Seven Sisters - Earlene Fowler [84]
He pulled out the San Celina County map, scanned it, and immediately started complaining. “This place is in the hills outside of Paso Robles! We just came from there. It’s almost five o’clock. We’ll never make it out there and back in time for my date at six-thirty.”
“Drop me off at the folk art museum, then,” I said evenly. “I’ll drive out there myself. I’ll call you tomorrow and let you know what I find.” I turned and smiled at him. “You certainly don’t want to keep Bambi waiting.”
His face was puzzled. “Huh?”
“Miss Bodice Ripper,” I clarified.
He frowned. “Her name’s Heidi.”
I turned my face to the window, hiding my smile. “Of course.”
“Leave my love life out of this.”
“You brought it up.”
“This Adelaida Cemetery is out in the boonies. I’m not letting you go out there by yourself.”
I turned back to him and said, “Excuse me, but you do not have the authority to keep me from going anywhere I please. Besides, I grew up in this county. I’m less likely to get in trouble out in Adelaida than you are.”
His face turned a dull red as he started the engine, released the emergency brake, and slammed the truck into reverse. “We could do this tomorrow.” Rocks and gravel scattered as he gunned the engine and pulled too quickly out of the cemetery’s parking lot.
I swung around and made sure we hadn’t lost Scout, who was doing his best to get a toe-grip on the detective’s plastic-lined truck bed. “Take it easy, rhinestone cowboy, I’ve got a beloved dog in the bed of this city-boy truck. And I’m not waiting until tomorrow to find out if the rubbing is from the Brown sisters’ graves, and frankly I’m surprised you want to.”
“Heidi hates being kept waiting,” he grumbled.
“Then take me back to the museum, and I’ll—”
“If I let you go out there alone and you get hurt, your husband will have my head, not to mention other parts of my body to which I’ve become quite emotionally attached. No way, ranch girl. We’re going there together, look for these stupid graves, and then we’re through for the day.”
“You know, I can’t believe you’re not more excited about this. It’s a break in the case.”
“More like a paper cut.”
“Who knows what it could lead to? Quit being so close-minded. I swear, those blasted police academies need a creative-thinking class. You cops have thinking skills as narrow as a possum’s tail. This will give you a whole new line of questioning for the Brown family.”
“What do you know? I have an extraordinary conviction rate so I must be doing something right.”
“Dumb luck, most likely.”
“And for your information, that Brown clan is one extraordinarily tight-lipped bunch. I’ve interviewed Cappy Brown and her sisters three times and gotten squat. Half my questions their attorney won’t even let them answer. Except for the younger ones, who are not privy to any of the family’s secrets, a person would have a better chance finding out the recipe for Coca-Cola than a truthful answer from that group. And for all your bragging, I didn’t see you doing any better.”
“Then every little fissure in this case should thrill you. Shut up and drive.”
He tossed the map over at me. “Fine, you shut up and navigate.”
I calmly folded the map up and tucked it into his glove compartment. “I don’t need a map to tell you where to go.” I smiled innocently at him.
His answer was an exasperated, animal-like grunt.
Cops must learn that sound at the academy, too.
It took us almost an hour to get to the cemetery, which was quite a few miles off Interstate 101 on a turnoff out of Paso Robles. We twisted through neatly trimmed walnut groves, past rows of new grapevines thick with emerald leaves, fat, purple fruit hanging heavy and sensual among the lush foliage, under stands of cottonwoods with their bright yellow, heart-shaped leaves and maples just starting their turn from green to yellow to brown. Twisted deciduous oak trees, their trunks massed with poison oak, and white-trunked sycamores shaded the narrow two-lane highway with long fingers of afternoon shadows. The peaceful,