Witches' Bane (16 page)

Her spine was straight, her arms gracefully curved. I couldn’t see her face. “But she was tired of bailing him out,” she said to her knee.
“She
was bailing out.”

“How so?”

Judith straightened, clasped her left leg, and brought her forehead to her left knee, holding it for a moment before she answered. “She was planning to file for divorce.”

I was startled. “Divorce?”

She released the stretch and resumed the lotus looking full at me. “Yes. She didn’t talk about it much. But I know she went to see Charlie Lipman about some legal papers last week.”

I remembered the proprietary way Sybil had claimed Andrew the day of the grand opening. “Was the divorce because of Andrew, do you think?”

“It’s possible, but I don’t know. She never talked directly about Andrew, except to say she’d made him a loan to help him start his business.”

“Did she say how much?”

“No.”

“Do you know of any other reason for the divorce?”

“C.W. was having an affair. Sybil wasn’t happy about it.”

“But if she was sleeping with Andrew—”

She looked at me.
“If”
she said. “I could be wrong. Anyway, it was more complicated than that. C.W. had problems with women. One husband threatened to name him as a correspondent in a divorce case. Another time, there was an expensive paternity suit. Expensive for Sybil, that is. She made C.W. promise that there wouldn’t be any more extracurricular activities.”

“So this affair made her angry?”

“I don’t know that it was anger, so much. And it certainly wasn’t jealousy.” Judith frowned. “I think she was just tired of C.W.’s foolishness. I’m guessing about Andrew,” she added, “but not about the divorce. Charlie Lipman had already started the paperwork.”

“Did Sybil tell you who C.W. was involved with?”

“Jerri Greene. She teaches aerobics out at Lake Winds.”

It made sense. Jerri was a sexy, attractive woman. There was a certain sharky quality about her, too, that might appeal to a man like C.W. Jerri knew what she wanted and she’d get it, regardless of whose tail she had to chew.

“One more thing,” I said. “Sheriff Blackwell seems to be working on the theory that Sybil and Andrew were involved in some sort of cult. Do you think Sybil was a Satanist?”

“No!” Judith spoke sharply. “The idea’s ridiculous.”

“Then why
did
she grow those plants?”

She shrugged. “For the same reason anybody does anything different. To be noticed. To stand out from the crowd. Or maybe just to make C.W. mad. He hated her plants. He thought she was planning to poison him.”

“Seriously?”

“That’s what Sybil told me, anyway. C.W. was scared to death of the plants. She seemed to think it was a good joke.”

As I biked home through the chill November dark, I thought to myself that for somebody who claimed not to know very much about Sybil, Judith knew an awful lot. The conversation had been productive. When I was preparing a case for trial, there had always been a point at which it came to life. It stopped being just a paper chorus of he saids and she saids, claims and counter-claims, and became a drama in which real people, compelled by powerful motives, acted in predictable and unpredictable ways. This wasn’t my case, but it was coming to life.

What
was
the powerful motive that drove someone to kill Sybil? If I discounted Blackie’s cult theory, I couldn’t see that Andrew Drake had a motive. What would he gain? The money she had loaned him? Maybe, but it didn’t seem like sufficient incentive. On the other hand, he’d been spotted leaving the scene of the crime. And who knows what had gone on between him and Sybil. Maybe there was more than money involved. Maybe she knew something about him that he couldn’t afford to have known, and was holding it over his head. Maybe—

But while I was groping in the dark for Andrew’s motive, C.W.’s motive sang out loud and clear. Sybil’s widower stood to gain much more from her death than Sybil’s ex-husband might have gained in a divorce. The fact that he’d been in Atlanta when she was murdered was almost irrelevant, given the fact that murder, like anything else, can be bought and sold. And Sybil’s killing certainly had all the earmarks of a professional job. Your average murderer stabs his victim. A professional killer can easily slit a throat.

Yes, it had been a very productive conversation. But as I wheeled my bike into the ramshackle garage I rent from Constance Letterman, I was left with one big question.

If I could see C.W.’s motive so clearly, why didn’t Blackie see it too?

I’d been back five minutes when McQuaid and Brian knocked on the kitchen door, on their way home from a Scout meeting. McQuaid is the only man I know who manages to look sexy in a Scoutmaster’s uniform.

“Hi,” McQuaid said. “Too late for company?”

Brian gave me the Vulcan blessing. “Found any more dead witches?”

“She wasn’t a witch,” I said, letting them in. McQuaid kissed me on the cheek. “How about some hot chocolate?”

“Cool,” Brian said. “Put a marshmallow on it, okay? Can I watch the last half hour of ‘Star Trek’? They’re rerunning Mr. Spock’s brain.”

“Keep me volume down,” his father said, and Brian vanished into the living room.

McQuaid sat in the rocking chair, pulled off his shoes, and put his stockinged feet on the windowsill. “I stopped at the sheriff’s office this afternoon, late. Blackie seems to think Ruby’s off the hook.”

“Great,” I said dryly. I got out the pan for the hot chocolate. “Did he expect her to confess to being Andrew’s accomplice in a Satanic spell designed to change everybody in Pecan Springs into toads?”

“It
was
her knife.”

“Stolen from her shop.” I put the pan on the stove. “That’s another thing. Why would Andrew trash Ruby’s place and steal her knife? And why would he want to incriminate her? After all, they were sleeping together.” Even if he was sleeping with Sybil too. It was almost enough to make me want to be celibate. I sneaked a glance at McQuaid. Nope, not quite.

“Have you pointed all this out to Blackie?” he asked.

“Not yet. I just thought of it. Are there any cookies in that jar?”

McQuaid got up and took the lid off the cookie jar. “Yeah,” he said. “A few.” He put one in his mouth. ‘This one seems to be oatmeal raisin.” He took two others.

I handed him a plate. “What else?”

He looked at the cookies in his hand. “This kind’s chocolate chip. But the other kind’s got little bits of burned twiggy stuff all over it.”

“Coconut. If you don’t like it, don’t eat it. Anyway, that isn’t what I was asking. What else did you find out about Andrew?”

McQuaid emptied the cookie jar onto the plate. “That he was never indicted on that fraud count in New Orleans.”

I stood still with the can of cocoa in my hand. “Oh, yeah? How did that come about?”

He put the plate on the table and sat back down in the rocking chair. “The plaintiff died before the D.A. could take the case to the grand jury.”

“Died?
How?”

“Blackie hasn’t dug that far yet. But without her testimony, the D.A. couldn’t make it stick.” He folded his hands behind his head and rocked. “Very convenient, huh?”

“Convenient for Andrew.” I measured cocoa and sugar into a pan and added hot water from the kettle on the back of the stove. “Not so convenient for the plaintiff. Or the D.A.” I frowned, not liking the parallels. Andrew, money, and two dead women. The list of Andrew’s possible motives had suddenly grown longer. Maybe Sybil had found out about the trouble in New Orleans and he’d killed her to keep her from spilling it. Score one for Blackie. A
big
one.

“Andrew still hasn’t given a signed statement,” McQuaid said. He munched on a cookie. “But Blackie’s probably already got everything he’s going to get. Andrew admits that he went to the Rand house on Saturday night. According to him, he had an eleven o’clock date with her.”

“So
he
was the one she was supposed to meet.”

“Yeah. He says he was going to write her a check for fifteen thousand dollars in partial payment of the loan. But he went to San Antonio to see a friend and didn’t get back until eleven-fifteen. He stopped at his place and called her, to ask if it was too late for him to come over. She said come ahead. He went to her house. He knocked at the front door and didn’t get an answer. He went to the back of the house— apparently, he’d been there before—and found her dead. He panicked and decided to get the hell out of there. He was just pulling away when the security guard came around the corner.”

I stirred a few drops of mint flavoring into the chocolate syrup and added milk. “I suppose Blackie’ll take a look at Andrew’s bank account to see whether he actually had the money.”

“No doubt,” McQuaid said. “But it doesn’t change Blackie’s mind. He still thinks Andrew killed her.”

“But there’s a problem,” I said. “Andrew’s prints were on the front door and the patio doorjamb, but they weren’t on the knife. Why not? Did he wipe the knife and forget the doors? Did he put gloves on after he got in the room? Pretty clumsy, for an intelligent man.”

“Yeah.” McQuaid rocked back in his chair. “I’ll bet Blackie’ll stay up half the night trying to come up with an answer.”

“Did he find any bloodstained domes?” The attack had come from behind. The killer would have ended up with blood somewhere, probably on his arms, certainly on his shoes.

“Nothing’s turned up yet. Blackie’s asked Bubba to check all the dumpsters in the neighborhood. Bubba’s got more available manpower.” He looked at me. “Personpower.”

“What about the Satanist bible? What did Andrew say about that?”

“That it belonged to a roommate he’d had back in New Orleans. The guy was a member of some squirreily outfit called the Order of the Trapezoid. But Blackie’s sticking with the cult angle.”

“It’s the wrong angle, if you ask me.” I poured hot chocolate into two mugs. “The bereaved husband has a much more powerful motive.”

McQuaid whistled when I finished telling him about the divorce. “Did Judith tell all that to Blackie?”

“I’m sure she did. And that has me puzzled. Why isn’t Blackie going after C.W. as a possible suspect?”

“Maybe he knows something we don’t.” McQuaid reached for a mug. “There’s no law says he has to give me
all
the pieces of his case.” He frowned. “Come to think of it, I wonder why he’s giving me any at all.”

“Maybe he just wants your opinion.”

He grinned. “Or yours. He knows about that little problem you solved for Bubba last year. Maybe I’m just a pipeline to you. How much do you charge for consulting?”

I found the marshmallows I keep for Brian, added a couple to the Star Trek mug he gave me for Christmas, and poured it full of hot chocolate. It’s one of those trick mugs. The Klingon spaceship began to vanish. “Tell Brian his chocolate’s ready.”

McQuaid raised his voice. “Beam yourself in here, Trekkie. Time to refuel.”

Brian bounded into the room. “Mr. Spock got his brain back!”

“Was there ever any doubt?” a light voice asked from the kitchen door.

I’d forgotten about Leatha.

The next few minutes were filled with introductions, small talk, smiles, and general bonhomie, while I made more hot chocolate. When the cookies ran out, which happened almost immediately, I popped some popcorn. McQuaid, charming in his Scoutsuit, behaved in a terribly civilized way and Brian was utterly captivating. I was the churlish one, partly because I was still thinking about Andrew and Sybil and Ruby and partly because I felt guilty at having forgotten my mother. But mostly, I’m ashamed to admit, because I was pissed off at McQuaid for being so nicey-nice and at Brian for being such an angel that I almost felt like measuring him for a halo. Leatha was obviously smitten. I was glad when McQuaid remembered that it was a school night and took Brian home.

“Well,” Leatha said, arching her eyebrows, “it looks like I’m not the only one with a little romance in her life. Why haven’t you
told
me, honey?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” I said, rinsing out the cups. I wiped Brian’s Trekkie mug and put it on the shelf where he could find it the next time he came.

The laugh. “Why, of course you do. Mike’s crazy about you. And Brian—what a
delightful
child. Really, China, I don’t understand why you’re holding back. Marriage would be so
good
for you, dear.”

I didn’t answer. Marriage would be good for me, would it? After she had admitted how awful her own marriage had been? When I knew that if McQuaid and I were married, one of us would have to give up something very important and would probably end up resenting the hell out of the other?

Not my idea of fun.

CHAPTER 12

Right after I opened the store the next morning, I called Joyce Moyers, the assistant D.A. in New Orleans. She wasn’t in so I left a message, describing what I needed.

Leatha was exploring the shop, examining the herb shelves, leafing through recipe books. I looked at her thoughtfully. I had errands to run. If she was going to hang around, she might as well be useful.

“How would you like to take over the store this morning?” I asked.

“Could I?” she asked eagerly. Then her face clouded and she gave me her predictable answer. “But I really don’t know the first thing. I’d just mess up.”

I looked at her. “Would Marietta let you get by with that?”

She digested the question for a moment. “What do I have to do?” she asked.

It took about ten minutes to explain my system for handling cash and giving receipts and deciphering the price tags and labels. “Ruby will be opening up at ten, if you need help.”

She settled herself on the stool behind the cash register, ready for customers. “Where are you goin’?”

“Down the street to Charlie Lipman’s.” I looked up the phone number and gave it to her. “You can call me there if you run up against something Ruby can’t handle.” Charlie Lipman’s office is a gentrified frame cottage painted gray with green trim and landscaped with native plants—sage, yucca, sedums. Charlie had been Ruby’s lawyer when she split from Ward. If Judith was right, he was Sybil’s lawyer, too.

The receptionist looked up from her typewriter when I came in. I had put on a khaki camp shirt and denim wrap skirt that morning, even—in honor of Charlie—a touch of lipstick. But I wasn’t any match for the receptionist. A fresh-cheeked Texas beauty with honey-colored hair, she was wearing a short, tight red skirt and a sleeveless white turtle-neck glued to perky breasts. Her mouth was right out of an Estee Lauder advertisement. I had to question Charlie’s choice. Me, I’d have hired an older woman who’d make my female clients feel a little less like Grandma Moses and save my male clients from making fools of themselves.

“Is Charlie in?” I asked.

“Your name, please?” Miss Texas asked brightly.

“China Bayles.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“Do I need one?”

“Yes,” she said, showing what she was made of. She pulled a schedule book toward her. “Next week, at the earliest.”

Charlie appeared in the door. “China! Hey, great to see you! Come right on in, gal. Where ya been keepin’ yourself?”

Charlie Lipman is turning soft, with the beginnings of a belly sagging over his belt and a fast-receding hairline. He was in shirt sleeves, open collar, loose tie. With a smile and a wink at Miss Texas to show her that she’d done her job, he ushered me into his office and closed the door.

“So,” he said, lowering himself into a leather chair behind a glass-topped walnut desk, “whut can I do for you?” He chuckled. “It cain’t be a divorce, since last I heard you and McQuaid hadn’t tied the knot.” Charlie grew up in the wealthy Highland Park area of Dallas. He is not a country boy. But in his business it pays to talk like one. Charlie is as bilingual as your average politician.

“It’s a divorce,” I said. “But not mine. Sybil Rand’s.”

Charlie’s brow furrowed heavily. “Now, China, you know I ain’t supposed to—”

“She’s dead, Charlie.”

“I know, but—” He frowned. “Ruby talk you into representin’ Drake?” Charlie and Ruby had dated for a while after her divorce. They were still friends.

I held out my hand and waggled it from side to side in a maybe-yes, maybe-no gesture. It wasn’t quite a lie.

Charlie snorted. “I figgered you couldn’t stay out of the courtroom forever. Just got to missin’ that action, dint you? Well, Drake could do worse.” He paused. “So whut d’you wanna know?”

“I understand that Sybil was getting ready to file a divorce action. What kind of settlement did she propose?”

Charlie picked up a pencil and tapped the desk. “Half the community property, whatever that amounted to, plus a quarter of a million from her funds. Hell of a lot better’ n she had to. Their prenups tied him up like a roped calf. She wouldn’t’ve had to give him diddly if she wadn’t feeling generous. Specially with that track record of his.”

“Why was she so generous?”

“Dunno. Maybe she was gettin’ some herself on the side and she felt guilty. She had it all worked out when she came in. Had the numbers down on paper.”

“Had she told C.W. what she planned to do?”

Charlie picked up a gold pencil and balanced it on his finger. “Not yet. Said she was fixin’ to, before he went out of town. Wanted to give him plenty of time to think about it.”

“So,” I said, “if C.W. knew that Sybil was planning to—”

Charlie’s quick. “Are you thinkin’ maybe he fixed her wagon before she could get around to divorcin’ him?”

“It’s a possibility.”

He shook his head. “Not unless that ol’ boy was at the end of the line when the good Lord passed out brains. Along with settin’ up the divorce, the lady also added a codicil to her will. She cut him out. The whole estate goes to some cousin up in the Panhandle, with the exception of a few small personal bequests—the maid, Judith Cohen, a couple others. O’course, the husband will get his split of the community property, although from what she said I’m bettin’ there ain’t a lot left.”

I leaned forward. “C.W.
doesn’t
inherit her estate?”

“Ain’t that whut I said?” He grinned. ‘Tell me, counselor, whut kind of angle you figger to work on this case? Looks like a tough defense to me. If I was you, I’d—”

The price I had to pay for my information was ten minutes of Charlie’s learned views of how Andrew’s defense ought to be structured. I’d gotten a bargain. It could have been twenty.

Miss Texas was making over her lips when we came out of the office. She dropped her equipment into a drawer and bent over the typewriter again. Oh, the drudgery of it all.

Back at the shop, Leatha was ringing up a sale. “How’s it going?” I asked when the customer left.

Leatha was radiant. “Oh, China, this is such
fun\
I’ve met the most interestin’ people. And I’ve sold”—she consulted her receipts—”fifteen dollars and twenty cents worth! How about that?”

“Fantastic,” I said sincerely. “Did Joyce Moyers call from New Orleans?”

“No. But a woman named Dottie called to ask about some herb. It sounded like a specialty item. She said it was for her cats.” She consulted a note. “It’s called Paw de Ark.”

I smiled. “That was Dottie Riddle, the cat lady. She collects every stray in town. The herb is pau d’arco.” I spelled it for her and pointed it out. “She’ll also want echinacea root. Tell her I’m out of red clover, but I’ve reordered.” I looked at her. “I have a few more errands. Do you want to stay, or shall I call Laurel to come in?”

Leatha settled herself behind the cash register. “Call Laurel? Don’t be ridiculous! Of course I’ll stay.”

I checked the mail, then went next door to find Ruby unpacking a box of merchandise. She was wearing turquoise blue leggings and a matching batwing top, her hair a gingery halo. She gave me a large hug. “I really appreciate your talking to Judith last night. Andrew will appreciate it too.”

That’s a small town for you. You can’t go to the bathroom without somebody knowing about it. I gave her a close look. “Are you going to see him this morning?”

“Yes. And when I tell him you’re interested in his case, it’ll cheer him up. He has a lot of respect for you, China.”

I stepped back. “Hang on, Ruby. Just because I asked Judith a few questions doesn’t mean—”

“What did you find out from Charlie? Anything that could clear Andrew?”

I sighed. There is no such thing as a confidential investigation. “No, Ruby. If anything, Charlie’s information puts Andrew in deeper. C.W.’s no longer a probable suspect. Charlie says that Sybil planned to tell her husband that she was divorcing him. What’s more, she made a new will and cut him out, which totally blasts his motive. And I’ve already told you, I’m not taking the case. It’s out of the question.”

Ruby has a way of getting to the heart of things. “Then why are you investigating?”

“I’m not investigating,” I said evasively. “I’m just following up on a couple of open questions, that’s all.”

“Oh,” Ruby said. She reached into the box and took out a crystal pyramid. “Well, you’re the only one in town who doesn’t have all the answers,” she said, holding it up. It refracted the light like a prism, casting a rainbow against the wall. “Everybody else thinks Andrew’s guilty as hell.”

“He’s not guilty until me jury says he is.”

“Maybe.” Ruby polished the pyramid with her sleeve and put it carefully on the shelf between a Chilean cactus rain stick and a deck of Karma Cards. “But in this case, the jury’s already brought in the verdict. They’re having coffee at the Doughnut Queen, talking about how Andrew didn’t just kill Sybil, but that other woman too. The one in New Orleans.”

I stared at her. “How’d they find out about
her
already?”

“One of the deputies told his sister, who works the night shift at the Exxon station.” Ruby chewed her lower lip, forehead furrowed. “You know this town, China. By the time the sheriff figures out who really killed Sybil, it’ll be too late. In fact, it’s probably already too late. Andrew might as well sell his studio and go someplace else.”

I hated to admit it, but Ruby was right. In a small town, the stain of murder is like the blood on Lady Macbeth’s hands. You can’t wash it out, you can’t bleach it out, it’d be there even if you cut off both hands. If Andrew was innocent, the real killer had better tum up in a hurry or there’d be two tragethes. Sybil’s and Andrew’s.
If
Andrew was innocent.

With C.W. out of the picture, Blackie’s theory had gained merit.

Ruby took a buckskin medicine bag out of the box and spilled a half-dozen polished stones on the counter. “I guess I’m just going to have to get involved,” she said, counting them. “I know Andrew didn’t do it, which means somebody else did.”

“Get involved?” I asked. “Aren’t you involved enough already?”

She picked up a shiny green stone flecked with red and rubbed it against her cheek. Then she put it in her pocket, and put the other stones in the bag. “The answer’s got to be right in front of us, China. Don’t forget that the murder weapon was stolen from
this
store. If I knew who broke in and took that knife, I’d know who killed Sybil.” She paused. I could see the wheels turning. The next question was entirely predictable. “Do you think your mom could watch both shops, China? I’ve got a few things I want to do.”

“Better call Laurel Wiley,” I said. “Leatha’s probably got her hands full.” I looked at her. “What was that stone you put in your pocket?”

Ruby put the medicine bag on the shelf beside the pyramid. “It’s a bloodstone. It symbolizes the planet Mars.”

“I’m afraid the significance escapes me.”

She picked up the box. “It stands for strength.” Her eyes narrowed. “Strength and resolve.”

It figured.

Blossom was leaning over her typewriter, dabbing correction fluid on a typed form. “Don’t know what I did before they invented this stuff,” she said. “I go through a bottle a week, between using it up and letting it sit around with the top off. Anybody gets arrested, there’s five pounds of paperwork.”

I propped my elbows on the counter. “I read that a woman cooked it up in her kitchen. Made her rich.”

Blossom arched both eyebrows. “No kidding? Stands to reason. Man makes a typo, he just exes it out, doesn’t worry about it looking neat. What we need is a computer. Sheriff’s putting it in the budget. You want to see him?”

“If he’s not busy. Tell him I’ve got just one question.”

The sheriff was penciling numbers onto a time sheet. I looked at it. “More paperwork?”

He flung his pencil down. “Want to know how many manhours we’ve put into this investigation so far?” He waved the question away. “No, you probably don’t, China. You’re not a county commissioner with an axe to grind.”

It wasn’t lost on me that we were back to first names, so I responded in a friendly way. “They’re after you about efficiency, huh?” I’d read in the
Enterprise
that Blackie had asked for an eighty-thousand-dollar budget increase, including salaries for two more deputies. The commissioners gave him half and told him he could have the other when he justified the two new positions. I wondered if Sybil’s murder would do it.

“Is that your one question?”

I sat down in the chair beside the desk. “It’s about C.W. Rand.”

“What about him?”

“I want to know when he found out about his wife’s new will and the proposed divorce settlement.”

Blackie tilted his chair back and took a toothpick from a square wooden holder painted with a Texas flag. “Word gets around. Are you representing Drake?”

I’d already lied once that morning. I might as well do it again. “I’m thinking about it.”

“Well, it’s about time he got somebody. The preliminary hearing is this afternoon, lawyer or no lawyer. If he doesn’t have one, the judge’ll see that he gets one.”

“What about C.W?”

Toothpick in mouth, Blackie debated between being cooperative and dragging his feet. He decided on cooperation, more or less. “Don’t see why not. We’re all friends here. Anyway, you’ll get it quick enough, you sign on with Drake. Yeah, Rand knew about the divorce. He and Mrs. Rand talked about it after she got back from seeing Charlie. She even typed up a note describing what she planned to do, date at the top, name at the bottom, whole nine yards. Kinda blows his motive, if that’s what you were thinking.”

I got up. “Thanks.”

“Yeah, sure.” He stood up too, and spoke around his toothpick. “You ought to take Drake’s case, China. Way I get it from McQuaid, your talents are being wasted on flowers. And this one could be pretty interesting.” He grinned. “Kind of like sacking rattlesnakes.”

I’d settle with McQuaid later for the crack about talents. “Rattlesnakes? You got something I don’t know about?”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Hey, you said one question.”

I went back to the car and sat staring out the windshield. Rattlesnakes was right. Lucky for Rand that Sybil had told him about the will and the settlement. Even luckier that she’d decided to write it down. I frowned, thinking I’d heard something like that before. Evidence in an old case, maybe. My brain used to be cluttered with stuff like that. But I’d put a lot of effort into flushing it, and whatever the thought was, I couldn’t pull it up.