoyed, but it also kept me from getting any real work done.

“Are you all ready for the Mardi Gras festival this Saturday?” I asked Manuel, this year’s co-op president. He was a leather worker who combined his talent with woodworking. He made very unique and popular leather and oakwood coffee and end tables.

“Everything’s on schedule and ready to go,” he said. “I’ll be down there early to set up the booths. I’ve got Bob and Jared and Ricardo helping so it shouldn’t take too long.” We were going all out and renting three booths this year. At a hundred bucks a booth, it was a gamble for the co-op since the money came out of our always meager budget. The deal was that everyone gave ten percent of what they sold back to the co-op. That meant we’d have to sell at least three thousand dollars of merchandise for the co-op to just make its booth rental back. A couple of big sales like Manuel’s tables would help, but most of the artists did well if they sold three or four hundred dollars’ worth of merchandise.

“I’ll be in the booth a good part of the day,” I said. “We’ve got to move that merchandise, so I’ll be donning my ‘Let’s Make a Deal’ personality. I will have to leave the cleanup for you all, though, as I have to be in Cambria by six to see to the last-minute preparations for the charity ball.”

“No problem,
chiquita,
” he said, flashing me a white, outrageously flirtatious smile that never failed to make me laugh. “You just be your
muy bonita
self and the art we make, it will fly into the people’s hands.”

“Manny,” I said. “You are nothing but a big ole flirt and I think you’ll have a better time talking women out of their hard-earned cash than I will.”

He shook his head, his smile still teasing. “Any sacrifice for the co-op . . .”

Ten minutes later I pulled into Liddie’s parking lot, Manuel’s reminder causing me to contemplate another anniversary. Gabe’s and my second anniversary was this Sunday and I hadn’t thought of a thing to buy him. Which traditional present was it for the second anyway—paper was first, then was it wood or brass? Did anyone follow those rules anymore? Besides, after Lydia’s visit and her revelation about Del, I wasn’t sure what kind of celebration Gabe and I would be having. I tried to ignore the mental picture of Gabe and Del laughing together, working together, not to mention other even more disturbing pictures of them together. Every time I thought of sitting last night at dinner with them being completely ignorant of the situation, I became angrier.

Liddie’s Cafe was, thankfully, in one of its slow times. A twenty-four-hour restaurant that served huge portions of good home-style food, it was a Central Coast landmark beloved by locals, students, and tourists alike. Its lobby harked back to the fifties with a glass counter packed with Wrigley’s chewing gum, Hershey bars, Necco wafers, and cinnamon toothpicks. A new hand-lettered sign next to the cash register admonished cash-strapped students and frugal senior citizens: TIPPING IS NOT A GAME PLAYED WITH LIVESTOCK. Nadine’s doing, no doubt. As head waitress, she ruled the roost of this particular chicken coop.

After calling hello to Jake, the fry cook, I slid into a red vinyl booth in back. I gazed out the window and mentally tried to organize the next week. After a few minutes, I gave up and fiddled with the salt and pepper shakers, trying not to think of what Gabe and Del might be doing right now.

“What do you want?” Nadine’s screechy-tire voice demanded.

She startled me into dropping the salt shaker, spilling a thin layer of salt across the dark brown Formica table.

“And quit making a mess.” She yelled over at Monica, one of the buspersons, to come over and wipe down the table.

Nadine was also a local landmark. Though she kept her age a secret, she had to be in her mid-seventies, though you’d never be able to tell it from her energy level. In her pink waitress uniform and teased beehive hairdo dyed a shade of pinkish-tan never seen on any Miss Clairol box, she ruled the roost at Liddie’s. She and I had a loving, if prickly, relationship. She’d known me since I was, as she liked to say, “little biddy.” Once in a while, when she was in a good mood, she called me “Lil Bid.” Today was obviously not a “Lil Bid” day.

“You’d better comb that tangled hair of yours,” Nadine said, “and put on some rouge.”

Monica wiped down my table, glancing up apprehensively at Nadine. She was obviously a new hire from the college and hadn’t learned yet that Nadine barked more than she bit. Usually. I gave the girl an encouraging smile before she hurried away.

“And why is that, Nadine?”

“I seen that old friend of Gabe’s and she’s after your man sure as my name is Nadine Maeleen Johnson.”

I sat back in the booth, keeping my elbows away from the still wet table. “Your middle name is Maeleen? I didn’t know that. Nadine Maeleen. Lovely cadence.” I made myself smile. There was no way I was getting into this with her or anyone else. At least not before I talked to Gabe.

She smacked the top of my head with her order pad, then slid into the bench seat across from me.

My mouth dropped open in surprise. In all the years I’d know Nadine, I’d never seen her sit down on the job. Even when she had an appendix attack about ten years ago, she refused to sit down until the paramedics came and forced her to lie down on the gurney.

“Close your mouth,” she said. “It looks cheap.” She tested the table top for dryness, then rested her age-spotted elbows on it and leaned close to me.

“Now me and your gramma go way back. You’re like one of my own grandbabies, and I just got to tell you, that woman friend of Gabe’s is big trouble. You got to get rid of her quick.” She smacked her hands flat on the table in emphasis.

I was so surprised by this I didn’t know what to say. When, after a minute or so, my speech came back, naturally it was a smart remark, my first response in all situations too confusing for me to handle.

“Uh, my husband’s the chief of police. Having a wife who murders his ex-partner might hurt his next merit raise and we were counting on it to pay for our new house.”

She glared at me from behind her pointy fifties-style eyeglasses, her brown eyes bulging like a blow fish. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Miss Smarty Mouth. See if I care if you rattle around that fancy new house all by yourself.” She slid out from the seat. From behind the front counter, Monica and Jake were staring over at us, as surprised as I was at Nadine’s sudden change of habit.

“Nadine, wait. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sass you.” I didn’t want her mad at me, especially since I hadn’t ordered yet and didn’t want to wait an extra half hour for my food.

Her well-traveled face softened slightly . . . I think. Then again, it could have just been the early afternoon sun shifting.

“I’m not teasing you now,” she said, her gravelly voice low and serious. “I think you got real problems on your hands. They ate lunch here and your husband was laughing.”

“They’re old partners. They worked together. They know a lot of the same people.” Nadine was trying to help in her own way, but I didn’t need anyone ringing a warning bell for me. It was already clanging loudly enough on its own.

“They was laughing
too much,
Lil Bid.” Her eyes were truly worried.

“Thanks, Nadine,” I said softly. “I’m aware of the situation. Don’t you worry now. I swear, I have it under control.” I gestured over at the seat. “Now, sit back down because I have a question for you.”

She slid back across from me and nodded, assuming it was about Gabe and Del. On some level, I appreciated her concern, but I was determined to deal with this situation on my own. Though I suspected that might prove impossible in a town where everyone knew us. But since I had her sitting down, I could pick her brain about some other gossip, gossip going a little farther back in San Celina history and that didn’t concern me.