“He says it’s probably better you don’t know. We’ll meet you in an hour at Port San Patricio. You know, out by Eola Beach?”

  “Yes,” I said, impatiently. “I grew up here, remember? Where exactly will you be?”

  “Well, don’t get your dander up.”

  “Just tell me where, Rita.”

  “You know the big building at the end of the pier? Where they clean all the fish?”

  “Where the Blue Seal Inn is.”

  “Meet me there. In the bar. Skeeter says the restaurant is closed but the bar’s still open. I’ll be in a booth in the back. And, Benni ...” She hesitated for a moment.

  “What else?” I cradled the phone on my shoulder while reaching for my boots.

  “Thanks,” she said softly. For the first time, her voice sounded serious and a little frightened.

  “It’s going to be all right,” I said with faked confidence.

  “Oh, I know that.” Her voice suddenly took on the relaxed tone of someone who’d just handed their problems to someone else.

  The clock above my fireplace struck nine o‘clock. With good luck, I’d be home to catch the eleven o’clock news; with outstanding luck, I’d have Rita with me.

  I drove by the automated teller machine at my bank and drew out a hundred dollars, hoping I wouldn’t need it. I intended on Rita coming home with me, though I suspected the chance of that happening was, as Dove would say, about as probable as a three-legged mule winning a kicking contest. I didn’t even want to contemplate what Ortiz would do if she didn’t return with me.

  As I drove down the interstate toward Eola Beach and Port San Patricio, a strong wind came up. It slapped the sides of my truck like a giant palm trying to push me off the road. The heavy cloud cover made the air feel dense, thick; like breathing through a feather pillow. After fifteen miles, I turned off the interstate onto the narrow, winding highway that led to Eola Beach. As the ocean loomed closer, its sharp brine permeated the cab of the truck. I licked my lips and tasted salt.

  A half mile before Eola Beach, I passed the Oakhills Mineral Springs Resort. The parking lot was almost full with an eclectic mixture of pickup trucks, BMW’s and Japanese imports. With their private outdoor hot tubs, it was one of the county’s more popular dating spots. Jack and I celebrated our twelfth anniversary in Number Five with a bottle of California champagne, a Don Williams tape and a pizza that was cold by the time we ate it. Seeing it depressed me and I wondered, as I had more than once in the last few months, whether staying in San Celina was such a good idea. The problem was, I had no idea where else to go.

  The main street of Eola Beach was dark and quiet. Like many of the tiny beach communities on the Central Coast, Eola Beach subsisted on the money made in the three-to-four-month summer season. I crept past boarded-up frozen banana stands, bikini boutiques with empty window displays, and the only establishment with any life to it, a small, nameless neighborhood bar.

  Port San Patricio, a half-mile further north, shared its small peninsula with a Unocal pumping station, the offices of the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers, Boating and Waterways Department and, if my nose was accurate, most of the pelicans and sea gulls on the Central Coast.

  A damp, cold wind whistled in my ears when I stepped down from the truck. The air smelled tart and brackish, like old pickle juice. Only two other vehicles sat in the small lot at the end of the pier; an old Ford Bronco I assumed was Skeeter’s, and a small Toyota pickup with a faded bumper sticker—“Commercial Fishermen Feed the World.” I met no one on the long walk to the end of the pier. The low whumping of the Unocal station intermingled with the faint sounds of seals barking, a sort of bipartisan symphony.

  The Blue Seal Inn sat inside a huge, barntike building at the end of the pier. When I pulled open the heavy, port-holed door of the inn, a whoosh of warm air hit me. Behind the bar, a dark-eyed man with long hair the color of a palomino’s mane pointed at me with a hand-held soda dispenser.

  “You Benni?” he asked.

  I nodded. He pointed toward the back as if he were aiming a pistol.

  “She’s over there,” he said.

  I edged past a pool table being used by an old man in a captain’s hat toward a row of black vinyl booths.

  Rita sat alone in the large corner booth, a tall pale drink in front of her. Her teased blond mane careened slightly to the left and her usually flawless makeup appeared slapdash; flakes of black mascara dusted her cheeks and one copper-and-pink shadowed eye didn’t quite match its twin.

  “Am I glad to see you,” she said.

  I slid into the bench opposite her and gave her a severe look, feeling for all the world like her mother.

  “Did you bring the money?” She stirred her drink with a skinny red straw.

  “Where’s this Skeeter guy?” I asked.

  “Around. He thought it would be better if we talked alone.” She took a quick sip, then nervously stirred again.

  “He’s probably right about that. Tell me what happened, Rita. From the beginning. Then we’ll talk about money.”

  She sighed and gave me an impatient look. “Marla ...” Her voice wavered. She stopped, swallowed, then began again. “Marla, Eric and I got there about eight o‘clock. He and I hung around listening to the radio while she worked, but then we got hungry, so Eric and I decided to go get some stuff to eat.”

  “When was that?”

  “I don’t know.” She stuck the straw in her mouth and chewed on it. “Eight forty-five? Maybe. Yeah, that sounds right.”

  I gestured for her to go on.

  “Well, we drove over to that liquor store about a mile away. You know, by the dairy. We got chips, a couple of cans of pop, some beef jerky. Then we came back to the museum and just sorta hung out. Me and Eric talked. Marla was working. Then she and Eric went into the museum to talk. They got into a little spat. Then he came out and told me Marla wanted us to go get some beer.”

  “What was the fight about?”

  She stuck her mangled straw back into her drink and shrugged. “I don’t know. I didn’t really listen to them. Marla was pissed, though. Something he was supposed to do that he didn’t.”

  “Sounds like Eric, all right.” I wondered what he would be doing for Marla. “What time did you leave to get the beer?”

  “Nine-thirty, maybe?” She twisted her face in concentration. “It didn’t take long and when we got back, she was ...” She choked back a small sob.

  “Why did you leave, Rita? Why didn’t you call the police? Or the paramedics? She might have still been alive.”

  Remembering how much blood there’d been, I seriously doubted it, but I was angry at Rita’s callous departure. I couldn’t imagine doing that to anyone.

  “Eric told me to,” she said with a small whine. I resisted the urge to slap her. “He said she was already dead and there was nothing we could do about it. He said if we hung around, they’d just try and pin it on one of us. He’s had experience with the police. He knows.” She looked at me defiantly. “He said it’d all die down after a while.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “When I saw you driving away, you were alone. What happened to Eric?”

  “He was in the van. He just ducked down when we saw you coming.”

  “You are such a dope.” I hit the table with my fist. “Did it ever occur to you that people knew you were with her that evening? Do you know what that looks like to the police? I had to tell them the only person I actually saw leaving the scene was you. I just can’t believe this. I have absolutely no idea how to help you.”

  “That’s why I need some money to get out of town. Skeeter has some friends in ...”

  I held my hand up. “Don’t tell me where. I don’t want to know. That way I don’t have to lie.”

  “They’ll find who did it and they won’t even need me. Please, Benni, I’m scared.”

  “You should be,” I said. But I was, too. Just how was Eric involved in this? Could he have killed Marla? I hadn’t seen him since last night and I was willing to bet the police hadn’t caught up with him either. Would the police give her twenty-four-hour protection until they caught whoever killed Marla? I doubted it.

  “Was Eric with you the whole time at the liquor store?” I asked.

  “Mostly.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “He had to get gas so he left for a while.”

  “How long?”

  “I don’t know,” she said in exasperation. “I wasn’t keeping track. Fifteen, twenty minutes maybe. What does it matter?”

  I looked at her with disbelief. It really hadn’t occurred to her that Eric could have murdered Marla.

  “Think about it, Rita.”

  She looked at me with glazed, sullen eyes. A flicker of understanding caused them to widen. “You mean ...”

  “I think you’d better come back and tell the police what you just told me. Then we’ll figure out how to hide you so Eric can’t find you.”

  “I don’t know,” she said hesitantly.

  “No way, sugar,” a nasally voice said behind me. Mr. Belt Buckle—Skeeter—slid into the booth next to Rita. “Ain’t no way you’re going back there with that nut out there.” He looked at me with damp, squinty eyes, a knight in denim armor. “When they catch this guy, then she can come back.”

  “They need her as a witness,” I said.

  “Not until they catch him,” he replied and drained the rest of her drink. “Till then, I’ll look out for her.”

  I rubbed my temples, advance therapy for a headache I knew was coming. “And what am I suppose to tell the police? Not to mention Aunt Garnet.”

  “You’re a sharp gal. You’ll think of something,” Skeeter drawled. “We’ll keep in touch.” He slid out of the booth, pulling a stunned-looking Rita with him.

  “Well, leave the message at the county jail,” I said, “because that’s where I’ll probably be staying.”

  Skeeter laughed and adjusted his stained white Stetson.

  “Benni,” Rita said in a small voice. “The money?”

  I cocked my head at Skeeter expectantly.

  “Sorry,” he said, grinning. “I’m brave, but I’m broke.”

  I pulled out my purse and held out the money. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

  “Thanks.” She stuffed it into her small white purse.

  They were halfway across the bar when I remembered something.

  “Wait,” I said. “You never finished the story. What happened after you and Eric drove away from the museum? Where did you go?”

  “I dropped him off downtown, in front of the court-house, and I did what he told me with the van.”

  “And what was that?”

  “I drove it down the coast to Santa Maria and left it in a grocery store parking lot with the keys inside. Then I called Skeeter to come pick me up. We went to my place, got my stuff and split.”

  “All right,” I said wearily. “At least let me know you’re okay.”

  I sat at the bar for a long time after they left, debating with myself about whether I’d done the right thing. Not that it mattered now. I had no choice but to go to the police. I touched my fingers to my now pounding temples. Not tonight. And I certainly wasn’t going to ruin my holiday tomorrow. I was already in so deep, what difference could one day make? Especially since I had no idea where Rita was going. I picked up my purse and started to walk toward the door.

  “Hey,” the bartender called. “The drink.”

  “I didn’t have anything,” I said.

  “Your friend said you’d pay for hers. That’ll be three bucks.”

  “She’s no friend.” I threw the money down on the counter. “She’s a relative.”

  He shrugged and stuck the money in the cash register.

  Okay, Aunt Garnet, I thought grimly, pulling the Chevy onto the now moonbright highway. Your granddaughter dragged me into this, so you’d better have some sewing money put aside. You just may need it to bail me out of jail.

  8

  I SPENT PART of Thanksgiving at Elvia’s parents’ house, holding babies and listening to her brothers debate with noisy passion the merits and liabilities of the Rams’ new defensive coach. Señora Aragon fussed around me like a small brown poodle, filling my plate before everyone else’s with her special wine-basted turkey and cilantro dressing. The brothers sent up a chauvinistic whine of protest. She scolded them in Spanish until, with sheepish faces, they quit complaining. I knew my situation was being discussed, but as long as I didn’t have to do anything but sit there, I didn’t care. Elvia was right, as she often is in my case. It was just what I needed, a family, but not my own.

  When I got up to leave for the museum to finish hanging the quilts, another protest went up. This time from Elvia and her mother.

  “No, no,” Señora Aragon said, shaking her small finger at me. “Too much danger.”

  “Those quilts have to get hung,” I argued.

  A compromise was reached, and Miguel, his Walkman and his pistol went along for protection. When I saw how deserted the neighborhood around the museum was, I was glad for Miguel’s presence. He stretched out on the floor in the lobby and listened to a football game while I finished Eric’s work. Eric’s tools were still spread out in the main hall, so at least I didn’t have to venture back into the studios. Even with Miguel there, I didn’t know if I could handle that.

  I quickly became engrossed in the physical work of hanging the quilts. The co-op’s quitters had already basted strips of Velcro to the backs of the quilts so it was just a matter of hanging the frames and attaching the quilts to them.

  I silently called off the names as I hung them: Jacob’s Ladder, Young Man’s Fancy, Texas Tears, Wild Goose Chase. I traced the tiny stitches with my finger, and wondered about the women who had sewn them. The histories I’d gathered revealed small pieces of their lives, answering my general questions about when they made the quilt and why. Some just gave short, terse replies. Others gave stories that were heartbreaking. I picked up one of the framed histories, the one for the stunning Jacob’s Ladder quilt. Muriel Phillips was the quilter. Born 1909. Quilt made in 1943. “I made the quilt when my three sons were called to war,” she’d written. “The real war. The Big One. They was all over the world—Alaska, the South Pacific, Italy. I pieced this quilt, a little bit every night, listening to the radio, using scraps from their old shirts. They surely loved blue, my boys did. That’s why there’s so much blue in the quilt. My youngest, Tommy Lee, the one who was sent to Italy—he never came back. I gave this quilt to his wife, Nona, and when she was dying of cancer in 1954, she gave it back to me. My husband and I slept under it for 38 years until he died last year of his heart.” I hung the history next to the quilt, peering closely at the picture of Muriel Phillips. The perky smile under her crown of white curls disguised all the sadness in her life.

  I saved Grandmother Harper’s Double Wedding Ring quilt for last. I studied the intricate stitches and wondered who of Jack’s ancestors made love under this quilt, who was conceived, who died. The interlocking circles were made up of tiny scraps of material in the odd shades and patterns of blues, pinks, flowers and plaids popular seventy-five or eighty years ago. The ivory muslin background was faded yellow in spots; in the center of one ring a pale brown drop of blood stained the lightness.

  When I was nineteen and newly married, Mom Harper started telling me I was to have this quilt. The Lone Star, honoring their Texas heritage, was to go to Wade’s wife, and I, as Jack’s wife, would receive the Wedding Ring quilt to pass down to future Harpers. As time went by and Jack and I never had children, Mom Harper stopped mentioning it. Now that I was no longer her daughter-in-law, I took it for granted Sandra would inherit them both. I told myself it didn’t matter, that it really had nothing to do with what I had with Jack. Not really.

  After it was hung, I sat cross-legged in front of it and enjoyed the serenity of the whole pattern, wondering which of Wade and Sandra’s children would inherit it, picturing it going on down through the Harper family, further and further away from me.

  Maybe we should have had those tests. We just kept putting it off, thinking—a baby will come in its own good time. Maybe it was fear—which of us would it be? We’d owned cows who’d taken a while to conceive. Wade always allowed them the standard two tries, then wanted to sell them, but Jack would take a shine to three or four every year and convince his brother to give them another chance. He’d sneak them treats of alfalfa cakes and croon to them in a low, gentle voice as he fed them, a voice I knew as well as my own sigh.

  When it wasn’t the cows but me that needed his special attentions, Jack made the most wonderful hot chocolate—the kind made from scratch with real cocoa. He’d pour a thick white mugful, top it with whipped cream and bring it to me on a pink glass plate with roses etched on the bottom that once belonged to his grandmother. He’d drink his straight from the pan, feet propped up on the coffee table, a warm hand caressing the nape of my neck.

  “Isn’t this the life?” he’d always say.

  I left the plate at the ranch when I moved out.

  The next morning, I arrived at the museum early but didn’t beat the yellow and white truck of the Coastal Goodtimes Party Rental people. I handed the placement chart I’d drawn to the two workers, a skinny Hispanic man not much bigger than me, and a sullen red-headed boy with a rooster comb Mohawk. With a small feeling of trepidation, I left them to the job of readying the studios for the pre-showing.

  After calling Marla’s mother for the time and place of Marla’s funeral, I typed an announcement and tacked it to the co-op’s bulletin board. With that done, I puttered around, typing more quilt histories, writing a thank-you note to the local VFW for a hundred-dollar donation, picked off and inspected every brown leaf I could find on the fig tree in the corner of my office. Finally I had to face the inevitable.

  Red is a power color, I tried to convince my reflection in the co-op’s bathroom mirror. I slid my palm over the front of the scarlet linen shirt I wore. I’d run out of clean flannel shirts and was forced to wear one of my own. I’d spent fifteen minutes that morning sitting in front of the dirty clothes hamper trying to decide just how tacky it would be to dig one out. The Aunt Garnet gene in me won. I rolled up the sleeves and made a face at myself. There wasn’t a color in the spectrum that was going to make me feel confident about telling the police about Rita.