Goose in the Pond - Earlene Fowler [84]
At that moment we heard the front door open and Sam and Rita’s loud, laughing voices fill the living room. Dove’s voice soon joined the talking. Sam started telling a story about some kooky guy he’d just waited on at Eudora’s, with Rita interrupting every so often with a comment about her short-lived career as a cocktail waitress and Dove’s gruff voice telling them they don’t know crazy people, listen to what Garnet just did—
“Somehow,” I said, “I have a feeling that’s not going to be a problem.”
10
AS I SUSPECTED, the last thing Gabe had to worry about the next day was me being alone. For the first time since all our company had landed like a flock of crows in a cornfield, everyone was present at the same meal. At breakfast Gabe and Sam didn’t speak, but at least they didn’t fight; Dove was in high spirits because Aunt Garnet hadn’t left a message . . . yet. Even Rita seemed a little more cheerful. At least everyone’s day was beginning on a pleasant tone. I walked Gabe out to his car, taking that time to tell him what Jillian had said about Nick and Nora’s argument the night she was killed.
“I’m not surprised,” Gabe said. “Detective Weber said he thought Nick was nervous about something.” He opened the Corvette’s door and stuck his briefcase behind the driver’s seat. “I meant what I said last night. I want you to make certain you stay around groups of people.”
“Should I leave the door open when I take a leak?” I teased.
He looked down at me, his face serious in the pale morning sunlight. “I’m not joking, Benni. I have half a mind to make you stay at the ranch for a week or so.”
“Excuse me, Friday, but you can’t make me do anything. Would you just let it go?”
“I’ll increase patrols by the museum,” he said. “What are your plans for today? What time are you coming home tonight?”
I poked him hard in the chest with my forefinger. “You don’t listen to a word I say, do you?”
He grabbed my finger and shook it. “I listen. I’m just ignoring it since you don’t seem to grasp your precarious position.”
“I understand perfectly, but believe me, today of all days you won’t have to worry about me being alone.” I slipped my arms around his neck and kissed him hard. “I’ll meet you at Farmers’ tonight. Next to the storyteller’s booth at six o’clock. If you’re real nice to me, I’ll buy you dinner.”
“Call me if anything out of the ordinary happens,” he said, his eyes still worried.
My prediction about not being alone was more true than I could have ever imagined. At the museum there must have been a hundred people working on booths and setting up camp. By midafternoon, we’d checked in almost every storyteller who’d reserved a camping spot, and most of the booths were finished. Between helping the campers get settled and giving them their festival packets, telling them the rules of the campground and their storytelling times, I helped out the unexpectedly overburdened docents by giving tours of the storytelling quilt and Pueblo storytelling doll exhibit. At five, just as I was getting ready to leave and drive downtown to grab a parking space before they were all taken, Constance Sinclair herself showed up with a group of friends who’d flown up from L.A. at her invitation. Naturally she wanted the museum curator herself to give a private after-hours tour, so it was past six-thirty before I made it downtown. The parking structure was already full, as were all the downtown parking lots, so I was forced to park the pickup four blocks away on a side street. I hurried down the dark street because I knew Gabe would be worried when I didn’t show up on time. He’d already called me three times today to make sure I was still in one piece.
It took me about ten minutes to walk to Lopez Street, barricaded now at both ends for the three long blocks that made up downtown San Celina. The scents of Farmers’ Market swirled around me as I stepped into the crowded throng of people—smoky tri-tip beef, huge turkey legs, Chinese shish kebabs, and peppery Portuguese linguica sausage barbecuing over thick chunks of white-hot