Four. McQuaid remembered what China had said and knew she was right. They’d probably never had a double homicide before—at least, one where the shooter wasn’t standing over the bodies with the gun in his hand when the cops arrived. “Heard from somebody that you maybe had a suspect at one point, though,” he said. “Some guy named . . .” He frowned, pursing his lips. “Byers, was it? Something like that.”
Joe came around the partition, a plate in one hand, a dish of beans in the other. “That’d be Myers. Jess Myers.”
“Yeah,” McQuaid said. Score one in China’s column. “Myers. That was it.”
“But Jess wasn’t really a suspect, was he, Hank?” Joe set the plates down in front of McQuaid, who saw with appreciation that the burger was thick and juicy, the slab of cheese was ample, and the tomato slices looked like they came from a real tomato, not that cardboard stuff you got in the fast-food places.
“Yeah, we had Myers on the list for a while,” Jamison replied. “Plenty of opportunity. Mr. Strahorn had him do some repair work in the upstairs bathroom, so he knew his way around the place. Would’ve known where to find the gun, maybe the money, too. Other’n that, we couldn’t find anything to tie him to the killings. If he was the one, he never spent a dime. Not around here, anyway.” He turned to look at McQuaid, squinting a little. “We had another suspect, though. A serious one.”
“Yeah?” The look was deliberate, a shove, a preliminary move in a sparring match. McQuaid held it for a second and turned away, picking up his coffee cup. “Who would that be?”
“Your wife.” Jamison grinned bleakly. “ ’Scuse me. Ex-wife.”
McQuaid swallowed wrong, sputtered, coughed, and washed down the cough with another gulp of hot coffee. “Sally? You’re kidding.” Subtract the score from China’s column.
Jamison chuckled. “You got more than one ex?” He paused. “Never told you, I reckon.”
No—but she wouldn’t, of course. Leslie hadn’t mentioned it, either. McQuaid picked up his cheeseburger and made a show of taking a bite out of it. “You cleared her, I guess.” They must’ve. She’d gotten her share of the payoff from her parents’ insurance, which wouldn’t have happened if she’d continued to be a suspect.
“Yeah, finally,” Jamison replied, half-regretfully. “Took a while, though. Opportunity, y’see. She was in town when it happened—acting a little goofy, too. She knew where he kept the gun. She knew he kept it loaded. And then there was motive.”
Sally was here in Sanders when her parents were killed. He hadn’t known that. But he’d been living in a new place and working on a big case. And she had forbidden him to come to the funeral. Was it because she was a suspect, and she didn’t want him to know?
McQuaid picked up the catsup bottle, lifted the bun again, and gave the burger a healthy squirt. “Okay, opportunity, motive. Motive?” But the minute he asked the question, he knew the answer.
“Insurance,” Jamison replied offhandedly. “A cool couple million, split between her and her sister. The company wouldn’t pay her share until we cleared her.”
A couple of million? McQuaid hadn’t known there was that much. All he’d known was that she had burned through the money pretty fast. Juanita had, anyway—that was Sally’s explanation for where it had gone. One or two of her boyfriends had been glad to help, of course. He frowned. Was that where Myers came in? The money?
He lifted his cheeseburger, took a bite. It was even better than he remembered, which (as China would no doubt tell him) meant that it had plenty of sodium and artery-clogging fat. “Under that theory, Leslie should have been a suspect, too. How come she wasn’t?”
“Because she wasn’t all the time fightin’ with ’em,” Jamison replied, going back to his meal. “She wasn’t all the time tryin’ to borrow money, or givin’ ’em hell when they turned her down. Wasn’t actin’ goofy, either.”
“Acting goofy. Like how?”
“Like buyin’ stuff from the local boutique, tryin’ to use credit cards that were declined. Then writin’ checks that bounced, that her dad had to cover.” He eyed McQuaid. “Like flirtin’ with the mayor to the point where His Honor’s wife had to have a talk with her mom.”
McQuaid winced. Juanita’s behavior, familiar. But he’d never known that Sally brought Juanita to Sanders. She was strictly the big-city type. But maybe Sally hadn’t been firmly in control. Maybe Juanita had been calling the shots, which was where Myers came in.
Jamison chuckled wryly. “Maybe you didn’t know your wife very well, huh?”
McQuaid felt suddenly cold, as if the door had blown open and an icy wind had swept through the place. “Why’d you clear her?”
“New county attorney came in, didn’t feel like there was enough evidence.” He shrugged casually. “A few folks said that the attorney should take himself out of the loop—a Strahorn cousin, it seems. But he didn’t.” He slid a look at McQuaid. “You know how that goes, I reckon.”
McQuaid knew. He also knew, without hearing it said, that in Jamison’s mind, Sally was still a suspect and would be, until somebody else was charged with the murders. There was nothing wrong with that, of course. It was the way a good cop thought, especially with a Strahorn cousin in the county attorney’s office. Contemplatively, he returned to his cheeseburger.
Joe turned back to the pass-through shelf and produced two more plates, with large pieces of apple pie. “On the house,” he said. “Yesterday’s pie, but that’s not gonna hurt the taste none. I’m closin’ early, with this snow, so you might as well help me get rid of it.” He picked up McQuaid’s coffee mug and went to refill it.
“Well, hey, Joe,” Jamison said with approval. “You ain’t gonna find me turnin’ down no free pie, yesterday’s or last week’s.”
“The gun that killed the Strahorns,” McQuaid said. “Luger, wasn’t it?” Leslie had told him that much.
“Yep.” Jamison spooned up beans. “Belonged to Mr. Strahorn. Guess he picked it up when he was in Germany, during the war. The shooter took it out of the gun cabinet in the basement. Strahorn had a few old pieces that’d been in the family awhile. A pump-action twenty-two, an old single-shot twelve-gauge, nice old Model 94 lever-action thirty-thirty. They were all in the cabinet, which was conveniently unlocked. Odd, according to your wife’s sister. She insisted that her dad kept it locked.”
“Was the gun found? Did the shooter take the Luger with him?” With her, the voice said, inside his head. Or maybe the shooter was in her employ. Joe pushed his cup across the counter, and McQuaid reached for it. Not Sally, he thought. Not Sally.
You sure? the voice said, and chuckled. McQuaid swallowed hard.
“No gun,” Jamison replied. “Found the casings, is all.”
McQuaid put down his cup. “Prints on the casings?”
“Strahorn’s. Kept it loaded, Leslie said.” He swiveled on his stool. “You here on bizness, McQuaid?”
“Personal.” McQuaid began on his beans. “Actually, I’m doing a favor for Sally.”
Joe turned around from the coffee machine and slid McQuaid’s cup across the counter. “Can’t get away from the exes, can we.” It wasn’t a question.
McQuaid shook his head. “Not when you’ve got a kid.”
“Boy? Girl?” Joe asked, interested.
“Boy. Sixteen. Brian. His grandpa used to take him out on claim calls.” McQuaid remembered the old man’s pleasure in his grandson and was surprised at the pain he felt. “Thought he’d make a crop insurance man of him. Teach him to take over the business when he grew up.” Almost regretfully, he added. “Brian would be good at it, actually. Has a head for numbers.”
“Hell.” Joe sighed. “Too bad what happened. Whole family’s gone from here now, ’cept for that cousin. The house was sold, and the girls—Les and Sally—never do come back home. Guess they figger there’s nothin’ for ’em to come to.” He settled down on his stool, his back to the partition, and began to eat his pie. “Most young folks do leave these days. Not muc
h here for ’em to do.”
“That’s not quite right,” Jamison remarked. He picked up his fork and pulled his pie toward him. “McQuaid’s ex was here in town not long ago. Saw her myself, drivin’ a little bitty yella convertible. Joyce Dillard was with her.” He forked up a slug of pie. “Any idea why she came back here, after bein’ so long away?”
“Sorry,” McQuaid said. “I guess I don’t.”
Yeah, you do, the voice in his head said. She wanted to write an article, maybe a book. Only maybe she didn’t, not really. Maybe it was something else she was after. Somebody knew something, and she had to find out what and how much.
Jamison’s voice was flat. “You said you was here to do a favor for her. Anything we can help you with, McQuaid?”
“Maybe.” McQuaid heard what was behind the question and understood. He’d be asking the same thing, if he were Jamison, if this were his case. If Sally wasn’t his ex-wife.
He polished off his beans and turned his attention to the apple pie. “You mentioned Joyce Dillard. Sally went to school with her. She asked me if I’d give Ms. Dillard a message. So maybe you can tell me where to find her. I’ve tried calling her house, but she doesn’t answer.” Actually, he’d tried twice, no, three times. Once from the motel in Omaha, twice during the drive. “Probably at work,” he added. “Figured she’d be home tonight, bad as the weather is.”
Jamison and Joe exchanged glances. The silence lengthened. At last, Jamison said, “Well, that’s an interestin’ question, McQuaid, especially seein’ as how it’s the same question lots of folks around here have been askin’.”
McQuaid picked up his fork and pitched into his pie. Not as good as China’s, but fruity, spicy. “Out of town, maybe?”
“Could be, I reckon.” Jamison didn’t look up. “Nobody knows. Just gone.”
Joe filled a cup of coffee for himself, reached back to the pass-through, and picked up another plate of apple pie. He hooked a stool with one foot and sat down on the other side of the counter. “Real odd, though,” he said softly. “Got people worried.”
McQuaid heard the tone and was wary. “Ms. Dillard do this kind of thing often?”
“Not hardly,” Jamison said, pushing his plate away. “Joyce is the town librarian, only one we got. When she misses work, the library don’t open unless somebody from the Friends comes in. Old Miz Cramer has been mindin’ the desk in Joyce’s place, but she don’t open the library until noon, and from what I hear, she don’t know where things are or how to get the computer turned on. Folks’d like to get their librarian back.” He picked up his coffee mug. “So you can see why that’s such an interestin’ question, McQuaid.”
McQuaid looked from one to the other. “No idea where she is?”
Joe shook his head. “Car’s at the house. Dinner on the table. House is unlocked. Was,” he amended. “Reckon her dad’s locked it up by now.” He glanced at Jamison. “Am I tellin’ tales outta school, Hank?”
Jamison shrugged. “That was in last week’s paper, so I reckon the chief released the details.” He turned, watching McQuaid steadily now. “Just what kinda business you got with Joyce Dillard, McQuaid? I’d appreciate a straight answer, if you don’t mind.”
McQuaid was not surprised. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Joe’s shoulders tense. He didn’t want to give up too much, but he’d need to put down enough to keep him in the game.
“All right. When my ex-wife was here in town, Joyce told her that she had some information—might’ve been just a suspicion, maybe more than that—about who killed the Strahorns. Sally asked me check it out, see what I thought of Dillard’s story. Whether she knew what she was talking about. Whether there was any truth to it or not.”
“Oh, yeah?” Jamison asked. His voice was cooler now. “Did Joyce tell your ex-wife who this mystery killer might be?” He didn’t ask why Joyce hadn’t gone to the Sanders police with her suspicions, but McQuaid knew that’s what he was thinking. He was also wondering why Sally had kept this information to herself, why she had commissioned her ex-husband—a private investigator—to come nosing around instead. McQuaid found himself asking the same uncomfortable questions. He didn’t have any answers, either.
“Nope, she didn’t,” McQuaid said. “I wasn’t too keen on getting out in this weather, but I was up in Omaha on business, with a day to kill.” He shrugged. “Hell. You know how women are. Sometimes they get hold of you in a place where it’s kind of hard to say no.”
“You sure got that right,” Joe said, twisting his mouth.
McQuaid looked at Jamison. He knew, but had to ask it for the record. “Is Joyce Dillard’s disappearance under investigation?”
“You bet it is,” Jamison said.
“Her daddy’s a town councilman,” Joe put in. “Organized a search, been puttin’ up flyers, gettin’ it on the KC TV channels, even posting a reward. Twenty grand, dead or alive.”
“Forty,” Jamison said sourly. “He doubled it last night.” To McQuaid, he said, “The money’s good, but it brings in tips, a ton of ’em, most completely phony.”
“Makes it hard on you,” McQuaid said.
“Yeah.” Jamison’s mouth tightened. “We’re doin’ all we can, fast as we can, but there’s a limit to what we can follow up on.”
McQuaid knew. This was the sort of crime—if that’s what it was—that gave every policeman a serious headache. Abduction? Amnesia? Staged disappearance? By this time, the Sanders cops would have gone through the house carefully, and just as carefully, they’d have gone through Joyce’s relationships—or they would’ve, if they had the manpower to do it, which maybe they didn’t. This kind of investigation would be out of the usual for them, and the reward would bring out all the crazies. Too many tips, ninety-nine out of a hundred phony.
Jamison cleared his throat. “So you can see why it seems just a little coincidental, you might say. Here’s your ex-wife comin’ back to town and drivin’ Ms. Dillard around in her car. Then here you come, wantin’ to talk with Ms. Dillard and find out what she knows about the Strahorn murders. Unfortunately, Ms. Dillard isn’t around to give you any answers.” He paused, let the silence lengthen. “Get my point?”
McQuaid got it. He was about to answer when the door burst open behind him with a crash.
“Joe!” a girl cried. “Joe, you gotta help us!” It was one of the two girls who had gone out together.
“What is it now, Annie?” Joe asked with infinite patience. “How often I gotta tell you, it’s time for a new batt’ry? We can’t go pushin’ you two kids every time that ol’ clunker won’t start.”
Now, all three of them were looking at the girl. She was covered with melting snow, her boots and pants crusted with snow to the thighs, her hair spilling out from under the hood of her coat.
“It’s not the truck!” she cried, holding out her mittened hands, covered with snow, as if she had been digging with them. “We were headed back toward town when Meg spun out, and we went into the ditch. We were trying to dig ourselves out and we uncovered—” She gulped and closed her eyes.
Jamison got up from his stool and strode toward her. “Uncovered what? What’ve you found?”
“We found her!” the girl cried. “We found Miss Dillard, under the snow.” She burst into noisy tears. “We tried to dig her out, but—but we couldn’t!” The last was a wail.
“You poor thing,” Joe said sympathetically. “You get on over here and have a hot cup of coffee and some pie. You must be half-froze.”
Jamison had his jacket on and McQuaid was reaching for his. The girl sat down at the counter. She stopped crying, sniffled, and swiped her sleeve across her nose.
“Do you think we’ll get the reward?” she asked.
Chapter Ten
Holly is still the most popular of all evergreens used to decorate homes at Christmas, although in the past a variety of branches were used:
Spread out the laurel and the bay, For chimney-piece and window gay, Scour the brass gear—a
shining row And holly place with mistletoe.
Nevertheless the holly must be hung before the mistletoe, otherwise ill luck will come down the chimney on Christmas Eve.
Josephine Addison,
The Illustrated Plant Lore
No doubt a function of Holly inside the house was to deal, not only with demons and witches, but with the house goblins . . . Holly and Ivy would have subdued the house goblin precisely from ChristmasEve, when the decorations went up, to Candlemas Eve, when they were taken down.
Geoffrey Grigson, The Englishman’s Flora
After McQuaid agreed that he would drive down to Sanders and talk to Joyce Dillard, I clicked off, then punched in Justine Wyzinski’s number. McQuaid might be able to dig up the backstory, but if anybody could get Sally out of her current fix, it was Justine.
A couple of centuries ago, Justine and I sat next to each other in first-year criminal law at the University of Texas. Envious law students nicknamed her the Whiz, because she could whip a recalcitrant collection of facts into a comprehensible legal theory and persuade you of its validity while the rest of us were still trying to find our notes. I was wildly jealous of her and worked like hell to keep her from getting too far ahead—which earned me the nickname of Hot Shot. After a couple of years of competitive craziness, the Whiz and I both made Law Review, where our rivalry ripened into wary respect and eventually into friendship, which we continued when we graduated, passed the bar, and went into practice—I in a large Houston firm, Justine in private practice in San Antonio. When I left the law some years later, the Whiz publicly expressed the conviction that I was non compos and ought to be crated and shipped to the loony bin, while I told her that she was certifiably crazy to stay. But we haven’t let that little difference of opinion sabotage our friendship. I have called Justine when I needed her help. She’s asked me for a favor occasionally, too. I keep score. And if my tally was correct, she owed me one.
She recognized my number on her caller ID. “How the hell are you, Hot Shot?”
Holly Blues Page 16
