Chapter Seven

Friday, February 22: President Bush demands Iraq begin withdrawal from Kuwait by noon February 23 to avoid ground war.

In the morning, Jenna’s very first waking thought, as she surfaced out of a dream, was—I am not going to get this damned house painted. As disturbing as Nancy’s words had been, she had sternly dismissed them. The kiss was another matter. She needed to talk to somebody else about this; she needed some advice. Rosalie Hayes was her first choice. Did he have a reputation around San Ignacio that would put her own in question if she continued to work with him? The Latin lover—a stereotype, worse than a stereotype, really a cliché, a silly cliché. Rosalie liked him, and he had made her those beautiful cabinets. Monica had been friendly with him. They were both married women—was that possible? Was this San Ignacio or Peyton Place? Did he think—and this made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up—this was the kind of discount he was giving her?

Then again, maybe a kiss was just a kiss. Against her will, which was legally assault, but her resistance had been minimal. He had apologized—and he had put them both in an extremely awkward position. She couldn’t see how they could even face each other again.

While she ate breakfast she decided she would go next door first thing and ask, as discreetly as possible, if there was anything she should worry about. She hoped Rosalie’s disapproval had kept Nancy from telling her about the gossip. Ought she to call first or just walk up the hill?

Tires crunched on gravel. Damn! Now she would have to deal with him first—and walk up the hill with his eyes on her? She got up and put the dishes in the sink. What if he came to the door? This was intolerable; she could not be afraid in her own house. She picked up her purse and the cardboard box Jim Kelly had given her. She did need groceries, and she could stop at Rosalie’s before she drove into town.

Rick was carrying cans of paint from the pickup when she came out. He wore paint-spattered white pants and shirt instead of his usual jeans. She strode purposefully toward her car without looking in his direction. The morning was beautiful, clear and sunny, with all the promise of California’s early spring.

“Jenna,” he said urgently. He put down the cans of paint and approached her, and she stopped and waited, chin up.

“Good morning,” she said coolly.

“Morning,” he echoed. “Listen, I’m sorry if I was out of line yesterday.”

“If?” she said. He sounded sincere, but she hated that he was so calm. He was always so self-assured. Had he thought of the danger to his license? “Were you trying to collect for the discount?” she asked.

“No!” he said. Ah, she had gotten under his skin that time. “God—no. I just wanted to kiss you. It was inappropriate, and it won’t happen again. I’m really sorry.”

“Okay,” she said. “Apology accepted,” and she strode on to her car. Knowing how well she had handled herself gave her a thrill of satisfaction. She hadn’t become flustered or made a fool of herself. Good job, Jenna. She resisted checking in the rearview mirror to see if he was still standing there or had started work. Rosalie’s car wasn’t in the driveway, so she drove on to town.

As soon as she walked into Sam’s Grocery she knew Nancy hadn’t made anything up. Gathered inside were Rosalie, Gabe Burrows, Jim Kelly of course, and three other people she either hadn’t met or didn’t remember—a thin brunette and an older couple with matching glasses and white hair. They all looked in her direction, and their expressions, excited and a little guilty, told her they had been gossiping. She could easily guess what the subject was.

They had no facts, of course. Chief Allan had no evidence, no suspects. He had posted a notice in the store asking anyone with information, anyone who might have been the last to see Barbara Raymond alive, to contact him. The body had been sent to Carroll City, where they had a coroner and a crime lab.

Rick Alvarez had been tried and convicted in the court of public opinion. Apparently he didn’t know. She hoped Danny didn’t know. Everybody else, it seemed, had heard the rumors.

“This is awful,” she said. “Who started this? He’s at my house right now, painting.” She realized she could easily fan the fire by telling them he had forced himself on her, but a derisive voice in her head said, Lighten up, lady; it was only a kiss.

“You shouldn’t leave him alone in your house,” Gabe Burrows said.

“Don’t, Gabe,” Rosalie said. She had apparently heard this before. “Rick is no thief, and I don’t believe he’s a killer, either.” She didn’t, but she relished the juiciness of the gossip. Jenna had seen signs the very first day in her kitchen that she liked to gossip, even though she deplored the habit in Nancy. Like mother, like daughter. Jenna was sickened—and now she couldn’t possibly ask her if he was a sexual predator.

“You’re too trusting,” Gabe told Rosalie. “You take everybody at face value.”

The thin, dark-haired woman stepped forward and offered Jenna her hand. “We haven’t met,” she said, “I’m Charlene Dickens.”

“Jenna Scott,” she replied, but she didn’t take Charlene’s hand. “I understood the police didn’t have any suspects. Why do you think Rick Alvarez did it?”

There was an eager rush to fill her in on all the supposed details. Some of them gave her pause, but others were completely ridiculous. He, or at least his pickup, had been seen at Mrs. Raymond’s cabin. He hadn’t been in church the morning after. He owned a knife. They were both from L.A.

“It’s a big place,” Jenna pointed out, trying to be the voice of reason. More than three million people lived in Los Angeles! “Where was Danny when Rick was with Barbara Raymond?” she asked.

“You can scoff,” Charlene said, “but don’t be surprised when Vince shows up to arrest him.”

“A man who would murder one woman wouldn’t hesitate at a second,” the older lady said. “He killed his own wife.”

“There have been rumors since he first came,” Rosalie said, “but nobody really knows—where’s the proof?”

“Oh, I know he did it,” Charlene said. “It was in the newspapers. I was working in the city at the time, and I remember—”

“Yesterday you said you weren’t sure,” Rosalie countered.

“Well, I remember now. Don’t you think it’s suspicious that he never talks about her? Not a single word to anybody about the boy’s mother? What do you suppose he’s hiding if he didn’t kill her? And he doesn’t wear a wedding ring,” she added triumphantly.

“If it was in the papers,” Jenna asked, “why is he walking around free?”

“Oh, he got off on a technicality or something. It happens all the time. Now he’s here, and he’s done it again, and none of us is safe.” She folded her arms and smiled smugly.

Jenna wanted to slap her. “Did you start these rumors?” she asked.

“They’re not rumors,” Charlene said, “and I didn’t start anything; I heard it from several people. I’m not making things up.”

“I don’t believe any of this,” Jenna said.

“I don’t either,” said Rosalie. “Not that he murdered his wife, or that he would have deliberately killed Mrs. Raymond. Maybe some kind of accident…”

“She was stabbed several times,” the older man said. “He would have been hard put to do that accidentally.”

Jenna turned to Jim Kelly, who hadn’t said a word since she entered. “I came in to get groceries,” she said. She couldn’t tell how he felt about the gossip, but he helped her gather what she needed.

“Do you want me to go home with you?” Rosalie asked.

“No. I’m not afraid of Rick Alvarez!” At least not that way.

“Do you buy any of this?” she asked Jim Kelly as he put the box in the trunk.

“It’s a small town,” he said noncommittally. “People talk.” His store was the hub of the community; perhaps he was wise not to take sides.

“Thank you,” she said, and he went back into the store. If there were sides to be taken here, she would choose the side of Rick and Danny. She banged the trunk lid down, left the car there, and marched across the street to the hardware store.

Harvey wasn’t in, but Megan was, sitting prettily behind the counter reading a paperback book. “Oh, hi,” she said, giving Jenna an oddly guilty look. Had she been scandal-mongering too?

“Good morning,” Jenna said coolly.

“Everything okay with the paint?” Megan asked. They had sold her the paint and arranged with Rick for its delivery. Harvey played cards with him. These were not strangers; they were neighbors. They had known him for three years and, although they barely knew her, they had known her grandfather. This was not like reading the National Enquirer. Real people were involved—beautiful, ill-fated Barbara Raymond, skilled handyman Rick Alvarez, sweet-natured little Danny.

Jenna walked over to the Local Artists case and picked up the little carving of the sleeping cat. A foolish gesture maybe, but the wood had a cool, comforting feeling in her hand. She paid Megan without saying another word and stalked out.

Doubts crept in as she drove home. It sounded like such nonsense, but could it be all smoke and no fire? What if Rick had tried to kiss Mrs. Raymond—“I couldn’t resist”—and she had fought back, slapped his face? The little carving in her pocket was proof of his skill with a knife. Oh, please, she thought, Danny’s already lost his mother. Let’s not railroad his father. She had considered locking the front door when she left, but hadn’t. She didn’t know whether she should regret the lapse now or not.

When she drove in, he was nowhere in sight. The sun was shining on the front of the house, and it was better not to paint in direct sunlight, so he might be around back. Or he might be inside waiting for her. Against her rational will, the hairs on the back of her neck stood up. This was the scene in the movie where the audience would yell, “Don’t go in the house!”

She took the box of groceries and went slowly inside. She listened for any suspicious sound and didn’t hear anything, but when she passed the guest bedroom, Rick was standing inside the doorway. Would his audacity never end? Anger trumped fear. She slammed the box down on the kitchen table and marched in to give him a piece of her mind.

He was staring at the nearly-finished cutaway on her drafting table. He looked up as she approached and said, “Wow!” He gave her a look of astonished respect. “Is this what you’ve been working on?” he asked.

“Yes, but—”

“What’s it for?”

She took a deep breath to calm herself. “A book—about alternate energy sources,” she said. “What—”

“Wow,” he said again. He shook his head in genuine appreciation. “You don’t use a computer?”

“CAD? No, I’ll probably have to eventually. They’re taking over. Why—?”

“I’d better get back to work,” he said, and then he simply left the house, giving her no clue as to why he had been inside in the first place. Every time she thought she knew where she was with him, he threw her another curve.

She knew she should tell him about the rumors before he heard worse somewhere else—would any of these gossiping cowards say those things to his face? She should tell him, if only so he could protect Danny. Kids could be cruel. Even here someone might taunt Danny. These were good people, churchgoing families, and yet they were so quick to believe the worst and spread lies.

Be fair, she thought. She had only talked to a few people. Nancy’s “everybody” might be a few idiots with time on their hands. Maybe she shouldn’t dignify this nonsense by repeating it to Rick.

No, she should. She definitely should.

She didn’t.

She put the little carving of the sleeping cat on her bedside table, a small symbol of defiance. It was also very beautiful. Would a man who created such beauty with a knife use the same tool to end a woman’s life?

Rick certainly seemed unaware of any of this drama behind the scenes. He must know about the murder, but he had never even mentioned it to her in passing. He worked all morning painting her house, doing a neat, careful job. He left again at lunchtime and drove back sooner than she expected.

She was still trying to figure out what to do about the gossip. Small town, small minds. Would they do more than talk—boycott his business, burn down his house, steal his tools? He should be warned. Maybe somebody else—Rosalie? Harvey?—would tell him. Maybe it would all die down. Or maybe she would become a target herself because she was harboring a murderer…or at least giving him a job.

Rick, oblivious to rumors, with an apparently clear conscience, whistled while he worked. She looked out to see what he was doing, and oh, my God, he was taking off his shirt! In February? Oh, all right, the day was warm, and he was working hard. He was broad-shouldered, well-muscled, a shade browner than her best summer tan, with only a little wiry black chest hair. ¡Ay, caramba! Maybe she would pray for rain.

At the end of the day, he knocked on the door—this time she heard him—to ask if she wanted him to continue the next day. He was wearing his shirt.

“I’ll have to bring Danny because it’s Saturday. It’s up to you—it works for me either way. I can come back on Monday instead.”

“Won’t it be boring for Danny?” she asked.

He shook his head. “He can help,” he said and, maybe in case she objected to child labor, quickly added, “or play or read.”

Jenna hesitated. She would love two days respite from this constant distraction and tension. She would also like to get it done with as soon as possible, and surely Rick wouldn’t try anything with Danny around. In the end, the decision was more about the feeling that Danny, if not Rick, was safer here, painting her house, than out in the dangerous, gossiping world. “Fine,” she said. “Come tomorrow. Bring Danny. If you like, I’ll make you both lunch.”

“That would be great,” he said. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Oh—nine o’clock?”

“Fine,” she said again. That was that—no awkwardness. Apology made and accepted. He had been a perfect gentleman. No doubt she was an idiot.

****

Only when she awoke in the middle of the night, in the too-quiet darkness, did the doubts creep in again. Things always seemed worst in the middle of the night, she reminded herself, but fear took hold, and a particular horror on Danny’s behalf.

Rick had never shown the slightest sign of guilt. He hadn’t been nervous or upset when she had seen him soon after the murder—but he never was. Sunday morning, when they had sat casually on the steps, and he had told her he was a teacher in L.A.—that was not the demeanor of a troubled conscience. But when the police car zoomed by, everything changed. She had been sure she knew the reason, but wasn’t that romantic nonsense? Maybe the fear evoked by the sight of the car was not for the possibility of danger to Danny but for his own discovery? If he wasn’t the killer, who was? If it was a stranger, someone from out of town, might he still be out there in the dark? What was the creaking sound she was hearing? No, it was only the old house settling.

What the hell was Rick up to in the house while she was gone? She wasn’t sure whether the drafting table was visible without stepping inside, whether he could have spotted it as he passed by. She would have to check. Maybe she had left the guest bedroom window open, and he needed to close it before painting?

A dog barked somewhere in the distance. Had she remembered to lock the front door?

Why hadn’t he said anything to anybody in San Ignacio about his late wife—in three years, not one word? Was his silence merely the exaggeration of a silly gossip? Had anybody asked? A lot of married men didn’t wear wedding rings in any case, and it might be inconvenient when working with tools. He was no longer married. It was ludicrous to suppose it had any significance.

Did Rosalie’s belief Rick could have killed Mrs. Raymond by accident mean she knew or suspected he was likely to have approached her, because he had a history of sleeping around? I couldn’t resist…I just wanted to kiss you.

What had he said about Barbara Raymond at the barbecue? She remembered precisely and didn’t want to remember. Where had he been during the hour or so when she didn’t see him, and why did he leave so early? Because Danny was tired. He did own a knife, of course, but almost every man in San Ignacio did. Why would he murder a woman he didn’t even know? How could anyone know whether he had known her before or not? They were both from L.A.

Why had he left L.A. and teaching? Had he left voluntarily, or was he fired or asked to leave because of a scandal? Why would he have killed his wife? Not money—anger, jealousy, a custody dispute? Or what if she had been terminally ill and it was a mercy killing? But surely not with a knife…

Why didn’t Rick want Danny to speak Spanish? Oh, now she was being ridiculous.

Who started the gossip? Why were so many people so quick to believe in his guilt? Because he was a relative outsider, a latecomer? She didn’t think they were racist, but she didn’t know what her own feelings about him were. What did she know about him? Good father, good craftsman…good kisser. Hadn’t she read a murder mystery in which the handyman did it?

If she was ever going to get back to sleep, she must trust that these shadows would vanish in the morning light.