Goose in the Pond - Earlene Fowler [9]
“I’ll bring you some lunch, too.”
“Great. Don’t talk to the reporters and be careful driving home.”
“Yes, sir, Chief Ortiz,” I said, backing away from him. “Is it me or the Corvette you’re worried about?”
His mustache twitched in a half smile.
“Jerk,” I mouthed.
I ducked under the yellow tape and was instantly pounced upon by a reporter from the San Celina Tribune. The yuppie reporter who accosted me was intent on one thing—furthering his career by scooping the Central Coast Freedom Press. He wore a brownish tweed jacket and black Levi’s. His blond hair stood up in wet-looking spikes revealing a clean pink scalp.
“Mrs. Ortiz, it’s rumored you found the body. Can you tell us what happened? Do you know who the victim is? How were they killed?” His photographer, a tall, big-shouldered woman wearing ragged overalls and a red tank top, aimed her lens at my face.
“Ms. Harper, and no comment,” I said automatically. Then I added in the interest of good public relations, “Sorry.”
“Is the victim male or female? Was there any mutilation? Do you think it’s the work of a serial killer?”
“Excuse me.” I pushed past him. When he realized he wasn’t going to get anything from me, he scurried back to the edge of the crime scene, where he was kept at bay by a couple of burly San Celina police officers.
During the drive home I thought about Nora, wondering who would kill her. Could it possibly be a random crime? The thought sent ice crystals through my veins. Serial killers hadn’t touched the Central Coast yet, and I hoped they never would. It seemed unlikely, though the alternative was just as frightening—being murdered by someone she knew. That instantly brought to my mind her soon-to-be-ex-husband, Roy Hudson. He would likely be first on Gabe’s list of suspects, and that troubled me. Roy, though a bit of a redneck at times, was basically a nice guy. He was also one of the best farriers in the county. More importantly, I’d grown fond of Grace while riding at her stable these last few months. Though her and Roy living together and united against Nora, whom I also liked, was certainly not a situation I approved of, when I was with each of them, I kept my opinions to myself. Since all three were involved with the storytelling festival, I’d attempted to keep their paths from crossing too often.
I wondered how soon Nick would be notified. Should I call him or drop by? What was the proper thing to do when a friend’s family member is murdered and you’re the person who found the body?
At home, Mr. Treton, my iron-spined, elderly neighbor, was clipping the hedge separating his two-story gray and blue Victorian house from my Spanish-style bungalow. I’d rented the neat, two-bedroom house when I moved off the Harper Ranch into town. It was perfect for one person, with square little rooms and a newly remodeled terra-cotta-and-white Southwestern tile kitchen. After Gabe and I married, he just sort of moved in his clothes and books, gradually mingling our possessions. Unfortunately he’d not planned on getting married when he came to San Celina and had paid for a year’s lease on a woodframe house over by Cal Poly. It had a huge garage and a yard full of mature shade trees; we’d discussed living there, but my house was closer to our jobs and homier, with all my quilts and mismatched antiques, so we nonverbally seemed to have decided on it. The lease on his house was up at the end of September, and he still had some things he hadn’t moved yet, though I’d subtly nagged him about getting to it. One thing that was still there was his stereo and a good part of his extensive collection of Southern jazz and blues CDs. I suspected there was a deeper motivation than laziness that kept him from moving everything he owned into my . . . our house.
I carefully steered the Corvette into the narrow driveway. My own vehicle, a red 1977 one-ton Chevy pickup with HARPER’S HEREFORDS in chipped lettering on the doors, sat out on the street,