Goose in the Pond - Earlene Fowler [46]
“Well,” Jillian said after a few uncomfortable minutes, “I guess she’s made her position clear.” She tucked a loose section of her thin white blouse into her khaki breeches. “Someone should mention to her that it doesn’t look very good, her going on like that about someone just murdered. Especially since she’s living with the deceased’s soon-to-be ex-husband.”
I smiled wanly, getting her point. “And that someone would be me?”
Jillian gave an apologetic shrug. “You do seem to be her only friend.”
“I’ll try and talk to her. I don’t want her making things tougher on herself than necessary.”
“She probably is one of the more obvious suspects, isn’t she?”
My mouth opened in surprise. “Jillian, I can’t believe you said that.”
She tossed her empty water bottle in the small waste-basket. “I bet I’m not the only one who’s thinking it. Don’t you think that Gabe has her high on his list of suspects?”
“You know I can’t talk about that.”
Her sharp, tiny features wrinkled in chagrin. “I know. Please, forgive me for my speculations. I guess I’ve got a bit of the Tattler’s blood in me. Maybe that’s why that column is so addictive.” She gave my shoulder a quick pat as she walked out. “Call me if you hear anything.”
“Bye,” I called after her. Her flippant accusation of Grace irritated me, though what she said was true. But her admission about liking the Tattler’s column neutralized my anger somewhat. I was just as guilty as her. I actually looked forward to reading the gossip column every week, which was starting to really prick at my conscience. What was it in us human beings that caused us to enjoy reading or hearing about the mortification of other people?
I found Grace at the wash racks scraping water off a sorrel Arabian with a white blaze on his forehead. I stood to the side and watched her for a moment without speaking.
“Miz Jillian all through playing horsewoman?” Grace finally asked.
“I don’t know,” I said, leaning against the metal post of the rack. “Look, we weren’t talking about you, Grace, but we were talking about Nora’s murder. I don’t know how else to say this, but you’re going to have to get used to that over the next few weeks. You know we don’t have many murders here in San Celina, so it’s bound to be big news.”
She flicked the water off the scraping blade and continued to run it down the horse’s flank. He shook his head, spraying water in my direction. “I know, it’s just that I’m already tired of the weird looks people are giving me.” She wiped the back of a wet hand across her forehead. Sun-bleached ringlets of copper and gold had escaped from her braided hair and feathered her oval face. “When I stopped off at the feed supply this morning to pick up my order, the two girls behind the registers actually whispered ‘that’s her’ behind my back when I was looking at some new halters. I feel like I’m wearing a big scarlet A.”
“I’m sorry.”
She threw the scraper into a nearby bucket and untied the Arabian. “I know a lot of this is my own fault. Shoot, I’m living with her husband. I slept with him when their son was dying. She was holding up their divorce so we couldn’t be together. Honestly, if I was looking for a suspect in this, the first one I’d pick would be me.”
“Or Roy,” I said, then regretted it.
She looked at me blankly. “Yes, I guess he would be just as obvious as me. But he didn’t do it. And neither did I.” She led the horse toward the hot walker, where Fred was already meandering in a circle. “We are each other’s alibis that night. Did Gabe tell you that?”
“He doesn’t talk about his cases at home, you know that.” She and I had discussed our men’s lack of communication many times over glasses of lemonade and bags of Doritos in her large country kitchen. She clipped the Arabian to the walker and gave him an affectionate