Rosemary Remembered (21 page)

many of those million souls would pack up and head north if the air-conditioning quit.

The residential area where I was headed — Travis Heights, named in honor of the commander of the Alamo who faced up to Santa Anna—lies on a promontory just south of the river. Bounded on the west by Congress Avenue and on the east by 1-35, its shady, hilly streets are a hodgepodge of small cottages, duplexes, and two-story frame houses with garage apartments.

The house I was looking for was on Mission Ridge, a block-long street between Kenwood and Chelsea. The small white cottage could've used a coat of paint, and the lower half of the screen door was covered with splintered plywood. Somebody had planted yarrow beside the porch, but the bed was weedy and full of deadheads, and the grass was trampled to dust under the tire swing in the pecan tree out front. The doorbell wore a note that invited me to knock, please. I did, several times, but there was no answer, and I didn't hear anything inside. I went around to the back and repeated the effort, unsuccessfully. Maybe I should have called first, after all. Disappointed, I glanced at my watch. Just after nine. I'd come back in a half hour.

In the interim, I had a different kind of business to pursue. I got back in the Datsun, drove a couple of blocks to South Congress, and made a left, then a right on West Mary. Two blocks west, I came to The Herb Bar — after Thyme and Seasons, my favorite herb shop. Connie Moore, the owner, gave me a welcoming grin and a lift of her hand, and when her customers finished their purchases and left, we talked shop. I admired the collection of wreaths for which The Herb Bar is famous, asked questions about the way Connie puts together her catalog and handles her mail order business (something I've been thinking of developing), and picked up a dozen copies of a popular book that she and Janette Grainer wrote:
Natural Insect Repellents.
The book, which describes botanical repellents and insecticides, was my excuse for dropping by, if I needed one. My customers are always asking for it.

When I stepped up onto the porch of the Mission Ridge house forty minutes later, I knew someone was home. A lipstick-red Toyota van, so new that it still carried dealer's tags, was parked on the gravel drive. Inside the house, I could hear the insane cackle of a cartoon show. Carol's sister had three children, four now, with the baby. The place must be a zoo. How under the sun does she do it? I wondered. I can't handle
one.

A moment after my knock, I saw a face peering out of the window next to the door. Then the door was taken off the chain and opened, cautiously. The dark-haired woman was small-boned and very thin, with prominent cheekbones, a sharp nose and chin, and a deep crease between heavy brows — not a pretty face, especially when it was pulled into an anxious frown. Her white tee shirt had a picture of chile peppers and announced that she was a red-hot mama. It was stained with what looked like grape juice and hung loosely over grubby jeans. A toddler hid like a shy forest creature behind her, clinging with jellied fingers to her jeans and peeking between her knees.

"Yeah?" Her voice was raspy. Her blue eyes, the irises startlingly light, caught mine and slid quickly away.

"I'm looking for Carol Connally."

"She's not here," the woman said briefly, and began to push the door shut.

"But that's
you,
Aunt Carol!" a little voice piped help-fully.

A smile flickered at the corner of the woman's thin

mouth and. she stopped pushing the door. "Blabbermouth," she said reprovingly, over her shoulder. To me, she said, "What do you want?"

I had thought about various ways to approach this woman. She'd been at the hotel for ten years, long enough to figure out how to manipulate the system. She'd also gotten close to her boss, either because she genuinely-loved him or because she was taking out insurance. With the possibility of her guilt in mind, I had given some thought to cover stories. But after trying out two or three different explanations for my visit, all of them as obviously phony as a three-dollar bill, I'd settled for playing it as it lay, starting with the truth and trusting my instincts.

"My name is China Bayles," I said through the screen. "I want to talk to you about what happened at the hotel."

Her lips thinned and her eyes became apprehensive. "Are you from the police?" There was an unmistakable tremor in her voice.

"No," I said, and acted on my hunch. "I'm a lawyer. Priscilla told me that you were worried about
..
. well, things. She had the idea that you might want to talk to a lawyer and suggested I drop by."

Her eyes flicked across my face, my khaki suit, brown pumps, shoulder bag. "What kind of lawyer?"

"I worked as a defense lawyer for fifteen years," I said. "If you think you might be in some kind of trouble, it could pay to get some legal advice." I opened my purse. I carry my Thyme and Seasons business cards, of course, but I also have a few cards that have just my name and phone number. I gave her one.

Over the din of the television, I heard a childish "Oh no!" and a loud wail. In the tone of a practiced tattler, a child called, "Tommy spilled his orange juice!"

Somebody — obviously Tommy speaking in his own defense — countered with, "Marcie made me do it."

"I did not, you stupid!" Marcie retorted righteously. "You were trying to balance it on your nose. Now just look. It's all over Aunt Carol's brand-new sofa!"

"Anyway," the criminal said, conceding his crime, "there was only a little bit."

With a sigh, Carol Connally opened the door and stepped back. "You'd better come in," she said.

We picked our way through the messy living room, which was littered with children's games and books and electronic toys, some obviously quite costly. I glanced from the large sofa, where Tommy had spilled the orange juice he'd been balancing on his nose, to the wall of television and stereo equipment that filled one whole end of the room. The van, the sofa, the entertainment center— all new, all expensive. My hunch got stronger.

At Carol Connally's direction, I brushed bread crumbs off the cane seat of a kitchen chair and sat at a glass-topped table on which was a toaster, a drippy jar of strawberry jam, and several more-or-less-finished bowls of cereal and glasses of milk. She poured me a mug of coffee and offered me a doughnut from a bakery box. I said no, thank you.

"You don't like doughnuts?" The child who spoke was an elfish girl of about eight, probably the same one who had pointed out that Aunt Carol
was
Aunt Carol and who had ratted on the orange juice juggler. She asked her question gravely, with a curious tilt of her brown head.

"I do like doughnuts," I said, also gravely. "I've already had my breakfast, though."

"Can I have her doughnut, Aunt Carol?" It was an unrepetant Tommy, in jockey shorts and no shirt, with an orange juice mustache under a runny nose.

"Wipe up the orange juice Tommy spilled on the sofa,

Marcie," Carol Connally instructed, handing a wet dishcloth and a roll of paper towels to the older girl. "No doughnuts for you. Tommy," she said to the little boy, who was probably five. The tenderness in her voice softened her refusal. She put one on a saucer and handed it to him. "But you can take this one to your mother. She's nursing the baby. Cream?" she asked me, putting a coffee mug in front of me. She opened a large double-door refrigerator and took out a carton. "It's milk, actually. We ran out this morning, and I had to load the kids into the van and go to the supermarket before Nancy got up." Her words came out in hurried jerks, as if this kitchen-talk were a way of avoiding a different subject.

"I stopped by earlier," I said. "I guess that was while you were at the store."

I accepted the milk and sweetener, while Marcie took the clean-up equipment and Tommy carried off the doughnut. The only one left was the smallest child, a little girl of about two, who had stood behind Carol Connally's legs. Now she was hiding behind the kitchen door, one round blue eye peeping owlishly around it, a one-eyed wraith. I wondered if she thought she was invisible as long as she stood behind something. Carol Connally put her cup on the table and sat down, with an audible sigh.

"They must be keeping you pretty busy," I said.

"Do you have kids?"

I shook my head. "I can't imagine riving with four under the age of—what is it? Eight?"

"Marcie's seven," she said. In the sharper light, I noticed that there were dark circles under her eyes and
fine
lines around her mouth. Weariness or worry or both? She looked at me over the rim of her coffee mug. "Prissy talks too much. What did she tell you?"

Sitting here watching this small, thin woman going about the everyday task of caring for her sister's children, it was hard to visualize her putting a bullet through Rosemary's cheek. But I'd known murderers who looked innocent enough to fool a jury. Anyway, there was the van out front, the toys and the sofa and the entertainment center, and who knows what else — not the kind of things you buy on a bookkeeper's salary. And her obvious nervousness. She was so fidgety she could hardly sit still.

I answered her question honestly. "She said that Rosemary Robbins discovered a shortage in the hotel accounts. She said you were worried that you might be accused of stealing the money, or that you'd be fired. Or both."

She put down the mug with a thump. Her nails were bitten short. I wondered if she was an ex-smoker.

"Is that true, Carol?" I asked after a minute.
"Are you
afraid you might be accused?"

"Mama wants a cup of coffee," Tommy said. He was followed by Marcie, with a dripping dishcloth and a wad of used paper towels. "I'm supposed to bring it to her."

"You're too little to carry coffee, Tommy," Marcie said authoritatively. "You'll just spill it, like your orange juice. And you might spill it on the baby.
I'll
take it to Mama."

Carol pushed back her chair and got up. "I'll take it to her, kids. You go watch cartoons." Without a word to me, she poured a cup of black coffee and left the room with it. But the children didn't leave. They stood staring at me as if I were an alien from outer space. A Klingon, maybe. Outside, in the next yard, somebody started up a lawn mower.

"Have you ever seen a baby?" Tommy inquired.

"One or two," I admitted.

Tommy wrinkled his nose. "Jennifer's ugly. She cries all the time. And she pukes. / never cried when I was a baby. Mama says." He put one hand into the front of his

jockey shorts and his thumb into his mouth.

Marcie snatched at both hands. "You're just jealous 'cause Jennifer smiled at
nu,"
she said.

Tommy's lower lip went out. "That wasn't a smile. She was just goin' poop in her pants." The thumb sneaked back into the mouth, but Marcie was holding the other hand.

Marcie retaliated. "Well, I
get to change her diaper and you don't. An' I don't suck my thumb. So
there."

I interrupted this sibling conflict with "Your mother is very lucky to have both of you to help.

Marcie was smug, Tommy looked doubtful, and behind the door, Junie made a sad little noise.

"She's lucky to have all
three
of you," I amended.

"Junie doesn't help," Tommy said. "She only makes messes."

"Not as messy as your orange juice," Marcie said.

Carol came back into the room carrying a folded disposable diaper. "If you'll go watch cartoons and let me talk to this lady," she said, "I'll take you to Barton Springs after lunch." She put the diaper into a bulging plastic trash bag beside the back door.

There was a chorus of jubilant oh, boys! and Marcie and Tommy dashed into the living room. Junie sidled out from behind the door and followed them. Her diaper was coming down and something brown was smeared on her right leg.

"Marcie," Carol called, "clean Junie up and change her Pamper. And find her a clean shirt." She sat down again. "I don't know
what
Nancy's going to do when I go back to work." A shadow crossed her face and the corners of her mouth got firmer. "But I'm not going back to the hotel. And I'm not staying in Pecan Springs, either. I've decided to apply for a job with the State, here in Austin.

I'm moving in with Nancy and the kids."

"It might be a little crowded," I said, looking around.

She tossed her head. "We've found a new place out in Westlake Hills. A real big four-two, with a yard and a fence. The kids can go out to play without somebody having to watch all the time."

I gave her a direct glance. "What are you afraid of back at the hotel, Carol?"

She dropped her eyes, not answering. After a moment, she took a knife from one of the plates, scooped a dribble of strawberry jam off the table, and scraped it onto a saucer. "Why did you come?" she countered.

I sipped my coffee. "Because I'm not as sure as the police are that Jeff Clark is a killer."

"Jeff." His name escaped her lips involuntarily, in a shuddery sigh heavy with grief and pain.

"Priscilla told me that you and he were close," I said, watching her. Whether or not she had killed Rosemary, she had some kind of guilty knowledge. Perhaps it wasn't significant, or even relevant. But
she
thought it was, and she was afraid — for herself or someone else. For Jeff?

She hadn't been crying, but tears had suddenly appeared in her eyes. "I worked there for a long time before we got to be friends. Then I started staying late, and sometimes we'd talk. Just friendly stuff. You know how it is. And then he came over to my house and we — " She closed her eyes, remembering. When she opened them again, they were full of loss. "I loved him more than I ever loved anybody." Her fingers were trembling and she pressed them together around the cup. "He loved me, too. I know he did. Until
she
came along, anyway. I knew the day he brought her into the office that there'd be trouble."

"Wait a minute," I said. "I thought
Matt
hired Rosemary."