“Just procedure. It shouldn’t bother you if you have nothing to hide.” He looked at me pointedly. “I’ll need to talk to you again tomorrow.”

  “Fine.” I edged past him, heading toward the museum, when he called to me.

  “Ms. Harper.”

  I turned around. “What?” I didn’t even attempt to keep the annoyance out of my voice.

  “I’ve been in law enforcement for twenty years. I know when someone is lying. What aren’t you telling me?”

  I took a deep breath, trying not to let my panic show. “I have nothing else to say,” I muttered, staring at the bridge of his glasses.

  He gave me another long look. “I’ll need a list of the co-op members and their addresses.”

  “I’ll print one up for you tomorr—”

  “Now.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said under my breath.

  After printing an address list on my word processor and giving it to the bushy-browed detective, I waited on the front porch of the museum for the last of the criminal investigation team to leave. Someone had finally brought me my purse, so I assumed it wouldn’t be much longer before I was allowed to lock up. Then I really needed to think. I couldn’t let the artists walk in on that mess. Someone would have to clean it up. The thought of doing it myself made me reach out and grab one of the posts supporting the porch.

  I ran through my mental list of co-op members, stopping at Ray Winfry, the decoy carver. He was dependable and kind, and more importantly, had served a tour in Vietnam. Maybe this wouldn’t faze him much.

  Rita presented a whole separate problem. I needed to track her down and find out what had happened. And Eric. I didn’t even want to think about him. Could he have killed Marla? I remembered the argument they’d had and realized I’d forgotten to tell anyone about it. I decided it could wait until tomorrow. I didn’t think I had it in me for another round with Ortiz. I closed my eyes, pinched the bridge of my nose and told myself this would all be over soon.

  The heavy Spanish door of the hacienda slammed open, causing me to jump. Two men in dark jumpsuits maneuvered the gurney over the threshold. They bumped Marla’s navy-bagged body down the three steps indifferently, as if moving an old sofa. Tears started to fill my eyes and a sourness inched back up my throat.

  “Ms. Harper.” A deep voice came from behind me.

  I ignored it, my attention held captive by the long, bulky bag. When it threatened to come out of the safety belts, one of the attendants casually shoved it back in place. I rubbed the back of my neck with an icy palm in an attempt to stop the queasy churning in my stomach. Was this how Jack was treated? I felt an irrational anger at the callousness of the attendants. Logically, I knew they had to treat their job that way or go crazy, but I wanted to scream—she’s a person, not a sack of feed.

  “Ms. Harper, look at me.” The imperious voice wouldn’t give up.

  “What is it?” I whipped around to face Chief Ortiz.

  He leaned against one of the rough posts, eyes mild behind owlish glasses.

  “Your name,” he said. “Albenia. Where did you get it?”

  “My parents gave it to me.” I frowned at him. Where was this line of questioning going?

  A faint smile played around the corners of his mouth. “I assumed that. Where did they get it?”

  I sighed in exasperation, not believing I was discussing name origins at two in the morning with some L.A. yuppie posing as the chief of police while the body of someone I’d talked to only six hours ago was being bounced around like a bale of hay.

  “My mother’s name was Alice. My father’s name is Benjamin. What does this have to do with Marla’s murder?”

  “Interesting.” He nodded and pulled at the end of his mustache. “Are you called Albenia?”

  “No.”

  He raised his eyebrows and waited.

  “Benni,” I snapped.

  “Did you know that in Latin your name means blonde?”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  Before he could answer, the sharp clamp of the back of the coroner’s van distracted us. We watched it pull slowly out of the parking lot onto the highway. Realizing then what he’d been doing, I turned back and nodded.

  “Thanks,” I said reluctantly.

  He shrugged and stuck his hands in the pockets of his jacket.

  “No one took my fingerprints,” I said.

  “Come down to the station tomorrow. It’s just a formality.”

  “You mean I’m not the chief suspect?” I said sarcastically. “I can leave town if I want?”

  “I think your proclivity to tidy up, not to mention your graphically vivid physical reaction, pretty much eliminates you as a suspect.”

  “Oh.” I considered his comment. “Then why do you need my fingerprints? Why do you have to talk with me again tomorrow? I won’t know any more than I do now.”

  “You think not?” His aloof mask returned. “I only said you weren’t a suspect. I never said you weren’t suspect.”

  On that note, I changed the subject. “Who’s going to tell Marla’s family? I put her mother’s address on the list I gave your detective.” My voice faltered. That horrible knock in the middle of the night. Every woman’s secret fear—for her husband, her son, her daughter. Except it didn’t happen like that for me. The sheriff’s deputy went to the Harper Ranch first. I was always sorry Wade was the one to tell me. It would have been easier to hate a stranger that first terrible moment.

  Ortiz’s mask slipped for a split second. A pained look flashed across his face, then disappeared.

  “It’ll be taken care of.” He pulled his hands out of his pockets and walked toward the remaining emergency vehicles. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said over his shoulder.

  “Right,” was all I could think of to say. At that moment, I was tired of making wisecracks, tired of trying to avoid questions, tired of being more involved in this than I should have been. And I was just flat-out tired.

  After locking up the studios and the museum, I walked out to my truck. Two other vehicles were left in the parking lot: a nondescript beige four-door and Ortiz’s Corvette. Detective Bushy-brows whispered low to Ortiz, then climbed into the four-door.

  I cranked the ignition, waiting for it to catch. The Chevy had needed something done to the engine for months but I’d put off getting it checked. Jack and Wade always worked on our trucks, so I didn’t have a clue about how to find a trustworthy mechanic. With all the extra work Wade had at the ranch, I didn’t want to bother him, so I’d just babied it along, irrationally hoping whatever was wrong would right itself.

  I cranked it again, then hit the steering wheel in frustration, my eyes filming over. Through the blur I glanced over at Ortiz leaning against his car, his arms crossed, watching me. When he started moving toward the truck, I tried again.

  “Come on,” I begged. The ignition gave a loud screech. Though I couldn’t see it, I’m sure he winced. There isn’t a man alive who doesn’t when he hears that sound. Finally, the engine caught. As I swung past, my headlights spotlighted him for a moment. He inclined his head in a single nod.

  His small acts of kindness didn’t fool me. They had a purpose. Obviously a man who believed in living by the rules, when he found out I’d withheld information concerning Marla’s murder, there’d be no telling what he’d do.

  Hopefully, I wouldn’t be the one to tell him. When I found Rita, she’d be the one in the hot seat. Just what she deserved. Until then, I’d stall him with a little verbal tap-dancing. The way I figured, it was 35 degrees outside and the man wore no socks. How smart could he be?

  4

  I WOKE UP crusty-eyed and cranky from lack of sleep. From my front-porch lounge chair, sipping a mug of warm almond milk in an effort to soothe my caffeine-raw stomach, I watched my neighbor, Mr. Treton, grumble over his rain-putnmeled impatiens. He was retired Army, a thirty-year man, and hated insubordination of any kind. He poked at the flattened flowers with his cane, silently commanding them to attention.

  A sharp, salty breeze penetrated my cotton sweats, but the sky was clear. The weather was no longer my most pressing problem. That left Rita. My fruitless phone search for her had left me frustrated and edgy. Between sips of milk and calls of encouragement to Mr. Treton, I chewed my nails and worried.

  I had called Ray early and he’d agreed to help me clean up the museum before the rest of the artists arrived. Out of a sense of duty, I called Constance. Her housekeeper informed me in a stiff voice that Miss Sinclair never rose until she was good and ready. For anything.

  My next step seemed inevitable. I needed to go by Marla’s place and see if Rita ever made it home. Since it was a given that the police would also be checking her house, I hadn’t worked out my plan of action, but it was still early. Something would occur to me.

  After a thorough inspection of the grayish-green plant life that had sprouted overnight on my bread, I decided to treat myself to breakfast at Liddie’s Cafe downtown.

  The phone rang as I was pulling on a clean pair of Wranglers and Jack’s favorite navy blue flannel shirt.

  “My best friend finds a body and I have to hear about it from my little brother,” Elvia accused in her smooth contralto voice.

  “I swear I was going to call you in two minutes.”

  “I can’t believe it. We just talked to her last night.” I heard a voice call Elvia’s name. “Just a minute.” She gave the voice a long, detailed explanation about credit card rules while I inspected a bloody hangnail on my left thumb.

  “Sorry,” she said. “It’s crazy here already. Except for the profits, I hate the holidays. Are you okay? Come by the bookstore later and give me the details.”

  “I’m fine. I’ll drop by this afternoon after my talk with the chief. I’m sure I’ll be in the mood to do some real complaining by then.”

  “Why?”

  “Hasn’t Miguel told you about San Celina’s new chief of police?”

  “Only that he’s from L.A.”

  “Well, that’s about the nicest thing you can say about him, if you catch my drift.”

  “Uh-oh, I know that tone. Maybe you’d better try and keep a civil tongue in your head.”

  “You haven’t met this guy,” I said.

  “Well, at least try.”

  “Elvia, I always try.”

  Liddie’s Cafe, located two blocks from the civic center and police station, boasted the largest parking lot in town. Even so, the only vacant spot was in the back row, where I squeezed my truck between a white city-issue Ford and a county animal-control truck.

  The red-and-brown walls, last redecorated when Eisenhower was in office, seemed to vibrate with the screechy voices of morning-anxious people craving their first cup of coffee. Open twenty-four hours, Liddie’s was popular with everyone from the lowliest freshman at Cal Poly University to the mayor himself, who ate breakfast there every Thursday with whichever city council member he could dupe into picking up the check.

  I craned my head above the chattering groups of threes and fours. This was maybe not one of my best ideas. A skinny Asian man in a Chevron Oil cap rose from his stool at the red Formica counter and dropped some coins next to his plate. I pushed through the crowd and headed for it. Counter seats at this time of day always went to the swift of foot.

  “Benni Harper, how are you, honey?” a bass voice boomed as I walked by.

  “Hey, J.D.” I stopped in front of the long, six-person booth he occupied. “I can’t believe you’re eating alone.”

  “Well, I’m not anymore,” he said. His voice carried a strong Texas twang and sounded as unstoppable as a cattle stampede. “Sit down here, honey, and tell me what happened last night. That son of mine never could get all his facts straight.”

  Jersey Dwayne Freedman, Carl’s father and publisher of the San Celina Tribune as well as owner of half the businesses in town, had known my family for over thirty years. He moved to San Celina from Texas the same year my parents came from Arkansas, when I was only three years old. With his thick white pompadour, impeccably tailored Western suit and turquoise-chunk string tie, he could be the poster boy of any Cattlemen’s Association in the country, though the only cattle he’d ever branded was on his gas barbeque on Sunday afternoons. He hadn’t called me “little lady” yet, but when he did, I wouldn’t fall over in surprise.

  “You must be feeling better.” I slid into the red vinyl bench seat across from him.

  “Felt worse last night than a calf with the slobbers.” He gave a bullish snort. “But I imagine I’ll live. Got to. Can’t let that liberal marijuana-lovin‘ son-of-a-gun win.”

  J.D., as well as four other people, had recently run for a vacant city council seat. The council was currently split between the liberals (artists, academics and environmentalists) and conservatives (ranchers and oil people). With off-shore drilling, animal rights, the constant battle between ranchers and wine growers and the Hemp for Life people fighting for legalization of marijuana, whoever won the election could make a big difference in San Celina politics in the next two years. The runoff was between J.D. and a professor of political theory at the university.

  “What’ll it be today, Benni?” Nadine, head waitress at Liddie’s since before I ordered from the children’s menu, appeared at our table. Without asking, she flipped my cup over and poured coffee. She set the pot down and grabbed a long yellow pencil from her pinkish-gray curls. “Tell me what happened last night. Were you scared? This is so exciting. Just like Murder She Wrote.”

  “Buttermilk pancakes and a chicken-fried steak,” I answered, inwardly cringing at her tone. But then the whole thing was like a TV show to her. A piece of gossip. An article in the newspaper. She probably didn’t even know Marla. “I’m fine, but I’m not sure how much I’m suppose to say. Because of the investigation and all.”

  “Sure, I understand,” she said, sniffing. “Saving all the best parts so J.D. there can sell more papers. Don’t mind me, I’ve just known you since before you could walk, that’s all.”

  “Now leave the girl alone, Nadine,” J.D. said.

  Nadine gave him a cranky look and wrote my order on her pad.

  “Don’t be mad,” I said. “I’m already knee-deep in cow crap with the new police chief. I don’t need to make it worse by talking out of turn.”

  “What happened between you and the chief?” she asked, her eyes lighting up.

  “Let’s just say he and I didn’t hit it off. I don’t think I met his standard of a respectful citizen. ‘Flippant’ was the word he used.”

  “You?” she said and laughed. “I don’t believe it.”

  I made a face at her. “He’s a pain.”

  “Well, I don’t know. He’s a strange one but he’s all right.” She shifted her skinny hips. “Brings his work in here and spreads it all over the table in neat little piles. Stays for hours. Good tipper. Real polite but not a talker. Doesn’t joke with the uniforms that eat in here. Never even seen him just shoot the breeze with anyone. Kind of odd, don’t you think?”

  “Hey, Nadine, why don’t you quit flapping your gums and take my order?” a raisin-faced man in the next booth called.

  “You just hold onto that rank old horse of yours,” she said. She leaned over and smacked his head with her order pad, then turned and patted my hand. “Your order will be right up. Don’t worry, hon. A good breakfast will set you right.”

  “So, you and our half-breed police chief had a squabble.” J.D. stuck a large bite of his ham-and-cheese omelette in his mouth. Wrinkles like bird tracks formed at the corners of his bright blue eyes.

  “J.D.,” I said. “I don’t like him, but that’s downright tacky.”

  “Honey, he is what he is. Wasn’t my first choice as a substitute for Davidson, but the mayor wanted him ‘cause he was bi-leengual. Big whoop-dee-do.” He twirled his forefinger in the air. “In my day you learned to speak English or tough shit.”

  I ignored him and concentrated on dumping enough cream and sugar in my coffee to make it acceptable to my irritated stomach.

  “So, our Mr. Ortiz puts a burr under your saddle, does he?” he asked.

  “He’s very overbearing, in a laid-back, L.A. sort of way.” I stirred my coffee absently. “If that’s possible.”

  I stared over his shoulder at the most recent addition to the sometimes unbelievable craft items the owner of Liddie’s continually tried to pawn off on unsuspecting tourists. The latest entry was a resin-covered clock of Elvis, with a slightly Navaho look to his face. His eyes were a shade of blue that I’d never seen on a living human being before. The number six hit him square in his bulging white crotch.

  “Well, it ain’t going to be easy for him substituting for Davidson. We’ll just see how the boy handles this murder. How are you, by the way?”

  “I’ll survive,” I said. “I’m a tough old broad.”

  “Well, you should be. You was raised by one. How is Dove doing these days?”

  “Ornery as ever. I haven’t told her about last night yet. And I hope”—I looked him directly in the eye—“that no one tells her for a few days. She hates me living alone, and this’ll just give her a pile of mesquite for the fire.”

  “I’ll keep quiet, but I can’t guarantee anyone else in this town. You tell her ‘hey’ for me.” He pushed his empty plate aside and looked at me seriously. “Now, enough of that. Tell me what happened.”

  “Carl called me as soon as I got in last night, or rather early this morning. He took down all the facts. Trust him for a change.”

  He shook his head doubtfully and sipped his coffee. “Took me two hours after the murder was reported to get word to him. He’s got people at every bar in town trained. My messages don’t always get through. And when they do, he doesn’t always remember them.”

  “Here you go.” Nadine plunked a large dinner plate of pancakes and chicken-fried steak down in front of me. I covered the steak with white gravy, sprinkled it with pepper, dotted it with Tabasco sauce.

  “Stomach of iron,” J.D. said to me.