Death Come Quickly (11 page)

That was when I had to tell the girls that Karen had died. The next few moments were difficult for all three of us. We wept, talked, and wept some more. By the time we had dried our tears, Kitt—a short, wiry, high-energy young woman with pink-streaked brown hair spiked in a punk cut—had returned from the cafeteria, with a milk shake for Gretchen. I had never met her, so I introduced myself, then turned to Jake, remembering what Julie had said about one of us having to leave.

“Brian and Caitie will be wondering what's happened to supper. I'd better go pick up that pizza.” I paused. “You can stay here with Gretchen or come with me—and stay overnight, if you want. The guest room is always ready.” That's the thing about living in a house that's big enough for a B&B. There's plenty of room for a guest or two.

Jake was indecisive. “If I hang out here, I guess Kitt can take me home.”

“No, Jake,” Gretchen said firmly. “I want you to go with Ms. Bayles—and spend the night at their house, too. I'll feel better if I know you're there.”

“But I think I should stay with you,” Jake protested.

“It's an order from your big sis,” Gretchen said, taking the sting out with a smile. “I'm in good hands. And Kitt and I have some talking to do.”

I understood. Gretchen had to tell Kitt about Karen's death. But I also wanted them to talk about the other business, the camera. To nudge them toward that, I said, “Maybe you could discuss those missing memory cards.” I added, casually, “Gretchen, how about if Jake and I stopped at your house and picked up your laptop—just to be on the safe side? We could take it to my house.”

“The safe side . . .” Gretchen pulled her brows together. “Do you really think—” She stopped, considered, and came up with the right answer. “Sure,” she said. “Good idea. Okay, Jake?”

“I don't see why,” Jake said with a shrug. “But it's fine with me. Listen, Gretch, is it okay if Ms. Bayles and I swing past the communications building so I can pick up Mom's car?” She patted her purse. “I have my keys.”

“Another good idea,” Gretchen said approvingly. She looked at me. “Let's talk tomorrow morning. Could you call me?”

“Sure thing,” I said. “You rest now. Get a good night's sleep.”

“Sleep?” Kitt grinned. “Are you kidding? There are some really hunky docs out there. I'm gonna load this girl into a wheelchair. We're goin' cruisin'.”

“Hey, Kitt,” I said, “I thought Ruby told me you were married.”

“I am,” she said. “And I love my guy. But a little eye candy never hurt—and it doesn't even have any calories.”

Jake and I laughed. Gretchen sighed.

“Kitt,” she said, “I don't think I'm up to cruising. Not tonight, anyway.”

On the way out of the hospital, I stopped at Julie's reception desk. “Keep an eye on Gretchen and Kitt,” I said with a grin. “Kitt is threatening to take Gretchen cruising, looking for hunky docs. But the hunky docs just might come looking for them.”

Julie is a mother and grandmother who likes to be involved in her kids' lives, so I knew she would understand. “Oh, to be young again,” she said with a twinkle.

• • •

I
T
was after eight when McQuaid got back from Austin. Brian and Jake were playing a video game, in Brian's room with the door open, standard operating procedure at our house when we have kid guests. Caitlin was putting her girls to bed in their coop, a ritual that involves saying a personal good night to each chicken, with congratulations and thanks for the egg laid that day. I had finished folding two loads of laundry and was curled up in my reading chair with the latest issue of
The Herbarist
(the annual journal of the Herb Society of America) and a glass of wine. McQuaid came into the room with a Lone Star beer and a bowl of stick pretzels and sat down in his recliner.

“Whew,” he said. “Friday night traffic in Austin is a bitch, pure and simple.” He crunched a pretzel. “Make that ‘any night traffic in Austin,'” he said. “That city has gone from bad to worse, traffic-wise.”

“Did you have any supper?” I closed the journal. “If not, you'll have to forage. We finished the pizza, but there's some bean salad left, and plenty of sandwich fixings.”

“Thanks. I picked something up on the way home.” He paused. “Have you heard from the hospital today? How's Karen Prior doing?”

I took off my reading glasses and gave him the bad news. McQuaid had known Karen longer than I had and had worked with her on several faculty committees. He was as shocked and saddened—and angered—by the news as I had been. And when I related what had happened to Gretchen, his eyes grew even darker.

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered. He chewed on the information for a while, adding it up. He came to the same conclusion I had. “You say you've got Gretchen's laptop?”

“Yes. Upstairs, in my bottom bureau drawer. I felt a little awkward about asking, but Gretchen seemed to get the point.”

McQuaid put his beer down. “Let's see if I have this right,” he said, in his cop voice. “Karen Prior was supervising the filming of a student documentary about a murder that took place thirteen or fourteen years ago here in Pecan Springs. She was attacked in the mall parking lot, but her purse wasn't taken—doesn't look like a robbery, and the circumstances suggest a prearranged meeting, maybe having to do with the documentary. One of the students was attacked two days later. Her camera and its memory cards were stolen.” He frowned. “So tell me about this cold case the students are filming.”

“Here's what I know.” I began to relate Ruby's story about Christine Morris' murder. I didn't get very far.

“Whoa.” He held up a pretzel like a baton. “Christine Morris.”

“Yes. She was married to—”

“Douglas Clark. The developer.”

“That's right.” I eyed him curiously. “What do you know about the marriage?”

“Nada. But I might know something about the divorce.” McQuaid nipped off the end of the pretzel. “In fact, my trip to Austin . . .” He paused, gave it a second thought, then said, “Okay. Go on with your story.” He popped the rest of the pretzel in his mouth.

“You're not going to tell me, huh?”

I was not being snarky. Sometimes McQuaid discusses his cases with me; sometimes he doesn't. When he first hung out his shingle, I promised myself I wouldn't nag him for details, no matter how tantalizing the case might be or how much I might like to sink my lawyerly teeth into it. I've kept my word.

“Maybe later,” he said, taking another swig of beer. “Go on.”

I gave him the story at length and in detail, and not omitting my tangential connection to the case via my Houston ex–law firm buddy Johnnie Carlson, attorney for the defense, now deceased. And Johnnie's theory of an alternative suspect, which the judge had kept from the jury. But which had turned out not to be necessary, because the jury had acquitted.

McQuaid listened and worked on his beer. When I was finished, he said, “I need to let Charlie know about this. It might have some bearing on his reason for sending me to Austin today. Any problem with that?”

“Of course not.” I added wryly, “But you might just ask Charlie if there's any problem with your sharing your trip to Austin with me. Not that I'm curious, of course.”

“What? You curious? Never.” McQuaid picked up his empty and heaved himself out of his chair. “I'll talk to him right now. If he's sober, that is.”

“Good luck,” I said, putting on my reading glasses and picking up the journal again. Charlie is one of my favorite people, but he's developed a serious drinking problem, especially on weekends. His weekend usually starts on Thursday night and ends, oh, around Tuesday, sometimes Wednesday. The drinking may be affecting his legal practice, but his clients are mostly local folks who have known him a long time and like him enough to take his failings in stride. At least they know what they're getting into.

Fifteen minutes later, McQuaid was back in his chair, this time with a glass of iced tea and a couple of Cass' lavender cookies.

“Was he sober?” I asked.

“Almost.” McQuaid shook his head. “Dunno how that guy functions, the amount of booze he puts away.”

I put
The Herbarist
down again and peered over the top of my glasses. “You going to tell me what that trip to Austin was about?” Not nagging, honest.

“Yeah. Charlie says it's okay.” He munched on a cookie. “Actually, what he said was, ‘Tell China to figure it out and tell us what's going on.'”

I frowned. “Was he being sarcastic? He was really PO'd with me when I got involved in that business with George Timms.” Timms was a local big shot who recently got into trouble over breaking and entering and suspicion of murder—then had a fatal encounter with an authentic Texas mountain lion. Charlie came close to accusing me of siccing the cat on his client.

“Sarcastic? Not on your life, kid.” McQuaid chuckled. “Lipman's got a crush on you. If I hadn't married you, he would've been first in line.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, I'm complimented,” I said ironically. “The next time he gives me hell for sticking my nose into one of his cases I'll just think of it as a big smoochy kiss. So what was up with your trip to Austin?” Not nagging, no.

McQuaid stretched out in his chair. “Charlie asked me to look into the details of a major property deal—a mall development on I-35 south of Austin, about twenty years ago.”

I considered this for a moment. “Help me out here. Is this supposed to be related to what we've been talking about?”

McQuaid shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. We'll see what it looks like after I have a chance to dig into the financing details. But Charlie has the notion—could be a cockamamie idea, of course—that the development package was part of a hidden assets scheme.” He gave me a significant look. “Doug Clark was the developer—one of the developers,” he corrected himself. “It was a big project, and there was quite a bit of local money in it, one way or the other.”

“Ah, so,” I said thoughtfully.
A hidden assets scheme.
Now, that was interesting. In fact, it was downright intriguing. I sipped my wine, imagining the possibilities, which were legion. “According to Ruby, Charlie handled Christine Morris' divorce. She sued on grounds of adultery, and Charlie brokered a substantial property settlement. Christine got the house, the artwork they'd acquired while they were married, and a big chunk of change—exactly how big, nobody knows, of course.” I paused. “But from what you've just said, I get the idea that Charlie is now thinking that not all of the marital property was declared at the time of the divorce.”

“What?” McQuaid raised both eyebrows, pretending enormous astonishment. “You're suggesting that somebody
cheated
?”

Maybe you won't be shocked to learn that one spouse can (and sometimes does) attempt to conceal money and property from the other spouse, during the marriage—and during the divorce. If so, you won't be surprised when I say that, given the will and the way, those assets may be so cleverly hidden that they can never be traced and properly divided. If you're planning to get a divorce and you suspect that your spouse intends to tiptoe away in the dark of night with some of the community property hidden under his coat, you need to hire a lawyer who specializes in preventing (or discovering) this sort of shenanigan. Don't hire Charlie Lipman. He's a good guy, a good lawyer, and he talks a good game—when he's sober. But he might not be careful enough when it comes to getting an accurate valuation of your marital property and community assets. I would hate for you to get gypped.

“So the bottom line is that Charlie suspects that Doug Clark got away with a chunk of change,” I said. “And if it was a mall deal, it might have been a
big
chunk.”

“It's possible,” McQuaid acknowledged, putting words to what was going through my mind. “Charlie handles a lot of run-of-the-mill divorces, but he isn't a specialist. At the time, he might not have asked the right questions or dug deep enough to find everything.”

“And there's the alcohol,” I said. Charlie was drinking now. He might have been drinking back then.

“Yes, there's that,” McQuaid agreed.

I chewed on my lip. “But let's say that Doug Clark hid some of the marital assets and defrauded his wife out of some of her share of the community property. The Clark-Morris divorce was a long time ago. And besides, the wench is dead. Over a decade dead. Not to be callous, but the issue seems moot to me.”

“Moot to me, too,” McQuaid conceded. “But let's just say that, at some point after the divorce was final, Christine herself began to suspect that the divvy had been based on an incomplete accounting, and decided she wanted more.”

My turn to raise an eyebrow. “Is that what happened? If so, I wonder when.”

It wasn't an idle question. In Texas, the court divides the community property when the decree is granted. If one spouse discovers hidden assets after that time, she (or he) can file a motion to overturn the divorce agreement and reallocate the assets. There are exceptions, but in general, this should be done within two years after the final decree. After that, the injured spouse—ex-spouse, that is—has to sue the other for marital fraud in civil court. There is no statute of limitations on fraud.

And then the issue began to seem a little less moot. Yes, the wench was dead, which was the point. Was she dead
because
she was prepared to charge her ex-husband with marital fraud? Was Doug Clark the alternative suspect Johnnie had been prepared to name?

“I have no idea when,” McQuaid replied, “or even
if
. Charlie didn't get into that kind of detail. He just gave me the general picture, pointed in the direction of the assets—that is, where he thought the assets might have been hidden—and told me to start digging.” He finished one cookie and picked up a second. “That's what I was doing this afternoon.”