Dove in the Window Page 3

  “Front page and in color,” she said, gathering up the photographs in front of me. “He’s such a babe. And he thinks I’m smart. I can’t tell you how great it is not to be afraid that everything that comes out of my mouth is considered stupid and inane.”

  I studied her for a moment, trying to imagine coming from a family where you didn’t feel like you fit. No one could blame her for picking a college as far away from them as possible in a place they wouldn’t even consider visiting.

  “Gotta go,” she said, jumping up with the never-ending energy and exuberance of youth. “See you Friday. Should I bring anything?”

  “Just your appetite.”

  Five minutes later, I was still flipping through the album, admiring her craftsmanship and artistry while lamenting the unglamorous shots she caught of me when my door swung open again. This was the reason I rarely attempted paperwork in my office anymore. When I was here I felt a great deal like Lucy in the Peanuts comic strip sitting in her five-cent psychiatric booth with the sign stating ‘The Doctor is In.“ I stuck the album in my large bottom drawer and turned to my visitor.

  “Hey, Madam Curator, how’re they hanging?” she asked. Greer Shannon, her fifty-four-year-old face a road map of sun-created wrinkles, grinned at me with strong ivory teeth. Her luxurious, pearl-white hair made me envy the other side of the age line for a moment. If I just had Shelby’s complexion and Greer’s hair ...

  “They ain’t,” I said. “And I thank the Lord for that.”

  “Amen and hallelujah.” She stuck her hands deep into her tight sapphire-blue Wranglers. A fancy silver and gold belt buckle winked under the bright florescent lights. “Did you see those pictures Shelby took of you? Gorgeous. I mean the scenery, of course. That little gal is a real, honest-to-goodness talent.”

  “I agree.”

  Greer sighed. “Oh, to be that young and on the cusp of a brilliant career.”

  I pointed over at the chair Shelby just vacated. “Plant your old bones down and quit your belly-aching. You’re no slouch in the artistic area yourself.”

  “These bones are tired,” she said, sitting down. “I painted until two A.M.”

  Though she’d grown up on the Central Coast, Greer had only been a part of San Celina’s local art scene for the last three years. Her family, the Montoya-Shannons, were some of the old time settlers in San Celina. The family ranch, off Highway 46, was some of the richest and most accessible ranch and crop land in the county. At ten thousand acres, it was also one of the largest ranches. Like me, she’d spent her childhood on the ranch, leaving in her twenties to marry an oil executive in San Francisco. She lived in the city for the last thirty years where she’d taught and studied art, coming home three years ago after a messy divorce involving her husband and a nineteen-year-old file clerk. But Greer never spoke of her life in San Francisco, except in the most casual and general way. Though from one of what I call the “A” families in the ranching community, she never held airs like some others in that group and was well liked in the co-op. She pitched in without complaining whenever there was a cleanup day or someone needed a ride home or ten bucks for groceries.

  She lived in a large, airy cabin about ten miles north of San Celina near the small town of Frio, whose only claim to fame besides the post office was a rowdy, rustic bar that attracted tourists and locals alike. She painted large, beautiful oils depicting ranch life, her specialty showing women and their often mystical and inexplicable relationship with their horses. Her paintings were exquisite in their detail, showing horses rolling, scratching, fighting, running, mating, and giving birth—always with a woman’s presence in the background. The details were so striking, so real, it made you ache to run your hand down the flanks of her horses or jump on one and ride forever. She’d recently started making a name for herself, and only a week ago she’d burst into my office to tell me about being interviewed by a new but prestigious western art magazine called Rosettes, named for the flower-shaped, decorative pieces of leather found on a saddle or bridle. A gallery in Scottsdale, Arizona, had also inquired about showing her paintings—a real feather in her artistic cap.

  “Are you ready for next week?” I asked, leaning back in my chair.

  She sighed and leaned over to smooth down the curling fringe on the toe of her deerskin ropers. “As ready as I’ll ever be. I don’t think an artist is ever really ready to expose her work to the public. Roland’s done a fine job with the exhibit, though. Shelby’s work looks great. You are coming to the reception Sunday night, aren’t you?” Greer was Roland’s featured fine artist for the show, and he had promised an abundance of wealthy collectors would be there to view her latest works.

  “Do I have to wear a dress?”

  She grinned. “I’m not going to, but then I’m the temperamental artist. You’re the prominent society wife. Ask your husband.”

  I shot her a loud raspberry. “I’ll wash the cow crap off my boots. That’s as much as I can promise.”

  “Why, Ms. Harper, I’m touched. I truly am.”

  “You’re touched, all right. But then, insanity is a requirement for brilliant artists, isn’t it?”

  “If you’re not crazy to begin with, you’ll get that way after dealing with critics and patrons and gallery owners. I swear, they’re worse than cattle people, and we know how temperamental they can be.” She stood up and slapped her hand down on my desk. “What time’s the fun start on Friday?”

  “If you want breakfast you’d better show up around six. The actual work will start about seven. We’re not doing too many calves—about fifty or so. It’s more so Daddy can play cowboy with his brothers rather than actually get any work done. The barbecue will probably start about two, and we’re expecting about two hundred people this year. My relatives are a rowdy bunch of characters, so you should be able to take a few good pictures.” Like many painters, Greer took hundreds of photographs, using them as points of departure for her paintings. I found the contrast between her colorful, sometimes lovingly idealized view of ranch life and Shelby’s stark black-and-white realism fascinating. And ironic, considering their backgrounds. Roland combining them in an exhibit was brilliant.

  “Good. I need inspiration for a new series I’m contemplating on the working ranch horse.” She pointed a finger pistol at me and headed for the door. “Save me some of Dove’s Louisiana hot sausage.”

  I held up both hands. “Can’t make any promises when it comes to Dove’s sausage. I’d set my alarm if I were you.”

  “These days I’m an artist first, rancher second. I don’t do alarms.” She stepped through the doorway, her hearty laugh echoing down the hall.

  I typed up a few letters that couldn’t wait, then made a tour of the pioneer quilt exhibit. We’d taken out extra insurance this time, an additional expense that had stretched our working funds until they squealed, so this was the first time we were charging admission—a mere three dollars—but admission nevertheless. It was a big step for us, but in the last year our city grants had slowly dwindled away as other, equally worthy projects were given a financial hand. Just staying even had been our goal for the year I’d been curating, but now we needed to start showing a profit to make up for the government funds that would eventually dry up. I straightened up a pile of brochures, then locked the double Spanish doors behind me. The studios would be closed by whichever co-op member was overseer of the week.

  After a quick call on the new cellular phone that Gabe had finally convinced me to carry to verify with Maggie, his secretary, that as of that moment—two P.M.—he had not, as I’d suspected, had lunch, I swung by Baja Willie’s and bought three shrimp tacos, a grilled chicken burrito, and an order of beef taquitos with extra guacamole.

  When Rod, the civilian receptionist at the police department, buzzed me through the door, I almost tripped over the thirty-pound doorstop on the other side. I caught the bag of food before it hit the gray linoleum floor. Harry’s head slowly came up, rotated from side to side, sniffed, then ea
sed back down when he realized that no actual food products had hit the ground.

  “Harry,” I scolded the huge, black-and-white tuxedo cat who resembled a sluggish cop car more than an elegantly dressed man. “You need to seriously consider Weight Watchers.”

  His tail flicked once, then he closed his eyes, giving my statement the importance he deemed it deserved. He’d been a stray found at a drug bust by one of the detectives who had a soft spot for cats. Such a soft spot he had seven, and his wife put her foot down about adopting number eight. So he brought the skinny, almost feral cat down to the station, and everyone in the police department immediately fell in love with his I-don‘t-give-a-shit-about-any-needs-but-my-own attitude.

  “A real cop’s cat,” more than one of the office clerks had commented. In less than a year Harry had become the Nero Wolfe of cats, thanks to the tidbits fed to him by everyone. It was rumored his favorite foods were gin-soaked olives (though only the green ones), peanuts, and donuts with rainbow sprinkles. Though Rod, a serious animal lover, desperately tried to get people to understand that a cat needs a regular, balanced diet of veterinarian-approved cat chow, Harry’s size pretty much showed how much stock people put into that information.

  Gabe called him “Gato Gordo” and basically ignored the rules that stated no animals except seeing-eye dogs were allowed on city property during business hours. He had, in the last few months, become much more relaxed as a police chief, which vastly improved the morale of his employees.

  The door to his office was open, so I called a quick hello to Maggie, the only woman on earth who could order Gabe around without any back talk from him, and then I headed into his office. He sat behind his large oak desk, fingers locked behind his head, laughing at a comment made in Spanish by Jim Cleary, one of his two captains and his next-in-command. Jim was a slow-talking, handsome black man in his middle fifties who, as a result of his years with the LAPD Gang Detail, spoke Spanish as fluently as Gabe. His wife, Oneeda, was a good friend and quilting partner of mine.

  They both smiled mischievously at me.

  “Speak of the devil,” Gabe said.

  “I thought I felt my ears burning,” I said, setting the white bag down on his desk next to the miniature blue Corvette with SCPD painted on the side of it. His officers had given it to him for his forty-third birthday this year. “This is how our hard-earned tax dollars are spent. Paying city employees to sit around and malign the good names of upstanding citizens.”

  Jim stood up and slipped his arm around my shoulder, giving me an affectionate hug. “Your husband was just telling me of your near-death experience this morning with your friend Elvia.”

  I smiled up at his grizzled face. Apparently he’d been talked into entering the beard-growing contest also. “No problema. I’ve been handling her since second grade.”

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “Well,” I admitted, “if you do find my body in the bulrushes somewhere, just make sure she gets punished. Making her move down from a platinum American Express card to a gold one should be severe enough. By the way, are you and Oneeda coming Friday?”

  He shook his head. “She’s had a bad week, so we’re just staying in this long weekend. I’m going to get a bunch of movies and a case of microwave popcorn.” Oneeda had multiple sclerosis, and her condition was about as predictable as a renegade cow. Jim handled the mercurial aspects of their life with a patience and good humor that seemed almost miraculous to me at times.

  “Sounds fun,” I said. “It’ll certainly be more relaxed than our weekend. I love our family gatherings, but they are not without their speed bumps.”

  “How well I know that,” he replied. He was the father of four children, all grown now and scattered about the country.

  “Give her a hug and kiss for me and tell her I’ll have a truckload of family gossip for her next Friday.”

  “Will do,” he said. He nodded at Gabe. “I’ll get that game plan on your desk by five.” I heard him pause at Maggie’s desk on his way out and tease her about her latest love—a Black Angus-Hereford cross bull named Maxwell. She and her sister leased a small ranch up north around Frio, and Maxwell was their first large investment. Maggie, fresh from Cal Poly with a degree in Agricultural Management, hoped to ranch full time someday.

  “This looks great,” Gabe said, tearing open the bags. “I’m starved.”

  “You shouldn’t go so long without eating,” I nagged like a good wife.

  He sprinkled salsa over one shrimp taco and took a big bite. “We’re swamped. I completely forgot.”

  “What game plan was Jim talking about?”

  “The security for the parade and Heritage Days celebrations. There are so many things going on at so many different times and places, our officers are going to be stretched to the limit. Even with the reserves on duty.” He stuck a tortilla chip in his mouth. “I still wish the city council hadn’t approved that women’s western art show to coincide with the Heritage Days. Things will be twice as crowded.”

  I pointed a chip at him. “That’s the whole idea. We’re hoping to give the women artists as much exposure as possible. You wouldn’t believe how much prejudice there is against them in the western art field. We’re hoping that shows like this catch on and that women gain more acceptance in the general western art marketplace.”

  “I know,” he said, chewing thoughtfully. “It just makes my job that much harder.”

  “You are a wonderful, wonderful man and a top-notch chief of police. I and all women in the western art world will be forever in your debt.”

  His expression turned hopeful. “I like the sound of you being in my debt. I’ll keep that in mind for later on tonight.”

  “Not tonight, my oh-so-eager Latin lover. I’m due at the train station to pick up Emory at six o‘clock, then it’s on to the ranch. Your bag is packed and waiting for you at home. I’ll see you there.”

  “The bed in your room at the ranch is fine with me even if it is only a queen.”

  “Guess again, buddy. I guess I forgot to tell you the rules of the Ramsey Family Hoedown and Roundup.”

  “Rules?”

  “For the four-day holiday, the women claim the ranch house, and the men bunk wherever they can manage to spread their bedroll. I bought you a new sleeping bag for the occasion. It’s supposed to keep you warm as a fresh baked muffin for temperatures down to forty degrees below zero.”

  “Sleeping bag?” he said, sitting forward in his black chair, alarm widening his gray-blue eyes.

  “There’s only six beds in the bunkhouse, so I’d get there early if I were you and claim one. Believe me, they go fast. Maybe you could call Sam and bribe him to throw his hat over one and save it for you.”

  “You never told me we’d be separated for four days.”

  “Not the days, only the nights,” I said cheerfully. “We discovered a long time ago it was too complicated trying to arrange sleeping accommodations for couples, so we made this a gender-separate weekend. The house is off limits to menfolks over the age of six from ten P.M. to seven A.M.”

  “Why do the women get the warm, comfortable house?”

  I bit an end off my taquito, rolled my eyes, and didn’t answer.

  “I haven’t slept en masse since Vietnam,” he complained.

  “It’ll do you good. Make you appreciate me more.”

  He took a bite of his burrito. “I think this tradition of yours stinks, but I guess I won’t be the only man howling at the moon for the next four days.”

  “I guarantee it. Actually, we’ve found this weekend works wonders for ailing marriages. There’s something about kissing your girl goodnight on the ranch house porch and having to go back to a group of equally horny men that makes you all reconsider the word Thanksgiving.”

  “How’s your cousin Emory going to fit into this weekend warrior mix? He doesn’t sound like the type of guy who’ll blend in with the macho posturing of the traditional western male.”

  “Don’t yo
u worry about Emory. He can hold his own with you guys. The things I could tell you ...”

  He finished his burrito, then crumpled the wrapper and tossed it in the open bag. “But not right now. I’ve got a ton of paperwork to do before I take off for the ranch. And you, querida, are a distraction.”

  “And the day I stop being one to you, Friday, is the day I really gotta worry.” I picked up my purse and blew him a kiss.

  After a few minutes at Maggie’s desk admiring pictures of Maxwell in all his 1,896-pound glory, I headed out the front door, taking a giant step over Harry, who appeared to have not twitched a whisker since I came in.

  “I worry about you,” I told him. “I truly do.”

  Don’t bother, his reclining posture replied.

  I drove home and finished up my packing, throwing my duffel bag in the back of my truck and informing my next-door neighbor, Mr. Treton, where Gabe and I would be the next four days.

  “I’ll keep a lookout,” he said, giving me a crisp salute. Seventy-eight-year-old Mr. Treton fancied himself the unofficial guard of our small, tree-lined street. A career Army man, I’d never seen him anything but spit-shined and polished. “I’m in the parade next week,” he said with a bit of uncustomary pride.

  “Cool,” I said. “On which float?”

  “The VFW,” he said. “We’ve been working on it for a month. I’m their featured rider since I’m the oldest veteran. I’ll be in full dress uniform.”

  “You can still fit in it?” I said, impressed.

  “Of course, my dear girl,” he said, his bayonet-sharp features looking somewhat insulted. “I’m Army.”

  That was a poke at Gabe, who argued good-naturedly with Mr. Treton over our common hedge about the superiority of the Marines over the Army.

  “Well,” I said, lowering my voice into a confidential tone, “don’t tell Gabe I told you, but he can’t fit into his anymore.” I didn’t mention that Gabe had weighed a sinewy 150 pounds when he was eighteen—not nearly enough for his six-foot frame. He looked much better now at 180 solid, masculine pounds. His fanatical jogging and three-times-weekly weight lifting at the police gym gave him a healthier body now than I’m sure he had at eighteen. Still, this gave Mr. Treton something to razz Gabe about.