Tumbling Blocks (7 page)

“It feels like you’re a cat in a roomful of mice on speed,” she’d told me. “You might catch one or two, if you’re lucky, but, mostly, they just jump out of your clutches. I’m just plumb tuckered out.”

So it surprised me when a month ago she called to tell me that she was closing her practice and accepting a job with the district attorney’s office.

“I’ll keep y’all on, of course,” she’d said. “But I’m just flat-out bored out of my skull drawing up trusts and fighting fencing issues. I need to feel like I’m doing something useful. Besides . . .” I could imagine her wide, Carly Simon smile. “I kinda miss them ole bad guys. Always loved growling back at them in court when they thought they could intimidate me with their high-hat prison sneers.”

Amanda, almost six feet tall, with a kudzu-thick head of auburn hair that she wore, more often than not, to her shoulders in full, shoulder-length curls, was both überfeminine and strikingly Amazon-like, which fascinated and scared most of the men she met.

She was out in the lobby in minutes, pulling me up into a huge, warm Southern hug. “Benni Harper Ortiz, where have you been? I’ve missed you, girl. Come on in and see the hovel these people call an office. If I wasn’t having such a good ole time, I’d quit this place and buy myself one of your cousin’s smoked chicken franchises. I swear, it’s the best chicken I’ve ever eaten.”

I followed her through the rabbit warren of cubicles and offices. She called out greetings as she passed by open offices filled with overflowing desks. You would have thought she’d worked here two years, not two months.

“Wow, you’ve really settled in,” I said when we reached her tiny office. “You seem to know everyone.” One small window looked out over the parking lot where they loaded and unloaded prisoners.

“Have a seat,” she said, pointing to the government-issue vinyl and metal visitor’s chair in front of her gray metal desk. “Don’t forget, I’ve been practicing law here in San Celina for a while. Ran across most of these folks at one point or another. Not that I had a lot of criminal cases, but I do belong to every law association in the county. Schmoozing is the one talent I inherited from my dear sweet daddy.” She gave me a broad wink. “I like to think of using my talent for good rather than evil.”

Her father had been a prominent and, according to her, absolutely corrupt-to-the-marrow Alabama judge. She’d once said that fifty thousand dollars’ worth of psychotherapy, a fraction of the money she inherited from him, was the reason she could laugh about him today.

She folded her hands on her maroon desk blotter. “So, what can I do for you? Got any criminals you want me to persecute?”

“Don’t you mean prosecute?” I said, laughing.

Her eyes twinkled. “Whatever.”

“You’re having fun, aren’t you?”

“You bet. I’d forgotten how satisfying it is putting away bad guys.”

“I won’t keep you long,” I said, sitting forward in my chair. “I have a favor to ask. How do I fake investigating a homicide?”

She cocked her head, her sculpted eyebrows knit in question. “That sounds downright intriguing.”

I smiled. “Don’t worry, I have Gabe’s permission. As a matter of fact, it’s at his request.”

She unfolded her hands. “The plot thickens.”

I quickly filled her in on the whole Constance-Pinky dilemma. “In a nutshell, Gabe wants me to keep her busy and off his back. I think he thinks she’ll eventually just move her attention to something else.”

“He’s probably right. She sounds as nutty as peanut butter pie.”

“Maybe, but it also might be her grief talking. I can’t help feeling sorry for her. If one of my friends died and I even had an inkling that something was amiss, I’d probably throw as big a hissy fit as she’s doing.”

I meant what I said. Though I only knew Constance as a boss and, despite having felt many times the sting of her snobbery, I still felt sympathy for her. She’d never had children and had been widowed for years. I suspected her friends were a big part of her life. Not having children myself, I could definitely relate.

“So, what do you suggest?” I asked Amanda.

“This should be easy. Like most everyone else, her ideas about how a person investigates a homicide are probably from television shows. Her reference would likely be Jessica Fletcher or that show with Dick Van Dyke. You know the routine. First, get a small notebook and one of those little portable tape recorders. You can find them at the drugstore.”

I nodded. “Then what?”

“She said she thinks that one of the aspiring 49ers is the killer?”

“She’s positive.”

“Boy, there’s a picture for you. If I were you, I’d just casually question each one using your position as curator and your background as a historian. Tell them you’re thinking about writing a history of their club.”

“Except that the people I’ll be talking to aren’t actually members of the club yet.”

“Then tell them it’s an article for a history magazine. Make one up. Trust me, they won’t bother to check. Once you get people talking about themselves, they often won’t shut up.” She lifted one eyebrow. “As a matter of fact, we prosecutors count on that. Many a criminal has talked himself or herself directly into jail simply because they admired the musical sound of their own voice.”

“Everything you’ve said was along the lines of what I was thinking about doing.”

“Why the visit then?”

I stood up. “For one thing, I just wanted to say hi and see your new office. It’s been too long since we’ve seen each other.”

“You’re right as rain there. What else?”

I laughed. “It won’t be a lie when I tell Constance that I’m in contact with the district attorney’s office about Pinky’s case.”

“You sly dog,” she said, standing up. “It’s been good seeing you. What’re your plans for the upcoming holidays?”

I grimaced and gave a dramatic shudder. “Mother-in-law coming in on the train tonight. Wish me luck.”

“Do you one better. I’ll offer my guest room when you need a place to hide.”

I went around the desk and gave her another hug. Her perfume, smelling like spring rain and sweet magnolias, reminded me of my late mother. “I might take you up on your offer. What’re your plans for Christmas?”

“Got about twenty people coming for a potluck supper. Not an in-law in the bunch, though there’re a few that might qualify as outlaws.” She winked at me. “Friends of Eli’s.”

“I’m not even going to ask.” Eli was her housekeeper and, for some time now, as she liked to put it, her gentleman caller.

“Best you don’t,” she agreed.

After tracking Sam down in front of the Tastee-Freez, where a bevy of females was spoiling my foster puppy, I asked him to stay put while I ran across the street to Longs drugstore to buy a notebook and tape recorder. Soon I was on my way back toward the folk art museum, Boo exhausted and snoozing in his car seat.

I stopped off at All Paws, told Suann my story of being Boo’s foster puppy mama for the next two weeks and asked them to watch him for me.

“I’ll be back in a few hours,” I promised. Then it dawned on me. “Darn, I’ll have to take him with me to pick up Gabe’s mom.” All Paws closed at seven p.m.

“He’s still a little guy,” Suann said. “You could carry him into the station. Usually no one will say anything. Or I can let you borrow this carrier.” She pointed to a leopard-print dog carrier that resembled a piece of luggage.

“I think I’ll just carry him. Or I’ll wait in the car with him.”

After temporarily relieving myself of my little charge, I went back to the museum, where the docent manning the gift shop gave me a large manila envelope left by a messenger. It was, of course, from Constance.

“Dear Benni,” read the letter on top of the thick sheaf of papers. “Here are the backgrounds on the ladies who are applying for the open spot in the 49 Club. Please keep me informed on your progress. Also enclosed is your retainer fee. Sincerely, Constance Sinclair.” Attached to the letter was her personal check for five hundred dollars. Under the memo part of the check she’d written “consulting fee.”

“Well, well,” I murmured as I walked back to my office. “My first money as a private detective. Maybe I should frame it.” I stuck the check in my wallet, not certain if I would cash it or not. It seemed deceitful of me to accept money for what was essentially a fake investigation. Then again, I could donate the money to the co-op’s Art for Kids program.

Once inside my office, I sat down and looked through the other papers. She had three women listed, all with, it appeared to me, impeccable society credentials. I couldn’t imagine one of them killing to gain membership to some lame society club.

First was Dorothea St. James. Nickname was Dot. I had seen her photos frequently on the society pages of the
San Celina Tribune.
She was sixty-eight years old and the widow of a local podiatrist. She had one daughter who owned a jewelry boutique in Cambria. She’d been involved with just about every San Celina society club in her twenty-eight years living in this county. The committees she chaired and charity events she hosted at her huge house in Cambria filled three pages. Her list was neatly typed with detailed explanations of each event. She’d been on the 49 Club waiting list for twenty years, passed over twice for women who hadn’t lived here as long as she. That, I thought, had to cause some resentment. What had kept her from being accepted by the 49 Club before?

Second was Frances McDonald. Called Francie by her friends. She was applying to the 49 Club for the first time. She’d only lived in San Celina County for five years since her husband, a retired federal judge, decided he wanted to spend their golden years in the Golden State. They’d lived and raised their family in Philadelphia, where she listed two very impressive pages of charitable works to recommend herself. I’d also seen her photos in the
Tribune
, though, unlike Dot, who had attended a few events for the folk art museum, I’d never seen Francie in person. Under her references there were two state senators and a congresswoman. Under the question what would she have to bring to the 49 Club, she wrote: “I have a long list of connections throughout the United States and at three Ivy League colleges that I would happily put at the disposal of the club’s discretion for either personal or charitable use.”

“In other words,” I mumbled out loud, “you’ll help anyone’s kid or grandkid get into Yale or Harvard when they don’t have the connections or grades to do it themselves. Dot, you might get shut out again.”

“Did you say something?” asked Janet, one of our docents, standing in the open doorway of my office.

“Just talking to myself,” I said, realizing it might be prudent to keep my sarcastic remarks to myself.

“I hear you,” she said, smiling. “Sometimes, in my house, I’m the only one who’ll listen when I talk.” She had four sons, fourteen to nineteen, all still at home. “D-Daddy sent me to tell you the exhibit’s ready for your final inspection. The only thing missing is Mr. Finch’s painting. I can’t wait to see it.”

“I’ve only seen photos of it myself. It came wrapped up, and I didn’t want to unwrap it until I got it here. Tell D-Daddy I’ll come check out the exhibit in a minute. I want to finish reading these papers.”

“More grant proposals?” she asked, knowing from my past whining that writing proposals begging for money was a never-ending job for me.

“Umm,” I said, noncommittally. After she left, I speed-read through the third candidate’s application, the only person I actually knew.

Roberta “Bobbie” Everette was one of the biggest landowners in San Celina County. Her family went back as far as Constance Sinclair’s, to the time when California was still a part of Mexico. The Everette family owned a ranch that abutted the northeast section of my dad’s ranch. They’d always been good neighbors, and we’d never had a negative fencing issue with them. Their family ran primarily Black Angus and even owned a restaurant on Interstate 5 in the Central Valley that was a popular stopping place for thousands of tourists traveling up that long road through the center of California. I knew Bobbie from the Cattlewomen’s Association, where she’d been voted president an unprecedented four times.

Everyone loved Bobbie. She was one of those women, I’d venture to say, who could be president of the United States if she set her mind to it. Both men and women liked her, and she managed to fit in wherever she was. Not only was she intelligent and practical, she also knew how to have a good time, had never met a stranger and was interested and knowledgeable on a wide variety of subjects. She was a longtime, though not particularly active, member of the historical society, a frequent and generous contributor to the folk art museum simply out of her love for the art form. No strings were ever attached to her donations, and she was the major contributor as well as instigator of the new San Celina Humane Society building. She owned six dogs herself, all rescues. She donated time and money to more charities than any of the other candidates and belonged to every club of note in San Celina. Which made me wonder why in the world she’d apply for membership to the 49 Club. She was sixty-seven years old, had money, influence, popularity and not enough time for one more club. Why did she care about adding the 49 Club? I had to admit, that made me a little curious. Though I could imagine Bobbie shooting a poacher or cattle rustler, or even strangling with her bare hands someone she caught mistreating an animal, I couldn’t imagine her killing one of her peers just to add one more stuffy club to her résumé.

I sat back in my chair, contemplating the three women, a bit chagrined at myself. I was going over their backgrounds as if they actually were suspects. I needed to get my mind off that and on to how I’d chat with them long enough to fool Constance but not make the women suspicious.

Talking to Bobbie would be easy enough because we ran in some of the same circles. The others would call for a cover just like Amanda suggested. An article for a fictional history magazine would be good, though I wouldn’t put it past any of these women to check out whether my magazine existed. It would have to be a real magazine. Emory could help me with that. He’d worked for the
Tribune
when he first moved to California, so I was certain he’d acquired connections with the various county magazines. There was
San Celina Today
and a new tourist-oriented magazine,
Central Coast News.
Maybe I could use one of them as a cover. Or, even better, maybe I could actually get an assignment to write about the 49 Club. It was county history, and both of those magazines had articles every month about some small segment of San Celina history.