Goose in the Pond - Earlene Fowler [111]
“They’ll find the real killer,” I said, with more confidence than I felt. “I’m sorry.” I lifted my hands in helplessness. “About . . . everything.”
“Me, too,” she said sadly, walking toward the door. “I liked it here. It was almost beginning to feel like home.”
I went over to her. The scent of her fear was sharp as a lemon. “There’s no reason why you should leave. That column hasn’t been found yet. There’s a good chance no one will ever know.”
“The one thing I’ve learned is that nothing is predictable. And once one or two people know, it doesn’t take long. Look what happened with Nora.”
After she left I sat in my chair for a long time. The first thing I should do when I got home was tell Gabe I knew about Evangeline and Ash and how I found out. With his irritable mood, it wasn’t something I was looking forward to. Most likely we’d end up in a fight about me getting involved after promising I wouldn’t. So I procrastinated around my office, cleaning my desk and picking dead leaves off plants, avoiding the inevitable. It was past six o’clock when I finally emerged into the parking lot. The last of the storytellers had spun their tales at five, and the vendors were busy packing up their unsold wares. Most of the campground was empty and the campers on their way home. By tomorrow all traces of the festival would be gone.
“You look beat,” Burl, one of the co-op board members, offered. “Go on home and get some rest. I’ll lock up here.”
I thanked him and headed for my rental car. On the way home, I fervently hoped that the drive along the coast had mellowed Gabe’s mood. I was too tired and sad after hearing Evangeline’s story to be very supportive and upbeat tonight.
He and Dove were in the kitchen, where the comforting scent of frying chicken greeted me. Gabe was laughing at something Dove had said to Rita while handing her a paring knife and a potato. My tense neck muscles started to relax. Maybe I’d wait until tomorrow to tell him what I’d learned about Evangeline and Ash. It would be nice to have one calm, quiet evening.
“What’s so funny?” I asked, setting my purse on the counter.
Before they could answer, Sam walked in behind me.
“Hey, what’s for dinner?” he asked, peering over Dove’s shoulder. “Some poor chicken gave up its life for us. Watch out, Dove, I’ll sic the chicken-rights people on you.”
“I’ll chicken rights you,” she said, reaching back and smacking his shoulder. He continued to tease Dove until she pushed him toward the table and said, “If you want to eat anytime soon you’d best start peeling those potatoes with Rita so I can fry them up. There’s a bowl in the top cupboard.”
“We’re having the heart-attack special tonight, huh?” Sam pulled off his sweatshirt and threw it over a kitchen chair. He wore a sleeveless denim shirt. A tanned biceps flashed when he reached for the bowl.
“Sam, what’s that?” Gabe said, his voice sharp.
Sam turned around and faced his father. “What?”
Gabe crossed the room and grabbed Sam’s upper arm, lifting it slightly. “That.” He pointed at the inside of his biceps.
Sam’s expression lost its animation. “A tattoo.”
Dove turned and watched them, her metal spatula dripping grease on the floor. Rita stopped peeling mid-potato. I walked over to get a closer look. The tattoo was of a grayish-green Polynesian-style sun with jagged flames. The words TRIBAL SUN were tattooed underneath.
“When did you get it?” Gabe asked flatly.
Sam shrugged. “Me and some buddies did it a few months ago.”
“What does Tribal Sun mean?” Gabe asked.
“Just a surfer thing. You wouldn’t understand. We were kinda ripped when we did it. Someplace in Long Beach, near the docks, gave us a deal—two for one, I think.”
A muscle in Gabe’s cheek jumped. I put a hand on his arm. “Gabe, it’s just a tattoo,” I said, trying to head off the explosion.
He ignored me and said in a dangerously low voice, “A lot of those tattoo parlors have sanitary procedures that