Tumbling Blocks Read online

  Inside the bookstore it was a madhouse. I, not Constance, should have made the appointments to interview the three possible 49ers. Blind Harry’s, especially on the Saturday of the Christmas parade, was not the most quiet or discreet place to conduct an interview. But it would have to do. I contemplated going upstairs and asking Elvia if I could borrow her office but thought better of it. Bobbie might reveal more if I didn’t make this interview such a big deal.

  Listen to yourself, I thought as I walked down the wooden stairs to the coffeehouse. Reveal more about what? So Bobbie, Pete and Pinky were thinking about going together on an environmental easement. Pinky’s death might make it more complicated, since they’d have to deal with her heirs now, but that was all the more reason why Bobbie wouldn’t want Pinky dead, not the other way around. The fact that they were involved was just a coincidence. But I’d been around Gabe too long, and I was vaguely suspicious about the connection.

  When I reached the bottom step, I spotted Ray over in a corner, perusing the bookshelves that lined the coffeehouse. Elvia had a system that, when she first set it up, people declared would put her out of business. It was take a used book, leave one in its place. Sales in the coffeehouse doubled in one week.

  Ray was leafing through a copy of The Wizard of Oz.

  “I love that book,” I said, coming up beside him. “Almost as much as the movie.”

  He looked up and smiled. “You know, I’ve been told I bear a striking resemblance to the scarecrow.”

  I laughed, feeling my face flush. “Really?”

  He winked at me and closed the book. “Did you think I haven’t noticed the physical similarities?” He sang softly, “If I only had a brain . . .”

  “I bet you hate that song.”

  “Only when my buddies sang it. Usually when I did something dumb at work.” He slipped the book back onto the shelf. “How was the parade?”

  “Didn’t you watch it? I saw Kathryn and Gabe, but not you.”

  He shrugged. “I started to, then I got to talking with one of the kids who designed Blind Harry’s window. He offered to show me the computer program they used to design it. It’s amazing.”

  “Yes, every year Blind Harry’s outdoes itself.”

  “So, what’re you up to now?”

  Just as he asked, I saw Bobbie come down the wooden steps. After catching her eye, I gave her a quick wave. “I have an interview with one of the women who is applying for membership in a local club . . .” I shook my head. “It’s a long, complicated story. I’ll tell you all about it tonight.”

  “It’s a date,” he said.

  Bobbie went over to the counter and started talking to the barista.

  “What’re you going to do the rest of the day?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “Wander around the town, I suppose. I think Gabe and Kathryn are still catching up on things. Don’t want to be a burden.”

  For a moment, I felt slightly irritated at Gabe. I knew how he could subtly make a person feel like they were a fifth wheel. Ray seemed like a nice man, and Gabe should give him a chance, despite the way his mother sprang this marriage so abruptly on him.

  Then again, I could understand his hesitancy in accepting Ray right away. I remembered my own half-fearful, half-annoyed feelings about Isaac when he first became interested in Dove. I’d instantly pegged him for someone who was out to use my gramma and instead he became one of the best things that had happened to her in years. And I now loved him like he’d been my grandpa from the get-go.

  “He’ll come around,” I said, laying a hand on Ray’s forearm. “Gabe’s a tad overly protective of all his women. He can’t help himself.”

  Ray’s eyes crinkled in a smile. “I’ll be fine. Don’t forget, I’m pretty used to being alone. Lost my Cecilia almost twenty years ago. I’m just grateful for whatever time Kathryn and I have together.” His eyes seemed to turn sad for a moment.

  “I’ll see you at supper,” I said. But before then, I was definitely going to find Gabe and tactfully suggest that he include Ray a little more. Though I wasn’t always the most accurate judge of people, Ray truly seemed to be a good man who genuinely cared for Kathryn.

  Bobbie had already found a table in the corner and had ordered a Mexican hot chocolate for me.

  “Thanks, Bobbie,” I said, sitting down. “That looks delicious.”

  “Figured you were probably as chilled as me being out there in the parade.”

  “I wore long underwear, but it didn’t help my hands or face.” I tasted the cinnamon-sprinkled whipped cream then took a long drink. The warmth down my throat felt good, and the sugary chocolate gave me confidence.

  Bobbie sipped at her own hot chocolate. “Okay, shoot.”

  I unzipped my leather purse and pulled out a small notebook. “I hope you don’t mind if I take notes. I was serious when I said I thought this actually might make a good article for one of the local magazines.”

  “No problem,” Bobbie said. “Just make sure and spell my name right.” She sat back in the old ladder-back wooden library chair.

  I thought for a moment, then said, “Why don’t you start by telling me again why you want to be in the 49 Club?”

  She crossed her leg, ankle to knee, and picked at a piece of dirt clinging to the heel of her red and black boot. “Like I told you, it was my mother’s dream. She was one of the founding members of the club. I’ll be up front about this. My mother, though I loved her dearly and she had many, many good qualities, was a flat-out snob. She and the rest of the founding members were all snobs. It’s nuts, don’t you think? I mean, a club where they blackball people is so 1950s. Frankly, I hope I’m shut out. If there’s one thing I don’t need, it’s another set of social engagements I have to figure out a way to ditch.” She shook her head, her expression bemused.

  I watched her as I sipped my drink, trying to discern if she was blowing smoke. Was it a matter of actually not caring or pretending not to care? I understand deathbed promises, but her mother had been gone a long time and, frankly, how would she know if Bobbie was trying to get into the 49 Club or not? I was more curious about the joint easement situation between Bobbie, Pete and Pinky.

  “Frankly, Bobbie,” I said, wrapping my hands around my warm mug. “I don’t think you had anything to do with Pinky’s death. I don’t think any of the potential members did. I think Pinky just had a heart attack, plain and simple. This is probably just Constance’s way of coping.”

  Bobbie raised her eyebrows. “Hard on you.”

  I shrugged and touched a finger to my drink’s melting whipped cream. After licking it off, I said, “It’s my job. I do have a question, just to assuage my own curiosity. How did you know she was having the potential members investigated?”

  Bobbie uncrossed her leg and set her boot down hard on the concrete floor. “Oldest way in the book. She confides in her housekeeper. Her housekeeper knows my housekeeper. And you know they know everything about us.”

  I nodded in agreement. That was exactly the reason why I never wanted to have one.

  Bobbie shook her head. “I swear, Constance has gone completely batty. As if you don’t have better things to do with your time.”

  “It’s okay; I can handle her. Let me just get enough to pad out this investigative report so I have something to tell Constance.”

  Bobbie’s expression made it clear what she wanted to tell Constance.

  “So, where were you last Saturday night between . . .” I checked my notebook. “. . . eight p.m. and midnight?”

  “That’s when Pinky died?”

  I nodded. “According to the medical examiner’s report. December seventh. Constance told me that Pinky’s housekeeper . . .” I checked my notes again. “May Heinz last saw Pinky on Saturday night December seventh at eight p.m. when she made up Pinky’s customary tray of Lady Grey tea and butter cookies. Ms. Heinz lives in a guesthouse behind Pinky’s house. May found her the next morning at six a.m. when she brought Pinky her breakfast coffee. Th
e medical examiner said Pinky likely died somewhere between nine and midnight.”

  “Not a bad way to go,” Bobbie said. “Sleeping in your own bed after tea and cookies. We should all be so lucky.”

  I didn’t mention that the tea and cookies hadn’t been touched, something that was also in the report. “I suppose.”

  “Saturday night, you say?”

  I nodded.

  “If I remember right, I was helping Pete at his ranch. About midnight I’d say we were in the middle of pulling a calf. We have had a mess of problems these last few weeks. Pete bred some of his new heifers to a Brangus bull. Paid a pretty penny for the bull at a Dallas auction. But it was a real mistake. Calves are just too dang big.”

  “I know what you mean.” I’d done my share of pulling oversized calves from frightened heifers. Daddy and I were real careful now about which bull impregnated which heifer. I looked back down at my notebook, pen poised.

  I looked up from my notebook. “Okay, I do have a question that does concern Pinky. Is it true you and Pete were going in with her on an agriculture easement on your properties over by Santa Rosa Creek?”

  Her eyes started blinking rapidly. “Where’d you hear that?”

  I shrugged, not about to give Daddy and Bert up.

  Her red lips narrowed into a flat line. “Cracker-barrel gang, most likely. Well, it’s not exactly a secret. I’m sure our kids have complained hither and yon about it.”

  “They’re not happy about it?”

  “Not in the least. That’s why they’re against Pete and me getting married. That’s the only thing the two families can agree on.” She gave a mischievous smile. Then her face turned serious. “You know, she was thinking about pulling out, even though she’d given us a verbal agreement. We heard she received an offer on her land that she couldn’t refuse.”

  “Who told you?”

  Her face grew secretive. “Does it matter?”

  I wanted to say, Yes, it does. But I also knew I’d be pressing my luck. “Did you ever ask her about it?”

  She shook her head no. “Just heard about it a few days ago, and we hadn’t had a chance to call and ask her about it.” Her lips turned up into a half smile. “Does this make me and Pete prime suspects?”

  I gave a forced laugh. “Not hardly. I mean, unless either of you inherit her land.”

  “No such luck. From what I remember her saying, her closest relatives are some cousins back East. That land will be ranchettes in no time.”

  I glanced up at the wall clock and closed my notebook. “Whoa, I’m running late. I have another appointment.”

  Bobbie stood up, pushed her Wranglers down over her boots. “Your next suspect?”

  “Thanks so much for humoring me, Bobbie,” I said, not answering her.

  “You’re welcome. If it would help set Constance’s mind at ease, I’d be happy to pull out of the running for Pinky’s spot.”

  I stood up, grabbed her mug and mine and started for the counter. “I’m sure that’s not necessary. I think Constance will come to her senses soon and see that she’s chasing fireflies.”

  “Don’t count on it,” Bobbie said, following me. “Good luck to you.”

  “Thanks, again.” I waved and ran up the stairs.

  Less than ten minutes later, my side aching from running the four blocks to Miss Christine’s Tea and Sympathy, I stood in the doorway and surveyed the crowd of chattering ladies. The parade and the holiday season had brought both locals and tourists downtown. Since one p.m. almost constituted the beginning of tea time, Miss Christine’s was doing a brisk business.

  I spotted Frances “Francie” McDonald on the far side of the flower-scented room. Though Francie and I had never formally met, I recognized her from her many pictures in the Tribune’s society pages. In the five years she’d lived in our county, she’d managed to get invited to all the most important parties and charity functions. It made sense that she wanted to be a part of the most prestigious women’s club in San Celina County.

  I inhaled, trying to slow down my labored breathing, and wove my way through the crowded tearoom. From what I could see, at least half the customers were indulging in Miss Christine’s specialty, the chocolate tea. The pastries and cookies, not to mention the chocolate-flavored tea, looked delicious, even though I’d just finished a huge Mexican hot chocolate.

  “Mrs. McDonald?” I asked, walking up to the corner table. She’d already ordered a pot of tea and was drinking from a thin china cup painted with green holly and red berries. A twin of her cup was waiting for me. “I’m Benni Ortiz.”

  “Please, call me Francie,” she said, gesturing for me to take a seat. She was dainty-looking, like someone who hadn’t eaten a good solid meal in twenty years. Her skin was a translucent peach shade that seemed enhanced, rather than marred, by tiny spiderweb age lines. Though Constance’s notes said Francie was sixty-nine years old, she could have passed for fifty-five.

  “It’s so nice to finally meet you,” she said, pouring my tea. “I’ve seen you around town and read about your . . .” She smiled, not certain how to delicately bring up that my frequent mentions in the paper usually had to do with a murder. That is, if I wasn’t being held hostage.

  “Escapades might be a good word,” I said, smiling as I pulled out the silk-upholstered chair. “I do manage to get around. Not always into places that my husband approves of.”

  She sipped her tea, then patted both corners of her pale lips with her pink linen napkin, politely not answering. She was the kind of woman who actually looked natural in a tea parlor.

  “But we’re not here to talk about me,” I said, pouring a small amount of cream into my tea. “I’m sure Constance told you that I’m doing a chapter for a book on San Celina history. She said you wouldn’t mind being interviewed, since you are one of the ladies in the running for the 49 Club’s open spot.”

  I watched as a proper expression of genteel dismay changed the countenance of her soft features. It was like watching someone at an acting class be told, “Now, show sadness,” and they do.

  “Such a tragedy,” she murmured, bringing her napkin up to the corner of her mouth again. “Though I do desire to join the 49 Club, it troubles me that . . .” She stopped in the middle of her sentence, pressing her lips together.

  “That someone has to die for it to happen?” I finished for her.

  I wanted to add that it wouldn’t be a problem if the club would just open up its membership roll to whomever wanted to join. But, then, someone like Francie McDonald might not find belonging to it quite as appealing.

  “Yes, I suppose that’s it,” she said, her voice without any emotion that I could discern. “I only knew Pinky Edmondson on a casual basis, but she seemed a lovely lady.”

  I pulled my notebook out of my shirt pocket. “I don’t want to keep you long, so I’ll get right to my questions. What makes the 49 Club so appealing to someone like you?”

  She placed her cup so softly into its saucer that I didn’t hear a sound. “Whatever do you mean, someone like me?”

  I tried not to sound impatient. I still had one more interview and another dinner with my mother-in-law to get through before I could crawl into my warm bed tonight, so I wasn’t in the mood to treat this privileged woman with mink-lined gloves. I softened my words with a smile and an upturned palm. “I mean, someone who is as popular and connected as you. Constance told me about the many things you’ve accomplished in your life, and I’ve read about a lot of them in the society pages of the Tribune. You don’t need to prove anything to anyone, so why is the 49 Club something you want to add to your already prestigious résumé?”

  Her lips didn’t return my smile, which told me my blatant flattery hadn’t fooled her one minute. “The 49 Club is important in San Celina. This is my home now, and I want to be with my . . .” She paused a moment, her neck flushing a rosy color.

  I was tempted to say “peeps” but I wasn’t sure if she’d understand the Hollywood term for pe
ople she felt comfortable around. Her equals was what she meant to say, I was sure. When she didn’t finish her sentence, I filled in the blank. “Your friends.”

  “Exactly.” Her expression was grateful for two seconds. “But more importantly, they do some of the best charity work in the county, and I think my expertise in raising money would be a good addition to their group.”

  “Absolutely,” I said, wanting to tell her that her stump speech was wasted on me. I had no vote in the matter. “Okay, I’ll put in the article that, like all the other 49 Club members, you place great importance on giving back to your community, and you feel that the 49 Club would help you give even more.” That overblown sentence rated me another two-second look of gratitude.

  “Exactly,” she said again. “But if the members decide again that I’m not acceptable, I’m taking myself off the list.” She narrowed her diamond-hard blue eyes at me. “That, my dear, is off the record.”

  I felt myself tremble, like Scout when he knows he’s talked me into throwing the ball for him. Again? That means she’d been blackballed before. Why hadn’t Constance informed me of that little piece of information?

  “Absolutely,” I said, closing my notebook, implying that what she was telling me was not going into the article. I wasn’t really lying, because there wasn’t actually going to be an article. “Do you have any idea who might have . . . objected to your membership?”

  Her face went suddenly hard. “You can call it what it was: being blackballed. I don’t know for sure, but I know that—” She abruptly stopped and put a thin-fingered hand up to her mouth.

  I waited a moment for her to continue. When she didn’t, I prompted, “You know that . . . ?”

  “Never mind, it doesn’t matter. What kind of article did you say this was? I’d better not be made to look the fool, young lady, or there’ll be a severe price to be paid.”

  “It’s a small chapter,” I assured her. “Part of the history of the 49 Club and its possible future. You and the other prospective members will be profiled as the type of high-quality people the club aspires to attract.” I tried to make my smile genuine. “I think I have enough. Anything you’d like to say about the 49 Club?”