Goose in the Pond Read online

  “You’ve certainly lived life this last year like it’s going out of style,” my Gramma Dove said yesterday when I was out at my father’s ranch helping her put up a batch of peaches. Though technically she is my paternal grandmother, she treats me more like a not-quite-bright-or-especially-responsible youngest daughter. That’s because my own mother died twenty-nine years ago when I was six years old and Dove moved out from Arkansas to help her oldest son, Ben, my father, raise me. Lugging my thirteen-year-old uncle Arnie, the youngest of her six children, her fabric and yarn collection, her favorite Visalia saddle, and her almost complete set of Erle Stanley Gardner books, she took charge of the Ramsey Ranch household and has, with cast iron claws, ruled the roost ever since.

  “Well, Gabe’s been through a lot more than me,” I said, screwing the lid on the twenty-first jar of peach preserves.

  “That’s the gospel truth,” she said, pouring me a glass of sweetened iced tea. “Comin’ here thinking he was just going to stay a few months and ending up taking the police chief’s job, all them murders, and then marrying you, which, Lord knows, would be life changing enough for any man—”

  “Hey, just a minute—” I protested.

  She ignored me and kept going. “Then there was that nasty business in Kansas with his friend and now Aaron passin’ on. And didn’t you say he hadn’t heard from his boy in a while? Heavens, by now a lesser man would have hightailed it to the hills to howl and lick his wounds.”

  “He is under a lot of stress,” I agreed. “And not hearing from Sam for five weeks hasn’t made it any easier.” Gabe had finally grown used to the idea that his eighteen-year-old son, Sam, had dropped out of UC Santa Barbara and was working in a surfboard shop on Maui while trying to find the perfect wave. They’d even managed an amicable phone conversation or two in the last month. Then, when Gabe called the shop to break the news about Aaron, some clerk said Sam had quit six days before, and no one knew where he was. Gabe had discreetly used his law-enforcement connections, but so far there was no sign of Sam. “Gabe won’t talk about it, but I know he’s worried.”

  “Kids,” Dove said, shaking her head and spooning more cooked peaches into a Mason jar. “Dang little heartbreakers. Every last one of them. Ought to line ’em all up when they’re twelve and smack ’em with a wet rope just for the heartache they’re gonna give you.”

  “Please, spare me the dramatics,” I said wryly.

  “Ain’t nothin’ dramatic about it. I’ve spent over fifty-five years of my life worrying about one youngun or another. I’m seventy-six years old and I deserve a break.” She was referring to my uncle Arnie from Montana, who’d moved in on Daddy and her four months ago because his wife had finally kicked his lazy butt out. He and my father argued like two polecats tied at the tail, and Dove was getting fit to send them both to Alaska. Permanently.

  A brazen peck at the toe of my Adidas brought me back from my musing. A green-necked mallard gave a brassy quack and ruffled his neat wing feathers. He’d pushed ahead of all the dull brown girl mallards and was demanding more than his fair share.

  “Men,” I said, throwing him the last of my food just because of his noisy persistence. “You’re all so pushy.” He honked again, and I showed him my empty hands. “That’s all, buddy.” He gave me a disgusted look and waddled away.

  The sky flushed a salmon pink, and the sun peeked through the dense trees, warming the chilly air a few degrees. I dug around in my sweatshirt pocket for a rubber band and pulled my curly shoulder-length hair into a high ponytail. While I picked my way along the marshy shoreline, my mind drifted over the other problems facing me this week.

  The folk-art museum was hosting the first San Celina Storytelling Festival in connection with our latest exhibits—a display of story quilts designed by California quilters and in our newly remodeled upstairs gallery, a collection of Pueblo storytelling dolls on loan from Constance Sinclair, great-granddaughter of our museum’s namesake as well as our temperamental and very rich benefactress. It was a joint effort with the San Celina Storytellers Guild. We were all keeping our fingers crossed and hoping it would show a profit and consequently turn into an annual event. Storytellers from as far away as Reno, Nevada, and Yuma, Arizona, were registered for the festival, which started this Friday night at six o’clock.

  We obtained permission from the city to turn the large empty pasture next to the museum into a temporary campground so the visiting storytellers didn’t have to spend much for accommodations. Our shoestring budget had been augmented by a community arts grant from San Celina County, advertising and booth space sold to local merchants, and a generous sum from Constance Sinclair herself, who had recently taken a fancy to the art of storytelling thanks to the influence of her niece, Jillian. I’d arranged for portable restrooms, trash removal, booths for the artists to sell their crafts, and volunteer docents to give tours of the exhibits.

  The three-day event was turning out to be the biggest project the museum and co-op had ever attempted. Everything had run smoothly . . . so far. The co-op board and the board of the Storytellers Guild had gotten along as well as you could expect from a bunch of temperamental artists. It helped that some of the storytellers were also co-op members. They were the ones I unabashedly begged to serve on the festival committee.

  A loud quacking distracted me again. From my shoreline perch, I peered toward the sound into the brush and reeds hugging the shore. It was the high, frantic call of a bird in trouble. Just last week, Gabe and I had to free a seagull’s wing from a plastic six-pack carrier left by some littering idiot. I moved through the tall grasses toward the panicked screeching, my shoes making soggy depressions in the soil. The sounds seemed to radiate from an undergrowth of trees drooping over the water. A thick forest of cattails rustled. Water splashed and fluttered; brown wings flashed. I glimpsed a movement of something white and blue in the algae-covered water. Someone had dumped a load of trash that had trapped a helpless bird. Unfortunately the whole mess was just far enough into the lake to be out of my reach.

  I made a disgusted sound and glanced at my new Adidas. Removing them and wading into the cold ankle-deep water was one option, but I’d be risking more than expensive jogging shoes. People were also known to throw away beer cans, broken bottles, and other objects dangerous to bare feet. I looked around for a stick. After a few seconds of searching, I found one that appeared long enough and stretched out as far as possible. I was at least a foot short. The squawking grew more frantic. There seemed to be no choice but to brave the lake. The first step was the worst; freezing water rushed into my shoes and instantly soaked my socks. Mud swirled around my ankles like milk in black coffee. A mental picture flashed through my mind of Gabe’s irritated expression when he saw my once pristine shoes. He’d think I did it on purpose to avoid jogging. The idea certainly had merit. It was possible I might not get around to replacing them for a very long time.

  The small female mallard’s wing was trapped by a piece of white cloth snared in the underbrush and covered with swamp grasses. I prodded the pile until the duck sprang free and swam away quacking indignantly. Idle curiosity caused me to poke around a bit more. Then I felt my stomach drop.

  A hand floated up from the mound.

  I moved closer and used my stick to push away the brush covering the body. It moved gently in the murky water; a strand of blond hair trailed out like dark yellow seaweed. A leg clad in red-striped tights appeared. The edge of a long blue dress covered with a once white apron clung like glue to the lifeless form. My stomach seesawed again.

  I knew who it was.

  A scream rose instinctively from my diaphragm. I stifled it by sticking my fist in front of my mouth and slowly backed out of the water.

  When I touched solid ground, I scrambled up through the trees toward the trail. When I reached the trail, I broke into a flat-out run for the parking lot. The rhythmic squish, squish of my soaked shoes matched the pounding of my heart. Find Gabe, I repeated silently over and over. Stay c
alm. Find Gabe.

  Oh, Lord, I prayed. Oh, no.

  I knew who it was.

  The ruffled apron, the striped stockings, the long blond hair usually worn in a bun and covered with a pouffy blue-and-white hat. It had to be Nora Cooper, the library’s weekly storyteller and the older sister of a college friend, Nick Cooper, who was also the library’s head reference librarian. Nick and Nora Cooper. Their mother had been a great fan of the old mystery series featuring the urbane detecting couple and their dog, Asta. Her enthusiasm had doomed her two children to a lifetime of lame jokes.

  Nora Cooper. I’d become better acquainted with her in the last few months since planning the storytelling festival. Who would want to kill her? She was a tiny, even-tempered woman who loved children and adored her storytelling job at the library. She’d been one of the first people who’d volunteered to be on the festival committee, and that alone made me immediately view her with goodwill. She was a dedicated worker who wasn’t afraid to push up her sleeves and do the most menial jobs—ones I often got stuck with because the artists always seemed to have some project they absolutely needed to finish. She and I single-handedly typed and affixed two thousand address labels to the bright pink festival brochures. I’d come to appreciate her amusing and often piercingly accurate observations of artists, children, library patrons, and the various members of the library staff itself. She was scheduled to appear twice at the festival this weekend. Her specialty was nursery rhymes, and she’d worked up a popular act that included songs, participatory dancing, and puppets she’d designed and sewn herself. She always dressed up in the same costume, one that fit her theme perfectly.

  Who in the world would want to kill sweet little Nora Cooper?

  For cryin’ out loud, who would want to kill Mother Goose?

  2

  MORE TIME HAD passed than I realized, because when I reached the car, Gabe had already returned. He’d been waylaid by two attractive young women in their late twenties wearing ovary-squeezing spandex shorts and matching sport bra tops. The taller one said something and playfully shook a fuchsia nail at him, tossing her tawny mane of hair. He gifted her with an amused smile, then tilted his head and drank deeply from a dripping liter of Evian water. The two women stared at his sweat-shiny body as if he was the last cream puff in the bakery and they’d been dieting for six months.

  “Excuse me,” I said, pushing through the middle of them. A strong waft of musky perfume almost gagged me. “Gabe, we need to talk.” I kept my voice genial and smiled, trying to keep the panic off my face. I knew this was something he would want kept quiet until he got backup. I shifted from one foot to another, my shoes making a gross sucking sound. They all looked down at my wet, stained Adidas. The lion-haired woman’s top lip curled up slightly in disgust.

  “Hi, Mrs. Ortiz,” said the shorter one, an auburn-haired woman with thick, sexy eyebrows. “We were just telling the chief about the underwear bandit in our apartment complex. He sneaks into our laundry room—”

  “That’s great,” I said, still smiling. “Make a report, and I’m sure he’ll get one of his detectives right on it.” I grabbed his forearm in a steel grip. “Gabe, we need to talk.”

  The short woman looked at her friend and raised her eyebrows. The friend giggled in response. Then she turned back to Gabe. “See you at work tomorrow, Chief Ortiz.” She smiled with all her shiny white caps and waggled her fingers at him before sashaying away.

  “Jealous, Ms. Harper?” Gabe teased. “The redheaded one is our new records clerk. I think the other one works for the mayor.”

  “Gabe.” Take a deep breath, I told myself. Gold stars sparked at the corners of my eyes. “Gabe—” My voice choked.

  His face sobered. “Sweetheart, what is it? Are you okay?” He grabbed my shoulders and scanned me up and down. “Did someone—”

  “I’m fine. It’s just that . . . there’s a ...” I swallowed hard. “A body.”

  “What?” His face turned to granite and immediately went into what I call his Sergeant Friday look. “Where?”

  “She’s over here.” I broke away and started back toward the lake when he caught me by the upper arm.

  “Wait, let me get my cellular. I can call the station while we walk.” In a low voice he snapped orders into the compact phone as he followed me through the marshy brush. When we reached the scene, I pointed to Nora’s partly submerged form. The sun had moved out from behind the jagged early-morning clouds and was brighter now, glistening on the greenish film that coated the gently moving water. Other than that, nothing had changed since I’d been here ten minutes before. Of course, what did I expect? Nothing was going to change for Nora ever again.

  He flipped the tiny black phone closed. “Backup will be here in a few minutes.” He pulled me to him in a quick, warm hug. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes,” I said, shuddering slightly in his embrace.

  He tilted my face up with his hand and peered worriedly into my eyes. “I’m sorry you had to see this, but you’re going to have to hang tough a little longer. Tell me what you saw and everything you did.”

  I told him about the trapped duck and how much of the debris I’d poked away with my stick. Before I could tell him I thought it was Nora Cooper, the library’s storyteller, a couple of patrol officers pushed through the trees. The first one to reach us was Miguel Aragon, my best friend Elvia’s second-to-youngest brother. At twenty-four years old, with a forty-four-inch chest and a loaded 9mm automatic on his hip, it was hard to believe Elvia and I had, as young teenagers, dressed him up one Halloween as a teapot and taken him trick-or-treating. His rendition of “I’m a little teapot, short and stout” sung in the heart-melting soprano of a five-year-old netted us a lot of full-sized Hershey Bars and a few silver dollars.

  “What’s up, Chief?” he asked, using his artificially deep, professional cop’s voice. He nodded at me. “Benni.”

  I lifted up a hand. “Hey, Miguel.”

  “Drowning, possible homicide,” Gabe answered in his clipped, unemotional cop’s voice. “We need to get some tape strung here. Take it all the way to the top of the trail. I don’t want anyone getting close to the scene. You and Williams need to keep the spectators back. Johnson and Rodriguez will be here in a few minutes to assist. Careful where you walk.”

  “Yes, sir.” He turned and spoke to his partner, a freckle-faced kid who didn’t even look old enough to buy cigarettes.

  “Stand over there,” Gabe said to me, pointing to a flat piece of ground. “I’m going to try to locate the point of entry and look for footprints.” He swore softly in Spanish as he surveyed the dense woods. “This is going to be practically impossible.”

  Within the next hour, the small area became bumper-to-bumper with crime-scene personnel. On the trail above us, a large group of gawkers had formed. It was close to ten o’clock now and people had started arriving at the park for after-breakfast walks or to claim a spot for noontime picnics. The San Celina Tribune had obviously heard about the murder. A bleary-eyed reporter was already harassing the cops for a statement. The somewhat more liberal Central Coast Freedom Press had also sent a reporter, a young man who looked as if he should be working on Cal Poly’s college newspaper. A fresh-faced female reporter in a navy power suit from our local TV station KCSC and her camera person was ready for whenever they could maneuver Gabe into giving an official statement. He was going to look real cute on the local evening news dressed in his faded black running shorts and gray San Celina Feed and Grain “Give Your Bull the Best” tank top. The reporters jockeyed for position behind the yellow crime-scene tape, reminding me of Dove’s Rhode Island Reds when she fed them every morning.

  Gabe walked over and rested a warm hand on my neck. “I’m going to be here awhile. Go on home and get out of those wet shoes.”

  “There’s one more thing,” I said. “I think I know who it is.”

  “What?” He frowned in annoyance. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?” His tone was accusatory. Ho
lding back information from each other had been a problem between us since the beginning of our relationship, and although we’d both gotten a bit more open, there was still an occasional trickle of distrust. On both sides.

  “I was getting ready to tell you when Miguel got here,” I said, exasperated. “Since then, you’ve been just a little preoccupied.”

  Instantly contrite, he ran his hand over his face. “I’m sorry, it’s just . . .” His voice trailed off, and he gestured at the busy crime scene.

  “I know.” I laid a hand on his forearm. As much as the old-time residents, he hated how violent crime on the Central Coast was becoming a more frequent occurrence. That was one of the reasons the city council had implored him to accept the job of chief of police last February. San Celina needed the experience of someone who’d dealt with homicide and other violent crimes on a daily basis, as Gabe had during his twenty years with the LAPD.

  “So, who is she?” he asked.

  “If it’s who I think it is, her name is . . . was Nora Hudson . . . uh . . . Cooper.”

  “Hudson or Cooper?”

  “She goes by Cooper now, though I’m not sure if it’s official. She’s getting a divorce and she mentioned changing back to her maiden name.”

  “You know her?”

  “She works as a storyteller at the library. She dresses like Mother Goose. That’s her . . . well, theme, I guess you’d call it.”

  “That explains the odd-looking clothes. Anything else?”

  “I’ve known her since college. She’s a couple of years older than me. Actually, I know her brother better.”