Tumbling Blocks (24 page)

“What service. An extra orange in your stocking this Christmas, Chief Ortiz.”

He laughed, sounding more buoyant than I’d heard him in a long time. “Anything else I can do to make you happy?”

“Sure, but that’ll have to wait until later on tonight.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” he replied. “Mom and I shouldn’t be too late. I’m taking her to Ghost Fish, that new restaurant in Morro Bay. I heard they have great Maine lobster. Mom loves lobster.”

“I’m sure she’d enjoy a walk on the Embarcadero too.”

“You and Ray have a good time.”

“We will. You know there’s always something going on at Liddie’s.”

Thirty minutes later, my favorite police officer, Miguel, came walking in carrying Abe Adam Finch’s painting. He was one of Elvia’s younger brothers and at twenty-five had been a San Celina police officer for four years now. I still got a kick out of seeing this man in uniform, because I could remember reading all the Dr. Seuss books to him.

“Hey, Benni,” he said, setting the wrapped painting down in the middle of the museum’s main hall. “Where do you want this?”

“Just prop it up over there,” I said, pointing to the spot we’d prepared for it. “D-Daddy will hang it right away.”

“So, this is the fancy-pants painting that’s going to put your museum on the map?”

I punched him lightly on his muscled shoulder. “Hey, I know it’s not as important as a signed poster of Shaquille O’Neal, but it’s a pretty big deal in the outsider art world.”

“Whatever,” he said, obviously not interested. “I’m just the delivery guy.” He stretched and scratched his close-cropped black hair. “How’s my
hermana grande
doing? Emory said she had a meltdown.”

“After a bit of a clothing crisis, she is back on track. I think she spent almost six hundred dollars on maternity clothes yesterday.”

“Huh,” he snorted. “Not even close to what Mama is spending for the baby. The whole house looks like a baby store. You’d think it was her first grandkid.”

Elvia had six brothers, four of whom were married and had children. Elvia’s baby would be Mrs. Aragon’s seventh grandchild.

“It’s probably because it’s her only daughter’s first baby. Maybe she’s reliving some of the experiences she had carrying all of you.”

After Miguel left, I sent one of the docents to find D-Daddy so we could hang the painting as soon as possible. I stood next to it, unwilling to even walk out of the room until we had it hung and attached to the security device D-Daddy and the alarm people had devised. It would go off the minute someone lifted the picture away from the wall. Granted, an experienced art thief might be able to disarm it, but it wasn’t the fancy art thieves we were worried about; they’d probably not bother with a small museum like ours. I was more worried about amateurs who were looking to make a quick buck.

When D-Daddy came in and readied the spot for the official hanging, I slowly unwrapped the painting. I still couldn’t get over our museum’s good fortune that, at Nola Maxwell Finch’s suggestion, her uncle had agreed to donate a painting to our permanent collection. When Constance brought Nola for a personal tour, I had no idea Nola would fall in love with our little museum, admire its simplicity and champion our statement of purpose, to celebrate the artist in all people, regardless of background.

“It’s amazing,” one of the docents said. A group of them had gathered to watch D-Daddy hang the painting.

It really was more vibrant and arresting in person than in the eight-by-ten photos we’d been sent. The tree with leaves that seemed to be half oak, half pine, was rich with subtle details, faces painted in the trunk, animals and birds peeking out of the foliage. There was so much going on in the painting that you could stare at it for an hour and not get bored.

“That’s perfect,” I said to D-Daddy, who gave the plain black frame that surrounded the painting one last nudge. “I’m so glad this is finally done.”

“You say it,
ange,
” D-Daddy said, stepping back and letting the small crowd move closer to the painting. He said out of the side of his mouth, “Now maybe Miss Constance will stop hanging around so much.” D-Daddy was patient with Constance and always went to great lengths to appease her, but like me, dealing with her took up time he’d rather spend working on the museum.

“We still have the opening on Wednesday night,” I answered back in a low tone, “so we’ll probably have her hanging around until then. But once that’s over, she’ll move on to something else.”

He slipped his hammer back in his tool belt. “I’ll be in back working on the bathroom sink. Someone, they pour paint down it again.”

“I’ll post another note on the bulletin board,” I said.

We had an industrial-size sink in the back of the woodworking shop, but often people didn’t want to walk that far and used the tiny bathroom sink instead. It was often clogged up, trying D-Daddy’s patience. Things like that were as much, if not more, a part of my workday as unwrapping and hanging famous paintings.

I was giving my speech one more edit when the phone rang. I almost let the answering machine pick it up, then decided since I’d turned off my cell phone, that probably wasn’t a good idea. It actually might be something important.

“Benni, is that you?” It was Constance.

I took a deep breath. I shouldn’t have answered. “Yes, ma’am.”

“We have a lunch date with Nola Finch and Dot St. James at The Brambles restaurant in Cambria.”

“Is that the royal we?” I asked deliberately being facetious. She wouldn’t have a clue what I was implying.

“What are you talking about?” Her voice was impatient, sharp. “I have a reservation for eleven thirty. Dress nice.”

I was tempted to say “as compared to my normal manure-caked clothing?” Except sometimes my boots did reek of, as Daddy would say, “the smell of money.”

“Okay,” I said, glancing up at the clock in my office. It was ten thirty now. That meant I’d have to make a quick trip home, because I’d thrown on faded Wranglers and an old Cal Poly sweatshirt, thinking that I’d spend most of the day either in my office or giving the museum one last spit shine. “What’s the purpose of this lunch?” I foolishly asked.

“What?”

Did I use any words that weren’t in her vocabulary? “Why are we having lunch with Nola and Dot?”

“Because they want to,” she said, as if my question were the oddest thing in the world.

“See you later,” I said wearily, wondering what part of this job was fun anymore. Of course there was no real reason to have lunch. These women didn’t actually have jobs or chores or to-do lists. They paid other people,
like me,
to do that.

The house was empty when I stopped by to change into black wool slacks, a simple white shirt and a black sweater. I looked at myself in the mirror and realized I looked like I was ready to serve dinner in an upscale restaurant, so I added a turquoise and black bolo tie in a six-pointed star design. That touch, along with my good Lucchese cowboy boots, made me look a little less like the person serving lunch and more like one of the ladies eating lunch.

I left a note for Kathryn and Ray telling them I’d be home by six o’clock. I added, “Hope you’ve had a fun day! See you later. Love, Benni.” I felt a little funny putting
love
, but I couldn’t think of what else to sign.

As I drove the twenty or so miles out to Cambria for the second time in as many days, I decided that after lunch I’d make good use of my time and also go by Pinky’s house. Though I hadn’t a clue what to look for, at least I could tell Constance I’d done as she asked. If she weren’t the person who paid a good deal of the running costs of the museum, I would tell her to take a flying leap into the Pacific Ocean that churned to the left of me for most of my drive to Cambria.

Normally, it was a beautiful trip, one that I enjoyed despite having to stay aware of the crazy drivers weaving across the yellow strip dividing the two-lane highway. Today, all I could think about was getting through this lunch, making a cursory walk through Pinky’s house, and possibly getting back to San Celina in time to find a Santa Claus who’d consent to having his photo taken with a certain little corgi puppy.

“Maybe I should move that to tomorrow,” I said out loud. I could always lie to Hud when he called . . . and he
would
call again. No, he could always tell when I was out-and-out fibbing. Maybe after Ray and I had dinner we could swing by the house, pick up Boo and find us a Santa Claus somewhere. Surely the mall had one? It had been a long time since this had been a problem for me. I think the last kid I took to see Santa Claus was Miguel when he was three or four, right before his brother Ramon was born.

At least the Santa Claus dilemma kept my mind off what was really worrying me: Gabe and Kathryn’s dinner tonight. Would she tell him at the restaurant or when they were walking along the Embarcadero? Personally, I thought a conversation like that was better off inside the privacy of our home, but no one was consulting me on the matter.

The Brambles was one of the oldest restaurants in Cambria and deserved its long tenure as one of the town’s favorite eating establishments. I could remember coming here as a child for Dove’s birthday every year, the one time Daddy consented to dress up and “do the town,” which meant dinner at The Brambles, then back to San Celina for a movie at the Art Deco Fremont Theater. Dove and I wore dresses, and she made Daddy wear a tie and his best western-style sports coat. She always ordered the split pea soup, prime rib, garlic mashed potatoes and crème brûlée for dessert. As a child, I loved their tiny loaves of molasses bread served in a big basket, a loaf for every diner. Dividing my loaf into as many doll-size slices as my knife would allow kept me occupied during the wait for our food.

Constance, Dot and Nola had already been seated when I arrived five minutes late. I knew I’d catch heck from Constance, but I’d gotten behind a slow RV and didn’t dare try to pass on the busy highway.

“Finally,”
Constance said when I walked up.

“Sorry I’m late,” I said, sitting down in the one empty ladder-back chair. We were in the best spot in the room, next to the stone fireplace. The room’s dark burnished paneling glowed in the light from the silk-shaded wall lamps. From the shades dangled sparkling jewels that had fascinated me as a child.

“No matter, we’ve just ordered drinks,” Dot said, waving away Constance’s admonition. “What’ll you have, Benni?” Her voice was as bright as a chirping bird. She wore a black and white diamond-patterned dress that I was willing to bet cost more than my first car.

“Mineral water with lime,” I said.

“Oh, live it up,” Dot said. “Try one of their marvelous dirty martinis.”

“No, thanks, Dot. I have to drive back to San Celina after this, and one drink puts me in the over-the-limit class.”

“I suppose,” she said, waving down our waiter and giving him my drink order. “With a husband who’s chief of police, I suppose you can’t be too careful. But you won’t tattle on me, will you?” She giggled and toasted me.

“Is it hard?” Nola Maxwell Finch asked, sipping at what appeared to be a cosmopolitan. “Being the wife of the chief of police, I mean.”

“Sometimes,” I said. “We’ve been married over four years. I’m almost used to it.”

“He’s quite handsome,” Nola said, setting her drink down carefully.

“Gorgeous, actually,” Dot piped up. “He could slip his shoes under my four-poster bed any old time he likes.”

“Dot!” Constance’s face flushed with embarrassment.

I tried not to burst out laughing at Dot’s unexpected remark. I couldn’t imagine it coming from a less likely person. I guessed this wasn’t the first martini she’d had today. She also wasn’t the first woman who’d been attracted to my husband and wasn’t shy about admitting it. My mineral water arrived just in time.

“I’m parched,” I said, busying myself squeezing my lime and stirring my drink.

“I would love,” Dot said, catching our waiter’s eye and pointing at her drink, “to hear more about our chief of police’s nocturnal habits.”

“So,” I said, picking up my menu. “Are there any specials?”

Luckily, Dot was sloshed enough that it was easy to distract her. “The lamb is delicious. They have the most divine mint sauce, though I have to admit, the thought of eating baby lambs can often bring me to tears.” She gave a loud sniff and fumbled for the bread basket.

I looked over at Nola, whose face was thoughtful. I imagine Dot wasn’t the first tipsy society lady she’d lunched with.

“My gramma always gets the prime rib here,” I said. “I really like their roasted chicken pie.”

“Chicken pie sounds wonderful,” Nola said, setting her menu down. “What about you, Constance?”

“I’ll have the duck,” she said.

“Me too,” Dot said, giving a soft hiccup.

The sound startled me, and I had to keep myself from laughing. I thought drunks only hiccuped on television comedies.

After our waiter brought Dot another drink, then took our orders, I asked Nola, “Do you like Cambria?”

“Yes,” she said. “I absolutely fell in love with it the first time I drove through town. I have a little house over by Moonstone Beach.”

“Beautiful little cottage,” Constance said. “Gorgeous view.”

“It’s a little small, though,” Nola said. “I’m trying to find something a little bigger. Perhaps with a studio.”

Constance straightened in her seat, looking like she wanted to crow. I could guess why. Maybe Abe Adam Finch was thinking about moving to Cambria. What a coup that would be for Constance. Maybe Nola telling me about her uncle’s fragile health was a precursor to this development.

Nola shook her head. “I’m afraid I’m driving my realtor a little crazy. I can’t seem to find a suitable house. Privacy is a real issue.”

“Well, there’s one really nice house going on the market soon,” Dot said, finishing her martini. “If you don’t mind living someplace where someone died. Then again, I guess most of the houses in Cambria fit that description. We’re an aging bunch here.”