Goose in the Pond - Earlene Fowler [87]
“Quite a story,” Ash’s smooth voice said behind me. “Makes one think.”
I looked up at him. “That’s the whole point of storytelling, isn’t it?”
He shrugged and stuck his hands into the pockets of his slacks. He wore a tan cashmere sweater with no shirt underneath. “What’s the deal with Mike Haynes and your husband? Saw them over at the Sundance, and Gabe didn’t look like he cared for what Mike was saying.”
I returned his shrug and didn’t answer. The Bakersfield man stepped off the stage, and Peter took his place. He was dressed in a Johnny Appleseed costume complete with a basket of apples he was handing out to the children in the crowd. “Trees,” he was saying. “When we destroy trees, we destroy ourselves.”
“Have you performed yet?” I asked, wanting to stay away from the subject of Gabe. There’d be enough people talking about him and me both tomorrow when the Freedom Press hit the stands.
“I go on after Peter. How’s ticket sales looking?”
“Advance sales were really good. We should have a big crowd tomorrow.” I yawned. “I think I’ll head on home. Looks like everything’s under control here, and we all have a full day tomorrow.”
He slipped his arm around my shoulders. “Where are you parked? I’ll walk you to your car.”
I ducked down and moved away from him, irritated by his familiarity. “No, that’s okay. You might miss your session.” Before he could protest, I waved a cheerful good-bye and melted into the crowd. I glanced back and caught him staring after me, an undecipherable look on his handsome face. I kept walking, wondering how I could get back to the truck and still keep the promise I made Gabe not to be alone. When I came to Blind Harry’s Bookstore, I decided to go in and see if Elvia was around. Though I’d called yesterday morning and left a message with one of her clerks about the Datebook Bum’s death, I’d been so busy for the last two days, I hadn’t even told her about Gabe giving me the homeless man’s diary. On the way to her office, I spotted Nick in the travel section of the bookstore.
“Planning a vacation?” I asked, walking up next to him. He cradled his motorcycle helmet under one arm as he flipped through a book with a glossy photograph of a long winding road on the front. His longish hair lay clean and shiny on the collar of his blue Arrow shirt. He turned green eyes on me, and I was relieved to see the whites clear and rested.
“Nah,” he said, sticking the book back in the shelf. “Just dreaming.”
“How are things going?”
“Maybe I should ask you that.”
I gave him a puzzled look. “What do you mean by that?”
He pulled a copy of the Freedom Press from under his arm. “According to this, you have your finger on the pulse of the police department. Be nice if you could let a friend in on what’s going on.”
I leaned against the bookshelf. “Nick, you know Will Henry as well as I do. That paper twists the truth like uncooked pretzel dough. I swear that I don’t know any more about this case than what we all read in the paper. How did you get a copy of the paper so soon anyway?”
“A bunch were dropped off early at all the stands in town here. I guess Will Henry couldn’t wait to get this one out.”
“He seems awfully intent on pointing fingers at everyone else,” I said. “Makes me wonder if he’s trying to divert attention from himself. Maybe he had something to do with Nora’s death.” Once the words were out of my mouth, I instantly regretted them, remembering the story of the Jewish man and his feather pillow.
“That’s certainly occurred to me,” Nick said. “And I’d spend more time looking into it if I wasn’t so worried about my own butt.”
“Why’s that?”
“As if you didn’t know.”
“Nick, what are you talking about?”
“If the police were spending half as much time investigating