“You know our sheriff’s a woman, don’t you?” Nadine said to Aunt Garnet. “Women always take constructive criticism better than men. What’ll you have, Garnet?”

  While Nadine reeled off the night’s specials, I excused myself to call Dove. “If she hears about this from the Sissy Brownmiller grapevine, there’ll be a second murder—mine.”

  Outside to the parking lot, I tried the ranch’s land line first.

  “You just caught me,” Dove said. “I’m on my way back to the fair. What’s my sister been up to?” Obviously no one had told her about the murder yet. I said a silent thank-you.

  “We’ve been pretty busy. Right now we’re at Liddie’s having supper. There’s some news you need to hear so Sissy Brownmiller can’t hold it over your head.”

  “Spill the beans.”

  I quickly told her about the last few hours, leaving out the part about how Aunt Garnet seemed to thrive in the atmosphere of the murder investigation.

  “Poor Levi,” Dove said. “They’re going to really go after him for this.”

  “I know. I wish there was something we could do.”

  “Stand by him is what we can do. Shout down anyone who tries to besmirch his good name.”

  “The fact that Jazz was seeing Cal is going to make things complicated.”

  I heard Dove sigh over the phone. “I’d only met that young man a few times. He did some work for your daddy, but he seemed like a nice boy. Very polite. Somewhere in his life someone taught him manners.”

  “I wonder what’s going to happen to his . . . him . . . after the autopsy.”

  “Ask your friend Hud. By the way, he practically got on his knees begging me to take in that rooster of Maisie’s. I’m charging him by the day.”

  “He can afford it.”

  “I’m donating the money to the animal shelter.”

  “To answer your question, your sister seems to be enjoying herself. She . . .” I could see Aunt Garnet bobbing her head as Nadine talked. Nadine pointed her pencil at Aunt Garnet; they both laughed.

  “She what?” Dove demanded.

  “She had fun at the fair, well, until the murder, of course. And I haven’t found out anything yet about why she’s here. She seems . . . almost . . . happy.” I said the word with a bit of surprise.

  “I know! I know!” Dove shouted. “That’s what I mean. She’s never been happy in all the years she’s been alive. There’s something up, I tell you. Keep on the job.” She hung up before I could answer.

  After supper, since it was still early, I asked Aunt Garnet if she’d like to take a tour of the folk art museum.

  “You know I’d love that,” she said, “but I’m getting a little tired. Maybe another day?”

  “Sure, we have plenty of time. Let me take you back to the ranch.”

  At the ranch, Aunt Garnet said good night and went into the guest room. Before leaving, I poked around the walk-in pantry to see what goodies I could steal to take home to my patient husband. I found a cherry pie with one piece missing, a large plastic container of oatmeal-raisin cookies and under a clear glass domed cake plate a magazine-perfect black walnut cake with maple icing. It hadn’t been cut into yet and I was contemplating whether I should take the chance. Dove might have made it for something special.

  “Caught you.” A deep voice startled my contemplation of cake.

  It was my stepgrandpa, Isaac Lyons. Because of his broad face and wide-set, calm eyes, his surname always amazed me with its appropriateness. He had long white hair, pulled back in a thinner version of my gramma’s braid, a deeply tanned face from his years taking photographs all over the world, a gold stud earring in one ear. But it was that famous voice, like the roll of a kettle drum that drew people to him like children to an ice cream truck jingle. A man-of-the-world who had never stayed in one place for longer than a few months, he changed after marrying my gramma Dove. His home became the Ramsey Ranch, San Celina and most of all, Dove. To the world, he was the celebrity photographer who’d taken portraits of five presidents and has his work hanging in hundreds of prestigious galleries and museums. To us, he was simply Isaac, the man who loved Dove.

  “Hey, Pops,” I said. “Do you have the 411 on this cake?”

  He grabbed the cherry pie and sat it on the breakfast counter. “I’ve been eyeing that cake for the last four hours. I desperately want a piece. But, no, I have no idea what it’s for. We could call her.” His expression was hopeful.

  “It’s probably for one of her meetings. Best we stick to the cookies and pie.” I pulled out a quart-sized plastic bag and stole six cookies. “How are things going so far with the sisters? Dove seems more agitated than usual.”

  He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the counter’s red and yellow calico patterned oilcloth cover. “It’s like watching two jungle cats circle and eyeball each other.” Spiderweb lines radiated from his eyes. “The tension is great. I’m tempted to do a pictorial. At any rate, while Garnet’s here, I’m determined to take that sister portrait whether they like it or not.”

  “You may have to slip some Valium in their morning coffee.” I leaned over the counter toward him, keeping my voice low. “What do you think is the reason Aunt Garnet is visiting?”

  “I have no idea and I don’t have to tell you, it’s driving your gramma nuts. She tried calling WW this morning, but old William Wiley is living up to his middle name. He’s a cunning old coot, not about to be the Greek messenger. All he’d say is Garnet has something personal to talk over with Dove, but he wouldn’t give a hint what it was.”

  “Personal? That doesn’t sound good.”

  Isaac scratched his weathered cheek and winked at me. “I think the girls just like to keep things interesting.”

  I rested my chin on a palm. “With what is going on at the fair, things are interesting enough, thank you kindly.”

  His face grew serious. “I heard about the young man being killed. Any suspects yet?”

  “If there are, Hud hasn’t informed me. It’s bound to get thorny. The murder happened on Levi Clark’s watch and his daughter was dating the victim.”

  “Sounds complex. Who do you think might have done it?”

  “There’re actually a couple of suspects.” I hesitated, not sure I should voice my suspicions despite the fact it was only me and Isaac in the room.

  “You can’t stop there,” Isaac said.

  “Okay, but this is only between us. First is Jazz’s ex-boyfriend, Dodge Burnside. He of the volatile temper.” I told Isaac about Dodge’s behavior in the parking lot. “Though as Jazz so graphically stated, they never actually hooked up, he apparently considered them a couple. Then there’s Milt Piebald . . .” I told Isaac what I overheard Milt say. “Maybe he did it to discredit Levi.”

  The wrinkles radiating from Isaac’s eyes deepened. “Could be.”

  I picked at a small hole in the red table cover. “I’m going to phone Hud later tonight to see if I can pry any information out of him, but I’m guessing he’ll keep the investigation pretty close to his vest.”

  Isaac mulled over my words. I wondered what he was remembering that caused him to look so pensive. He’d marched to Selma with Martin Luther King Jr. A photo he’d taken of Dr. King touching the blond head of a little boy whose father, a car mechanic from Detroit, had taken vacation time to march with Dr. King, made the pages of Life magazine. The original print, hand developed by Isaac himself, hung in the Smithsonian.

  “Are you taking any photographs of this year’s fair?”

  “Already started,” he said. “I’m thinking about doing another book on fairs. I may attempt talking your gramma into taking a road trip, visit some of our country’s state and county fairs.”

  “That’s a great idea. Your first county fair book is one of my favorites. Dove does need to get out of town . . . and I mean that in the nicest possible way.”

  He chuckled. “I agree, but there’s no way she’ll leave while Garnet is visiting.”

  “Maybe her visit will be a quick one.” I walked around the counter and slipped my arms around his waist, giving him a warm hug. “I imagine I’ll see you at the fair . . . if not sooner.”

  Before going home, I dropped by the folk art museum. Since I started working there almost five years ago checking on the museum daily had become second nature. The day didn’t feel right if I didn’t go in at least once and make my rounds of the premises, like a Great Pyrenees dog checking its flock. Saturday was usually our busiest day, both with artists working in the studios and patrons visiting our exhibits. Since the quilt and doll exhibits opened three weeks ago, they’d received rave reviews and visits from many local and out-of-state quilters, folk art lovers, doll lovers and African American history buffs. Though the museum had been closed since six o’clock, and it was now almost eight, a few docents were still working at the boutique and artists were still back in the studios. Every month a different co-op member had responsibility for locking up.

  Behind the counter, Kay Pulcini, one of our long-time docents, was dusting the shelves.

  “Hey,” I called. “Need some help?”

  “I’m almost done,” she replied, running a hand through her short, silvery bob. She held up a drink coaster made in the geometric style of the Gee’s Bend quilts. “These are flying off the shelves faster than the Ebony Sisters can make them.”

  “That’s great!” We planned for the exhibits to continue until the end of September when the quilt exhibit would move on to the Rocky Mountain quilt museum in Golden, Colorado, and the dolls would return to their owner in Oakland.

  In my office, I called Hud on his cell. I still hadn’t told him about Milt’s remarks. The sooner I dumped the information into Hud’s lap, the sooner I could check it off my mental list.

  “What’s shakin’, Inspector Clouseau?” I said.

  “Just sitting here in my office at the fair contemplating the mysteries of the universe. Think I almost have them figured out. What’s up with you?”

  “Any suspects for Calvin Jones’s murder yet?”

  “A few.”

  I waited, hoping he’d elaborate. No such luck. “I had to try.”

  “Would have been disappointed if you didn’t, my nosy little beignet. Anything else?”

  “Actually, there is. So much was going on at the crime scene that I didn’t want to bother you, but there’s a conversation I overheard last night that I think might have some significance.” I repeated Milt Piebald’s words. “I’m guessing he was talking about Levi.”

  “And you might be guessing right. What a jackass. Have any idea who he was talking to?”

  “Not a clue.”

  “I appreciate you telling me this and it certainly makes him a bourriquet, but I’m not sure it makes him a suspect.”

  “A what?”

  “A stupid man.”

  “He could be trying to sabotage Levi’s job.”

  “Believable, though killing someone to do so is—hate to use a bad pun—overkill.”

  I groaned. “That is bad. I know you’re probably right. It was just a thought.”

  “Maybe a wish?”

  “The thought of Milt doing jail time does bring a smile to my face.”

  His heavy sigh filled the phone’s earpiece. “Justice is a long and winding road. And there are lots of potholes that never get filled.”

  “On that truly dried-up old metaphor I will say good night.”

  “Bon soir, catin.”

  After giving my inbox a sincere promise that I’d revisit it on Monday, I headed for home. While Gabe took Scout for his evening walk, I made one last call to Maggie. “How’s Jazz?”

  “She’s finally sleeping, poor girl. I didn’t think she’d ever stop crying. This boy must have really meant something to her.”

  “No sign of any reporters sneaking through the woods?”

  “Not so far. With Bess and Harry on the job, we’d know in two seconds.” Bess and Harry were two rescue German shepherds adopted by Maggie and Katsy. The dogs, no doubt sensing their great fortune at being adopted into the Morrison clan, had instantly bonded with the women and with the ranch. No one would sneak past their vigilant guard.

  “Jazz will need all the rest she can get,” I said. “Eventually she’ll have to go back out in public and face people’s questions.”

  “That’s what Katsy and I figure. I know Levi can’t come all the way out here during the fair, but I wish he could sneak out for a break. The poor man is probably sleeping only two or three hours a night and Katsy swears that dang walkie-talkie is surgically attached to his hand.”

  “I tried squeezing some information out of Hud about who they suspect, but he’s keeping things pretty much to himself.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow. Let me know if I can do anything.”

  “We’re such a boring old married couple,” I said to Gabe a little while later when fluffing our bed pillows. He was brushing his teeth. “Going to bed early on a Saturday night.” It was ten thirty and though cooler than in North County, it was still too warm for me. I was thankful for the air-conditioning system we’d installed last year.

  “Want to go back to the fair?” Gabe called from the bathroom. “It’s open until midnight.”

  “No, but I feel like I should want to go.”

  He walked back into our bedroom. “Why?”

  “When I was a kid, we would go every day the fair was open. We almost always stayed until it closed. And I loved it.” I sat down on the bed, running my bare toes across Scout’s exposed stomach. He was sprawled across the oak floor trying to soak in every inch of coolness. I could relate. I lifted up my hair, holding it on top of my head.

  “There’re other entertaining things to do on a Saturday night,” he said, smiling at me.

  I wrinkled my nose. “Oh, please, it’s too hot for that.”

  He walked over to our new thermostat and turned it down.

  I laughed and let my hair drop. “Okay, but no matter what the environmentalists say, we’re not doing one single thing until it is at least sixty-five degrees in here.”

  “I won’t tell if you won’t,” Gabe said, slipping off his boxer shorts.

  CHAPTER 8

  “LOCAL MAN KILLED AT THE FAIR” READ THE SUNDAY TRIBUNE headline. Beneath it was a color photo of Jazz, her face buried in her father’s shoulder. They were surrounded by sheriff’s deputies and fair security people.

  In the caption under the photo the reporter wrote, “Levi Clark, controversial new manager of the San Celina Mid-State Fair, comforts daughter when she hears of her fiancé’s alleged homicide. Sheriff’s department homicide detectives are investigating.”

  “Controversial?” I said, looking across the kitchen table at Gabe. “Is that another word for black? And since when was Cal her fiancé?”

  Gabe reached for the coffeepot. “Since when has that birdcage liner ever told the truth?” The Tribune had often misreported, exaggerated and even ridiculed Gabe in the years he’d been San Celina’s police chief, so there was no love lost between my husband and our local newspaper.

  I scanned the article. It didn’t say much because there really wasn’t much to report yet. Calvin Jones had been killed by blunt force trauma, and the case was under investigation. According to the paper, Cal didn’t have much history in San Celina—in foster care in the Central Valley until he aged out of the system, lived alone in a rented room in Atascadero. He worked odd jobs around the county, at the Mobil station part time for the last year. All of that I knew from Katsy and Maggie. The paper said the police were searching for next of kin and that any help from the public would be welcome.

  I pushed the paper aside and stared down into the steel-cut oatmeal Gabe cooked for us. Tiny bits of brown sugar floated atop the steaming, nutty-scented cereal, but the sparse facts about Cal’s short life dulled my appetite.

  “It’s always sad when a kid is murdered,” I said, resting my chin on my hand. “But when it’s someone like Calvin Jones, who has no family, no one who will really miss him. It makes me wonder if . . .”

  Gabe looked up from the sports page. The wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose made him look like a sexy professor. “If what?”

  “If maybe I’ve lived too sheltered a life. That I don’t spend enough time getting to know and care about people who are alone. People like Cal.”

  “You can’t befriend the whole world,” he said practically, looking back down at the paper.

  “I know.” I stared at the photo of Jazz and Levi. Levi’s face was stoic, his eyes unreadable. What had he thought about Cal? What did he think about the statement that Cal was his daughter’s fiancé? “At least Cal had Jazz.” I stood up and carried my uneaten cereal to the sink. “What’s on your agenda today?”

  “Some paperwork I brought home. Thought I’d wash the Corvette. Maybe take Scout for a run before it gets too hot.”

  I stooped down and scratched behind Scout’s velvety ears. “Sounds like a nice day. Scout could use some fresh air and exercise.”

  “What’re you going to do?”

  I straightened up, stretched out my arms. “Go by Blind Harry’s and visit Elvia. Then back to the fair. I promised Mac I’d attend Cowboy Church this afternoon.”

  MacKenzie “Mac” Reid was an old friend and the minister of the church my family belonged to—San Celina First Baptist. A local boy whose late grandmother had been one of San Celina County’s ranching icons, he had special sermons and music that he provided for rodeos and fairs.

  I started upstairs to get dressed, but stopped when I reached the kitchen threshold. “Friday?”

  “Hmm?” He didn’t look up from the paper. In the bright August morning sunlight his hair shined black and glossy as crow feathers.

  “Do you think that anyone from around here would actually kill Cal because he was white and Jazz is biracial?”

  Gabe’s head slowly came up. “Are you serious? Reread your history books.”

  I felt my face turn red. “Thanks for making me feel like a total dolt.”

  “You are not a dolt. Just a little too idealistic about your community here on the Central Coast.”