Goose in the Pond - Earlene Fowler [70]
“Shenanigans?” He laughed and spit again.
“I mean it, Roy. I’ll throw you out of the festival right in the middle of your story. And that’s a promise.”
He swept off his hat and bowed. “Yes, ma’am, Madam Chairman. This cowboy will be on his best behavior, or you can kick my sorry butt out.”
“Don’t kid yourself. I will.”
“Would I kid the police chief’s wife?” He turned and picked up his toolbox. “See you tonight.”
As I watched him walk away it occurred to me that he never mentioned the newspaper article. I couldn’t help wondering if he’d suspected that Nora was the Tattler. Being married as long as they had, I knew from my own experience that there were little patterns of speech, certain words that, if he was paying attention, might have tipped him off. On the other hand, maybe he didn’t even read the column.
I saddled up Tony, a three-year-old sorrel quarter horse, and headed toward the path behind Grace’s house that followed San Celina Creek. I rode for about an hour, enjoying the rhythmic creaking of the saddle leather, the soft hum of bees darting around the orange California poppies, and the smell of the wild onion and goldenrod. Tony’s smooth gait relaxed me, and I let my mind drift, idly identifying wildflowers from knowledge gained during my 4-H days—copper red and orange blazing stars, hairy prickly poppies, tall, prideful prince’s plume. About a half mile from the stable, I stopped under a blue oak tree next to the creek and dismounted, letting Tony graze for a few minutes. I was leaning up against the tree trunk, tossing ripe acorns into the creek, when Jillian rode up.
“Just the lady I needed to speak to,” she said. She stayed mounted on Fred, and from my place on the ground his eighteen hands made him appear as enormous as the Trojan horse. He blew wet air and shook his head.
She patted his huge neck. “I have something for you and the museum down at the library.”
“Really, what?”
“Money.”
I smiled up at her. “With humble apologies to Julie Andrews, I believe I like that a whole lot better than whiskers on kittens. Who’s giving it to us, and what do we have to do for it?”
“Some friend of Aunt Constance’s who collects quilts,” she said. “It’s only two hundred dollars, but money’s money.”
“I don’t care if it’s twenty bucks, I’ll take it.” I reached up and fondled Fred’s velvety muzzle. “Guess you’ll miss the after-hours storytelling session Saturday night.” Copying the Santa Barbara festival, we’d elected to have an adult storytelling hour featuring stories too scary or mature for kids.
“Unfortunately, yes. My event is at nine o’clock Sunday morning, and I want both of us to be rested for it.” Fred startled when a bumblebee swung past his head. I jumped backward as she calmly brought him under control.
“How’s things settling down at the library?” I asked.
She absently combed Fred’s glossy mane with her fingers. “Everyone’s still talking about it, but we’re basically back to normal.”
“Did you read this morning’s Tribune?”
She frowned deeply and moved both reins to her left hand. “Yes, and I think it’s rapidly sinking to the depths of the Freedom Press. Why can’t they just leave the poor woman alone? I feel so bad for Nick. This will devastate him.”
“Were you surprised? I sure was.”
She continued combing Fred’s hair, her eyes sympathetic. “You know, not much surprises me anymore. I liked Nora, but it was obvious she was a troubled person.”
I didn’t answer because I felt sort of foolish. It hadn’t been obvious to me. I’d found her pleasant and completely easy to talk to once I pushed all Grace’s prejudiced comments to the back of my mind. But then again, maybe I’d have felt differently had I known she was the Tattler. I tried to remember what all we talked about as we were labeling and folding festival brochures. I hoped it wasn’t anything she could use to embarrass Gabe. Not that I had to worry about it now.
She rode past me and called over her shoulder, “If