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his hobbies, and naturally his stories had a strong environmental emphasis. The troubled look distorting his even features told me he’d heard about Nora.
    He wasn’t alone at the table. Next to him sat Ashley Stanhill, another local storyteller and current president of the San Celina Storytellers Guild. Ash and I had worked closely together promoting the storytelling festival. A traditional Southern storyteller, he could tantalize an audience with his smooth-as-Black-Velvet Mississippi accent and sinfully sensual smile. He’d only lived on the Central Coast a little over a year, but according to the co-op’s warp-speed grapevine had already managed to break more than a few female hearts. There was nothing particularly special about him—medium height, russet hair, deep blue eyes. You’d never look twice at him when he walked down the street except for thinking that maybe he bore a passing resemblance to the actor Dennis Quaid. But when he turned his attention on you, it was like you were the most perfect specimen of woman God had ever created. I’d been to one of his storytelling sessions, and though the children were held rapt by his silky-voiced performance, the women were absolutely mesmerized.
    Peter gestured to the chair across from him. Ash nodded solemnly and sipped his espresso, his blue eyes observant as a cougar’s.
    “I suppose you both heard,” I said, sitting down, then added quickly, “I can’t stay long. I’m taking lunch over to Gabe at the station.”
    “Did you really find her body?” Peter asked, his normally calm face mobile with agitation. A faint sheen of perspiration coated his cheeks.
    “Unfortunately, yes,” I said with a sigh.
    “We’ve called an emergency meeting of the festival committee. We’re going to meet at the museum.” He glanced at his black diver’s watch. “I told them two o’clock. I wasn’t sure how long it would take me to reach you. I tried calling, but no one answered.”
    “You must have just missed me. I have an answering machine.”
    He waved his hand irritably. “I refuse to give in to the control the industrial complex is gaining over our lives through the addiction to useless environmentally destructive machinery.”
    I shrugged. I understood what he meant, but with that attitude he was going to miss a lot of messages.
    “Old Pete here wishes we’d go back to sendin’ smoke signals with a bonfire and a blanket,” Ash said, giving me a conspiratorial wink. “More environmentally responsible. At least until the EPA shut it down.”
    “Shut up, Ash,” Peter snapped. “This is a disaster. Our guild’s first storytelling festival, and it has to be overshadowed by Nora Cooper.”
    I leaned back in my chair, shocked. I thought he was upset because of Nora’s murder when apparently it was only the festival he was worried about.
    “Let’s talk about it at the meeting,” I said sharply. “We can also discuss how we all might give some support to her brother, Nick.”
    His face flushed slightly, and he looked down at his blunt rope-callused hands, avoiding my gaze. “I didn’t mean it the way it sounded.”
    “Good, because it sounded pretty heartless,” I said. “See you at two.”
    There was a space free in front of the police station, a tan stucco building with a gurgling beige-and-blue tile fountain that local college students occasionally filled with detergent. If you exchanged the plain San Celina Police lettering for the word PODIATRY, no one would even bat an eyelash. Since it was Sunday, I knew the lobby door would be locked, so I walked around back to the maintenance yard and pressed the red buzzer. A young officer with greenish-blond hair and a bad cold opened the gate and informed me that Gabe was in his office.
    The oak door to Gabe’s office was closed. I stood for a moment and studied the brass plaque that had replaced Aaron’s only a few months ago: GABRIEL ORTIZ—CHIEF OF POLICE. Its permanent look wrapped around my heart