Seven Sisters - Earlene Fowler [35]
“You know I hate Thai food. McClintock’s.”
“You and your hamburgers. Noon.”
“And it’s your treat since you’re being such a jerk.”
“Since when do you ever pay for a meal when we dine together?”
After almost three hours of diligent paper-pushing and phone work trying to get our next exhibit arranged, I wandered into the main room of the co-op studios to watch the finishing touches being put on the wine quilt that would be auctioned off at the Zin and Zydeco gathering Saturday night. I half expected to see JJ today, but certainly understood why she probably wouldn’t come in. The co-op group was a pleasant one, but they loved gossip, and I was sure she didn’t want to face the curious looks and questions.
After a quick foray through the museum, which was showing a display of original wine label art created for Central Coast wineries, I went out the heavy Spanish front doors and headed across the parking lot to Gabe’s old 1950 Chevy truck parked under a graffiti-scarred oak that was probably older than the hacienda. I was unlocking the front door when a red Dodge Ram 1500 V8 Magnum truck pulled into the lot. Since I knew the vehicles of just about everyone who volunteered at the museum or belonged to the co-op, and Tuesday morning was rarely a time for casual visitors, I watched it curiously as it pulled next to my truck. There was something that was vaguely familiar about it, but the windows were tinted, so I couldn’t see who was driving until the door opened and a foot wearing a forest green lizard skin cowboy boot appeared. Detective Hudson’s brown head and the rest of him followed seconds afterward.
“Hey, glad I caught you,” he said, smiling widely. He wore a pale green tailored Arrow shirt and another neatly pressed pair of Wranglers.
I walked around and met him at the tailgate of my truck. “What’s up?”
“Just wanted to update you. They’re sending the recovered bullet and the gun down to the crime lab right now. Well, actually I’m taking them there myself.”
I waited for a moment, not sure why he was telling me this.
“Bein’ used to a big city, it seems weird not having a crime lab right close. I have to go to some town down south . . . Golatta, I think it’s called. And I have to wait for it since the Browns are such famous and respected people in this town. I’m pretty sure there’s more to this than anyone realizes, but the sheriff wants it cleared up ASAP. And, he said, he’d prefer the killer not be a family member. I’m guessin’ they’re a big financial supporter of his, and he doesn’t want the till dried up. What do you think?”
“The town’s name is Goleta,” I said, not answering his question. “It’s a little north of Santa Barbara.”
“Santa Barbara. Isn’t that where that singer Michael Jackson has that weird ranch of his? With carnival rides and circus animals?”
“I don’t imagine the city fathers would prefer that to be the thing they are internationally known for, but, yes, his estate is in the general area. Actually it’s closer to Santa Ynez.” I glanced at my watch. I had exactly fifteen minutes to get to McClintock’s. “Was there something specific you needed to ask me, Detective Hudson?”
“You want to tell me about this argument you heard between Mr. Norton and that woman again?”
“I told you everything I heard last night.”
He looked at the ground, gave a good ole boy kick at the dirt, then looked back up and grinned at me. “Please, bear with me, ma’am, but I’d just like to hear it one more time. For my own clarification.”
“Okay,” I said with an exaggerated sigh, thinking how much alike cops are. It was the same thing Gabe would have done. “But there’s nothing different today than what I told you last night.”
He nodded as I talked, watching my body language in that way I’d grown used to since being married to a cop. He took out his Beauty and the Beast notebook, flipped through the pages, and wrote something down.
“Is that it?” I asked, jiggling my keys with impatience.
“For the time bein’. Just one more thing. Since you’re kind of on the fringe of this family and I’m takin