Goose in the Pond (31 page)

“She left an hour or so ago. Had a doctor’s appointment or something. Then some errands. Don’t worry, she’ll be back in time.”

“I’m not worried,” I assured him. “I’d better get back to my office and read my speech over a couple more times. With all these professional storytellers performing, I’m a bit nervous about giving it.”

“You be fine. How can they not love a
jolie blonde
like you?”

“D-Daddy, if you were a few years younger and I wasn’t married, we’d be in real trouble.”

“Trouble?” He grinned. “You wouldn’t be no trouble at all,
chère.
No trouble at all.”

I squeezed his arm affectionately and laughed.

Evangeline, if she’d seen the file on my desk, had obviously not discussed it with her father yet. I knew D-Daddy would not be that friendly if he thought I was in any way threatening his daughter. I couldn’t imagine Evangeline having anything to do with Nora’s murder, but there was something in her background she was trying to hide, something I was sure had to do with an abusive husband or boyfriend. I couldn’t imagine the Nora I’d known publicly revealing something so cruel and possibly life threatening. But then, the Nora I thought I’d known would never have written the Tattler column. It all came back to that old question—can we ever really know another person?

Back in my office, I scanned my speech once more, checked the clock, and noting I still had an hour before I went on, told myself I needed to quit worrying and turn my mind to something else. I dug through my purse, searching for the paperback I usually carried, and came across the homeless man’s diary. It was the only thing I had to read and I really needed something to take my mind off my pretalk jitters, so I settled back in my chair and read through the almost yearlong record of his life. It ended on the day before he was found dead. His routine was the same as the first four months I’d read the other day—Blind Harry’s, the Mission Food Bank, the YMCA, various other businesses in San Celina, the library, and the stone bear fountain outside St. Celine’s Catholic Church, where many homeless sat and warmed themselves in the sun on the concrete benches.

On September 1 he wrote with a precise dignity that brought a lump to my throat, “Happy Birthday to me.” I set the book down on my desk and stared at the Noah’s Ark picture hanging on my plain white wall. It was a Grandma Moses primitive-style painting by one of our artists in the co-op. The animals all had hopeful smiles on their faces as they marched up the long ramp. I had fallen in love with the whimsical picture as I watched the artist create it, and somehow, though I never mentioned it to Gabe, he’d found out and bought it for me for my birthday.

“I want to keep the concept of pairs firmly affixed in your mind,” he’d said, his eyes sparkling with humor.

I looked back down at the datebook and wondered if the homeless man had ever been a part of a pair. Was there someone, somewhere, who still missed him every day, would always wonder where he’d gone? I thought about the compulsiveness of his routine and how even the homeless, people we think of living as footloose and free a life as we can imagine, develop routines to bring order in their life. Again I wondered what he’d thought of all of us, what he saw as he went about his rounds.

What he saw
. I flipped through the book to the days before and after Nora’s murder. Nothing. He’d made his circuit, which seemed to have a three-day pattern, and recorded nothing that would give any hint that he’d seen anything to do with Nora’s murder. But, if what Gabe estimated was right, she’d been killed at a time when the Datebook Bum most likely hadn’t been around. On the other hand, I had no idea where he’d slept. I couldn’t help but wonder if his death was truly an accident. I stuck the business diary back in my purse and made a note to ask Gabe what the John Doe’s autopsy had finally shown as the cause of death.

At ten minutes to six I went out to the field, where a large green-braceleted crowd had already gathered around the main stage. All of the hay-bale seats were occupied, and D-Daddy and one of his young helpers were fooling with a portable microphone. I felt a small flutter in the pit of my stomach. Though I’d grown more accustomed to speaking in public since I’d become museum curator, it was not my favorite part of the job. As D-Daddy fiddled with the sound equipment, I laughed along with the rest of the audience at the antics of a mime who stood at the side and mimicked D-Daddy’s irritable expression. The scent of roasting beef, chicken, and sausage from the steel barbecues set up hours earlier gave the evening air a pungent, homey smell.

A warm hand slipped underneath my hair and gently squeezed my neck. “Nervous?” Gabe whispered in my ear.

I smiled up at him. “You made it! Yeah, my stomach is like a snow dome someone just shook. I’ll be glad when my part is done and I can turn it over to the professionals.”

“You’re going to do fine,” he said. “How can they not love you?”

“You sound like D-Daddy,” I said, leaning into his comforting bulk. He couldn’t have looked less like a police chief tonight in his washed-out Levi’s, black T-shirt, and black leather jacket.

“I think I’m going to have to keep an eye on that old coot,” he said.

“He’s a charmer, all right,” I replied. “But you don’t have to worry. Charming guys have never been my type.”

“What?” he said, his hand dropping down to my waist and tickling me. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Hey, Chief, don’t get the curator too riled up before her big speech,” Jim Cleary said behind us. He carefully pushed the wheelchair holding his wife, Oneeda, and settled her on a solid, level piece of ground.

I stooped down and took her thin brown hand in mine. She gently squeezed back. “Oneeda, I’m glad you could make it. I’m sorry I missed our weekly tea, but like I told you over the phone, this week’s been a disaster.”

Her black eyes twinkled. In spite of the multiple sclerosis that had twisted her body to the point of being unable to dress herself, her mind was sharp as a twenty-year-old’s, something most people didn’t realize when she talked with her slow, garbled words. Four months ago Gabe had asked me if I knew of anyone who’d be willing to quilt a wall hanging that Oneeda had pieced before the MS had made it impossible for her to sew. When no one in the co-op could work it into their schedule, I’d agreed to do it, as a favor to Jim and Gabe, and started going over there every Friday to stitch the small quilt, a New York Beauty pattern she’d pieced years ago in honor of her home state.

I’d gradually learned to understand her speech, and though we were as different as two people could be—twenty years apart in age, my rural background, her New York Harlem background, and our obvious racial difference—she and I had formed an unexpected friendship that continued after I finished the quilt. We discussed everything from people’s distorted views of the handicapped to what it was like to grow up black in the fifties to how I felt about never knowing my mother and growing up in an environment almost exclusively male. And she was brutally honest in telling me what to expect now that I was a cop’s wife.

“So,” I said, “you finally talked Jim into unlocking your cage?”

“Mr. Big Stuff letting me kick up my heels.” She laughed and pointed down at her feet with a gnarled hand. “New shoes.”

“Cool,” I said, admiring her silver tennis shoes. “How’s the Ohio Star coming along?” We’d been piecing together a baby quilt she intended for her youngest daughter’s first child. She’d arrange the pieces, and I’d sew them.

“Good,” she said, nodding her head. Her sparkly silver earrings swung jauntily. “Have it just how I want it now.” She gave me a bright smile.

“Good, ’cause I ain’t gonna rip it out one more time,” I said.

“Unless the general commands you to,” Jim said mildly.

We all laughed at his accurate assessment of his wife. Somehow, when Oneeda wanted something done, it always got done. Her way. And remarkably, she made you feel wonderful about it.

Gabe tapped his watch. “Looks like you’re on, sweetheart.”

“Okay.” I stood up and kissed Oneeda’s cheek. She patted my shoulder comfortingly.

“You’ll do fine, sweetie,” she said, winking at me. “I’ll send up a quick one for you.” She pointed to the soot-colored sky.

“Thanks. I’ll see you all afterward in the food court.”

My speech went smoothly, with only a few screeches in the PA system. Luckily most of the storytellers were trained in projecting their voices and wouldn’t need it, though with the crowds that were gathering, it might come in handy. I made a quick announcement about Nora Cooper and why she wouldn’t be performing and told the crowd of her love for children and her desire to serve them through her personal life and her work. I saw more than a few skeptical faces in the audience, but refused to let that sway me. No matter what she did as the Tattler, it still didn’t negate the good things she had done in her life.

“Magical mysteries, fabulous fables, soulful songs, and terrifying tales. You’ll hear it all in the next two and a half days. So set your imaginations free, hold on to your hats, and let the stories begin.” I ended my speech with an Olympic-like flourish. Evangeline took the stage after me, pulling up a stool and calling the children to come close to the stage to hear the story of Gabriel and Evangeline and their porcine adventures.

“You’re missing your story,” I told Gabe when I joined him and the Clearys at a redwood picnic table near the food court.

“I’ll survive,” Gabe said. “What do you want to eat? Jim and I were just going to check it out.”

“What story?” Jim asked. I explained about Evangeline’s swine-filled rendition of the traditional Cajun poem.

“Sounds interesting,” he said, nudging Gabe. “Too bad we’re missing it, Oneeda.”

“She’s repeating it tomorrow,” I said. “Check your program. I just wanted something special to get the ball rolling.”

“Let’s see it, Jimmy,” Oneeda said.

“Whatever you want,” he replied, his hand stroking her thick black hair. His actions with her were always so easy and caring. I knew from Oneeda that her illness, first diagnosed when she was in her late thirties, had been difficult on both of them, but the deep and steadfast love of thirty-five years had seen them through the days when they both wanted to walk out. I glanced over at Gabe, who watched their actions with an odd look on his face. Was he wondering the same thing I was? We hadn’t even known each other a year. If that were him and me in that position, would our love be that strong?

Jim gave Oneeda’s hair one last stroke. “Now, what is it you ladies are craving? Me and the boy here will see if we can use our hunter skills to capture it.” His teasing words told me that Jim had moved into his civilian mode. At work he was entirely professional in his relationship with Gabe, but whenever we saw them socially, he instantly took advantage of the twelve-year difference in their ages and treated him like a younger brother.

“Go, go,” Oneeda said, waving her hand at him. “You choose.”

“I want beef,” I told Gabe. “None of those barbecued vegetable kabobs. And a Coke.”

“Help, I can’t breathe,” he said in a squeaky cartoon voice. It was a joke he’d started in an effort to get me to eat better. Supposedly it was the voice of my arteries screaming for mercy.

“Chief Ortiz, you’re going to be screaming you can’t breathe if you don’t go get my dinner without any backtalk.”

“Tell ’em, honey,” Oneeda said, hitting her hand lightly on the handle of her wheelchair and letting out a delighted chuckle.

“Better do as she says,” Jim advised. “She’s been in training with a pro. The things I could tell you Oneeda’s done to me—”

“Hit the road, Officer,” she commanded.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, saluting her. He and Gabe laughed easily as they melted into the crowd moving toward the snack booths.

“Okay, girlfriend.” Oneeda reached up and gestured her knuckle toward my swollen eye. “Doorknob?” Her expression was a mixture of affection and the look a mother gets when you’ve done something you shouldn’t have. After raising four children, Oneeda was especially proficient with that second look.

I gently swatted at her hand. “Now, don’t try and mother me. I know Jim told you the whole story. And you would have done the same, so don’t go throwing any sharp stones at my little glass bungalow.”

She smiled slowly. “Yes, but I still worry. How much did Gabe yell about this one?”

“Not much,” I admitted. “Frankly, I think poor Sam took the brunt of it. I’m really worried about him and Gabe. It doesn’t look like they’re ever going to be on decent speaking terms.”

“Jimmy and Martin didn’t talk for two years once.” Martin was their only son. He was thirty-two and an assistant DA in Fresno.

“Jim and Martin? No way! They get along so well.”

“Now. Sam and Gabe will, too. When they both grow up a little.”

“Well, I hope they do it soon. It’s gettin’ real old, you know?”

She nodded sympathetically. “Any leads yet on your case?”

I gave a guilty laugh. “Now, Oneeda, you
know
I’m not supposed to be involved in any of Gabe’s cases.”

“That wasn’t what I asked.”

Before I had to make any excuses, the guys came back with more food than we could possibly consume at one sitting. Between bites of corn-on-the-cob, tri-tip beef sandwiches, fried zucchini, shrimp-on-a-stick, and slices of thick vegetarian pizza, we talked about the festival and read our programs.

“We can’t miss this,” I said, pointing to Dolores’s name. It was a ten o’clock performance, what we called our Late-Night Cabaret. It consisted of stories that might be a bit too mature or scary for children. Dolores was first up. “I’m so curious about her story. She’s been working on it for a long time and won’t tell anyone what it is.”

“We must see it, then,” Oneeda said. “I wonder why she’s keeping it a secret? I can’t wait to see.”

“For exactly that reason,” Jim said laconically.

After we’d finished eating, we agreed to part company since we had different storytellers we wanted to hear.

“I’ve got extra patrol officers covering the festival,” Gabe told Jim. “So you’re off duty, okay? Just relax and enjoy yourself. Show your wife a good time.”