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.
“Sustenance for battle. Now, tell me what you know about this Ortiz character. I have another meeting with him today and you know what they say, know your enemy.”
“Honey, I do believe we hired him on as one of the white hats.” His bristly gray eyebrows rose in amusement.
“Maybe.” I poured syrup on my pancakes. “Anyway, what’s the scoop on him?”
“Well now, he seems a smart enough fella for a—”
I shot him a warning look.
“Cop,” he finished, grinning.
“Why would a man his age want a temporary job in a town like ours?”
“Old friend of Davidson’s for one thing, and I also heard through the grapevine that he wanted a quiet place to work on something he’s writing.”
“Oh no, I hope he’s not another cop writing his first mystery novel. That’s all the world needs, one more bad mystery novel.” I snickered and stuck a large forkful of pancakes in my mouth.
J.D. shrugged. “Who knows? Doesn’t look like he’s going to be having too many quiet days ahead of him with this murder. Maybe he’ll put us in his book. Are you sure Carl got everything right?”
“Don’t worry. The story will be on the front page this afternoon. Give him a break, J.D.”
“Easy for you to say.” He crumpled his napkin and tossed it on his plate. “Wish that boy liked to work as much as he loves to party.”
“You’re coming to the pre-showing at the museum Friday night, aren’t you?” Changing the subject always seemed like the best way to handle J.D. and Carl’s relationship.
“You betcha. Lots a votes there.” He grabbed his tan Stetson off the metal hat rack attached to the end of the booth and slid out. “Besides, I’m afraid of old Connie Sinclair. She’d come after me with a bullwhip if I don’t support her little causes.”
I laughed with him and licked my fork. Only J.D. could get away with calling Constance by such a common nickname.
When I pulled my truck into the museum parking lot, it appeared less ominous in the bright morning light. Even the eucalyptus grove that appeared so dense and frightening last night seemed innocuous beneath the cloudless blue sky. I pulled up next to Ray, the duck carver’s, white Ford pickup, climbed out and inhaled the coughdrop-scented air. I mentally crossed my fingers. If the weather held until after this weekend, we’d be home free.
Ray was in the woodshop wrapping a twist-tie around a large green trash bag. He wore boot-cut Wranglers, blue Nikes and a red-checked shirt that almost matched his brick-colored mustache.
“Watch it,” he said. He pointed at the bleachysmelling liquid covering the jagged dark stain on the concrete floor.
“How did you get in?” I stared at the bag in his hand, trying to avoid looking at the spot where Marla died. Maybe we could cover it with a rubber mat or something.
“I went by Constance’s and got her key.”
“Thanks.”
He gave a stiff nod and tossed the bag over in a corner with two others.
“Did you have to tell her? I tried to call but the housekeeper wouldn’t wake her.” I nibbled on my nails. “She’s not going to be happy about this.”
“She already knew. I don’t know who told her and I didn’t ask.” A crooked-tooth grin peeked out from under his thick mustache. “She was on the phone to the police chief when I walked in. He was getting an earful, that’s for sure. I guess she has her own ideas about how he should go about solving this.”
“Good for her.” I smiled at the thought of Chief Ortiz being lectured by Constance Sinclair. I’d buy a front row center seat to that.
“She said she’d be down here to talk to the artists later this morning. Calm us all down was how she put it.”
“And who’s going to calm you all down after she talks to you?”
He readjusted the orange and blue Unocal hat on his head. The grin peeked out again. “Guess that’s your job.” He started mopping up the disinfectant on the floor.
“Lucky me.” I perched on one of the stools and picked up a wooden train someone was sanding. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“How long have you been a member of the co-op?”
“Three years. I was one of the first to be accepted.” He stuck the industrial-sized mop into the metal wringer and squeezed.
“Then you know everyone pretty well.” I spun a wheel on the train.
“Well enough.” He continued mopping but looked up, his face guarded.
“Did you know Marla very well?”
“To speak to. She and I didn’t have cause to have much contact. She’s only been a member for about ten, eleven months.”
“What did you think of her?”
“What’s your point, Benni?” he asked in a careful voice. He agitated the mop in the bucket of soapy water.
“I guess I want to know if you think anyone in the co-op could have been involved in her murder.”
“I reckon she irritated a few people. She was pretty mouthy. But I don’t think anyone would kill her.”
“What about boyfriends?” An obsessive boyfriend would wrap this whole thing up in a neat package.
He shrugged. “I told you, I didn’t know her that well. I guess she had some.”
“Anyone here?” It suddenly dawned on me how little I knew about the personal lives of the people who belonged to the co-op.
He stopped mopping and regarded me impassively.
“I don’t know why she was killed, Benni,” he said. “Why don’t we leave it up to the police to find out?”
“Oh, sure.” I set the train down and slipped off the stool. “I was just curious. Really, thanks for coming up here and doing all this.”
I retreated to my office, annoyed at my clumsiness in questioning Ray. The FBI certainly wasn’t going to ask me to join any time soon. I plugged in my electric pencil sharpener and grabbed a handful of pencils. I sharpened every pencil in my desk down to lethal nubs, trying to decide what I should do about Rita. I answered the phone on the first ring simply because it was something to do.
“This is Chief Ortiz,” his brusque voice said. No wonder he had no friends. “Will most of the artists be coming into the studios today?”
“Well, good morning to you too, Chief Ortiz,” I replied.
“Right, sorry,” he said, not sounding sorry. “Well?”
“Yes, most likely.”
“I’m sending over two detectives. Cleary and Ryan. See to it that they have a private place to question people.” I heard fumbling, a few muttered Spanish words; then he was back. “I can see you at two o‘clock. Come a few minutes early and get your prints done. I’ll leave word at the front desk.”