Holly Blues (20 page)

And now Leslie was dead, and her loss left him stripped down, raw, helpless. But what was this crap about the Lake City police being interested in Sally? What the hell was going on? Had Sally been staying with Leslie in Lake City before she’d come to Pecan Springs? If so, she hadn’t said anything about it. Why? And why did the cops think she had anything to do with Leslie’s death?

Hell. He sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. The two sisters had had a strained relationship for a long time, going back to before he and Sally were married, for reasons he’d never quite understood and didn’t especially want to. He didn’t think it was Leslie’s fault, since she was even-tempered and accommodating. But whenever Leslie and Sally were together, their animosity crackled like heat lightning, making it uncomfortable to be in the same room with them. Still, he didn’t think it would get to the point where Sally would actually—

What the hell do you know?
asked a voice in the back of his mind.
Sally is volatile. Too much alcohol, too many drugs, Juanita—a potent mix. Maybe she showed up at Leslie’s house drunk or stoned out of her mind, and the two of them got into a shouting match. Maybe Juanita showed up, and things escalated. Push came to shove, and Leslie ended up dead.

Dead. Despairingly, McQuaid shook his head. No. No. No. It hadn’t happened that way. He knew Sally, and he knew it wasn’t possible.

Not true,
said the voice.
When people get angry enough, anything—from a fast, hard stab with a kitchen knife to an overhand hit with a fireplace poker—is possible.

Maybe. But China wasn’t buying it, either. She hadn’t been in a courtroom for a while, but she still had the instincts of a criminal defense attorney. She had already convinced herself that Sally was innocent of whatever crime had been committed in Lake City. She thought Myers—the stalker—might have had something to do with Leslie’s death. And when McQuaid told her about Sally’s phone call and her story that she had been looking into her parents’ murders, China had jumped on it with both feet.

“Sally was conducting a murder investigation?” she asked sharply. “In Sanders?”

“If that’s what you want to call it.” McQuaid gave a sardonic chuckle. “If you ask me, she was playing another role. This time, she was Lois Lane, crack investigative reporter. Using her parents’ death as a springboard to career fame and fortune. And a book deal. A bunch of crap, if you ask me.”

He rested his elbows on his knees and rubbed his forehead with his hand. A damn book. It made him so mad he couldn’t see straight. Sally wanted to write a goddamned book about the murders. Her parents didn’t deserve that.

China was silent for a moment. “Wait, McQuaid,” she said, in her let’s-consider-this-carefully tone, the tone she used when she was addressing a jury. “Myers lives in Sanders, right?”

“I guess so. He came to our wedding. That’s what Sally says, anyway. Can’t prove it by me. There were a lot of ex-boyfriends lined up to kiss the bride.”

“Then what if—” China cleared her throat. “What if
Myers
is the guy Joyce Dillard suspects of being involved with the Strahorns’ murders? The one she named to Sally but Sally won’t name to you?”

McQuaid stopped rubbing his forehead. “That’s a reach,” he said cautiously. But he could see how China got there.

“Do you know if the Sanders police questioned him?”

“I don’t know anything about the investigation, who they questioned, what kind of evidence they turned up.”

“Or overlooked,” China said. “From what you’ve told me, it’s a small town, right?”

“Yeah. Maybe three thousand, tops.”

“Which means that they’ve got how many investigators? One? Two? I don’t imagine they were accustomed to carrying out an investigation into a double homicide. Who knows what kind of evidence they overlooked—hair, fiber, tissue. Probably didn’t have access to any up-to-date forensic technology.”

He was still thinking about that when she went on, even more urgently. “You have to drive down there and interview the woman Sally talked to, McQuaid. Joyce what’s-her-name. Find out what she knows. If the suspect she has in mind is Jess Myers, we’re not dealing with a simple stalker here. And there’s another homicide to consider. Leslie. Don’t forget Leslie.”

Leslie. What he remembered was kissing her and wanting to do it again. His gut clenched at the thought of her, dead. He felt a numbing pain.

“Dillard,” he said. He picked up the remote and turned off the sound. “The woman’s name is Joyce Dillard.”

“Right. Joyce Dillard. Talk to her, McQuaid. Find out if she has any reason to suspect that Myers killed the Strahorns.”

He got off the bed, walked to the motel window, and yanked the drape open. “It’s snowing like crazy here, China. This morning, you wanted me to come home. Right now, this afternoon. Now you want me to drive a hundred forty miles in a freakin’ blizzard.”

“I’m sorry it’s snowing.” She paused. “I can’t make you do it, McQuaid. But I think you should.”

He dropped the drape, still thinking of Leslie. But he gave it one more shot. “If you ask me, there’s a damn good chance that Sally is making this whole thing up, starting with this woman in Sanders.”

Yeah, that would be just like Sal, wouldn’t it?
the voice put in.
Invent a story about some woman who has incriminating information about this guy Myers, who is stalking her. Morph the unpleasant ex-boyfriend into a killer, make him dangerous, a menace to society. If Sally was looking for a hook for a book, what could be better?

“I don’t know about Dillard, but Sally is not making Myers up,” China said firmly. “I talked to this guy myself, remember? He’s creepy, I tell you. And he’s purposeful. Determined.”

McQuaid sighed. He was glad that China and Sally would be at Ruby’s tonight, out of harm’s way. And by this time, he very much wanted to know just what the hell kind of game Sally was playing. But he wasn’t going to let China know it. He sighed loudly.

“This is something you really want me to do, huh? So what’ll you give me if I do it?”

She thought for a moment. Then, “Sex,” she promised provocatively. “All the sex you want.”

He played innocent. “Don’t I get that anyway?”

“More. You’ll get more. Lots more. Whenever you want.”

“I’m making notes.” He sighed again, overdoing it for effect. “Okay, you’ve twisted my arm. But you owe me big-time. And if I end up frozen stiff in a ditch on I-29, it’s on your head.”

“Thanks,” she said. “I mean it.”

“You’d better. And don’t forget. You’re spending the night with Ruby. You and Sally.”

“Sally may be spending the night in jail,” China replied in a meaningful tone.

They’d said good-bye then. He had checked out of the motel—there’d be no hope of making it back to Omaha tonight, not in this storm. He’d bagged up his books, beer, and snacks and taken them with him to the car. The temperature was dropping, too, and he wasn’t dressed for it. So he’d stopped at the first discount store he’d seen and bought a fleece-lined corduroy jacket, a decent pair of boots (which he needed, anyway), a sweatshirt, a wooly blue hat, a pair of gloves, several bottles of water, and an emergency kit with hazard markers, flares, and a flashlight. He didn’t intend to get stuck in the snow, but if he did, he’d at least be prepared.

Now, he glanced up at the sign. Joe’s Feed Lot. It was years since he’d been here, but the place hadn’t changed, at least on the outside. He reached for his cell phone to call China, tell her where he was. No answer, so he left a brief message.

“Just got to Sanders. Bitch of a drive. Hope to hell this is worth it, China. You and Ruby be good tonight. Keep Sally out of trouble. Call me when you get a chance.”

He clicked off the phone, pulled on his gloves and his hat, yanking it down over his ears, and got out of the car, thinking that the weather might be doing him a good turn. Joyce Dillard wasn’t likely to be out and about on a night like this, and somebody here could tell him where she lived. The temperature had dropped sharply in the past couple of hours, and the cold air slashed like a knife in his lungs. There were three other vehicles in Joe’s parking lot: the black-and-white cruiser, its hood still steaming; a red Ford pickup, the driver’s side door bashed in, the window crisscrossed with duct tape; and an old green Buick, heavily mantled with snow. McQuaid noticed these as he noticed most things, cataloguing them without being consciously aware that he was doing it, a habit learned early in his cop career and never forgotten.

The concrete apron, lit by a blazing Coca-Cola sign, had been recently shoveled and sanded. But the blowing snow was already beginning to pile up. It crunched icily underfoot as he trudged to the door. Inside, it was blessedly warm and half-dark, with a jukebox in the shadows off to the right—Dolly Parton belting out “Oh by gosh by golly, it’s time for mistletoe and holly.” The smell of hot grease and hot coffee was heavy on the air, like syrup. McQuaid had been here often when he and Sally had come to Sanders to visit her folks, and he remembered Joe as an affable guy with a beer gut who liked to talk to the customers.

There weren’t many tonight. A couple of kids—teenagers—were making out in one of the booths, what was left of one of Joe’s pizzas on the table in front of them. A heavyset man was sitting at the counter. He wore jeans, a red-and-black plaid shirt, a khaki hunting vest, and a black cap with the red letters SPD. The cop who belonged to the police cruiser, McQuaid thought, off duty. He was hunched over a double-decker cheeseburger and crisp fries, with a giant pickle, a substantial side of slaw, a second side of beans, and a mug of steaming black coffee.

McQuaid sat down a couple of stools to the right of the cop. Joe turned around from the coffee machine, wiping his hands on the white towel he wore like an apron over his jeans. He was round-faced and red-cheeked, nearly bald, with gold-rimmed glasses, ten years older but not much changed. Behind him was a green-painted partition with an open pass-through shelf to the kitchen. The partition was plastered with autographed photographs of football and basketball players in their uniforms and signs: purple and white Go K-State Wildcats! and Jayhawk Victory! banners and green Beat ’Em Badgers! bumper stickers. Joe’s Feed Lot catered to the sports crowd, which was pretty much everybody in Sanders, as McQuaid remembered it. Football and basketball were about it where local entertainment was concerned, unless you wanted to count the Rotary Club and the Ladies’ Auxiliary.

“Cold out there?” Joe inquired hospitably.

“Brisk,” McQuaid replied. “Snowing like blue blazes.” He pulled off his hat and gloves, stuffing them into his jacket pocket. “I-29 was a skating rink. Thirty-six wasn’t much better.”

“Bad all day and gettin’ worse.” Joe grinned, showing a broken front tooth. “Nobody’s drivin’, everybody’s eatin’ at home. Even the county snowplows are headin’ for the barn. Figgered I’d be here all night with nobody but them two,” he added, nodding toward the couple making out energetically in the booth. “I was fixin’ to close after Hank here cleaned his plate, but I’ll be glad to take care of you, if you’re wantin’ to eat.” He pointed to a chalkboard menu hung on the wall, offering meatloaf, fried catfish, and burgers.

McQuaid unzipped his jacket and nodded toward the cop’s plate. “I’ll have what the man’s got, but skip the coleslaw. Just beans and java.”

“Comin’ up.” Joe pulled a mug of hot coffee, set it in front of McQuaid, and disappeared around the partition into the kitchen, where he was visible through the open pass-through.

“You won’t be sorry,” the cop said in a gruff voice. He was a big guy, beefy, maybe six three, with graying hair a tad shaggy on the collar of his plaid shirt, and dark eyebrows that met over a battered nose. “Joe makes the best cheeseburgers in Kansas.” He raised his voice. “Hear that, Joe? Best cheeseburgers this side of the state line. Real Kansas beef. None of that rain forest crap.”

“I hear you,” Joe said and dropped fries into a sizzle of hot fat. “Bet you think I’m gonna give you a discount, huh?”

The cop laughed, and McQuaid put out his hand. “McQuaid. Houston PD, Homicide. Retired.”

“Oh, yeah?” The eyebrows went up, the hand came out, a thick hand with a hard grasp, a weight lifter’s grasp. “Jamison. Hank Jamison. Me, I think about quittin’, too. I ain’t as crazy about night work as I used to be. So what’s it like, bein’ retired?”

“Dunno.” McQuaid gave him a rueful grin. “I didn’t say I quit. Just moved over to the private side. Investigations.”

Jamison nodded. “Thought of that myself. But I figger I’d hafta move somewheres else to do it. KC, maybe, or Tulsa. Not much call for that kinda work around here. O’ course, I could do security. I’d still be workin’ nights, prob’ly, but there’d be less time on the road.”

Dolly Parton quit singing. The boy and girl got up from their booth, exchanged one last kiss, and struggled into heavy coats. McQuaid saw with some surprise that they were two girls. Jamison followed his glance with a disgusted look.

“Yeah. Kids these days. Makes you sick, don’t it? Wonder if their folks know what they’re gettin’ up to.” He dipped a fry into catsup, popped it into his mouth, chewed. “So where’d you drive from? KC?”

“Omaha.” McQuaid cradled his coffee mug, warming his hands. “Way I remember, used to be a motel this end of town, west side of the road. Still there?”

“Yeah. Clarks’ Sycamore Court. Changed hands, though. The Clarks sold out a few years back. Some Ay-rab owns it now.” Another disgusted look. “Guess there ain’t no red-blooded Americans wantin’ to get into the motel bizness these days.”

“I don’t care who owns it so long as there’s hot water, the bed’s clean, and the TV works.” He raised his voice. “Hey, Joe. I’ll have everything on that cheeseburger. Heavy on the onion.”

“Onion, huh?” Joe raised his head from whatever he was slicing and peered through the pass-through. “Guess you and Hank don’t have no dates tonight.” He frowned. “McQuaid, you say? Any relation to the fella who married that girl of Gene Strahorn’s a few years back? The oldest one,” he amended. “Sally.”