Dove in the Window Read online

  Dove in the Window

  Fowler, Earlene

  Berkley (1999)

  * * *

  * * *

  A fifth go-around for Benni Harper (Goose in the Pond, 1997, not

  reviewed, etc.), the ranch-bred widow of Jack Harper, whos now married

  to San Celica, California, Police Chief Gabe Ortiz. San Celica is having

  a Heritage Days celebration, and Benni, as curator of the Folk Arts

  Museum and Artists Co-op, is in the thick of it. Her elegant southern

  cousin Emory Littleton (with a mega-crush on Bennis best friend Elvia

  Aragon) is staying with her, and at her fathers ranch, presided over by

  Grandmother Dove, a huge family gathering is in progress. Disaster

  strikes when talented young photographer Shelby Johnson is found dead

  one early morningmurder or accident? Ranch-hand Kip Waterman and

  hard-drinking Wade Harper, brother of Bennis late husband, had come to

  blows over Shelby the night before. Matters worsen when, days latter,

  Kips drowned body is discovered behind the Frio Saloon. Through it all,

  Benni has to calm her artist friends Olivia Contreras and Greer Shannon,

  deal with a zillion chores, and cope with the unexpected presence of

  renowned photographer Isaac Lyons, Shelbys stepgrandfather, who seems

  smitten with Grandma Dove. In the end, its Bennis investigative

  collaboration with Isaac (over Gabes strong objections) that brings a

  killer to a kind of justice. The quest for whodunit is all but buried

  under Bennis breezy down-home chatter, sometimes mawkish soul-searching,

  and descriptions of the celebrations endless eventsfrom the local

  gallerys show of women artists to the Cow-Plop contest. But Bennis

  warmly likable persona makes it all worthwhileespecially for lovers of

  the cozy genre. —

  Product Description

  Benni Harper, the spirited ex-cowgirl, quilter, and folk-art expert,

  has an eye for murderous designs—and a talent for piecing together the

  most complex and cold-blooded crimes

  Benni and her relatives and

  friends are gathered for the family's annual barbecue and cattle

  roundup. Among the guests is Shelby Johnson, a young photography

  student from a wealthy Chicago family. In Benni she finds a favorite

  subject and a new friend. But when the young woman's body is discovered

  on the ranch the next morning, Benni's closest relatives suddenly

  develop into prime murder suspects...

  * Fifth in the popular Benni Harper mystery series

  * Each book features a different quilt pattern

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Praise for Earlene Fowler’s

  Benni Harper Mysteries

  DOVE IN THE WINDOW

  Nominated for an Agatha Award for Best Novel

  “Excellent ... While the characters are perhaps the most vivid feature, setting nearly edges them out. Best of all is Benni’s sharp, sassy voice.”

  —Booknews

  “Fowler writes beautifully about the picturesque Central Coast, ranching, and local cuisine.”

  —Booklist

  GOOSE IN THE POND

  Nominated for an Agatha Award for Best Novel

  “Engaging.”

  —Booklist

  “Brilliantly crafted romantic suspense ... waiting to be devoured by the reader.”

  —The Mystery Zone

  “A fast, fun read that jumps into the action right from the get-go.”

  —San Luis Obispo (CA) Telegram-Tribune

  KANSAS TROUBLES

  Nominated for an Agatha Award for Best Novel

  “Mayhem, murder, chaos, and romance ... well-paced mystery ... fun reading.”

  —The Derby (KS) Daily Reporter

  “Fowler’s story about a sassy ex-cowgirl and quilter who loves to solve crimes ... is a lot of fun to read. Fowler has a deft touch ...”

  —Wichita Eagle

  IRISH CHAIN

  “A TERRIFIC WHODUNIT! The dialogue is intelligent and witty, the characters intensely human, and the tantalizing puzzle keeps the pages turning.”

  —Jean Hager, author of The Redbird’s Cry

  and Blooming Murder

  “A BLUE-RIBBON COZY ... This well-textured sequel to Fool’s Puzzle ... intricately blends social history and modern mystery.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “CHARMING, BEGUILING, AND ENTRANCING ... Irish Chain is a total joy.”

  —The Jackson (MS) Clarion-Ledger

  “A DELIGHTFUL AND WITTY MYSTERY full of endearing characters. It offers insights into quilts ... folk art, and historical events that add depth to its multi-layered story.”

  —Gothic Journal

  FOOL’S PUZZLE

  Nominated for an Agatha Award for Best First Mystery

  “CHARACTERS COME TO FULL THREE-DIMENSIONAL LIFE, and her plot is satisfyingly complex.”

  —The Jackson (MS) Clarion-Ledger

  “BREEZY, HUMOROUS DIALOGUE OF THE FIRST ORDER ... Quilt patterns provide a real and metaphorical background...”

  —Chicago Sun-Times

  “I LOVED FOOL’S PUZZLE ... [Earlene Fowler] made me laugh out loud on one page and brought tears to my eyes the next ... I can’t wait to read more.”

  —Margaret Maron, Edgar® Award—winning author

  of Bootlegger’s Daughter

  “A CRACKERJACK DEBUT.”

  —I Love a Mystery

  “A RIPPING READ. It’s smart, vigorous, and more than funny: Within its humor is wrenching insight.”

  —Noreen Ayres, author of A World the Color of Salt

  “I THOROUGHLY ENJOYED FOOL’S PUZZLE ... Fowler’s characters are terrific ... a super job.”

  —Eve K. Sandstrom, author of Death Down Home

  “A NEAT LITTLE MYSTERY ... her plot is compelling.”

  —Booklist

  Berkley Prime Crime Books by Earlene Fowler

  THE SADDLEMAKER’S WIFE

  The Benni Harper Mysteries

  FOOL’S PUZZLE

  IRISH CHAIN

  KANSAS TROUBLES

  GOOSE IN THE POND

  DOVE IN THE WINDOW

  MARINER’S COMPASS

  SEVEN SISTERS

  ARKANSAS TRAVELER

  STEPS TO THE ALTAR

  SUNSHINE AND SHADOW

  BROKEN DISHES

  DELECTABLE MOUNTAINS

  TUMBLING BLOCKS

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are

  either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously,

  and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business

  establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  DOVE IN THE WINDOW

  A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with

  the author

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 1998 by Earlene Fo
wler.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be

  reproduced in any form without permission.

  For information address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  The Edgar® name is a registered service mark of

  the Mystery Writers of America, Inc.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-49844-6

  Berkley Prime Crime Books are published

  by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  The name BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the BERKLEY PRIME CRIME

  design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  To girlfriends

  past, present and future

  for the laughter and the tears

  and

  To Juanita

  wherever you are

  for what might have been

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  No writer writes in a vacuum. Here are those to whom I owe a multitude of thanks:

  For every day, for every word—thank you, Lord Jesus

  For their wonderful support—booksellers and librarians everywhere

  For courage and stamina on the literary battlefield—my editor, Judith Palais, and my agent, Deborah Schneider

  For specialized help and/or comfort—Mary Atkinson, Bonnie Barrett-Wolf, Ginny Debolt, Justine and Jim Dunn, Joy Fitzhugh, Jim and Elaine Gardiner, Karen Gray, Christine Hill, Debra Jackson, Ann Lee, Jo-Ann Mapson, Charlene Marie, Leslie and Joe Patronik

  For long and loyal friendship—Jan Annigoni, Kandi Bradley, Juli Scherer

  And to my husband, Allen, for always being there. It’s been an old-fashioned love song from the moment we met.

  DOVE IN THE WINDOW

  Dove in the Window is an intricate star pattern made of primarily diamond shapes that give it a sharp, exacting look. Probably of East Coast origin, the early nineteenth-century pattern in one of its many forms presents a picture suggestive of birds resting beak to beak. The design is said to have derived its name from the days when everyone had barns with dovecotes—round holes cut in the gable and a tiny platform beneath—all for the accommodation of pet pigeons. Each square can contain as many as fifty-six pieces, making it a time-consuming pattern not suggested for the impatient quilter. Some other names for the pattern are: Flying Star, Four Doves, Bluebirds for Happiness, Bird of Paradise, Mother’s Choice Flying Fish, Crow’s Foot, and Crossroads.

  1

  “YOU SOLD ME?” Elvia shrieked. She slapped her tea cup down into the saucer. “Like one of your cows?”

  I swear one of my kitchen windows rattled.

  My ever-supportive husband’s deep and melodious laugh reverberated from the living room of our tiny Spanish-style bungalow. No doubt a smug “I-told-you-so” from a certain chief of police resided in my immediate future.

  I held my hands palms out in entreaty to my best friend since second grade. “Try and think of it as a short-term lease.” Then I darted out of her reach, placing my sturdy pine kitchen table between us.

  “Benni Harper, I’m going to kill you,” she said. Her black eyes flashed, and it occurred to me that repressed in her genetic memory might lurk some incredibly painful means to accomplish that task. Was it the Spanish Conquistadors or Native Americans who smeared their enemies’ naked bodies with honey and tied them to ant hills? Well, what she didn’t recall genetically, she’d make up for with torture techniques she’d learned being the only female sibling among six males.

  “It’s just one night,” I said, contemplating the distance to the knife drawer. I ran faster than she did in grade school. Could my thirty-five-year-old legs still beat her? “A few hours. You’ll like him.” I gave an encouraging smile. “Besides, as your own dear mama has often said, you’re getting kinda old. You really should consider Emory. He’s very handsome. You’d make beautiful babies.”

  She glared at me. “He’s a geek.”

  “Geek? No one uses that word anymore, and besides, the last time you saw him he was eleven years old. He’s thirty-four now—all grown up. Elvia, I had to offer him something. It was for a good cause. The information he found for me helped solve two murders.”

  She sipped her Earl Grey tea and continued giving me the evil eye. I considered telling her how attractive she looks when she’s angry, then decided that was pushing my luck. My best friend, Elvia Aragon, really is a breathtakingly beautiful woman. A combination of Armani elegance and Latina sensuality wrapped up in a perfect size three. She’s smart, too. And law abiding. I was hoping that last trait would not be compromised by my small but audacious act.

  Because I had indeed sold her lock, stock, and Charles Jourdan pumps to one Emory Delano Littleton of Sugartree, Arkansas. Well, at least her services for one night. A date. That’s all. Kiss not included, unless Emory could weasel one out of her, which I wouldn’t put past him. He’s got a real way about him, ole Emory does.

  Emory is my cousin. Sort of. In that weird, meandering way only Southerners truly understand. His grandfather and my dad’s grandfather were first cousins by marriage. And, to make the connection even more complex, Emory’s father, Boone Emory Littleton (famous all over northeastern Arkansas for his smoked chicken company—Boone’s Good Eatin‘ Chicken), married my mother’s third cousin, Ervalean, after they met at my mother and father’s wedding. Cousin Ervalean died when Emory was eleven, and Emory stayed that summer at our ranch outside San Celina on the Central Coast of California while his father closed every bar in Little Rock. After three months of trying to drown his sorrow in innumerable bottles of expensive Kentucky bourbon, Boone was saved at a tent revival and called Emory back home.

  I’d seen my cousin since on my occasional trips back to Arkansas with my gramma Dove to visit her sister, Garnet, but he’s never returned to California mostly because he’s afraid to fly. That’s why I felt safe offering Elvia’s services when I needed Emory to use his extensive and often suspiciously gained journalistic contacts throughout the South to help me with a couple of murder investigations I’d stumbled into. He’d had a crush on Elvia since he first set his green Southern eyes on her that summer twenty-three years ago. Even at twelve Elvia was turning men’s brains to mush.

  “Emory’s changed a lot since he was eleven,” I said, setting a plate of her favorite almond scones from Stern’s Bakery in front of her. “And he really did help me. Think of it as a public service.” I’d been rehearsing this talk for two weeks, ever since getting the phone call from Emory informing me he was joining the Ramsey clan for Thanksgiving at the ranch this year. His train would arrive at six P.M. on Wednesday. Which was today.

  “Nevertheless, I’m going to kill you,” she said, her voice determined. Only someone who knew her as well as me would hear the tinge of resignation in her tone. I released my held breath, knowing I’d won. But I’d owe her big for this favor, and she wouldn’t hesitate calling it in when it was to her greatest advantage. Knowing when to fight and when to temporarily concede was one of the traits that had turned her bookstore and coffeehouse, Blind Harry’s, into one of the most powerful independent bookstores in California.

  “Is it safe to reenter the arena?” Gabe stuck his head around the corner of the kitchen door, his deep-set gray-blue eyes inquiring behind round, gold-rimmed glasses. You’d think someone who’d been a cocky Marine grunt in Vietnam, a fearless undercover narcotics cop in East L.A., and was currently San Celina’s chief of police would behave a little less like the Wizard of Oz’s cowardly lion. That conveys a bit of the power of Elvia’s personality.

  He said something to Elvia in Spanish that made her red lips part into a tiny reluctant smile.

  “No fair,” I said. “Speak English.”

  “Don’t worry,” Elvia told him. “I’ll wait until you leave before murdering her. Then you can send one
of your underlings to investigate.”

  He entered the kitchen, tying his conservative gray-and-blue silk tie. “Good. I’ve got enough to worry about with all the San Celina Heritage Days security. Try and make it neat. I don’t have time to mop the floor this week.” He leaned over and kissed me, then rubbed his five-day growth of black-and-silver beard across my cheek. Combined with his gray Brooks Brothers suit and white dress shirt, the beard looked incongruous and a bit sexy. Just a slight deviation from what I call his Sergeant Friday look.

  “Ouch,” I said, pushing him away. “You’re packing a lethal weapon there.”

  “You’re the one who talked me into entering this ridiculous beard-growing contest, so you’ll have to suffer, too.” He scratched his face vigorously with his knuckles. “So, when does the big date ensue?”

  Elvia and I spoke at the same time.

  “Never,” she said.

  “This week,” I said.

  Gabe laughed out loud.

  “Please,” I begged her. “I’ll hand wash and wax your precious Austin-Healy. I’ll work at the bookstore during the next five Christmas seasons. I’ll pick every flea out of Sweet William’s coat with tweezers.” Sweet William was her newly inherited championship Persian cat.

  She stood up and picked up her leather briefcase. “Sweet William has never had a flea in his life. You owe me mucho grande, gringa loca. Grand Canyon big. Pavarotti big. A bigness of global proportions.”