Goose in the Pond - Earlene Fowler [7]
“Jealous, Ms. Harper?” Gabe teased. “The redheaded one is our new records clerk. I think the other one works for the mayor.”
“Gabe.” Take a deep breath, I told myself. Gold stars sparked at the corners of my eyes. “Gabe—” My voice choked.
His face sobered. “Sweetheart, what is it? Are you okay?” He grabbed my shoulders and scanned me up and down. “Did someone—”
“I’m fine. It’s just that . . . there’s a ...” I swallowed hard. “A body.”
“What?” His face turned to granite and immediately went into what I call his Sergeant Friday look. “Where?”
“She’s over here.” I broke away and started back toward the lake when he caught me by the upper arm.
“Wait, let me get my cellular. I can call the station while we walk.” In a low voice he snapped orders into the compact phone as he followed me through the marshy brush. When we reached the scene, I pointed to Nora’s partly submerged form. The sun had moved out from behind the jagged early-morning clouds and was brighter now, glistening on the greenish film that coated the gently moving water. Other than that, nothing had changed since I’d been here ten minutes before. Of course, what did I expect? Nothing was going to change for Nora ever again.
He flipped the tiny black phone closed. “Backup will be here in a few minutes.” He pulled me to him in a quick, warm hug. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” I said, shuddering slightly in his embrace.
He tilted my face up with his hand and peered worriedly into my eyes. “I’m sorry you had to see this, but you’re going to have to hang tough a little longer. Tell me what you saw and everything you did.”
I told him about the trapped duck and how much of the debris I’d poked away with my stick. Before I could tell him I thought it was Nora Cooper, the library’s storyteller, a couple of patrol officers pushed through the trees. The first one to reach us was Miguel Aragon, my best friend Elvia’s second-to-youngest brother. At twenty-four years old, with a forty-four-inch chest and a loaded 9mm automatic on his hip, it was hard to believe Elvia and I had, as young teenagers, dressed him up one Halloween as a teapot and taken him trick-or-treating. His rendition of “I’m a little teapot, short and stout” sung in the heart-melting soprano of a five-year-old netted us a lot of full-sized Hershey Bars and a few silver dollars.
“What’s up, Chief?” he asked, using his artificially deep, professional cop’s voice. He nodded at me. “Benni.”
I lifted up a hand. “Hey, Miguel.”
“Drowning, possible homicide,” Gabe answered in his clipped, unemotional cop’s voice. “We need to get some tape strung here. Take it all the way to the top of the trail. I don’t want anyone getting close to the scene. You and Williams need to keep the spectators back. Johnson and Rodriguez will be here in a few minutes to assist. Careful where you walk.”
“Yes, sir.” He turned and spoke to his partner, a freckle-faced kid who didn’t even look old enough to buy cigarettes.
“Stand over there,” Gabe said to me, pointing to a flat piece of ground. “I’m going to try to locate the point of entry and look for footprints.” He swore softly in Spanish as he surveyed the dense woods. “This is going to be practically impossible.”
Within the next hour, the small area became bumper-to-bumper with crime-scene personnel. On the trail above us, a large group of gawkers had formed. It was close to ten o’clock now and people had started arriving at the park for after-breakfast walks or to claim a spot for noontime picnics. The San Celina Tribune had obviously heard about the murder. A bleary-eyed reporter was already harassing the cops for a statement. The somewhat more liberal Central Coast Freedom Press had also sent a reporter, a young man who looked as if he should be working on Cal Poly’s college newspaper. A fresh-faced female reporter in a navy power suit from our local TV station KCSC and her camera person was ready for whenever they could maneuver Gabe into giving an official