Irish Chain (7 page)

He looked at me soberly. “You are too naive, Benni Harper. Lust doesn’t end when the Social Security checks start coming in.”

I laughed nervously. “This is getting way too serious for me. I think I’ll leave the worry of human vices to you. I just want to get this dance wrapped up. The only thing I’m lusting for right now is my nice, warm bed.”

“You know where I’ll be if you need me.”

I walked back out into the recreation hall and peered around the crowded room, looking for Gabe, when Edwin rushed up, slightly out of breath, his long face shiny with perspiration. “Chief Ortiz just left a message at the front desk. He’ll be here in ten minutes.”

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll tell the band to play a few more songs and we’ll start wrapping this up.”

“Good, good,” he replied. “The sooner the better.” Then he hurried off, no groping, no wandering eyes. I wondered briefly what had got his dander up, then decided maybe I didn’t want to know. I joined Thelma and Martha over on the sidelines and listened to them unabashedly gossip about who of the young adults was cheating on who and what two of the more adventurous agriculture students really cultivated in their experimental gardens.

“You two are a real couple of snoophounds,” I said. “I guess I’m going to have to watch myself in your presence.”

Thelma patted my arm with her cool, dry hand. “My dear child, your life isn’t interesting enough for us to get really excited about.”

“Well, pardon me. Maybe I should add a little vice to my life. Just for your sakes, of course.”

She smiled with small even teeth faded the color of old piano keys. “We’re working on it, dear heart.”

Fifteen minutes later, in the middle of a rather lame recording of “Stardust,” I was bending down and running a finger through the back of my pumps which felt two sizes smaller now, when Martha cleared her throat noisily.

“Your sweetie’s here,” she said.

Gabe stood at the entrance to the hall, eyes scanning the crowded room, looking both dignified and extremely sexy in his perfectly tailored gray suit. Sexy enough for me to almost forgive him for being late.
Almost
. Walking toward him, my legs wobbled slightly as the shoes bit into my feet.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart,” he asked in a sympathetic voice. “Got a rock in your hoof?”

“With the way I’m feeling right now, you’re risking your very life with that remark.
Where
have you been?”

“Sorry, got tied up with the sheriff on that new inter-county cooperative program we’re trying to hammer out. And he has
muy grande
marriage problems. He was on his third Coors when I pried myself away.”

“Well, at least you made it. We need to get the king and queen crowned and get everyone back to their rooms before they collapse.”

“How’d it go?”

“No major problems.” I turned and looked over the crowd. “Only thing I have to do is find the king now.”

“What about the queen?”

“That’s Martha Pickering, the chubby lady over by the refreshment table. Believe me, she’ll be there until the last tart is history. No, it’s just the king who’s my problem. In more ways than one.”

“What?”

“Brady O’Hara. I wrote about him in the note.” By the look on his face, I realized he either hadn’t read it or had forgotten what was in it. “Never mind.” I waved my hand impatiently. “I’ll tell you about it later. Right now, I just want to get this over with and peel this dress off.”

“That sounds intriguing. Need any help?”

“Oh, grow up.”

“Now, Scarlett,” he said. “Let’s show a little of that famous Southern hospitality.” I glared at him and he held up his hands in defense. “Whoa, girl, just show me where I stand and I’ll get out of your hair.”

I considered showing him the back of my hand, but pointed instead at Tara’s porch.

He bent down and gave me a quick kiss on the lips. “Cheer up,
gringuita.
It’s not even ten-thirty yet. The night is young. Think of the possibilities.” He touched a finger to my cheek.

“Easy for you to say,” I muttered, limping toward the back of the room. “You don’t have a blister on your heel the size of a cantaloupe.”

I surveyed the crowd one last time hoping to spot Mr. O’Hara so I wouldn’t have to hunt any further, when Todd Simmons rushed past me.

“Hey!” I grabbed his arm. “Don’t get too far away. We’re crowning the king and queen soon and the
Tribune
said they particularly wanted a picture of that.”

“Yeah, sure,” he said, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He clutched his Nikon to his chest and kept glancing over my shoulder.

“Have you seen Mr. O’Hara?” I asked.

“Uh, what does he look like?” Something behind me continued to hold his interest. I turned to look and saw the girl in the tight red dress who’d started the conga line.

“He’s wearing a greenish tweed coat and has a white mustache. He carries a highly dangerous cherry-wood cane.” Todd looked at me blankly, flipping the lens cover on the Nikon open and closed. “Never mind, I’ll find him. But don’t you even think about leaving this room until I get him here.”

“Sure,” he said. “I’ll be right here.”

I looked back at the girl in red. I bet he would.

I took the shortcut through the kitchen to Mr. O’Hara’s wing, thinking it was a good thing Gabe had finally arrived, because now even Mac was nowhere to be found. To speed things up, I slipped off my heels and started through the garden. Though I couldn’t see anything but shadowy outlines in the partial moonlight, the sweet, earthy scents of the roses, early lilies, ferns and wisteria made such a soothing potpourri that I couldn’t help but stop and inhale deeply, letting the coolness of the bricks soak into my tired feet. Maybe it was just my imagination, but it seemed suddenly as if people were jumping around like checkers on a giant checkerboard. Or maybe more accurately, like one of those high-speed five-minute chess games played for money that had recently become popular with the college students.

When I watched Ramon and Todd play one this afternoon, kitchen timer ticking away the minutes, Ramon remarked, “There’s no fancy footwork in these games. The object is to capture the king as quickly as possible.”

And at this particular moment, that certainly sounded good to me.

3

CLUTCHING MY SHOES to my chest, I hurried through the garden. Halfway across, a faint noise echoed through the cool darkness. It came from the small white ivy-stitched gazebo to my left. A giggle, then a muted
shush
. A young male voice murmured a laughing admonishment. A familiar young male voice.

“Ramon?” I called, moving closer and peering into the shadows. “Is that you? Ramon?”

He stepped down from the gazebo, rubbing the back of his neck. “Geeze, Benni, like why don’t you use a bullhorn or something? I think someone in Santa Barbara might have missed it.”

“You should be helping at the dance,” I accused.

“I needed some fresh air.”

Standing on tiptoe, I peered over his shoulder. “Who’s in there with you?” Red sequins flashed in the moonlight. “She was just with—For Pete’s sake, does she have a twin?”

“Huh?”

“Never mind. Help me find Mr. O’Hara so we can crown the royal couple and get this dance over with. Then you and the lady in red can exchange saliva to your heart’s content.”

He scowled at me. “Why don’t you just be blunt or something?”

“I mean it. I’m not signing any of you kids off this project until everything is completely cleaned up. What happened to that wonderful altruism you all started out with?” I was tired and hungry and it was beginning to show.

“Altrue-what?”

“Forget it. Let’s just find Mr. O’Hara, then we’re all outta here.”

After a short, intense conversation with his girlfriend, Ramon ambled up beside me.

“Well, where do we look?” he asked in a grumpy voice.

Ignoring his tone, I said, “We might as well try the obvious and check his room.”

With its green tartan plaid bedspread and framed photographs of his travels in Ireland, Brady O’Hara’s large private room was as neat and precise as his natty toothbrush mustache. It was also empty. He was one of the few residents at Oak Terrace who could afford such posh accommodations, having owned O’Hara’s Department Store downtown for fifty years, and from what I’d heard, invested the money from its sale wisely. I’d spent many late August afternoons in the Smart Young Miss department of his store arguing with Dove about the real and imagined dangers of skintight jeans and whether bras were or weren’t a necessary clothing option for a liberated sixteen-year-old. In the late seventies, when the Central Coast Fashion Plaza opened up on the edge of town, he closed the store and retired to his huge Victorian house where he cultivated an English flower garden and worked on long, rambling articles for obscure historical journals.

“Now what?” Ramon asked, jiggling one leg impatiently while I slipped my shoes back on my icy feet. The hallway, usually crowded with wheelchairs, walkers, nurses’ aides and various visitors, was empty, all the guests living in this wing apparently enjoying the dance.

“Let’s try the nurses’ station.”

We walked toward the center of the building, the heels of my pumps clicking across the shiny tile floor like tiny gunshots. A lone attendant sat at the central station, hunched over a Spanish comic book. The front cover pictured a buxom blond woman and a Latino-looking Dick Tracy.

“Excuse me,” I said to the attendant, a middle-aged man with a stiff black pompadour and a silver religious medallion around his neck. “Have you seen an elderly man go by here recently?”

“Yes?” His voice rose in question.

“Which way did he go?”

“Yes?” He surveyed me with friendly black eyes. “
No
habla inglés.
”

I turned and looked at Ramon expectantly. He fired off a rapid question ending in “Señor O’Hara.” The attendant’s brown face remained blank. Ramon tried again. I understood the words
gringo
and
viejo
. Old white man. The man answered with a few words and a crooked smile, spreading his arms widely to encompass both hallways.

“What did he say?” I asked.

“Basically that the place is chock full of them,” Ramon said. “Geeze, Benni, can’t we just crown someone else? They all look alike. Who’s going to know the difference?” I shook my head and turned to the attendant.

“
Gracias
,” I said, then faced Ramon. “Let’s split up. You check the rooms down the west and east wings. I’ll take the north and south.”

He heaved a dramatic sigh. “You’re the boss.” He started down the green-tiled hall, sticking his head unabashedly into the first room he came to and yelled, “Yo, Mr. O.”

“Ramon,” I hissed. “Try and show some respect. Knock before you go into a room. Someone might be in there. And check the east garden too.”

Without turning around, he flapped his hand behind him mimicking a quacking duck.

“Smart ass,” I muttered and headed left to check the north wing first. I walked down the corridor peeking discreetly into the open doors, knocking loudly and waiting a few seconds before opening the closed ones. Most of the white doors, in preparation for tomorrow, sported Valentine’s Day decorations made in the weekly crafts class. Some enthusiastic residents had already gotten an early start and pasted green and orange shamrocks next to the hearts. The retirement home’s obsession with holidays reminded me of elementary school. Though most of the guests enjoyed it, some, like Oralee, found it condescending. The battle to keep the door to their room bare or decorated was a tug of war between her and Miss Violet who, as a former grade-school teacher, felt right at home with holiday-fixation.

The last room in the north corridor was the crafts room, where I’d spent many hours in the last few weeks. It was a long shot, but I checked anyway. The cramped, windowless room held only the Steps to the Altar quilt the ladies started piecing a month ago, and our quilting supplies. Our next meeting would be this coming week at the co-op studios to stretch it out and start the actual quilting.

I closed the door and walked back toward the south side of the building, thinking about the blue and pink quilt.

“So, Benni,” Thelma had said at our last meeting. “Just how many steps does it take to get to the altar these days?”

“I have no idea,” I’d answered, trying to concentrate on what had become my main job with these expert quilters, threading a ready supply of needles.

“Just like in our time, no doubt,” Martha said, stabbing her needle as aggressively through the fabric as she gave her opinions to the world. “It probably depends on who’s doing the stepping.”

Thelma reached over, grabbed a new needle and patted me on the shoulder. “You take your time, honey. And don’t you forget, the smartest thing a woman can do is stick her feet in a milk bottle and wait for a wedding ring.” Relaxed, time-softened laughter rippled through the room.

I passed the nurses’ desk again, empty now, and couldn’t help but wonder about the security at Oak Terrace. What if someone suddenly became ill? It was a subject I should discuss with Mac, since his grandmother lived here. It seemed to me they should have someone around at all times, especially someone who could summon help in English. The community room revealed only one elderly lady with a Peter Pan haircut and two bulky hearing aids attached to her ears like small tan animals. “Never heard of’em,” she yelled to my question about Mr. O’Hara. Her eyes never left the green-tinted television turned to the show
Love Connection
.

The last room at the end of the south corridor made me smile. The masking tape down the middle of the door told the whole sordid story. Hearts made of red and pink construction paper and white paper doilies covered half of it; the other side was as bare as a newborn baby. I knocked on the closed door. Asking Oralee about Mr. O’Hara was probably taking my life in my hands, but maybe she had seen him wander by.

When there was no answer, I pushed it open.

“Oralee, have you . . . ?”