Death Come Quickly

China Bayles Mysteries by Susan Wittig Albert

THYME OF DEATH

WITCHES' BANE

HANGMAN'S ROOT

ROSEMARY REMEMBERED

RUEFUL DEATH

LOVE LIES BLEEDING

CHILE DEATH

LAVENDER LIES

MISTLETOE MAN

BLOODROOT

INDIGO DYING

A DILLY OF A DEATH

DEAD MAN'S BONES

BLEEDING HEARTS

SPANISH DAGGER

NIGHTSHADE

WORMWOOD

HOLLY BLUES

MOURNING GLORIA

CAT'S CLAW

WIDOW'S TEARS

DEATH COME QUICKLY

AN UNTHYMELY DEATH

CHINA BAYLES' BOOK OF DAYS

Cottage Tales of Beatrix Potter Mysteries by Susan Wittig Albert

THE TALE OF HILL TOP FARM

THE TALE OF HOLLY HOW

THE TALE OF CUCKOO BROW WOOD

THE TALE OF HAWTHORN HOUSE

THE TALE OF BRIAR BANK

THE TALE OF APPLEBECK ORCHARD

THE TALE OF OAT CAKE CRAG

THE TALE OF CASTLE COTTAGE

Darling Dahlias Mysteries by Susan Wittig Albert

THE DARLING DAHLIAS AND THE CUCUMBER TREE

THE DARLING DAHLIAS AND THE NAKED LADIES

THE DARLING DAHLIAS AND THE CONFEDERATE ROSE

THE DARLING DAHLIAS AND THE TEXAS STAR

With her husband, Bill Albert, writing as Robin Paige

DEATH AT BISHOP'S KEEP

DEATH AT GALLOWS GREEN

DEATH AT DAISY'S FOLLY

DEATH AT DEVIL'S BRIDGE

DEATH AT ROTTINGDEAN

DEATH AT WHITECHAPEL

DEATH AT EPSOM DOWNS

DEATH AT DARTMOOR

DEATH AT GLAMIS CASTLE

DEATH IN HYDE PARK

DEATH AT BLENHEIM PALACE

DEATH ON THE LIZARD

Nonfiction books by Susan Wittig Albert

WRITING FROM LIFE

WORK OF HER OWN

S
USAN
W
ITTIG
A
LBERT

DEATH COME QUICKLY

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (USA) LLC

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This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.

Copyright © 2014 by Susan Wittig Albert.

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eBook ISBN 978-1-101-63886-6

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Albert, Susan Wittig. Death come quickly / Susan Wittig Albert.—First edition.
pages cm
ISBN 978-0-425-25563-6 (hardback)
1. Women detectives—Fiction. 2. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3551.L2637D44 2014
813'.54—dc23
2013049231

FIRST EDITION:
April 2014

Cover illustration by Joe Burleson;
Background
© by Hemera / Thinkstock.

Cover design by Judith Murello.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

PUBLISHER'S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.

For Lucia Ferrara Bettler, always an inspiration

To the Reader

In our modern day and time, we often think of the plants in our gardens as living things that we admire and tend for our use and for our delight. They feed us, they please us, they enrich our lives and beautify our landscapes. In our worldview, plants are, more or less, creatures that we humans design and manage, on a large or small scale, for our own personal benefit.

But in early human history, when the universe was populated by pantheons of powerful gods and the stars were believed to have a shaping influence on human life, plants were viewed differently. They existed in their own right, separate from humans, and played an active role in an animated, spirit-filled world where everything had meaning and significance. Some plants were of great benefit to humans: they produced food, medicine, fiber, building materials, and more. Some plants offered no apparent benefit: they were distasteful; they were toxic; they had sharp thorns or sticky sap or smelled bad. On a different, more mystical level, each plant had its own particular magic, its own mystical associations. Put simply, as far as humans were concerned, some plants brought good luck; some plants brought bad.

There are plenty of enduring examples of plants that were thought to signify good luck. In China, bamboo (
Bambuseae
) and the jade plant (
Crassula ovata
) both brought good fortune—no household would ever be without one or both. In Hindu cultures, holy basil or tulsi (
Ocimum tenuiflorum
) was a fortunate plant. In Ireland and America, find a four-leaved clover (
Trifolium
) and you'll have good luck.

People in all cultures also feared, and avoided, plants that seemed to bring bad luck: plants that warned of illness, death, or misfortune to come, or plants that actually conveyed misfortune if they weren't used according to the “rules” or with proper respect. The mandrake (
Mandragora officinarum
) is a notorious, and enduring, example. The ancient Jewish historian Josephus (c. 37–c. 100 CE) gives the following instructions for harvesting the magical root:

A furrow must be dug around the root until its lower part is exposed, then a dog is tied to it, after which the person tying the dog must get away. The dog then endeavors to follow him, and so easily pulls up the root, but dies suddenly instead of his master. After this the root can be handled without fear.

If you're not willing to sacrifice your dog, forget the mandrake.

While these magical meanings were widely understood and passed down in the oral traditions of their cultures, the botanists who collected “scientific” information about plants in early print books often disregarded information about the magical meanings of plants as mere superstitions, not worth recording. (Mandrake, which caught the attention of magicians and alchemists, is a notable exception.) As cultures were modernized or assimilated, this folk information was often lost.

But not forever. In the middle of the twentieth century, when folklore studies had become an established academic discipline, the study of traditional plant lore became “respectable.” Folklorists and ethnobotanists began tramping the woods and fields, collecting old names and old uses for plants and asking local folk what they (and their grandparents and great-grandparents) knew about them. Much of what is now understood about earlier people's interactions with the plant-world in which they lived has been pieced together by passionate amateur and professional botanists, often using the plants' folk names as important clues. These plant detectives have produced important resources, reconnecting us with a time when a comprehensive knowledge of plants, and a firm belief in their relationship with humans, was the best hope for a sustaining harvest and a life well lived. In this book, I've incorporated some of that folk information in the chapter headnotes. I hope it will take you further into a study of these fascinating plants.

An important caution. In every book in the China Bayles series, you will read descriptions of the modern and historic medicinal uses of plants. China and I expect you to consult informed, reliable sources before you use any of these herbs to treat whatever ails you. Many herbs have potent side effects, especially when combined with other herbs or with over-the-counter and prescription drugs. Do your homework. Never use medicines, plant based or otherwise, except with careful, mindful attention. China and I would not like to lose any of our readers—especially you.

I owe some special debts of thanks. To my friends in the online Story Circle LifeWriters Group, who are infinitely encouraging and helpful. To Peggy Moody, whose patience and skill never fail to amaze me. To Julie Paprock, the winner of the Story Circle cameo character raffle, who took over the reception desk at the Pecan Springs Hospital for an afternoon during the course of China's investigation. To Gianna Martelli, who helped with the Spanish translation. To Natalee Rosenstein and Robin Barletta, at Berkley Prime Crime, always a joy to work with. And to Bill, of course, for everything, always. Thank you all.

Susan Wittig Albert
Bertram, TX

The shopping mall was originally built in the 1970s, when Pecan Springs was still hardly more than a small town on the lip of the Balcones Escarpment, at the eastern edge of the Texas Hill Country. But because of its location—on I-35, halfway between Austin and San Antonio—the town hasn't stayed small.

The Hill Country Mall hasn't, either. It has grown, incrementally, until it is now a sprawling regional shopping center with nearly fifteen acres of retail space surrounded by an asphalt parking lot that is surrounded in turn by the hundreds of acres of housing development that have devoured the native prairie. The mall itself is all very contemporary and up-to-date—except for the parking lot lighting system. The mall's customers park their cars in a glittering lake of bright light, of course, whether they are shopping at 10:00 a.m. or 10:00 p.m. The lights promise security and safety, a place where shoppers can come and go with their packages without being afraid, whatever the time of day.

But on the east side of the mall, where the employees are required to park, it's a different story. The initial installation employed sodium lighting that degraded quickly, so that the lights lost 75 percent of their brightness in the first 25 percent of their life cycle. It hasn't been upgraded and is so poorly maintained that at any time, a third of the lights are out of service.

The woman doesn't know that. All she knows is that when she drives into the lot, the whole area is very dark and there are only a few small puddles of pale blue light soaking into the wet asphalt. She parks the car and turns off the engine, then turns it on again, realizing that killing the engine kills the air conditioner. July is just plain hot, even at ten o'clock at night. It rained earlier in the evening and the air is thick and muggy. She makes sure that the doors are locked, then glances around at the scattered cars, wishing she had thought to suggest meeting in the customer parking lot, where there is plenty of light and shoppers coming and going. Or Starbucks or Gino's or one of the crowded campus coffeehouses. It isn't that she is afraid—she trusts the person she's meeting. As Sharyn said, if there's anybody who knows how to understand the problem and can show them the way out, he's the one. Still, she is just a little nervous about being out here all by herself at this hour of the night. And she wishes she hadn't lied to Felicity in order to get out of the house alone.

But of course this is a very bad business, with many almost frightening implications. She understands the need to talk—to plan, to discuss what to do—without being interrupted or overheard. She understands the urgency, too. The matter has to be settled and the sooner they get out ahead of the situation, the better, especially since it's likely that the documentary is going to rekindle an interest in the Morris collection. Most of her students' work doesn't go beyond the thesis level, but this one—once it has been edited and put together—has a decent chance at national distribution. Which could mean that people will begin looking more critically at the collection, their interest fueled by the sensational facts of Christine Morris' murder.

But the museum board members can't just sit around, twiddling their thumbs and waiting for that to happen. In her opinion, it would be better if they all got together as soon as possible to assess the extent of the damage and the impact on their plans for opening the collection to the public. So far, all she knows is that one piece is compromised and likely others, and that once the truth gets out, there's going to be some serious fallout. The museum was small and private, yes, but it had a great deal of promise, especially with the new exhibitions program they were planning. And it had always enjoyed an excellent reputation. That was at stake now, as were the reputations of the people who'd helped Morris assemble her collection, like the person she's meeting tonight. Yes, they really ought to sit down together, all of them, and hash it out. One-on-one discussion with individual board members would just slow the process. She makes a noise like a chuckle, low in her throat. And this cloak-and-dagger business—meeting in a dimly lit parking lot at ten o'clock at night—well, it's overkill, that's what it is.

She fiddles with the radio dial, tunes it to KMFA in Austin, which plays classical music around the clock. Playing now: a Telemann concerto for oboes and violins. She sits back in the car seat, listening, and thinks again, with sharp and painful regret, about the Izquierdo painting,
Muerte llega pronto
, her favorite of what she had believed—what
everyone
believed—to be an excellent collection, a unique collection, entirely beyond reproach. That painting, with its stark and bloody allegory, had reached into her heart and touched her in a way she simply couldn't describe. It had been painted at a time when Izquierdo herself had actively courted death, after being jilted by her artist-lover, Rufino Tamayo.

It is raining a little harder now. She is vaguely aware of a car driving off and another one pulling up not far away, but she doesn't pay attention. She is leaning back in the seat, listening to Telemann, to the somber, statuesque oboes, and thinking of
Muerte llega pronto
, which always seemed to her to portray the very essence of rejection, the truth of love's betrayal. And now to learn that the painting itself—

Her thoughts are abruptly interrupted by a light rap on the driver's-side window. At first she thinks it's the person she's to meet, but when she turns her head, she is blinded by a beam of blazing light. After a couple of seconds, the light slants down toward the pavement. She blinks, and when her vision returns, she sees a man standing beside the car, wearing a dark raincoat and billed cap, his face obscured in the shadows cast by the flashlight. He has put his right hand on the roof of her car and is bending over to peer through the window at her, no doubt wondering what kind of suspicious activity she is involved in at this hour of the night. A drug deal, maybe? An illicit affair? A terrorist plot, or something equally illegal? He gestures to her to turn off the ignition and get out of the car.

Impatient, she jabs the button and rolls the window down a few inches. “I'm waiting for somebody, Officer.” She makes a show of looking at her watch. “He's already late. I'm sure he'll be along in a minute.”

“No problem, ma'am.” She can't see the man's face, but there's a smile in his voice, friendly, polite. He casts a quick look over his shoulder, then lifts his thumb to point in the direction of the retail buildings. “But we've got a little bit of trouble over there. I need you to get out of your car.”

“Trouble?” She frowns. “Well, then, why don't I move the car? I can just as easily park on the other side—”

“I said, get out,” the guard repeats, still polite but firm now and not quite so friendly. “No argument, please.”

“Oh, all right.” With a resigned sigh, she turns off the motor, cutting off Telemann and the air conditioner. She opens the door and gets out. She turns and bends over to get her purse and her umbrella from the seat when, out of the corner of her eye, she sees the man raise his heavy flashlight over his head and bring it down sharply, all of his burly weight behind the blow. She doesn't have time to raise her arm to fend off the attack.

That's all she sees, just the single blow, not the many that follow. All she will ever see, ever know, ever again.

Death does not come quickly. When it finally comes, she is already gone.