Gwen Ellen turned from Skye’s desk with her slow smile. Few women can pull their hair to a soft knot at the nape of their necks and still look beautiful. On Gwen Ellen, the style always looked dainty and sophisticated. “What a nice idea.” She tucked a letter into her bag. “Are you all going to the new Mexican place tonight?”
“Yes, are you?”
Skye answered for her. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Shall we share a table?”
I grimaced. “We’re joining Walker and his family.”
“Oh.” Gwen Ellen knew I didn’t exactly enjoy the company of my younger son’s wife.
Before we could say more, Joe Riddley came up behind me and asked, in a tone that let everybody know he’d been waiting ages, “You ready to go?”
“We’ll see you there.” Skye walked us to the door and gave me a parting hug. “Tell Maynard I hope his honeymoon is as great as that new car.”
None of us had an inkling that in twenty-four hours our attention would have shifted from a honeymoon convertible to a murder.
4
The courthouse clock chimed seven that evening as Joe Riddley and I climbed out of his car in the parking lot of what used to be a steak house chain restaurant. The threatened rain hadn’t arrived, but the air was damp. Lively music of guitars and fiddles collided in the parking lot with the distant Episcopalian chimes. A flashing sign in green, red, and purple, depicting a cactus wearing a sombrero, announced that this was now Casa Mas Esperanza.
“Why didn’t they write it in English?” demanded Joe Riddley. He was a tad fussy, because I’d made him put on nice clothes.
“It’s a Mexican restaurant. House of More Hope.”
“Why didn’t they just say Hopemore House and get it over with?”
“It doesn’t sound as good. Be good, now, Mr. Grumpy. You promised.”
He grunted.
A clever architect had transformed the place by covering plate-glass windows with high narrow arches, facing the roof with barrel tiles, and painting the building adobe tan with brown trim. “That’s what they did with all those plants.” I pointed to hibiscus and palms set in colorful pots to line the inside of a low stucco wall that formed a new patio adjoining the building. In each corner stood tall cacti in big bright pots. Strings of colored bulbs gave a festive air. A pergola of dark wooden beams jutted from the side of the restaurant, and confederate jasmine planted at each corner would eventually climb the supports and cover the beams to form a shady bower.
Joe Riddley scratched one cheek and contemplated the small jasmines. “Shoulda used kudzu,” he concluded. “Coulda covered the whole shebang in a week.”
For those who don’t know, kudzu is a vine imported from China back in the nineteen-thirties, reputedly to prevent erosion in the South. Or maybe it was a Yankee plot to bury us. It can grow a couple of inches in one hot summer day, and sends out sneaky climbing shoots that envelop whole forests. Nobody—and I do mean nobody—plants kudzu.
I rubbed my cheek on his sleeve, delighted with that glimmer of his old sense of humor, and thought how good he looked. He might not have a sombrero, but he had a lovely alpaca sweater with llamas knit in rows. Walker’s family had given it to him the previous Christmas, and its natural shades of tan and brown set off his coloring real well. But one can only admire one’s husband out in damp night air so long. “I’m getting chilly. Are you ready to go in?”
He turned and strode toward the door so fast I had to hurry to keep up.
We had to wait a minute or two before we could be seated, so I took the time to admire what the Garcias had done. The walls were now pale gold and hung with colorful serapes, black sombreros sparkling with tiny mirrors, and large oil paintings of what I supposed were Mexican scenes. Judiciously placed potted plants gave privacy and softness to the large room. Crepe paper flowers in red, turquoise, orange, and yellow adorned each table, and bright piñatas hung from the ceiling. At a small stage near the front, a three-man band in black and silver was playing Mexican music while a woman in a long rainbow skirt and a red blouse danced and clicked castanets.
“They’ve got a good crowd,” I told Joe Riddley, who wasn’t paying me a speck of attention. He was waving to Isaac James, our assistant police chief, who seemed to be enjoying his dinner across the way with his wife and little boy, and at newlyweds Jed and Meriwether DuBose, holding hands in a corner. Police Chief Charlie Muggins had his head bent too close to his plate to notice us, but as I turned away from his polecat features, I couldn’t help thinking, as I often did, what a shame it was that our city fathers had brought in Charlie to head up our police department instead of promoting Isaac, who was a far better law officer, merely because Charlie was white and Isaac black. We still had a ways to go.
But we now had a Mexican restaurant. It isn’t every month that a new restaurant opens in Hopemore, and we’d never before had what our weekly newspaper called “an ethnic dining experience.” I was surprised not to see any Mexicans among the diners, because the face of Hope County, like the face of most of the South, was changing. Farmworkers who used to pass through town each growing season were beginning to stay, and we regularly heard the staccato syllables of Spanish in our schools and stores.
Humberto Garcia, our host, came to greet us with a smile full of strong white teeth. “I am so pleased to see you, Judge. Your plants have transformed this place.” His dark eyes glowed with happiness. Mr. Garcia was not much taller than me and a bit pudgy, but his eyes were warm and friendly, and he wore the wisp of mustache under his nose with distinction.
“If the food is as good as the place looks—” I began.
“It will be. My wife, Emerita, is a magician in the kitchen. Let me find you a table.” He scanned the room, rocking slightly.
I saw Walker waving. “That’s our son. He’s saving us places.”
The room thrummed with music as we joined Walker, Cindy, and their children. Jessica, eleven, has the same honey-brown hair and light brown eyes her daddy inherited from me. Tad, nine, has Cindy’s black eyes, but his tow-head is a throwback to her big blond father.
Tad pointed to the vacant chairs. “Men at one end, women at the other.”
I sat down a trifle nervously. Cindy and Walker were very different from us or from our son Ridd and his family. Cindy grew up near Thomson, Georgia, in one of those big white houses with columns some people think all Southerners live in. They had fox hunts and elaborate parties, and she and Walker lived the life to which she was accustomed. They were renovating a huge, expensive house at a cost that sometimes sent Joe Riddley to the medicine cabinet for antacids at night. They leased an Infiniti for Walker and a Lexus SUV for Cindy, bought their clothes in Atlanta, and drove their children to Wellington Academy rather than sending them to public schools. Cindy had a maid three days a week and spent most of her time playing golf or tennis, volunteering in a variety of organizations, cooking gourmet food for elaborate parties, or running fairs and special events at her children’s school. They preferred planned visits to casual drop-ins, and since they didn’t come to church or belong to our clubs, we seldom ran into them.
Frankly, where Cindy was concerned, that suited me fine. A little of Cindy went a long way. She was so lean, sleek, and elegant, I always felt old, plump, and dowdy around her.
That night I had on a bright shirt we’d bought on a Caribbean cruise, and red pants. My mirror had told me I looked real festive, but one look at Cindy, in slim black slacks and a white silk blouse, and I felt like a tongue-tied frump. It wasn’t her fault. We were just oil and water.
Still, I reminded myself that night, Cindy had her virtues. If she hadn’t worked hard with Lulu after Lulu got shot, that beagle wouldn’t have become the fastest three-legged dog in Georgia. Cindy also told us what to feed Joe when we inherited the parrot. Because of all that, I made my lips turn up in a smile and leaned over to say, “Honey, you look gorgeous.”
She slid nacho chips and salsa my way, her smile bright and nervous. “Thanks. Like my new haircut?” Dark and shining, it had been shaped to fall straight from a side part and curve under her ears.
“Very chic.” I heaved a silent sigh. I knew Cindy must talk about something besides clothes and hairdos with her friends, but in the fourteen years since Walker first brought her home, that’s all the depth we’d ever attained.
At their end of the table, the men started talking basketball, which was almost as exciting as haircuts and clothes.
While I stowed my pocketbook under my chair so it wouldn’t trip anybody, Cindy added, brushing back her shining hair, “I went to that new salon that’s opened out near us. You ought to give them a try. They work wonders.”
She hadn’t needed to say that. She knew Phyllis had done my hair for over thirty years. However, I swallowed words I might later regret and gave her what I hoped was another friendly smile. “I’ll keep that in mind. Sorry we’re a little late. Joe Riddley wanted to wear blue slacks with that sweater, and it took me a while to change his mind. Have you ordered?”
“Yes, ma’am. Walker went ahead and ordered two specials for you all. We figured you’d be here before they came. I hope that’s what you wanted.”
I also hate being called “ma’am” by a grown-up. With all the words I was already swallowing, I might not need to eat.
“What’s the special?” Joe Riddley asked.
“A burrito, an enchilada, a taco, yellow rice, and guacamole,” Tad answered him.
He frowned across the table at me. “Do I like all that stuff?”
“You’re going to love it,” I assured him. When he turned back to Tad, I confided to Jessica and Cindy, “We don’t know an enchilada from a burrito, but Mr. Garcia says his wife’s a great cook.” I reached for a nacho and dipped one corner in the salsa. Finding it wasn’t hot enough to make my eyes water or my nose run, I took a bigger dab on my next bite. By the third bite, I figured I was eating salsa like a Mexican.
Across from me, Jessica’s pale cheeks suddenly flushed and her brown eyes grew wide beneath her straight brown bangs. “Look, Me-mama, my teacher.”
“Don’t point,” Cindy warned.
Jessica darted a quick sideways look across the room. I followed her gaze and saw a young woman in an elegant black dress with a long, full skirt. Her long dusky hair was bound with a black velvet ribbon, and she carried her head like a queen. Cindy had said Jessica adored her, and no wonder. The woman wasn’t much taller than her students and had a small pointed chin, enormous black eyes, and slim high-arched eyebrows. She moved as gracefully as a small cat, approaching Humberto Garcia while there was a lull at the door. He greeted her with a happy smile, circled her waist with one arm, and gave her a squeeze.
“Her name is Miss Garcia and her daddy owns this restaurant,” Jessica informed me happily. “Isn’t she simply beautiful?”
“She certainly is. Is she a good teacher?”
“The best I ever had.” Jessica dipped a nacho in the salsa and nibbled it. “She even makes math interesting.”
Just then I saw Chief Muggins throw a dollar on his table and head for the door. Mr. Garcia stepped behind the cash register. Chief Muggins held out his money to the father, but kept his eyes on the daughter.
You old lech,
I thought.
You’re older than her daddy and ugly, to boot.
He sidled closer to her as he spoke. She moved away. He threw back his head and laughed. Mr. Garcia frowned and spoke to him. Chief Muggins laughed again as he took a handful of matches from the bowl on the counter and swaggered out.
Just then a waiter in tight black pants and a black shirt trimmed in silver braid slid our meals before us. “The plates ees hot,” he informed me with a flash of white teeth.
“Do you know which is what?” I asked my grandchil dren.
Of course they did. Cindy’s children started eating international foods in the womb. “This is an enchilada,” Jessica informed me, “and this is a burrito.”
“And this is a taco.” Tad picked up his and added, “Anybody knows that, Me-mama.” He tried unsuccessfully to take a bite without dropping anything out.
Jessica wrinkled her nose in distaste. “You’re so messy.”
“Am not. You’re a brat.”
While they wrangled, I dug into my food and looked around. Marilee Muller sat with another woman at a table along the far wall, and I was tickled to see people pretending not to be impressed to be eating with a celebrity. Marilee caught my eye, smiled, and waved at me. I waved back and pretended not to be impressed she knew me.
Eventually Miss Garcia worked her way to our table. “Hello. Are you having fun?”
Jessica turned scarlet with pride and embarrassment. “Yes, ma’am. We sure are.”
Miss Garcia gave me a questioning look. “Is this your grandmother, the judge?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I tried not to feel hurt that Jessica didn’t sound as proud of me as she’d been of her teacher. After all, grandmothers are around every day. An exotic teacher is a rarity.
Miss Garcia bent toward me. “My mother wants to speak to you. Just a moment.” She hurried toward the kitchen. In a minute she was back with a short round woman. Mrs. Garcia beamed down at me, hands clasped on her stomach.
Miss Garcia shoved her forward a bit. “She wants to thank you for the potted croton you sent as a gift with the other plants.”
I smiled at the older woman, who looked about my own age, and wondered how much English she understood. My Spanish sure wasn’t adequate to explain that while they hadn’t ordered any crotons—tropical shrubs with leaves that develop brilliant colors in sunlight and muted ones in shade—I had hoped they would enjoy one for their home. “It’s for your
casa
,” I said slowly and distinctly. “Welcome to Hopemore.”
Mrs. Garcia bobbed her head, still beaming. “Thanks so much. I’ve always loved crotons, particularly the ones that turn maroon and gold. I didn’t know they’d grow here.” Her accent was pure California.