Seven Sisters - Earlene Fowler [40]
“Like what?” Sissy countered. “Bake sales and quilt raffles are all we know how to do.”
Dove smacked the gavel down again. “Ten-minute break! Get something to eat and drink, and we’ll study on this some more.”
At the dessert table, filled with apple turnovers, oatmeal cookies, cream puffs, and Sissy’s blue-ribbon-winning black walnut-chocolate chip coffee cake, I grabbed a cream puff, a slice of coffee cake, and a cup of Folger’s coffee. Though this group was high class in their home-baked goodies, they’d never bought into the baby boomers’ addiction to gourmet coffee. Theirs was hot, black, and strong. I put an extra dollop of milk in it to cut the stoutness.
Dove pulled me aside. “Have you heard how things are doing at Seven Sisters?”
“I just talked to JJ. She’s pretty agitated, with good reason. She doesn’t want to admit it, but everyone knows the killer had to be someone in the family. I don’t think she’s ready to face that yet.”
“It’s hard thinking one of your kinfolk would have that kind of meanness in them, but it wouldn’t be the first time. That little Texas boy working on the case is a sharp one. I fathom he’ll ferret out the bad apple in the bunch right quick. His mama raised a good boy. He donated a hundred dollars to our new kitchen.”
“With a little arm twisting from you, I heard.”
She opened her eyes wide in mock innocence. “Why, honeybun, a person can’t make another person do something they don’t want to do. It was purely voluntary.”
“Right, kind of like the military draft. Anyway, if you’ll tell me where the information Mrs. Shandon left for me is, I’m outta here.”
“There’s an envelope with your name on it near the cash register.”
“Thanks.”
BY FRIDAY, GILES’S murder had been relegated to second-page news since there was nothing new to report. It was still on people’s minds and lips, though, according to Elvia. Her mystery reading group at the bookstore had spent more time talking about San Celina’s real-life mystery than their fictional English one. Gabe and I didn’t even discuss it since his department wasn’t handling it. We did, however, talk at length about Sam and Bliss, their impending marriage and parenthood.
“At least she’ll be covered by insurance,” Gabe said. “Lydia and I are relieved about that.” We’d sat down for a rare breakfast together. Usually he jogged with Scout and ate before I got out of bed since I rarely had to be at the folk art museum before nine o’clock, but the telephone had jarred me awake at six-thirty this morning while he was still out jogging. My grouchy hello had been answered by Lydia’s sensuous contralto voice.
“Benni? Did I wake you up?”
“Uh, no, I was . . . just... taking a sip of coffee.” I sat up in bed and ran a hand through my tangled curls, smoothing them down, as if she could see their wildness. “Gabe’s not here.”
Her laughter grated in my ear. “Out jogging for five miles before his two cups of coffee, bagel with grape jelly, glass of juice, and a quick glance at the front page and sports section.”
It irritated me slightly that she knew his morning routine that well. “I guess some things never change.”
“Actually, the jogging is new in the last few years, but everything else is the same. If nothing else, our Gabe is predictable in his unpredictable way.”
Our Gabe. Yikes. Someone lock the knife drawer. “Want me to have him call you?” I said as sweetly as I could manage without any caffeine in my system. “It’s Lydia, right?”
“Right. Lydia Ortiz. Tell him I’ll be at home for the next hour, then at the office. He has both numbers.”
“Ortiz?” I said without thinking. “I thought you got remarried.”
The sexy laugh again. “His surname was Dembrowski. I figured Ortiz suited me better. Besides, it’s been my professional name since I was twenty-two. Gabe and I parted on amicable terms. I don’t have any animosity about his name.”
“Oh,” I said, the irony not lost on me. My husband’s ex-wife had his last name, not her second husband’s, and I, his current wife, still had the name of my late husband.