But there were other, darker possibilities. Ruby was right: she could have been involved with Leslie’s death, either alone or with Myers. Maybe she’d gone off with him, either voluntarily or—I shuddered—involuntarily. For all I knew, he had grabbed her, killed her, and dropped her into a ditch somewhere, a worry that had begun to take ominous shape in my mind since I’d learned about Leslie—and since the idea had come to me, in the phone conversation with McQuaid, that Myers could be the person Joyce Dillard believed was involved with the Strahorn murders. The person Dillard had named to Sally, whom Sally had refused to name to McQuaid. “That’s a reach,” McQuaid had said, and he was right. But the more I thought about it, the more chillingly plausible it seemed.
Thinking of McQuaid, I took out the phone to call him and find out what was happening at his end. When I clicked it on, I saw that there was a message from him. “Just got to Sanders. Bitch of a drive. Hope to hell this is worth it, China. You and Ruby be good tonight. Keep Sally out of trouble. Call me when you get a chance.”
I made a face. Keep Sally out of trouble. Oh, right. As if I could. I clicked the phone off. I’d wait to call him back until I had something definite to tell him about Leslie—and until he couldn’t tell me not to go to Lake City.
“McQuaid’s in Sanders,” I reported. “No news, otherwise.”
Ruby nodded. “So what are we going to do when we get to Leslie’s?”
I raised my eyebrows. “You mean, you don’t have a plan, Sherlock? I thought a sleuth like you would have everything all mapped out.”
“I might, if I knew where we were going, exactly,” Ruby said. “What do you think we should do, Watson?”
“How about if we split up?” I didn’t want to hurt Ruby’s feelings, but I wasn’t crazy about the idea of going door-to-door with Big Bird. “You go in one direction, I’ll go in the other. Somebody’s bound to be able to tell us something.”
Ruby settled back into the seat and stretched out her long yellow legs. “Sounds like a plan to me,” she said.
FORMERLY a stop on the old Overland Stage and Pony Express route from Dallas to Austin and San Antonio, Lake City has managed to keep much of its historic character. It is nestled in an elbow of the Little Blue River, about ten miles east of I-35 and a mile or so below the point where the Army Corps of Engineers built a flood-control dam back in the fifties. That was when Lyndon Johnson was securely settled in the Senate, looking out for his friends and supporters back in Texas, making sure that they had all the pork they needed.
But truth be told, pork isn’t always pork. The town—it was called Blue back then—was flooded every time the river rampaged, which happened at least once, sometimes twice a decade. The Little Blue’s watershed takes in a lot of territory. When the western Hill Country was deluged with what is locally known as a frog-choker, the downstream settlements were inevitably flooded. Bridges were destroyed, buildings were inundated, people and livestock drowned by the hundreds. Back in the thirties, Blue’s town fathers and mothers began lobbying for a dam, but most of the New Deal money that came to Texas went into the construction of dams along the Lower Colorado, forming the Highland Lakes. Blue had to wait for Lyndon to get elected in 1948, but by 1958, the town (much drier and a lot safer) had its dam and its very own lake—a recreational lake some ten miles long and six miles wide. It proudly renamed itself Lake City, reinvented itself as an art colony and tourist destination, and declared itself ready for an exciting new beginning. As time has gone on, the town—scarcely larger than a village—has gained a reputation as a center for fine Texas arts and crafts but has kept its zoning regulations strict, refusing to yield to the temptations of sprawl.
Dark had fallen when we drove into town, and the holiday lights were a welcoming sight. On this chilly evening, Lake City was all decked out for Christmas in festive garlands of green plastic fir and holly, studded with red berries, tied with huge red waterproof bows, and lit with thousands of fairy lights. The banner across Main Street declared that the town was celebrating a Festival of Lights from now until Christmas. There was a large, gaily decorated Christmas tree in front of a building that dated back to the stagecoach days. St. Mary’s Catholic Church, another historic structure, featured a softly lit nativity scene, and the juniper shrubs around the elementary school were draped in colored lights. A little snow might’ve been nice, but although a nippy north wind tossed the trees, the temperature was about fifteen degrees too warm for snow—and about ten degrees too chilly for comfort.
“I hope you know where you’re going,” Big Bird said to me. Ruby had pulled on her yellow hat as we drove through town, to complete what she considered her “cover story.” I had to admit that she was right about one thing. No self-respecting detective would be caught dead in such a costume. The cops would never suspect her of anything other than sheer lunacy.
“Yes, I know where I’m going.” I made a right turn at the second corner past the library. I was swept by sadness, thinking of where we were headed. One block south and two blocks west and we’d be there.
Ruby looked around with some excitement. “I know this street!” she said. “I used to visit Shannon, when she was teaching here. She only lived a couple of blocks away.” She looked out the window at the lighted street. “I remember several really cute little shops. One of them sells miniatures, down the street on the left. If I remember right, there’s a doll shop and a quilting shop. Oh, and a terrific little bakery that makes fabulous fruit-cakes. They ship them all over Texas.”
She paused, and her voice changed. “Odd. I feel . . .” She paused, wrinkling her forehead. I glanced at her. She was wearing her intent, listening look—another hunch, I supposed. Then she waved her hand, as if waving the feeling away. “I’m glad we came, China,” she said in a lighter tone. “I think we’ll find what we’re looking for.”
Leslie’s street, just a block behind the town’s main shopping district, was a mixed-use residential and retail neighborhood, an interesting potpourri of older homes and houses that had been turned into small shops—craft shops, collectibles, artists’ studios, boutiques—designed to appeal to tourists. The shop lights were on, and there were cars on the street. The shops were decorated, too, so that the whole block wore a festive air. The Festival of Lights, I supposed, and was pleased. The more people we could talk to, the more likely it was that we could find out something the Whiz could use.
Leslie’s house—a modest gray frame cottage with blue shutters, a big yard, and a large oak tree in the front—was seven doors down on the right. Her car, a Prius, was parked in front of the garage at the back of the lot, and the front of the house was decorated with strings of icicle lights and lighted red and white candy-cane poles. It looked like a gingerbread cottage.
I pulled up at the curb and turned off the ignition. “We’re here.”
Ruby tilted her head to one side and studied the small house. “I thought you told me once that Leslie got a lot of money from her parents’ insurance. Why was she living here? I would have thought she’d get something . . . well, bigger.”
“She did get a lot of money,” I replied. “She and Sally split a couple of million dollars.”
“Really?” Ruby whistled. “That much?”
“Yes. That much.” Sally’s share was long gone, of course—spent by Juanita, I supposed, or ripped off by the boyfriend who had “invested” it in the market for her, in some sort of Ponzi scheme being run by one of his friends. “Leslie liked the house and the neighborhood,” I added. “It’s within walking distance of her school, and several of her friends had shops on the street. She did some remodeling—put in a new kitchen and bath and refinished the wood floors—and stashed the rest of the insurance money into savings. She thought she might retire early from teaching and open a shop of her own.” I sighed. There would be no retirement now.
Ruby held up her tote. “Do you want to wear your Cookie Monster hat?”
“I think I’ll skip it. Thanks all the same.”
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“Well, it’s here if you need it.” She put her hand on the door handle. “Are we ready?”
“As ready as we’ll ever be,” I said, reaching into the back of the van to get the two boxes of Cass’ Thymely Gourmet dinners to go. We got out together and went up the walk, between the candy-cane lights, to the porch.
I had expected to see yellow crime-scene tape draped across the front of the house, but it wasn’t there, which suggested to me that—however Leslie Strahorn had died—it had happened somewhere else. The only thing out of the ordinary was a big black bow fastened to a large green holly wreath hung on the front door.
I went up to the wreath and looked at the bow. There was a long white tag hanging from it. It read, “In Memory of our favorite teacher, Miss Strahorn. We miss you! Love forever.” Beneath this, in their most careful cursive, were thirty-some children’s names. What a terrible thing to happen, just at Christmastime. If Leslie had been as generous with her love to her students as she had to Brian, losing her would be very hard for them.
I spoke past the lump in my throat. “I’ll take one of the boxes and go to the right, Ruby. You take the other box, and go to the left.”
Mesmerized, staring wide-eyed at the wreath, Big Bird didn’t answer.
“Ruby,” I said, and nudged her. “Wake up, Ruby. If we’re going to learn anything, we have to get started.”
Ruby started and came to life. “Sorry. I was . . .” She gulped and shook her head. “What are you going to tell people?”
“What you suggested seems like a good idea to me. We were asked by one of Leslie’s friends to deliver these dinners as a gift. But there’s nobody home, and there’s this black bow on the door, so we’re not sure what we should do. We’re trying to find out what happened so we can tell her friend, who will be anxious to know.” It was as good an explanation as any and better than some. I was actually glad that Ruby had thought it up.
So Big Bird hopped off in one direction; I went in the other. The house on the near right was dark, the front blinds were pulled, and there was a sign in the window: For Lease. I could skip that one, I decided. Too bad. Leslie’s next-door neighbors were the likeliest people to know what had happened.
The next house was clearly a residence, with well-tended perennial beds in the front, filled with salvias, artemisias, and even some parsley and sage. I raised the brass knocker on the red-painted door and rapped several times, but the occupants weren’t at home. I gave it up, went back down the walk, and on to the next. This house was also dark, but there was a small light illuminating the sign beside the door. Law Offices. Below that, the hours were posted: 10-3, Monday through Thursday. Lawyers’ hours. I didn’t bother to knock. Lawyers probably wouldn’t see any advantage to staying open for the Festival of Lights, unless they thought that somebody might slip on a banana peel and break a leg, in which event they would be on the case immediately.
The next place didn’t look very promising, either. It was an old-fashioned ice cream parlor that was having a special on hot chocolate garnished with scoops of marshmallow ice cream. The shop was really busy. I doubted if anybody behind the counter would have a minute to talk, or that the customers—tourists, probably—would know anything.
But then I struck pay dirt. The next place turned out to be Quilters Rule, the quilt shop Ruby had remembered. The front door opened into a large, brightly lit room—once the living room of the house, I guessed. Head-high wooden shelves along two walls were filled with bolts of cotton quilt material, neatly arranged by colors: browns, reds, and oranges, yellow, green, blue, an orderly rainbow of fabrics. Above the fabric shelves were displayed a half-dozen bright, beautifully patterned quilts of different sizes and shapes. There was even a round one in reds and greens—a quilted Christmas tree skirt. On another wall hung quilting hoops, rulers, squares, supplies, and racks of quilting books and patterns—enough tools and gadgets to supply any quilter’s addiction. Along the back of the room, there was a cutting counter and a cash register. And in the center of the room stood a quilting frame with a quilt stretched across it, and four women, two sitting on each side of the frame, needles in hand, heads bent over their work.
As I opened the door and came in, all four raised their heads and glanced up at me. They were in their forties and fifties, I judged. Two of them, the gray-haired ladies on the far side of the frame—looked to be identical twins. One woman, dark-haired and petite, wearing an apron that proclaimed Quilters Rule! got up from her chair and came toward me.
“Hello,” she said cordially. “May I help you find something?”
“I just stopped in to—oh, what a gorgeous quilt!” I exclaimed with genuine pleasure. I’m not a quilter. That’s Ruby’s department. But I’ve always admired beautiful quilts. I went to the frame and bent over it. “Such tiny stitches! Oh, I wish I could do that.”
“I’m sure you can, my dear,” said one of the twins. She was round, plump, and pink-cheeked, with a pair of gold-framed glasses on the tip of her nose. She was wearing a green bib apron over her dress, with a pocket in the bib and threaded needles stuck through it. “All it takes is a little—”
“Practice,” put in the other twin in an authoritative tone. She was equally round and plump, but her glasses were tortoiseshell and she wore a blue bib apron. She brandished her needle. “Of course, it helps to have a good teacher.”
“That’s where Molly comes in,” said the first twin, her very blue eyes twinkling over her gold-rimmed glasses. “She’ll be glad to give you—”
“Lessons,” said the other twin, who had the same blue eyes. “And Molly is the best teacher in the entire state of Texas.” She raised her voice a notch. “Molly, tell this lady about your classes.”
“Now, girls. Don’t gang up on the poor thing,” said the third woman with a chuckle. “Maybe she’s not ready for lessons yet. Maybe she just wants to see how it’s done.” She motioned to Molly’s chair. “I’m Ruth. That pushy pair over there are Ella and Emma. Ella’s on the right, in the gold glasses. Emma’s the other one. Sit down, dear. Let us give you a quilting demonstration.”
“Oh, but I don’t want to take anybody’s place,” I protested—but not too hard. I was thinking that a quartet of gossipy quilters might know something about what had happened to Leslie. I put the Thymely Gourmet box on the floor beside me, sat down, and took off my coat.
“It’s perfectly all right, really.” The woman in the apron—Molly, I assumed, who must be the owner of the shop—unfolded another chair from a stack in the corner and sat down beside me. “The more needles, the faster the quilting, that’s our motto. Anyway, there are usually five of us.” She sighed heavily. “We’re missing one of our favorite quilters.”
“Poor Leslie,” said Ella. “That’s her chair you’re sitting in, dear,” she added to me, with a mournful look. “We’re going to miss her very—”
“Very, very much,” Emma put in. “She was our neighbor.”
“Oh,” I said, understanding. “Do you live in the house with the red door? I knocked there, but you weren’t home.”
“Exactly,” Ella said. “We weren’t home because we’re here. We couldn’t have asked for a better neighbor, you know. Leslie was always so helpful and thoughtful. An utterly delightful person. She had such a—”
“—vivid personality,” Ella finished. “Those poor children at school. I don’t know how they’re going to deal with it. And the choir at church—however will we get along without her? She was a—”
“—sublime soprano,” put in Emma. “So inspirational. I don’t see how we’re going to sing the Hallelujah Chorus without her. She kept Mrs. Brasenwood from going flat.”
I had chosen far better than I had any right to expect. “I don’t understand,” I said. “Are you trying to tell me that something has—”
But Emma and Ella weren’t listening. “Give her one of your threaded needles, Ella,” Emma said, nudging her sister. “Let her try her hand at quilting.” To me, she said, “Do
you recognize the pattern?” Without waiting for me to answer, she said, “Every Texan ought to know this one. It’s a Texas Star. We’re making it for the school library. They’ll use the money to buy a new computer for the children.” She sighed heavily. “It was Leslie’s idea.”
“Leslie was always full of good ideas.” Ella echoed the sigh and plucked a needle out of the bib of her green apron. She handed it across the frame to me. “Here, my dear. Molly will show you where to start.”
I took the needle, although I wasn’t exactly sure what to do with it. I’m comfortable in the garden, but when it comes to—
“Right there,” Molly said and pointed to a place where the star, made out of several precisely-joined yellow and orange pieces, was set into the white material. “Just poke it in at a shallow angle and make the smallest stitches you can. Like this.” Expertly, she ran her sharp-pointed needle into the fabric, gathered it on the needle, repeated this two or three times, and pushed the needle through.
“She’ll need a thimble,” Ella said. “Emma, give her your spare.”
Emma fished in her bib pocket, pulled out a thimble, and handed it to me. I put it on my finger, and tentatively managed a few wobbly, uneven stitches.
“Bravo!” Ruth cried, leaning forward to inspect my work. “Why, you’re a natural! It’s just as if you’ve been doing this forever. You’ll be an expert quilter in no time . . .” She paused, raising a curious eyebrow. “I’m sorry—what did you say your name was?”
“China,” I said. “China Bayles. Actually, I stopped in to ask about Leslie Strahorn.” I put my needle down and improvised on the story I’d planned, although as I spoke, I realized that it was true, for the most part. “I’ve known Leslie for years. I’ve stopped in to deliver a Christmas present to her—a gourmet dinner prepared by a friend. But I’m afraid that something is terribly wrong. There’s a black bow on Leslie’s door, and you said—” I bit my lip and looked around the group. “Has something terrible happened to Leslie? She’s . . . She’s okay, isn’t she?”
Holly Blues Page 21
