Goose in the Pond - Earlene Fowler [68]
He turned back to the mirror and ran the blade under his chin. “Querida, sometimes people just can’t let others get too close. Maybe you helped him the most by letting him be who he wanted to be.”
“I suppose,” I said, not certain whether he was talking about the homeless man or himself.
As I wandered through the house picking up things I’d need today, I discovered Dove on the sofa perusing her large-print Bible for a suitable comeback to Garnet, Sam in the kitchen scrambling eggs, and Rita, I assumed, still lingering in bed. I found the maroon datebook and stuffed it in my purse.
“I won’t be home for dinner,” I called to Dove. She nodded and licked her finger, flipping rapidly through her Bible. She paused at a passage, then jotted something on a tablet.
The early-morning air was brisk and refreshing; the sky as bright as a new dime. I picked up the San Celina Tribune, unfolding the paper and pulling out the lifestyle section. There was a major write-up on the storytelling festival I wanted to read. I’d leave the rest for Gabe to peruse while he ate breakfast. When I saw the front-page headline, I froze.
MURDERED STORYTELLER NAMED AS TATTLER
I quickly scanned the article. “An unnamed source tells the Tribune . . . ” The article went on to question how long the police had known this information and what else they were hiding from the public.
I rushed into the house, where Gabe was already on the phone, his freshly shaven face steely with anger. Apparently someone had just called and informed him about the article.
“Find out,” he demanded. “I’ll be there in a half hour.”
He turned and saw me standing there holding the newspaper.
“I guess you heard,” I said, handing it to him.
He glanced over the story. “This screws up everything. That was the first solid lead we’ve had, and now that it’s public, we’re back to where we started.”
“Who do you think told the newspaper?”
“I don’t know,” he said grimly, taking the towel draped around his shoulders and wiping his neck clean of shaving cream. A tiny spot of congealed blood dotted his chin. “But I’m going to find out.”
The phone rang again, and I hightailed it out of there. His day was going to be a stressful one, no doubt about it. I fervently hoped Sam was working late tonight.
I drove to McDonald’s and bought a large coffee, an Egg McMuffin, and another newspaper. I read every word of the article twice. As usual, the Tribune wasn’t kind in its assessment of how the police were handling the investigation. They even took a few potshots at their rival, the Freedom Press, too. Not that Will Henry would mind. It would only help him sell more newspapers. On the way to Grace’s stables for the early-morning ride I’d been promising myself for the last few days, I wondered how this would affect the festival and whether it would help or hinder the police in their investigation. It could drive the killer underground or make him nervous enough to slip up and reveal himself. Or herself, I reminded myself. I shouldn’t make generalities. It all came back to words again—how they can build up or tear down, make things easier or harder for people, cause wars or negotiate peace. The power of words to help or heal.
At the stables Jillian’s silver Jaguar and Roy’s old pickup were the only vehicles in the gravel parking lot. Roy was repairing one of the wooden jumps in the front arena, so I assumed Jillian was working Fred in the back one. I opened the gate and walked through the dusty arena.
“Hi,” I said. “Where’s Grace?”
He stood up, slipped his pine-handled hammer back in his tool belt and squinted at me. A trickle of sweat dripped off his narrow nose. “Went to pick up an order at the feed store. She knew you was comin’, though. Said Tony needs to be taken out if you feel like it.”
“Sure. Me and Tony are old buddies.” I ran my hand down the white-painted jumping post. “What happened?”
“Some smart-ass kids messin’ around. I spend more time around here repairing things than anything, but those little brats are our biggest business. I’m trying to get caught up’cause