Goose in the Pond - Earlene Fowler [15]
I leaned back in my chair, shocked. I thought he was upset because of Nora’s murder when apparently it was only the festival he was worried about.
“Let’s talk about it at the meeting,” I said sharply. “We can also discuss how we all might give some support to her brother, Nick.”
His face flushed slightly, and he looked down at his blunt rope-callused hands, avoiding my gaze. “I didn’t mean it the way it sounded.”
“Good, because it sounded pretty heartless,” I said. “See you at two.”
There was a space free in front of the police station, a tan stucco building with a gurgling beige-and-blue tile fountain that local college students occasionally filled with detergent. If you exchanged the plain San Celina Police lettering for the word PODIATRY, no one would even bat an eyelash. Since it was Sunday, I knew the lobby door would be locked, so I walked around back to the maintenance yard and pressed the red buzzer. A young officer with greenish-blond hair and a bad cold opened the gate and informed me that Gabe was in his office.
The oak door to Gabe’s office was closed. I stood for a moment and studied the brass plaque that had replaced Aaron’s only a few months ago: GABRIEL ORTIZ—CHIEF OF POLICE. Its permanent look wrapped around my heart like a flannel quilt. Removing Aaron’s name from the door had been a big step for Gabe. I was glad he did it before his best friend died. It would have been a lot harder now.
Gabe was leaning back in his black leather executive chair talking on the phone. He rested the bottoms of his running shoes on the edge of the glossy oak desk in a less-than-professional position, especially in his cotton running shorts. I set the white paper sack and his clothes on the desk in front of him and waved hello before settling down in one of his padded office chairs. He gave me a welcoming smile and continued to talk on the phone. Or rather listen. Whoever it was on the line was chattering like a hysterical parakeet, and Gabe answered with an occasional “Yes, I understand. No, sir. Yes, sir, I certainly will.” He swung around and stared at the picture on the wall behind him, another gift from me. It was a black-and-white framed poster of Albert Einstein sitting in a wing chair, his fingers threaded loosely in his lap, giving the photographer a slightly bemused look. Printed above his feathery white hair was a quote that made Gabe throw back his head and laugh when he read it—GRAVITATION CANNOT BE HELD RESPONSIBLE FOR PEOPLE FALLING IN LOVE.
He swung back around and hung up the phone, giving it a dark scowl.
“Who was that?” I asked, pushing the lunch bag toward him. “Here, eat. What do you want to drink?” I went across the room to his small oak-paneled refrigerator. The choices were limited. “Looks like it’s water, grape soda, or water.” I made a face. Welch’s grape soda. There were some things about this man I’d never understand.
He stood up and stretched. “Give me a Welch’s. I know I need to restock. The Neighborhood Watch commanders cleaned me out yesterday.”
I handed him a frosty purple can. “Who was flapping their gums at you over the phone?”
“The mayor, who else?” He popped the lid and sat back down. “He’s upset about this murder, of course. He’s up for reelection next year and he wants to run on a get-tough-on-crime platform.” He unwrapped his sandwich, a weary expression on his face. “That means my life is going to be miserable for the next year. And right before he called, the city manager called and gave me his nickel’s worth. They both want this murder solved as quickly as possible.”
I perched on the edge of his desk. “That’s certainly an obvious sentiment. I think everyone would like it solved fast. Did she drown?”
“No. The medical examiner’s first assessment was that she was killed somewhere else and dumped in the lake.”
“Why does he think that?” I leaned over and picked a slice of cheese off his sandwich.
“The rope ligature marks around her neck are a