Rosemary Remembered (10 page)

Chapter Six

Raspberry leaves have a long tradition of use in pregnancy to strengthen and tone the tissue of the womb, assisting contractions and checking any haemorrhage during labour.

David Hoffman
The Holistic Herbal

"Jeff Clark?" I repeated, stunned. Egg yolk was dripping off the edge of the counter.

"Yeah," Sheila said. "Ain't that a stunner?"

McQuaid, his tee shirt already sweaty, came into the kitchen and began to rummage in the cupboard beside the refrigerator. "I'm looking for the cleaning fluid," he said. "Do you know where it is?"

I held up the phone. "It's Sheila. They found the gun that killed Rosemary."

McQuaid's head snapped up. "All
right,"
he said. "Where'd they find it?"

"Where'd they find it?" I said, into the phone.

"By the river, under the 1-35 bridge. A couple of guys were bank-fishing. Around midnight, one of them relieved himself in the bushes. He peed on it."

"Under the 1-35 bridge," I repeated to McQuaid.

"Where's the cordless?" McQuaid asked, and I pointed to the dining room. He came back with the phone to his ear, speaking into it. "What's this about a gun?"

"A
couple of fishermen found it," she said. "They called Bubba. He figures it was tossed off the bridge, maybe out of a car window, with the idea that it would land in the river. He recognized it right away."

"Recognized it?" McQuaid was startled.

"Yeah," Sheila said. "Apparently you don't forget this gun, once you've see it. A nickle-plated Smith & Wesson .38 with an elaborate monogram carved into a rosewood grip. The initials are C. C."

"Damn," McQuaid said under his breath.

"Those aren't Jeff Clark's initials," I said.

"No," McQuaid said. "They're his father's initials: Charles Clark."

"Right," Sheila said. "Bubba recognized the gun because Big Chuck shot an armed robber at the hotel some years ago, and he impounded it for a while."

"Who says it's the murder weapon?" McQuaid asked. "If it was found at midnight, they haven't run ballistics yet."

"The chief himself took it up to DPS in Austin," Sheila said. "At six this morning. He dragged somebody out of bed. It's the gun that killed Rosemary, all right."

We were all three silent. I was thinking about Ondine and La Que Sabe and wondering how the hell she knew. McQuaid's face was working. I knew he was thinking about Jeff.

"Prints?" he asked finally.

"Plenty," Sheila said. "Whose, they don't know yet. Clark's aren't on file. He's been clean—until now."

"Just a damn minute, Sheila." McQuaid sat down abruptly on a kitchen chair, elbows on his knees, shoulders hunched, back turned to me. "You're saying that Bubba thinks Jeff Clark murdered Rosemary Robbins? That's ridiculous!"

"Tell
him
that," she replied. "He's up at the hotel right now, questioning Clark and taking prints. If it's a match, he's got his killer."

McQuaid pulled at his lip. "Where'd you get this information?"

"I ran into Bubba at the Doughnut Queen about fifteen minutes ago."

"I just don't see Jeff doing something like this." McQuaid rubbed his head and his dark hair stood up. "He'd asked Rosemary to marry him, and she'd said yes. They were only waiting until her ex cooled down some. Robbins was ticked off about the divorce."

"Jeff wanted to marry Rosemary?" I asked, surprised. "Why didn't you tell me?"

McQuaid jerked around, his eyes dark, narrowed. "Because he told me to keep it to myself. Is there a law that says I have to tell you everything I know?"

Sheila jumped into the breach. "Rosemary told me they were seeing each other." She paused, then added with greater deliberation, "She also told me she was pregnant."

McQuaid gave a startled grunt.

"Pregnant!" I exclaimed. "Why didn't you tell me before?"

"Because I haven't seen you alone. It wasn't something Rosemary would want blabbed all over town." "How far along was she?"

"Almost three months. It was a month or so ago when she told me, the night we did happy hour."

There was another silence. I was trying to square the out-of-wedlock pregnancy with the cool, matter-of-fact businesswoman who had whipped my Schedule C into submission. It didn't seem like a mistake Rosemary would have made. Did that mean it wasn't a mistake? Was the pregnancy deliberate?

"Did Robbins know she was pregnant?" I asked.

"If he did," Sheila said grimly, "it might have given him a reason to kill her. I hope Bubba's taking a long, hard look at that alibi of his."

"But how could Robbins get his hands on Jeff s gun?" I looked up. "Have you ever seen it, McQuaid?"

"Everybody in town has seen it. It originally belonged to Big Chuck's cousin Cameron, who was a Texas Ranger. He used it to off a flock of bandidos down around the Rio Grande, some sixty, seventy years ago." He paused. "Come to think of it, there was a write-up about it in the paper a few months back, with a photo of the gun cabinet in Jeff s office. That's where he kept it."

"If lots of people knew about that gun, somebody could have stolen it," I said.

"I don't suppose there's any point in speculating," Sheila said. "We'll know a lot more when Bubba's questioned Clark."

"So he's back from South Padre?" I asked. From the way McQuaid swiveled to look at me, I knew he'd forgotten.

"Clark's been gone?" Sheila asked. "He drove down Wednesday night to go fishing," I said.

"Rosemary was shot Wednesday night," Sheila said. McQuaid's mouth tightened. Neither of us said anything.

Sheila cleared her throat. "Well," she said uncomfortably, "I guess that's a wrap. God, it's hot. Like living in a frying pan."

"Get back to us if you hear anything else," McQuaid instructed tersely.

"Yeah," Sheila said. "I will." She paused. "China, what's up with that Ondine character we met last night?

How'd she know about the gun?"

"Probably just a lucky guess," I said, not wanting to get into it with McQuaid on the line. He has enough trouble with Ruby and her tarot cards. Ondine and La Que Sabe would be beyond him.

But McQuaid wasn't deflected. "Who's Ondine?" he asked. "What's this about the gun?"

"One of Ruby's flaky friends," Sheila said. "She told us last night that the gun would be found today, by the river."

"Well, that's easy," McQuaid said. "She put it there."

"Nuh-uh," I said. "Ruby said Ondine just got in from New Orleans. She's not connected to this."

"You've got to admit that it's pretty strange," Sheila said. "I'll check her out."

"Yeah, do that," McQuaid said. "Keep me posted." He clicked off the phone and put it down.

"What happened after you got home last night?" Sheila asked.

"You don't want to know," I said.

"I told you to tell him we tied you to a chair."

"I should have. Thanks for calling."

"He's a great guy, but don't let him push you around," Sheila said, and hung up.

McQuaid spoke, his voice hard. "If Jeff wanted Rosemary dead, which I don't believe for a minute, it's ridiculous to think he'd use his father's gun for the job. And he sure as hell wouldn't toss it into the river."

It didn't seem very likely to me, either. Jeff Clark had a reputation for snapping at his employees, and I could see him exploding in a sudden burst of bad temper. What I couldn't see was Jeff crouching in a clump of yaupon holly with an heirloom gun, waiting for Rosemary to pull

into her drive, then shooting her —and murdering his baby—in cold blood.

I stopped myself. I was only assuming that the baby was Jeff s, just as I was assuming that Rosemary had told Sheila the truth when she'd said she was pregnant. Maybe it had been a lie. Or maybe the child had been fathered by somebody other than Jeff — Robbins, for instance. The autopsy report would tell us whether she was carrying a fetus when she died. And if the ME was smart enough to take fetal tissue samples, DNA testing would reveal the father.

Still thinking, I got a paper towel and began to clean up the egg that had dripped over the counter and puddled on the floor. Kneeling, I said aloud, "If it wasn't Robbins and it wasn't Jeff Clark, who
..
.
?"

McQuaid jerked his thumb at the mug shots pinned up on the corkboard beside the phone. "Him," he said roughly. "I tell you, China. He thought she was
you."

I turned to stare at the ugly face until I couldn't stand it anymore.

"If Jacoby killed her, how did he get Jeff s gun?" My lips felt stiff.

"His mother lives in New Braunfels. If he grew up around here, he knew about Big Chuck's .38. If he saw that newspaper article, he knew where Jeff kept it. It would've been easy enough to steal."

I forced myself to speak again. "That's a pretty long shot, isn't it?"

"Life is full of long shots." His look softened. "Are you fixing breakfast?"

Have you ever noticed how often it's the little things — cooking eggs, weeding the garden, changing the oil—that keep us going, keep us sane? It's ordinary life that steadies us when we suddenly bump into something unfathomably dark and huge, hidden like an iceberg under black water.

"I was about to make an omelette," I said in a voice that didn't sound quite like mine. "Should I make enough for two?"

He cleared his throat. "If it's not too much trouble. Or I can do it, if you need to take care of something at the shop this morning."

I glanced at him. "Should I plan to go under armed guard, or have I been paroled on my own recognizance?"

"Look, China," he said with an effort. "I'm sorry for what I said last night. You're not my wife. I can't tell you what to do or where to go."

"You couldn't tell me that, even if I
were
your wife," I said, then relented. "I'm sorry, too, McQuaid. I should have phoned to say I was having dinner with friends. It was rude of me."

A smile flickered and disappeared. "Rude and insensitive?"

"Yeah," I said. I got out another egg, a package of mushrooms, and some cheese. "Not to mention thoughtless and tactless. And inconsiderate."

He came toward me. "Is that an apology?"

"Yes." I took a step back. "But you're still not justified in setting a curfew, or in accusing me of— "

He put his finger on my lips. "You're right," he said humbly. "You're a grown woman. If you're dumb enough to
—"
He stopped. "Strike that, counselor. You're responsible for
you.
All I can do is warn you if I think you're in danger, and hope to hell you'll have the good sense to — "

I gave him a warning look.

"Sorry." He caught my hand. "I guess I'd better shut up." He put my fingers to his lips. "Am I forgiven?"

I pushed him back a little so I could look into his eyes. "You promise not to worry about me?"

He shook his head. "Of course I'll worry. But I promise to keep it to myself." He pulled his brows together. "Well, maybe not
entirely
to myself. But no nagging. And no curfews. Just phone so I know you're all right. Okay?"

"Okay," I said, and surrendered to his arms.

Was that what it was, a surrender, a capitulation? I silenced that question as we held one another tight, our bodies separate at first, then joining, knitting together, his hips firm against my body, his arms enclosing me, my arms around his neck, my fingers in the hair at the back of his head. He rested his cheek against my forehead, and we swayed together, our breath coming as hard as if we had just negotiated some deadly hazard — as perhaps we had. A heat grew inside me, a sweet softening that melted my belly, turned my bones to wax. I felt his hand under my tee shirt, his fingers light and easy on my breast, brushing the nipple, teasing it. His open mouth was on mine, urgent, his tongue going deep, searching. His murmured "Want to go upstairs?" was husky, aroused.

I pressed against him, cradling his face in my hands, kissing his mouth. "Oh yes, let's," I said breathlessly.

Brian cleared his throat from the doorway. "Does this mean I can go to Arnold's house?"

McQuaid dropped his hands and stepped back. I colored and pulled my shirt down. How long had he been standing there?

"Nothing doing, kid." McQuaid's casual laugh sounded forced. He jerked his head toward the corkboard. "You want to take a chance running into that creep on the road?"

Brian's chin trembled. "But I heard you tell China
—"
"China's a big girl. She can take care of herself,"

McQuaid said sternly. "You're a kid, and I'm telling you —

But he didn't have a chance to tell Brian anything. The boy turned with a sob and ran from the room.

"Shit." McQuaid appealed to me. "Where am I going wrong, China?"

I remembered Sheila's daddy teaching her to float in his arms, wanting to keep her safe, willing her to be
hid.
I thought of my own father, who had never, as far as I could remember, even held my hand. I glanced at McQuaid, his brow furrowed, his mouth strained with fear for his son — a fear that he might go out in the world and be harmed, a fear that he might be harmed by not being allowed to go into the world. Neither the careful holding-on nor the careless letting-go is right. How do fathers learn these things? Who teaches a cop to hold his child close but not too close, when he's trained to take responsibility for the safety of an entire community?

I had no answer, but somehow McQuaid's question made me feel a little easier. People aren't born knowing how to be parents. McQuaid might hold too hard, I might not hold hard enough. Maybe between the two of us, we'd get it right, or close enough.

The mood had been broken. We didn't go upstairs to bed. But we did share a mushroom omelette and some quiet talk, nothing special, just ordinary talk, steadying us, putting things mostly right between us. When we finished, McQuaid put the dishes in the dishwasher while I went upstairs to change into khaki town shorts and a blouse so I could go to the shop and introduce Harold the repairman to the comatose air conditioner. I was combing my hair when I heard the crunch of tires on gravel. I looked out the window. A blue Porsche had pulled up out front, and Matt Monroe was hefting himself out of the driver's seat.

I came into the kitchen with my purse and car keys just as McQuaid was pouring Matt the last of the breakfast coffee. Mart's white shirt was wrinkled, his tie was untied, and what there was of his brown hair was mussed. He stood up.

"Mornin', China. Sorry for bustin' in on ya'll like this. I wouldn't, if it wasn't important." At my nod, he sat back down again.

"Did Chief Harris have a search warrant when he showed up at the hotel this morning?" McQuaid asked, and pushed the coffee mug at him. I picked up the kettle and sloshed it to to see if there was any hot water.

"No. He just wanted to talk to Jeff, was all." Matt sat back down, his usually amiable face pale and drawn. "Wasn't the first time he'd dropped in, either. He was up at the hotel late Friday afternoon. That's when I told him about Jeff going fishing. He wasn't real pushy, then. Just wanted Jeff to let him know first thing he got back."

"He was pushy this morning?" McQuaid asked.

"You bet." Matt took a gulp of his coffee. "He made me go over it again about Jeff s trip, when he left, who saw him last. Then he told me to go see if Big Chuck's gun was in the case. It wasn't. He left. Said he was goin' to get a warrant, and he'd be back." He looked nervously at McQuaid. "What's going on?"

"The chief didn't tell you why he was there?"

Matt shook his head numbly.

"They found the gun that killed Rosemary Robbins. It was Big Chuck's .38. Somebody tossed it onto the river-bank under the 1-35 bridge."

Matt covered his face with his hands. "Oh, Jesus," he said. It was nearly a groan.

I measured out instant coffee into two cups and added hot water from the ketde. "The gun cabinet," I said, putting a cup in front of McQuaid. "Where is it? Was anything else missing?"

"In the wall beside the bookcase. The guns aren't collectors' pieces, just sentimental stuff, mostly, family guns. There's a Model 94 W
inchester, you know, the old .50-50
lever-action saddle gun. A single-shot .410 and a bolt-action .22, both of which belonged to Big Chuck's daddy when he was a boy. And a Springfield .30-06 Cameron brought back from the First World War. They were all there when I looked, along with a couple of Bowie knives. Nothing was gone but the .38."

"Was the cabinet locked?" McQuaid asked.

"Yeah. Jeff has the key." Matt looked at McQuaid. "He never showed up at the
Sea Lion."

McQuaid stared at him. "You mean, nobody's seen him since he left here?"

"You got it," Matt said. He pulled out a white handkerchief and wiped his shiny forehead. "I didn't tell Harris, you understand. I keep thinking there's gotta be an explanation." The sweat was popping out again before the handkerchief was back in his pocket.

McQuaid's voice was level. "What is it you want from me, Monroe?"

"I want you to find him, wherever in hell he's gone to, and bring him back. If he's killed this woman, he's got to come back here and face the music. If he didn't, he's got to fight it." He turned his head away. "It's not good for the hotel, him running away like this. People talk, they get ideas, the hotel gets a bad rap." His mouth twisted. "Fifty percent of that fuckin' white elephant is mine. It's not much, but it's all I've go
t, and I've put my life into it
the past few years. I'm lookin' out for it."

"Jeff doesn't have it in him to kill Rosemary," Mc-Quaid said quietly.

"Maybe not." Matt shook his head and picked up his coffee mug. "If you're right, all the more reason for him to get his ass back here. He's got a lot of respect for you, McQuaid. You find him, talk reason to him, he'll come back with you."

McQuaid shook his head. "It's out of the question." He glanced over my head at Jacoby's photo, then at me. "There's a situation here that I — "

I put down my coffee cup and made him meet my eyes. "I can handle the Jacoby thing, McQuaid. If you want to bring Jeff back, I'll look after Brian."

McQuaid's mouth hardened. "I can't ask you to do it, China. Jacoby's too dangerous. And there's that business with Sally. We'll be hearing from her damn lawyer any day now."

I looked hard at him, challenging. "You don't
trudt
me to do it."

McQuaid looked startled, then stung, and I knew I'd been right. Trust was at the bottom of this. He didn't trust me to take care of myself and Brian, any more than Sheila's father trusted her to float on her own. He hadn't realized this until just now, and the knowledge shook him.

"The business with Sally isn't that urgent, either," I said, pushing my advantage. "It'll be weeks before she goes to court."

"See?" Matt said. He gave me a thin-lipped smile. "Whatever you got goin', this pretty lady's sharp enough to handle it. Do it, McQuaid. Go get him. Make him come back."

McQuaid turned his cup in his hands, staring at it.

"He's not running. He's not the type. Something's happened to him."

I reached for his hand. "That's why you have to go, McQuaid. JefFs your friend, and you have to help him."

Matt chimed in. "I don't see him killin' her, either. He wanted to marry her, for God's sake. She was goin' to have his kid. He needs to get back here and clear his name."

McQuaid's head turned sharply. "You know about the pregnancy?"

Matt shifted in his chair, and I looked at him. "Well, sure, I know," he said, coloring slightly, suddenly ill at ease. He held out one hand, palm up. "I gotta be honest with you, Mike. Jeff and I had our share of disagreements after I inherited his sister's half of the hotel. We didn't always see eye to eye. But we were partners, not enemies. Sure, he told me about Rosemary. Why wouldn't he?"

"Wait a minute," I said. "You're talking as if he were dead."

Matt pulled out his handkerchief and mopped again. "Yeah, well, this thing's makin' me crazy. It's a wonder I'm not talkin' like
I'm
dead." He appealed to McQuaid again. "Mike, you've gotta help me on this."

McQuaid shook his head. "I really don't think — "

"Maybe it's as simple as car trouble," I said.

"Yeah," Matt said. "Or maybe he took another boat, and he's been out on the Gulf for three, four days. Probably all you have to do is show up and break the news to him. He'll
want
to get back here and get this mess straightened up."