Holly Blues (6 page)

In fact, starting tomorrow and continuing until the day after New Year’s, the cottage would be occupied by Mr. Cowan’s middle-aged daughter, Hazel. Mr. Cowan lives with Miss Lula, a yappy Pekinese, in the house across the alley. Hazel feels the need to visit her father (one of the most crotchety old men you’d hope never to meet) a couple of times a year, but she draws the line at Miss Lula. I can’t say I blame her, because this tiny dog has the loudest and sharpest bark in Pecan Springs. Miss Lula can outbark the Great Dane who lives on the corner and the mezzo sopranos of the Methodist Choral Union when they’re winding up for the Hallelujah Chorus at the church down the street. Pound for pound, I’d even put her up against such operatic divas as Beverly Sills or Joan Sutherland, although I don’t think she could manage the repertoire. She’d give it a try, though. What Miss Lula lacks in versatility, she more than makes up for in volume and intensity of expression.

Of course, when Hazel comes to visit, her father could board his dog at the Hill Country Kennel, where Ruby’s daughter Amy works. He could—but he won’t, because to do that, he’d have to acknowledge that Miss Lula is indeed a dog, a fact that seems to have escaped his attention. Miss Lula sleeps on the bed in Mr. Cowan’s guest room and snaps whenever she’s threatened with eviction. Hazel (who is betting that she will live longer than Miss Lula) refuses to argue with Miss Lula or her father, and stays where she has a bed to herself, in Thyme Cottage. It stands behind a tall holly hedge and has such thick walls that when you’re lying in bed with the doors and windows closed, you can barely hear Miss Lula taunting the squirrels.

I parked my gathering basket on the deck and went to the kitchen to put the kettle on. I was ready for a cup of hot tea. Then I took a quick inspection tour through the cottage to make sure it was ready for Hazel. The bedroom looks very nice, I think. There’s a four-poster maple bed made up with lavender-scented sheets and spread with an antique Texas Star quilt that my mother found at a yard sale. There’s a scattering of red and blue quilted pillows on the bed; a mahogany dresser against one stone wall and a blue-painted rocking chair in the corner; a red and blue braided rug on the wood floor; wood shutters and curtains at the windows; and framed colored prints of herbs on the walls. A bookcase holds a couple dozen mysteries contributed by Ruby, who is a dues-paying member of Sisters in Crime. (Ruby grew up with Nancy Drew and prefers female detectives, like V. I. Warshawski, Annie Darling, and Stephanie Plum.) If mysteries don’t appeal, there’s a television, a DVD player, and a few DVD movies. (I’m telling you all this in case you or someone you know plans to be in the area and might be looking for a quiet, pleasant, affordable place to stay. Please spread the word.)

I put several branches of rosemary, some stalks of lavender, and some trailing oregano stems into a crystal vase, filled it with water, and set it on the bedroom dresser. I checked the bathroom for towels and soap and the bathtub (the old-fashioned kind, with clawed feet) for general cleanliness, remembering with a little shudder that Rosalind Kotner had died in this room some years ago. This isn’t something I like to think about, but even though I have scrubbed away every trace of blood, the ugly memory comes back every now and then. Pecan Springs is an attractive, comfortable community, but life here is not always as cozy and crime-free as our diligent Chamber of Commerce likes to portray it. Sometimes people die before their time, helped to their end by someone else.

I was reflecting on this criminal truth as I went back to the kitchen, took down a box of yerba mate tea bags, put one in a cup, poured hot water over it, and added a spoonful of honey. When I heard the front door open, I took down another cup, poured in hot water, and added another bag and honey. That was probably Ruby with the cereal, juices, and drinks that we stock for our guests, and it was time we both took a break. Yerba mate is a nutrient-rich tea made from the leaves of a South American holly,
Ilex paraguarensis.
The taste is similar to that of green tea, only stronger. It is traditionally drunk as a friendship tea, shared from a gourd that is passed from person to person. I didn’t have a gourd handy. Mugs would do just as well.

I headed for the living room. But it wasn’t Ruby I saw.

“I stopped in the shop and said I was looking for you,” Sally explained cheerfully, dropping her purse onto a chair. “They told me where you were.”

“Oh,” I said, wishing “they” hadn’t been quite so helpful. “Well, maybe we can just talk here. Would that be okay?”

“You betcha.” She turned, casting an admiring glance around her. “Gosh, this is a great place, China. I’ve seen it from the outside, but I’ve never actually been in it. What do you use it for?”

“Classes and workshops, mostly. When we’re not scheduled, I rent it out as a bed-and-breakfast. It’s listed in the—”

“Bed-and-breakfast?” Her eyes widened. “Gosh. You mean, like, people actually sleep here?”

“I assume so,” I replied drily. “I don’t check the sheets, but—”

But she wasn’t listening. Ponytail bobbing and without a by-your-leave, she was bouncing down the hall, poking her head into the bathroom, where I could hear her cooing admiringly over the claw-foot tub, and then into the bedroom, where she gave little squeals of pleasure. While she was gone, I went to the kitchen and fetched the yerba mate. A moment later, she was back, flopping into the chair by the fireplace.

“I love it,” she announced, with an over-the-top enthusiasm. “The bathtub, the quilt, the rocking chair, everything. Even a TV! It’s totally, absolutely fab, China. And it just so happens that I’m looking for a place to stay. This would be perfect. I could hole up here for weeks.”

I suppressed a shudder and handed her a mug of tea. “It’s as perfect as a lot of hard work can make it. But it just so happens that it’s rented. Starting tomorrow, until after the new year.” I didn’t say
I’m sorry
, because I wasn’t.

She deflated. “Boo-hoo. You’re sure? I was really hoping—”

“There are plenty of motels along I-35,” I interrupted. “How long are you staying?”

For weeks
,
she had said
.
Please, God, don’t let it be true. Please!

“I don’t know.” She took a sip of her tea and her eyes popped open. “Yikes! What
is
this stuff?”

“You don’t like it?” I asked evilly. “It’s a South American tea, traditionally drunk only among friends. If you’d rather have a soda or something . . .”

“Among friends? Well, then, I’ll try it.” She sipped. “Actually, it’s good. You just have to get used to it, I guess.” She sipped again, then sighed and dropped what was left of her artificial gaiety. “I’m afraid a motel won’t work for me, China. I don’t have a car, and from I-35, it’s too far to walk.”

I stared at her blankly, trying to figure this out. “No car?”

“Well, I
had
a car. A really terrific Mini Cooper convertible, bright yellow.” A drawn-out, dramatic sigh, a little wave of her hand. “But I couldn’t make the payments. It was repo’d.”

I asked the next reasonable question. “So how did you get here? To Pecan Springs, I mean. Did somebody bring you?”

“Nobody brought me.” She sipped again. “I came on the bus.”

The bus? I was nonplussed. Pecan Springs is pretty much like any other town. The things you have to do—work, shop, buy groceries, visit friends—are scattered all over, not clustered in a single neighborhood. You get in the car and you drive from one place to another, not as far as in a big city, maybe, and with a lot less traffic. But you do have to drive, which means you have to have a car. And if Sally didn’t have a car, how did she plan to visit Brian? As she knows, we live about ten miles outside of town. Too far to bike, even if I loaned her my bicycle.

“Well, that’s okay,” I said, trying to come up with a work-around. “Darryl Perkins owns a used car lot here in town. I rented an old VW from him when I had car trouble last year. It wasn’t spiffy, but it wasn’t expensive, either. As I recall, it only cost—”

“Doesn’t matter what it costs,” she said flatly. “I can’t rent a car.”

“Oh.” I paused. She’d been picked up for DUI and lost her license? “How come?”

She set the mug on the table next to her. “Because I don’t have the money to rent a car.” She looked up, her face sober, her brown eyes grave. “I only have enough money to get by on. And no credit cards,” she added. “I cut them up.” She made a scissoring motion with her fingers.

Oh, rats.
If there’s anything worse than Sally when she has a lot of money to burn (or rather, when Juanita is burning through Sally’s money), it’s Sally when she’s broke and wants to borrow money. We’ve had it both ways.

“I see,” I said. It was time for some straight talk. “Okay. Well, then, why exactly did you come to Pecan Springs?” I gave her a direct look. She could say she was here to see Brian. She could say she was here to borrow money, or get a new start, or . . . Whatever it was, I needed to know. I needed it spelled out.

She heaved a heavy sigh. “Well, to tell the truth, China, I’ve had some trouble.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, keeping my voice neutral. “Nothing very serious, I hope.”

“I wish.” She sighed again. “You heard about the flooding in the Kansas City area a month or so ago? I was renting a really cute little house not far from a creek, with trees and everything. A really nice neighborhood, you know? But there were these horrible storms, one after the other. They just wouldn’t quit. The creek came up and the house got flooded. All my stuff . . . well, it was ruined. Clothes, TV, furniture, everything. I lost it all.” Her eyes were filled with tears. She gulped back a sob and looked down at herself. “What you see is what I’ve got, China. I’m homeless.”

It was impossible for me to stay neutral in this kind of situation. “Oh, gosh,” I exclaimed impulsively, reaching out. “I’m so sorry, Sally. That is too bad. Really.”

Now, my history with Sally is not a pleasant one. She has an amazing theatrical talent for self-dramatization that could have landed her on the stage, if she’d had the discipline to pursue an acting career. She has always seemed to me to have no secure, sustained interior life—she’s all surface, and much of that surface is deceptive. With Sally, what you see is
not
what you get. I’ve learned to discount at least half of what she tells me and seriously question three-quarters of the rest. Or maybe (as she claimed in one instance) it was Juanita who was telling the lies. Who knew?

But all that history was swept away by a sudden and overwhelming surge of pity. McQuaid and I have too many friends who have gone through devastating hurricanes along the Gulf and the coastal bend of Texas and Louisiana. They lost everything, too—homes, neighborhoods, jobs, pets, even loved ones—and it’s costing years of their lives to put the pieces back together and get to the point where they can go on. But their experience of disaster has made them vulnerable and fearful. Even after they’ve restored their lives to some measure of normalcy, most will never be the same. They’ve lost too much, and they’re afraid of losing it all over again. Every time I hear from one of these friends or see images of those hurricane-ravaged cities, I share their pain, at some deep level. It’s a potent reminder of how fragile our lives are and how easy it is to lose a home. That was what made me reach out to her. It was an impulse, and it was genuine. I meant it.

Sally took my hand, held it for a moment, then let it go. “Thank you,” she said, making an obvious effort not to cry. “But that’s not the worst of it, I’m afraid. I had a job selling advertising, but the newspaper where I was working—the
Star
—cut back on the payroll. I mean, I know I’m not the only person this happens to. Lots of people lose their jobs. That’s what I keep telling myself, anyway.” She straightened, tried to smile, and I saw a flash of the old, confident Sally. “It even happens to people who are good at what they do. Like me.”

She had lost her job? This was even worse. And of course she was right: it happens all the time. Not to me (at least not yet, knock on wood), but to people I know. When it happens, it hurts—and must hurt a lot worse when you’ve just lost your home, as she had. I shivered, thinking how awful that would be and wondering how I would cope. Probably not very well.

Sally leaned forward, giving me a straight look. “Like I said, China, I don’t have a place to live. I don’t have a job. And I don’t have much money. I’m here because I want to spend some time with my son. I’ve missed a lot, and I’d like to catch up. But I also need . . . well, I need some downtime. Time to get my act together. I know I’m not the best mom in the world, and I know you don’t like me very much.” Her lips trembled and she paused, pressing them together. “I’ve been a pain in the you-know-what for both you and Mike. I admit it, and I wouldn’t blame you if you gave me the boot. But it’s Christmas. Can you find it in your heart to—” Her eyes filled with tears. “To be a friend and take me in for the holiday? Please?”

Back when I worked in the tough, competitive world of cutthroat litigation, I developed a remarkably tough skin and an exceedingly hard heart. I learned how to see through liars as if they were transparent. I could stand up to anybody, look him straight in the eye, and deliver a powerful, pithy, and final
No
.
Hell, no,
when the occasion warranted, which it often did. Even today, when someone tries to lie to me, my antennae go up and I get a feeling across the back of my neck, unmistakable but hard to explain. I haven’t lost my nay-saying habit, either. I say no when people ask me to take on more projects than I can manage or when I’m asked to give money to a cause I can’t support or when somebody asks for something I don’t have.

But in this case, I didn’t hesitate. Whether it was Sally’s homeless-ness, the loss of her job, or her honest admission that she had been a troublemaker—whatever it was, my heart was touched, and I heard myself saying something I never thought I’d say.