this over lunch in Joe’s?”
“No, we can’t.”
The look of desperation on his young face disarmed her and she moved toward the passenger seat of the car, opened the door, and sat down, leaving the door open. She looked over at Marshall and raised her eyebrows inquisitively.
“There’s no way of sugar coating this,” he began. “Sally’s husband has been killed.”
“Keith?” There was incredulity in her voice.
“An explosion at a pipeline somewhere.”
“Does she know yet?”
“No, that’s what I’m here to do,” he said. “I’m a bit of a wreck about it, to tell you the truth. I have to do it now before she gets the word some other way.”
“I’ll call her and ask her to come to my house after she’s closed up. You can come over and we can tell her then.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he said. Susanna was clearly surprised that the young man disagreed with her. And so was he!
“Carmelita asked me to do it while she is gone and she might well be back in town by then.”
“You are right.”
“How would Joe do it?”
“He would tell her immediately, privately, and preserve her dignity at all costs,” she said.
“You know what I think he’d do? I think he’d call her out back to the storage shed, away from everybody, and tell her there and then. I think he’d take her around the cafe and to his car and take her home. I think he’d have others close up for the day.”
“You stay here,” Susanna said. “We don’t want anyone to see a uniform come in and ask her to leave the building,” she said. “Rumors of all sorts will fly.”
“Right.”
She walked through the entrance of Joe’s and stood at the counter. Sally came over.
“Hi there!” Sally greeted her cheerfully.
“I need to talk to you.”
“What’s up?”
“Can we go out back?”
“Can’t we talk here? You see how busy it is.”
“This will need some privacy.”
Sally knew now that it was not good news.
They walked outside together. Marshall got out of the squad car as he saw them approaching the storage shed, joining them as they went inside.
“There’s no good way to say this,” Susanna said, graciously providing an opening for the young policeman to step up to the task.
“Keith has been killed in a pipeline explosion,” he said.
His voice was emotionless, matter-of-fact, and yet kind. He had gotten through the hard part and had done a good job.
Sally’s face fell and she collapsed against a refrigerator. Susanna went over and comforted her, placing her arm around her neck and gently steadying her with the other.
She looked up, her eyes red and filled with tears.
“How? How did it happen? Where?” she asked. “Did he suffer?”
“We don’t know any of the details yet Sally. We just know it happened about thirty-six hours ago. We expect to get more word today. Marshall will take you home now. We’ll get the place closed up.”
Chapter 9
Carmelita Biffle was born Carmelita Alessandra Sanchez in Antigua, Guatemala. When she was seven, her parents and three siblings moved to Long Beach, California. There, they joined Carmelita’s mother’s family, who had begun a construction business. Her father became the foreman of the company’s projects.
Although a welcome change in the fortunes of the family, it was a traumatic move for them. They left behind many friends and a large extended family on her father’s side. There were a number of Guatemalans close by, but Southern California was a big, strange place that seemed to waver between disinterest and hostility.
School was difficult. Racism was rampant in the elementary school among both students and faculty. By Middle School, she had learned how to survive, and by high school she had gained enough confidence to thrive, despite the prejudice.
After high school, she went to Long Beach Community College. During this time, she had decided she wanted to be in law enforcement and transferred her credits to a college in San Diego, where she enrolled in the police academy program.
There, she met Cliff Biffle, one of her professors. The attraction was strong but they kept it cool until she graduated. Within three months they were married.
Carmelita landed a job on the police force in Chula Vista.
Three years later, Cliff had an opportunity to take a position at Jefferson University in Ashland. Now, here she was again, a stranger in a strange land.
She found a place of comfort at Our Lady of the Fields Catholic Church. There, she made her first friends and joined a women’s group that specialized in working with undocumented workers. They visited camps around the valley where people often lived in the shadows and needed, among other things, basic medical care.
One of her friends informed her after Mass one Sunday that there was a law enforcement position open in the little village of Table Rock. Carmelita applied. To her surprise, she was called for an interview, which turned out to be one of the strangest experiences of her life. Three members of the City Council interviewed her, two of whom, she would discover later, were facing a recall election in two weeks.
The interview was laced with verbal jabs by the interviewers at one another. One of the two male members of the interview committee asked to be excused to smoke a cigarette and never came back. Twenty minutes after her interview, she was hired as the Chief of Police. She was flabbergasted and at the same time grateful for employment.
“The last Chief lasted only about eight months,” said the Chair. “It’s a tough town and a tough job. You have your work cut out for you.”
She wanted to talk to Cliff but she was afraid not to accept the position, so she did, telling herself that she could always back out.
Table Rock had one deputy, part time, Rodney Klein, who had been on the force now for eleven years. The next Monday Carmelita showed up for work in the building on Main Street that also housed a pharmacy and an antique store. Rodney was sitting in the chair in the Chief’s Office with his feet up on the desk. He didn’t get up.
“Well, well,” he said. “This time they hired a woman! Will wonders never cease!”
“You’re in my chair,” she said without blinking an eye or saying good morning.
He looked up,
