Irish Chain Page 8

  I tried to send him a silent message with my eyes. I should have remembered that nothing halted Clay’s mouth once it got started.

  “I’m Ortiz.” Gabe’s voice could have cut diamonds.

  Clay slowly turned his head and studied Gabe, as if he’d just noticed he was there. The barest hint of a smile lurked under his tawny blond mustache. “Of course you are,” he said.

  He certainly deserved points for quick recovery.

  Gabe froze for a split second, then relaxed. “We’ve had some trouble locating you,” he said.

  “I was out.”

  “Apparently.”

  Have you ever seen two rams eye each other right before they lower their heads and charge? Did you know that rams are about the stupidest animals in the world, that they’ll charge anything, even a brick wall, if they think it is threatening them?

  “I have some questions for you,” Gabe said.

  “And since we’ve found each other now, I have one for you. Besides playing phone tag with the receptionist at my hotel, what are you doing about finding out who killed my uncle?” Clay pushed his hat back and rested his hands casually on his hips. His silver and gold oval belt buckle caught the overhead light and flashed. The only part I could make out from where I was sitting was “Roping 1989.”

  “We’re investigating.” Gabe leaned back and draped his arm across the back of the booth, his fingers lightly touching my shoulder.

  Clay looked at me and winked, his mustache twitching. “Yes, sir, I can see you are.”

  Maybe it was just my imagination, but it suddenly felt like Nadine turned up the thermostat twenty degrees.

  There was another moment of silence.

  Gabe’s face was granite, Clay’s amused, Mac’s mild and expressionless. I waited for the fireworks.

  Finally, Gabe broke the stand-off.

  “My office, O’Hara. Eight A.M.”

  Clay smiled slowly. “Wouldn’t miss it.” He turned languid, thick-lashed brown eyes on me. “Honey, I still owe you that steak dinner.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said quickly. “With all that’s going on . . .”

  “No, ma’am. I always pay my debts. I’ll be calling you.” He adjusted his hat, turned around and walked out.

  Gabe turned to me, his dark eyebrows furrowed. “What was that all about?”

  “Nothing,” I said, toying with my water glass. The air vibrated while a silent but significant battle commenced between us.

  “So, Pancho.” Mac broke into the skirmish with a light, bantering tone. “What do you say we saddle up the ponies and ambush him at dawn? We could head him off at the pass.”

  I tried to catch Mac’s eye, shake my head No, but he kept his easygoing gaze on Gabe’s still face. The one thing I’d learned early about Gabe is you don’t joke around about his work. Clay implying Gabe wasn’t doing his job properly was something Gabe would obsess about for weeks. He wouldn’t say anything, but it would be there under the surface, turbulent as a volcano, and he would put in even longer hours than his already extensive ones, to prove he wasn’t slacking off.

  Gabe brought his hand up to his mouth, as if he had to forcibly keep himself from saying something he might regret. Oh, Mac, I thought. You’ve really done it now. After a minute or so, Gabe’s hand dropped and a smile softened the hard angles of his face.

  “You had my number from the first time we met, didn’t you, Lefty?” He tossed a sugar packet at him.

  Mac grinned, caught it and pretended to read the writing on the back. “Says here that if your enemy is hungry, you should feed him, if he is thirsty, give him drink, and that way you heap burning coals upon his head. I think somebody is telling you to take the good Mr. O’Hara out to dinner.”

  “Let me see that.” Gabe grabbed at the packet. Mac stuck it in his shirt pocket.

  “Trust me, Gabe. Would I lie to you?”

  For a moment, I thought I saw a hint of emotion flicker across Mac’s face, as if he realized the irony of what he’d just said.

  Gabe slid out of the booth and stood up. “I’ve got to get back to the scene. You two going home?”

  “I’m going to sit here for a while,” Mac said. “You two go ahead. I’ve some thinking to do.”

  Gabe contemplated Mac thoughtfully. “We should get together again. Soon.”

  “See you later,” I said, reluctantly pulling on my sheepskin jacket. What I really wanted was to stay and attempt to pry out of Mac what it was he picked up in Miss Violet’s room. But I didn’t know how to accomplish that with Gabe standing there waiting to walk me to my truck.

  “I’ll look forward to it,” he said to Gabe, then looked at me. “Come by my office down at the church. I’ll dig out some of my old albums and we’ll make fun of our pictures.” I searched his face for some sign of guilt or fear, but only saw the reddened eyes of a slightly weary man.

  “How’s the new carburetor doing?” Gabe asked when we reached my truck. His father, Rogelio, had owned a garage in Derby and Gabe spent every Saturday of his life hanging out there until his dad died of a heart attack when Gabe was sixteen. In the almost three months we’d been seeing each other, my battered Chevy pickup had received as much attention from him as I had. He was a gifted mechanic, and the truck was running better than it had the whole fifteen years Jack and I had owned it.

  I didn’t answer. I was still irritated by his attitude in the restaurant. It’s not that I wasn’t used to chauvinistic behavior. Jack was raised by a Texan to whom the word “red-neck” was considered a compliment, and some of it had naturally rubbed off. It’s just that I’d always shared in all areas of Jack’s life. That’s how ranch life worked. He had considered me an equal partner, so the part of the ranch that was his responsibility was discussed between us in great detail. It seemed inequitable for Gabe to know so much about my job and me, but keep so much of himself hidden.

  “You still mad?” He leaned against the side of the truck and pulled me to him. I shifted uncomfortably, avoiding the bulk of the pistol at his hip.

  I laid my head against his warm chest and kept silent. For me, that was more effective than a speech. I listened to the slow beating of his heart, knowing the kindest thing would be to give in, send him away with a smile and a kiss. But, as Dove would say, pure Ramsey orneriness runs through my veins.

  He rested his cheek on the top of my head and sighed. “Benni, we’ve talked about this before. There are aspects of my job I can’t share with you, that I won’t share with you. They’re too ugly. I want to protect you from that.”

  I pulled away and stepped back, sticking my hands in my coat pockets. “And what if I don’t want to be protected?”

  “I’m sorry, but you don’t have a choice in this. I wish you’d never found the bodies, that you weren’t involved. But since you are, I intend on keeping it to a minimum. You’ll sign your statement tomorrow and that’ll be it.”

  “You didn’t have to act like such a chauvinist in front of Mac.”

  “I wouldn’t act like that if you’d leave things alone. I wasn’t about to discuss the case with you in front of Mac.”

  “Gabe, you don’t suspect him? He’s a minister.”

  “I have to suspect everyone, sweetheart. I can’t afford not to. And just for the record, he wouldn’t be the first man of God to break a commandment.”

  “And what about me? After all, I’m the most logical suspect.”

  He smiled, reached over and stroked my cheek with the back of his hand. “I guess I’ll just trust my instincts and make an exception in your case. Now, what’s all this about dinner with Hopalong Cassidy?”

  “Nothing. It was just a joke. His uncle whacked me in the shins this afternoon with his cane and I told him about it at the dance when we were . . . talking.”

  “So I’ve heard.” The ironic tone in his voice was unmistakable.

  I growled under my breath. Throttling was too good for Thelma and Martha. “That’s right, I forgot, you know everything
that goes on in this town. We danced. So sue me.”

  “Watch yourself with him, Benni.”

  “For Pete’s sake, it was just a dance with an old friend.”

  “You know him?”

  “It was a long time ago. I was seventeen. He visited his uncle for the summer and we had a few dates. That’s it.” That wasn’t just it, but it was certainly all I was going to tell him.

  “Well, old friend or not, I know his type and they’re never anything but trouble. Stay away from him.” His voice carried the same drill-sergeant authoritative tone I’d heard him use with his patrol officers when they got too rowdy.

  “Excuse me, but I do believe the last time I checked, I didn’t have Gabriel Thomas Ortiz branded on my butt.”

  His laugh was low and intimate when he pulled me back to him. “Not yet anyway.” He trailed his warm lips down the side of my neck.

  I slapped his shoulder with my palm. “Webster needs to invent a new word for you. ‘Arrogant’ doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

  He nuzzled my neck, his day-old growth of beard as scratchy as a new grooming brush. “What is that perfume you’re wearing? It’s driving me crazy.”

  “You know I don’t wear perfume.”

  He nibbled my ear lobe. A sharp current shot up my spine.

  “You jerk,” I said, trying not to give in.

  He lifted my chin and kissed me, deep and lingering, his big hands cupping my face. “Como te quiero, mi corazon,” he murmured. His thumbs stroked my cheeks as he kissed each comer of my mouth. The rough feel of his fingers caused my insides to swell and ache. I leaned into him, tantalized by his strength, the sureness of his touch, his gentleness. I wanted to stay mad. Nothing had been resolved. He’d danced around the issue with the finesse of a man experienced in avoiding touchy subjects.

  “I’ll follow you home,” he said a short time later. He slipped his arms inside my jacket, fitting his hands around the small of my back, pulling me flush against him. Resting my head in the crook of his neck, I inhaled deeply, drawn to his warm, nighttime scent.

  “I only live three blocks away. No bad guys between here and there.”

  His hands tightened, drawing me closer. “I really think I should follow you home. Check the place out. Maybe tuck you in.”

  I pulled out of his arms, shaky with desire. “Thanks, Chief, but right now, I think I’d be safer taking my chances with the bad guys.”

  He reached over and traced the shape of my lips with his finger. “Algún dia, querida. Soon.”

  “Yes,” I promised and meant it.

  When I reached my front porch, I wished I’d let him follow me home, if only to borrow the six-cell, police-issue flashlight he always carried in his old sky-blue Corvette. The new porch light installed by the landlord had some kind of an electrical malfunction that was costing me a fortune in light bulbs and had left me more than once fumbling in the night attempting to unlock my front door. In the chilly darkness, my keys dropped, jangling unnaturally loud, startling into silence the Great Horned Owl nesting in my oak tree. A branch creaked, and up high, foliage rustled as he took silent flight. The tree frog who had taken up residence underneath my bedroom window wasn’t so particular. Even when I dropped the keys a third time, muttering irritably to myself, his cheerful song continued to ring through the night. Then another sound caught my attention. One that wasn’t a part of the natural early morning symphony. The rumble of a car engine.

  I moved back in the shadows of my porch and watched the white car creep slowly past my house. It was a standard issue rental car—the kind of Ford or Chevy stamped out by the millions wherever it is they build them these days. Nothing particularly sinister, but then again, not normal for after two A.M. on my little tree-lined side street. The car sped up once it passed my house. I stepped out from my hiding place in time to see it turn the comer, illuminated for a moment by the flickering street light at the end of the block. Distance kept me from seeing much, but one thing stood out. I pulled my jacket close around me as some emotion gripped my heart—curiosity, anticipation, fear?

  It was the outline of a dark cowboy hat.

  6

  “WHAT IS THE good of you living in town when I have to hear everything third-hand from Gladys Flickner?” Somehow, over the phone lines, Dove’s voice managed to rattle my bedroom windows. Holding the receiver away from my ear, I slit open an eye and peered at the gray light of early morning seeping in around the window shade. A bright light flashed. Deep rumbling followed seconds later. Rain rapids flowed through the metal gutters. Mother Nature, not Gramma Dove. This time, anyway.

  “Are you awake?” Dove asked.

  “Debatable,” I muttered, sitting up. “I got in after two A.M. Did you really want me to call you then?”

  “Do you have to ask? So, what happened? And while you’re talking, tell me who that cowboy was you danced with. You two looked quite fetching, I hear.”

  “How did you hear about that? Mr. Treton wasn’t anywhere near the dance.” I closed my eyes and pictured surveillance cameras with a satellite hookup to Dove’s new wide-screen TV.

  “He’s not my only source. You’d best remember that. So, who was he and what about the murders? Poor Rose Ann and Brady. I swear, I’m taking my shotgun with me if you ever put me in one of those places.”

  “Dove, what I know about those murders will fit in the proverbial thimble and Gabe is not spilling so much as a bean my way.” I groaned and pulled my blue plaid comforter closer around me. “Listen to me, two platitudes in one sentence. This exhibit of cross-stitch samplers is like a muzak version of ‘It’s a Small World’—it leeches onto your brain and won’t let go.”

  “Honeybun, I see I’m going to have to teach you a thing or two about getting information out of a man. In the meantime, what about that other boy? And how are you doing on those interviews for the Historical Society? Have you written anything yet? They need those chapters yesterday so we can get them to the printers.”

  The San Celina Historical Society, where Dove currently held the position of president, was publishing an oral history book on San Celina during World War II. Due to my somewhat questionable qualification of a twelve-year-old history degree from Cal Poly, they decided I would be the perfect person to research and write the last third of the book—the section on the treatment of the Japanese community during the forties. Also, since I was doing it for nothing, my salary fit right in their price range. I suspected it was also a ploy on Dove’s part to finally wrest some value out of what she considered a useless education.

  “Dove,” I said, not even trying to sort out her questions. “I’ve been awake exactly three minutes and I haven’t had any coffee yet. Can I get back to you on all this? Besides, aren’t you going to be late for church?”

  “It’s seven o’clock. I’ve got plenty of time.”

  “In the morning?” I moaned.

  “I’ve been up for three hours. Heavens, it’s almost lunch time. City life has turned you mushy, child.”

  “Dove, I repeat, I haven’t had my coffee yet. Do you think you can call me back in, say, two hours? Or better yet, two days?”

  “Well, who licked the red off your candy, Miss Grumpy Pants? And just for the record, how are you going to spend your day? I know it won’t be in church, so I hope you’re at least doing something God wouldn’t be ashamed of.”

  I sighed and ran up the white flag. It would be quicker and easier to give her a rundown of my day than to make any attempt to convince her I was a mature, responsible adult perfectly capable of supervising my own physical and spiritual life. “I’m going to the museum and catch up on some paperwork and then I’ve got twelve or so samplers to mat and frame. I have the list of people I need to interview and I’ll be calling them as soon as I can get to it. I still need to go to the library and do some research. The Tribune is on microfilm there back to the twenties. You’ll get a rough draft as soon as humanly possible. Don’t forget I have another job. You remember, the on
e that pays my rent?”

  “I talked to Constance yesterday. She said you had plenty of time to do this project.”

  I bit back the first response that came to my lips, since Dove was still physically capable of washing my mouth out with soap. “Look, she doesn’t really know what it takes to keep the museum and co-op going. The cross-stitch exhibit is scheduled to open next week and a reporter for the L.A. Times is considering doing a small article for the travel section. That will look real good on grant applications and I don’t have much time to finish.”

  “Then I guess you’d better quit laying around like the Queen of Sheba and get to work. And you watch your step with that O’Hara boy. He might have settled down some, but I wouldn’t bet a yearling on it. There are plenty of us who remember that summer he lived in San Celina. We all breathed a sigh of relief when Brady sent him back to Colorado. He’s got a pretty face, but you know you can’t tell the quality of the wood by the color of its paint.”

  “If you knew who he was, Sherlock, why did you ask?”

  “Just wanted to see if you’d lie.” She gave a crafty chortle. “You just behave yourself. Don’t disgrace the family name. Khodahafez.”

  “Ho-da-ha what?” I repeated to the buzzing receiver. Ever since Daddy and his five siblings banded together last Christmas and bought Dove a satellite dish, strange things had started popping out of her mouth. At least stranger than usual. Not to mention her kitchen. Nadine confided in me that Daddy had been sneaking down to Liddie’s two or three times a week for his typical dinner of beef and potatoes because Dove had served up a dish she’d copied from some foreign cooking show. He swore, Nadine said, that even the barn dogs wouldn’t touch the leftovers.

  After a quick phone call to Elvia to inform her of what happened at Oak Terrace so she couldn’t complain that she always heard everything last, I made myself a cup of extra-strength coffee softened to a pale brown with canned milk. I took it and two Oreo cookies scrounged from the bottom of the cookie jar and settled down on the sofa, pulling over my legs the autumn-hued Dresden Plate quilt Aunt Garnet sent me for my last birthday. Sunday was supposed to be a day of rest, so that was just what I intended on doing, for a few hours anyway. I traced my finger over the small stitches of the quilt thinking about Miss Violet and Mr. O’Hara and how their lives were a lot like this quilt—finished, purpose accomplished. I guess that made the rest of us still works-in-progress, the final design a mystery, not knowing until our lives were over whether our pattern was pleasing or jarring, brought comfort and warmth to others or just lay on the bed and looked pretty. What patterns, what circumstances led up to Miss Violet and Mr. O’Hara’s lives being ended in such a cruel way? It was a question I knew was plaguing Gabe right now. And I’d known him long enough to be certain he wouldn’t rest until he found the answer.