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  He arched his dark eyebrows at me. His sober gray eyes were ringed with dark lashes. “Mystery to me. I don’t have kids.”

  I bent down and fiddled with Sophie’s jumpsuit. “Me, either. But lots of my friends do.”

  “You’re the police chief’s wife.”

  His blunt statement took me by surprise. Though I was accustomed to being recognized by locals, this man was a stranger. I’d been married to a cop long enough to be instantly suspicious. I glanced at the door and, with no subtlety, moved between him and Sophie.

  He stood up, showing pale, uncalloused palms, his face apologetic. “Didn’t mean to startle you. I should know better than to pop off like that. I know who you are because my wife pointed you out a few weeks back at the farmers’ market. She works for your husband. Yvette Arnaud. She’s a detective.”

  Relief flooded through me. “Right, okay.” I laughed nervously, feeling myself relax. “You’re the photographer husband. Yes, Maggie . . . uh, my husband’s assistant, told me about her. And you. Your wife is working the sniper case.”

  He nodded. “She worked a similar case in New Iberia and cracked it. Was quite the celebrity for a while. She called me about it a few hours after the incident this afternoon, said she’d probably be late tonight.” He gave a wry half smile. “Deja-voo-doo, as my friend, Jay, would say. I was at our place—well, her mom’s place—in Arroyo Grande. Heard anything more about it?”

  I shook my head. “But it’s still early in the investigation. You know how that goes.”

  He nodded, pushing his hair back behind his ears. “Been married to a cop for twelve years now. I know how it rolls. It’ll be TV dinners until this guy is caught.”

  The door opened and Elvia blew in, a cool breeze entering with her. “The tulips,” she declared, her black eyes shining in victory.

  I glanced at Detective Arnaud’s husband. “Good taste wins . . . this time.”

  He laughed and motioned at us to follow him to the back. “My name’s Van Baxter, by the way.”

  “Nice to meet you, Van. This is Elvia Aragon Littleton. She owns Blind Harry’s Bookstore.”

  They nodded at each other. “He’s married to one of Gabe’s detectives,” I informed Elvia. “She’s working the sniper case.”

  “I hope they capture whoever did it quickly,” Elvia said with a shudder. “It makes me a little nervous to walk down the street with Sophia.”

  “I’m sure it won’t take long,” Van said, pulling out an order form. “My wife’s a very good detective.”

  In less than a half hour, he had the pictures taken and Sophie back in her stroller. I don’t know what kind of photography Van did back in Louisiana, but he certainly had a flair for getting babies to smile on cue.

  “The proofs should be ready in a few days,” he told Elvia, taking her deposit. “The cards take about a week. We have to send them to San Jose to the home office. This franchise hasn’t proved itself profitable enough to have our own developing equipment. And I can’t convince Deck the importance of going digital.”

  “Deck Connors owns this place?” Elvia’s nose twitched like it smelled a dirty diaper.

  “Lock, stock and fake backdrops.”

  “How long have you been here?” I asked.

  “Just two months. So far business has been brisk, but I’m told it really takes a year to make a profit.”

  “I hope you do well,” Elvia said. “We need to keep the downtown vital for consumers.”

  “See you around town, Van,” I said. “Hope to meet your wife soon.”

  The front door flew open and five teenage girls rushed in. Their giggles and baby powder–scented perfume instantly filled the small room.

  “We have an appointment with Mr. . . . uh . . . Van?” the shortest one said.

  He cocked a dark eyebrow at them. “I’ll be with you ladies in a minute.” He turned back to us. “Maybe you’ll meet her later this week or this weekend. I’ve rented a booth at the Thursday night farmers’ market and the Memory Festival to sell some of my prints and cards. Yvette’s supposed to be there helping me.” His grin was lopsided and attractive. “That’s if she still has the day off. With this sniper business, you never know.”

  “I’ll look for you both,” I said.

  On the walk back to the bookstore, I remarked to Elvia, “So, Deck Connors owns Backdrops too? He’s only lived in San Celina for two years, and I swear he already owns half the town.”

  “He’s not a bit shy about letting people know that, either,” Elvia said. “He dominates every downtown association meeting. Just because he owns three businesses down here, he seems to think that gives him triple the vote.”

  Her mouth turned down in irritation. “Arrogant man.” “Hmmm . . .” was all I could contribute. There were people like him in every town. “Are you headed back to the bookstore?”

  “I’m done for the night. We’re going home to see Papa try to work magic with his new grill. Are you and Gabe coming over for steaks?”

  “Wish we could, but he had a business dinner tonight with the sheriff and the new warden. How about tomorrow?”

  She nodded, tucking Sophie’s blanket closer around her. “That’s probably better. Emory was just reading the instructions a few hours ago when I called. I think it might be better for him to test the grill before we have guests.”

  Elvia and Emory’s blue and gray Victorian was two long blocks from Blind Harry’s. Gabe and I lived only a block past them. When we reached her house, I came inside for a moment.

  “Hola, Benni,” Señora Aragon said, taking Sophie from Elvia the minute we walked through the door. “Emory still with grill,” she told her daughter, rolling her eyes. “Grill not happy with him.”

  I laughed. “Guess you’ll be ordering pizza tonight.”

  Señora Aragon was already peeling the bunny suit off Sophie, cooing to her daughter’s first child. “No pizza. I make tacos.”

  “Tempted?” Elvia said.

  “Always, but I’m really in the mood for chicken and dumplings.”

  “Be careful,” she said, walking me to the front door. “Watch out for snipers.” She gave a little shiver. “That’s something I never thought I’d have to say about our town.”

  “It’s only a few blocks. I’ll be fine. Personally, I think it was just some stupid college kid fooling around with a borrowed gun.”

  “That’s supposed to make me feel better?”

  Emory walked into the room holding a metal rod in his hand. “Hey, sweetcakes,” he said to me. “I know you were expecting barbecue tonight, but—”

  I held up my hand. “No problemo, Señor Littleton. I heard you were having difficulty putting it together—”

  “I’m doing fine,” he said indignantly. “It’s just taking a tad longer than I anticipated.”

  Elvia crossed her arms over her chest. “I told him to pay someone to assemble it, but he insisted that he could manage on his own.”

  “How unlike my normally lazy cousin,” I said.

  “It’s not that hard,” Emory said. “It’s just the wheels and the—”

  “Tell it to the marines.” I kissed his cheek. “You won’t starve. Señora Aragon is making you tacos tonight.”

  Emory’s face lit up. “She is?”

  “Really, be careful,” Elvia said, opening the screen door and coming out on the wide front porch.

  “Got your flak jacket on?” Emory called.

  “Go back to your instruction book, barbecue boy,” I called back.

  “I mean it,” Elvia said, encircling herself with her arms.

  “I’ll be fine, mamacita.” I blew her a kiss, then skipped down the steps. It was dark already, though it was just a little past five o’clock. I went by the house, fed Scout and turned on the heat so it would be warm when Gabe and I both got home. The temperature had dropped fifteen degrees once the sun went down, and it was probably forty degrees now. Bone-chilling for us wimpy Californians.

  During the three-blo
ck walk to Liddie’s, I unsuccessfully tried not to think about the sniper. I’d haunted the streets of San Celina practically my whole life. I knew every inch of this town, but walking along the uneven pavement, I could not help glancing up at the oaks, pines and myrtles lining the streets. Then I felt silly. A sniper couldn’t sit in these trees without being noticed . . . could he? Besides, why would he . . . or she . . . shoot at me? Still, I walked faster and was a little out of breath when I swung open the glass door of Liddie’s Café.

  About half of the red vinyl booths and Formica-topped tables were occupied, mostly by local senior citizens and in-the-know tourists who found out that Liddie’s served the best home-style food in town. At nine p.m. was when the real action started at Liddie’s, which claimed to be open “twenty-five hours a day.” That was when students, who stayed long but spent little, took hostage most of the café’s booths and tables. But the owner of Liddie’s was an old Cal Poly student himself, so he tolerated them. Jack, Elvia and I had certainly spent our fair share of time lingering at Liddie’s.

  I was in luck and my favorite booth in the back corner was free. I could enjoy my dinner while observing Lopez Street and all its nightly drama. The rain had almost stopped, and the streets were as black and shiny as fresh tar.

  From behind the long counter, Nadine waved at me and held up one finger, communicating that she’d be with me in a minute. Nadine Brooks Johnson had been serving folks breakfast, lunch or supper, depending on her schedule, for the last fifty years. No one knew exactly how old she was, but the popular guess was she was closing in on eighty years old.

  “Where’s the chief?” she said a few minutes later, pulling a pad out of her ruffled apron pocket. Though the café’s owner required the other waitresses to wear black slacks, white blouses and red and white checked aprons, Nadine refused to change from the same uniform she’d worn when his late father owned the café: a pink polyester waitress uniform, starched white apron and old-fashioned white nurse’s shoes. She looked like Hollywood’s idea of a vintage fifties waitress. I had no idea where she still bought the uniforms and never had enough nerve to ask her.

  “He’s having dinner with the sheriff and the new prison warden.” I pulled off my denim jacket.

  She cocked one skinny hip. “Hear the guy’s from Utah. Raises corgis. He and the sheriff oughta hit it off like gangbusters.” She took a pencil out of her silvery pink beehive hairstyle. Her standing Friday morning appointment at Playgirl-A-Go-Go Coiffures was legendary. Before Gertie, the owner, died, she taught the other two stylists who worked there how to concoct Nadine’s teased hairdo.

  “See, you know as much as I do.” I didn’t even bother to look at the menu. “I’m here for the special. And I’ll just have water tonight.”

  “No Coke?” She looked up at the sky. “What’s this crazy old world coming to? Benni Harper Ortiz is not drinking a Coca-Cola.”

  “I still think Coke is God’s choice of beverage,” I retorted, “but I’ve had too much caffeine today. I need my sleep. Especially this week.”

  “That Memory Festival took off like a rocket, didn’t it? You’d think this town would be sick to death of festivals, but everyone I’ve talked to is really looking forward to this one.”

  I rested my chin in my hand. “It really struck a collective nerve. Maybe it’s because it’s so inclusive. Everyone has memories.”

  Nadine’s face softened, her moist brown eyes crinkled behind her pink cat’s-eye glasses. “Isaac asked me to pose for a picture for that book of his. Says I need to talk to you about what home means to me.”

  “I’ll be at the story booth this Saturday. We can do it then, if you want. Or I can interview you another time.”

  She nodded. “All this memory talk makes me think of my mother. Did I ever tell you she owned a truck stop café on Route 66? Outside Oklahoma City. Knew every trucker’s name that came through. Their families too. She made the best butterscotch pie. Back then they used real lard in piecrust. Made it so flaky you’d want to cry with every bite.”

  I smiled. She’d told me the story only about a thousand times. “We need to get that recorded this Saturday so I can type it up for the book.”

  “I’ll be there. Makin’ the young’uns work on Saturday.”

  “Good for you.”

  “Your chicken and dumplings will be right up, kiddo.” She gently bopped the top of my head with her order pad—Nadine’s version of an affectionate hug.

  I stared out the dark window, my mind on autopilot, so I didn’t notice when someone walked up to my booth until I heard a soft “Excuse me?” If the person had been the sniper, I’d’ve been dead.

  My head popped up. For a minute, I didn’t recognize the smiling woman. Then I remembered—Amanda’s new friend, Lin something.

  Her smile faded a little. “I’m sorry, am I disturbing you?”

  “Not at all. I was just woolgathering. It’s, uh, Lin, right?”

  She nodded and brushed a lock of silvery hair from her eyes. “Lin Snider. Where did that saying come from anyway? Woolgathering, I mean.”

  “Good question, but I don’t know. I’m a cattle rancher, not a sheep farmer.”

  “Really? Amanda didn’t mention that. You’re not just a museum curator but an authentic cowgirl?”

  I held back my impatient sigh at the clichéd word. “We don’t actually call ourselves cowgirls. We prefer ranchers.” The words came out crankier than I intended.

  “Duly noted,” she said with a quick nod.

  There was an awkward moment of silence. Was she expecting me to ask her to join me? Though I sympathized with her search for a place to call home, I was tired, a little cranky and not particularly in the mood to make conversation with a stranger. I just wanted to eat my chicken and dumplings and go home to wait for my husband.

  “I won’t keep you from your supper,” she said, touching a tentative hand to her neck. “I suspect this is a little forward, but I was wondering if we could get together sometime. At your convenience, of course. Amanda told me that no one knows this county better than you, and I’m assuming she told you I’m looking for a place to retire . . .”

  I nodded my head, definitely feeling like the biggest heel in the world. Had my impatient feelings been that apparent on my face? Where was my Southern hospitality? Dove and Aunt Garnet would skin me alive if they saw me act like this to anyone, but especially someone who was new to the community.

  “Not very Martha and Mary–like,” I could hear my aunt Garnet say.

  “Yes, she did,” I said, trying to keep my voice light. “San Celina is a great place to live.”

  She bit her bottom lip, obviously embarrassed. “Maybe you could give me a quick tour of the county. I’ve explored on my own already . . . but it’s always better to have someone who knows the area show you around. Maybe you could give me some idea about where the nicer places to live might be.”

  I was tempted to tell her that I was a museum curator, not a real estate agent, but that was, again, being more snarky than this woman deserved.

  “Oh, nicer doesn’t sound right,” she said. “I’m really not a snob. I just would like to weigh all my options.” She inhaled deeply, her expression a little embarrassed. “I’d be happy to pay for your time, of course.”

  Now I felt like a complete jerk. How would I feel if I had to travel around the country looking for a place to call home? My better angel finally kicked in. “I’d be happy to show you around, and I wouldn’t dream of taking money for it. This week is packed because of the Memory Festival. How about one day next week?”

  “That would be wonderful,” she said, obviously relieved. We both turned to look at Nadine bringing my plate of chicken and dumplings. “I’ll leave you to enjoy your supper. Looks delicious.”

  “First nugget of San Celina insider information,” I said when Nadine slid the platter in front of me. “This place has the best food in town.”

  Nadine pulled a bottle of Tabasco sauce from her apron p
ocket. “Your water’s on its way.” She glanced over at Lin. “Hey there, Miz Lin Snider. There’s lemon chess pie on the menu tomorrow. Come for lunch’cause there’s a good chance it’ll be gone by supper.” Nadine gave me the eye. “Lin loves her lemon chess pie.”

  Lin laughed, touching Nadine’s forearm. “You know me already. My grandmother Lois made the best lemon pie. It’s always been my favorite.”

  “Then see you tomorrow,” Nadine said. “I’ll put that on your tab, Benni. Tell that good-lookin’ husband of yours that I’m getting a little miffed. He hasn’t been here for lunch in four days.” She pulled a white paper bag from her apron pocket. “Here’s a couple of snickerdoodles for him.”

  “Hey, what about me?” I called to her retreating back.

  “You need to cut back on your sugar,” she said over her shoulder. “You’re starting to get some thighs on you. Ain’t that attractive.”

  I turned back to Lin and smiled, holding up a palm. “There’s a small town for you. Everyone’s your mother.”

  “I think it’s kind of nice. Reminds me of a time in my life—” She stopped and gave her head a little shake. “One more question, and I’ll get out of your hair. Where’s a good place to get a car repaired?”

  “Depends on the car.”

  “I have a Ford Taurus. It’s only a small problem. I backed into a tree stump, actually. I need a taillight and the cover for it.”

  “Ouch,” I said, sprinkling Tabasco sauce on my chicken and dumplings.

  “Depending on how much time you have, the best bet is to go to the Ford dealer over by the Madonna Inn. It’s right off Interstate 101. There are other shops where you could go, but they’d most likely have to order the part. If your car is new enough, the dealer may have any part you need right there. It’s more expensive, but quicker.”

  “Thanks. Maybe I’ll see you Wednesday at the museum when I’m using the wheel.”

  “Good chance I’ll be there.”

  “Enjoy your supper.” With that, she turned and walked out of Liddie’s.

  It took about thirty seconds before it clicked. I threw down my napkin and hurried for the door in time to see her pull out of Liddie’s parking lot. Only one taillight glowed when she put on the brakes on her Ford Taurus sedan. Her dark gray Ford Taurus sedan.