Death Come Quickly (9 page)

Ruby was about to answer, but Cass came up to the table just then, wearing her yellow and green Thymely Gourmet apron over a white T-shirt and white pants. Cass—pretty and blond, with blue eyes and a lovely complexion—has always been oversize, partly because she is (as she says) “just built big” and partly because she's a top-flight cook and enjoys her own cooking. But for the past five or six months, she has been on a personal weight-loss campaign, counting calories, walking in the evening, and going to the gym every morning. She's lost about twenty-five pounds, with another twenty to go. But it's for the sake of her health, she says, not because skinny is beautiful. “I believe in curves,” she says flatly. “Thin just doesn't do it for me.”

And there's another reason for this weight loss. Many of the clients in Cass' Thymely Gourmet meal-delivery service are upscale singles who commute to Austin or San Antonio, aren't crazy about cooking, but want to eat right and keep their weight down. So she has developed a line of low-calorie, heart-healthy, home-delivered gourmet vegetarian meals. “I figured I'd better lose a few pounds to market the new line,” Cass says with a frank grin. She's a good advertisement. Customers who knew her “before” can see the “after” difference and imagine themselves minus a few extra pounds.

Cass walked around the table. “What did you think about the shrimp pasta?” she asked. “Did you like it?”

Ruby and I looked expectantly at Sheila, who was frowning thoughtfully. “Well, actually, I'm not sure,” she said at last. “I'd like to think about it some more. Are there any leftovers? I could take some home and give it another test.”

Ruby and I laughed. “I don't think restaurant critics do doggie bags,” Cass said.

“I'm not a restaurant critic,” Sheila replied with dignity. “I am the chief of police. And doggies have nothing to do with it.”

“I didn't think so,” Cass said with a grin, “although I'll bet Rambo would gobble it down and woof for more.” She turned to Ruby and me. “How was the muhallabiyeh?”

“Delicious!” we exclaimed in chorus.

“Was it difficult to make?” Ruby asked.

“Nah,” Cass said. “I recommend a double boiler, though.” She paused. “That could be one of the recipes we put on the table for take-home.”

“Great idea,” Ruby said enthusiastically. “Audience participation,” she said to Sheila. “We try to put a recipe for one of our dishes on every table. When people make the dish themselves, they'll think of us.”

“And in this case, buy their rose water and orange blossom water from us,” I said. “Specialty items.”

“Oh, so that's it,” Sheila said with a laugh. “The take-home recipes are made with ingredients that
you
have for sale.”

“Our mamas didn't raise no dummies,” Ruby said smugly.

There was a low vibrating buzz, and Sheila took her cell phone out of her uniform pocket and looked at it. “Excuse me,” she said and got up from the table. Phone to her ear, she walked down the steps from the deck and into the garden.

“You liked the shrimp pasta?” Cass asked again.

“More Parmesan,” Ruby said.

“On the table,” I put in. “We could put it in a shaker.”

“And maybe some snipped chives,” Ruby added. “Oh, and don't let Sheila fool you. She loved it. We all did.”

“Parmesan—I don't think so,” Cass said. “And if you put it on the table, people will be tempted to use too much. But I'll take the chives under consideration.” She turned to Ruby. “Oh, drat. I forgot. I was supposed to tell you that somebody named Kitt called. She wants you to call her. As soon as you can.”

To her credit, Ruby didn't say
Well, why didn't you tell me earlier?
She put down her napkin and got up. “Back in a flash,” she said.

But a “flash” lengthened into several flashes, and rather than wait by myself at the table, I decided to head back to the shop. The tearoom was nearly empty, but there were a couple of people I knew, just finishing their lunches, and I stopped to say hello. I was going into the shop when Sheila caught up with me, looking grim.

“Bad news?” I asked.

“Terrible news,” she replied. “I'm sorry to have to tell you, China, but—”

At that moment, Ruby came through the door from her shop, carrying her phone. She looked distraught.

“I'm afraid I have bad news,” she said. “Kitt says—”

“Wait, Ruby.” I held up my hand. “Smart Cookie got here first. Go, Sheila.”

Ruby and I both turned to Sheila. The muscles around her mouth had tightened and her eyes had a flat, hard look, a cop look.

“Karen Prior died a little while ago, in surgery. We're not dealing with simple assault now. This is a murder investigation.”

In the traditional folklore of plants, some have a reputation for being unlucky when picked. One of these is Herb Robert (
Geranium robertianum
), a low-growing wild geranium with reddish-pink blooms, red stems, and leaves that turn red late in the growing season. Throughout England, the plant is said to belong to Robin Goodfellow, or Puck, a rascally house goblin or nature sprite who makes it his business to cause trouble. (The name
Robin
is a familiar form of Robert.)

In the north of England, Herb Robert is known as “death come quickly” and was thought to be a certain harbinger of death. In the county of Somerset, children were warned, “If you pick Herb Robert, the goblin will come and carry you off.”

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

Karen was . . . dead? My stomach muscles knotted. “Oh, no!” I exclaimed.

“Oh, God,” Ruby whispered. “That's
terrible
! Oh, poor Felicity! She was close to her mother—losing her will be so hard!”

There was a long silence while all three of us tried to deal with the news. I don't know about the others' feelings, but I was coping with a jumble of fury, grief, and an almost physical pain.

“I'm sorry,” Sheila muttered. “I am . . . so sorry.”

I understood. Every good cop I have ever known has hated the senseless loss of a life. I wouldn't be surprised if she was blaming herself for Karen's death. It might be unreasonable, but good cops do that, too.

Trying to steady my voice, I turned to Ruby. “Was Kitt calling to tell you about Karen?”

Ruby shook her head. “No. I don't think . . .” She paused, gulped once, started again. “I don't think she knows about Karen yet. She was calling to ask if I'd seen Gretchen today. The two of them were supposed to get together this morning in the media lab, to work on editing their film. They were going to meet Sheila later this afternoon. But Gretchen never showed up. Kitt's been calling her cell, but there's no answer. She's called friends, too. Nobody's seen her.”

Sheila and I exchanged glances, and Sheila's mouth tightened. “Has Kitt turned in a report to the police?”

“I asked her, but she said she thought there was some sort of waiting period on missing persons—twenty-four hours or something. I told her you were here and that I'd find out and call her right back.”

“There's no waiting period,” Sheila replied shortly. “And given Gretchen's connection to Dr. Prior, I think we need to open a search as soon as possible. I suppose Kitt has checked with Gretchen's parents?”

“I asked,” Ruby replied, “but Kitt said there's no point in trying. They're out of town and almost impossible to reach.”

“The Keenes are doing anthropological fieldwork,” I put in. “Both of them. They're in Belize, in the jungle, and won't be back for another two weeks. But Jake—Gretchen's younger sister—is here in Pecan Springs. She had supper with us last night. She's the one who told me about the phone call Kitt recorded.”

I remembered that the two Keene daughters, Gretchen and Jake, were staying by themselves, with a next-door neighbor to look in on them. Which was certainly okay, since both girls were responsible young people, old enough to manage by themselves, in ordinary circumstances. This particular circumstance did not sound at all ordinary. Maybe I should—

“Let's not panic,” Sheila cautioned. “The girl probably just forgot about meeting her friend.”

“But she doesn't answer her cell,” Ruby reminded her.

“Yes, there's that.” Sheila glanced at me. “You don't happen to have the younger sister's cell phone number, do you?”

“No, but Brian does,” I replied promptly. “I'll get it.”

I reached in my pocket for my phone as Sheila said to Ruby, “Under the circumstances, we'll make this a priority. Call Kitt back and—” She stopped. “No. Give me her number, Ruby, and I'll call her myself. If she'll come down to the station, we can get the information into the system faster.”

I had turned off my phone while we were having lunch, and when I turned it on, I saw that there were a couple of missed calls from McQuaid. But I had to talk to Brian first. We had hired him to paint our house this summer—a big job, since the house itself is big: a two-story, five-bedroom Victorian with a turret and a porch that wraps around three sides. For the past month, Brian has been working on it steadily, with a little help from Caitie on the trim around the windows. (We solved two problems at the same time, as it turned out. While he's painting, he's also keeping an eye on Caitlin.)

It was several rings before Brian picked up, and I pictured him on a ladder, a paintbrush in one hand. “I need Jake's cell number,” I said, reaching over the counter for a pencil and a scrap of paper.

“Hang on a sec,” he said. “I've got it on my speed dial, and I never remember it.” A moment later, he read it off to me and I wrote it down. “How come you're asking, Mom? Is there a problem?”

I didn't want to spook him. “Not really,” I said in an offhand tone. “Ruby is looking for Gretchen, and I thought Jake might know where she is.” I paused. “You haven't seen her, have you? Gretchen, I mean.”

“Are you kidding?” He laughed. “The only thing I've seen is the business end of this paintbrush. Oh, and Dad called. He was trying to get in touch with you. He said he left a couple of messages on your phone.”

“I had it turned off. Anything urgent?”

“Nope. He just wanted to tell you that he has to go to Austin this afternoon—some research he's doing for Mr. Lipman. He probably won't make it home in time for supper. He said he'd pick something up for himself and we should just go ahead.”

“Okay,” I said. “In that case, how about if I stop at Gino's and get a pizza?” Gino's Italian Pizza Kitchen served up Pecan Springs' very first pizza in the late 1950s, at a time when most folks around here had never tasted one. Texans tend to go for burgers or fried chicken, and pizza was slow to catch on with the townies. But the kids at CTSU—which was a small teachers' college back then—loved it. They made Gino's an enduring success. Gino Senior is gone now, but Gino Junior carries on, and his pizza is still the best in town.

“Great by me,” Brian replied enthusiastically. “Bring home a super-size and I'll ask Jake to come over.”

“I'll ask her myself,” I replied, thanked him, and clicked the connection off. “I've got Jake's cell number,” I said to Sheila. “How about if I call her?”

“Please,” Sheila said. “You know her.”

But a call to Jake didn't net us any information. She had last seen Gretchen at breakfast and didn't expect her home until late evening. I didn't want to alarm her, so I didn't say why I was asking.

“She left at nine to meet Kitt at the media lab,” she added. “They're working on the rough cut today. Here, let me give you Gretchen's cell number.”

I took it down. “We're having pizza tonight,” I said. “How about coming over and eating with us?” I paused and added, “Brian would have asked you, but he's got his hands full with a paintbrush.”

“Sure,” she said enthusiastically. “If Brian can pick me up. Gretchen and I are sharing Mom's car, but she drove it to the media lab. She's planning to work with Kitt this evening, so I'm on my own. I'd love to come for pizza.”

I hadn't thought of transportation. Between the kids and their friends, I sometimes feel like I'm running a taxi service. “We can save Brian a trip into town if I pick you up on my way home from the shop,” I said. “Okay?”

“Sure. That'll be great,” Jake said. “Thanks!”

I said good-bye and hung up quickly, before she could ask if there was any news from the hospital. I didn't want to tell her that Dr. Prior was dead—not over the phone. She was going to be very upset.

“Jake thinks her sister is working with Kitt at the lab all day,” I told Sheila. “No help there. But she did say that Gretchen is driving their mother's car.”

“Right,” Sheila said, sounding resigned. “Kitt can give me a description of Gretchen, and I can pull the mother's vehicle registration. But I'll have to phone the sister and get a number where I can reach the parents.”

I copied Jake's cell number and gave it to her. “But could you hold off on contacting her?” I asked, still concerned about frightening Jake. “She's coming to my house for pizza this evening. If Gretchen hasn't turned up by that time, I'll tell her what's going on and get the Keenes' contact information for you. There probably aren't that many cell towers in the jungles of Belize, anyway—and there's nothing the parents can do right away.”

Sheila put the number into her notebook. “Works for me.” She turned toward the door. “I'll call Kitt and meet her at the station.”

I stopped her. “Don't you think it would be a good idea if you sent a uniform to pick her up at CTSU? We don't know what's happened to Gretchen. It might not be smart for Kitt to go wandering around—”

“Good idea.” Sheila opened the door. “I'll just pick Kitt up myself. The campus isn't that far out of my way.”

• • •

P
EOPLE
often tell me that they'd love to quit their jobs and enjoy the “freedom” of owning their own business. They seem to have the idea that as a shop owner, I can come and go whenever the spirit moves me. Of course, it is true that I can get one of my helpers to take care of customers while I run an errand or spend a couple of hours in the garden. It's also true that we are closed every Monday, which is my day to get caught up with the rest of my life—except, of course, when there's something at the shop that I desperately need to do. But Tuesday through Saturday, ten through five, I'm on the job. Even when I'd rather be somewhere else.

Like this Friday afternoon, when I would rather have been out looking for Gretchen. Unfortunately, I didn't know her well enough to know where to start looking or even to suggest where other people might look. But I definitely felt I should be doing
something
, since Gretchen's parents were friends and her sister was my son's girlfriend, almost a member of the family. The feeling was unsettling.

Luckily for me, though, the foot traffic in the shop was heavy, with the phone ringing frequently and customers in and out most of the afternoon. I was almost too busy finding plants, looking for books, answering questions, checking in a new shipment of bulk dried herbs, and managing the cash register to think about the death of Karen Prior or worry about what might have happened to Gretchen.

Almost, but not quite. Karen was a dark shadow at the back of my mind and Gretchen was an ominous knot of apprehension in the pit of my stomach, and the minute I closed the shop and finished clearing the register, they jostled their way into my full awareness. Karen was dead and I could only mourn her, try to think of a way to comfort her daughter, and hope that her killer would be caught and convicted and imprisoned for as long as the law allowed.

But Gretchen was—Gretchen was
where
? What had happened to her? What did Gretchen's disappearance, if that was what it was, have to do with Karen's murder? Was there any connection? And what did Karen's murder have to do with her students' documentary, if anything?

Ruby was scheduled to teach a class that afternoon, and I hadn't seen her. When I finished the end-of-the-day chores, I locked the outside doors in the tearoom and the shop, turned off the lights (except for the one I leave burning behind the counter), and went into the Crystal Cave to see if there had been any news.

If you've ever been in Ruby's shop, you'll remember it as an extraordinary experience. When you come in, you're struck by the fragrance of Ruby's handcrafted sandalwood and clove incense; the sweet, delicate music of the Celtic harp DVDs she likes to play; and the dragons and faerie figures hanging from the ceiling. You can shop shelves stocked with rune stones, crystals, and candles; tarot cards and New Age CDs and goddess T-shirts and colorful scarves; ritual supplies and altar materials and fantastic jewelry. You can browse books on spirituality and astrology and the mind-body connection and healing herbs. There are a couple of comfortable chairs; nobody will make you get up if you'd like to sit down and read for a while. And if you peek around the corner into the small classroom, you might see a dozen women on zafus and meditation benches, quietly meditating; or find Ruby with a circle of tarot students seated on the carpeted floor, cards spread out in front of them. Or you might spot her with her projector and screen and PowerPoint, discussing a birth chart with an astrology class.

Today, her students—from their serene expressions and their quiet, gentle good-byes, I guessed it was a meditation class—were just leaving the shop. I could hear Becky running the vacuum in the classroom. Ruby, still wearing the gold silk chiffon kimono jacket she puts on when she teaches meditation, was perched on a stool behind her counter, clearing out her register. She looked up when I came in.