Steps to the Altar
Fowler, Earlene
Berkley Prime Crime (2003)
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SUMMARY:
Ninth in the Agatha Award-winning series that's been hailed as engrossing, Steps to the Altar finds California folk art expert Benni Harper preparing for two upcoming weddings, digging up clues to a decades-old unsolved murder-and struggling with a very personal crisis of the heart...
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1 - GABE
Chapter 2 - BENNI
Chapter 3 - BENNI
Chapter 4 - BENNI
Chapter 5 - BENNI
Chapter 6 - GABE
Chapter 7 - BENNI
Chapter 8 - BENNI
Chapter 9 - BENNI
Chapter 10 - BENNI
Chapter 11 - BENNI
Chapter 12 - GABE
Chapter 13 - BENNI
Chapter 14 - BENNI
Chapter 15 - GABE
Chapter 16 - BENNI
Chapter 17 - BENNI
Chapter 18 - GABE
Chapter 19 - BENNI
Chapter 20 - BENNI
Chapter 21 - BENNI
Chapter 22 - BENNI
Chapter 23 - BENNI
Chapter 24 - GABE
Chapter 25 - BENNI
Chapter 26 - GABE
Teaser chapter
EARLENE FOWLER
PRAISE FOR EARLENE FOWLER’S
Benni Harper Mysteries
Steps to the Altar
“Fowler pulls off an enviable writing coup and gives readers
a book that . . . transports us to another time and place
peopled with friends we cherish. In the process, the author
shows us the power of true love.”
—Crescent Blues
“Interesting. . . . Readers are able to feel close to both protagonists
and understand their feelings and actions.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Hoorah! A new Benni Harper mystery!”
Arkansas Traveler
“A cross between Steel Magnolias and To Kill a Mockingbird
. . . thoughtfully written, laugh-out-loud funny, and
powerfully evocative.”
—Ventura (CA) County Star
“The sweet sentimentality of this paean to small Southern
towns—with shrine-like reverence for Southern cooking,
the Waffle House, and the Dairy Queen—is the glaze that
holds this story together.”
—Houston Chronicle
Seven Sisters
“Engrossing . . . a compelling story of families torn apart
by divided loyalties.”
—Publishers Weekly
“May be the best of the series. . . . The emphasis on skeletons
in a California family’s closet echoes Ross Macdonald,
while the tone and feel of the novel will remind
readers of Nevada Barr.”
—Booklist
Mariner’s Compass
Winner of the Agatha Award for Best Novel
“Captivating . . . [an] excellent addition to a notable series.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Fowler’s plots can be as outrageous as Ellery Queen’s, her
turf is Ross Macdonald’s, and her tone is heir to Grafton
and Paretsky. . . . An up-and-comer worth watching.”
—Nashville Scene
Dove in the Window
Nominated for an Agatha Award for Best Novel
“Excellent. . . . While the characters are perhaps the most
vivid feature, setting nearly edges them out. Best of all is
Benni’s sharp, sassy voice.”
—The Booknews
“Fowler writes beautifully about the picturesque Central
Coast, ranching, and local cuisine.”
—Booklist
Goose in the Pond
Nominated for an Agatha Award for Best Novel
“Engaging.”
—Booklist
“Brilliantly crafted romantic suspense . . . waiting to be
devoured by the reader.”
—The Mystery Zone
Kansas Troubles
Nominated for an Agatha Award for Best Novel
“Mayhem, murder, chaos, and romance . . . well-paced
mystery . . . fun reading.” —The Kansas Daily Reporter
“A lot of fun to read. Fowler has a deft touch.”
—The Wichita Eagle
Irish Chain
“Terrific. . . . The dialogue is intelligent and witty, the
characters intensely human, and the tantalizing puzzle
keeps the pages turning.”
—Jean Hager, author of The Redbird’s Cry
“This well-textured sequel . . . intricately blends social history
and modern mystery.”
—Publishers Weekly
Fool’s Puzzle
Nominated for an Agatha Award for Best First Mystery
“Characters come to full three-dimensional life, and her
plot is satisfyingly complex.”
—The Jackson (MS) Clarion-Ledger
“Breezy, humorous dialogue of the first order.”
—Chicago Sun-Times
Don’t miss the other Benni Harper Mysteries
Berkley Prime Crime Books by Earlene Fowler
THE SADDLEMAKER’S WIFE
The Benni Harper Mysteries
FOOL’S PUZZLE
IRISH CHAIN
KANSAS TROUBLES
GOOSE IN THE POND
DOVE IN THE WINDOW
MARINER’S COMPASS
SEVEN SISTERS
ARKANSAS TRAVELER
STEPS TO THE ALTAR
SUNSHINE AND SHADOW
BROKEN DISHES
DELECTABLE MOUNTAINS
TUMBLING BLOCKS
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
STEPS TO THE ALTAR
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author
Copyright © 2002 by Earlene Fowler.
All rights reserved.
No par
t of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
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375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
eISBN : 978-1-101-52435-0
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For
Tina and Tom Davis
dear friends, brilliant webmasters, ardent supporters my thanks for your sustaining help, both emotional and culinary
and
For
Clare Bazley
Jo Ellen Heil
Sue Morrison
your friendship and loving encouragement have been worth their weight in rubies
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As with all my books, there have been many kind souls who rendered me assistance. My sincerest appreciation to all of them for taking time out of their busy lives to help me.
Some trust in chariots and some in horses, but we trust in the name of the Lord our God.
—Psalm 20:7
For help with spiritual questions and technical advice—Father Mark Stetz, AnnE Lorenzen, Father Jerry Kahler.
For help with police-related issues—Jim Gardiner, Chief, San Luis Obispo Police; Chris Rodgers, Investigator, San Luis Obispo District Attorney’s Office; Burt Topham, Captain, San Luis Obispo Police.
For friendship and help in various areas—Joy and Lorna Fitzhugh, Jo Ellen Heil, Christine Hill, Karen and David Gray, Jo-Ann Mapson, Don and Lucille Rader.
For being a wonderful editor and friend—Judith Palais.
For their invaluable input on this book—my agent, Ellen Gieger, and my new editor, Christine Zika.
And always, my husband, Allen, whose daily courage, spirit, and generosity of heart continually amaze me.
The Steps to the Altar pattern most likely has its beginnings in things romantic, though there is a possibility that it also has a spiritual aspect. Before the twentieth century, marriage announced a major role shift in a woman’s life. A gift of a quilt from her closest friends both honored this event and served as a reminder of her friends’ love and support. The Steps to the Altar pattern is a fairly simple one using squares and triangles to make a block that is striking when contrasting fabrics are used. The name actually refers to at least three different patterns, some of which have their earliest origins in late-nineteenth-century Ohio and New York. It is also called Dish of Fruit, Flat Iron Patchwork, Strawberry Basket, Stair-step, Stairs of Illusion, English T Box, Jacob’s Ladder, and Building Blocks.
1
GABE
LATE AT NIGHT when the dreams woke him, he would lie in the dark and try to forget the faces of the people he’d watched die. Memories of them exploded in his brain, popping and flaring like star shells launched from cannons. With a sick compulsion, he counted off their lives like a human rosary.
Vietnam was an old movie to him now, a videotape that allowed him to fast-forward through the unbearable parts. Except when he slept. In his dream world thumb-sized maggots burrowed into sweaty thighs, rancid jungles steamed like old garbage, the smell of foot rot gagged like a clump of gristle stuck fast in an esophagus narrowed by terror. His head filled with the sulfuric meaty stench of fresh blood and human entrails swarming with buzzing black flies. It was an uncontrollable roller coaster of terrifying peaks and valleys. Sometimes he cried out in his sleep, choking on his own salty bile, reactions that shamed him to his core and could have gotten him killed in country.
In ’Nam, his buddies, José Two, Willie M., and Clarence Earl, called him Stoneman because he never made a sound when he slept. It was a silly nickname, one given by adolescents. But of course, that’s what they were. A bunch of boys sent to a jungle halfway around the world to fight some old men’s pissing contest. That’s the nature of war itself. At forty-four, Gabe understood that now, though he would protest in the streets and send his son to the Canadian back country before he’d let him serve in such a war.
When the dreams captured his mind and wouldn’t let go, her voice brought him back.
“It’s okay,” her voice would call through the murky jungle of crimson sounds and smells that seemed so real they couldn’t be mere products of his brain’s electrical charges. Cool hands stroked his hair and face, coaxing him awake. “Friday, wake up now. It’s okay. You’re here with me. That’s good, come on back now. Come on back.”
It was the same voice she used with skittish horses and panicky new heifers delivering their first calves. It was a sweet, sure voice that he trusted like no other.
It was not lost on him that she was the only woman in his life with whom his subconscious had ever felt free enough to cry for help.
But still, it shamed him. He took pride in being able to compartmentalize his life. Take a long hot mental shower and scrub away the filthy parts. Vietnam and its brittle, grisly terrors in this corner. All the women he’d thoughtlessly used in that corner. His first wife, Lydia, and his inability to love her here. His son, Sam, and how he failed him there. He wrapped all the street stories together in one filthy bundle: dead babies in plastic bags, women beaten until their faces resembled rotten plums, needle-scarred heroin addicts lying in their own shit, little girls ripped apart by their fathers’ uncontrollable lust. Take all those sad human stories and shove them in a room and padlock the door. It worked perfectly. Until he went to sleep and the padlock was snapped as easily as a child’s forearm.
When he came to San Celina, he’d planned only to help out his old partner, Aaron, to hold his place as police chief until he could return. He was merely looking for a stopover, a place to regroup and think about where he wanted to go. To find a place where the images could fade. He knew the faces would never go away. He knew that the past couldn’t be changed. He only wanted moments of peace. That was all he hoped for. But he expected nothing.
He never expected Aaron to die. He never expected to fall in love. He never expected to find grace.
2
BENNI
I WAS AFRAID to move.
One unlucky stumble or shift in weight and it appeared to me that I could bring Miss Christine’s whole knickknack-filled teahouse down around my mud-caked boots.
As much as I loved Miss Christine, a former Vegas show girl who was rumored to have once been a mobster’s girlfriend, only one thing could entice me into this garden of girlish delight. Too many clichés flitted through my mind: fish out of water, square peg in a round hole, and the most appropriate, the infamous bull in a china shop.
But it was this or having my best friend, Elvia Aragon’s, wedding shower, a shower I’d waited to give since we were both second graders trading my pimento-cheese sandwiches for her homemade burritos, in my own cramped Spanish-style bungalow. I wasn’t the only one who’d waited a good many years for this momentous event. When the shower’s guest list hit forty, I started panicking. After moaning about the problem to my friend, Amanda Landry, expert quilter and pro bono attorney for the Josiah Sinclair Folk Art Museum, where I was curator and head bottle washer, she suggested I rent Miss Christine’s Tea and Sympathy Parlor for the whole afternoon and let someone else do most of the work.
Relieved, I jumped at her advice and called two weeks ago. Thanks to Miss Christine, most of the preparations were ready to go and we were in the final phase—selecting the menu. Amanda, a good ole Southern girl raised by a rich society mama in Alabama, was having the time of her life.
“I’d
forgotten how fun showers are,” she said, giving me her wide, white-as-new-cotton grin. Anticipation brightened her smooth-cheeked, ivory complexion as she peered toward the kitchen where Miss Christine and her chef, José, were working on sample trays of sandwiches, scones, and other teatime treats.
Trying to avoid what could be a small but very costly disaster, I carefully crossed my legs, resting my ankle on the knee of my slightly grimy Wranglers. I’d forgotten how crowded this place was with English china, silver, and Victorian geegaws. I’d come straight from the ranch, where I’d helped Daddy and Sam, my stepson, stack a ton of hay bales. My shoulders, unused these last few years to the manual labor, were already starting to ache. At that moment a couple of aspirin washed down with a Coke sounded more appetizing to me than chicken salad sandwiches.
“I still think A. J. Spurs Restaurant would have been better,” I grumbled.
“Sure, if we were wanting steak sandwiches for you and a bunch of your ranch women friends at a Cattle-women’s luncheon,” Amanda said, flipping back her thick, auburn hair. “But this is Elvia we’re talking about. She’s waited a good long while for this wedding shower. I’ll bet she’s attended a lakeful of them in her thirty-five years on this earth and it’s payback time, babydoll.”