Tumbling Blocks (14 page)

I tried not to sound impatient. I still had one more interview and another dinner with my mother-in-law to get through before I could crawl into my warm bed tonight, so I wasn’t in the mood to treat this privileged woman with mink-lined gloves. I softened my words with a smile and an upturned palm. “I mean, someone who is as popular and connected as you. Constance told me about the many things you’ve accomplished in your life, and I’ve read about a lot of them in the society pages of the
Tribune.
You don’t need to prove anything to anyone, so why is the 49 Club something you want to add to your already prestigious résumé?”

Her lips didn’t return my smile, which told me my blatant flattery hadn’t fooled her one minute. “The 49 Club is important in San Celina. This is my home now, and I want to be with my . . .” She paused a moment, her neck flushing a rosy color.

I was tempted to say “peeps” but I wasn’t sure if she’d understand the Hollywood term for people she felt comfortable around. Her
equals
was what she meant to say, I was sure. When she didn’t finish her sentence, I filled in the blank. “Your friends.”

“Exactly.” Her expression was grateful for two seconds. “But more importantly, they do some of the best charity work in the county, and I think my expertise in raising money would be a good addition to their group.”

“Absolutely,” I said, wanting to tell her that her stump speech was wasted on me. I had no vote in the matter. “Okay, I’ll put in the article that, like all the other 49 Club members, you place great importance on giving back to your community, and you feel that the 49 Club would help you give even more.” That overblown sentence rated me another two-second look of gratitude.

“Exactly,” she said again. “But if the members decide again that I’m not acceptable, I’m taking myself off the list.” She narrowed her diamond-hard blue eyes at me. “That, my dear, is off the record.”

I felt myself tremble, like Scout when he knows he’s talked me into throwing the ball for him. Again? That means she’d been blackballed before. Why hadn’t Constance informed me of that little piece of information?

“Absolutely,” I said, closing my notebook, implying that what she was telling me was not going into the article. I wasn’t really lying, because there wasn’t actually going to be an article. “Do you have any idea who might have . . . objected to your membership?”

Her face went suddenly hard. “You can call it what it was: being blackballed. I don’t know for sure, but I know that—” She abruptly stopped and put a thin-fingered hand up to her mouth.

I waited a moment for her to continue. When she didn’t, I prompted, “You know that . . . ?”

“Never mind, it doesn’t matter. What kind of article did you say this was? I’d better not be made to look the fool, young lady, or there’ll be a severe price to be paid.”

“It’s a small chapter,” I assured her. “Part of the history of the 49 Club and its possible future. You and the other prospective members will be profiled as the type of high-quality people the club aspires to attract.” I tried to make my smile genuine. “I think I have enough. Anything you’d like to say about the 49 Club?”

She shook her head and stood up. “I’ve paid for our tea already. Please feel free to enjoy the rest of it, but I must get to an appointment.”

Before I could say boo, she was walking toward the door, her back as straight as one of Dove’s quilting seams. Our tea sandwiches and scones arrived just as she was walking out the door.

“Where is Mrs. McDonald going?” asked Christine, the owner of the teahouse, rumored to have once been a Vegas showgirl. Today she was wearing a flowing dress adorned with sparkling teacups and a headband with feathers that recalled the roaring twenties.

“She had another appointment,” I said, grabbing one of the teahouse’s signature cashew chicken salad sandwiches. “That’s okay, this is actually just enough for me.” Each sandwich was one bite, one of my biggest complaints about teahouses. Every time I went to one I had to go to Taco Bell afterward to assuage my hunger.

“So,” Christine said, sitting down in Francie’s vacated chair. “What case are you working on?”

“What do you mean?” I asked, popping another tiny sandwich in my mouth.

She wagged a red-nailed finger at me. “Don’t try to fool me, Benni Harper Ortiz. You only frequent my establishment under duress of work or someone’s wedding or baby shower. What’s cooking with Mrs. Francie McDonald?”

I smiled. “Okay, you got me. And you reminded me of something. I need to start planning Elvia’s baby shower.”

“Call me after Christmas, and we’ll talk,” she said. “Baby’s not due until the summer, right?”

“July first. I want her to have it on July fourth. That way, every year on her or his birthday, there’ll be fireworks.”

Christine shook her head and smiled. “With Emory as a daddy, that little child’s going to get fireworks every day of its life.” She leaned closer to me. “So, what’s the scoop on Francie?”

I knew Christine was the soul of discretion, so I filled her in on Constance’s new job for me. I left out the part about Gabe asking me to fake an investigation. He’d be in a large vat of hot water if that ever got out.

Miss Christine shook her head, her lips pursed. “It is a shame about Pinky—she was a good customer—but I think Constance has a head full of bumblebees flying around in that champagne-blonde head of hers.”

I nodded in agreement. I glanced down at my watch, then picked up one more peach and almond scone. “I gotta go. I have to meet my last suspect at the historical museum. Dorothea St. James.”

Miss Christine looked both ways, then scooted her chair a little closer to mine. “There’s something you should know about Francie.”

My ears immediately perked up. “What’s that?”

“She was blackballed by Pinky three years ago, the first time she applied for membership in the 49 Club. I was told it had to do with Francie making fun of some artist that Pinky loved.”

I stopped chewing my scone and stared at Christine. Some investigator I was. While I was stuffing my face, a nugget of information just fell into my lap, like an overripe apple. “How do you know it was Pinky who blackballed her?”

Christine just placed a long, elegant finger to her lips. She was keeping that to herself.

“Any other little tidbit you might want to share?” I asked, brushing the crumbs off my fingers onto my flowery china plate.

“That’s all I have for now,” she said, glancing over my shoulder at someone coming into the tea parlor. A sudden burst of cold air caused the crystal chandelier in the middle of the room to tinkle. It was dramatic enough to cause a ripple of laugher to flow through the crowded room like a wave.

“Nola!” Christine stood up and, like an elegant yacht, sailed across the room toward the thin, elegant woman standing in the parlor’s doorway. “Thank you for gracing my establishment with your lovely presence.”

While I watched Christine weave her way through the tables, I quickly assessed the woman who’d donated the museum’s now most prestigious acquisition. Though she’d lived in Cambria over a year now, I’d never met her in person. She apparently spent a lot of time traveling, speaking about and promoting her uncle’s work. We’d spoken by phone a few times concerning the security of her uncle’s painting before it was officially shown at the museum. I’d assumed I would meet her at the opening, but it appeared it would happen sooner.

The photographs I’d seen of Nola Maxwell Finch didn’t do her justice. In a word, she was gorgeous. With wavy, shoulder-length hair the color of apricots and wide-set, chambray-blue eyes, she was the type of woman that caused men to act courtly and other women to feel like bull moose. She was thin with an almost flat chest and features that were just this side of sharp, though not unattractively so. She was dressed in tailored, camel-colored slacks and an icy blue sweater set.

Christine said a few words to her, then turned to point at me. Then she gestured at me to come to her.

“Benni Ortiz?” Nola Finch said when I reached them. Her complexion was almost transparent, with a light sprinkling of pale orange freckles.

“Yes,” I replied. “It’s so nice to finally meet you.” I held out my hand and was surprised by the firmness of her grip.

“Nola Maxwell Finch,” Christine said. “It is an honor to welcome you again to my humble establishment. The town is just thrilled about your generous donation to our beloved folk art museum.”

I smiled at Nola, who seemed a bit taken aback by Christine’s enthusiasm. “I second that wholeheartedly,” I said. “Everyone’s really looking forward to your presentation at the California Outsider Art exhibit on Wednesday evening.”

“So am I,” Nola said, her voice soft and cultured, with just the touch of a Chicago accent. “My uncle is thrilled to be giving your museum one of his paintings.”

“There’s a reporter from the
Los Angeles Times
coming up to cover it.” I couldn’t help the pride in my voice. It took quite a bit of finagling on my part to convince the arts and leisure editor that this event was worth covering. That and Emory’s generous offer to pay for the reporter’s two-night stay in San Celina’s best bed-and-breakfast.

“That’s wonderful,” she said. “I’d love to come by the museum and see where you’ve hung his painting.”

“Absolutely,” I said, reaching into my backpack and finding a business card. “The museum’s number is on the card, and so is my cell phone. If you’ll call me, we can set up a time, and I can meet you there. I’ll give you the two-dollar tour.”

“I’ll do that,” she said, taking the card and slipping it into her small leather clutch. Her eyes flickered, looking at someone behind me. “I think I see my lunch date. I’ll call you.”

“I’ll look forward to it,” I said, stepping aside.

“What a delightful woman,” Christine said. “Such a nice addition to our town. So generous.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “I have another appointment, so I have to boogie. I’ll call you soon about a baby shower for Elvia.”

Christine clasped her hands together. “I have some wonderful ideas already brewing.”

Fortunately, it was a short walk to the historical museum for my last interview with Dorothea St. James. On the way, I called Constance on my cell phone to find out why she hadn’t told me about Francie being blackballed by Pinky. Constance’s phone rang six times before her housekeeper answered.

“I’m sorry, but Miss Constance is resting right now,” she said.

“It’s an emergency. Don’t worry, I’ll take full responsibility for disturbing her. I’ll tell her that I harassed you into it.”

A huge sigh came over the phone telling me that my words didn’t hold much water. “I’m sorry, but she said she is exhausted and absolutely must not be disturbed.”

I felt like giving a Tarzan yell into the phone, except that the person who deserved to hear it was peacefully snoozing the afternoon away. “All right, then would you please ask her to call me the minute she wakes up?”

“I’ll tell her you called.” Her long experience with Constance had clearly taught her not to promise anything. Her tone told me it was doubtful that Constance would call me back.

I growled at my cell phone. “I will track you down sooner or later, old woman. And I’m going to cash that check as soon as the bank opens on Monday. And buy dog toys with it.”

Dog toys. Yikes, I’d completely forgotten about Boo. I was going to owe Dove big time for watching him for me. What kind of puppy godmother was I? I hadn’t even checked on him. Before I could dial home, the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Benni? It’s Hud.”

“What a coincidence. I was just going to call and see how Boo is doing.”

“Where is he? At All Paws?”

“Not today. Dove is watching him while I do a little . . .” I paused, not wanting to go into this with Hud. “Work for the museum. I’m interviewing some society ladies for an article. How’s Texas?”

“Big,” he said, laughing. “We’re having a great time, though Maisie misses Boo. And I have to confess, I miss the little peckerwood myself. How’s he doing?”

“Just fine. You really owe me for this one, Clouseau. I won’t be getting a full night’s sleep until you get back. Next time, make sure you potty train a dog before you leave him with someone.”

“Ah, what fun would that be, ranch girl? But you’re right, I do owe you a Texas-size favor. But I have one more tiny thing to beg of you.”

I groaned out loud. “What?”

“I need to have you take Boo to see Santa.”

“What?”

“I said . . .”

“I heard what you said, I just can’t believe it.”

“I promised Maisie that Boo would go see Santa and have his picture taken. It’s killing her that he’s spending his first Christmas away from us, so this was my way of appeasing her. I’ll wash your truck. I’ll massage your feet. I’ll pay extra.”

“Leave my truck and feet out of this. I’ll settle for a generous donation to the folk art museum.”

“As soon as I get back. Be sure to get pictures. Maisie needs to believe that Boo actually saw Santa.”

“I cannot believe I’m agreeing to this. If you knew how busy I am . . .”

“I’m writing the check now,” he interrupted. “Josiah Sinclair Folk Art Museum. Five hundred? Six hundred? A thousand?”

“All of the above. Now, go back and do whatever it is people do when they go to Texas.”

“You’re my hero. Kiss the Booster for me.”

Dorothea St. James, aka Dot, arrived at the front doors of the San Celina Historical Museum at the same time as me.

“Benni!” she exclaimed in a voice that always said a person’s name as if they were the exact person she wanted to see at that exact moment.

“Hi, Dot,” I said, opening the heavy wooden door of the old redbrick Carnegie Library. “Shall we go inside out of this cold wind?” As happens so often in San Celina, one moment you are toasty warm, peeling off your layers, the next moment a cold, damp wind descends upon you, chilling your bones.