Tumbling Blocks (15 page)

“Good idea!” she said with as much enthusiasm as if I’d said, hey, what do you think about using mold to make a medicine that will cure life-threatening infections? I’d met Dot many times at different historical society functions. She was one of San Celina’s most beloved and respected society ladies. She was tiny and fast and had the biggest wardrobe of St. John’s knits in three counties. That last bit of information was given to me by Elvia, who was impressed, and that was saying something about my clotheshorse best friend.

Dot never seemed to stop moving. Her husband, a local doctor, was respected and admired in San Celina. Her children turned out well, something that can’t be said for many of the affluent members of San Celina society. Her son followed in his father’s footsteps and was a local podiatrist who also raised wine grapes, and her daughter owned a boutique in Cambria and was active in local charities. A genuinely nice woman with impeccable credentials, I couldn’t help but wonder why she hadn’t been elected a member of the 49 Club a long time ago. Did she have something in her past like Francie did that irritated one of the 49 Club members enough to blackball her? If she did, I just couldn’t imagine what it might be. Serving the wrong kind of finger sandwiches at a charity tea, not bidding enough at a charity auction, wearing white shoes after Labor Day?

“Let’s go see if the downstairs meeting room is empty,” I said. “It might be a bit cool, but at least it will be private.”

“Let’s just go into the volunteer break room. I could use a hot cup of tea. How about you?”

I was about hot-drinked out, but I gamely agreed, and we went down the wooden stairs to the small room used for the volunteers to take a break or work on some project. Luckily, it was empty for the moment, though we couldn’t be sure when someone would walk in.

After fixing herself a cup of tea, she sat down across from me at the communal table. “Constance said you’re writing some kind of article about the 49 Club. I can’t imagine why she’d want you to speak to me. I’m not even a member.”

I shifted in the folding wooden chair, causing it to squeak. “She told me you were up for the empty spot, and I thought it would be interesting to not only interview members, but soon-to-be members.”

Her face brightened. “Have you heard something?”

I felt my neck grow hot. “Actually, no, that was . . . just a figure of speech.”

“Oh.” Her lips turned down slightly in what was the closest she’d probably ever come to a grimace. She sat up straight and smiled. “Of course
you
wouldn’t know anything. You were just trying to be diplomatic. You know, I’m sure, that I’ve missed being asked twice.”

“Oh,” I said, not knowing what else to say. “That must be . . .” I almost said painful, but for crying out loud, it was just a silly little club. Why in the world did these intelligent, successful women care one iota about being asked to join? And why didn’t the club just open up the membership and change the doggone name to the
Infinity
Club?

Because, honeybun,
I could hear my gramma Dove’s voice say,
that would make it entirely too democratic and equal and not nearly as much fun for those crazy old snobs.

“I’m sure I’ll be chosen this time,” Dot said, waving her hand. “What would you like to know?”

I pulled out my notebook and pretended to read through my notes. “I guess I’m curious . . . and your readers would be curious about what is so special about the 49 Club as compared to other clubs you are associated with.”

I hoped I’d flatter her with the phrase,
your readers
. She started rambling on about the uniqueness and quality of the 49 Club and its members, how making it exclusive kept up the quality of the work they did, how the quality and dedication of the members made the club more successful. I let her talk while I pretended to take notes. If she said anything that sounded suspicious, I was sure I’d catch it. After about twenty minutes, I closed my notebook and said, “I think I have enough. Thank you so much for taking time out of your busy schedule to talk to me.” If I heard the word “quality” one more time, I’d blow my top.

She stood up, brushed down the front of her tailored blue skirt. “You’ll send me a copy when it’s finished? My secretary keeps a file of my clippings.”

“Uh, sure. Constance has your address, right?”

“Yes, she does.” Dot gave me a sparkling smile. “Give Constance my best. Tell her I’ll see her at Pinky’s memorial service.”

“When is that?” I knew that real investigators often went to the funerals of victims to see who attends. It might be beneficial for me to go to Pinky’s memorial service. Oh, for cryin’ out loud, I said to myself. You’re acting like this is a
real
investigation.

“I’m not sure,” Dot admitted. “But I’ll attend if it’s not private, of course. I know how close she and Constance were. I truly admired Pinky Edmondson.”

I noticed that she used the word admired, rather than liked. Was that significant? Did any of these society ladies who spent so much of their time together on charity committees truly like each other? It was probably like the ag community; some people you served with you liked, others you tolerated, some you flat-out avoided.

“I’m sure Constance will let people know when or if there is a service,” I said, even though I didn’t have a clue if she would or not. “I think all of Pinky’s family lives out of town, so I’m not sure what the plans are.”

On my walk back to my truck, I mulled over the three interviews. Frankly, I felt like I’d wasted an afternoon that I could have spent doing something useful. I didn’t find out one thing about these women that wasn’t pretty much common knowledge. Still, the reason I was doing this was to humor Constance, so once I made my report to her and to my husband, I was through. There was nothing that led me to believe any of those three women wanted the spot in the 49 Club so bad they would kill for it. As far as I was concerned, I’d done my due diligence, and the case was closed. But I should have known better. Few things in my life have ever turned out to be what they initially appeared to be.

CHAPTER 7

W
HEN I WALKED INTO MY HOUSE, I IMMEDIATELY smelled something was up. Supper, to be exact. Dove’s chicken and dumplings, if my nose served me right. No one greeted me at the door, but I could hear the sound of laughter coming from the kitchen.

Inside the warm, butter-scented room I found Dove, Kathryn, both dogs and Ray. Dove stood in front of the stove dropping her homemade dumplings in one of my six-quart pots, while Kathryn tore lettuce for a salad. Ray was teaching Boo to play tug of war with someone’s athletic sock.

“Thanks a lot, Ray,” I said, smiling at the tiny growl coming from Boo’s fuzzy little body. Scout lay in the corner watching the game with a huge doggie grin on his face. “You know he’ll start thinking all socks are toys now. But since he’s not my dog, I actually don’t care.”

“My dogs always loved a good sock tug,” he said. “Seems a small doggie sin to possess.”

“I agree. But, like I said, ’taint my dog.” I walked over to Dove and laid my head on her shoulder, stooping slightly to do so. It felt like an arrow in my heart; she seemed to be shrinking before my eyes. “Thank you, Gramma, from the bottom of my wicked, but contrite heart. Today was definitely a chicken and dumplings day.” It was my ultimate comfort food, and no one made this dish like Dove. “Hey, aren’t we supposed to go to the airport to pick up Isaac?”

Dove shook her head. “He came in early. He’s already at the ranch. Ben picked him up.”

“Do you know when Gabe is coming home?” Kathryn asked.

I turned to face her. “I haven’t seen him all day. I thought he was with you.”

She looked back down at the lettuce head she was tearing, her face neutral. “Gabe and I had some words this afternoon.”

I glanced over at Ray, who didn’t look up from his tug-of-war with Boo. I turned to Dove, who just shrugged and went back to dropping dumplings.

“Has anyone called him?” I asked.

“He said he was going for a drive,” Kathryn said. She turned to Dove. “Didn’t you mention you brought some tomatoes from the ranch?”

Dove wiped her hands on the towel she had stuck in front of her jeans for a makeshift apron. “They’re out in the truck.”

“I’ll get them,” I said. It would give me a chance to call Gabe and see what was going on.

Outside, I called his cell phone. He answered the second ring.

“Ortiz, here.”

“Ortiz here too. Where are you?”

“I’m about two miles out of town. My ETA is about five minutes.”

“Good. Dove’s making chicken and dumplings. By the way, what did you and your mom fight about?”

There was a long silence on the line. In the background I could hear Etta James playing on his Corvette’s tape player. He only played Etta when he was very agitated. “What did she say?”

“She said you two had words. Care to elaborate?”

“No.”

I didn’t answer for a minute. “Okay, we’ll talk about this later. Are you and she going to be able to get along through dinner?”

“We’ve been faking it all my life. What’s one more night?”

“I’ll see you soon,” I said, not wanting to delve into this any deeper at the moment. Right now, just getting through dinner looked like it was going to take a gargantuan effort.

I was washing the tomatoes when Gabe opened the front door. Ray had taken Boo outside, since he’d just been fed, to try to coax him to do his business in the yard and not on my new carpet. Kathryn was setting the table, and Dove was checking the progress of her baking powder biscuits.

“Supper will be ready in five minutes,” Dove said. “Better tell Gabe to wash up.”

He was halfway up the stairs when I came out of the kitchen. I followed him into the bedroom, where he was pulling off his navy blue sweatshirt. I sat on the bed and watched him go through his dresser drawers picking out and discarding one T-shirt after another. He finally settled on a plain black one.

“Supper’s almost ready,” I said.

“Okay,” he replied without turning around.

“Gabe—” I started.

He held up a hand for me to stop, causing my hackles to rise. There was no gesture that I found more condescending. It took every ounce of self-control I had not to smack him in the back of the head.

“Fine,” I said, standing up. “See you downstairs.”

Throughout the meal, Gabe and his mother pointedly talked to everyone but each other. We discussed the Christmas parade, the decorations downtown and the place where Gabe and Kathryn had eaten lunch, Carlos by the Creek. It was a new Mexican restaurant whose building straddled San Celina Creek, which wove through the center of town like a drunken snake.

“Speaking of decorations,” Dove said. “When are you going to get your Christmas tree? It’s only eleven days to Christmas.”

I glanced over at Gabe, who shrugged and went back to eating. “We were waiting for Kathryn and Ray to get here so we could decorate it together,” I said.

Actually, we had been waiting for Kathryn. We hadn’t even known about Ray, but I’d had this great idea about having a tree trimming party while Kathryn was here and inviting some of our friends so Kathryn could meet them. Now, it didn’t seem like such a good idea. It didn’t appear as if Gabe and Kathryn were in the mood for a party.

“Tomorrow,” I said, making an executive decision. “We’ll buy it on the way home from the ranch. We can decorate it Monday night.”

Dove nodded, then smiled at Ray. “Hope you like beef, Ray. There’ll be a lot of it tomorrow. Not to mention a little bull.”

Ray smiled at Dove. “I’ve always been a little partial to both. I’m looking forward to a day at your ranch.”

After another uncomfortable half hour of making conversation, Gabe excused himself and went upstairs. I glanced over at his mother, whose face looked stricken and old. I stared after him, trying to decide if I should follow, then concluded it would be more sensible to let him be alone for a while. I’d help Dove clean up and then go talk to him.

“Let me help,” Kathryn said, as I picked up her plate.

“Not a chance,” I said. “You already helped make dinner. You’re probably tired. I’m sure the time change is working a number on your body clock.”

She sighed deeply; her blue-gray eyes seemed to sink into her face. Her sharp cheekbones, the bone structure she’d passed down to my husband, stretched tight across her pale skin. “You’re right, Benni. I am rather weary. Maybe I’ll make it an early night.”

“I think I’ll take a walk,” Ray said. “Give you some time for your nightly ablution.”

“I love a man with a good vocabulary,” Dove said, eliciting a smile from both Ray and Kathryn.

After they left the kitchen, I turned on the hot water, started rinsing the dinner dishes and arranging them in the dishwasher. At the same time, I began a game of ball to keep Boo occupied. His favorite toy was a large fabric ball covered with colorful tags. I’d kick it across the kitchen floor, and he’d scamper after it, his tiny toenails clicking across the tile floor. Scout, obviously tired from his day with the puppy, lay on his side next to the back door, content to let me entertain Boo.

“I’ll do the stockpot by hand,” Dove said. “Takes up too much room in the dishwasher.”

I murmured agreement and kept rinsing dishes. When I finished, I turned on the dishwasher and sat down on a chair. “Gabe and his mom had a fight.”

“I figured it was something like that,” Dove said, wiping the kitchen table.

I picked up Boo and settled him in my lap, scratching the back of his downy neck, trying to calm him down enough to go to sleep. “What am I going to do?”

Dove scrubbed at a stubborn spot on the table. The hum of the dishwasher vibrated the floor of my kitchen. An occasional clink of a dish not fit in properly echoed through the kitchen. It was the kind of thing that I could ignore and would drive Gabe crazy. He’d turn off the dishwasher and reorganize the dishes. I’d leave the room. Funny, I thought, just exactly the opposite of how we handle emotional problems. In that case, he’s always the one to leave the room.