Death Come Quickly (30 page)

“Okay, murder number two.” Sheila frowned. “You think Soto killed Karen Prior when she began to suspect that the paintings in the collection weren't the real thing. Is that it?”

“Yeah. Karen had done a documentary on art fraud, which might have alerted her to what was going on—and then she saw the painting in the Sotheby's auction catalog and the same, or a similar painting in the Morris collection. Irene Cameron can testify to the exchange she heard—Soto telling Tillotson that he thought he might have to kill Karen to keep her quiet. With a little luck, you can use Irene Cameron to get to Tillotson and Tillotson to get to Soto.” It's the standard strategy that DAs use in conspiracy cases. On the basis of Cameron's information, Tillotson could be charged as a coconspirator, then offered a plea in return for testimony against Soto. She might be in love with the guy, but she'd struck me as a practical woman. She would no doubt rat him out in return for a lighter sentence.

“You make it sound so easy.” Grimacing, Sheila moved her hips, shifting her position. “We might win a few more convictions, Counselor, if you would stop fooling around with that shop of yours and come to work in the DA's office.”

“Not on your life,” I said fervently. “And I didn't mean to make it sound easy. It would be more of a sure thing if there were some way to link Soto to the attack on Karen.”

“There just might be,” Sheila said.

I raised both eyebrows. “Oh, yeah?”

“There's a partial palm print on the top of Prior's car, on the driver's side, and a partial thumbprint on the driver's-side door. It doesn't belong to the victim or to her daughter. Now that we have a suspect—”

“Great!” I said. “After you've talked to Irene Cameron, you'll have enough to pick him up and get his prints. Let's hope for a match.”

“Let's hope.” Sheila shifted again. “I hate to ask you, but would you mind helping me get to the bathroom? I have to pee and I'm not sure I trust myself to get there under my own steam.”

“What? Superwoman can't pee by herself?” I grinned down at her sheer red nightie. “I see the problem, girl. You've traded your cape and tights for a Victoria's Secret. How do you expect to save a dying universe dressed like Barbie?”

Sheila gritted her teeth. “You wait until you're in this situation, China Bayles,” she growled. “Just see if I come and help you.”

“I'm helping, I'm helping,” I protested and pulled the coverlet back. “Come on, sweetie, swing your legs over the edge of the bed.”

I put an arm around her and she pushed herself off the bed slowly, with a low moan. “And they call this ‘Band-Aid surgery,'” she muttered, leaning dizzily on my arm as we made our way slowly to the bathroom. “Hurts like hell.”

“Must've been a guy who invented that term,” I said sympathetically.

She made a low sound. “If it hurts like this
not
to have a baby, I wonder how it feels to have one.”

“One little challenge at a time,” I said. “First, we pee. Later, babies.”

In the bathroom, she sat down on the toilet. “I have to but I can't,” she said after a minute, screwing up her face.

“Warm water.” I filled a glass at the tap and handed it to her. “Try this. Works every time.”

She poured, then gave a sigh of relief. “Yes. Oh, yes,” she said happily, handing me the glass. “Oh,
yes
.”

I began to laugh. “If the guys at the station house could see you now, Smart Cookie, they would pee
their
pants.”

She giggled, laughed, then gasped. “Oh, stop, China,” she moaned. “I can't laugh! It hurts!”

Back in bed again, she lay down and let me adjust the pillows under her knees. “Want some water?” I asked and got a fresh glass from the bathroom for her.

Sipping through the straw, she said, “That letter from Richard Bowen. It sounds as if there was no suicide. Douglas Clark killed him—or had him killed.”

“That's where I'd put my money,” I said and sat down again. “But we'll have to wait for Houston Homicide to take a look at that letter and move to reopen the case. Which they probably won't do unless their initial investigation turned up some forensic evidence. Fingerprints, hair, DNA, fiber—something that would tie Clark to the scene, once they can attempt to get matches.” I glanced at the clock on the bedside table and saw what time it was. “One more thing, Sheila, friend to friend. Justine Wyzinski is interviewing Irene Cameron tonight. I think she'll take her on as a client.”

Sheila wrinkled her nose. She's encountered Justine before. “You couldn't get Cameron a date with the local talent?”

I laughed. “Justine has had dealings with Soto and is aware of the art fraud background in this case. She'll be up to speed before Charlie can find a clean white shirt.”

“Speed is Wyzinski's middle name,” Sheila said dryly.

“Actually, it's the Whiz,” I said. “Same idea. Of course, it depends on how Justine sees the situation. But I'm hoping she'll bring Irene to the station tomorrow, as a cooperating witness. It would be good if someone there was prepared to talk to her. I'll be glad to brief him—or her—on what I know.”

“Jack Bartlett,” Sheila said. “I'll talk to him first thing in the morning. You can be reached?”

I know and like Bartlett, who is head of the detective unit. “Have Jack try my cell. I'll be at the shop.” I stood up, then bent over and kissed Sheila lightly on top of her head. “I'm sorry about the baby,” I said again, “but glad you're okay.”

“I'll be a lot better,” she said, “once we get this investigation cooking.” She reached for her cell phone on the bedside table. “I'll call Jack right now. Let him know what's going on, what to expect.”

“Like I said,” I replied with a grin, “you can't keep a good woman down. Even if she can't pee by herself.”

The door banged downstairs and I heard the clickety-clatter of Rottie toenails on the bare wood of the stairs.

“Woof!”
Rambo announced joyfully. He trotted to the bed, put his stubby muzzle on the covers, and regarded Sheila with concern.
“Woof?”
he inquired.

“I'm home,” Blackie yelled. “Anybody up there want pizza?”

“Woof-woof!”
Rambo said.

If you've found a four-leaved clover, you're in luck, for these are scarce. It has been estimated that there is just one four-leaved clover for every 10,000 three-leaved clovers (
Trifolium
). According to traditional lore, a four-leaved clover brings good luck, especially if you find it accidentally. According to legend, each leaf represents an important quality, something we all need in our lives. The first is for faith, the second is for hope, the third is for love, and the fourth is for good luck. And if you find a five-leaved clover? Bushels of good luck!

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

“I can't believe it,” McQuaid said as we stood on the front porch, our arms around each other, watching as Brian's old green Ford disappeared around a curve in the lane. “I just flat can't believe it.”

A couple of days before, we had moved Brian into his room at one of the off-campus co-op houses west of the university. McQuaid had wanted him to stay in Jester, the coed residence hall in the center of campus. But I sided with Brian. He was mature enough to handle the independence. He would learn more life lessons in co-op housing, I thought, where the students had responsibility for governing the house. With luck, he might even learn to do his own laundry.

“I believe it,” I said softly. “It's what we've raised him for. His own life in a new world, to prove to himself who he is and what he can be.” I took a deep breath, thinking of the years that the boy and his father had been at the center of my life. “He doesn't have to prove anything to us, though,” I added. “For us, he will always be just . . . Brian. Our Brian.”

McQuaid shook his head. “Well, I wish him luck. And he's going to need it. The world is a different place than it was when I left for college. He won't be able to coast, the way I did my first couple of years. He'll have to be smarter, work harder, do more.
And
get lucky.”

I couldn't disagree with that. That's why, as a little going-away present, I gave him a four-leaved clover I had found in the yard, encased in a medallion for his key chain. That way, I told him, he'd always have a little luck on his side, and a small, green reminder of home.

When we went back inside, the house felt empty—especially since Caitlin was spending the weekend, the last of the summer, with my mother and her husband, Sam, at their ranch near Kerrville.

“Maybe it's time we got another dog,” McQuaid said. He looked at me with an amused glint in his eye. “Unless you're sure you don't want a baby?”

“I am positive,” I said firmly. “If you want to hear the patter of little feet around the house, we can borrow Baby Grace.” I reached for his hand. “It's time for lunch. Come in the kitchen and I'll fix you an egg sandwich.”

Caitlin's new rooster, a handsome red-feathered fellow with an iridescent ruff and a sweep of colorful tail, had arrived a few weeks before to take charge of his six-hen harem. We had a family discussion about his name. After much deliberation, Caitie rejected my Corn Colonel, McQuaid's Big Red, and Brian's Crockpot. She decided, instead, on Rooster Boy. Clearly delighted to have his very own hens, Rooster Boy is doing his lusty best to ensure that his girls are laying fertile eggs, and Caitie is hoping that one of the hens might demonstrate a maternal instinct. But so far, in spite of Rooster Boy's solicitous and persistent attentions, none have shown any sign of “going broody.”

This desirable state of affairs, as Caitie solemnly explained to me, is when a lady chicken decides she wants to be a mother. “When she's broody, she'll cluck and fluff out her feathers and won't get off her eggs until they've hatched.”

“And this takes how many days?” I asked. “Hatching, I mean.”

“Twenty-one,” she said confidently. “Three whole weeks.”

“
That
,” I remarked, “is dedication.” I frowned. “Twenty-one days? How do you know? You're not a chicken.” I peered at her. “You're not a chicken, are you?”

She giggled and said she'd been doing research on the Internet. Ah, life lessons, learned in cyberspace.

In the kitchen, I got out the small skillet. “An egg sandwich?” McQuaid was querulous. “But we had an omelet for breakfast.”

“We have
lots
of eggs,” I reminded him. “How about if I add a few slices of avocado and onion and some alfalfa sprouts?” I keep a quart jar of alfalfa sprouts growing on the sunny kitchen windowsill, so they're always available for sandwiches.

“That's more like it,” he said, making a detour into his study. “While you're at it, you can pile on a couple of slices of Swiss. And maybe a slice of ham.” At the doorway, he turned. “Did I hear somebody say something about going out for supper with Sheila and Blackie tonight?”

“Yes, you heard somebody say something,” I said. “Somebody said Beans'. Sixish.”

“Works for me,” he said and disappeared.

I was getting the makings out of the refrigerator when my cell phone rang. “Yo, China,” Aaron said. “You got a minute?”

“Anything for you,” I replied. “How's Paula?”

“Not so good. Morning sickness.”

Same song, I thought, second verse. “Tell her to try ginger tea.” I took out a couple of Caitlin's eggs. “And peppermint. I'll email you a link and you can forward it to her.”

He was wary. “She doesn't do folk remedies. I think her doctor's prescribing something.”

“Whatever.” I closed the fridge. “So what's up?”

“The homicide investigator just called with an update. He's got a warrant for Douglas Clark's arrest for the murder of Richard Bowen. They're expecting to pick him up today.”

“Ah,” I said, with great satisfaction. I put the skillet on the stove. “They got a DNA match, then.”

As I'd learned when the lead Houston homicide detective interviewed me, Richard Bowen had not gone gently into that good night. On his way out of this world, he had managed to scratch his killer, catching DNA under one fingernail on his right hand. DNA, but no match—until Bowen's letter came to light and Douglas Clark suddenly became a person of interest. And then a suspect, on the basis of the documents in Bowen's Chase Bank safe-deposit box and Florabelle Gibson's statement, taken by the Houston detective. Now it was time for his arrest and arraignment. Sometimes these things work the way they're supposed to.

“Yeah,” Aaron said. “Good thing you found that letter and read it. You get points for solving a cold case, Counselor.”

“Points?” I asked, turning on the burner under the skillet and plopping in a scoop of butter. “No reward?”

“Virtue is its own reward,” Aaron said piously.

“Not so much,” I replied. “In this dog-eat-dog world, reward is its own virtue. Listen, I'm making an egg sandwich for McQuaid, and I can't fry an egg and talk on the phone to you at the same time.”

“Paula has never made me an egg sandwich,” Aaron said, aggrieved. “In fact, I wanted an egg for breakfast this morning and we didn't have any.”

“That's because you don't have Rooster Boy and his six-hen harem,” I said.

He sighed. “I don't think so. I think it's because Paula doesn't like to cook.” Another sigh. “Don't forget that rain check, China.”

“I won't,” I said. But I thought I probably would.

I broke the egg into the skillet. It had two yolks. Hadn't I read somewhere that two yolks was good luck—maybe a financial windfall or a wedding in the family? The first I could handle. The second, not so much. At least, not yet.

• • •

B
EANS'
Bar and Grill is located in a stone building between Purley's Tire Company and the Missouri Pacific Railroad, across the street from the old firehouse, which was recently converted into a dance hall. It's a down-home Texas eating and drinking hangout with a pool hall in the back, so the general conversation is frequently punctuated by the sharp crack of a cue and a jubilant “Boy, howdy! Looka that—right in the ol' pocket!” There's a mirrored wooden bar down one side for serious drinkers, of whom there are always several. The diners occupy unmatched kitchen chairs around scarred wooden tables. Wagon wheels wound with rusty barbed wire threaded with lights shaped like red and green jalapeño peppers hang like chandeliers from the ceiling, and a cigar-store Indian stands in the corner with a politically correct sign in one hand, requesting that people refer to him as a Native American. The restroom doors are labeled
Bulls
and
Heifers
, and favorites on the jukebox (judging by the number of times you'll hear them during the evening) are Willie's “Always on My Mind” and Dolly's “Here You Come Again.” Down-home to the max.

When we were seated at our favorite back-corner table, Bob Godwin hustled up with two red plastic baskets of warm tortilla chips, a couple of crockery cups of hair-raising salsa, a pitcher of icy draft beer, and four mugs. Bob has tattoos on both muscular arms, thinning auburn hair, and fuzzy ginger eyebrows that meet in the middle. A proud vet, he was wearing a black T-shirt with a skull and crossbones over the words
Recon Marines
. His golden retriever, Budweiser (Bud, for short), came to the table with him to say hello. Bud wears a leather saddlebag and totes beer bottles and wrapped snacks from the bar to the tables, and cash and tips from the tables to the bar. He gets a pat from everybody, but there's a hand-lettered sign around his neck that says,
Don't feed me!
People were being too generous with their French fries and fried onions.

Bob posts the menu on the chalkboard behind the bar, under a hand-lettered sign that says,
7-Course Texas Dinner: A Six-Pack & a Possum
. I had treated the Whiz to a chicken-fried steak several weeks before, but tonight all four of us agreed on the house special, the Way Too Much Plate: a beef enchilada, two chicken flautas, a pork fajita taco, chile con queso, guacamole, rice, and refried beans.

“I've got news,” Sheila said to me, propping her elbows on the table. She was in civvies tonight, a red plaid cotton shirt, jeans, and red boots, with her ash-blond hair in a single braid down her back. She was beautiful, even if she was no longer pregnant.

“Me, too,” I said. “News, I mean.”

“Why don't you two arm wrestle to see who goes first,” McQuaid suggested. “Now, that would be something to see.”

“Spin a fork,” Blackie said, and he did it. “China, you won. Go.”

I related the details of Aaron's phone call, although not the part about the egg sandwich.

Blackie sat back in his chair and whistled. “Doug Clark arrested for the murder of Dick Bowen? That'll make headlines in the
Enterprise.
”

“I hope they can make it stick,” McQuaid said. “He's a slick customer.” Charlie Lipman had dropped his investigation into Clark's hidden assets shenanigans. I hadn't been surprised. Charlie is tight with his money, and on this case, he'd been his own client.

“DNA is pretty sticky,” Sheila remarked. “Sounds like a solid case.” She grinned at me. “My news is along the same lines. We arrested Roberto Soto this morning, China, at his gallery in San Antonio. He's been charged with the murder of Karen Prior. The feds are still working on the art fraud case. There'll be charges on that, as well—eventually.”

“So the palm print and the partial thumbprint matched,” I said.

“Yep,” Sheila replied with satisfaction. “And after consultations with her lawyer and the DA's office, Sharyn Tillotson saw the light. She's going to plead guilty to a lesser charge and has made a full statement incriminating Soto in Prior's murder and the art fraud scheme.”

I suppose I should have been elated, but I wasn't. I was thinking of Felicity and Karen's mother. Knowing that an arrest had been made might make their loss a little easier to bear. But for the victims of crime, justice is a long, painful journey, full of starts, stops, and setbacks. Today's arrest was just the beginning. If the family was lucky, the case would go to trial next year. If they were lucky again and there was a conviction, the appeal could take another couple of years—and there could be more appeals after that. And none of that would bring Karen back. For her family and friends, there would be no end to the pain.

McQuaid hoisted his beer. “Here's to good, solid police work. Congratulations, Smart Cookie.”

Sheila shrugged. “Well, maybe. But we wouldn't have gotten to Tillotson without Irene Cameron. Her statement was crucial. It gave us the key to open the other doors.” She reached for a tortilla chip and dipped it into the salsa. “Irene had the courage to tell the truth. I hope the deal works out for her.”

Justine had already brought me up-to-date on that part of the case. After she and Irene Cameron sat down together and talked, Irene agreed to tell the full story of the art forgeries she had painted for Roberto Soto and to testify to the conversation she had overheard between Soto and Sharyn Tillotson. Her voluntary statement led to Tillotson's questioning and to
her
statement—and that led to Soto's arrest.