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By Root 832 0

oakwood; the toasty smell of homemade tamales and cooking pinquito beans; the sweet scent of fresh flowers from the commercial fields in Lompoc down south; and the sharp, bitter smell of cigarette smoke hovering over chattering groups of college students. Everything that made San Celina County special was represented at Thursday-night Farmers’ Market—the rainbow displays of bright orange carrots, Kentucky Wonder beans, winter banana apples, lipstick peppers, sage honey, raw almonds, local wines, and fresh brown ranch eggs (happy chickens on the ground!), and the best caramel apples in the universe; the independent entrepreneurs hawking bead jewelry, balloon animals, hand puppets, velveteen hats reminiscent of Dr. Seuss characters, incense, face painting, and five-minute caricatures guaranteed to make you smile or your money back; the political and social booths of the humane society (“Adopt a Pet Today”), the always active Central Coast NOW chapter, Campus Crusade for Christ, Hemp for Life (Our ropes will never leave you hanging), Republicans, Democrats, Independents all trying to garner support, and the GreenLand Conservancy’s “Save Our Mountain” T-shirt and bumper stickers table next to the Ranch and Farm Producers’ Coalition table that hawked sweatshirts stating, “OUT OF WORK? EAT AN ENVIRONMENTALIST.”

“Meet you at Farmers’ ” had been a mating call among Cal Poly students for as long as I could remember. Walking through the crowded streets, feeling the familiar sensation of being a spawning salmon caught in a mindless migration, I thought briefly of Jack. We were only eighteen when he’d asked me to marry him one night as we sat on the curb, the only table accommodations at Farmers’, eating corn-on-the-cob drenched in sweet butter and sprinkled with Tabasco sauce.

Gabe, his face hard with anxiety, waited beside the small stage we’d set up for the storytellers. A Native American storyteller wearing a tall Stetson with a snakeskin hatband was spinning a tale about Coyote the Trickster. Gabe’s tense expression changed to an irritated scowl when he finally spotted me pushing through the crowd. He glanced at his watch.

“I know, I know,” I said, holding up my hands. “Constance showed up at the last minute with a bunch of friends and wanted a personal tour. I didn’t think it would take as long as it did.”

His face relaxed slightly, and he slipped a warm hand on the back of my neck. “I know you think I’m being overly protective, but I got an advance copy of tomorrow’s Freedom Press. I’m worried about the repercussions.”

“That stupid Will Henry. Is he trashing your department? I swear I’m going to buy one of those hemp ropes he’s always singing the praises of and wrap it around his scrawny—”

The crowd laughed at the storyteller’s imitation of a coyote’s yip-yip. Gabe steered me a few feet away from the noisy crowd. “It’s not about the department. The article’s about you . . . us.”

“Me? Us? What did we do?”

“It’s actually just a couple of paragraphs on the Tattler page. It mentions your propensity for stumbling upon dead bodies. The writer questions my ability to control my wife and wonders whether that incompetency carries over to my running of the department. He suggests that it’s the reason crime is increasing here in San Celina.”

“Control me!” I sputtered. “I’m not a trained seal, for cryin’ out loud. I bet Will Henry wrote that just ’cause I argued with him the other night. To imply you aren’t running the department right is absolutely ludicrous. They can’t blame you just because there’s more crime. That’s why they hired you. The crime came before you did. I am so pissed.”

Gabe touched a large finger to my mouth. “That’s not what has me worried. It’s not the first time I’ve been trashed by a newspaper reporter, and it won’t be the last. He also implies that I tell you too much, that you’re too involved in my work. He called you the Hillary Clinton of the San Celina Police Department.”

“Oh, great. I’m never going to hear the end of that from Elvia.”

“Whoever did this might think you know more than you do, and that