Death Come Quickly (16 page)

“I'll bet he was,” McQuaid muttered. “The problem is getting Paul to
stop
talking.”

Kitt giggled, agreeing. “Anyway, we gathered that he had some strong opinions about Ms. Morris' expertise as a collector of Mexican art. He doesn't like Ms. Tillotson very much, either.” She ducked her head. “In fact, he said that both of them were ‘as ignorant as dirt' when it came to real art.”

“He said that was Shakespeare,” Gretchen put in, “so I looked it up. It's in
Othello.
”

“And he especially didn't like the man Ms. Morris bought some of her paintings from,” Kitt added. “An art dealer from San Antonio. ‘Wily as a fox,' he said.”

Ah, yes.
“Soto?” I asked, and Kitt nodded. “What didn't Dr. Cameron like about Soto?”

Gretchen frowned uncertainly. “He didn't say, exactly. Or rather, he said, but it was hard to figure out just
what
he was saying. It had something to do with one of Ms. Morris' paintings.”

“Did you tape that part of the interview?” I asked.

Kitt sighed. “We pretended to tape it, but I shut the camera off. By that time, he was getting really garbled. There wasn't going to be anything worth the time it would take to edit.”

I added “See Paul Cameron” to my mental list of things to do and wondered when I was going to do them all. Johnnie's trial notes might be in Aaron's office—I had his home phone number, which he had given me with the invitation to call him if I was ever in town. The shop was closed on Monday, so if I decided to go, I could drive there and back that day. Tomorrow was Sunday. Maybe I ought to see Paul and—

“Besides Dr. Cameron,” McQuaid asked, “who else have you talked to?”

“Well, there was Mr. Lipman, Ms. Morris' attorney,” Kitt said. “And Mr. Davidson, another neighbor on San Jacinto. He told us that all the neighbors were mad at her about those yard lights and that barking dog, and that he thought he might have seen somebody looking into Mr. Bowen's garage.”

“We talked to the jury foreman, Mr. Peters,” Gretchen chimed in. “He said that the jury didn't convict Mr. Bowen because they agreed with the defense attorney. They thought the police did some things they shouldn't have done and that there was a reasonable doubt that Mr. Bowen was guilty. He gave us some other names of jurors to talk to, but we haven't done that yet.” She sighed. “I guess we won't, now.”

“We also talked to several people who worked with Mr. Bowen,” Kitt said. “In fact, I think one of them is next on the tape.” She grinned. “Actually, it's kind of a comic segment. Want to see it?”

“Sure,” McQuaid said. “I'm ready for a laugh.”

An image filled the screen—a large woman in her sixties, with tightly curled blue-white hair and saggy jowls, her cheeks rouged, her lips fire-engine red, the lipstick bleeding into the age wrinkles around her mouth. She wore a bright green dress and gold hoop earrings as big as bangle bracelets that dragged down her fleshy earlobes a good inch. She sat, posing self-consciously, on a living room sofa, surrounded by a heap of crocheted pillows. In her lap, she held a small Pekinese, who wore a matching green bow in her topknot.

“Why, it's Florabelle Gibson,” I said in surprise. “And Mimi.” I hadn't seen Florabelle in a while, but for a time, she was a regular customer in my shop, usually with her dog. That Pekinese was the most foul-tempered animal I had ever seen. “Why is she in your film?”

Gretchen pushed the pause button, and Florabelle Gibson was caught with her eyes half-shut and her mouth wide open. “She testified on behalf of Mr. Bowen. She was a secretary in his office, but she's retired now.”

“Which office was that, exactly?” McQuaid asked.

“The Pecan Springs planning department,” Gretchen replied. “Mr. Bowen was a building inspector, and also zoning. Ms. Gibson managed the paperwork, so she knew him pretty well.”

She hit the play button and Florabelle trilled, in an exaggerated East Texas twang. “Well, naturally, I never thought for one single minute that Mr. Bowen could've done what the prosecutor said he did.” She fluffed up Mimi's ears, and the dog bared its teeth. “He was the nicest, kindliest man anybody ever wanted to know, always happy when he came to work in the morning, always glad to see folks, even those hard-boiled, crusty old contractors he had to work with as an inspector. And generous? Why, that man gave money to every good cause in this community. He was an angel, is what he was.”

The screen went black for a moment, then Florabelle's image reappeared. “What exactly did he do in the department?” she asked, as if she was repeating a question. “He was in charge of all the building inspections in Pecan Springs, that's what he did. He was really good at it, too, believe you me. Oh, and he was on the zoning committee, too. As I said, he was a good man to work with, always so helpful to everybody.”

She pulled down her mouth. “Ms. Morris, on the other hand, was a genuine pain in the patootie.” She pursed her lips and said it again, emphatically. “A genuine pain in the pa-
too
-tie.”

On the film, from behind the camera, I heard Kitt ask, “Ms. Morris was a pain? What makes you say that?”

“Why, because.” Florabelle seemed to be surprised that her questioner didn't already know the answer. “She was always bad-mouthin' folks, always diggin' up dirt on this one or that one. Nobody likes somebody like that.”

“What kind of dirt?” Kitt prompted.

Florabelle tossed her head. Her earlobes flapped and her hoop earrings danced. “Well, just take for instance that zoning variance she was trying to get so she could sell those gawd-awful paintings she set so much store by. Mrs. Rohde was the one in the office who turned down her paperwork, on account of she didn't fill it out right. Then lo and
be-
hold, two, three days later, Mr. Hanson—he was the big boss at the time, Jimmie Lee Hanson, you know him?—he called Mrs. Rohde into his office and gave her you-know-what for being rude to Ms. Morris, who had complained about it in a letter to him.” She harrumphed. “Which was a lie, pure and simple, 'cause my desk was right next to Mrs. Rohde's and I couldn't help but hear every little thing that was said, and there was not one single word that came out of Mrs. Rohde's mouth that was anything but polite. All the rude was on Ms. Morris' end, and there was plenty of it
.
”

“No wonder people didn't like her,” Kitt said mildly.

“Yes, and I'll tell you, young lady, there was plenty of other folks who would have done that woman in, if they'd had half a chance.” Florabelle raised her hand and pointed, and I saw that there were rings on every fat finger. “And that's egg-
zact
-ly what I told Chief Bubba Harris, when he came into the office and started asking questions about Mr. Bowen. I said to him, ‘Mr. Bowen did not do this, no way, José! He's no angel, definitely not. But if you want to turn up rocks to look under for a killer, there's plenty of them lyin' around right under your feet, every last one of them with something slimy on the bottom side.”

Florabelle laughed sarcastically, showing coffee-stained teeth. “But did he listen to me? He did not. He already had it in his head that Mr. Bowen was guilty. The way I look at it, though, there was somebody
wanting
Mr. Bowen to look guilty, to get him outta the way. It was the same person as wanted to shut Ms. Morris up. And I had me a pretty good idea who that was.” The screen went black.

Gretchen hit the pause button. “That's all there is of that footage,” she said. “Her dog got sick and threw up all over the couch so we had to quit.”

At that moment, the telephone rang in McQuaid's study. “Excuse me,” he said and went to answer it.

“Could you play that last bit back?” I asked.

Gretchen hit the back button and replayed Florabelle's last statement: “The way I look at it, there was somebody wanting Mr. Bowen to look guilty, to get him outta the way. It was the same person as wanted to shut Ms. Morris up. And I had me a pretty good idea who that was.”

I leaned forward. “Did Ms. Gibson tell you who she thought that person might be?”

Kitt frowned. “No, she didn't. And I didn't think to ask her.” She gave a little shrug. “To tell the honest truth, Ms. Bayles, I didn't take her very seriously. But I could go back to her and ask her to explain.”

“Absolutely not,” I said quickly. “We are talking
murder
here. You two don't want to get any more involved than you already are.” But if Florabelle had another possibility in mind for the murder of Christine Morris, I personally wanted to hear it. I added her to my mental list of people to talk to. And to the girls, I said, apologetically, “Sorry. I don't mean to snap at you.”

“It's okay,” Gretchen said with a rueful smile. “We realize we've stirred something up—something pretty bad. We just don't know what it is. Or what we can do about it.”

“Well, let me ask you this,” I said. “Aside from Florabelle Gibson, did any of your other interviewees voice similar suspicions? Did anybody else give you the idea that they suspected somebody—somebody in particular—of killing Christine Morris and framing Dick Bowen?”

Kitt and Gretchen exchanged uneasy glances. “Not really,” Kitt said.

“I see.” I turned to Gretchen. There was something else I needed to confirm. “The camera that was stolen—and the memory cards. All of what we've been looking at was on either the camera or the cards?”

“Some of it was in the camera,” Gretchen replied promptly, “but it was all in the memory cards. I used them to back everything up.” She glanced at Kitt. “Kitt's stuff, too. The people she filmed.”

So whoever took those memory cards could be looking at this video right now. “And how much of your film had Dr. Prior seen?” I asked.

Kitt frowned. “We gave her a copy of everything last week. She must have glanced through it, at least, because she told us that she'd flagged a few things to talk over with us before we finished the editing and added the voice-over narration. She said she'd give us her list and we could discuss the changes she wanted made.”

“Did she give you the list?” I was thinking that Karen might have identified something in the video that gave her a reason for concern. If so, I wanted to know what it was.

Both girls shook their heads. “It might be in her campus office,” Kitt offered tentatively. “Or in her office at home.”

“Or in her briefcase,” Gretchen suggested, and then added, “Actually, we don't
know
that she made the list. She just said she was going to. But it seemed important to her.”

I nodded. “Thanks. When you talk to Chief Dawson in the morning, you might suggest that she look for it. Also, she'll probably want to look at your video. I think it might be helpful if you two sat down right now, while you're thinking about it, and made a list of all your interviewees, in the order in which they appear in the film. Oh, and include the names of the people you wanted to interview but didn't—and the reason why. It would also be good to make notes of any segment that you think might interest Chief Dawson particularly—like the Gibson bit. Can you do all that?”

“Sure,” Kitt said. “We can tell her where in the footage she should look, too. That way, she can skip through the irrelevant material.” She made a face. “Some of it's pretty boring. Of course, it wouldn't be, if we'd had a chance to edit it.”

McQuaid came back into the room. He was looking troubled. “That was . . . my partner,” he said in a guarded tone. “He's at the hospital with . . .” He glanced at the girls, not wanting to spill Sheila's secret. “With his wife.” He added, quietly, “Threatened miscarriage.”

“Uh-oh,” I said softly. “Oh, dear. Oh,
dear.
That's really . . . that's too bad.” I thought of Sheila's excitement about her pregnancy, in spite of the morning sickness and the uncertainty about managing work and family, and my heart turned over. Losing the baby would be a terrible disappointment, for both her and Blackie. I took a breath. “But if it's only a threat, let's hope the doctors can stabilize her.”

He nodded. “Yeah. Blackie sounds optimistic. They're keeping her overnight, maybe over Sunday night, too. When she goes home, she'll have to stay off her feet for a few days.”

I got to my feet, fighting off a sudden leaden weariness. Sheila's secret was likely to be public knowledge before she wanted it to be. However her pregnancy turned out, the next few days were going to be hugely difficult for her—and for Blackie. How would they handle that? How could I help?

The girls were watching us curiously, but I followed McQuaid's lead. We hadn't mentioned any names they would recognize, and we weren't going to. In the morning, I would tell them that something urgent came up and Chief Dawson couldn't meet with them after all. She'd make arrangements to talk with them later. In the meantime—

“Hey,” I said, taking a deep breath and lifting my arms through the weariness and overhead, into a yoga stretch. “I've just about had all the excitement I can handle for one evening. I'm having a glass of milk and some cookies before I turn in for the night. Anybody want to join me?”

Some plants are symbolic of both bad luck and good fortune. In Italy, to present a chrysanthemum to someone is considered to be very bad luck, for it is a funeral flower. In Korea, white chrysanthemums represent grief for the loss of a loved one, and in Japan, the flowers are used only on altars and at funerals: anywhere else means bad luck. In China, however, chrysanthemum wreaths are placed on doors and windows to “get rid of the bad luck and bring in the good.” And in the United States, the flowers represent cheerfulness and good times.

Lemon verbena (
Aloysia citrodora
) is not only essential to any well-managed herb garden, but it has the power to change bad luck to good. Basil given as a gift is said to bring good luck to a new home, but it has long been associated with dying and may foretell an early death. In the west of England, if you grew a crop of parsley, you shouldn't give any of it away, because you would be giving your good luck along with it.

China Bayles
“Herbs of Good and Ill Omen”
Pecan Springs Enterprise

Don't tell me it's my imagination. Gardeners know that climate change is here and that our planet is heating up. We've seen temperatures getting warmer every year, to the point where residents of the Texas Hill Country are experiencing long, unbroken strings of hundred-degree days. One year recently, Austin was on the grill for a blistering record of ninety days with a temperature of 100 degrees or higher and twenty-seven hundred-degree days in a row. And here in Pecan Springs, our average July daytime high now hovers around 95 degrees, nighttime lows around 75. Bottom line, it's hot and getting hotter.

This week, we were working on the upper end of the average, and the Weather Channel was forecasting a 3:00 p.m. high of 103. It was a mild but humid 78 when I got up before the sun rose and went out to the veggie garden to get a couple of the raised beds ready for the fall planting, which in our neck of the woods begins around the end of July. When I'd finished moving compost from the pile into the raised beds and mixed it in, the crystalline blue sky had turned cloudy and the wind had swung into the south, bringing up moisture from the Gulf. The temperature had cranked up to 82 and the discomfort index was in the nineties and nudging higher. I was glad to head for the kitchen to begin making pancakes for the breakfast gang.

Sunday breakfast at our house usually occurs in shifts, because everybody has things to do. I made a tall stack of pancakes and left them on the counter with a big plate of scrambled eggs (compliments of Caitie's girls) and bacon, to be reheated in the microwave whenever people wandered in. I set out a small pitcher of ginger syrup for the pancakes and a larger pitcher of orange juice, with glasses.

While I was working, I cast a quick glance at the empty spot beside the stove where Howard Cosell's basket used to sit and—with a sharp pang—remembered that he wasn't with us any longer. When I was in the kitchen, Howard was always there, gazing up at me soulfully (no breed of dog is quite so soulful as a basset), begging for a handout. It was hard to believe that he wasn't under the table, licking up crumbs off the floor; or out in the yard, trying futilely to catch a grasshopper; or stretched out on the back steps, waiting for somebody to trip and fall over him. I suppose that we're never the most reliable judges of what is meaningful and true in our lives, or what will matter the most when it isn't there any longer. I don't think I fully appreciated Howard until he was gone and I could see the basset-sized hole he left in all our hearts.

Breakfast set out, buffet-style, I went into McQuaid's study and made several phone calls: one to Karen Prior's daughter, Felicity; one to Florabelle Gibson; and one to Dr. Cameron's house, where I spoke with Paul's wife, Irene. In all three cases, I explained what I had in mind and asked what would be a good time to drop in.

Felicity suggested that I come as soon as I could, since she and her grandmother had been invited to brunch by the next-door neighbor.

Florabelle, who was surprised to hear from me and delighted at the prospect of having company, said that any old time would be perfectly fine with her, since she never went anywhere, now that her feet were swelling so much she could hardly get her shoes on. “Just me and Mimi, all by our lonesomes,” she said. “So do come on, China, dear.”

Irene Cameron, whom I knew through our university connections, was amenable to my dropping in, but a little more cautious. I didn't tell her why I wanted to see her husband.

“I'm not sure Paul is feeling up to it today, China,” she said. “He has his good days and his bad days. But stop in for a few moments this afternoon and we'll see what happens.”

“What time would be good for you?” I asked.

“Could you make it around three or three thirty? He'll be up from his nap by that time. He's usually at his best then. But it's hard to predict how . . . rational he's going to be.”

“Of course,” I said sympathetically. I felt sorry for Irene. She had once enjoyed what seemed to be a promising career as a painter. I had seen some of her earlier work—still lifes, florals, and landscapes, mostly—and liked it very much. And I wasn't the only one. She had exhibited in national competitions and won prizes for her paintings. She had even had a one-woman show at one of the galleries in San Antonio, and I'd heard that collectors had picked up almost all of her work. I hoped she was still painting, but I knew that, these days, she had to spend a great deal of her time with Paul.

Before I went to bed the previous night, I had phoned Ruby to tell her about Smart Cookie. She had been as concerned as I. Now I phoned Blackie for an update. He sounded tired and discouraged, unlike his usual upbeat and optimistic self. Sheila would be coming home later that day but would have to stay flat on her back for some time—how long, it wasn't clear.

“We don't know yet whether she'll be able to keep the baby,” he added. “Right now, it's touch-and-go. And when she'll get back to work is anybody's guess. She's anxious about that, of course,” he added. “She's got good backup in the department, but you know Sheila. She shows up for every play. She hates being benched.”

I debated telling him what I was going to do but decided against it—at least at the moment. I could always tell him later, after the fact. “Tell her we love her,” I said. “We're thinking of both of you.”

McQuaid, who is a longtime gun collector, had disappeared into his shop, where he was working on an M1903 Springfield rifle, an early one he'd just acquired from one of his collector buddies. Since their date with the police chief had been canceled, Gretchen and Kitt offered to take Brian, Jake, and Caitlin to Barton Springs for the day. Dipping into that chilly water would cool everybody off, and then they could toast themselves in the sun, on the grassy slopes above the pool. Before the girls left, I made a copy of the list of interviewees that they had compiled the night before and folded it into my purse. I'd have time to study it later.

After the gang was out of the house, I showered and buttoned myself into a cool white sleeveless blouse, stepped into a denim wraparound skirt, and strapped leather sandals on my bare feet. I don't wear stockings unless it's a command performance, and definitely not today. I ran a comb through my brown hair, noting that the gray streak down one side seemed to have gotten a bit wider, and decided against makeup. The thermometer outside the kitchen window announced that it was already 92. Since it wasn't ten o'clock yet, I suspected that the Weather Channel might miss its prediction by a couple of degrees: 105 wasn't out of the question. Some women may be able to wear eye shadow and mascara when they go out on hot days. I am not one of them.

McQuaid came in from outside. “Looks like we'll have a crowd for supper again tonight,” he said. “What are we having?”

“I was about to ask you the same thing,” I said, unplugging my cell phone from its charger. When he's home on weekends, McQuaid does a lot of the cooking. It's one of the things I love about him.

He pondered that for a moment. “Okay—so how about brisket sandwiches, with the rest of the brisket from last night? Everybody can make their own. I'll cook up some baked beans in the slow cooker—that'll keep the house cooler.”

“Sounds right,” I said. “I'll mix up a bowl of potato salad when I get home—there's some mashed potatoes left from Friday. And there's the rest of that cabbage, for coleslaw. And some deviled eggs from last night.” There might be a few other things in the fridge, once I had a chance to look. For Sunday suppers, we try to use up the leftovers, in order to get a fresh start on the coming week. Otherwise, things get shoved to the back of the shelf, and you know what happens after that.

“Watermelon for dessert,” McQuaid said with satisfaction. “I saw a ripe one out in the garden that's about the right size. I'll put it in the fridge to get cold.” It suddenly dawned on him that I wasn't dressed in my usual shorts and T-shirt and that my hair was actually combed. He raised both eyebrows. “You're going somewhere special?”

“I asked Felicity Prior if I could drop in for a few minutes this morning,” I said carelessly. McQuaid is not in favor of my doing investigative things on my own. “And maybe a couple of other stops. You know, just—”

“China.” McQuaid was stern.

“What?” I asked, innocently.

“I don't suppose it would do any good to suggest that you leave the investigating to Sheila. She gets paid for stuff like that.”

“Sheila has one or two little problems of her own,” I said and picked up my purse. “By the time she gets back on her feet, her in-box will be overflowing and she'll be up to her chin in departmental paperwork. Karen's death is a priority with her, but there's only so much one woman can do. I'm giving her a hand, that's all.”

That was true, as far as it went. But there was something else, and McQuaid knows what it is. He feels it, too, maybe even more than I do. In our professional lives, both of us developed the habit of getting involved in other people's problems, he as a cop, I as an advocate. We may operate from different sides of the street, but we both work in the same neighborhood: we can't help getting involved.

McQuaid rolled his eyes. “You keep your nose clean, woman. I don't want to have to bail you out of jail. Or worse.”

“Yes, sir, Officer McQuaid, sir,” I said. “I'll do my best to stay out of trouble.”

In two strides, he was across the kitchen, folding me into the safety of his arms. “Hey,” he murmured, his lips against my hair, “I only love you, you know. And you do have a tendency to get yourself into jams.”

He was thinking of the jam I'd gotten into just a few weeks before. I had driven down into Fayette County to talk to Ruby about a situation that couldn't wait and got stuck in the middle of a serious tropical storm, in a haunted house, with a pair of murdering bank robbers on the loose. McQuaid had to call on one of his helicopter-pilot buddies to help him bail Ruby and me out. He hasn't let me forget it.

“I know,” I said contritely. “But I'm just doing a few drop-in calls today, nothing at all challenging. And definitely nothing for you to worry about.”

I didn't tell him what I had planned for tomorrow because it wasn't actually scheduled yet, although with any luck, it would be. If I told him, he would definitely be worried.

He'd be jealous, too.

• • •

K
AREN
Prior's house on Steven F. Austin Drive wore a large black bow on the front door, and some thoughtful person had left a pot of white chrysanthemums and a card on the front steps. I picked them up and when Felicity came to the door, I handed them to her.

“One of your friends left these for you,” I said soberly. “Felicity, I am so very sorry about your mother.”

Felicity was pale and vulnerable looking, her ash-blond hair pinned on top of her head, the straggling ends curling damply around her slender neck. Barefoot, in white shorts and a ragged green T-shirt and no makeup, she looked as if she were about twelve years old.

“Thank you,” she said and held the flowers up to her face. “People have been giving us so much. Food, flowers, everything.” She gestured toward the living room, which was banked with bouquets. “You should see the kitchen. The refrigerator is totally full. Gramma and I will never be able to eat it all.”

“I hope your grandmother is okay,” I said quietly. I had met Karen's mother a couple of summers ago, when she'd visited Pecan Springs. Karen had been her only daughter.

Felicity let out a long, jerky breath and the words tumbled out with it. “She's not okay, not really. How can she be okay? How can either of us
ever
be okay?”

There wasn't anything I could say to that, but there wasn't time to say it, anyway. Felicity was rushing on.

“The only way I can explain it to myself is that Mom's luck just ran out. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and something random and horrible happened to her. Maybe the person who attacked her didn't mean to kill her.” Another breath, this one pulled in, and more words. “But it is what it is. I guess we just have to get used to it, somehow.”