Jamison reacted more strongly than he had expected. “Leslie? Little Leslie Strahorn, used to work at Joe’s?” He squeezed his eyes shut, opened them, shook his head. “Aw, hell.”
“Yeah,” McQuaid said, and was almost surprised at the pain he felt.
“Leslie.” Jamison was gruff. “Pretty thing, bouncy. Always a good word. Saw the bright side.”
“Yeah,” McQuaid said again and looked out at the dark.
There was a silence.
Jamison cleared his throat. “Puts a different light on things, don’t it?” he asked. “So how’re you reading it, McQuaid? What’s your take?”
McQuaid gave it to him—China’s argument. The argument she would make if she were sitting in the backseat, looking over their shoulders at that snowy ditch where Joyce Dillard’s body had been found. It didn’t take long.
Jamison rested the beer can on the dash. “So you’re pointing the finger at Jess Myers. You think he killed the Strahorns. Dillard, too. And Leslie. And you figure your ex-wife’s next?”
“It’s a possibility,” McQuaid said. “Make sense? You tagged Myers as a suspect in the Strahorn murders. You must have felt he was capable of doing the job.”
“We also tagged your ex,” Jamison said flatly. A muscle in his jaw was working. “Try this on for size, McQuaid. Sally Strahorn is going through a divorce—from you. She’s a little crazy and a lot desperate for money. She knows her folks have it but they won’t fork it over and she’s got to have it. She sweet-talks Jess Myers into robbing her folks. She unlocks her family’s gun cabinet. He gets the loaded Luger, waits for the Strahorns to come home from Wednesday night prayer meeting. There’s a ruckus, the Strahorns end up dead. Sally and Jess are in it together, whether it was meant to be murder or not. They split the cash that’s in the house. And when she finally collects her share of the insurance, she gives him a payoff.”
The voice in the back of McQuaid’s head said, I told you so, didn’t I? Could’ve happened that way. Except that it wasn’t Sally. It was the other one. The crazy one. Juanita.
The car was getting warm. McQuaid turned down the heater to low. “I thought you said Myers didn’t show any extra cash.”
“He didn’t. But that’s not to say he didn’t have it. He’s a close-hold kinda guy, secretive, keeps to himself. Could’ve stashed his share under his mattress for his retirement. Or put it into the stock market, or blown it in Vegas.” He grunted gloomily. “All kinds of places where a man can put money these days without anybody knowin’ about it.”
McQuaid wasn’t surprised that Jamison had this all worked out. He was a good cop. He hadn’t closed out any options. And Sally had been on the suspect list, too, which made for a natural pairing with Myers and took care of the problem of the unlocked gun cabinet. He could see the logic.
Well, good, snapped the voice. Maybe now you’ll toughen up, McQuaid. Get smart. See what’s real. Sally isn’t what you think, never has been.
Aloud, he said, “Don’t suppose you’ve got any evidence to support your theory,” knowing that if he had anything he could use to make a case, Myers and Sally wouldn’t be suspects. They would have been charged and tried. Convicted, most likely, since the Strahorns were much loved and it would have been hard to find an impartial jury.
“Not enough, but some.” Jamison gave him a grim half smile. “For starters, she was hanging out with him the week the Strahorns were killed. His neighbor thought she was sleepin’ with him, which would’ve made her parents livid, if they knew. And as I said, she was bouncin’ checks. Hittin’ on her folks for a loan. And fightin’ with them.” He shook his head. “Enough bad family feeling to motivate the shootings, McQuaid. It’s all in my notes from the original investigation.”
Hanging out with Myers, the voice said. Got that? Sally had been in terrible shape while the divorce was going through. Sanders was a small town, and gossip was a major recreational sport. McQuaid hadn’t supposed she’d come back home and start sleeping with one of her old flames, but he reckoned anything was possible, especially if Juanita was in the picture.
“You were chief then?” he asked.
“Yeah,” Jamison said shortly. “Couldn’t clear the Strahorn case, got replaced.” He gave an ironic chuckle. “It was Joyce Dillard’s daddy led the pack. I guess Patterson—he’s chief now, took over from the guy who took over from me—will find out how it works. Clear the case or take a demotion. Or, since it’s Dillard’s daughter who’s dead, maybe Patterson will get to walk the plank instead of just getting demoted.”
McQuaid understood, and knew what else was going through Jamison’s mind. If he could break the Dillard homicide—assuming that’s what it was—maybe he would get his old job back. If breaking the Dillard case also resolved the Strahorn murders, maybe he’d run for county sheriff. He’d get a lot of coverage in the local paper. He’d be a shoo-in. And from that position, he could thumb his nose at the Sanders town council.
“So how do you think Joyce Dillard figures in this?” McQuaid asked.
Jamison gave him a hard look. “Come on, McQuaid. That’s easy. She finds out who did the Strahorns and wants her cut of the take. Or maybe she’s a good citizen and threatens to blow the whistle on Bonnie and Clyde. Either way, that’s it for Joyce. Last act. Curtains.”
“You’re sure Dillard’s a homicide?”
“The back side of her head was smashed in, I could see that much. The body will go to the state lab. We’ll get the particulars back next week.”
“So maybe Sally was sleeping with Myers and hitting her folks up for money. That’s circumstantial.” McQuaid frowned. “You got anything else? Anything that a clever defense attorney can’t tear apart?”
Jamison’s jaw set stubbornly. “What else is I see her and Myers together when she was back in town last time. She stayed at that motel you asked me about. Sycamore Court. Day after, I see her with Joyce Dillard.” He paused for emphasis. “Then Joyce disappears.” He turned down the corners of his mouth. “This ain’t rocket science, McQuaid.”
“But it’s still circumstantial.” McQuaid tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. “You say you saw Sally with Myers?”
Jamison nodded. “Walking. In the park. They didn’t exactly look friendly. When she saw me, she did a fast fade. Beat it out of there. Didn’t want to talk to me.”
“Could’ve been a perfectly innocent connection,” McQuaid said. “She knew Myers from a bad time—also knew that he was a suspect in her parents’ deaths. He found out she was back in town and wanted to see her again. She wasn’t thrilled at the idea. Which was why she wasn’t friendly.” He gave Jamison a crooked grin. “And she faded when she saw you because she knew you’d harass her.”
“Yeah, it could’ve been like that,” Jamison allowed with a shrug. His voice hardened. “Could also have been a pair of coconspirators who’d had a falling-out over money or something else and were no longer on friendly terms. But they had a job to do—taking care of Joyce—and they had to figure out how to get it done. Which meant that they had to get together.”
“Yeah,” McQuaid said grimly. “I suppose it could.” He didn’t like it, but he could see it both ways.
Good, the voice said. Now you’re using your head. Being realistic.
Jamison tapped the rim of his can against the car window. “Word around town is that your ex has a serious psychological problem,” he said. “Multiple personality, way I heard it. What do you know about this?”
Don’t lie, the voice cautioned. Don’t protect her. If Sally—no, if Juanita had something to do with this—with any of it—she’ll have to pay the price. Whatever it is.
“Dissociative identity disorder is what it’s called,” he replied slowly. “I saw some evidence of it while we were married, but I was just a young, dumb kid. What did I know? Didn’t even hear about the diagnosis until a year or so ago. We got the word from Leslie, who keeps—kept—us in the loop.” He sighed. “Sally mostly stays away from us. She hasn’t
exactly been forthcoming about her problems, either, unless she wants to borrow money.”
Or wants to hide out, the voice said. Which is why she’s in Pecan Springs right now. She just didn’t count on Myers coming after her, that’s all. Probably thought she was clear of him.
Jamison eyed him. “The borrowing probably ended when the insurance came through, though. Two million was what I heard. After she and Leslie split it, she would’ve been livin’ high on the hog. Right?”
“For a while. It didn’t take her long to run through the money. There were always plenty of guys who were willing to help her invest it, spend it, give it away.” He knew this would add fuel to Jamison’s fire. The Strahorn murders were a cold case, but there had been a dead woman in that ditch, and Leslie was dead in Lake City. Three of these killings were on Jamison’s turf. The man deserved his cooperation.
The Chevy was rocked by a gust of wind. The snow was starting again, or maybe it was sleet, icy pellets flung against the car. In the distance, a pair of bright lights topped by a revolving red light came down the road toward them.
“Pete’s tow truck,” Jamison said, and began pulling on a glove. “He’s usually quicker’n this. Guess he had somebody else in the ditch and figured this one could wait.” He looked over at McQuaid. “You know Leslie Strahorn well?”
“Yeah, pretty well,” McQuaid acknowledged. He thought of that kiss and just as quickly pushed it out of his mind. There’d be time to think about that later. Time to feel more of the pain.
“What’s your take?” Jamison made a noise in his throat. “You think there’s a connection to what happened here?”
“I don’t think Sally is capable of killing her sister, if that’s what you’re suggesting,” McQuaid said flatly.
Maybe not, the voice put in. But you have no idea what Juanita is capable of. Maybe she did it. Or she and Jess Myers—or he did it for her.
“Not suggesting anything, yet.” Jamison pulled on the other glove. “I hope for your sake that your ex isn’t involved, McQuaid. But I’m going to give this my best shot. Lake City, Texas. That right?”
McQuaid nodded, knowing that—overtime or no overtime—Jamison would be on the line to Lake City and have all the details in front of him inside an hour. He’d also know that Lake City was looking for Sally as a person of interest.
“Yeah, right,” he said. “Lake City.” He fished for his wallet, retrieved a card, and handed it to Jamison. “Look. I don’t have easy access to the Lake City police, but you do. I’m going to go down the road and check in at the Sycamore Court. If you find out how Leslie was killed, would you give me a call at the motel and let me know?”
“Depends,” Jamison said. “But yeah, I will if I can.”
McQuaid nodded. “Good enough. I’m planning to fly out of KC tomorrow, earliest flight I can get. Should be back in Texas by midafternoon. You come to any resolution on the Dillard case, you’ll let me know that, too?” He didn’t think there was a chance of that happening, barring a confession from somebody—Myers? Sally? A hit-and-run driver? But he said it anyway.
“Right,” Jamison said, and got out of the car. He was closing the door when he paused and put his head back in. “Thanks, McQuaid. I appreciate it.”
“Yeah,” McQuaid said. “Same here.”
The door slammed. Jamison trudged off into the dark. McQuaid sat, considering.
Could she do it? Kill or conspire to kill her parents, her sister?
No, he thought, with that half-angry, half-guilty twinge he often felt when he thought seriously about Sally. Hell, no.
Yes. The voice was crisp, cool. Yes, she could. Not to say she did. But she could.
He had to leave it at that. But as he put the Chevy in gear, a call came in on his cell. He flicked it open. It was China.
Chapter Twelve
In A Christmas Carol, Charles Dickens puts these sarcastic words into the mouth of the holiday-hating, penny-pinching Ebenezer Scrooge: “If I could work my will . . . every idiot who goes about with ‘Merry Christmas’ on his lips, should be boiled with his own pudding, and buried with a stake of holly through his heart. He should!”
“Buried with a stake of holly through his heart”? What’s that about? Dickens is referring to the medieval idea that driving a stake made of holly (wood that was thought to protect against witches and other evil creatures) through the heart of a murderer might pin him down and keep his unsanctified spirit from rising up and terrorizing the neighbors.
China Bayles, “Hollies for Your Garden,”
Pecan Springs Enterprise
December days are short, and the evening sun was setting in a puddle of blood-red clouds by the time Big Red Mama got us through Austin, where the usual evening rush hour jam-ups slowed everyone down until the heavy outbound traffic shook itself out and began to move, thinning to a fast-moving stream as vehicles peeled off at the Round Rock and Georgetown interchanges, heading home to their sprawling subdivisions.
I can remember when Round Rock lay at the far northern perimeter of the Austin-area sprawl, with open land stretching to the horizon on either side of the north-south interstate. Ranches occupied the rocky, arid, grassland-and-juniper uplands of western Williamson County. Productive farms lay green across the eastern flatlands, where fertile soil and higher rainfall make it possible to grow good crops.
But no more. Fed by low-interest construction loans and subprime mortgages, Round Rock and Georgetown have merged and metastasized into an ugly octopus of supersized, overpriced McMansions and bloated retail shopping centers, with eager arterial tentacles stretching back into Austin, east to Texas Toll 130 and beyond, and west across the Hill Country to Cedar Park. Unless the current economic downturn and the rising price of gasoline slows development (which it might), the octopus will soon gobble up the entire countryside. The ranches and farms will be replaced by “luxury move-up homes” in gated “communities,” exclusive enclaves that are the antithesis of real neighborhoods, boasting vast lawns and golf courses paved with thirsty Bermuda grass and tasteful “installations” of expensive landscaping in place of mesquite trees, native grasses, and wildflowers.
The wild creatures will adapt, naturally. The coyotes are already learning to live out of trash cans. The deer will happily substitute rosebushes and well-watered garden vegetables for their native forage. And the hawks and buzzards will enjoy more roadkill feasts, since there will be more cars, trucks, hapless dogs, and unwary cats. But the Texas wilderness will be gone forever, and more’s the pity.
Lake City lies halfway between Georgetown and Temple, a few miles to the east of I-35, on the Little Blue River. As we turned off the freeway, I remembered, sadly, the happier times that McQuaid and I had driven in this direction, taking Brian to visit his favorite aunt or picking him up after he’d spent several weeks with her. Leslie had been a cheerful, energetic young woman with a great affection for her sister’s son. She loved playing games with him, loved taking him to fish at Blue Lake, where he always caught a stringer of bass, loved camping in the wilderness area at the eastern edge of the state park, which was far enough away from civilization to be imagined as a wilderness, at least by a ten- or eleven-year-old boy.
Brian had been thrilled by these adventures, especially when he turned over a chunk of limestone one day and found a lizard with saw-toothed scales and blue patches along both sides of its belly. Leslie had taken Brian and his lizard to a biologist friend who showed him how to identify it as a spiny lizard that went by the Latin name of Sceloporus olivaceus. Renamed Spike, the lizard came home to live with Brian. It was the beginning of his interest in how scientists think and the start of a passionate love affair with lizards, snakes, and other creepy-crawling creatures that persists to this day. The boy would be devastated when he learned that Leslie was dead. I was going to leave it to his father to tell him when McQuaid got back from Omaha.
“Why not Sally?” Ruby asked, when I told her this. “Isn’t she the logical one to tell him? She�
��s his mother. Leslie was her sister.”
The question had taken me momentarily aback. Why hadn’t I thought of Sally? Was it because—
Ruby put it into words. “It’s because you think she had something to do with Leslie’s death.” She gave me a sidewise look. “You don’t want to think it. You’re trying hard not to think it. But you know it’s possible. It could have been one of those Juanita moments. Now, couldn’t it?”
A Jaunita moment. Sometimes Ruby has an uncanny ability to hit the nail on the head.
I didn’t answer for a moment. Then I said, “I’m trying hard to be analytical about this, Ruby. I know Sally has problems—big ones. She has a long history of erratic behavior, and she doesn’t always know the difference between what’s true and what she’s made up. This Juanita stuff only complicates things. But I’ve been with her for the past couple of days. I’ve watched her with the kids, especially with Caitlin. I don’t think she could have killed her sister and still act like a normal person.”
Ruby laughed shortly. “Sally acting like a normal person is Sally acting abnormally, China. You know that. I know that.”
I swung out to pass a slower car, discovered that I was moving into a curve, and swung back into the lane again. “You’re right,” I said. “And yes, I know it. And if you don’t mind, I’d rather try to find out some facts before I start to speculate. In the meantime, why don’t you phone the Pecan Springs police and ask if Sally’s been picked up yet? I’ll feel better if I know she’s safe, even if it means that she’s locked up for a little while.”
A couple of minutes later, Ruby had our answer: no. The police still had Brian’s blue Ford staked out in the church parking lot, and there was a bulletin out on Sally, but she hadn’t been seen. And by now, I was seriously worried.
There were too many reasons for not being able to find her, all of them bad, some of them a whole lot worse. Sally had said the night before that she would leave Pecan Springs. Maybe that’s what she’d done. She parked Brian’s car, hopped a bus, and was off to another crazy adventure, with five grand in her pocket. That would be just like Sally, wouldn’t it?
Holly Blues Page 20
