Sun glittered through oak branches, and from Marc’s position on a bluff, he could see for miles. Much was handed to him, and much expected. The grassland was greening up. Just as he’d remembered, the faraway ocean melted with the sky. That morning he’d worked hard trimming hooves and couldn’t help but admire his handiwork. The work had been mindless and routine. But as he’d identified growth lines for the correct angle, he had noticed that his father had skipped over the task. He watched sheep prance about a low platform of rock. Their elf-shoe appearance along with foot rot wouldn’t return for another six months.
He dropped hoof shears and a carpenter’s plane into a canvas bag. He sat with his back against an oak and patted his father’s old shepherds. The pair, sprawled beside him, rested their chins on his legs. He took a deep breath, and the air smelled grassy and fresh. Marc knew the names of all the plants. Bluestem grasses shared space with wild asters, blazing stars, morning glories and heather. He recognized the buzz above him as the fluttering wings of a hummingbird. More than anything, Marc had missed this land during his stint in Chicago.
The dogs had grown older while he was away. Too slow to catch sheep, Sugar and Spice had proved close to useless. “You bow-wows barely stirred up the dust. I had to catch them.” He kneaded their furry necks. Old dogs train puppies.
* * * *
That afternoon, Marc headed east to a kennel run by a Native American breeder, Wilt Hawk. The breeder was reputable but had more charity toward animals than people. Marc parked in the drive in front of a rickety carport. Barks and yelps came from dog runs out back.
Wilt walked out, holding a cigarette in one hand. Marc introduced himself without offering his hand. Instead, Native American style, he hitched up his chin as a greeting, and Wilt did the same.
“Come, Duarte,” he said and led him through his rustic log home. It was neat, considering he co-habited with canines. Dogs had taken over the couches. He followed Wilt to a bedroom divided with expandable wire pens.
Wilt nodded toward the foremost pen. Delicate miniature collies nibbled puppy chow from an automatic feeder. “Take a look at them eight-weekers.” Clean water dripped from an upside down bottle on the linoleum floor with scatter rugs.
In the pen next to the collies, Marc moved toward a litter of Australian shepherds. “Look at them tumble.”
Wilt said, “The Aussies are a couple of days younger. The breed is bigger.”
Marc squatted down and grinned. “They could round me up.”
Wilt put a leg over the pen. A puppy started gnawing on his shoe and then rolled over. Wilt leaned down and scratched the puppy’s round little belly. “Shoulda guessed a Basque rancher would want these toughies. Your people came from Australia in the 1800’s with these dogs.”
“You don’t say.”
“Put down your money and make your selections, Duarte. I bred these to show eye.”
“I can see that.” He knew Aussies stopped sheep with a stare.
“Get in there, sit on that stool. I’ve got a nice color selection.” Wilt made room.
Marc stepped in but wouldn’t select for color. Sitting on a stool in the pen, he watched how they played. It was a temperament indicator. The puppies nipped each other and scampered with their oversized paws. All carried natural herding and guardian instincts, but suitability with children came into his mind. He couldn’t help but picture Galen and Annie with them. He wanted to avoid the most aggressive as well as the antisocial.
Wilt stayed by the side of the pen. “These are purebred Aussies, registered. Their tails are docked. Dew claws are removed. I’ve priced them at eight hundred each.”
After about fifteen minutes, Marc said, “Wilt, I’ve got my pair.” He picked up a marbled gray puppy with one blue and one brown eye. It happened sometimes in the breed. “I’ll take this blue merle.”
“Good choice, Duarte.” The breeder wrote ‘Duarte’s’ on a tag and attached it to the pup’s pink collar.
Marc gathered up another one. “And I’d like this male.” He gathered up a squirmy hazel eyed puppy, red with tan and white points.
“This tri-color is a sweetheart.” Wilt attached a sold tag to the puppy Marc cuddled in his arms. “Have kids, Duarte?”
“Nope.”
“If you want them neutered, I’ll arrange that with the vet for you.” The man handed him a brochure with prices. One of the fees was transportation to and from the vet’s office.
“Thanks.” After studying veterinarian costs, Marc wrote a separate check for neutering, shots, and transportation to the veterinarian and handed it to him.
“I’ll give you a call when they’re ready to go. The doc will have them fixed in a couple of days. You can pay me now.”
* * * *
Driving home, Marc tried to dream up a reason to see Heatherlee. Had she uncovered anything? He doubted it since she wouldn’t be trying. She was building a wall.
Coming up on Mary’s Feed and Seed, he pulled onto the gravel driveway for pet supplies. Steps to the front porch creaked under his feet. A basket of kittens mewed beside the door. Cramped in a cage, two gray tabby kittens were for sale. Their quarters were meant for a hamster, and he took pity on them. He shoved open a flimsy screen. Above, a bell jingled and reminded him once again of Heatherlee.
Inside, the clerk was dressed in western attire. She smiled. “May I help you?”
“How much are the kittens?”
“These plain gray females are free. It’s the shots and spaying you pay for, and that’s been done. Twenty bucks each.”
“Think they’ll take care of my rodent problem?” He didn’t have one, but could use it as an excuse if his parents asked. His mother had allergies and wouldn’t want cats in the house. He’d set them up on the porch.
“Cats are ratters by nature.”
He said, “I’ll take them but have other supplies to buy.” He picked up a large fabric bag and wandered down the dog aisle. Keeping with the blue and pink theme, he picked out two elastic puppy collars, a bag of puppy chow, and tossed in a Frisbee and squeaky rubber mailman. He passed through the cat section and grabbed litter box supplies and proceeded along the bowl aisle. A food bowl with a cat face, another with a dog face, and water bowls balanced on the top of his basket. He went back for a plastic igloo. His front porch was going to look a lot like Wilt’s place.
Except for the igloo, his stuff fit on the counter. “Add in two coins for the ID tag machine.”
She handed him the coins.
With the pups not yet named, he made ID tags with his last name and phone number.
The clerk put her cash register into action and then said, “You have puppies. If puppies and kittens are introduced to each other early enough, they become friends. You must have kids.”
“I’m afraid not.”
* * * *
Before dinner, the twins had watched Shrek the Third. Now they were eating dinner. It always took them awhile to finish, and Heatherlee enjoyed chatting with them at the kitchen table. “Shrek was shy. He didn’t have to talk to people at his swamp.” Her cell rang. Looking first on the caller-ID screen, she said, “Tara.”
“Heatherlee, Terese’s funeral must have been hard on you.”
“It was long and sad, Tara. Today I’m functioning.” She had the twins to think about.
“I’m here in your parking lot. Thought I’d push the twins in the stroller up the coast. You get to light candles and soak in the tub.” Tara had a way of lessening any kind of gloom.
“Kind offer. But why should you be the lucky one to get the arms workout? Be right down.” She reached over and took the twins’ hands. “Tara-tara is here. Let’s go down the elevator.”
“Tara-tara!” Annie grabbed her purple teddy bear. Galen found his, and they chatted in more twin-talk. The bears were baby gifts from Tara.
She walked them into her closet. It was Galen’s turn to push the button, and he knew its location under a metal grid. The elevator rumbled to the business level. “Do you want to walk or ride in the stroller, Lovebugs?” She felt they were outgrowing it.
“Ride.” Annie answered for both of them.
Heatherlee opened the repaired front door. Behind her, the twins chimed, “Tara-tara!”
“Hey, guys,” Tara said, her voice bubbling with an easy charm. It must have been a casual day at her law office because she wore khaki slacks and an aqua sweater, pretty against her mahogany complexion. Annie hugged her leg, and she hugged her back. “Hi, Sweetie. I have a little something for you two.” She held up a DVD package with a slovenly Panda kicking out a fat leg.
“You knew we didn’t have that one.” Heatherlee looked forward to watching it, too. She was spending entirely too much time watching videos she’d made of the twins.
Galen was holding the cover of Kung Fu Panda, and Annie was tugging at it.
“Well, glad you like it,” Tara said. She took the DVD, placed it on the counter, and then squatted to their level. “You’re coming over for Turkey Day.” Her frizzy black bob sprung from under her knit cap.
Holiday get-togethers had become routine. This time, Heatherlee knew Mae would bring side dishes, and she’d bring dessert. “Tara-tara and Cord will do the turkey, gravy, potatoes, and cranberry sauce.” For the twins’ benefit, she spoke in a singsong voice.
“Stop with baby talk,” she said and smiled. “Will Corky and Chase make it?”
“I’m afraid not. They’re going to San Francisco.”
Tara said, “They’ve mentioned moving to the Bay Area.”
“I can understand it. Men of their persuasion would feel comfortable there. We’ll miss them, but I can’t begrudge their happiness.” She dragged the double stroller from deep within the closet. The twins tumbled in. Heatherlee positioned the bears on their laps. “Will your parents be joining us, Tara?”
“Not ’til Christmas, thank you very much.” Tara supported her parents in a scenic community nestled along the Caribbean coast of Honduras. When they visited, they stayed for a month. “Don’t give me that look! They micromanage me from dawn to dusk.”
“Be grateful for their love.” Heatherlee slipped hooded sweatshirts over the twins’ heads. She pushed the stroller close to the door. “What will you do for aggravation?”
“Worry about the Russians.” Tara ran her hands along the front door as she opened it. “Nice patch job. Bobby O’Toole’s work, I’ll bet.”
“Corky kept one eye open.” A former client of Tara’s, the ‘Toolbox’ was proficient at fixing things but had a propensity to steal. She pushed the stroller through the heavy door and locked the bolt with a key.
“Galen and Annie, you’re going for a ride.” Tara held the front of the stroller, balancing it.
Heatherlee bumped it down the cobblestone steps. “Let’s head north toward the boardwalk.” She could hear the surf.
Tara took over the handles of the stroller. “You were smart to hide on the roof, Heatherlee. Yuri’s stairway from the patio came in handy.” Tara, a lap swimmer, pushed the unwieldy stroller with ease.
“Sure did, even though he didn’t make it for me. How naïve was I, anyway?”
“You were young. When you moved back here from Los Angeles, you were barely the legal drinking age.”
“As a former foster kid, I wanted to make it into Landings’ society.” The thought crossed her mind that she was a poser, hobnobbing with the leaguers.
“When you and I met, you were a hospital volunteer. Haven’t you worked on every project in town?” Tara smiled. “I tried to impress you, Heatherlee Von Baronova.”
“Von never preceded Baronova!” She laughed, remembering her efforts to appear sophisticated. “What I gave, I got back tenfold.” Her foster mother, Terese, had sponsored her in the Junior League. “The town matriarchs catapulted my business. Mostly Anna Duarte.”
“Anna owed you big time. You co-chaired her holiday house go-round. Believe me, few can put up with her majesty.” Tara lifted the stroller over a bumpy knot on the boardwalk.
“I liked her decisiveness. We made twenty thousand and donated it to the cancer wing. It was her pet project, but I didn’t know of a better one.” It warmed her heart that afterward, Anna’s friends got the word out about her new spa.
“The leaguers gave Clearwater a boost, but you would have made it a success anyway. Our kind always does.” Tara flashed a warm smile.
“I’d never thought about that, but you’re right. We grew up poor and wanted so badly to succeed.” She had always worked hard. Tara and their other friend, Mae, were less shy.
“You must have an alter ego that feels at home with the Junior League snobs.”
“Many are nice. Participating made me feel less shy.” Changing the subject, she asked, “Tara, learn anything about Svetlana?”
“I did. Svetlana Kessk was sent up for smash-and-grabs. She didn’t squeal. Her sentence could have been lighter. She wouldn’t divulge names of the flying fences.”
“What do you mean, flying fences?”
“It’s a term used for something stolen in one country and sold in another. If proceeds are laundered far away, it’s less obvious.”
“I get it, flying fences.”
“Heatherlee, Russian theft rings are violent.” Tara stopped pushing the stroller for a moment. “Hey, I don’t want to scare you.”
She moved in for a turn with the cumbersome stroller. “Svetlana wouldn’t be alive today if she’d squealed, would she?” She pushed over warped planks of the boardwalk.
“No, to squeal is to die. They’re tight and mobile, in and out of jail. You said Marc found financial binders. He’s been working with Leviticus. Mae told me that Marc handed them over to the FBI.”
Heatherlee bit her lip. She watched the twins snuggle together. “My Lovebugs.” Her body was washed in sweat. She pushed hard. Tears came, and she wiped them with the heel of her hand.
Tara handed her a clean tissue from her pocket. “Yuri kept you in the dark. That’s not to your advantage.”
As they traipsed along the beach boardwalk, Annie shouted, “Swings, Mommy!”
Tara took over pushing the bulky stroller off the boardwalk. Wheels stuck in the sand, and the twins lurched, held in by thin straps. Tara unbuckled them, dodging their waving hands. “Let me free you up, here.” In another moment, the twins were out of the stroller and dashing for the swings. Heatherlee helped them into the swings and gave them each a gentle push.
“Higher, Mommy,” Galen said.
“Okay!” She pulled up his swing but hesitated a moment and then let it go. She realized she was chewing her cheek, already rough from a full day of gnawing. “Tara, I know Yuri’s connection with the theft ring will leak.”
“Journalists have their place. Sometimes radio stations are instrumental in investigations. Newspapers run pictures of wanted criminals or lost children. They ask from help from the public. At this time, they have nothing to offer you. We don’t want to instigate a leak.”
“No, but I want to be prepared from a legal standpoint. Can you advise me in simple legalese?”
“Here’s the scenario.” Tara tickled Annie’s legs and gave her swing a push. “Jewelry stores were robbed. If they can prove that Yuri robbed or cheated them, they are considered creditors against his estate. As a group, they’ll form a class action law suit.”
“Don’t creditors have a limited amount of time to make a claim?”
Tara gave Annie another push. “Yes, and if there’s a business, probate law is on the side of keeping it running. The downside is a public law suit. Even if you win it, Clearwater, as you know it, will be destroyed in the process.” She let Annie’s swing go.
“That’s what I thought. Our sheriff will be one step ahead of the FBI to unravel Yuri’s past.”
“By law, Marc must comply with the FBI. You wanted him to give Svetlana the key, and he did. Otherwise, the heavies would get right back to you.”
“I hope Svetlana can save herself.” Vacillating between gratitude and fear, her brain was in tumult. “A part of me wishes Marc would go away.”
“My dear husband appointed him as sheriff.”
“He picked a conscientious man.” She admired Marc’s dedication. “If he doesn’t lighten up, Cord should fire him,” she kidded.
Tara gave Annie another push. “His sheriff position was scheduled to end in January. This pesky situation will go away sooner than expected. The regular sheriff is done with his chemo and wants to return to work. Marc can return to super society. Anna and Marcellus Senior moved into an elite retirement community. Marc has a sheep ranch to run.”
Heatherlee felt a stab of disappointment. On some level she liked the superhero watching over her. “How can I avoid a class action suit?”
“On your behalf, I’ll contact the Jewelers’ Security Alliance. They are within the FBI and will communicate that his estate may owe damages. With all their record keeping, they can identify and pay creditors.”
“Marc told me about them. I’m glad you agree with his suggestion. It’s a no-brainer to figure the damages.”
“What are they?”
“Damage owed is the original rowhouse mortgage. After Yuri took his last trip abroad, he said he was using all the money he had to pay it off.” She lifted Galen out of the swing. She watched him head for the slide. Annie bounced into the sand and then followed him. “I’ll sell Clearwater.”
“You could take out a loan.” She smiled. “Are your dreams getting too big for this town?”
Heatherlee laughed. “I’d like to give them a shot.” She kicked through sand toward the slide. “This is the push I needed. I’m at the starting line for the rest of my life.”
“If you sell Clearwater, you’ll turn a huge profit. After you pay damages, your cloud will still be lined with silver.”
She wanted to finish college. With a teaching certificate, she could make a real difference in kids’ lives. Maybe she’d start some new business on the side. The possibilities were endless.
Tara shook her head. “I can’t imagine you doing anything else. You are yoga; yoga is you.”
“I’m not selling that part of me.” She watched Galen wait at the top of the slide for Annie. She squeezed behind him, and they slid down like a two-car train. She caught them at the bottom, and for that moment, all the mental fuzz subsided. The twins ran off to do it again.
Tara shook her head and said, “What energy. I could never keep up.”
“Tell me something, Tara. With all the contenders for the temporary sheriff assignment, why was Marc appointed?” She knew that if Sergeant Ditzman worked the case without him, everything would have dropped.
“After his divorce, Marc moved to Chicago. He managed a forensic accounting team. His firm consulted with the FBI.”
She knew that forensic accounting was used in courtrooms in the recovery of proceeds of crimes such as money laundering. “I’ll bet the forensic title added magic to his resume.”
“It did, but also he managed a staff. The sheriff’s responsibility is procedural. Cord pushed it through without a hitch.”
“Is there any more to it? I’m asking because Cord’s up for re-election.”
“He wants Basque votes for his naturalist platform.”
“They’re a large block of voters.”
“Cord is smart. Around here, Basques are influential. They’ve become Landings’ silkiest gentry.” Tara sat on the bench.
Class differences between Marc and her suddenly felt vast. The privileged aura he projected was long entrenched. Her alter ego, as Tara had described it, had learned the hard way. She still carried some irrational phobias. Did she hold onto the Cadillac in case it needed to be a caddy-shack?
Tara said, “The Basques have a colorful history. Even in the cemetery, the Duarte mausoleum is impressive.”
“There a Duarte County Road, not to mention Duarte Park.”
“The road cut through their ranch land. Marcellus Senior donated the land. They’re generous and hardworking. They have political bite.”
She doubted that Marc knew why he was chosen. He had always been serious, even modest. “I admit his natural curiosity makes me nervous.” Heatherlee decided to change the subject to something less personal. “Thanksgiving will be fun at your house.”
“Did I mention that Cordell invited him over for dessert? He’s going to the Duarte shindig first. He’s nice, Heatherlee.”
“And way too Basque,” she groaned. She didn’t need punishment.
“You haven’t dated since your fling with the UPS guy. As I recall he was blond and built like a decathlete.”
“I never expected it to be more than a fling.”
“He was a bum taking those pictures and showing them around.” Tara’s voice was as therapeutic as the town psychiatrist. “I’m glad you had the last laugh.”
“Bold, wasn’t I?” Remembering the embarrassing incident, she felt a satisfying tickle deep inside. Someone had gotten wind of the photos, and soon her clientele knew about it. Then she’d tacked a photo of her own of him on the spa bulletin board, normally used for community flyers. Clad in spandex cycling breeches, his penis was hugely erect.
Tara smiled. “I loved the caption, ‘Hunks with cameras need not apply.’”
“I only had it up for a day.” Moving on, she said, “I’m glad Marc is dropping by on Thanksgiving. I was upset and mean. I should apologize.”
“You have no interest in dating him, do you?”
“I’m too busy to commit emotional suicide. His mother thinks Marc and his ex-wife will get back together. Pilar comes to workouts when she isn’t traveling. She’s a classic Basque beauty.”
“That may be; they are thoroughly tanked. I watched them crash and burn. Cord knows Marc from Rotary. Whenever the four of us went to dinner, Pilar would start with the potshots.”
“I can’t imagine.”
“Let me describe. Keep in mind, Marc’s income tripled hers. If he ever mentioned something about work, she told him not to be boring. Her sales position included a padded account. She acted like her career eclipsed his.”
“Sad, the way she brought out the tommy gun.” She kept Galen’s swing in motion.
“Turned out, there was another problem. She’d taken a lover, the CEO of her company. She acted like the divorce was Marc’s fault.”
“That hardly seems fair.”
“Well, marriage is wonderful when it works out.” Tara held out her left hand and displayed the ring that Heatherlee had designed. “Remember this?”
“Three sapphires were symbols for the three of you.” Cord had commissioned it. Heatherlee had designed it.
“Wasn’t I lucky? Kerrigan was fifteen when we married. Before that, I was a mother to dogs.”
* * * *
Three days later, Marc stopped at the police station. He found Sergeant Ditzman at the coffee maker, finishing off a powdered donut.
“Morning, Sergeant. Did Heatherlee Baronova turn in her report?” It would have included the cost of the jewelry, computer, and damaged door.
Ditzman popped a donut hole into his mouth. Powdered sugar hung on his chin. “Yeah, I have it. Her assistant manager brought it in.”
“Charles O’Connell?”
“I guess. We stamped it.”
“Good, she’s set to process her insurance claim. Did you give her the booklet? It helps a robbery victim process claims.”
“The guy didn’t ask for it.”
“Can you find me one?”
Ditzman crossed the room to the file cabinet that contained them. He pulled one out and handed it to him. “Coffee, sir?” He wiped a napkin across his face. He poured more of the brew into a Styrofoam cup and shook in creamer.
“Thanks, no.” Marc pointed to his own chin, mirroring Ditzman’s powdered sugar. “Sergeant, if nothing else is up, I’ll head out and drop off this booklet at Clearwater.”
“How ’bout helping with the playground surveys?” Ditzman’s face was contorted with displeasure. “Cops don’t have time to do everything for management. Chief wants the surveys done pronto. We haven’t looked at the two preschools.” It wasn’t exactly a newsflash that Ditzman looked pissed.
“Two preschools, that’s how many we have?”
“Can’t believe this. Safety reviews aren’t in our job descriptions. We’re cops, damn it.”
“Where are the preschools?”
“One is Landings Montessori on the corner of Tidewater and Spinnaker. The other is at The Church of Our Redeemer.”
“I’ll do the reviews. Do you have a checklist?” Marc didn’t think an opportunity to see the twins would come up so soon.
Marc found an empty desk. He phoned both preschools and made appointments for the next day. He scheduled the Montessori preschool at ten in the morning and Our Redeemer for eleven.
* * * *
For the first time in months, Marc slept through the night and awoke well rested before the alarm buzzed. Coffee never tasted better. He fed the kittens on the screened porch on the way to the barn. He hummed as he completed morning chores. Unlike Ditzman, he considered the safety surveys significant.
Back in the kitchen, he poured himself orange juice. After eating a rancher’s breakfast of eggs, sausage, and toast, he listened to the market report. Sheep were going for killer prices. He wanted to sell the herd at the next auction. He’d pass the plan through his father, his not so silent partner. Knowing his father always listened to the market report, he punched their Laguna Woods phone number. “Morning, Pop.”
“Junior, glad you called. Maybe the sheep prices go higher. Cousin Max is holding out.”
Max miscalculates it every time. “I’d like to sell our flock, Pop, except for the two pregnant ewes.” He needed to move to another subject quickly before his father gave him unwanted advice. “How’s assisted living?”
“Your mother loves it.”
“Pop, I’ll need your help at the auction. Can you get away and spend Tuesday with me?” Marc knew his father loved auctions. Maybe their opinions wouldn’t collide while they sold the herd.
His father’s voice was lively. “Tuesday before Thanksgiving, isn’t it? Sure, I’ll look forward to it. By the way, Marc, your mother and I have made a decision about the ranch. Half is yours. We’ve already told your sister.”
“I figured on it someday. I’m grateful. For now, you still need the income.” Their first golden year in Laguna Woods had been expensive.
“We’ll manage without the ranch income just fine. We’ve been socking it away, Marc. We’re thrilled that you’re back from Chicago. It’s time you and Felicity took it over. She doesn’t need the income, but fair is fair.” Felicity’s Basque husband was a movie producer in LA. Marc’s niece and nephew attended a Beverly Hills private elementary school. “Keeping sibling rivalry in mind, we gave her half the land. She’s not interested in the buildings or sheep. House, barn, and machine shed are yours.”
“If she’s going to sell, I’d like to buy her out. You probably remember that I bought a condo in Chicago. According to my realtor, it’s doubled in price.”
“Isn’t it under lease?” his father asked.
“Lease is up. My tenants have moved out. When I sell, I want to buy her land at fair market price.” He’d still need a loan even with the condo’s proceeds.
“That would be best. Otherwise she might sell to an outsider.” His father made a feeble effort to cup the phone. “Anna, our boy really did come home. He’ll run the Duarte Ranch, the whole thing.” He laughed with a snort.
In the background, he heard his mother’s blissful weeping, something she did when happy.
His father’s exuberant voice spoke again. “Well, Junior. You know how your mother gets when she’s happy.” Her dishtowel would be sopping.
“Yes, I do, Pop. Love you both.”
“Call Felicity.”
“I will.”
“I placed a couple of bets that you’d buy her out.”
“How many?”
“Two. One’s with Senator Cordell Smith. The other’s the entire Basque Sheep Rancher Association.”
“The Association, huh?” He chuckled. “You make the three of you sound like a real coalition.” Marc hung up, elated. He thought about his family history. If it weren’t for a Mexican, their sheep would not be roaming the high plain that overlooked the Pacific and on a clear day, all the way to Catalina. His mother never spoke about how the Duarte brothers came to own the land.
It was a story his father told. Around 1850, after the Mexican Cession when Alta California and New Mexico were ceded to the U.S., don Javier Saucado Ramirez was about to lose enormous territory. He knew his daughters were smitten with hardworking Basque ranch hands. The Basques were American citizens, and when the three couples married, Ramirez maintained control of two thousand acres until his death. After many generations, Marc and Felicity would take over their father’s holding. Their cousins, Jake and Max, owned smaller sections to the south.
On the way to the cruiser looking like a sheriff, Marc made another call. “Sis?”
“Don’t worry, Junior. I won’t sell my land to anyone else. I’ll hold it until you’re ready.”
“See all of you at Thanksgiving?”
“Of course. The kids can’t wait to hear adventures straight from Uncle Junior, temporary sheriff. What are you up to today?”
“I’m on my way to survey playground equipment. Don’t say it. Sheriff Hadley is missing out on all the fun.” After ending their conversation, his thoughts returned to Hadley, a sheriff who never cut corners.
Marc was in his cruiser when his cell buzzed. Wilt, the dog breeder, was on the line. “Marc, your puppies are ready.”
“I’ll come directly.” He’d head east, and then double back to Landings Beach. He took a moment to line a cardboard box with an old blanket and edged it into the back seat. He filled a double dish with puppy morsels and water. He propped it securely in a corner.
* * * *
With his Aussie pair curled into balls, asleep in the box behind him, Marc cracked the windows for ventilation. His first stop was the Montessori School. He met with the head teacher and reviewed the playground equipment. He wrote out recommendations for a softer fall zone with twelve inches of wood chips under swings and around the slide. He asked about supervision. They had adequate staff. One piece of information from the sheriff’s handbook stuck with him. Preschoolers are unable to foresee danger.
Back in the cruiser, he headed for The Church of Our Redeemer Preschool. The grounds of the church took up about two acres. Marc parked the cruiser alongside a locked, well contained playground. He brought his clipboard with the checklist, complete with a carbon copy and walked to the visitors’ entrance of the preschool. Inside, he cleared his arrival with the school secretary. Content with the security, he walked back through the hall, smelling hot food. He stopped at a bulletin board. The little institution was serving turkey, mashed potatoes, and fresh apples. Around the menu was a construction paper wreath made up of little hands in red, yellow, orange, and purple.
He came through the door that led to the playground and began his survey of an elaborate wooden structure. He checked for splinters and found the wood to be smooth. He wrote down a reminder. “Preschoolers should wash their hands after playing on the jungle gym. The wood is treated with arsenic.”
A teacher came up behind him and introduced herself as Mrs. Miller. “How’s the report coming, Sheriff Duarte?”
“It’s finished, Mrs. Miller.” He handed it to her and waited while she read it over.
She looked up over reading glasses. “We’ll heed to your recommendation for hand washing, Sheriff. Thank you for your thorough review. Pardon me for noticing the adorable puppies jumping up and down in the back seat of your cruiser.” In another moment, she’d coerced him into bringing the puppies over for her community awareness unit. “Give the kids a couple of safety tips. You’ll have their attention with the puppies.” She glanced at an open door. “Here they are. I’ll unlock this gate.”
By the time he returned with the puppies in his arms, Mrs. Miller had the tots sitting Indian style in a semi-circle. He did the same with the puppies between his legs. “Hello, kids. How many of you ride tricycles?” He saw every hand shoot into the air. “When you ride a tricycle, you go faster than walking. You should wear a helmet. Only ride on the sidewalk. Don’t cross the street unless a parent is with you. And don’t talk to strangers.”
“Children,” Mrs. Miller said. “As you can see, Sheriff Duarte has brought his puppies. They’re little, and we can’t hold them. You can take turns and stroke their heads with your fingers like this.” She demonstrated and then arranged the tots into a line.
Marc heard some commotion, and then saw Galen jumping. “I know him. I know him.” Annie said, “Me, too.” Behind them, his cousin’s son, Nicky Duarte, was kicking another kid in the shins. One by one, the children began the petting routine. First, they petted the tri-colored puppy and next, the blue merle.
About midway in line, Galen came by. He said, “Hi, Sheriff.”
“Hi, Galen,” Marc whispered.
Galen touched the first one and said, “Fluffy”.
“Let’s name this one Fluffy.” Marc smiled. The tri-colored male puppy now had a name.
Annie followed behind Galen. She pet Fluffy and then moved to the blue merle, stroking lightly. “Pretty spots.”
“Annie, this puppy’s name is Spotty.”
“Hi, Spotty.” Annie smoothed along the puppy’s back.
His cousin-once-removed, Nick Duarte, came along next. “Hi Marc.”
“Hey, Nick. Kicking isn’t a good way to solve problems.”
“Okay, okay.” Nicky shrugged and stroked the puppies.
After the line of kids came to an end, Marc said, “Fluffy and Spotty have to say goodbye now. The puppies had a nice visit.”
A bell rang, and the children grumbled as they returned to their classroom. Mrs. Miller said, “My, they had fun.” She began to clean the small tables. “I left the survey in the principal’s office.”
He asked, “Do the kids stay all day?”
“Some do because their parents work. Others stay four hours, from ten until two. Everyone takes a nap after lunch. We do something special after naptime.”
“What’s planned for today?” Marc asked.
“A field trip to the music school.”
“Would that be Landings Music School near the library?” Svetlana had come to mind.
“That’s the one, Sheriff. Someone is going to play the accordion for us. We’ll bring our percussion instruments.” The teacher beamed with excitement. “Another wonderful learning experience will end their day.” She exchanged more small talk as she walked him to the gate. “We use that bus parked over there for our field trips. I have two aides accompany us. We herd the class…like sheep dogs.”
“I’m glad to hear that, Mrs. Miller.” He was having problems holding onto the puppies. He turned them onto their backs on top of the clipboard and cradled them against the curve of his elbow. When they were in their box, he got into the passenger seat and phoned Leviticus.
“Hello, Marc. Got my notes right here from Ben’s surveillance.”
“Good, what have you got?” Marc was anxious to hear his report.
“On that first day, Ben trailed Svetlana on her walk from the Starlight. Carried a suitcase and another bag and headed for the bank, as you expected. She accessed the safe deposit box. From the bank she hiked up the hill to the Capri. Moved into apartment 201. An hour later she was at a bus stop. Ben followed her bus to Los Angeles.”
“To the jewelry district?” Marc asked.
“That’s right, the International Gem Center on Hill Street. She sold diamonds and gems.”
Marc said, “Probably for wholesale prices, but that can be considerable. Where did she go from there?”
“Took the bus back to Landings. Got off near the bank. Ben parked and followed her. She accessed safe deposit box again.”
“She’s making use of the box as a cash hold.”
“Marc, with the key you gave me and a permission letter from Tara, I accessed the box. There’s a bag of gems and a half million in wads of fifties in there.” Leviticus cleared his throat.
“I’d like to think Svetlana is satisfied with what she has. Hope she can pay off Mitvolsky and his sidekick. It would be dangerous for her if she tried for bigger stakes. What else is she doing?”
“Every afternoon she walks four blocks to the Landings Music School. She’s there from one to five. She teaches level one piano.”
That worried Marc. It was way too easy to engage the twins in conversation. Preschoolers are unable to foresee danger.
“Oh, and I heard from the Feds. They’re taking charge, and that’s fine with me. We’ll let the FBI use its resources and work with local crime enforcement.”
Marc said, “They’ll add a new perspective. Has Ditzman sent over the lab report?”
“He did. Ron Ditzman doesn’t give anybody anything before he makes them listen to him for awhile. I imagine he annoyed the crap out of them.”
* * * *
When Marc dropped his safety report at police headquarters, he wasn’t expecting to see the incumbent sheriff, Richard Hadley. “You’re looking well, Richard.”
“Well enough to be bored stiff at home. Made me realize I’m married to my job.”
Marc chuckled. “How soon will you be back at the command post?”
“Thought I’d start with half days and see how it goes. If I came back full time in, say, a week, how would you feel about that? You’re doing a fine job. If your stint ended early, would it feel an amputation?” Richard stood there in silence for a moment, giving Marc time to grasp the situation.
“Not at all, Richard, timing is perfect. I’d like to get back to sheep ranching. In fact, I’ve got two Aussie pups waiting for me in the cab of my cruiser.”
Their conversation continued outside as they walked. Earlier that day, Richard said he’d stopped by the senator’s home to update him on his improved condition. He and Cord had ended up on Leviticus’ porch for an update on the jewelry theft ring. Marc brought the puppies out of the cruiser to play in the grass while they discussed the Fed’s involvement. Marc put the puppies back in the box and said, “I’m dropping off the insurance processing booklet to the owner of the health spa.”
Richard said, “Heatherlee Baronova doesn’t know much according to Leviticus. Well, that can happen. I’ve trained my wife not to ask me about my work.”
* * * *
Marc drove across town with the booklet. The weather had turned into a cold, surly November day. He glanced at the clock on the dash. It was three-thirty in the afternoon. Will she be teaching a class? He pulled into the lot adjacent to her rowhouse. Getting out, he took notice of the repaired landline, a reminder to call first. It would give her an opportunity to hide from him. He dialed, half-expecting an employee to pick up.
“Clearwater. This is Heatherlee. May I help you?”
“Heatherlee. It’s Marc. I have the booklet on how to process an insurance claim.”
“I could use step-by-step advice. How can I get it?”
“I’m sticking it under the mat by your front door.”
“Don’t leave.”
“I’ll wait.” I’ll gladly wait. A couple minutes later the brass bell jingled. She opened the door wearing an easy smile and a russet jacket dress.
“You look nice.” He handed her the booklet.
“My wardrobe is limited except for workout clothes. Today I had a meeting. Lucky for me, a Coldwater Creek shop is two doors down.” Looking at the booklet, she blinked. “Yellow cover? A Dummy’s Guide to Processing Insurance Claims?” She raised her eyebrows. “Our po-lice could get into copyright trouble.”
“Only if they sold it.”
“The twins are having a snack. Come up. Say hello.” She spoke quickly, in a hurry to get back upstairs. Her peep-toe heels made clicks across the lobby. He noticed that classes were in session which meant she had a staff.
He liked how she kept the twins foremost on her mind. Heading into the fake-closet, he followed her. She went behind coats and then up the secret stairway. With springy bounces, she hurried up while he enjoyed the view of her long, lithe legs.
They walked across the spotless living room to the kitchen. Two plastic clown plates still had food on them. The twins were chasing each other around. The kitchen smelled of pine soap. He watched her bring dishes to a stainless steel sink, free of water spots. Marc came up with a conversation piece. “What were you eating, Galen and Annie?”
She washed the dishes, stacked them, and dried her hands with a paper towel. “You remembered their names.”
Of course he did.
Heatherlee said, “Tell Sheriff Marc what you were eating?”
Annie looked up. “Peanut butter.”
Galen explained, “On toast.”
Annie continued, “Strawberries and oranges on it. Puppies might like it.”
Heatherlee asked, “Puppies? Where did that come from?”
“I had to inspect playground equipment at the two preschools in town. I had my new puppies with me.”
“A sheriff’s duties are broad. You deserve a snack.” She put two slices of rye bread in the toaster.
He shook Galen’s hand with his thumb and forefinger. “Galen. I think your name means healer.”
“It does. I’m surprised you knew that.” The toast popped. She spread it with peanut butter and then placed sliced strawberries and orange sections on top.
“Once upon a time, I studied the baby name book. I thought Pilar and I might have a family.”
“Glamour and travel define her. Did she like names of places? London and Austin are popular names.”
“We never got that far.” He watched her put the snack on a small plate and hand it to him. She opened the refrigerator and handed him a bottle of iced tea. “Where’s the parsley spring?” He took a bite. “This is really good.”
“Glad you like it.” Some orange sections were left over. She opened a drawer and took out a piece of tin foil. It wasn’t from a roll. Heatherlee washed and saved aluminum foil. “Nice job of recycling,” he said.
Heatherlee smiled. “What if things get used up, never to return?”
“Fix what’s broken. Heal it when it’s sick.”
Heatherlee paused. “This is true for old but reliable cars and children with bad report cards.”
He wondered if anyone in particular fell into the bad report card category.
“My old car eats too much gas even though I don’t drive far.”
“How could you give up a1959 Coup de Ville with fins? To tell you the truth, I’ve always wanted one. The car looks welcoming with the soft plump seats.”
“Tufted,” she said. “After Yuri died, I climbed in the backseat and gnawed on a ginger snap. One of his sweaters was in there. I smelled his smell.”
He pictured her in the Caddy’s dusky interior, quiet and dark.
“I started doing yoga in there, lying on my back.” She grabbed a sponge and wiped a smudge of peanut butter off the table. Was she scrubbing away sadness? “Thanks for being the go-between with Svetlana.” She glanced at him over her shoulder. “Hope you don’t mind letting yourself out.”
He stalled. It might be awhile before he came up with another reason to see her. “Who repaired the front door?”
“I called in a handyman, Bobby Toolbox.” She watched the twins jumping on the living room couch, throwing purple bears into the air. “Remember, Lovebugs. We only jump on furniture at our house.”
He followed her into the living room but stood at the doorjamb. “I know Bobby O’Toole. Hope he didn’t walk off with anything.”
Now the twins were hurling themselves from one loveseat to the other across the coffee table. She dragged the coffee table away from the action. “Tara warned me. My manager was here when Bobby came over to patch it, but I’ll order another door. There’s a website for salvaged antique doors.”
He wanted to say that he’d talk with her later, but didn’t. “The snack was delicious.” He put the plate and bottle in the sink and returned. “Have a nice evening.”
“I will. Enjoy another night as temporary sheriff.”
“In another week I’ll be running sheep fulltime.”
“I’m guessing that makes you a meat steward.”
He laughed. “I could have guessed you’d be vegetarian. I barbeque rack of lamb, but never barbeque my own.”
“Ranchers can’t eat their own stock? I hadn’t thought about affection that develops. It must be hard to care for them only to sell them to a packing plant.” She was keeping an eye on the twins. The tots were jumping on the furniture, and she moved closer.
“I know how to grill vegetables.”
“I’m listening.” She caught a tumbling Annie. Galen landed squarely on the floor. “Once your mother told me you worked for the FBI.”
“I worked as an accountant for a consulting firm hired by the FBI.” He could see her eyes from where he stood. He searched the depths of one green and one gold eye.
“You don’t pretend to be more than you are.” She fidgeted, pinching the fabric of her dress.
“I am what I am.”
“You were always like that. Back in high school, you came in first in just about every track meet and…” Her eyebrows jumped up. “You were over at the D’Etcheverry’s a lot.”
“I can’t believe I don’t remember you.”
“There was nothing to remember. I didn’t have friends and wasn’t any fun.”
“All that has changed,” he said. “According to Leviticus, Tara and Mae are your friends. I admire them both. You must have fun since you’re a rather unlikely trio.” Heatherlee, Tara, and Mae are thirty-something, forty-something, and fifty-something. Besides that, their friendship crosses racial lines.
“Leviticus calls us the Lunar Ladies. We’re big dreamers.”
“Had any dreams about what’s in that safe deposit box?” He thought he’d ask.
“Nope, whatever’s there isn’t mine.” She turned and busied herself at the sink, shutting him out. Copper ringlets curled on the nape of her elegant neck. “It’s a shapeless unknown.”
“Shapeless unknowns worry most people.” He picked up a plastic cup from the floor and walked it to the sink.
“I like predictable outcomes.” After she spoke, she turned and bumped into him. To catch herself she grasped his forearm. Her curved mouth enticed him. He had the impulse to kiss her but didn’t act upon the guilty-sweet temptation. His muscles tensed under her fingertips. He wanted her touch to linger.
She withdrew her hand. “I saw your parents at Terese’s funeral. Your mother was one of her closest friends.”
“They were Lunar Ladies in a sense. They went to nurses’ training together in Reno and then moved here to work in the new medical center in Landings Beach.
“I know your father is a deacon at the Church of Our Redeemer. My foster family, the D’Etcheverry’s worshipped there.”
“Are you a member, Heatherlee?”
“Absolutely. Almost every Sunday, I attend church while the twins go to Sunday school. The church has a preschool as well. A religion brings stability. The important thing is to have one. Before I lived with the D’Etcheverry’s, I was a purebred.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” He found the term offensive, not that his family hadn’t spoken of it.
“Purebred’s a term my mother used for people with no religious affiliation. Terese arranged a baptism for me. We had a party. I was blessed to be with them. Terese even took me to the orthodontist.” Tears welled in her eyes. “Excuse me, but I have a lot of paperwork to finish before the day’s over.”
“I won’t keep you.” His eyes didn’t let go until he headed down the stairwell. He tried to imagine Heatherlee’s state of mind as she gnawed a ginger snap and pulled Yuri’s sweater close while trying out a yoga move. He found it precious, the way she healed in the Caddy.
At the bottom of the steps, he wound his way through the closet. Shutting the closet door, he remembered the elevator that had to be on the business level. He looked around. The velvet drapes would be wide enough to cover an elevator door. There wouldn’t be a window flush against another rowhouse. He walked behind a shrine and pulled the cord to the drapes. They opened to a shiny metal elevator door. He closed them and stepped to the front of the shrine. It was a graceful figure in polished bronze kneeling in an introspective pose. The base was marble base, and a large index card balanced against it. Written in calligraphy, he read, “Virasana, Hero Pose, a balm for tired legs at the end of the day.” He studied the yoga position and imagined himself doing it. Kneel with thighs perpendicular to the floor with inner knees together and tops of the feet flat. Not for me.
A stack of business cards belonging to the sculptor rested at its base. Gazing across the walls, he saw that paintings had price tags, a boost to local artists. At Clearwater artwork was for sale. Subject matter was related to good health in some way. A bulletin board displayed a flyer for a three-mile fun run and another for a ceramic fair. Heatherlee marketed her business while promoting homegrown talent.
The brass bell jangled, and a young man came in.
Marc said, “Hello.”
“Hi there.” He strolled forward and extended his hand. “I’m the manager, Charles O’Connell.” His lithe body and reddish hair reminded him of her. He had a pleasant smile even with crooked, overlapping teeth.
“Marc Duarte.” He shook his hand. “Nice to meet you, Charles. I think I saw you in a picture upstairs.”
“Heatherlee’s my sister. Thanks for your help, Sheriff. She told me about the break-in. I’m in charge of replacements.”
“I understand you and Heatherlee were separated for a while as kids.”
“We found each other.”
“If the pictures on the fireplace mantel are an indication, your reunion didn’t include your parents.”
“Our father left. Our mother eats her young.” Charles grinned as if it were a joke. Her brother turned his attention to the front desk.
Soon outside, the wind pushed into Marc as he walked to the shore. He wanted to give her rowhouse a cursory inspection from a different angle. The shore was steep and rocky. Rocks were piled up in heaps. Wild water pounded against them, and he could hear them rub and rattle with each wave. The sound of them clattering together reminded him of how he felt at times with his parents. He wished he had more of a buffer between them. He never fought openly, but their fussiness was a form of low-level criticism. Junior, you’ve got hair growing on your ear. Momma complimented him when he wore the navy sweater, gently did not compliment him on the sweater with the colorful stripes. Pop invited him to outings with the cousins, but Nick was rough around the edges and Max drank too much. But then he tried to imagine life without his family and laughed to himself. Nothing his parents did or said had left any real blotches on his life. He turned his attention back to the rowhouse.
The white trim was in good shape, and the paint on the balcony railing looked fresh. The spiral staircase to the roof was back to being hidden with morning glories and white heather. White sheers covered the inside of the French doors to her bedroom. He took a step backward. He knew how the fortress looked at night with blinding exterior lights.