Dead Man's Bones (17 page)

Dorrie Hull, the police department’s receptionist and day-shift dispatcher, was drenched in so much perfume that she couldn’t have smelled the guano if somebody had shoved her face in it. When Sheila was hired as chief of police a couple of years ago, she made Dorrie start wearing a uniform and stop smoking at her desk. She gave in to Dorrie’s plaintive pleas, though, and allowed her to keep on wearing perfume and a nonregulation hairstyle.

“Mornin’, Miz Bayles,” Dorrie said cheerfully. She patted her pagoda of platinum-blonde, Dolly Parton-big hair, courtesy of Bobby Rae’s House of Beauty. Piled so high I’d have to stand on a chair to see the top of it, the hair was an interesting contrast to her regulation gray uniform shirt and blue tie. “Ya here t’ see the boss lady?”

“Is she available?” Dorrie’s perfume was as overpowering as her hair. I was filtering the air through my teeth.

“Lemme check.” Dorrie picked up the phone and punched an extension with an inch-long blue fingernail, the same shade as her blue tie, with a silver stripe down the middle. Dorrie had been allowed to keep her nails, along with her hair and perfume. “Hey, ya there, Chief?” she asked perkily. “It’s Miz Bayles, wantin’ to see ya.”

There was a silence. I couldn’t hear what Sheila said. Dorrie frowned. “But she already knows—” Another silence, then a heavily aggrieved sigh. “Yes’m. I’ll tell her. Sorry fer botherin’ ya.” She put down the phone and looked up at me. “Two minutes is all ya get. She’s got city council this afternoon, and that Ben Graves is after her scalp again.”

Ben Graves would love to get Sheila fired. He almost managed it when it took the department a while to nail old Mrs. Holeyfield’s killer. Now, he was probably looking for something else, and Sheila was unhappy about it.

I grinned at Dorrie. “Chewed you out, did she?”

Dorrie grinned back. “Some days she is ornerier than others.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “Dunno what’s eatin’ her, but it’s bad.”

In Sheila’s office, I took a deep breath, shut the door, and leaned against it. “I prefer guano to Torrid Shoulders or Sexy Secrets or whatever the hell Dorrie’s wearing.”

Sheila closed a folder and looked up. Whatever you were expecting a female police chief to look like, Smart Cookie is not it. She was dressed for her appearance at the city council meeting: shell-pink silk blouse, crisp cream-colored linen blazer and slim skirt, pink-and-gold jewelry. Her ash-blonde hair was sleek and classy, her makeup perfectly subdued, her nails pink and pearly. If you haven’t encountered her on the firing range, or if you don’t know she’s packing a .357 Magnum in her Gucci shoulder bag, you’d swear she was a CEO at Mary Kay Cosmetics and start checking the curb for her pink Cadillac.

Sheila frowned. “I give Dorrie the sniff test when she comes in every morning. Trouble is, she keeps the stuff in her drawer, like a flask of moonshine, and soaks herself in it the minute my back’s turned.” She put the folder on a stack, not meeting my eyes. “Did she tell you I’m running behind? A couple of minutes is the best I can do.”

I put the pot of chrysanthemums on her desk. “Smart Cookie,” I said quietly, “you are not running behind. You are running from me. And it’s high time you stopped. I may sleep with McQuaid, but that doesn’t mean that what you say to me will get back to him, or to Blackie. You ought to know me better than that.”

Sheila let out her breath as if she’d been holding it for about three months. “You’ve heard, then.”

“I heard. I’m sorry.” I sighed, too. “I’m really sorry, Sheila.”

“So am I.” She picked up a pen and fiddled with it. “I’d rather not go into the details just now, if you don’t mind.” Her voice was tight. “Maybe later, when I’m not feeling so much like a female black widow spider. He must absolutely hate me.” She looked at the pot of chrysanthemums. “Those are pretty. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” I said. “And you don’t have to go into the details at all, ever, if you don’t want to.” I reached into the back pocket of my jeans. “I’ve brought you something else.” I put it on the desk in front of her.

She picked it up. “A ticket?”

“To tomorrow night’s opening of
A Man for All Reasons
. I want you to dress up in your finest denims and diamonds and help me cheer for Ruby. It’s her big night, you know, and she’s planning something special—what, I don’t know. She’s being very mysterious about it. Also,” I added, “you’re invited to the cast party afterward.”

I didn’t want to say so, but I knew it would be a safe evening for Sheila. If there was one thing I could count on, it was that Sheriff Blackwell would not be at the performance. He isn’t keen on the arts, although Sheila is, and he would much rather be fishing on Canyon Lake than going to the theater or the Austin symphony or the ballet in San Antonio. This attitude was probably one of the hidden reefs their relationship had foundered on. The two of them may have a common interest in law enforcement, but otherwise, they couldn’t be more different. Now that I’d had time to think about it, I was surprised that they’d lasted as long as they had.

Sheila looked at the ticket and her face lit up. “Oh, China, I’d love to,” she exclaimed. “Thanks for thinking of me.”

“There’s just one catch,” I said. “Party Thyme is catering the party. Ruby will be celebrating, so I’ll have my hands full. But that needn’t stop you from enjoying yourself.”

Sheila was smiling. “I’ll be glad to help.” She pushed her chair back and stood.

“You don’t have to do that,” I said. “You can just hang around and look decorative. I only wanted you to know so you wouldn’t expect me to—”

“But I want to help,” she insisted. She came around the desk and hugged me. “Evenings are sort of miserable just now. I sit around hating myself for causing Blackie so much pain—or I waste time fantasizing about the best way to clean Ben Grave’s clock. The play and the party will give me something productive to do.”

I certainly wasn’t going to argue with somebody who was volunteering a pair of willing hands, even if those hands were so pretty and well-manicured that they made me jealous. I hugged her back.

“White Linen,” I said, sniffing appreciatively. “A great alternative to guano. And to Sordid Secrets.” I held up my wrist and looked at my watch. “Two minutes and thirty seconds, Chief. I’m outta here.”

To mend fences, the telephone just doesn’t work. You have to
go
there. Flowers and a ticket to a play don’t hurt, either.

 
SOME years back, when the community theater group was just getting started, it wasn’t easy to get people to come out to see a play. It wasn’t that Pecan Springs lacked culture; after all, CTSU always scheduled a full calendar of cultural events on campus every year, and lots of people from the community made it a point to attend. Maybe it was the idea that community theater is amateur drama, and people didn’t want to pay to see their neighbors making fools of themselves onstage. Or maybe Pecan Springers, at heart, were like Blackie: they’d rather go fishing or hunting, or drive to San Marcos and listen to country music at the Cheatham Street Warehouse.

But things changed when the Community Theater Association announced its first Denim and Diamonds Opening Night, and a Pecan Springs tradition—now a decade old—was born. The tickets are priced as if this were Broadway, the Theater Auxiliary ladies serve champagne punch and chocolates before curtain and at intermission, and the patrons gussie themselves up in their most dazzling (and mostly fake) jewelry, their fanciest cowboy boots, and their dressiest denims. There’s even an armed security guard, usually an off-duty cop, who makes a big show out of protecting the showgoers from thieves out to steal their jewelry; one year, they even staged a fake robbery. It’s all very over-the-top, but it works. Most people come to strut their stuff and show off their rhinestone-cowboy outfits, rather than out of a love for the theatrical arts. But who cares, as long as they pay the tariff and act like they’re enjoying the performance?

Since this was the first time a play had been staged in the new Merrill G. Obermann Theater, tonight’s gala was even more of an event than usual. All the Pecan Springs bigwigs were there, togged out in their best denim bibs and diamond tuckers. The mayor, the entire city council, the Chamber of Commerce, and all their spouses. Brian Ducote, our state representative, and his toothy wife Beulah. The Hill Country Ladies Club and their husbands, and the Myra Merryweather Herb Guild,
en masse
. The architect who had designed the building, and the contractor, and Colin Fowler, who was standing off to one side, watching with a bemused look.

The event was being documented by a photographer from the the
Enterprise
, who crept in close to chatting patrons, snapping candid photos. He took several of Sheila, and no wonder. Smart Cookie looked like an ice cream sundae in white jeans, a fringed silk shirt, rhinestone-trimmed white boots, and outrageous faux pearls the size of marbles—hardly the sort of look you expect from your local chief of police. I was wearing a red shirt, jeans, an embroidered denim vest, and my favorite red cowboy boots. I had on makeup, too, and—between finishing the sandwiches and starting on the appetizers, I’d sneaked off to Bobby Rae’s House of Beauty for a shampoo, cut, and blow-dry. It was too bad McQuaid wasn’t there to see it. It was the most dolled up I’d been since the two of us got married.

Jane and Florence Obermann were there, too, of course, and although they weren’t wearing denim, they had taken the Obermann family jewels out of the bank vault for the occasion. Jane was wearing a regal blue silk dress with a diamond-and-sapphire choker and matching earrings and bracelet. Florence, in pearls, wore a flowing gray dress and kept to her sister’s shadow. Both seemed pleased with the way the playhouse looked—and it did look splendid. Just goes to show what money can do, if it’s put in the right places. You never would have guessed that we were gathered in a stable, which was gussied up just like the rest of us.

Before the curtain went up for the first act, Marian Atkins gave a speech on behalf of the theater association, praising the Obermann sisters for carrying on their father’s legacy of community philanthropy and thanking Jane for the playscript—“a masterpiece of dramatic creativity,” she said. Marian laid it on a little too thick for my taste and didn’t say a word about the grief the old lady had caused. But of course, the truth would have spoiled the illusion that the occasion was designed to produce: that Pecan Springs is devoted to the arts (which isn’t true, unless you number country-dancing and barbecuing among the arts) and that the Obermann sisters are selfless, tireless supporters of the theater (in your dreams).

Jane rose to the occasion with a few gracious remarks about how much Dr. Obermann would have enjoyed this night, and how delighted she and Florence were with the renovations and with the play itself.

Applause. House lights down, curtain up. Act One. I could finally sit back and take a breath.

As things had turned out, I was very glad for Sheila’s offer to help with the cast party. That afternoon, back at the tearoom, Janet and Ruby and I had assembled the food—appetizers, sandwiches, dips, crackers, raw veggies, cookies, cakes, and desserts. The centerpiece was a hollowed-out pumpkin filled with chive dip, an idea that we borrowed from Theresa Loe’s Herbal Calendar. And then Ruby went off to get ready for the play and Janet . . . well, Janet announced that her knees were acting up, and she was going home.

Sheila, bless her, came through. After the shops had closed, she helped me load all the food into Big Red Mama and get it to the theater. Everything was backstage, now, and ready for the party. And I was ready to relax in my seat and applaud for Ruby—for the other players, too, of course, but mostly for Ruby.

And she didn’t disappoint us. Chris had worked a makeup miracle, and if you didn’t know that Ruby was still sporting a shiner, you wouldn’t have noticed it. The three-act play followed the fortunes of the Obermann family from 1918 to 1948, and the characters—the Obermann parents and children, several servants, and a few others—aged accordingly, their changing costumes reflecting the changing eras.

But throughout, the spotlight was on Dr. Obermann and his wife Cynthia. And as Ruby and Jean had reshaped the drama, Cynthia had become the most important character. Ruby was simply terrific in that role, her spontaneity and slightly flighty, discombobulated charm a marvelous comic foil for her cautious, stiffly dignified husband.

And Max? Well, yes, he was predictably stilted, stodgy, and wooden. But something interesting happened on stage, for these attributes seemed somehow natural to the character he was playing, rather than to any deficiencies of the actor. As Max played him, Herr Doctor Obermann might be a dedicated physician, a devoted father, and a generous philanthropist, but he was first and foremost a genuine Germanic stuffed shirt. Quite unconsciously, Jane had cast the perfect man for the role of her father.

And while Max pontificated, Ruby danced, flinging herself into her role with a sparkling and inventive energy, an almost manic abandon. Oh, yes, she delivered the lines Jane had written, or very nearly, but she delivered them with a life that Jane had never intended or even imagined. She was sweet, gay, wacky, wild, and poignantly human, and by the end of the third act, she had stolen the show right out from under the nose of the man who was meant to be the star. Flushed and happy, eyes sparkling, Ruby was summoned back for applause several times, the last time, with a standing ovation. Everyone loved her.

Everyone, that is, but Jane Obermann. It was clear that the playwright had not meant her play to have this effect, and that this unexpected outcome—this upstaging of her idolized father by her frivolous and upstart mother—was an unpleasant surprise. I’m no expert on drama, and I don’t know how often the playwright’s intention is altered by the way an actor creatively interprets a role. But I could see that Jane, who must not have witnessed a full rehearsal of the play in its present form, was both surprised and angered. Her face wore a thunderous scowl, and she kept to her seat while everyone else was standing, cheering. She swept out of the theater even before the curtain calls began, a study in sheer rage, with Florence like a frightened puppy at her heels.