Steps to the Altar (3 page)

“Are you kidding? He is so thrilled to have someone
else
getting all Dove’s attention and nagging he’s been telling his cronies down at the Farm Supply that he’s got the shotgun loaded in case Isaac tries to back out.”

Amanda gave a delighted laugh. “Not much chance of that, I’ll just bet. Isaac is downright besotted, far as I can see.”

“Yeah, he and Emory could be January and February for a Men Crazy in Love calendar.”

“Where’re Dove and Isaac plannin’ on living?”

“Out at the ranch. It’s got four bedrooms and three bathrooms. Daddy says one more place at the table sure doesn’t bother him.”

“Have they set a date?” Amanda asked.

“Tentatively. It’s after Elvia’s for sure. Dove’s thinking three weeks.”

“Are you involved in the planning?”

I shook my head no. “Trying not to be. She hasn’t decided yet what kind of wedding she wants and she’s been driving me crazy with her suggestions. She wants it to be memorable, she says. Since Isaac’s been married five times, she wants this one to stand out.”

As if on cue, my new cell phone rang. “Happy Trails” reverberated from deep inside my leather backpack, and it took a few minutes for me to find the phone and answer it.

“Yes? Hello?” I said in that loud tin-cans-tied-with-a-string voice that none of us seems to be able to stop using with cell phones.

“Medieval,” Dove yelled back at me. She must have been using her new cell phone too. “I could wear one of them pointy hats like Maid Marian. Make Mac dress up like Friar Tuck. We could serve chicken and fruit and eat it with our hands.”

“That would certainly save on dishwashing,” I said noncommittally. However this wedding of hers and Isaac’s turned out, I was determined not to be the person blamed for any mishaps, so I was agreeing with everything.

“Think I could talk your daddy into wearing tights?”

I held back my laughter. “Uh . . . if anyone could, you could.” Not unless he’d just drunk a gallon of moonshine, I was actually thinking.

“I don’t know,” she yelled. “I don’t look that great in pointy hats. Call you later.” The phone went dead.

“What’s the news?” Amanda’s face was curious. Being an only child, she envied the complications my extended family brought into my life.

“I think we just narrowly missed a Robin Hood wedding.”

“I loved Kevin Costner in that movie no matter what anyone said.”

“Well, Dove doesn’t look good in pointy hats.”

“Who does?”

We hugged, said our goodbyes, and agreed to meet at Miss Christine’s this Sunday an hour before the shower to set out the party favors and do a little decorating. Amanda, bless her Martha Stewart heart, was planning all the shower games. All I had to do was buy the prizes and my own shower gift for Elvia. That meant a trip to Angelina’s Attic, a local lingerie store.

February was one of my favorite months in San Celina. The air was cool and clean-tasting, like water from a deep, rock-lined well. Cal Poly students had lost the frenetic gotta-try-it-all edge they sported at the beginning of the school year and hadn’t yet acquired the end-of-the-year hysteria that would come in a few months. Except for the tinge of excitement brought on by the coming Mardi Gras festival and parade that San Celina proudly touted as being the biggest ones west of the Mississippi, the town had a calm, peaceful air to its tree-lined streets. I walked down Lopez Street toward Stern’s Bakery, my mind wandering, thinking about the blissful time a month from now when both Elvia and Dove’s weddings were over and life was back to normal.

At Stern’s Hometown Bakery, a jingle of sleigh bells announced my entry into the almond-scented place. Sally, a handsome, white-haired woman who’d owned the bakery since I was a kindergartner, sat at a round glass-topped table thumbing through a photograph album of cakes with two older ladies. She lifted up a finger to let me know she’d be with me in a moment. I poured a cup of their strong dark coffee, picked a cherry-topped cookie from the tray of freebies, and sat down in a white wicker chair.

After Sally had taken the ladies’ order and pressed upon them a free half dozen of her famous poppy seed cookies, she poured herself a cup of coffee and joined me.

“Hello, Mrs. Chief-of-Police,” she said. “How’re the dual shower plans progressing?”

“Just came from Miss Christine’s Tea and Sympathy,” I said. “It was brilliant of Amanda to suggest letting someone else do all the work. All I have to do is buy the prizes,

Elvia’s shower present, and write a check. And speaking of checks, that’s why I’m here.” I pulled my checkbook and a copy of the bakery bill out of my backpack. “I want to settle up my accounts for both cakes so I can mark one more thing off my list.”

“I’m always amenable to accepting money,” she said, tucking a strand of loose hair back into her bun. “The cakes will be ready when you are. Sunday and Wednesday, right?”

“Right. I’ll pick up Elvia’s cake about ten A.M. Sunday and Dove’s about noon on Wednesday.” I handed her the check.

“So, are you about ready to go nuts?” she asked, taking the check and standing up. “Want some more coffee?”

“No, thanks, I’ll just have to find a bathroom, and from what I hear, the one over at the historical museum has been on the blink.”

“What’s going on over at the museum?” she asked, walking behind the counter and punching the keys to the cash register.

“Final preparations for Dove’s shower.”

“She is one brave woman, getting married again after all these years. How’s she holding up?”

I grinned. “
She’s
doing fine. Now Isaac . . .”

Sally laughed. “He should be used to it. Hasn’t he been married a few times?”

“Five, to be exact. But
never
to a Ramsey woman.”

Sally nodded, her pink cheeks shiny under the bright fluorescent light. “He needs to consult with the chief.”

“Not if we can help it,” I said, laughing. “We want this marriage to take place.”

“Well, I’m so happy for both Dove and Elvia. I’ll be at both showers.”

“See you then.” I snagged one more cookie and headed toward the historical museum.

The San Celina County Historical Museum was located one street over from Lopez Street in the old brick Carnegie Library building. As a child, before they built the new library out by Laguna Lake, I’d spent many long, lazy afternoons here in the children’s department reading Curious George and Big Red books. When I was fifteen years old, I received my first adult kiss under the pepper tree on the patio from Jack Harper, my late first husband who’d died in a car wreck three years ago this month. Walking under the stone archway into the old library never ceased to fill me with a sweet, sad longing for times past. When the building came to house the historical remnants of San Celina County and its citizens, I’d spent even more endless afternoons as an adult helping Dove catalog and organize donated items. As a thirty-year member of the historical society, she knew every piece of clothing, jewelry, tools, and needlework by heart.

Inside the cool entry hall, I spotted June Rae Gates, one of Dove’s oldest friends, behind the gift shop counter.

“Hi, June Rae,” I said. “Everyone present and accounted for?”

“Yes, ma’am,” she said, locking the cash register and slipping the key in the pocket of her wraparound denim skirt. She taped a hand-printed sign to the register that stated if anyone wanted to buy something, to come find her at the back of the museum. “We need to make it quick because Elmo’s cat has an appointment for a CAT scan and my college helper canceled out on me. I think she has a new boyfriend.”

“His cat is getting a CAT scan?” I couldn’t stop the giggle that fell from my lips.

She patted her peppery hair. “I know, it does sound funny. The poor thing’s got arthritis so bad it can barely walk. I don’t think a CAT scan will show much but that it’s as old as the rest of us, but Elmo’d sell his new Cadillac for Inkspot.”

I nodded, feeling sympathy for Elmo. I’d probably be just as insistent when it came to my dog, Scout, a chocolate Lab–German shepherd mix. I followed her toward the circle of folding chairs. The rest of the Dove Ramsey Wedding Shower Committee was already in place, munching away on some of Maria Ramirez’s chocolate cinnamon cookies. I grabbed one with pink icing and slid into an empty chair. The air was a sugary mixture of lavender- and magnolia-scented colognes, the bitter scent of store brand coffee, and the dusty, comfortable smell of a building that had survived two World Wars and more than a few broken hearts.

After a brief report by all the members, we agreed that everything was on schedule and ready to go. June Rae went back up to the counter and I was standing around the coffeepot listening to Elmo Ritter’s diatribe about the sad state of veterinary medicine (he’d been through four vets looking for the one who could give him the impossible—the fountain of youth for Inkspot) when Edna McClun, another of Dove’s friends, grabbed my forearm and exclaimed, “You’re just the person I was looking for!”

Why is it those words never fail to fill me with trepidation?

My response was automatic. “I didn’t do it and I didn’t see a thing.”

“Oh, you,” she said, patting my shoulder lightly. “You’re such a card. Seriously, I have something I think you’ll really be interested in.”

Another statement warning me there was work involved.

I contemplated my half-eaten cookie, then looked back at her cajoling smile and said, “Okay, I’ll bite.”

“You know I’m on the committee to restore the Sullivan house.”

“No, I didn’t,” I said, popping the rest of the cookie in my mouth, figuring I’d need the carbohydrates for whatever task she was wanting me to take on.

“Have you been reading about it in the historical society newsletter?”

“Yes, and congratulations on finally getting it declared an historical landmark.” The Sullivan house, a Queen Anne Victorian on the far edge of San Celina’s city limits, had been in a state of decay as long as I could remember. I had vague memories of someone saying the Sullivan family had died out and the house was repossessed for back taxes. I also vaguely remembered buying raffle tickets for a quilt made to raise funds to buy the property. I assumed the historical society must have succeeded when I read a few months back about the house being declared an historical landmark. On the property there was also another unusual structure, an octagonal barn, one of only two in California.

“Acquiring it wasn’t easy, but generations to come will be glad we did,” she continued. “The Sullivans were a very prominent family in San Celina County during the early part of the century. Arthur Sullivan and his son, Garvey, owned many of the best grain fields and the largest beef cattle herd in the county. They were also smart enough to build huge grain storage silos in the thirties, which they rented out to other farmers during the war when the farmers had to switch from bags to bulk because the government needed the jute for the war effort. The Sullivans also owned a good bit of downtown and were very involved with the building of Camp Riley up near San Miguel.”

I glanced at my watch. Though normally I enjoyed hearing oral history from someone who’d lived during that time, I had a lunch date with Gabe in fifteen minutes. “So, what are you trying to rope me into doing, Edna? You know I’ve got a pretty full plate these days so it can’t take too much time.”

“Oh, it’s something you can do at your leisure. It’s about Maple Bennett Sullivan.”

The name sounded familiar but I couldn’t put my finger on how. “Maple Bennett Sullivan?”

“I’m sure you must have heard about the tragedy with her and her husband, Garvey.”

I shrugged. The history of this county was rife with nefarious shenanigans usually involving land ownership, cattle rustling, and water rights. Every old family had its share of misfortune and sad stories. “Can’t recall anything offhand.”

“I don’t see how you can’t remember this one, my dear. It’s right up your alley.” Her watery blue eyes twinkled behind her round plastic eyeglasses.

“Why’s that?”

“She murdered her husband, my dear girl.”

3

BENNI

“SHE WHAT?” I exclaimed.

“She murdered her husband,” Edna repeated. “Surely you’ve heard the story.”

I started to shake my head no, then a shadowy, childhood memory came back to me. “You know, I do think I remember hearing it mentioned sometime when I was a kid.” Dove and I had gone riding at her friend’s ranch, which bordered the Sullivan property. Dove’s friend, a red-faced woman named Lucie who raised Appaloosas, pointed out the house, in disrepair even then, and called it the murderess’s house. I was seven at the time and remember asking Dove when we were unsaddling the horses what a murderess was. She told me in her usual blunt way that it was a woman who killed someone because she was angry or wanted to get something the person owned. That seemed to have appeased me because I never thought about it again even though I’d passed by that house dozens of times in my life.

“Why did she kill him?” I asked.

She flipped her palm up in a who-knows gesture. “It was quite the scandal back in the forties. ’Forty-four, I think it was. The war was still going on and there weren’t many young men left here on the Central Coast. They were all off fighting somewhere. We lost too many of our boys during that time.” Her orange-painted mouth turned straight. “It was a bad time.”