“It’s dangerous for a woman to be out alone this time of night.”

  “This isn’t L.A., and even if it was, where I go and when really isn’t any business of yours.”

  “Robbery, assault and rape exist even here and, unfortunately, that is my business,” he said, his jaw setting stubbornly.

  “Get lost,” I replied.

  “Look, I realize I overreacted. I’m sorry. But what did you expect? I go up and there’s this body—”

  “Which I keep telling you I knew nothing about, and sorry doesn’t begin to cover it. You’ve acted like some kind of Nazi general from the beginning of this whole thing.”

  “And you’ve interfered from the beginning. Withholding information, witnesses, evidence—”

  “Look, in the last four days you have lectured me four times. I don’t want or need another one. I am sick of—”

  “Good.” He slid into the seat across from me. “So am I.”

  “Hit the road, Sergeant Friday. This isn’t a television show. I don’t have to talk to you.”

  My spike-haired waitress walked up, a pleased smile curving her pale tangerine lips.

  “So your guy finally made it,” she said. “You all done there?” She gestured at my empty glass.

  “Take both of them.” I shoved the untouched strawberry malt toward her. “And no, my guy didn’t make it. He died nine months ago.” I looked at Ortiz. “But then you already know that. You know everything, right?”

  Her eyes darted to Ortiz, who shook his head slightly, then back at me. She pursed her lips, picked up the glasses.

  “Anything for you, sir?”

  “Coffee.” He settled in, stretching his arm across the back of the seat, loosening his tie more. “Look, I said I was sorry. What more can I do? And my name is Gabriel. Gabe.”

  I leaned my head back against the window and closed my eyes, hoping if I ignored him, he’d go away. Minutes passed. The swish-swish of the waitress’s nylons, the clink of cup against saucer, the acidic scent of strong coffee told me he wasn’t leaving. Inhaling the steam of his coffee, I imagined how it might warm the lump behind my breastbone, a lump as hard and cold as a hailstone.

  “I am sorry,” he said, softer this time. “About tonight. About your husband. I didn’t know until a little while ago how he died. Officer Aragon told me. It must be tough.”

  The image of Eric’s body, lack of sleep, the unexpected kindness in his voice, or maybe a combination of all three, caused moist heat to burn in the back of my eyes. Tears formed in the corners but I held back, my throat aching with the effort. I had to do something—scream, curse, throw his coffee mug across the room, run out. But they all seemed to take so much effort. So I kept my eyes closed and talked.

  “Jack loved strawberry malts. One time, when we were sixteen, he drank four in a row. His father had grounded him for cutting algebra, so we hitchhiked into town and sat here until two in the morning until Wade found us and took us home.”

  I opened my eyes and stared straight ahead at the shiny Elvis clock behind the cash register; the minute hand circled his thick body, just as he’d sometimes swung his arm at the end of a song.

  “The night he died, I was at my dad’s ranch, making strawberry preserves. I think about that a lot. Jack’s dead and all those jars of strawberry preserves are still there in my grandmother’s pantry waiting to be eaten.”

  I turned and looked at Ortiz. Under the gold cast of the coffee shop lights, his dark face was still, impenetrable. I had grown up with that look—Elvia’s brothers, her father, the smooth-cheeked Spanish boys in high school in tightly pressed chinos. It could mean as little as a sore tooth or as much as a knife in your belly. His blue Anglo eyes never left my face.

  “There were so many strawberries,” I said. “Two bushels. They were starting to go bad and my grandmother hates waste, so I hulled every last one of them. My hands looked like they were dipped in red ink.” I stared down at my fingers, seeing the red again.

  “Do you ever wonder why things happen the way they do? I never asked Dove who gave her those strawberries but I’ve tried to imagine what would have happened if they’d never been planted, or someone forgot to water them, or a disease killed them before they could bear fruit or that person just, on the spur of the moment, gave the strawberries to someone else. I would have been home. He wouldn’t have gone to town.”

  “You don’t know that,” Ortiz said. He traced his finger around the rim of his cup. If it had been crystal, a fine note might have rung.

  “Yes, I do.” I swung my legs around and faced him.

  “It didn’t have anything to do with you. It was his choice. A reckless choice, as Frost might say, but still, his choice.”

  I clenched my fist, wanting to hit something, someone. “Every drink he had that night involved me. When he stepped into that jeep, I stepped in, too.”

  “It’s not that simple,” he said.

  “You’re wrong. It’s just that simple. When he left me, he took everything I had.” I stared at my clenched fist, then looked up. “Tell me, do you have children?”

  He looked back with surprise. “Yes. A son.”

  “Then you couldn’t know.”

  “Know what?”

  “That it’s different. When you’re married and don’t have children, everything you have is wrapped up in one person. When they aren’t there anymore, it’s like ...” I stopped. What was it like? What could I say? That it was harder and harder each day to remember Jack? That at some point the unthinkable happens, when you least expect it; you realize you’ve stopped loving the person and started loving the memory, the memory only you have, and you’re afraid if you forget or you die, it would be like the two of you never existed.

  “What?” he asked after a few minutes.

  I looked at him and thought, I can’t bear this.

  “I knew him before he could shave,” I said.

  He was wise enough to realize there was nothing he could say.

  The noisy background chatter slowly leaked away like the air in a helium balloon as group after group of customers paid for their breakfasts and left. I suddenly felt that if I could get to my bed, I could sleep for days. I laid my head on the table, cradling it in my arms, not caring how it looked.

  I felt or thought I felt, through the thick cotton of my jacket, a pressure on my arm. I looked up. His hands were wrapped around his mug. His eyes seemed full of pain. Or maybe it was just fatigue.

  “You’re tired,” he said. “You need to go home.”

  Suddenly, talking about Jack to Ortiz, telling a stranger things I’d never told anyone, sickened me. It made me feel disloyal and angry—at Ortiz, at myself.

  “Do you think the same person killed Marla and Eric?” I said abruptly.

  “I don’t want to talk about that right now,” he replied in a weary voice. “Especially with you.”

  “Did you find the money?”

  He raked his fingers impatiently through neat black hair. “There wasn’t any money.”

  “There was,” I insisted. “It was a big plastic bag full of money.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course, I’m sure. What kind of question is that?”

  “Look, if your cousin calls, you can tell her she doesn’t have to worry about Eric Griffin anymore.”

  “Was she in any danger?”

  “Apparently not from him. But someone else?” He shrugged, drained the last of his coffee, studying the bottom of his cup as if the answer would appear in the dregs.

  “So all we have to do is find out what Eric and Marla had in common.”

  Annoyance flashed across his face. “I will. You won’t. I’ve had about all I can take of you being involved in this. I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep in four days. I don’t want to have to worry about you on top of everything else.” He slapped the cup down in the saucer. The sharp clink caused me to wince. “Come on, I’ll walk you out.”

  “Who asked you to worry about me? And I’m perfectly capable of walking myself out.”

  “I’m doing it for me, not you. How would it look if a citizen was mugged while the chief of police sipped coffee a hundred feet away?”

  “You’re absolutely right. It would look terrible. Are you going to stay and walk everyone out?” I gestured around the restaurant at the other customers. “You could be here all night.”

  “For once, could you just not argue with me?”

  I started to protest, but the exhausted look on his face stopped me. Though it irritated me, a surge of pity welled up. It couldn’t be easy having to deal with the stress of two murders in a place where you have no family or friends.

  “Oh, all right,” I said, reaching for the check. He snatched it up first and slid out of the booth.

  “I’ll get it.” His face dared me to protest.

  I picked up my purse, too tired to argue. We didn’t speak as we walked out to the parking lot. Freezing night air turned our breath to floating white powder. The sky was clear, moonless, black. The old mercury vapor street lights illuminated everything with a blue, spooky cast that caused an involuntary shudder to run up my spine.

  “Cold?” Ortiz asked.

  I pulled my denim jacket closer, wishing it was my sheepskin. “Just a goose walking over my grave.”

  He laughed out loud, startling a nervous cat crouched underneath my truck. “My grandfather used to say that.”

  “Your Kansas one?”

  He gave an ironic smile. “So you found me out.”

  “Derby, Kansas.” I shook my head. “Who would have ever guessed?”

  “Well, I spent my last two years of high school in California, and I have lived there over twenty years. I assimilate easily.”

  “A real asset in undercover work, I bet.”

  His laugh was a low growl that, simply because it was masculine, sounded comforting. “What have you been doing, reading my personnel file?”

  I lowered my chin and smiled into my jacket. “All information ends up somewhere. You said so yourself.”

  “There’s nothing more disconcerting than having your own words thrown back at you. Those records are suppose to be confidential. Even I have to fill out a form in triplicate to obtain one. How did you manage?”

  I shoved my hands in the pockets of my jacket and kept quiet.

  “You know someone in Personnel.” He tilted his head to see my face better. “You probably went to school together. It shouldn’t be too difficult for me to find out. Breaching confidentiality in that job is probably grounds for dismissal.”

  A small surge of panic for Angie flashed through me. “Look, I’m sorry. My friend shouldn’t have to pay for what I did. Please don’t make trouble for her.”

  His eyes crinkled with amusement. “Humility. Now there’s a quality I’ve never seen in you before. I could get used to it.”

  “Oh, shut up.” I laughed and made a fist, punching him lightly on the chest the way I did Jack when he teased me.

  He grabbed it, covered it with his large hand, and shook it gently, his eyes cloudy and serious.

  “Albenia Harper, you are driving me nuts. Why do you think that is?”

  “Gabriel Ortiz.” I pulled my fist away and poked him in the chest with my finger. “You’re the one writing a master’s thesis on Kierkegaard. Why is anything the way it is?”

  A small groan rumbled in the back of his throat. Before I realized what was happening, he slipped his hand behind my head, his fingers tangling in my hair, and pulled me to him. His embrace was powerful and his kiss intense, searching; it tasted of coffee and peppermint and salt.

  I don’t know what made me kiss back—desire, anxiety, loneliness. But as our kiss deepened, somewhere in the twisting caverns of my mind, Jack’s brown eyes lurked, dark and tender, and the memory caused me to stiffen and pull back. Ortiz’s arms tightened for a split second, then let go.

  “I can’t,” I said, feeling dazed and nervous and irrationally guilty, as if I were cheating. My rapid breath blew a small white cloud that floated up and mingled with his.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, something close to a look of desperation on his face. “That was ... I don’t know why ...” His voice trailed off. Then he frowned. “Go home.” He turned and walked toward his car, his back rigid, the gravel crunching like tiny bird bones under his feet.

  I stared at him open-mouthed. He was acting as if I’d done something wrong. I was as embarrassed as he was, but you didn’t see me snapping anyone’s head off.

  “Don’t make such a big deal about it, Ortiz,” I called after him, my voice quivering more than I would have liked. “It certainly isn’t to me.”

  He stopped, turned slowly around and looked at me, the hard, shadowy planes of his face blank.

  “Let’s just blame it on the moon.” I pointed up at the black, empty sky, wondering why in the world I was trying to make this easier for him. I guess being married as long as I had, it just came out without thinking. Old habits die harder than loco weed.

  His face relaxed slightly. “You’d better go home,” he said softly and turned away.

  I climbed into my truck and sat there for a minute, hugging myself; his kiss had affected me more than I wanted to admit. I leaned my head on the steering wheel, inhaled deeply and tried to sort out my feelings.

  The physical memory of his warm lips, the scratch of his raspy mustache, the comfort of his strong arms, lingered on my skin. I felt aroused, embarrassed, ashamed. Jack had been dead only nine months. What kind of person would even be thinking what I’m thinking? Especially about someone they’d only known four days?

  A person who’s alive and kicking is what Dove would say.

  After three tries and some creative language, the truck’s engine turned over. I flipped my headlights on. Seconds later, Ortiz’s came on. That small protective act made me smile. It was exactly what Jack would have done.

  He followed me to the corner, but when I turned right, he kept going straight. I sighed in relief. The way I was feeling and after what happened between us, my place at three A.M. would have been a mistake. A big mistake. And by the fifth or sixth time of telling myself that, I almost believed it.

  12

  “YOU LOOK LIKE ...” Meg started.

  “Don’t say it.” I lowered the brim of my blue Dodgers baseball cap in an attempt to conceal a face that needed about six more hours sleep.

  “I was just going to say you look like death warmed over.” She twisted a strand of toffee hair and giggled nervously. “But that’s a bad choice of words, I guess. Isn’t it awful about Eric? I hope this isn’t some kind of serial killer who has it in for artists.”

  “Is everything all set to go in the quilt booth?” I didn’t want to discuss Eric’s death with anyone else this morning. I was awakened at six A.M. first by Elvia wanting to know if I was all right, then Carl, wanting to know if I had any information the police weren’t releasing, and finally Dove, giving me a second chance at the bodyguard services of one elderly aunt.

  “We’re ready to roll,” Meg said, glancing at her watch. “One hour to blastoff. There are people arriving already. One old lady wanted to have her picture taken in the place where the two murders happened. Gross, huh?” She wrinkled her pale, freckled nose.

  “No one is allowed upstairs or to point out the place in the woodshop where Marla was killed,” I said. “Pass that around. I’ll bring them before the co-op board and have their studio privileges revoked if I catch anyone showing those places to the public. Let’s try and leave Marla and Eric with a little dignity.”

  “I’ll tell everyone,” Meg said evenly, not dispirited by my prickly tone. “There’s coffee in the pottery booth,” she added diplomatically.

  “Thanks,” I answered, a bit chagrined by my attitude. I didn’t want to tell her I’d had four cups already and that lack of caffeine wasn’t my problem. I looked up at the cloudy sky, hoping the weather forecast was accurate—low clouds burning off to a sunny day. The sooner I could cover the bags under my eyes with sunglasses, the better.

  By ten o‘clock, cars were parked half a mile down the highway and the craft booths in the museum parking lot were snaked with lines of people. It appeared the murders actually improved attendance at the festival rather than harmed it.

  The VFW and a couple of Boy Scout troops had fired up their steel barrel barbeques early and were slowly cooking ribs and chicken over oakwood in the Santa Maria style barbeque no event in the county was ever without. My stomach growled when the scents of the spicy beef and chicken hit my nose, making the chocolate doughnut I’d had at seven o‘clock seem like a mirage.

  I was standing next to a booth selling anodized earrings in the shapes of endangered animals when I felt a dry, rough hand slip under my braid and squeeze my neck.

  “Hey, squirt. Heard you found another body.” I turned around and smiled up into the gray eyes and sun-webbed face of my father.

  I slipped my arm around his solid waist. The smell of his clean cotton shirt and English Leather aftershave was familiar and comforting. “Daddy! Am I glad to see you.” I leaned my head against his shoulder. “It was our handyman, Eric. I think it’s connected with the other murder, but I don’t know how.” I shivered. “Kind of spooks me a little, but I’m mostly okay. Where’s Dove and Aunt Garnet?”

  “Garnet woke up with a cold in her ear this morning, so they aren’t coming. I was sent to cheer you on.”

  “Dove didn’t tell me that when she called this morning,” I said. “Well, cheer away. I can certainly use it.”

  “Don’t think Garnet was up when Dove called. You know, I don’t feel real comfortable with you working where there’s been two murders.”

  “Really, there’s nothing for you to worry about,” I said. “They have nothing to do with me except that I was unfortunate enough to discover them. I’m getting a rather gruesome reputation around San Celina these days.”

  “You be careful, you hear?” He reached over and pulled the brim of my cap down. “You still keep Jack’s .45 in your bedroom?”

  “Sure do,” I said, pushing my hat back up.