Goose in the Pond - Earlene Fowler [6]
I knew who it was.
A scream rose instinctively from my diaphragm. I stifled it by sticking my fist in front of my mouth and slowly backed out of the water.
When I touched solid ground, I scrambled up through the trees toward the trail. When I reached the trail, I broke into a flat-out run for the parking lot. The rhythmic squish, squish of my soaked shoes matched the pounding of my heart. Find Gabe, I repeated silently over and over. Stay calm. Find Gabe.
Oh, Lord, I prayed. Oh, no.
I knew who it was.
The ruffled apron, the striped stockings, the long blond hair usually worn in a bun and covered with a pouffy blue-and-white hat. It had to be Nora Cooper, the library’s weekly storyteller and the older sister of a college friend, Nick Cooper, who was also the library’s head reference librarian. Nick and Nora Cooper. Their mother had been a great fan of the old mystery series featuring the urbane detecting couple and their dog, Asta. Her enthusiasm had doomed her two children to a lifetime of lame jokes.
Nora Cooper. I’d become better acquainted with her in the last few months since planning the storytelling festival. Who would want to kill her? She was a tiny, even-tempered woman who loved children and adored her storytelling job at the library. She’d been one of the first people who’d volunteered to be on the festival committee, and that alone made me immediately view her with goodwill. She was a dedicated worker who wasn’t afraid to push up her sleeves and do the most menial jobs—ones I often got stuck with because the artists always seemed to have some project they absolutely needed to finish. She and I single-handedly typed and affixed two thousand address labels to the bright pink festival brochures. I’d come to appreciate her amusing and often piercingly accurate observations of artists, children, library patrons, and the various members of the library staff itself. She was scheduled to appear twice at the festival this weekend. Her specialty was nursery rhymes, and she’d worked up a popular act that included songs, participatory dancing, and puppets she’d designed and sewn herself. She always dressed up in the same costume, one that fit her theme perfectly.
Who in the world would want to kill sweet little Nora Cooper?
For cryin’ out loud, who would want to kill Mother Goose?
2
MORE TIME HAD passed than I realized, because when I reached the car, Gabe had already returned. He’d been waylaid by two attractive young women in their late twenties wearing ovary-squeezing spandex shorts and matching sport bra tops. The taller one said something and playfully shook a fuchsia nail at him, tossing her tawny mane of hair. He gifted her with an amused smile, then tilted his head and drank deeply from a dripping liter of Evian water. The two women stared at his sweat-shiny body as if he was the last cream puff in the bakery and they’d been dieting for six months.
“Excuse me,” I said, pushing through the middle of them. A strong waft of musky perfume almost gagged me. “Gabe, we need to talk.” I kept my voice genial and smiled, trying to keep the panic off my face. I knew this was something he would want kept quiet until he got backup. I shifted from one foot to another, my shoes making a gross sucking sound. They all looked down at my wet, stained Adidas. The lion-haired woman’s top lip curled up slightly in disgust.
“Hi, Mrs. Ortiz,” said the shorter one, an auburn-haired woman with thick, sexy eyebrows. “We were just telling the chief about the underwear bandit in our apartment complex. He sneaks into our laundry room—”
“That’s great,” I said, still smiling. “Make a report, and I’m sure he’ll get one of his detectives right on it.” I grabbed his forearm in a steel grip. “Gabe, we need to talk.”
The short woman looked at her friend and raised her eyebrows. The friend giggled in response. Then she turned back to Gabe. “See you