Death Come Quickly (20 page)

“Oh, yes, Bowen,” Aaron said thoughtfully. “No, I don't have any information about that. He died a couple of weeks before Johnnie, as I remember it. I do know that Johnnie had stayed in touch with him—I think he even helped him locate the house he bought, here in Houston.” He paused. “Okay. I'll have the case file out for you so you can get started on it when you arrive. You can read it in the office, or copy and take whatever you like. What time, do you think?”

Houston is two and a half hours from Pecan Springs. If I could get out of the house right after breakfast—

“Maybe I can make it by ten,” I hazarded. “Or shortly after, depending on the traffic, of course.” You can never predict Houston traffic. I don't know how one stalled car or one minor fender bender can shut down three lanes of a four-lane freeway and back traffic up for miles, but it happens. Frequently. And by the time you finally get to the point of the slowdown, the dramatic event that strangled the flow of traffic has been magically erased. All that's left are the skid marks. You never get to see what happened.

“Super,” he said, with evident satisfaction. “Skip breakfast and come hungry. Remember that café you used to like so much? Tiny Boxwood's, at that garden center? Let's go there and grab some quiet time. We've got a lot to talk about.”

His voice held the smile—dimpled, just a little on the shy side—that was famous for warming the cockles of the coldest juror's heart.

It certainly warmed mine.

• • •

R
UBY
was waiting when I got there. She was dressed as if for a garden party, in a summery short-sleeved floral print dress and white sandals, with a white stretchy band around her frizzed carrot-orange hair. She eyed me. “You're not wearing your jeans,” she said, noting my denim wraparound skirt with approval.

“It's Sunday,” I said. “And this is uptown.” I looked at the house and whistled. “Definitely
uptown.”

It's relatively easy to find houses like the Morris house in Austin, especially out in West Lake Hills. Here in Pecan Springs, not so much. It had probably cost close to a million dollars to build back when Doug Clark gave it to his bride. It was likely worth three times that now, or more. The architecture was striking, white windowless boxes stacked next to and on top of boxes, with a second-floor wing cantilevered out to one side, under a flying saucer roof. It dwarfed the nearby houses, making them look tired and anachronistic. It was no surprise that the neighbors were outraged when it was built, although they might have a different idea about it these days, especially now that the landscaping was in place. And the fact that it was now a private museum probably raised the property values across the neighborhood, rather than otherwise.

Sharyn Tillotson, the foundation president and chair of the museum board, met us at the front door, a heavy, carved oak affair that looked as if it had come out of a Mexican cathedral. I recognized her from the documentary: a solid-framed, striking woman, rather tall, neatly dressed in white summer slacks and a silky blouse, with an antique silver Mexican medallion necklace that matched her silver earrings. She wore low white heels and her brown hair was pulled back into a bun at the nape of her neck and skewered with a pin that matched the silver medallions. She had a square jaw, almost masculine, and a firm mouth that looked as if smiling might be a challenge.

But she was smiling now, as she should be, since Ruby had led her to believe that she knew someone who might give the museum some money—and that I was eager to install an herb garden on the museum property. Sharyn especially wanted to let me know that this was a very good idea.

“Let's go around to the plaza,” she said, in a voice that was deep for a woman, with almost the resonance of a man's. “I know the perfect place for an herb garden, in a corner next to the rose garden.” Over her shoulder, she added, “We've been thinking of converting the plaza into an outdoor dining area. We do occasionally invite our donors to join us for parties and other fund-raising events. A garden of Mexican herbs would fit beautifully into what we have in mind.”

I had to admit that the corner was lovely. The big chain-link fence was history now, replaced by a dense yaupon holly hedge that separated the museum from what had once been the Bowen house. It was already too hot for roses, but a few stragglers were still in bloom. I could picture a garden that would include at least a dozen herbs, and probably more, since many herbs that are native to Mexico are native to Texas, as well. A garden would require very little maintenance—far less than those roses, which really didn't belong here in this setting. I rattled off a few of the herbs that came to mind, the familiar ones: marigold, prickly pear cactus, lemon verbena, cumin, Mexican oregano, cilantro, epazote, papaloquelite, Mexican tarragon, basil, peppers, and hoja santa, the Mexican root beer plant.

The garden had been Ruby's idea, and not something I'd been keen on doing, but I got carried away. It's always like that, when I'm talking herbs.

“The plants could be arranged informally, like a cottage garden. Or even arranged in a small, semiformal garden, in keeping with the architecture. It could have walks paved with white rocks or limestone flags, in a four-square design. In the center, you could have either a water feature or a small potted tree—maybe a Mexican lime—or even something very sculptural, a large yucca, for instance. In the summer, marigolds would be nice. They have lots of Mexican symbolism. And you might consider taking out the roses. They require a great deal of upkeep, and I don't think they belong in this setting. You could replace them with low-care natives, like agarita or cenizo or even palmetto, if you wanted some drama.”

I stopped. I was talking too much. Lecturing, actually.

But Sharyn didn't seem to think so. “How nice that you're interested in doing this, China. I'll let the board know about your generous offer, and they can decide whether they'd prefer something informal or a little more formal.”

“China is
very
generous,” Ruby said, bestowing a sweet smile on me. Then she took me off the hook—well, almost. “Actually I was thinking that maybe, if she supplied the plants from her shop, the herb guild would agree to do the planting. They've worked with her on a number of garden projects.”

“I could help arrange that,” Sharyn said promptly. “The president of the guild is an old friend of mine. China, if you would design the garden and supply the plants, I'll be glad to ask her for volunteers.”

“Sounds like a plan,” I said, since there was nothing to do but agree. Of course, I could put in a little sign:
Plants donated by Thyme and Seasons Herb Shop.
It would be good advertising—although since the museum was private, nobody but the board, and maybe some donors, would see it.

“Well, then,” Sharyn said, very gracious, especially now that the garden question had been settled. “It's awfully warm out here. Why don't we go inside and chat for a few moments over a glass of iced tea. Then, if you like, I'll be glad to give you the grand tour. I'm sure you'll enjoy seeing the collection.”

She led us across the plaza to a door that opened into the side of the house. As we went, I glanced around, recognizing this as the place I had seen on the video, where Christine Morris had been killed. Those were the steps where the body had lain. And over there to the left, visible through the yaupon holly hedge that had replaced the chain-link fence, was the Bowen house. It was so close that I could have thrown a rock through one of the windows. I resisted the urge to point this out to Ruby. There was no point in making Sharyn nervous by letting her know that I recognized the spot where her cousin had been murdered.

A moment later, we were entering a light, open room—the lounge, Sharyn called it. She gestured to a seating area with a sofa, chairs, and coffee table on which sat a colorful painted tray, a confetti-glass pitcher of iced tea, and matching confetti-glass goblets. The stark whiteness of the walls was partially relieved by a vivid grouping of paintings of flowers in Mexican folk art style. There were bright marigolds, painted in rich reds and oranges and yellows, and fanciful balloon flowers and others in gorgeous purples and blues and lavender. There was a plaque under the group, and I saw with interest that they had been painted by Irene Cameron, Paul's wife, and that they were for sale. The prices were displayed discreetly on each painting, and all were in the $300 to $500 range—a little pricey for me, but if I could have afforded to buy one, I certainly would have. I studied the paintings, wondering whether Irene might have smaller, lower-priced paintings that I could display in my shop. The marigolds would be especially nice.

“This is the room we're planning to convert to a dining room,” Sharyn said. “We're expecting to expand our membership and open the museum to groups—carefully selected, of course—on a rental basis, for parties. We won't prepare the meals on the premises, though. We'll have them catered.”

Ever the entrepreneur, Ruby said quickly, “Did you know that China and I have a catering service? I'll drop off a brochure for you to review. Party Thyme—China and I and our friend Cass Wilde—would be glad to bid on the next event you're planning.”

I admire Ruby's business sense. She's way ahead of me in that department. I wouldn't have thought of suggesting that.

“Thank you,” Sharyn said. “Yes, do give me your brochure, Ruby, and I'll share it with our board. We would rather do business with someone we know than with strangers, of course.” She smiled. “Now, would you like to have iced tea? Or there's coffee, if you'd rather.”

I accepted the offer of tea. So did Ruby, and we sat down while our hostess easily hefted the heavy pitcher and poured. I noticed her square hands and thought once again that she was a solid and muscular woman. I remembered that Ruby had said that she and her cousin were not on good terms at the time of Christine Morris' death, and the thought crossed my mind that—

“I've put together a packet of material for you, and another for the possible donor you mentioned,” Sharyn said, handing us our glasses. “Your sister, I think you said?”

“Oh, thank you,” Ruby replied, picking up the two envelopes on the table and tucking them into her purse. “I'll be sure to pass this on to Ramona. Your card is here, isn't it?” She looked and found it. “Oh, yes. Well, if she has any questions, she can call you and discuss.”

Sharyn looked gratified. “Meanwhile,” she went on, “I thought you might like to know a little of the history of this unique house.” She waved her arm in an expansive gesture. “And something about our fine collection of Mexican art. It's one of the very best in the state, although that fact isn't often recognized. Of course, we're quite small in comparison to the publicly funded museums—we have just a thousand carefully selected pieces, on display and in storage. And we have remained private.”

“Private,” Ruby mused. “That's a little unusual, isn't it? I thought museums were open to the public.”

“Many are,” Sharyn said. “But Christine made that stipulation in her will, as well as appointing me to oversee the foundation and the collection itself. She wanted the house maintained as a setting for the collection, but she didn't want a lot of curious gawkers traipsing through it every day, just to have something to do. And while there's enough money to support the house and the collection, there isn't enough to manage it as a museum that's regularly open to the public. To do that, we would need to hire a larger staff, and more security. Some of the works are extremely valuable.”

“Maybe you could just fill us in briefly,” Ruby suggested. “China didn't grow up here in Pecan Springs the way you and I did. She may want to ask questions.” The smiles she and Sharyn exchanged were just slightly pitying, establishing the two of them as native Pecan Springers, birds of a feather. I was the outsider. Which was okay. In fact, it was a wily move on Ruby's part, connecting her and Sharyn.

“Oh, of course,” Sharyn replied, launching into what sounded like a practiced spiel. “The Morris collection was initially the work of my cousin, Christine, who began collecting Mexican art, both contemporary and traditional, more than thirty years ago. She had exquisite artistic taste and a very good sense of what would constitute an impressive collection. She made numerous trips to Mexico, building relationships with dealers in Mexico City and bringing back pieces that she enjoyed.”

“You said ‘initially,'” I broke in. “Does that mean that you have continued to collect, after her death?”

“We have accepted several donated collections,” Sharyn replied cautiously. “They are mostly folk art pieces, but there are some quite valuable paintings and a few contemporary sculptures. And the foundation itself has acquired a few items. Now, as I was saying, Christine continued—”

“Excuse me for interrupting,” I said, “but I'm curious. Are you able to sell items from the collection?” I smiled toothily. “That is, if I wanted to buy something, could I?”

Sharyn waved toward the paintings on the wall behind us. “We have a few things for sale, like these splendid florals by Irene Cameron.” Her voice was a little warmer, now that she sensed that I wasn't just a gardener but a potential customer. “As you can see, Irene is quite an accomplished painter. And some of our donors allow us to sell works that they have contributed. So yes, we might be able to arrange a purchase, if you see something you like.”

“Thank you,” I said.

She took a breath and went on with her speech. “Christine continued to expand her collection after she came here to Pecan Springs and married Douglas Clark, a well-known real estate developer, who built this unique home for her. She wanted to fill it with her art and invite the community to share her passion for the artistic achievements of our South-of-the-Border friends. Unfortunately, she died before she was able to realize all her dreams—”