Holly Blues

by ALBERT, SUSAN WITTIG

  She ignored that. “Really, Mike, it won’t take you that long to drive.” She was using the tone she always used when she was trying to work a con job on him. “It’s only a hundred and twenty miles. Two hours, tops. It’s one o’clock now. You could be there by three and back to Omaha by bedtime. All I need you to do is talk to this person. Her name is Joyce Dillard.”

  “You want to talk to somebody, pick up the phone and talk to her yourself. Anyway, it’s a hundred and forty miles.” McQuaid glanced through the window. “And it’s snowing like a blasted sonuvagun. The roads will be a mess. Why in the world would I—”

  “Not I-29. It won’t be bad at all. They keep it plowed because of the trucks. And I’ve tried calling Joyce. She doesn’t answer. Anyway, I want somebody else to hear what she has to say. I mean, I want you to hear it. You’re a cop. You’ll know what to do next.”

  A cop? “Hear what? What’s all this about, Sally?”

  “It’s complicated. I can’t go into it over the phone. You’ll understand when you . . . when you talk to her.”

  He frowned. “Does this have to do with Myers?”

  “Please, Mike. Just say you’ll talk to her. Please.”

  “Myers,” he persisted. “You told China that he’s a former boyfriend. Is that true?”

  “Yes, sort of. I mean, I dated him, a long time ago.” There was a pause on the other end of the line. Then Sally said, very low, “You have to talk to Joyce Dillard, Mike. She . . . She says she knows who killed my parents.”

  Everything around him seemed to become very still. No sound, no motion. He held the phone to his ear, staring at a reddish brown spot on the tablecloth. Spaghetti sauce. Next to the spot was a second, orangy yellow. Italian dressing. The two spots blurred, merged, went out of focus.

  Sally’s parents were killed ten years ago. No, more like eleven, because Brian was four or five and he and Sally were breaking up. He was still with the Houston PD, and she was drinking and taking antidepressants in those wildly dangerous up-and-down cycles that usually end up all the way down, with a fatal overdose and a cold body on a slab in the morgue. Juanita was around sometimes, too, going on buying binges, filling the closets with expensive clothes and dozens of pairs of shoes. He’d stuck with it as long as he could, hating to admit that his marriage was a failure, bitterly ashamed that he hadn’t been able to give Sally enough of what she needed and she’d had to make up for it by buying all those clothes. But he’d finally reached the point where he couldn’t stand it any longer. He’d taken Brian to Seguin to stay with his parents, got a cheap apartment closer to the station, and filed for divorce.

  That’s when it happened, a couple of weeks after he moved out. The word hadn’t come from Sally but from Leslie, who called him at work to tell him that the Strahorns had been shot to death and their sizable cash stash stolen. He was used to death—in fact, that was one of the bitternesses Sally kept throwing up to him when they argued, that his skin was a cop’s skin, bulletproof, tough as rhino hide, and that none of her suffering ever got through to him. Maybe she was right.

  But this got through like a knife in the gut. He had loved Mama Lucy for her sweetness and patience, and respected Mr. Strahorn for all he knew about Kansas crops and weather and the tough times farmers faced. He had admired them for making a life where life had put them, and loving their kids and supporting the town. And now they were dead, senselessly, stupidly, brutally dead, in an apple-pie, lace-doily, flag-flying town where everybody square-danced at the VFW on Saturday night and worshipped in church on Sunday.

  Sally hadn’t handled it well, of course. The murders had spiraled her into an even wilder tailspin, and she had forbidden him to go to Sanders for the funeral: “Not your family,” she had spat at him. “Not anymore.”

  Leslie had felt differently. She had begged him to come, but he hadn’t, since the sight of him would have sent Sally over the edge for sure. Leslie was a good girl, the apple of her parents’ eyes, and Brian loved her because she read to him and made him laugh in a way his mother never did. Later, after Leslie moved to Texas, to Lake City, she always invited Brian to spend a summer month or so with her. For a while, McQuaid had even thought that the two of them—he and Leslie—might get romantically involved, which would have made Brian happy. But they’d held back because of Sally, and then he’d met China, and that was the end of that.

  Anyway. After the murders he had kept in touch with the Strahorn case—through Leslie, since Sally hadn’t wanted anything to do with him. When Les reported that the Sanders police seemed to be pretty much out of leads, he’d toyed with the notion of taking a couple of weeks off and driving up there to see what he could dig up. But he’d decided against it. Sanders wasn’t his turf. He’d only antagonize the local police, and likely for nothing. If the murders could be solved, they’d do it. And then the divorce had gone through and he’d brought Brian back from Seguin to live with him, and life had gotten so complicated that everything else—Sally’s latest follies, Juanita’s wildness, even the Strahorns’ murders—faded into the background.

  And now the murders were foreground again, front and center. The two blurry spots on the tablecloth separated, became what they were, spaghetti sauce and Italian dressing. A dish clattered in the kitchen. The restaurant door opened and a woman in a green coat came in, her hair dusted with snowflakes. She said something to the hostess, and they laughed.

  “Dillard claims she knows who killed your parents?” McQuaid demanded roughly. “Did she say who? Does she have any evidence?”

  “She gave me a name, but I’d rather not say. She told me where to find the gun, and some other evidence. But I don’t want . . .” She stopped. “I’d rather you talked to her.”

  “When did she tell you this?”

  “Not long ago. A few days.”

  “Where? How did you connect with her?”

  “I went to Sanders. I was trying to—that is, I was hoping to . . .” Sally’s voice trailed away.

  “Hoping to what?”

  The words came out in a rush, propelled by (he thought) her effort to overcome her natural propensity to lie. “I was working for the newspaper in Kansas City. I was stuck in Advertising, but I heard about a reporting job opening up. I’ve always wanted to get back into reporting, and I thought if I could write a really good story, a true-crime story with a local angle, I’d maybe have a shot at it. Sanders is local to KC—it’s in the same media market. So I went back home and talked to a few—”

  “You were using your parents’ murders to get a job?” McQuaid demanded incredulously.

  “Not their murders.” Sally was heated. “That would be despicable.”

  “Yeah, it would,” McQuaid said, disgusted. But despicable wouldn’t keep Sally from doing whatever the hell she wanted to do. Wouldn’t keep her from trying to rope him into it, either.

  “I wouldn’t do that, Mike, honest,” she said plaintively. “I was going to focus on the police investigation, from a human-interest point of view. My point of view, as a daughter. That’s entirely different. And totally legitimate. Lots of books get written by family members after a tragedy.”

  Oh, so it wasn’t just a job she was after, he thought in even greater disgust. It was a book contract. Next to being an actress, being a writer had been Sally’s dream. Trust her to have her eyes on the grand prize, always. And he didn’t buy her claim that she was focusing on the investigation. If she wanted a book deal, or even just the job, she’d have to include the lurid stuff, the murders. The bodies, the blood, the sickening horror of it. That would be her hook—that, and the fact that she was the victims’ daughter. Sally, poor, poor Sally, the victims’ grieving daughter.

  So what exactly did she want from him? He scowled, thinking back over what she had said.

  “This Dillard woman,” he said. “How’d you get connected with her?”

  “She’s a friend of . . . She’s somebody I knew in high school. Most of us left Sanders. You know what it’s like—t
here’s not much opportunity if you want to make something of your life. But Joyce stayed. Her father is on the town council, and the family is connected with just about everything. That’s why—” She cleared her throat. “I mean, I think she really does know, Mike.”

  “So what did she tell you?” He didn’t try to keep the skepticism out of his voice.

  “Uh-uh. You have to talk to her, Mike. You’re a cop. An ex-cop, I mean. You’ll know how to handle it.”

  Yeah. That was Sally for you. Wanting to rope him in on her literary project. Wanting him to do the investigating for her, so she’d have something more to write about. God only knew what else she wanted. He took out his pen and wrote Joyce Dillard on the paper napkin. “Give me her number.”

  “Wait a sec, and I’ll get it.” There was a short pause. “Here it is.”

  He wrote it down. “Okay,” he said. “Anybody else in Sanders you’d like me to talk to?”

  That got her attention. Her voice was suddenly eager. “Then you’ll go to Sanders? You’ll talk to Joyce?”

  “I’ll call her,” McQuaid said firmly. He looked out the window onto the rapidly drifting street. “I told you, Sal. It’s snowing like hell here. The roads will be a mess.”

  “But calling won’t work. You won’t be able to find out—”

  “You’d be surprised at what I can find out. I’m an investigator, remember?” He paused, thinking about the stalker. “Where are you?”

  There was a momentary silence. “In Pecan Springs,” she said guardedly. “Where else?”

  No matter. He had her cell number. “Okay. You sit tight and stay out of trouble. You hear?”

  Another silence, and then the connection was abruptly broken. McQuaid stared at the phone, tempted to call her back and make her say good-bye, like a grown-up. But she’d just say he was treating her like a child (which he was, because she was), so he resisted. He thought for a moment, then clicked on Sheriff Blackwell’s number. He got him on the second ring.

  “China told me that you sent somebody out to have a look at the house last night,” McQuaid said. “Thanks, buddy.”

  “No problem. Glad to do it.” Blackie paused. “Everything okay?”

  “Probably. Hard to tell with Sally.” He reported what China had told him, ending with, “I don’t know what Myers is after. But to be safe, China is sending Caitie to Amy’s for the night, and Brian’s sleeping over with a friend. China and Sally will be at Ruby’s. Thought you ought to know—in case your deputy happens to notice any action out our way tonight. The house should be empty, except for the dog.” Howard could batch it for one night. He had his dog door for the necessities. He’d be okay.

  “Will do,” Blackie said. “It’s a good idea to get the kids out of there.” He paused. “Are you thinking that this is maybe just another one of your ex’s little parlor games?”

  McQuaid smiled crookedly to himself. He and the sheriff had played poker and fished together for years, and Blackie had heard too many of his tales about Sally’s wild antics. “Who the hell knows?” he replied. “Where Sally is concerned, there’s no predicting.”

  “Yeah,” Blackie said. He paused, as if there might be more to say on the subject, then asked, in a different tone, “Did Sheila call you?”

  McQuaid heard the tone. Something there. “No,” he said. “Why?”

  “No particular reason.” Blackie cleared his throat. “Sheila and I are making another run at it.” Blackie was a man of few words, but McQuaid knew him well enough to know that this made him happy.

  “Glad to hear it,” McQuaid said warmly. Blackie hadn’t been the same since he and Sheila split the year before. He had seemed lonely, almost desolate, not quite sure where he was going or why. “Hope it works out for you this time.”

  Blackie chuckled. “Yeah. Me, too. It’s a risk. But in this life, everything’s a risk. Get a couple of good days, you feel like you hit a gold mine.”

  “Amen to that,” McQuaid said. “Is that why you asked if Sheila had called me? To tell me that the two of you are back together?”

  “No,” Blackie said. His voice changed. “Something else. I’ll let her tell you. Catch you later, buddy.”

  McQuaid frowned as he clicked off the phone and slipped it into his pocket. Maybe he’d call Sheila. But maybe not. Sounded like trouble, and he was in no mood. He finished his coffee, settled with the waitress for his lunch, and shrugged into his coat. Outside, the snow was beginning to pile up on the roofs of parked cars and drift against the buildings. The temperature was dropping, the sidewalk glazing with ice. In the distance, muted by the snow, traffic growled on the freeway, punctuated by the wail of a siren, an accident, most likely. Bound to be plenty of that today.

  McQuaid was glad he didn’t have far to drive—just to the bookstore and back to the motel, where he’d make that phone call for Sally. To tell the truth, he was intrigued at the idea that somebody in Sanders might be holding on to information about the Strahorns’ murders. But he’d be damned if he’d help Sally dig up information for some sensational book she wanted to write. Hell, no. He’d make the call, then stretch out on the bed to read. Might even catch a few z’s.

  Yeah. He shoved his hands into his pockets, whistling cheerfully, and set off in the direction of the car—walking carefully, because of the ice. It was going to be a good afternoon, after all.

  Chapter Eight

  In Wales, the celebration of Boxing Day (the day after Christmas) included the tradition of “holly-beating” or “holming.” (Holm is the Welsh word for holly). Young men and boys would teasingly slap the unprotected arms or legs of young women and girls with holly branches (perhaps a means of getting the girls to lift their skirts a few inches?). In some areas it was the custom for the late-risers to be swatted with sprigs of holly—a good reason for getting up early on Boxing Day.

  China Bayles, “Hollies for Your Garden,”

  Pecan Springs Enterprise

  “Homicide? Leslie?” I stared at Sheila, still trying to comprehend what she had said. “What kind of homicide? How was she killed? A gun? A knife? A blunt object? What?”

  The chief frowned and gave her head a warning shake, meaning that this was cop stuff, confidential, top secret. If Smart Cookie knew the inside story, she wasn’t going to tell me.

  I swallowed hard, still trying to come to terms with what I had heard. I thought of Leslie, pretty, petite, perky, the third-grade teacher you always wished you’d had, who could turn the times tables into a giggly game or teach a kid how to hold a rabbit or build a drum out of an oatmeal box. If Sally had been the bad girl of the very proper Strahorn family, the wayward, not-quite-respectable daughter, Leslie had been the good girl, the solid citizen, respected schoolteacher, apple of her parents’ eye.

  And now Leslie was the victim of a homicide. And crazy Sally—Sally/ Juanita, she of the multiple identities—was a “person of interest.” Why? What had she done that made the cops want to come after her?

  Sheila was watching my face, reading my feelings, which were naked and exposed. “Did the two of them get along? Sally and her sister, I mean.”

  I didn’t answer immediately. I could see where this was going. Sheila—who was a very good cop, trained to do her job—was pumping me for information. Anything I told her that was relevant to the case would be relayed to the Lake City police, to assist in their interview with their “person of interest.”

  But I have a problem with this, a big problem. The words “suspect,” “subject,” “target,” and “material witness” are defined by law, and everyone knows what they mean. The phrase “person of interest,” on the other hand, lacks any legal definition or evidential standard. It can mean anything the authorities—local, state, even federal—want it to mean. Sometimes they use it to keep their guy from lawyering up, as sensible people have a natural tendency to do when they find themselves in the clutches of the cops. Other times, they use it to let the media know that they’re on the lookout for someone they can’t
immediately lay their hands on, who just might be involved with a case they’re pursuing, although they can’t specifically tell you how or wouldn’t if they could. The media puts the word out, and the next thing you know, the “person of interest” is either reported to be “cooperating” with authorities or prudently leaves town, which is taken, both by the media and the cops, as an admission of guilt.

  Now, you might not immediately see a problem with this—until you become a “person of interest,” that is. Imagine that your next-door neighbor is found dead in her garden, killed with a sharp whack from her garden spade. Imagine that the two of you have had a few unneighborly disagreements over the years—she has a dog and the dog has a habit of digging up your rosebushes, say—and that these little squabbles have been witnessed by other neighbors.

  Now imagine that you pick up the local paper and find your photograph on the front page. The cops want to find out what you know about this homicide. You’re a good citizen, so you go in for an interview, and then you’re called back for another and another. Imagine that the cops turn up no other leads for weeks and weeks, and that they—and the newspaper and the local television channels, which seem to have no other news but your news—continue to regard you as the only “person of interest” in the case.

  What happens if this cloud hangs over your head for days, weeks, months, for a year? How are your friends going to feel? Your neighbors? Your boss? Your mother? After a while, in the mind of the public, you become the prime suspect without a single charge being filed or a single hearing held. Tragically, the term “person of interest” has the potential to tar and feather innocent people who have nothing to do with a crime.

  And if you think this can’t happen, think again. It happens, and far too often. “Person of interest” has wormed its way into the national lexicon in recent years, and has been used in several high-profile cases seized on by the national media. In some instances, the “persons of interest” have filed lawsuits and won them, sometimes for hundreds of thousands of dollars. All of us, including the media and the cops, have to remember that all persons are innocent until they are proven guilty. And that includes Sally Strahorn—or Juanita or whoever else she may be.