Goose in the Pond - Earlene Fowler [64]
“I have no idea. They certainly run in different social circles. Maybe Constance just likes the restaurant and doesn’t want it to close.”
“Then I could picture them loaning the Ayalas money, but giving it to them? Remember, this is Constance Sinclair we’re talking about. She’s been very generous with the folk-art museum, but it is named after her grandfather. I don’t think she’s ever given any money where it wasn’t made very clear and public that she was the donor. She likes praise and gratitude. In great quantities and very openly.”
“Maybe Jillian gave them the money and Constance doesn’t know about it. Jillian’s pretty well heeled herself, I hear.”
“Maybe, but that would be even weirder.” I pulled in front of Blind Harry’s and idled in front.
“Why?”
“Let’s just say there is no love lost between Dolores and Jillian. They both want Ash Stanhill’s head in their trophy case.”
“Or whatever,” Elvia said, pulling out her purse and reapplying a layer of crimson lipstick. “I can’t abide that man. And it’s not jealousy because his restaurant is doing so well.” She twisted the gold tube closed. “Do you know he’s refused to join the downtown merchants’ association? Said he doesn’t have time to sit around with a bunch of small-timers discussing trash cans and washing sidewalks. Cretin.”
“Ask around about the Ayalas, okay? Just to ease my curiosity.”
She gave me a doubtful look. “Whenever you talk like that, I know you’re headed for trouble. Does Gabe know about this?”
“There’s nothing for him to know. I’m just curious, that’s all.”
She climbed out of my double-parked truck, giving a severe schoolmarm look at the car honking behind me. “I don’t like it. Whenever you use the word curious, I always end up having to visit you in the hospital.”
Since it was past three o’clock, I dropped by the museum one last time to check on things, gave a few final orders, and headed home. I was pleased to find the house empty, but assumed that by suppertime the others would be wandering in, so I put on a chicken to bake and then checked the answering machine.
The first message was from Gabe. “I’ll be home by six. Love you.”
The second was from Dove. “I’ll be home for supper, honeybun. I’m starved. Spent the day cataloging farm utensils at the Historical Society.”
The third was from Sam. “Don’t wait up. Bye.”
Great. Gabe was going to love that one.
The last message was in a strong, Arkansas twang. “Micah 6:12.” The click of the slammed receiver echoed across the empty room.
The Old Testament not being my strong suit, I pulled out my Bible and looked it up. This verse was a new one in Dove and Garnet’s battle of the memory verses.
“Her rich men are violent; her people are liars and their tongues speak deceitfully.”
Oh, that’ll get a rise out of Dove, I thought, setting the leather Bible back down on the coffee table. Her people are liars . . . was Aunt Garnet calling me a liar, too? Geez, I didn’t want to be included in this biblical Hatfield and McCoy feud.
I sliced unpeeled potatoes and laid them in a long casserole dish, covered them with garlic pepper, drizzled butter and chopped red onions, and parked them next to the chicken in the oven. I was washing fresh green beans when Gabe walked into the kitchen.
“Smells good,” he said, nuzzling the back of my neck. “And the food does, too.”
I turned around and kissed him. “Have a good day?”
“Not really, but I don’t want to talk about it.”
He pulled off his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt. “Need some help?” I purposely stayed away from the topic of Nora’s murder while we finished washing the green beans and put them in the steamer. As he set the table I told him about my lunch with Elvia and her mom. Not certain yet whether it meant anything, I left out the part about the Sinclairs saving the Ayalas’ restaurant.
“Did Señora Aragon send any atole?” he asked hopefully.
“Yes, but next time she says you have to come get it yourself.”
Dove walked in just as Gabe was carving the chicken. Rita came in a few minutes later.
“We can get started.