Dead Man's Bones (20 page)

Fifteen minutes later, I was riding shotgun in the squad car, as Sheila, now properly uniformed, drove through the silent streets. It was nearing midnight, which is the witching hour for most of Pecan Springs. But the east side of town has more than its share of neon-lit bars and late-night cafés and pool parlors, featuring the occasional small-time prostitute and the big-time drug deal—the sort of dirty work that goes on after sundown in every town, no matter how squeaky clean and cozy it looks in the daytime. The rain had moved on, and we could see people hanging out under the streetlights and cars cruising slowly down the dark streets.

Sheila, I noticed, was keeping a wary eye out, assessing every car, every pedestrian, as a possible problem. The cop curse, I’ve come to call this tendency to generic mistrust and suspicion. McQuaid has been out of law enforcement for quite a few years, but he still watches the world out of the corner of his eye, as if he’s waiting for somebody to pounce. Colin had done it, too.

We stopped for a red light at Fifth and Brazos, and I broke the silence with a question, abrupt and unplanned, and right off the top of my mind, where it had been buzzing like an angry fly for the past several minutes. “How’d you happen to know Colin Fowler?”

“Who?” Sheila swiveled to face me, her face half-shadowed, half-lit by the glow of the dash. “Oh, Fowler.”

“Right. Ruby’s new boyfriend.” When she didn’t speak, I prompted her. “Where’d you meet him?”

She was looking straight ahead, both hands on the wheel. “I don’t know where you got the idea that we know one another,” she said, with an attempt at casualness. “Tonight was the first time we’ve met.”

I didn’t believe her. But there wasn’t any point in my saying so, or in attempting to persuade her to reveal whatever she was concealing. Some truths, I have learned from bitter personal experience, are better left uncovered, when the knowledge can only lead to pain and distress. But it certainly didn’t make me happy to think that Sheila’s past connection with Colin, whatever it was, might get in the way of Ruby’s current relationship with him.

A couple of minutes later, we were pulling up in front of Hank’s place, a two-story duplex with a small, scrappy piece of grass in the front. It was Hank’s, all right. A sign in the yard said HANK THE HANDYMAN, CHEAP, QUICK, GOOD, and the motorcycle parked in the driveway had “Juan” painted on it in flaming red letters. And if I needed further confirmation, there were several ladders leaning against the garage and a couple of five-gallon paint cans on the small front porch.

When we parked the squad car and went up the shrub-screened walk, I saw a dim light glowing in the front window upstairs, as if it came from a room farther back. With the light on and his motorcycle in the drive, I expected Juan to appear. But after several moments of knocking, it was obvious that nobody was going to open the door.

“Must be out for the evening,” Sheila said. She took a departmental notepad out of her pocket, scrawled a brief message on it asking Juan to call the police station, and signed her name.

“If we don’t hear from him by morning,” she said, as she tucked the note under the door knocker, “I’ll send somebody out to find him. I’m hoping he can shed some light on this situation.”

To tell the truth, I was relieved. Juan had been one of McQuaid’s favorite students, and I had liked the boy, who struck me as honest and hardworking. I suspected that he was sending most of his money back to his mother and sisters, who still lived in Mexico. I hated to be the one to tell him that Hank had been shot to death while trying to break into the Obermann mansion.

But as I got into the squad car, I happened to look back up at that window. The light I had seen was gone, and the window was completely dark.

Somebody—Juan?—was in that house.

Both Ruby and I were a little bleary-eyed when we opened up the next morning. It was Saturday, which is usually our busiest day of the week—especially this Saturday, with people dropping in or phoning to let Ruby know how much they’d enjoyed her performance.

I had gotten home very late the night before, to an empty house. McQuaid wouldn’t be back from New Orleans until Saturday afternoon, and Brian was away for the weekend on a Boy Scout camping trip near Utopia, in the western part of the Hill Country. Howard Cosell and I were batching it, and in honor of the occasion, Howard had decided it was his prerogative to take over McQuaid’s side of the bed. He was already there, lying on his back with all four paws in the air, snoring sonorously—something of a surprise, since I had expected the bed to be empty.

But that wasn’t the only surprise. When I went to the basin to brush my teeth, I discovered one of Brian’s chameleons, sitting on a green cake of soap, staring gloomily at me.

“Drat,” I muttered. I don’t know how many times I’ve told Brian to keep his creatures penned up properly, instead of letting them wander around the house, where they have a way of attempting to drown themselves in the washing machine, dropping unexpectedly from the top of a door, or lurking in various odd corners. But when I picked the lizard up to take it back to Brian’s room, I saw that it had taken its last safari. It was stiff and cold, and dead as a doornail. At least it had died in its green phase, rather than its usual muddy brown color. For a dead lizard, it was rather pretty.

I took the deceased downstairs and stuck it in the refrigerator freezer, thinking that Brian would want to give it a proper interment when he got back from his camping trip. Back upstairs, I climbed into bed next to Howard Cosell, and rolled him over on his side in an effort to stop his snoring.

It didn’t work. He twitched, grunted, snorted, and the snores began again. Howard the Loud. Tonight, though, I’d probably sleep through it. The evening had been long and full of disquieting events. I was exhausted.

Ruby had already heard the story of Hank’s shooting from Colin, so I didn’t have to go into the details when we talked the next morning. She kept shaking her head in puzzlement, though, as she unlocked her front door and set up her cash register for its first sale.

“What in the world could Hank have been after?” she asked. “The Obermann jewels?”

“I don’t think it’s as simple as that,” I said. I sketched out what Hank had told me—that he was angry over the way his father had been treated—but I omitted McQuaid’s involvement in the matter. Ruby wants to be Nancy Drew when she grows up, and since McQuaid has hung out his shingle as a private investigator, she’s volunteered several times to work for him as a “freelance operative,” as she puts it. Talking about his conversation with the Obermann sisters would only heap fuel on her fire, so I kept my mouth shut.

“Well,” she said in a practical tone, “it sounds like Jane did what she had to do. She must have been terrified, seeing Hank burst through those French doors with a knife in his hand. I can’t say that I blame her for shooting him—although I keep thinking that there has to be more to it than a simple break-in.”

Nobody else would blame Jane, either. Texas is one of the few states where you can shoot someone to keep him from committing arson, burglary, robbery, aggravated robbery, theft, or criminal mischief. And according to Chapter 9, Section 42, of the Texas Penal Code, you can shoot the thief when he has broken into your house in the dead of night, taken your stuff, and is climbing over the back fence—as long as you “reasonably believe” that’s the only way you’re going to get it back. This case wouldn’t even get to the grand jury. Jane Obermann had killed a man, but it was justifiable homicide.

“Terrified?” I asked, picking up on Ruby’s comment. “Not when I saw her. Jane Obermann is one cool character.” I paused. “Florence is another matter, of course. She was terrified. She could hardly describe what happened.”

Ruby made a little face. “Well, the whole thing is a tragedy, that’s all. A tragedy. Hank was crusty, but he was a good worker. I can’t believe he meant any harm.” She paused thoughtfully. “Maybe I should call the hospital and ask how Florence is doing this morning.”

“One of us could run over there with some flowers from the garden,” I said. “If she’s broken her hip, it might be a long time before she’s back home. According to Jane, there have been other fractures.”

“Osteoporosis,” Ruby said with a troubled look. “It’s such a scary disease. I just found out last week that my mother has it. She’s allergic to dairy products, and her low calcium intake is catching up with her. I’ve been meaning to ask you about herbs that might help.”

“That’s a tough one,” I said. “It depends on how much bone she’s already lost—and only a bone scan is going to tell her that. To prevent any more bone loss, she might try horsetail and alfalfa. Licorice and mallow have also been used. Some people suggest a salve made from wild yam, which is supposed to contain a chemical that has progesterone-like properties. The Chinese recommend dong quai and ginseng. I can give your mother the names of a couple of experienced herbalists who could take a look at her situation and make some detailed recommendations.”

“I’ll tell her,” she said. “And I’ll go pick some flowers to take to Florence, poor thing.”

Ruby brought in the flowers—some Michaelmas daisies, chrysanthemums, calendula, and some rosemary, tansy, and fern for greenery—and I was arranging them when Sheila came into the shop. She was uniformed, with a gun on her hip and a business-like look on her face. Her don’t-mess-with-me look.

“Juan hasn’t shown up at the house,” she said without preamble. “Any idea what his last name is, and where he might be?”

“His last name is Gomez,” I said, “but I have no idea how to locate him. Have you asked the neighbors?”

“Yes, but no luck there. Everybody knows Hank, but Juan must have kept pretty much to himself, because nobody knows him.”

“You took Jane Obermann’s statement?”

She nodded. “This morning, first thing. She and Florence were in the library, about to go to bed. The door was unlocked. Hank shoved it open and stumbled in, brandishing the knife and muttering something incoherent. Florence tried to run and fell. Jane grabbed the gun out of the cabinet and shot him. I don’t think Howie wants to touch this one.” She looked at the flowers I was arranging. “That’s pretty.”

Howie Masterson is the recently elected Adams County D.A. He is further to the right than Archie Bunker, and not nearly so harmlessly amusing. He campaigned on an anti-crime agenda, but the kind of crime he had in mind involved drug deals, convenience store heists, and parking lot muggings by lowlife interlopers from the big city. Jane Obermann’s shooting of Hank Dixon was exactly the kind of citizen’s self-defense that would thrill him down to the pointed toes of his ostrich-skin cowboy boots.

“They’re for Florence Obermann,” I said, adding a sprig of rosemary. In flower arrangements, rosemary is better than fern, if you ask me. It’s fragrant and it holds up much longer. “Have you been to the hospital this morning?”

“I haven’t, but one of the officers tried to take her statement. She was barely coherent, and her sister insisted that he leave. I’ll send him back later.”

“Maybe she’s sedated,” I said, tucking a daisy into the arrangement.

“Maybe I should phone McQuaid,” Sheila said restlessly. “Do you think he might know where we could locate Juan?”

“Won’t do you any good,” I said, as the door opened and three older women came in. Ah, customers. I raised my voice. “Good morning, ladies. Please take your time looking around. I’ll be right here if you have any questions.”

“What time will the tearoom be open?” one of the women asked.

“Eleven-thirty,” I replied, and added, with a smile, “the menu’s on the wall. Will you be joining us for lunch?”

Janet was in the kitchen making crepes, and one of the girls would be here in a few minutes to set things up and handle the service. Ruby and I take turns playing hostess at lunch, and it was Ruby’s turn.

“Look, Jessica,” one of the women said, “they’re having chicken crepes. Oh, let’s do stay. I had them last time I was here, and they’re wonderful.”

Sheila leaned forward. “What do you mean, it won’t do me any good to call McQuaid?”

“Because he’s out of town,” I said. “Won’t be back until this afternoon. You could try his cell phone, but he almost never leaves it on.”

And then, just to make a liar out of me, the door opened and McQuaid came in, followed by another little gaggle of customers. Several of them had potted plants in their hands from the rack outside the door.