Steps to the Altar (14 page)

A professional photograph of the both of them was stuck inside one set of pages. I was struck again by how young she appeared. I would guess her at no more than twenty. Like the other photograph, the black-and-white photograph didn’t reveal much. She stood behind him resting one hand on his shoulder. Her dark eyes and smile seemed tentative now to me. How long after their wedding had this picture been taken? What happened to the hopeful smile from her wedding portrait? His face was still sober, his eyes staring at something beyond the camera.

I flipped quickly through the rest of the scrapbook. Toward the end there were clippings of her stories, including the quilt history one I’d just read and other human-interest stories similar to the one about Abbott Fitzhugh. There was even one about Ernie Pyle, the famous journalist and war correspondent. She interviewed him when he came through the Central Coast on his way to see John Steinbeck over in Monterey. What a thrill that must have been for her. And how unusual.

I knew enough about the forties to know it was not the norm for women to be given such literary privileges. All the other female bylines were relegated to the society pages and consisted of reporting what subjects were discussed at women’s clubs meetings, how best to stretch those precious pounds of rationed sugar, and what was going on at the various USO clubs around the county. How had Maple, a stranger from Kentucky whose last job was obviously being a waitress, broken such a barrier?

I suspected that Garvey’s political and monetary influence probably had something to do with it.

I set the scrapbook down and decided to make a list of what steps I needed to take, what people I should see, a game plan as my old history professor used to call it. I was already on the second page of my notebook when a voice over the library’s speaker system announced that it was a quarter to nine—the library would be closing in fifteen minutes.

By the time I’d gathered up my belongings, the rain was falling harder. I stood under the library’s outside awning and contemplated the distance to my truck. The letters could fit in my backpack but the scrapbook was too big so I took off my jacket and wrapped it around the book. I could survive getting wet better than these old newspaper clippings. By the time I had reached my truck, my hair and flannel shirt were soaked, but the scrapbook was dry.

On the drive home I kept thinking about Garvey’s letters to Maple. I wouldn’t rest tonight until I saw if they were in her trunks. Knowing that I was deliberately avoiding the emotional mess waiting for me at home, I turned the truck toward the folk art museum. When I was almost there, I’d already talked myself into waiting until tomorrow. The museum was isolated on this long stretch of road it shared with the Coastal Valley Farm Supply, the San Celina Feed and Grain Co-op, and other smaller businesses housed in prefab metal buildings. Stopping here by myself this late at night was foolish even if I did suspect that most criminals would not venture out in weather like this. Not to mention it was against our co-op’s rules. When I reached the museum, I’d talked myself out of stopping and instead going straight home to resolve this problem with my husband.

The vehicle parked next to the museum’s entrance changed my mind. Everyone affliated with the co-op knew the rules. I pulled in for a closer look.

Then I recognized the red Dodge Ram pickup. Detective Hudson, who was obviously here working on the trunks. I parked next to him and dashed around the museum toward the studios. Underneath the canopy of honeysuckle and ivy, the still pouring rain dripped through the heavy foliage. Knowing how jumpy cops can be, I carefully opened the studio door and, before sticking my head in, called out in a loud voice, “It’s me, Detective. Benni Harper.”

He was sitting on the floor next to the first trunk, objects neatly lined up on the floor around him. He faced me, his right hand behind his back. Where he kept his gun, no doubt.

“Leaving that door unlocked is really stupid,” I said, walking into the icy room. “You’re just setting yourself up for an ambush.”

“Bobbie Lee said she would lock it when she left,” he said, bringing his hand back around and resting it on his knee.

Bobbie Lee was one of our artists, a brilliant landscape painter whom I wouldn’t trust to take out the trash, much less lock up after me. “Bobbie Lee has to be reminded to take a leak, Detective. She’s a bit, shall we say, absentminded.”

“How was I supposed to know that?” he asked peevishly. He was dressed in an off-white Irish cable knit sweater whose dry warmth I envied right now. My Levi’s jacket was still damp and clammy from its use as a protective cover for Maple Sullivan’s scrapbook.

“I guess you couldn’t.” But I couldn’t help poking fun at him. “You know, I would have thought your superior detecting abilities would have clued you in to her flaky nature.”

“She’s real pretty,” he said, grinning. “Sometimes that interferes with my brilliant detective’s radar.”

I shook my head. “You’re a hound dog, Detective Hudson. A real hound dog.”

“I’ve been called worse. Speaking of stupid, what are
you
doing here alone this late at night? Being a police chief’s wife, I would assume you would understand the possibilities of robbery, assault, and rape that coming here alone might engender.”

“Not that it’s any of your business, I’d already decided that coming by here to pick up something wasn’t too smart and was going to drive on by until I saw your truck. Maybe I forgot to tell you, but we have a rule that no one can work up here past nine o’clock. Because of its isolated location, the co-op board decided it was too dangerous.”

“Hey, don’t vote me out yet. I didn’t know, and besides, I didn’t realize how late it was. When I started at six, there was a whole crowd of people here. Before I knew it, it was nine-thirty.”

I couldn’t help smiling because I understood the feeling. Only someone who was fascinated by history and the past could get that lost in time when surrounded by old teacups, pocket watches, magazines, and fountain pens. Time had just flown by for me in a similar way at the library.

“So, how’s it going?” I asked, picking up an ivorybacked hairbrush. A few dark hairs still clung to the bristles. Hard to believe they were still there after fifty years.

“It’s taking longer than I thought,” he admitted. “I’ve only finished one page.” He held up a cataloging page where twenty items had been listed. I took it from him and read his first entry.

Dark brown kidskin women’s gloves. Eight leather five-petal daisy-like flowers on each cuff. Size six and a half. Made in Paris. (Markings inside right glove) Aris of Paris. (Markings inside left glove) Real Kid.

I handed it back to him. “Very thorough. I’m impressed.”

“Well, my mama owned an antique store for a while when I was a boy—”

“Stop it!” I said sharply, holding up my hand. “We’re not going to start on the phony mother stories again.” He’d driven me crazy the last time we’d worked together with all the things his mother had supposedly done or worked at—an interior decorator, a Cajun restaurant owner, a wedding photographer who’d once worked for
Life
magazine. He even claimed she’d been a clown with the circus. Tonight particularly, I was in no mood for any kind of lying from
any
man.

“You think I’m lyin’?” he asked, his face amiable.

“I think you think it’s funny and it’s not.”

“I swear everything I told you was true. Swear it on the Alamo.”

“You need to get all this put away. You can’t stay here.”

“Okay,” he said, getting up slowly, watching my face with a curiosity. “As my pawpaw Boudreaux would say, what’s got you all het up?”

“Nothing. Just get that stuff put away. And remember you can’t stay here after nine o’clock. You got it?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said in a slow, sarcastic drawl. “I definitely got it. So, havin’ a little trouble down at the ranch house with the big boss?”

“Why don’t you just shut up?” I snapped, annoyed that he’d zeroed in on exactly what was bothering me. I walked past him to the trunk that had held Maple’s scrapbook to look for Garvey’s letters.

“Well, no need to sharpen your claws on
my
balls, Miz Harper,” he said. “Bein’ divorced and all, I reckon I’ve experienced that particular pleasure already.”

Ignoring him, I dug through the trunk of old
Life
and
Look
magazines and novels that were obviously hers—all of them matched the titles on the embroidered tea towels. There was no packet of letters from Garvey. Maybe, when she left, she took them with her. Now that would be odd. Murder your husband and then take his love letters with you. What a crazy thing to do.

If, the little voice said, she murdered him.

What I really needed to see was the police file on Garvey Sullivan’s murder. And the newspaper stories. I knew it was wishful thinking, but I wanted Maple and Garvey’s love to have been real, not just some marriage of convenience because of the war or her desire to escape Appalachian poverty.

But first I had to go home and fight with my husband.

I inhaled deeply, wishing like heck that Del Hernandez had never shown up.

And I was feeling a bit guilty for snapping at Detective Hudson. He was annoying with his mother stories, but he didn’t deserve the brunt of my anger at Gabe.

I turned to apologize just as I saw him folding up a small quilt.

“Wait,” I said. “Let me see that before you put it away.”

“It was at the bottom of the trunk,” he said. “Wrapped in paper. But the paper just disintegrated when I took it out so we’d better get some of that acid paper you were talking about.”

“Acid-free,” I corrected, taking the quilt out of his hands. It was a baby quilt. Exquisitely hand quilted, the stitches almost perfect. It was an unusual pattern for a crib quilt—bow tie. And unusual colors, red and green striped print fabric used on the bow ties with an overall white background. Individualistic and bold. Uncaring of convention. I knew it had to have been made by Maple herself.

“Oh, Maple,” I murmured, running my hand over the stitches. “You always had to be different.”

Why didn’t she take it with her? If she’d been pregnant, that would have made sense. But then, nothing about the scenario around her disappearance made sense. Definitely tomorrow I was going to visit my old history professor Russell Hill and not only get his take on the Sullivans, but perhaps find out whom I could talk to who knew them back then and had more impartial memories than Nadine.

I carefully folded it and handed it back to the detective.

“I do that with my murder victims,” he said, placing the quilt back in the trunk, then shutting it.

“Do what?”

“Talk to them. It’s kinda weird, I know. But it helps me remember they were real living human beings, not just a name in a police report.”

We looked at each other for a long ten seconds. His deep brown eyes were pink-rimmed with fatigue and so dark I couldn’t see his pupils. Eyes so dark they didn’t tell you anything about the man. Eyes that fit more with my husband’s black hair than Detective Hudson’s brownish-blond. I broke away before he did, suddenly feeling disoriented.

“I have to get home,” I said. “Let’s get these trunks locked.”

Outside, the rain had slowed down to a heavy mist.

“Good luck back at the ranch,” he said as I climbed into my truck.

I didn’t answer or even glance at him in my rearview mirror as I pulled out of the parking lot and headed toward the unavoidable conflict I knew was waiting for me at home.

11

BENNI

“WHERE HAVE YOU been?” Gabe demanded the minute I walked through the door. “It’s past ten o’clock. I called your cell phone three times and you never answered.”

“I turned it off,” I said, setting down Maple’s scrapbook and bending down to scratch behind Scout’s ears.

“Why?”

“Because I wasn’t in the mood to talk to you. Besides, I thought you’d be plenty busy being a big broad shoulder for Del-li-lah to cry on.”

“We were finished with dinner by eight o’clock.”

“You say that like I’m supposed to give you a medal. Gee, I’m
so
proud of you, Gabe. You only managed to spend two hours comforting your ex-lover. What a good husband you are. I guess I should thank you for not spending the whole night holding her hand. Or whatever.” I peeled off my damp jacket, threw it on the sofa, and headed for the bedroom to take off my wet shirt and jeans.

“You’re being childish,” he said, following me.

“Just call me silly and immature, but not wanting my husband to date an ex-lover while we’re married is just one of my childish little demands.”

“How many times do I have to tell you we’re just friends.”

“Men and women can’t be just friends.”

“
You
have male friends.”

“Not ones who’ve seen me naked.”

We glared at each other, both too angry to go on.

He broke the impasse, inhaled deeply, and said, “Look, I know this is hard for you to understand, but Del and I . . . we . . . it’s a cop thing. We were partners. She saved my ass more times than I can remember. For pity’s sakes, Benni, I’ve known her since she was fifteen. Her dad died and she’s depressed. There is nothing happening between us except talk. Can’t you be a little more understanding? Please?” He held out his hand.