Dead Man's Bones (19 page)

Sheila was suddenly all business. Taking charge, she ordered Lonnie to call for EMS and a squad car and to keep everybody in the theater. She told Ruby and Jean to make a list of the people who were at the party—as well as the people who should have been there and weren’t. She picked up her bag, pulled out a small flashlight and her gun, and beckoned to me and Colin to follow her to the house.

Colin? If I needed a confirmation of their acquaintance —or whatever it was—that was it. What did this suggest about Colin’s past? That he had done police work? And where did this leave Ruby? But I couldn’t do anything with this stuff just now. I let it go and followed Sheila.

It had rained during the performance, and the air was chill and fresh. The fitful wind chased fallen leaves across the damp grass and tossed the thick oleander bushes that lined the flagstone path to the back of the house, where a single bulb, haloed by mist, shone languid yellow, like a blob of liquid amber.

The enormous house itself seemed to loom over us with an angry and poisonous presence, and I remembered McQuaid’s remark about vampires. The place was mostly dark, except for a dim glow on the second floor and a spill of red-tinted light shining through the shrubbery. It looked as if it came from a pair of French doors standing open at the side of the house, near the front. The only sound was that of a woman’s desperate, keening cry, not loud, but wordless and shrill, like a knife cutting wind. I shivered.

Sheila and I circled the house in the darkness, hunched over and moving fast, keeping to the shrubbery where we could, hugging the wall where we couldn’t. Colin, without a word, had gone freelance around the house in the other direction, moving as if he knew exactly what he was doing. I certainly didn’t. I kept close behind Sheila; not because I was afraid, exactly, but because she had the flashlight and the gun, and she was the boss. I was just there for . . .

My arms were breaking out in goose bumps and a distinct uneasiness had settled in my stomach. I had no idea why I was there, except that maybe Sheila wanted company, or she thought I knew the layout of the house and was acquainted with the Obermann sisters, neither of which was exactly true. And I didn’t
like
being there, either, for that matter. Cops-and-creeps drama is okay in the movies, but I can think of any number of things I’m better and braver at than skulking through rainy darkness in the direction of gunshots and the eerie sound of a woman sobbing, in the menacing shadow of a haunted house.

So while Sheila was moving forward, intent on capturing whoever had fired those shots, I was nervously watching our flank and our rear, and listening with all my ears. But there wasn’t much to hear, just wind, and faraway thunder, and the sound of our stealthy movements, and that awful, shuddery wailing. Anyway, the guy who had shot that gun was probably long gone, chased off by the sound of Lonnie’s shouts, if not by the woman’s dreadful crying.

I was wrong. The shooter was still there when Sheila and I finally pushed through the overgrown jungle around the house, reached the open French doors, and peered around them into the room lined with books and lit by a lamp with a red silk beaded shade.

And it wasn’t Jane Obermann who had been shot. She was the one who had done the shooting, and somebody else was dead.

 
THE gun still in her hand, still wearing the blue silk dress she’d worn to the play, Jane Obermann was standing in the center of the room, her dark eyes glittering, her mouth set and hard.

Miss Florence, also still dressed, was half-sitting, half-lying against the wall beside the open door to the hallway. She was the one who was crying, the powder on her face streaked with tears.

The victim was sprawled faceup on the Oriental carpet, a battered straw hat on the floor beside him. Under his hand was a wicked-looking wooden-handled butcher knife with a five-inch blade.

“Hank,” I breathed, and knelt beside him, feeling for a pulse. I didn’t expect one; there were two bullet holes in his chest, a handsbreadth apart. His shirt was blood-soaked and blood had puddled on the red carpet under him.

Sheila had already identified herself to Jane Obermann and had taken the gun from her unresisting hand. Now she turned to me. “You know this guy?” she asked tautly.

“His name is Hank Dixon,” I said, thinking of McQuaid and the sisters’ plan to hire him to protect them against Hank. And thinking of what Hank had said to me a few days before, when I’d remarked that I was sorry about his father.

I’d taken his words as a philosophical musing, a comment on the transient nature of life. Now, as I looked down at Hank’s body on the floor, the remark seemed prescient, prophetic, heavy with another kind of meaning. Hank must have already known what he intended to do tonight.

“There’s a story behind this, Smart Cookie,” I said in a low voice, wishing that McQuaid were here, instead of in New Orleans. He might have prevented this from happening—although at the moment, I couldn’t quite think how. “I’ll fill you in later.”

Colin stepped into the room through the open hallway door, taking in the scene with a glance. “Everything under control?” The tone of voice was casual, but the confident authority behind it was not. Colin had been here, done this before. At some point in his past, he had been a cop.

Jane Obermann had folded her arms across her chest and was eyeing Sheila with unmasked suspicion. “You hardly look like a policeman. Let alone a chief of police.”

“I will be glad to show you my identification when I get my bag,” Sheila said, putting the gun on the fireplace mantel, out of easy reach. “In the meantime—”

“If you intend to ask me whether I shot this man,” Jane interrupted, with some asperity, “the answer is yes. He was breaking in. He had threatened us. My sister saw the whole thing. She’ll tell you what happened.”

Florence Obermann moaned weakly, and Colin bent over and put a hand on her shoulder. “Let me help you get to the sofa,” he said, and began to lift her.

“Don’t!” Florence gave a scream of pain. “My . . . my hip,” she gasped. Her face was the color of paper. “I . . . I fell just as I came through the door. I think my hip is broken.”

“I expect she’s right,” Jane said, in a tone of mixed pity and scorn. “She has brittle bones. She’s always breaking something. Last time, it was her wrist and several ribs.” She lowered her voice as if she didn’t want Florence to hear. “She has a bad heart, too.”

Colin took a pillow and a knitted afghan from the velvet settee. He placed the pillow under Florence’s head and covered her. “We’ve called an ambulance,” he said gently, smoothing her straggly white hair back from her forehead. “It’ll be here in a few moments.”

Sheila went over and knelt beside her. “I know you’re in pain, Miss Obermann,” she said, “and I’m sorry. But maybe you can tell me what happened here.”

Florence lay back against the pillow. “She . . . my sister shot him,” she managed. “He was . . . coming through the door. He had a . . .” She closed her eyes, and her voice began to fade.

“A knife,” Jane Obermann said firmly. “Tell them, Florence, so there’s no mistake.”

“He . . . he had a big knife,” Florence whispered. “In his . . . hand.”

In the distance, I could hear the wail of sirens. Sheila stood up. “Thank you,” she said. “You just rest now. Everything will be all right.” She turned to Jane. “The gun you used, Miss Obermann. Where did you get it?”

Jane gestured to a glass curio cabinet, the one McQuaid had described to me. The door was ajar, and one of the glass shelves was empty. The other two shelves displayed guns.

“It was my father’s gun,” Jane said, raising her voice over the sirens that now sounded very close. “I’m so glad that the case wasn’t locked. When I saw that wretched man coming through the French doors, I opened the cabinet, seized the gun, and shouted at him—to frighten him, of course.” She shuddered. “I had no idea the gun was loaded.”

Both sirens cut off abruptly, one right after the other, and her next words sounded too loud.

“I don’t even remember pulling the trigger. I suppose I was under a great deal of stress.”

Sheila glanced at Colin, who nodded shortly and left the room. “Very well, then,” she said, turning back to Jane. “We’ll be busy here for the next hour or two. The ambulance can take your sister to the hospital. You may go with her if you like. But of course, I must ask you not to leave Pecan Springs until our investigation is concluded.”

Jane gave a small, hard laugh. “So I’m not under arrest?”

“No,” Sheila said quietly. “You’re not under arrest. I’d like to take your statement tomorrow morning at the station. I can send a car for you, if you prefer. And of course you’re free to ask your attorney to join us, if that would make you more comfortable.” She paused. “I’ll also want to take a statement from your sister, when the doctor gives us permission.”

Jane crossed the room and bent over Florence. “I’ll go to the hospital with you, dear,” she said in a solicitous tone. “I’ll stay with you. You won’t have to go through this alone.”

As Florence opened her eyes, I caught her look. It reminded me of a frightened rabbit. “Oh, no,” she managed, putting up a trembling hand. “It’s so very late, and you must be under a terrible strain. Don’t make it worse by coming out to the hospital, Jane. I’m . . . I’m sure they’ll take good care of me.”

“Such a dear,” Jane said, and patted her shoulder. “Always thinking of me, before yourself. But I must go with you,” she added briskly. “And, of course, we need to put the jewels away for safekeeping before we go. Here—let me unfasten yours.” With a little effort, she unclasped the pearls around Florence’s neck and took the bracelet from her wrist. “I’ll take these upstairs to the safe,” she said to Sheila, “and get my purse and a wrap.”

I heard footsteps and voices, and Colin came into the room leading the EMS personnel. In a few more moments, Florence was on a gurney and loaded into the ambulance. Jane came back downstairs. There was a brief discussion at the back of the ambulance, and then Jane was allowed to climb in with her sister. I moved to an out-of-the-way corner and watched while Sheila’s crime scene team—a photographer and a couple of investigating officers—arrived and conferred with their chief, then set about their work.

While her team settled down to the task, Sheila came over to me. “Okay, China. You said there’s a story. What is it?”

I told her what McQuaid had told me: that the sisters intended to hire him to deal with somebody who was threatening them, that they hadn’t gotten to the point of naming the man, but that I had recognized him from McQuaid’s description as Hank Dixon, the son of their long-time family servant, Gabriel Dixon.

“I was aware that Hank was angry about the way the women treated his father,” I said. “He even made a remark that, looking back on it, seems like a threat.” I repeated what Hank had said. “At the time, I thought he was just . . . well, speaking philosophically. After McQuaid and I talked, I thought he might have blackmail in mind—but nothing involving bloodshed.” I glanced regretfully at the body.

Sheila frowned. “Blackmail?”

I considered. “Maybe leverage is a better word. Hank said something to the effect that the Obermann sisters wouldn’t be where they were today if it hadn’t been for his father. He said he aimed to see that they took care of that.”

“Took care of it how?”

“Money, I guess.” I shrugged. “That was my impression when McQuaid and I discussed it.”

“What was McQuaid planning to do?”

“Talk to Hank, after he’d been formally retained.” I pushed away the thought that McQuaid had just lost a client—with Hank dead, Jane Obermann would hardly need a private investigator. Somehow, it didn’t seem a worthy thought, now that a man had lost his life.

Sheila bent over, raised the body slightly, and worked Hank’s wallet out of his back pocket. “Do you know Dixon’s family?”

“I don’t think he has one. A young man named Juan lives with him—a former student of McQuaid’s, actually. Hank and Juan just finished replacing the deck outside the tearoom. I talked to both of them day before yesterday.”

Sheila flipped the wallet open and took out Hank’s driver’s license. “Looks like he lives on East Brazos. Can you go over there with me? Now?”

I sighed. This wasn’t the way I’d planned to end the evening, but Juan would probably rather hear the bad news from me than from a police officer. And he might know something about Hank’s motive for coming, armed, to the Obermann mansion tonight.

“Yeah, sure,” I said. “But I have to let Ruby know what’s happening, and make sure that she has help with the party cleanup.” I looked around for Colin, but he was gone—back to the party, I guessed.

“You do that,” Sheila said, “and come back here. We’ll take one of the squad cars.” She looked down at her faux pearls and grimaced, then pulled them off. I hid a smile. Even without the pearls, she didn’t look much like a cop. “And I’ll change,” she added. “I keep a uniform in my car.”