Steps to the Altar (20 page)

“
You
baked it?” I couldn’t help laughing. Somehow the thought of Hud up to his elbows in bread dough struck me as funny.

“I make great bread,” he said, his face turning a bright pink.

“I’m sure you do, Martha,” I teased, gratified to see him disconcerted for once. “Where are the letters?”

He pointed to the hallway. “First door on your right.”

Inside the room were a couple of long folding tables with papers laid out on them in colorful stacks, an old rolltop desk, and dozens of pasteboard boxes labeled GARVEY SULLIVAN. I opened one and it contained letters, accounting books, and piles of papers.

“Are they all like this?” I asked.

He nodded. “I’m going through them slowly. A little bit every night.”

“You’re sorting Garvey Sullivan’s papers?” That surprised me.

“What’s so weird about that? I told you my major in college was history. It’s a great hobby. And one that has some benefit to the community. He was one of your county’s most prominent citizens. He’s a fascinating man. Ahead of his time in a lot of his thinking about preserving the environment, things like not letting cattle graze an area until it was bare, but moving them around on a rotating basis and letting the land renew itself naturally.”

“Holistic ranching,” I said.

“Exactly. And it was very radical thinking back then. If he’d lived until the fifties, he probably would have been called a socialist. And he was an extremely well-read man, if his collection of books tells anything and I think they do. He liked biographies, was especially fascinated by Lincoln. Had a dozen books about him, a lot of them rare. There’re a lot of first editions in his collection. They look well read and he refers to them in letters to friends and in many of the newspaper articles about him.”

“You’re more involved in this restoration . . . in the Sullivan lives . . . than I thought.”

He gave me a level, unrevealing look. “Got involved before you did.”

He was right about that. So he did have some sort of stake in finding out what happened between Garvey and Maple that day.

“So,” I said. “If you’ve been learning about him, what do you think? Do you think she killed him?”

He leaned against the paneled wall. “I’m reserving judgment until I know more. That’s why I offered to help you with the trunks.”

“You mean until I find out more.”

“Do you have any reason why I shouldn’t know what you find out?”

Except for the fact that he personally irritated me and I was beginning to suspect that hanging around him might not be the wisest thing for me to do when my own marriage was at this bumpy spot, I couldn’t think of one.

“Let me read his letters to Maple and I’ll see,” I hedged.

“Just what I’d expect you to answer,” he said, amused at my reluctance. “Benni, these people are dead. The case has been gathering dust for a long time. What harm would it be for me to know what you find out? As one history buff to another?”

He was right, I was being a dog in the manger. “Okay,”

I conceded reluctantly. “But I don’t know much yet. Only that Mitch’s older brother, Micah, is very bitter about Maple Sullivan and wants me to stay out of their past.”

“You talked to Mitch Warner’s brother?” he asked, his eyes widening in interest.

I quickly told him about my connection to the family and my encounter with them today.

“Interesting,” Hud said. “So you’re convinced he knows more than he’s telling.”

“Absolutely. I mean, the comment about letting Mitch’s soul rest in peace reveals a lot. That perhaps he knows his brother is dead and that he must have had contact with him after Garvey was killed and Maple and Mitch disappeared.”

“I agree. What’s your next move?”

“Read Garvey’s letters to Maple and . . .” I paused. “And then I don’t know.” I did, but I just didn’t want to tell him.

“Aren’t any,” he said.

“What?”

“After I started on Maple’s trunks, I came back here and did a quick look through. There isn’t one letter from him to her in all of his papers.”

“See!” I said, excited. “She probably took them with her! That means she didn’t kill him. She wouldn’t have taken his love letters if she was in love with another man.”

“Or in a fit of anger or hatred, she could have destroyed them,” he said.

I brushed his comment away, not willing to be swayed though his counterpoint was justified. “I know I’m right. If what you said was true, she would have destroyed her letters too. I think she took his with her so she could remember him.”

“Why wouldn’t she have taken hers too? Not to mention her scrapbook about him. Their marriage certificate. The jewelry he gave her. All these things were left behind.”

I had to admit he was right, but I was sure there was an explanation for all that. “She
didn’t
kill him.”

His country boy face remained skeptical. “That remains to be seen.”

Out in the living room, a clock struck once for the half hour. I glanced at my watch. “Dang it, it’s ten-thirty,” I said. “I have to go.”

“Past curfew, huh?” he said. His lips turned up in a mocking smile. “Hope the big Kahuna doesn’t restrict you for being late.”

“Oh, shut up,” I said and headed toward the front door. He would have to end the night on a sarcastic note.

“Wait,” he said.

I ignored him and kept on going right through the open door.

He caught up with me when I was opening my truck’s door. He held out something wrapped in a white paper bag. “I’m sorry for my smart-ass remark. Please take a loaf of bread in apology. You and the chief enjoy it.”

I looked at him for a long moment, reluctant to take his gift.

“Please,” he said. “I was a jerk and I’m trying to make amends. Don’t your religious beliefs say that you’re supposed to forgive people?”

“You don’t know anything about my religious beliefs,” I said.

“I know you’re not a person who holds a grudge,” he said, holding out the bread. “I know you have a kind heart.”

A sharp wind blew through at that moment, causing a shiver to run down my spine. He shoved the package in my hands. “I promise, it’s great bread. Sourdough from my mama’s own starter. She once owned a bakery in Beaumont.”

I started to open my mouth to squawk a protest. He reached over and laid a finger on my lips. I froze at his touch. His finger was warm and I felt a shock run through me.

“I swear,” he said, his dark eyes solemn. “She really did own a bakery, but I learned to make bread from my ex-wife.”

He tapped his finger lightly on my lips, then turned and started toward his house. “I’ll let you know if I learn anything new about Garvey that supports your theory,” he called.

I arrived home at ten forty-five. Gabe’s Corvette was in the driveway. I laid my hand on the hood. It was still hot, telling me that he’d not been home long himself.

The minute I walked through the door he said, “I was getting ready to go out and look for you.” The air inside the house was freezing, though I could hear the heater running. Another clue that he’d just come in.

Scout bounded up to me demanding attention. I walked into the kitchen and laid the bread on the counter. Then I knelt down and gave my dog a thorough chest scratching. His tail thumped the tiled floor in pleasure. Gabe followed us and stood there waiting, his breathing slow and measured. I didn’t have to look at his face to know he was annoyed.

“Why would you do that?” I finally asked, still not looking at him.

“I was worried. I called Elvia. She said she hadn’t seen you all night.”

“Couldn’t have been too worried since you obviously just got home yourself.”

I stood up and looked into his face. Annoyance had been replaced by another expression, guilt, fear? I couldn’t tell. His deep-set eyes seemed the color of frosty steel.

“Where were you?” he asked, his voice controlled and as chilly as his eyes.

Deliberately taking my time to answer, I hung my still damp jacket over the back of a pine kitchen chair, unwrapped Hud’s bread, and slipped it in a large plastic bag so it would stay fresh. “You know, unless both of us want to give a detailed reports on our respective evenings, perhaps it might be better if we just go to bed.”

“I had dinner with Del. I haven’t done anything wrong. You have to just trust me with this, Benni.”

“Likewise, Chief,” I replied, walking out of the kitchen and switching off the light.

I lay in bed a long time unable to sleep. The parallels between my marriage and Maple’s were not wasted on me. She married a man she barely knew though she was certainly braver than me—she actually picked up her whole life and moved cross-country to be with him. Would I do that for love? Gabe had asked me once if I’d leave my family, our ranch, my roots, to follow him somewhere else. I had to admit, a part of me rebelled against it, that giving up of everything for a person. Was that what love was all about? Total surrender? Maybe I didn’t love anyone enough to do that. Or maybe, unlike Maple, I had a lot more to lose. Maybe her family wasn’t much to leave behind. If you hated your life, had no strong connections to your family, then creating a new life wouldn’t be a struggle, it would be a blessing. In my case, I wasn’t looking for a new life when Gabe had come into it. I was perfectly happy before he blew into town.

Well, not perfectly happy, a small voice inside reminded me. You were still mourning Jack. You were just getting through each day with no hope that happiness would ever touch your life again.

Gabe did change that. He did bring joy back into my life.

And now, it appeared, he was going to take it away.

14

BENNI

GABE AND I didn’t say much to each other the next morning. We were painstakingly polite, which saddened me more than a screaming fight. It was like talking to a stranger.

“I’ll be at the hairdresser until ten,” I said, picking up my backpack. Gabe, still in sweats and a T-shirt from his run, sipped coffee at the kitchen table. His sharp cheekbones seemed stretched across his olive skin. Was his night as restless as mine? It didn’t seem so to me. Every time I woke up, he seemed to be sleeping fine. “Then I’m at the Mardi Gras carnival. Then the parade, then the charity ball at Constance’s.”

He bit a piece of toasted sourdough bread. “I’m meeting with my department heads to check on parade control. Do you want to go to the ball together?”

“I have to be there early. I’m not staying through the whole parade.” Scout nudged my leg. I stooped down and scrubbed behind his ears. “Not this time, Scooby-Doo. I’ve got too many places to go to worry about you.”

“We’ll meet there then. I’ll probably be a little late depending on what kinds of problems we run into at the parade.” He took another bite of bread. “Is there a new bakery in town? This bread is great.”

“A friend gave it to me yesterday,” I said, trying not to move a muscle on my face. I had to admit, it gave me a tiny bit of pleasure for him to rave over Hud’s bread. If he knew who made it, it would irritate him to no end.

“Tell her it’s wonderful.”

I gave a half smile. “Okay.”

At the door, I stopped and turned back to face him. “Oh, one question. Do you keep crime files as far back at the forties?”

He set his bread down. “I’m not sure, why?”

“This project I’m working on for the historical museum. The Sullivan restoration.”

He nodded, comprehending. “We might have kept an unsolved homicide, but all other 1940s cases would likely be long gone. We have some old photos, I think, and some booking logs, but I’m not sure about any other documentation.”

“You mean, they didn’t microfilm old files like the library does old newspapers?”

“Nope. I imagine they didn’t have the manpower or the money. Captain Joan Sackett is our unofficial department historian. You met her at the last picnic. She played shortstop.”

“I remember. She works as a docent at the Mission.”

“That’s her. You could call and ask her next week. She works eight to five Monday through Friday.”

“Okay, thanks. I’ll call her on Monday.”

We kissed politely and said goodbye.

“Aren’t we just being so adult about this,” I muttered as I pulled out of the driveway. Somehow, the fact that we weren’t yelling at each other made our situation feel even more hopeless.

I arrived at Jamaica You Beautiful at five minutes to eight. It was located in a bright lavender-and-white clapboard house on Lopez Street about five blocks from Elvia’s bookstore. I stood on the porch for a few minutes, attempting to rearrange my despairing mood before seeing Elvia. This was the most exciting week of her life and I was determined not to wreck it with my marital problems.

Female laughter and the sharp, grassy scent of clean wet hair and hair spray bombarded me when I walked inside. Elvia was already reigning in chair number one, her shoulder-length black hair being arranged in an elaborate hairstyle of curls and braids. Her wedding veil and pearl-encrusted headpiece sat in a clear hatbox on the table next to her.

“Hey, Benni,” Teresa called over at me. She was the shop owner and Elvia was one of her best customers. “Zelda is ready anytime you are.”