“Sounds like,” I said cautiously. Ruby read all the Nancy Drews when she was growing up and is now working her way through Kinsey Millhone’s alphabet mysteries. Suggest that there is a crime in the neighborhood, and she immediately clicks into detective mode.
“I wonder where he’s staying,” she mused. “He shouldn’t be too hard to find, if he’s driving a yellow convertible. I don’t think there’s another one in town.”
“Ruby,” I said. “Don’t.”
She looked at me with her best, most innocent Lucille Ball, eyes-wide look. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t even think of doing what you are thinking of doing.”
“How can I not think about doing whatever-it-is when I don’t know what you don’t want me to think about?” she asked reasonably. While I was trying to sort out an answer to that, she added, “Why don’t you and Sally come over and spend the night at my house? There are neighbors all around, and old Mrs. Wauer and Oodles right next door. Oodles would never let a stalker come within a mile of the place without making enough racket to wake the dead.”
I had to laugh at that. Oodles is a fat white miniature poodle attack dog with the heart of a pit bull, a maniac bark, and a bite like a snapping turtle. I once saw him go up against another of Ruby’s neighbors. If Mrs. Ewell hadn’t defended herself with an umbrella, Oodles would have had her for dinner.
“Thanks for the offer,” I said, still chuckling. “I hate to leave Howard Cosell at home alone, though.” When we all go away overnight, Howard goes to stay at the doggie resort hotel: the boarding kennel at the vet clinic where Amy works.
“Bring him along,” Ruby said generously. “I’m sure Oodles would love to bark at Howard through the fence.”
Another laugh. “I’ll check it out with Sally when she comes for lunch,” I said.
“That’ll work,” Ruby replied. She paused. “Have you told McQuaid about any of this?”
“There’s no point in telling him. He’s in Omaha. There’s nothing he can do except worry about us.” Which he would, of course. It’s his cop personality shining through.
“I think you should tell him. If he knows there’s a stalker hanging around, he might make a point of coming home early.”
“Really? You think?” Somehow, this hadn’t occurred to me.
“Sure. He’s a detective, isn’t he? Detectives like to detect, don’t they? And he’s an ex-cop. He’s trained to protect. You’ve got his number on both counts.” She patted Grace’s cheek. “What a vewy pwetty girl you are, little sweetie-puss.” Sweetie-puss giggled and flung both arms around her grandmother’s neck.
I considered. Ruby was right. McQuaid is one of those guys who loves to dig up the answers to problems that nobody else can solve. It’s what made him such a good cop. It also makes him a first-class private detective. When it comes to inquiry, he is both intuitive and relentless. He doesn’t give up. And he is protective to the nth degree.
“Come home early,” I mused. “Why didn’t I think of that?” Because I’d been too busy handling it myself, that’s why. But Sally is McQuaid’s ex, not mine. He would probably be glad to take his share of the responsibility. “Thanks for the suggestion, Ruby.” I glanced at the clock. It was eleven twenty. “I’ll call him right now. If he’s finished with his job, maybe he can get an early plane.”
McQuaid came on at the third ring. It didn’t take long to tell him the story, not including the part about Sally’s lying about her house and her job, which I knew would set off an explosion. But even so, he did not immediately reply to my diplomatically phrased suggestion that he come home early. There was a noise like a car door slamming, and I pictured him with his cell phone to his ear, sliding into a car seat in a parking lot somewhere.
“Lord deliver us,” he muttered angrily. “Every time that woman shows up, she brings along a truckload of trouble. I wish to hell she’d stay away.”
That woman. How many times have I heard McQuaid say those words, in just that tone? What’s more, there was part of me that agreed with him—the part that had her nose out of joint because Sally had lied about losing her house and her job. And her car.
But there was another part of me that disagreed violently, for my husband—who is as dear to me as myself—had just pushed one of my hot buttons.
“Hang on,” I said hotly. “You’re blaming the victim. This isn’t Sally’s fault. This man is a stalker.”
“Don’t give me that BS,” McQuaid growled. “Sally’s got a track record, remember? If she’s a victim, she’s victimized herself. Every guy she’s picked has been a loser. Every single guy.”
“Present company excepted,” I reminded him tartly.
“Yeah.” He was heated. “All those other Romeos, they were rotten apples, every one of ’em. Remember the lawyer lover of hers? The one who was dealing? And the stockbroker who robbed her blind? God only knows what kind of bad-ass punk she’s gotten tangled up with this time.” His voice hardened. “Listen, China. I’m going to call Blackie and see if we can’t get somebody to stay at the house tonight. Maybe he’s got an off-duty deputy who can bunk on the sofa and—”
“We are not hiring a security guard,” I snapped. “Caitlin will be with Amy and Kate. Brian is spending the night with Mike. And Sally doesn’t want the police involved.” I made my voice softer. “She’s your ex-wife, you know. And she would have told you all this herself, if you’d taken the time to talk to her, the way she asked. Look, McQuaid. Why don’t you see about getting an earlier plane? If you were home with us, this jerk wouldn’t dare—”
“I am not coming home because I’ve still got stuff to do here,” he interrupted sternly. “I have to finish an interview. I can’t hop a plane every time Sally thinks she’s got some sort of a problem. And she is my ex-wife, remember?” Ex got a strong emphasis. He was going to be stubborn about this.
“It’s my problem, too,” I pointed out in an acid tone. “And I am your current wife.” Current got an even stronger emphasis.
There was a momentary silence, then, “Hang on.” I heard the car engine starting. He probably wanted to run the heater. According to the Weather Channel this morning, the temperature in Omaha would stay below freezing all day, and there was a snowstorm on the way.
“Okay,” he said, on the line again. “If you don’t want somebody hanging out at our house, why don’t you and Sal spend the night at Ruby’s? She’s got plenty of room.” He chuckled. “You could have a girl party. Put grease on your face, drink piña coladas, talk about guys.”
I resisted the impulse to tell him to stuff his “girl party.” “I’d rather you come home early, McQuaid. It might be a good idea anyway. I heard on the news that there’s a snowstorm heading for Omaha. If you wait until tomorrow, you might not be able to get home.”
“You’re right about that,” he said ruefully. “It’s colder than a witch’s tit here, and the local forecasters are saying ice, as well as snow.”
“Then come home.”
“I told you,” he said, in the long-suffering tone he uses when he’s being asked to do more than two things at a time. “I can’t. Not yet.” He sighed. “Okay. This guy, this stalker. What’s his name again?”
“Myers,” I said. Why is it that men can’t multitask? “Jess Myers. He’s from Sanders, Kansas, according to Sally. What time do you think you can come home?”
“Sanders?” His voice rose.
“Right. Do you know the place?”
He grunted. “You bet I know it. Sally’s parents were living there when we got married. She went to high school in Sanders. She and her sister grew up there.”
“Really?” I was surprised. “She didn’t tell me that he was a hometown guy.”
“Why would she? She’s playing Little Miss Innocent, China. She wants to get your sympathy. She’s probably been stringing this smitten schmuck along for months, then got tired of him mooning around after her and dumped him. So this poor joe is not only besotted but pissed. He wants to find h
er, talk to her, try to get her back.”
“Being besotted does not justify stalking,” I retorted.
“No, but it explains it,” he replied, irritatingly patient.
“Maybe. But pissed-off people can be dangerous. She is genuinely afraid of him, McQuaid. She says he’s creepy.” I thought of his voice, of the ominous edge that had sent chills up my spine. “He sounded plenty creepy to me, too. And he has her car. Her yellow convertible. Hazel Cowan saw him driving it.”
“I am calling Blackie.” McQuaid’s tone was firm.
I know when I’m defeated. “Okay, you win,” I conceded. “Don’t call Blackie. Sally and I will spend the night with Ruby.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
“Good,” he said, gamely trying not to sound triumphant. “My flight is scheduled for tomorrow evening. I’ll see you then.” He paused and added, gruffly. “Sorry to be the bad guy, China. Tell Sally to suck it up. And when I get home, the three of us are sitting down for a serious talk. I don’t want to have to spend the holiday worrying that some love-struck stalker is out there, casing our house.”
I hung up, feeling that I hadn’t accomplished very much. But there wasn’t time to think about it, because the lunch crowd was beginning to trickle in. Ruby parked Grace’s baby bouncer in a corner where I could keep an eye on her until her mother came to pick her up, and went to help Laurel in the tearoom. Cass was serving one of her famous quiches today (Garden Quiche, with tomatoes, basil, and garlic), which always draws a crowd, mostly tourists or women from neighboring businesses on their lunch hour.
From that moment on, we were so busy that I didn’t stop to look at my watch. At some point, Amy (who still wears the silver nose studs, multiple earrings, and intriguing tattoos that have earned her a reputation as Ruby’s wild child) stopped in to pick up Baby Grace, who loves her mother just as she is, undomesticated hair and all. I confirmed that Amy would meet Caitlin after school and got a text message from Caitlin saying that she’d love to stay all night at Amy’s, and maybe she could give Baby Grace her bath. With so much going on, it was nearly one thirty when I realized that Sally was a half hour late for lunch. And I was hungry. In fact, I was ravenous.
I hunted through my purse until I found the scrap of paper on which Sally had written her cell number. I picked up the phone and was about to punch it in when Ruby came in from the tearoom, pushing her hair out of her eyes and looking frazzled.
“I just got a call from the nurses’ station at Castle Oaks,” she said. “Mom’s MIA again. Looks like she’s gone on another walkabout.”
“Oh, no!” I exclaimed, putting the phone down. “Oh, Ruby, I’m sorry.”
“Me, too.” She sighed. “I really, really, really need this not to be happening right now.”
Ruby’s mother, like many dementia patients, is prone to wandering. The nurses at Castle Oaks try to keep a close eye on her, but she’s a wily old lady and occasionally gives them the slip. The last time she escaped by filching a coat from her roommate’s daughter and slipping out the front door in the company of several other visitors. She got as far as the neighborhood supermarket, where she liberated three Hershey’s chocolate bars and a bottle of apple juice. She was just finishing her snack when a clerk asked for money. When she said she had twenty-three million dollars in the bank but had forgotten to bring any of it with her, he called the cops. Doris was thrilled when she got an armed escort back to the nursing home.
“What can I do?” I asked with genuine sympathy. Ruby took on a big job when she moved Doris to Pecan Springs. I try to pitch in.
“Can you watch the shop? I have to go over to Castle Oaks and help them find her. I hope she had the sense to snatch a coat before she left. And a hat and gloves. It’s cold outside.” She started for the door to her shop. “Oh, and Laurel had to go home early. She and her husband are going out of town for the holiday. And Cass has already left, too. She had to go to the doctor.”
“Sure, I’m not planning to go anywhere.” I frowned. “Laurel won’t be here to help out tomorrow?” So who was our backup, in case things got out of hand?
“Nope,” Ruby tossed over her shoulder as she left. “Laurel is gone until after the first of the year.”
Rats. No Laurel, and Cass was on the wounded list, and this was the holiday. We were definitely short-handed.
Ruby put her head through the door again. “Oh, and tell Sally I’m sorry I missed her. I’ll catch her later.”
“You didn’t miss Sally. She missed us.” Which reminded me that Sally was late, and that I really needed to talk to her about my conversation with McQuaid. And that I was really, really hungry. I reached for the phone again. No answer. I got voice mail.
“Where the heck are you, Sally?” I demanded. “I thought we were having lunch together.”
By this time, I was seriously irritated, as well as hungry. Ruby’s shop and mine were temporarily empty, so I made a quick expedition to the kitchen in search of leftover quiche. I put a slice on a plate, alongside a helping of chicken salad and a handful of blue corn chips, and took the food back to the shop, where I sat on the tall stool behind the counter and snatched quick bites in between phone calls and customers. The shop had emptied out and I was just finishing the last chip when the bell jingled and the door opened.
I looked up quickly, thinking it was Sally at last, and opened my mouth to give her a piece of my mind. But it wasn’t. It was Sheila Dawson, our police chief—Smart Cookie to her friends.
“Hey, Sheila!” I said with a grin. “Nice to see you. It’s been a while.”
“It’s our busy season,” she said. “The mall is full of shoplifters, and every Christmas party seems to uncork a slew of drunk drivers.” She took off her cap and returned my grin. “How are you, China?”
Sheila was uniformed in her usual natty blue and gray jacket, shirt, pants, and cap, her blond hair scooped into a bun at the back of her head. Even so, and with a radio on one hip and a holstered weapon on the other, she’s beautiful. Somehow, it doesn’t seem fair that there’s so much firepower—intelligence, competence, confidence, and damned good looks—loaded into one woman. But while Smart Cookie might look like Miss Dallas costumed for the cover of Law Enforcement Magazine, I wouldn’t mess with her, if I were you. She’s an experienced cop with over a decade of law enforcement experience, not to mention being a crack shot. She can outshoot any of her officers, any day. And she don’t take no sass, as the locals say.
“How am I?” I might have given other answers to that question, but I settled for the simplest. “Not too bad, I guess. We had a full house for lunch in the tearoom, which is good. But Doris went AWOL again. Ruby’s out on patrol, looking for her.”
Sheila rolled her eyes. “Poor Doris.”
“Poor Ruby. Doris gets a kick out of it, if you ask me, especially when she’s driven back to Castle Oaks in a squad car. Your uniforms ought to make her walk. There’s nothing wrong with her legs, Ruby says.”
Sheila chuckled. “Probably a good idea.” She glanced around the shop. “Is Sally here?”
I raised my eyebrows. “Sally who?”
She turned back to me. “Don’t give me that. You know who I mean. Sally Strahorn.”
“Gee,” I said, hamming it up. “I wonder how you found out that Sally’s in town. Is it possible that when Sheriff Blackwell picked up the phone last night . . .” I let my voice trail off suggestively.
She ducked her head, coloring. “Yeah, you’re right. I was with him when you phoned.”
“Figures.” I grinned, remembering that Blackie had sounded a bit groggy. Maybe I had caught them in flagrante delicto. “I won’t ask what you were doing when I phoned. I wouldn’t want to embarrass you. Anyway, I’d already heard that you two are a couple again. Ruby told me she saw you at Beans’ the other night.”
“News gets around, doesn’t it?” She gave me a challenging look. “Okay with you?”
I held up both hands. “As long as you
’re happy, I’m happy, Smart Cookie. And I figured you wanted folks to talk, or you and Blackie wouldn’t have showed up at Beans’. ” Everybody who is anybody in Pecan Springs hangs out there, and when two people are noticed to be a couple—especially when one is the police chief and the other is the county sheriff, and each was previously engaged to the other—the news spreads out like a tsunami. I added, “We’re looking forward to seeing you and Blackie at the party on Saturday night.”
“We’re planning on it.” Sheila put her palms on the counter, and I noticed, enviously, that her nails were beautifully manicured. Mine are not. I work in the garden every day. What Sheila mostly does is fill out paperwork. “What about Sally?” she repeated in a businesslike tone.
“I wish I knew.” I pushed my empty plate away. “She was supposed to meet me here for lunch, but she didn’t show. I got hungry and gave up waiting.” I tilted my head, feeling curious. “What’s up with you and Sally? As I recall, the two of you didn’t exactly hit it off the time or two you were together.” Sally hadn’t hit it off with any of my friends, actually. Sheila wasn’t the only one.
Sheila was watching me. “How long has she been in town?”
This did not sound like an idle inquiry, and I felt a nudge of apprehension. “Why are you asking?” I countered.
“Official business,” Sheila said crisply, and straightened, giving her gun belt a hitch. “How long?”
Uh-oh. Official business. A police matter. Maybe Sally had been involved in an accident before she showed up in Pecan Springs. Maybe this had something to do with Myers. Maybe—
But given Sally’s previous record of weird behavior, there was no point in guessing. “Here’s the straight scoop,” I replied, equally crisp. “She showed up day before yesterday, around eleven, here in the shop.”
“That would be Tuesday. Right?”
“Right. She was lugging a duffle bag. She said she’d ridden the bus into town. She didn’t have a car or a place to stay or any money—”
I stopped, remembering my encounter with Bonnie Roth at the bank. Not having money was another one of the things Sally had lied about.
Holly Blues Page 11
