Goose in the Pond - Earlene Fowler [8]
Gabe walked over and rested a warm hand on my neck. “I’m going to be here awhile. Go on home and get out of those wet shoes.”
“There’s one more thing,” I said. “I think I know who it is.”
“What?” He frowned in annoyance. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?” His tone was accusatory. Holding back information from each other had been a problem between us since the beginning of our relationship, and although we’d both gotten a bit more open, there was still an occasional trickle of distrust. On both sides.
“I was getting ready to tell you when Miguel got here,” I said, exasperated. “Since then, you’ve been just a little preoccupied.”
Instantly contrite, he ran his hand over his face. “I’m sorry, it’s just . . .” His voice trailed off, and he gestured at the busy crime scene.
“I know.” I laid a hand on his forearm. As much as the old-time residents, he hated how violent crime on the Central Coast was becoming a more frequent occurrence. That was one of the reasons the city council had implored him to accept the job of chief of police last February. San Celina needed the experience of someone who’d dealt with homicide and other violent crimes on a daily basis, as Gabe had during his twenty years with the LAPD.
“So, who is she?” he asked.
“If it’s who I think it is, her name is . . . was Nora Hudson . . . uh . . . Cooper.”
“Hudson or Cooper?”
“She goes by Cooper now, though I’m not sure if it’s official. She’s getting a divorce and she mentioned changing back to her maiden name.”
“You know her?”
“She works as a storyteller at the library. She dresses like Mother Goose. That’s her . . . well, theme, I guess you’d call it.”
“That explains the odd-looking clothes. Anything else?”
“I’ve known her since college. She’s a couple of years older than me. Actually, I know her brother better.”
“Who’s he?”
“Nick Cooper. He’s head reference librarian.”
He raised his dark eyebrows. “Nick and Nora?”
“Yeah, pretty hokey. Their mother loved old mysteries apparently.”
“Do you know her parents’ address?”
“They’re dead. It’s only her and Nick. He lives over by your old house on Houston Street. I don’t know the exact number. He’s in the phone book, though.” I felt a stab in my heart. “Who’s going to tell him?”
“Probably Jim, once he gets here and I can give him the particulars.” Captain Jim Cleary was Gabe’s right-hand man. He was an even-tempered black man in his late fifties whose easygoing personality was the perfect counterbalance to Gabe’s sometimes fiery temper and stubborn perfectionism. A couple of months ago Jim organized a weekly basketball match between the young patrol officers and older, higher-ranked officers with the loser having to spring for pizza and beer at Angelo’s Big Top Pizza downtown. Invariably the senior officers lost, which boosted the morale of the patrol officers immensely. That small activity had gone a long way toward establishing a stress-relieving camaraderie within the ranks. Jim was subtly teaching Gabe that strong leadership and a sense of humor were not mutually exclusive.
“What’s her ex-husband’s name?” Gabe asked. “Does he live around here?”
I looked down at the ground. This was already getting complicated. “Roy Hudson. He’s a member of the co-op and the Storytellers Guild. He lives with my friend Grace.”
“Grace?”
“Grace Winters. She owns the stables where I ride.”
Gabe’s face looked thoughtful.
“What?” I asked.
He shook his head as if it were nothing. “Why don’t you go on home? I’ll pass your story on to the detectives. You can come down to the station tomorrow and give an official statement.”
“Okay,” I said, glad to get away. “What time will you be done?”
“I have no idea. I’ll try to keep you posted.”
“Want me to bring you some other clothes?”
He looked down