Seven Sisters - Earlene Fowler [28]
“Grandmother?” Arcadia said, her voice strangled. “What happened? Who did this?” Willow put her arm around Arcadia’s shoulders and murmured softly in her ear. Arcadia started sobbing, her slight body convulsing.
“Benni, nine-one-one,” Gabe reminded me. He turned and looked at everyone and said firmly, “Everyone out on the porch, now. And no talking, please.”
As everyone started slowly moving toward the porch, I went to the study and made the phone call. The dispatcher replied that sheriff’s deputies would be there in a few minutes, that an officer was only a few miles away. When I came back into the hallway, the hallway was empty, and Gabe had closed the living room’s double doors.
Gabe walked over to me. “What’s the deputies’ ETA?”
“The dispatcher said a few minutes. I told them you were here.”
He nodded his approval.
“So, what do you think?” I asked in a low voice.
The skin around his prominent cheekbones tightened. “I think my son has picked one heck of a family to marry into.” He put his hand on my shoulder and massaged it gently, more, it seemed, to comfort himself than me. “Why don’t you join them outside? I’ll be out after I talk to the sheriff’s deputy.”
Out on the porch, I went over to Dove, who was sitting at the far end in one of the Adirondack chairs. Daddy stood next to her, his face subdued, holding his white dress Stetson in his hands. “Are you all right?” I asked.
“Just fine, honeybun. What’s Gabe got to say about this?”
“All he said was he wasn’t thrilled about Sam marrying into this clan.”
On the other end of the porch, on a padded bench, Willow sat next to her granddaughter, Arcadia, who was quietly sobbing into a small lacy handkerchief. She rubbed Arcadia’s back, whispering into her ear. Bliss stood next to Arcadia, her face ashen. Sam, his face fighting panic, bent down, murmured something in Bliss’s ear, then lay his hand tentatively on her back. Her face relaxed slightly, and a small shudder ran through her. Lydia stood on the top porch step, her expression uncertain.
“Bliss, honey,” her mother said. “Why don’t you sit down?”
“I’m just fine,” Bliss replied, her face going stiff again.
The sharpness in her tone surprised me, but Susa’s genial expression didn’t change. She just patted her daughter’s arm and went over to where her mother, Cappy, sat on the other side of Arcadia.
A few seconds later two sheriff’s patrol cars pulled up behind Gabe’s Corvette. A uniformed officer stepped out of each and, after a brief talk, strode up to the porch, heading toward Lydia, who would be the first one they’d encounter. I moved around her and met them, informing them I made the 911 call and that Chief Ortiz of the San Celina Police Department was inside.
We silently watched them enter the house. A few minutes later Gabe came out and said, “The detectives and the investigative team are on their way. They’ll need a statement from everyone. Please refrain from talking to each other until they’ve had a chance to question you.” He went back inside the house.
In about fifteen minutes, another vehicle arrived. A truck, actually. A big red Dodge. The man who stepped out appeared to be in his late thirties and wore a tan cowboy hat, sharp-pressed Wranglers, a Western-style sports jacket, and golden brown ostrich cowboy boots. When he came up the porch steps, he nodded at us genially, then walked into the house without a word. About a minute later, one of the uniformed deputies came back outside, probably assigned to keep an eye on us and discourage talking. I leaned my head against a wooden post and sighed, knowing we were in for a long night.
Ignoring the deputy’s presence, Lydia walked over to me and asked in a low voice, “You seem to understand my son. Should I go over to him?”
I stared at her, surprised. Asking my advice