Chile Death

by Susan Wittig Albert

  “What was he supposed to do in return for the blackmailer’s silence?”

  "Don’t know, soriy.” Charlie rubbed his cheek thoughtfully, encountered the Band-Aid, and dropped his hand. "But those letters—they were the handwriting on the wall, as far as he was concerned. He said that even if he did what the writer wanted, he’d still have to live with the possibility of being turned in. I think maybe he figured the person would do it anyway, just for spite. And with the divorce coming up, he could see that he was gonna fork over a big chunk of the business to Roxanne—which amounted to giving it to Pokey. At least, that was the way things looked to him, and it gave him a bad case of heartburn. He decided he might as well let the feds take what they wanted, which would pretty well screw Roxanne and Pokey. And I can’t say as I blame him."

  "So Jerry Jeff was looking for advice on how to turn himself in?” McQuaid asked.

  Charlie nodded. “I told him that if he paid what was owing, plus the penalty and interest, he could figure on three to five, of which he’d serve eighteen to twenty-four months, probably at the minimum security unit in Bastrop. It’s no island paradise, but I can think of worse things. When he got out, he could start over.” "Altogether, not a bad deal,” I said.

  "As I say,” Charlie replied, "there’s worse.” He looked at McQuaid, frowning, trying to sort it all out. "Are you thinking maybe the blackmailer got pissed off because Jerry Jeff wouldn’t play, and decided to kill him instead? Seems like kind of a stretch to me.”

  McQuaid pressed his fingers together, frowning, pushing his mouth in and out. “To tell the truth, I don’t know what I think. Maybe I’m jumping the gun. There’s no evidence that Jerry Jeff was murdered.”

  "Except for one thing," I said. "I’d have to check this out, but it’s my understanding that anaphylactic shock usually sets in within a minute or two after the victim eats the food—in this case, peanuts. We know for a fact that Jerry Jeff was in the judging tent for at least a half-hour before he suffered the attack, and that during that time he ate nothing but those fifteen chili samples. But not one of those fifteen cooks owns up to putting nuts in his chili.” "Somebody could be lying,” Charlie said.

  "Sure. But why? Unless, of course, the same somebody had a motive for murder."

  Charlie gnawed at his thumbnail. "Damn,” he said gloomily.

  "There’s something else, too,” I said. “It’s just an impression, but I got the idea this morning that Roxanne definitely did not want Pokey considered as a suspect. The minute his name came up, she became distinctly wary. When the conversation moved away, she got comfortable again.”

  McQuaid thought for a minute. "What’s Pokey’s situation, Charlie? Realistically speaking, what’s likely to happen to the business, when the feds start digging into things?”

  Charlie’s round face was glum. "There’ll be an audit, that’s what, and everything will be tied up for a couple of years.”

  "Which might give Pokey a compelling reason to dislike his thieving partner,” I said, "who also happens to be the husband of his lover.” It was a situation rife with potential motive.

  "And if Roxanne believed that her husband was going to implicate her in the tax fraud,” McQuaid remarked, "she might be desperate to shut him up. Especially if he could prove her complicity.”

  “Not to mention,” I said, "that a dead husband returns a lot higher yield than a live ex-husband. As a divorcee, she only gets half. As a widow, she gets it all.”

  Charlie gnawed the other thumb. "Damn,” he said again.

  “But still,” McQuaid said, "we don’t have any evidence of a crime.”

  All three of us sat, considering these facts, until our private reflections were interrupted by the phone. McQuaid picked up the receiver, listened for a moment, then reached for a pen, and jotted something down on his sheet. “Thanks,” he said briefly. "We’ll check into it.”

  "Check into what?” I asked, as he hung up the phone.

  There was a glint of excitement in his eyes. “That was Dorrie, the dispatcher at the police station. The lab didn’t have anything else to do this morning, and got the analysis done. Turns out that one of those cups had a substantial amount of finely chopped peanuts in it.”

  "Do you suppose that qualifies as a hard fact?” 1 asked. "Maybe, although there’s still no way to tell how the peanuts got there. Anyway, Bubba’s closeted with the consultant and the mayor, so he doesn’t know about it yet.” McQuaid looked down at the number he’d written on his sheet. "Number twenly-two. Where are those entiy forms, China?”

  I got the envelope from the top of the chest of drawers, where I’d left it the day before, took out the forms, and began leafing. Twenty-two was almost at the bottom of the stack.

  I looked up. McQuaid and Charlie were watching me, expectant.

  "Well?” Charlie demanded. "Who's the lucky guy?” "Pokey Clendennen,” I said. "Now, that j a hard fact.” Charlie sighed. "I knew I shoulda gone back to bed.” "The perfect crime,” McQuaid said.

  I looked from one of them to the other. "Who’s going to tell Bubba?” Then, at the looks on their faces, I said, in alarm, “Oh, no, you don’t. Not me."

  “Okay, I’ll tell him,” McQuaid said, "when he gets out of his session with the consultant. You can talk to Pokey.” "But Pokey’s a suspect,” I objected. "This is a police matter now. Bubba ought to talk to him.”

  "That may be the case,” Charlie said, examining his socks with a slightly puzzled air. "But the fact that the peanuts turned up in Pokey’s chili probably isn’t going to persuade this particular police chief that the whole thing is anything more than a colossal culinary blunder—or somebody’s warped idea of a joke.” He shook his head. "Gotta stop dressing in the dark,” he muttered.

  "Charlie’s right, China.” McQuaid reached for the phone. "Anyway, you've got a good reason to talk to Pokey. You need that chili recipe for your column.”

  This was true. I could hardly deny it. But Charlie came up with the clincher.

  "You’re just being coy,” he said to me, as McQuaid waited for Bubba to come on the line. “Deep in your heart of hearts, you want more than anything else in the world to find out whether Pokey Clendennen had the imagination to kill his partner with peanuts.” He smiled.

  Chapter Thirteen

  After Jack Smith, the Loo Angela Tima columnist, let it drop that his secret chili ingredient is peanuts, the Goat Gap Gazette took sharp editorial note of the disclosure. “Please stay in L.A., Jack. Texas is not ready for you.”

  Bill Bridg es

  The Great American Chili Book

  As Charlie and I walked down the hall, I remembered that I had intended to see Opal Hogge this morning—that I needed to see her, in fact, before I could decide what ought to be done on behalf of Carita Garza and Velma Mayfield. It wouldn’t take long. I was about to ask Charlie if he minded waiting for a few moments, when we happened to meet a client of his who’d been visiting a friend. I mentioned that I wanted to drop in on Mrs. Hogge, and the client offered to give Charlie a lift to town.

  Before I went in search of Opal Hogge, I stopped at the nurses station and asked for Angie. The nurse on duty shook her head. "She phoned in sick this morning.”

  "Nothing serious, I hope,” I said casually.

  "I hope so too,” the nurse said. "She’s a smart gal. And heaven knows, we need to keep the good ones.” She pushed a notepad across the counter to me. "Want to leave a message? I’ll put it in her box.”I wrote down my name and phone number, and two words: “Call me.” Now that I’d had time to think about it, I knew she needed to tell Joyce Sanders what she had seen in Miss Velma’s room—and the sooner the better. But why hadn’t she come in today? I felt a prickle at the back of my neck. Was something wrong?

  I found Opal Hogge in her office, standing in front of an open file cabinet. She was a tall woman with large shoulders and a head that seemed almost too small for her body. Her faded blond hair was twisted into a tight bun at the nape of her neck, escaping
tendrils captured by large tortoise shell combs above her ears. She was dressed in a dark blue shirtwaist dress, with epaulettes that exaggerated the boxiness of her shoulders. She glanced at me when I came to the door.

  "Yes? May I help you?” Her tone was cool and businesslike, but not unwelcoming, and she gave me a small smile.

  Matching her crispness, I got straight to the point. “My name is China Bayles. I’m a friend of Alike McQuaid’s, one of your residents.” I paused. "I am also acquainted with Carita Garza. She spoke with me on Saturday night about her dismissal. She’s terribly concerned about it.”

  At Carita’s name, Opal Hogge’s shoulders tensed. She turned back to the file drawer and pulled out a folder, opened it, and began leafing through it. “I don’t think it’s appropriate for me to discuss the matter with you,” she said. Her voice was high and taut. Horizontal creases crossed her forehead, intersected by vertical creases between her eyes. I tried to imagine her as a small child that eveiyone called Bunny, but couldn’t quite bring it off.

  I sat down in a straight chair in front of the desk. "I’m a lawyer, Mrs. Hogge. I’ve told Carita I would help her decide how best to resolve this problem. I hoped that you and I might discuss — ”

  She strode around the desk and sat down in her leather chair, folding her hands on the desk. “There’s nothing to discuss,” she said flatly. “I’ve had my eye on the girl for some time, and I knew she was stealing. She was discovered wearing earrings that had been taken from one of the residents, and then I found the credit card. I was perfectly justified in discharging her.” The lines around her mouth had become crevasses and there was a brittle hardness in her voice.

  “I wondered how you happened to pick that particular time to open Carita’s locker and search her purse,” I said speculatively. “Did someone suggest that you might find the missing credit card there?”

  Her nostrils flared. "Nobody had to suggest anything to me, Ms. Bayles. I know a thief when I see one.”

  She hurled the word thief like a bullet. I waited a moment, then said, veiy quietly: “But an accused employee has the right to ask for a police — ”

  “A thief has no rights.” Her voice came up a notch. “I have made it plain to all of the staff that there is zero tolerance for such behavior. If I made an exception in the case of Carita Garza, I should have to make an exception in every case. There would be no discipline around here, none at all.”

  "I see,” I said softly.

  She sat back in her chair and pulled in her breath. Her outburst had clearly been out of proportion to my questions. Why? Was this the ghost of Bunny, exhibiting a childish temper that should have been outgrown long ago? Or had I stepped over the line by challenging her authority, by questioning her right to rule the roost here? Or was it more sinister than that, even? Was she hiding something, and feared that she might be found out?

  It took a moment and cost her something, but Mrs. Hogge managed to find, somewhere inside, a modicum of self-control. Her voice was softer when she spoke again. "I am very sony that Carita has seen fit to involve you in this, Mrs. Bayles. Please tell her that I will see to it that her employee record does not reflect the fact that she was dismissed. 1 will enter it as a resignation. 1 think that would be best for her, under the circumstances.”

  “I would like to examine the record and speak with Ms. Garza before a decision is made,” I said.

  She clasped her hands tighter, but kept her voice even. "Of course. I’ll have Joyce Sanders, our nursing supervisor, make a copy for you.” She stood. “Now, if that’s all you wanted—”

  "A copy will be fine.” I reached into my bag and took out one of the business cards that have only my name, address, and phone number—not the name of the shop. I stood and placed it on the corner of her desk. "Please mail it to me. With it, please include the name and telephone number of the board’s attorney.”

  I turned on my heel. I was halfway to the door when it opened and a nurse put her head in, spoiling my snappy exit.

  "Mrs. Hogge,” she said, breathlessly, "Mrs. Sanders sent me to tell you that we’ve had a death. In Brazos. She’d like to know if you can come.”

  I turned. Opal Hogge was staring at the nurse. The corner of her mouth was twitching. After what seemed a veiy long time, she said, "Yes, of course. What room?” "Thirty-three. The doctor has been called, and Mrs. Sanders is trying to reach the niece, but she’s at work and can’t be located just now.”

  "Thirty-three,” Mrs. Hogge. said in a strangled voice. Her face was very white. "I’ll be there immediately.” She all but ran around her desk, forgetting all about me, and fled down the hall.

  Brazos, Room 33. It was Velma Mayfield’s room.

  It took a little while to get everything sorted out. In the meantime, I have to confess that—just like Opal Hogge — I made the assumption that the dead woman in Brazos 33 was Miss Velma. My conclusion was reasonable, with a 50-50 chance of being accurate, but I was wrong. It was Mrs. Rachel Rogers who had died: Velma’s roommate, the one who slept in the bed next to the wall and had snored during McQuaid’s visit; the one, Angie said, who had tried to climb out of her bed to stop Opal Hogge from shaking Miss Velma.

  I only learned this fact, however, after I followed Opal Hogge down the long hallway and around the corner to Number 33. I shouldn’t have, of course, but Angie’s confession had given me a sense of responsibility where Miss Velma was concerned, and Mrs. Hogge's sudden, stark pallor had captured my attention. I expected to be noticed and sent away, but there was a lot of confusion at that end of the hall. I was just another one of the residents and visitors who were witnesses to this drama, no doubt a familiar one in this section of the Manor.

  I stood for a moment in the open door. The room was crowded. A nurse was moving an equipment cart away from the bed where the dead woman lay, and I wondered whether there had been some attempt at resuscitation. Another was standing by with a clean nightgown and hairbrush, perhaps with the aim of making the body presentable. In a hushed and harried voice, Opal Hogge was telling someone to fetch a gurney so that Mrs. Rogers could be moved to the nursing-home chapel, down the hall. The staff probably tried to handle deaths with as little fuss as possible, so that the other residents wouldn’t be affected by this reminder of their own mortality.

  I turned away from the room. Down the hallway a few paces sat a woman in a wheelchair, clutching a doll. A padded vinyl bar across her lap locked her into the chair, and the expression of deep sadness on her face tugged at me. She was white-haired and her face was lined, but she wasn’t that old—not much over sixty-five, I guessed.

  I knelt down beside her. "Miss Velma?”

  "She’s dead.” Her reedy voice quavered and broke, but the words were quite clear. "Rachel’s dead.”

  I took her hand. "I’m veiy sony. It’s hard to lose a friend.”

  “She was a nice person when she was awake.” Miss Velma half-giggled, but the giggle turned into a fierce sob. She flung the doll, hard, onto the floor. "I’ll miss her, damn it.”

  I thought of Opal Hogge’s white face. "How did Rachel die?”

  For a moment she just sat there, holding herself tense, as if she were trying to summon the memory. Then she whimpered, a baby-soft cry, and her eyes brimmed with tears. She sagged into the chair, and the light went out of her eyes.

  My question wasn’t appropriate, I realized ruefully, wishing I could take it back. Rachel Rogers was older than Miss Velma, probably in her eighties. She had no doubt died in her sleep—or perhaps Velma had watched, stricken and helpless, unable to do anything but push the red button to summon the nurse. I stroked the damp, straggly silver hair off her forehead. "It’s hard when our friends leave us, ” I said, tiying to comfort her. "Please ciy, if you want to.”

  "Crying won’t . . . bring her back.” She looked up at me, then past me, catching a glimpse of Mrs. Hogge, coming out of the room. Her eyes suddenly held something more compelling than grief: a sharply focused hatred.

 
"Bunny.” She spit the word out. "Bunny!” she cried, and raised her fist.

  Opal Hogge turned and saw me kneeling beside Miss Velma’s chair. Her eyes slitted and her whole frame seemed to tense. To me, she said nothing. To the nurse with her, she said, "Put Miss Mayfield to bed, and see that she gets a sedative if she needs it. She's obviously disturbed by all this.”

  Miss Velma dropped her hand and began to shiver. She slid down in the chair, her blue-veined hands coming up to cover her face. "Oh, no, Bunny!” she cried, and began to sob.

  Driving into Pecan Springs, I had plenty to think about. I had been driving this road since McQuaid came to the Manor in March, and the Hill Country landscapes always make me wish I could do watercolors. In April and May, the rocky meadows are swept with the blue and scarlet of bluebonnets and paintbrush, brightened by tall white prickly poppy and smudged with the dark purple of prairie verbena. In June, the palette changes to yellow, orange, and red: waves of Indian blanket, clasping coneflower, coreopsis, black-eyed Susan, with here and there purple patches of monarda, which the natives call horsemint, and a few early spires of standing cypress, glowing like scarlet tapers. This month’s wildflower display was almost brilliant enough to distract me from what had happened this morning, but not quite.

  The conversation with Opal Hogge had not yielded any new facts, but it had given me a much clearer picture of the woman and sharpened my apprehensions. In fact, I had stopped at Joyce Sanders’s office, with the intention of telling her what Angie claimed to have seen. But she was busy with the dead woman’s niece, and the morning was wearing on. I picked up the cell phone, dialed McQuaid, and told him what had happened.

  "Hogge sounds like a piece of work,” he said. "Maybe I should go over to Brazos and check on Miss Velma.” "You read my mind,” I replied. "I don’t think she can give you any information, but one of the floor nurses should be able to tell you how Rachel Rogers died.”