The air was warm and thick in the four spacious rooms where Constance’s ancestors had once slept, made love, had babies, died. Sneezing and coughing, I scrounged through rusty old trunks and poked through boxes containing old tubes of paint, stacks of blank, yellowing canvases, and one large box full of every sort of bead, trim and feather you could imagine—an obvious donation that no one could quite figure out what to do with. The floor creaked under my weight. I wondered if the idea Constance brought up at the last co-op meeting about using these rooms as more exhibit space was feasible from a safety point of view.
After checking a six-drawer chest in one of the rooms and finding nothing but more dust and an old mouse nest, I decided to forget it. I’d just mat the histories and stick them directly on the wall with some double-sided tape. I shoved the last drawer in, struggling a few minutes when something hung it up. I pulled it out and peered into the back of the chest. Dusk and the hacienda’s filmy windows made seeing anything difficult, but there was something stuck to the back of the chest. Curiosity overcame sense. I tentatively stuck my hand in and yanked at the plastic-wrapped object. When I pulled it free and inspected it, I could have kicked myself for not leaving well enough alone.
The plastic freezer bag was full of rubber-banded bills and it didn’t take a genius to realize there was something fishy about this money.
I turned the bag over and over, trying to make a decision. If I called the police, which is what I knew I should do, they’d be all over the museum and the pre-showing and auction would be ruined. Our next fund-raiser wasn’t until spring. So, after ten seconds of serious contemplation of the consequences, I stuck the bag back in the chest and pushed the drawer closed.
I’ll tell the police, I told myself as I locked the front door. Just as soon as the auction is over.
My answering machine was flashing when I got home. As I unbuttoned my shirt, I listened to my one caller.
Dove hates answering machines, so she pretends that she is actually talking to a human, leaving time for your answer. Her messages always sound halting and semi-lucid.
“Benni, is that you?” Long pause.
“Who else would be in my house, Dove?” I don’t know why I felt compelled to answer. That authority thing again.
“Don’t get smart with me, young lady.” One, one thousand, two, one thousand ...
“What do you want, old woman?”
“Garnet wants to see you.”
Aha. The real reason for the call. “I can’t. I’m too ...”
“And don’t give me any of that you’re-too-busy crap. She’s your great-aunt and she deserves some respect. And I deserve some peace and quiet. And don’t you turn me off.”
“Great suggestion.” I hit the stop button, thankful for at least one positive thing about technology. But by the time I undressed, curiosity got the better of me and I punched it back on.
“I knew you’d be back,” her voice cackled out of the machine. “You always were as nosy as a chicken. Call me. I mean it.” The answering machine chirped.
“Don’t hold your breath.” I took a quick shower to scrub away the worst of the dirt and dust embedded in my pores, then pulling my hair up in a Pebbles ponytail, I settled down in a nice warm bath and worried about the trouble I knew was coming after the auction tonight. I didn’t remember seeing any sinks in the jail, or showers, for that matter. I couldn’t sleep without my nightly shower. I sank deeper into the bubbles and groaned.
After a few minutes in front of my vanity mirror deciding they were laugh lines and not wrinkles, I took care of the impossibly boring ritual of war paint. For once, my curly hair semi-controlled itself down my back. Though I briefly contemplated pulling it back with a rubber band, I decided the lecture from Elvia wasn’t worth it. The green silk dress felt as airy as cotton candy and made a fine rustling sound against my nylons. It had been a long time since I’d worn a dress, and it felt, if a bit awkward, pretty good. I slipped on my Levi jacket to retain some level of familiarity, with the intention of ditching it before Elvia saw me. It was soft enough to make a pretty good noose.
The caterers arrived minutes after me and started unloading cases of champagne and foil-covered trays of hors d‘oeuvres. Though the champagne had been donated by one of Constance’s friends who owned a winery, I’d spent more on the food than I’d intended, hoping full stomachs would help open people’s wallets a little wider.
Ten minutes later, Constance Sinclair exploded into the room wearing a black crepe de Chine dress and a kamikaze expression. At four feet ten with stiff white hair and the mannerisms of an overbred greyhound, she yapped orders at the fish-mouthed catering staff—move that table there, stack those glasses that way, what’s this Folger’s doing here, we paid good money for gourmet.
Her early arrival and autocratic manner didn’t surprise me. Most of her friends would be here tonight. Nothing less than perfection would bring a smile to her pinched, persimmon lips.
“Everything seems in order,” she finally decreed.
In the next forty-five minutes, most of the invited guests had arrived and were mingling with the artists. The champagne was flowing more quickly than I’d anticipated, so I considered starting the auction early before everyone was too tipsy to write a check. On the other hand, their slight inebriety could work in the co-op’s favor.
“Where’s the rest of the champagne?” Constance’s silvery eyelids disappeared as she, with wide, slightly bulging eyes, considered our stock critically.
“In the studios,” I said. “I’ll have the caterers bring it out when we need it.”
“Connie!” J.D.’s voice bellowed over the heads of a large, chattering group of people just arriving. “What a shindig. Can I make a campaign speech?”
If anyone could make the stiff-backed Constance Sinclair come anywhere near simpering, it was J.D. Freedman.
“Oh, J.D.,” she said. Her tight pink face spread into what looked like a grimace of pain but I think was suppose to be a flirtatious smile.
He winked at me and took her elbow. I smiled at them and couldn’t help but wonder. J.D. had been a widower for ten years and Constance had never married. There must be some reason why he called her Connie.
I felt a hand slip around my waist. I turned to face the lopsided grin of Carl. He drained the glass he held in his other hand.
“Quite the little soiree you have here. Never thought you had it in you, you old cowpuncher. You look incredible, by the way.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I hope we get a lot of donations tonight. That is the whole point to this.”
“Surely you’ll be able to wring a few bucks out of San Celina’s richest and finest. We do love the arts here on the Central Coast.”
“Who’s watching the paper?” J.D. asked, looking annoyed.
“Julio knows what to do,” Carl said lightly. “Trade ya.” He exchanged his empty glass for my full one before I could protest.
“It’s your job while your brother’s gone to supervise the evening shift,” J.D. said. “And I haven’t seen you for two days. Where have you been?”
“I’ve made the supervisory decision to let Julio handle it for a few hours.” He pulled at the sleeves of his tailored leather jacket and ignored the rest of his father’s question.
J.D.’s face turned a dull red. “Cathy called me today.”
Carl shrugged and sipped his drink. “So?”
“So she says you’re three months behind in your child support. I’m paying you a good salary, son. Why don’t you spend a little less time having a good time and make sure your kids have some food on the table?”
Carl’s head stiffened. A blank expression fell over his face.
Constance tugged at J.D.’s thick arm. “There are some people I invited specifically to meet you.” She flashed me a frown and flicked her eyes toward Carl, her message clear as distilled water. I wanted to tell her that no one could change Carl and J.D. I’d watched this ballet more times than I could count in the last twenty years and the two lead dancers had their steps down cold.
“Just a minute, Connie.” J.D. pointed a finger at Carl, inches from his pink button-down-collar shirt. “I sent her the money, but I’m deducting it from your next paycheck and nothing better go wrong tonight or else.”
Two spots of rosy color stained Carl’s cheeks as he watched his dad lumber across the room greeting people in his oversized voice.
“Come on, Carl,” I said, pulling at his sleeve. “Take a look at the food I ordered. They carved a quilt pattern on top of the cheese wheel.”
“What a crock of bullshit,” Carl said. He followed me to the hors d‘oeuvre table and picked up another glass of champagne. “You wouldn’t happen to have anything stronger hidden away somewhere, would you? This tastes like cat piss.”
“Carl, you shouldn’t let him get to you.”
“You don’t have to live with him. He doesn’t tell you what to do with your life every single, solitary minute.”
“Neither do you.”
“With those support payments I’m having to make? I can’t afford to eat at Taco Bell, much less get my own place. Now she says the kids need gymnastic lessons. I told her to buy a swing set at Sears and let them fall off that. And she’s taking opera lessons. That’s where my hard earned money is going, down her stringy throat.”
“Eat something.” I held out a plate of rumaki and shrimp puffs, trying to avoid any more discussion about his ex-wife. I’d known her in college. A tall, gorgeous redhead, she was well known even then for being a person easily impressed by money and prestige. Everyone thought she only married Carl for his money. And time seemed to prove that true. But Carl had really loved her and I knew their breakup had been hard on him.
“I’m not hungry,” he said, pulling a small flask out of his jacket and taking a swig. “But I do have a question for you. I heard through the grapevine that your cousin was a witness to the Chenier murder.” He picked up a glass of champagne, gave it a disgusted look, then drained it. “I can’t believe you’d hold out on me like that. J.D. got all over my ass for not getting all the facts.”
“She wasn’t a witness,” I said hastily. “She was just with Marla before it happened. She didn’t see anything.”
“You’ve talked with her?” An eager expression lit up his face.
“Get that look out of your eyes,” I said. “There’s no story there. She didn’t see a thing. Besides, she’s out of town right now.”
His pale marble-blue eyes narrowed. “I’ve known you a long time, Benni, so quit jerking me around. You’ve got something up your sleeve. What did your cousin ...”
“Benni!” A soft, high voice interrupted him. “Everything looks so great. Grandma Harper’s quilt never looked better. Pretty dress.”
“Thanks,” I said to my sister-in-law, Sandra. “I’m glad you came. Is Mom Harper with you?” I turned to her thankfully, ignoring Carl’s aggravated look.
She shook her head, her brown eyes sober. “No, she stayed home with the kids. They’re all coming tomorrow to the festival. We’re stopping at the mall first to see Santa Claus.”
Carl grabbed my arm. “There’s someone I need to see. I’ll get back to you later.” He strode away, his back rigid with irritation.
“Did I interrupt something?” Sandra asked. Her smooth forehead puckered with worry as she tugged at a strand of straight brown hair curled in a slight flip, a hairdo she’d worn the whole sixteen years I’d known her.
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “I wasn’t giving him exactly what he wanted and we know how much men like that. Speaking of pushy men, did Wade come with you?” I surveyed the room quickly.
A tremulous smile fluttered across her waxy pink lips. “No, he’s ...” Her eyes grew shiny with tears. “To tell you the truth, Benni, I don’t know where he is.”
“Sandra, what’s wrong?” I laid a hand on her softly rounded shoulder. “Oh, he isn’t drinking again, is he?” Wade’s nights out with the boys had caused problems between them before. The number of times Jack and I drove to town in the chilled darkness of early morning to pick up Wade and his truck blurred in my memory into one huge sleepy trip.
“Not that bad.” She shifted her eyes from my face to her square, blunt-nailed hands. Though she was a large, sometimes awkward woman, Sandra had a quiet gentleness about her that made her easy to be with, something I especially appreciated the first few days after Jack’s death.
“What is it?” I asked. “You know I’ll help wherever I can.”
“I hate to bother you with this ...” Her face flushed with embarrassment, or as I peered closer, possibly anger, something I rarely saw in Sandra all the years we’d lived at the ranch.
“You’re family, Sandra. Let me try and help.”
“I think Wade’s cheating on me,” she blurted out, then burst into tears.
I patted her on her shoulder as she cried quietly into her napkin. When I realized people were beginning to stare, I steered her toward a corner of the room, near an open window.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“There’s no other explanation.”
“For what?”
“This.” She opened up her large leather purse, pulled out a folded white Trigger’s cocktail napkin and handed it to me. “I found it in his jacket a couple of months ago.”
A phone number was raggedly jotted onto the crumpled napkin. My stomach lurched when I read it. “Have you tried calling it?”
“I only got up enough nerve to try about a week ago,” she said, her voice trembling. “No one answered. Not that I’d have had enough courage to say anything anyway.”
“Have you talked to Wade about it?”
“No. I don’t know how to bring it up.”
“Maybe there’s an explanation. Maybe it’s not what you think.” I was trying to convince myself as much as her, because what was going through my mind right then was unthinkable.
“Could you talk to him? He’s always listened to you.”
This is not your problem, I told myself, as I studied the napkin and its incriminating numbers. Let Sandra fight her own battles.