Spanish Dagger

by Susan Wittig Albert

  “It was a killer,” I said, pulling off my jeans. “To make things worse, she has to move her mother to an assisted-living apartment tomorrow. Her sister can’t get to Fredericksburg to help until Sunday, so Ruby has her hands full. Which I guess is a good thing,” I added, unbuttoning my blouse. “I’m sure it would be a lot harder for her if she had to sit around and think about things.” Of course, Ruby would never just sit around and think. If she were here, she would be obstructing justice as much as possible—another reason to be glad that she was stuck in Fredericksburg.

  “Any developments in the investigation?” McQuaid’s eyes lightened as he watched me take off my blouse. He hasn’t been a cop for several years and is now allied with the tribe of private investigators, many of whom don’t have much respect for the police. But McQuaid still has a cop’s elitist ideas about who is qualified to poke around a crime scene, and I am not one of the anointed. I had already decided against telling him about my after-hours drop-in visit to Good Earth Goods.

  However, he didn’t seem terribly interested in the investigation just now. He was more interested in investigating me, an interest I was more than willing to encourage. I put my arms around his waist, leaned against his chest, and raised my lips for his kiss. He unhooked my bra, put his hand on my bare breast and whispered huskily, “I want you, China. God, I want you.”

  I returned his kiss with an unrestrained passion that testifies well to the health and sexual vitality of this marriage. We were still engaged in this mutually satisfying enterprise when the phone rang.

  “Drat,” I muttered.

  “It’s probably Jim Hawk,” McQuaid said. “Don’t go away—I’ll call him back.” One arm still around me, he reached out to snag the receiver. “Yo, buddy,” he said. Then he rolled his eyes and handed the receiver to me. “For you,” he said shortly. “Ruby.” He went into the bathroom.

  “Yo, buddy?” Ruby asked.

  “Man talk for ‘What are you up to tonight, pal?’ How is your mother?”

  “Much quieter, thanks to the lavender and the herbal tea,” Ruby replied. “I made up a clean bed and put some of the lavender oil on her pillow and in her bath, too. She drank a cup of tea—chamomile and passionflower—and she’s finally gone to sleep. Thank God. Let’s hope it lasts.” She paused. “Did you find Lucita’s telephone number?”

  “Dang,” I said. “I knew there was something I was supposed to do.”

  “China!” Ruby wailed disconsolately. “Don’t tell me you didn’t—”

  “I did, I did,” I said hastily. I glanced toward the bathroom. McQuaid had shut the door and turned on the shower, but I lowered my voice anyway. “I had to hunt for the calendar, but the phone number was just where you said it was. I checked it out. It’s the Sonora Nursery. Lucita turns out to be the bookkeeper there. Apparently Colin was buying some plants.” I didn’t say anything about my Cannabis suspicion since it was now entirely moot—just another false lead. “He probably didn’t pay his bill, or there was a question about his account, something like that.”

  “She’s a bookkeeper?” Ruby asked, surprised. “How’d you learn that?”

  “I got it from Marcy.”

  “Marcy?” Ruby was mystified. “Who is she? How does she know about Lucita?”

  I related the tale of the ponytailed ex–shop clerk who had dropped in to raid Colin’s cash register. At the end, I added, “According to Marcy, Colin and Wilford Mueller were feuding about the roof. Apparently, Mueller refused to make the repairs Colin thought were necessary. Do you know anything about that?”

  “Colin mentioned it,” Ruby replied. “He was pretty angry about it. In fact, he was threatening to take Mueller to court and force him to live up to the terms of the lease.” I could almost hear her frowning. “Wilford Mueller is a terrible old man, China. Do you remember what he did to Winnie Hatcher last year?”

  “What he was alleged to have done,” I reminded her dryly. “If you will recall, Mueller was never charged with the crime.”

  Wilford Mueller had petitioned the city council to give him a zoning variance on a rental property on the east side of town, and Winnie Hatcher—who is always outspoken about environmental concerns—cast the vote that kept him from getting it. For a small man, Mueller can make a lot of noise, and when he flew into a rage and began screaming swear words it took three guys to hustle him out of the council chambers. The next morning, Winnie got up to find the word BITCH painted in large red letters on the front of her house, and a gallon of red paint spilled across the porch floor. Unfortunately, nobody saw Mueller doing his dirty work, and he was smart enough not to leave any forensic evidence. The police hauled him in for questioning, but when he maintained his innocence and there was no proof to the contrary, they had to let him go.

  “I think you ought to talk to Wilford Mueller,” Ruby said decidedly.

  “I think Smart Cookie ought to talk to him,” I said. “It’s her case, you know. She’s got the leverage to pry out what he knows, if anything. She can threaten him with jail—I can’t.” I paused. “We’ve got another lead for her, too.” I told Ruby about the guy with the cop haircut that Darla had seen arguing with Colin in the First Baptist parking lot.

  “Darla isn’t very trustworthy,” Ruby cautioned. “She sees what she wants to see.”

  “So does everybody else,” I said. “We’ll let Sheila sort that one out, too.”

  “But you’re going to find this Lucita person and talk to her,” Ruby pressed.

  “I really don’t think that’s necessary. Lucita was probably trying to get in touch with Colin about his account, or something like that. It’s not worth—”

  “Oh, but it is,” Ruby insisted. “I have the strongest feeling that you should talk to this person. It’s important.”

  I don’t usually need any special encouragement for a visit to Sonora, and I’ve learned to respect Ruby’s hunches, even when they don’t make any sense. Anyway, it wouldn’t do any good to say no, or even maybe. Not when she insists. “Okay, okay. I’ll go.”

  “Thank you.” She sounded relieved. “I can’t explain why this matters. It just does. But there’s something else, China, maybe even more important. I remembered it when I was getting a carton out of the closet for Mom tonight. Colin left a box at my house awhile back.” Her voice became bleak and sad. “He was coming over to pick it up the night he was killed, but he never got there.”

  “Yes,” I said slowly. “I remember your saying that.” Of course, at the time, it was only a mention-in-passing, without any special significance. But that was before Colin was killed. Now, it mattered. Or maybe it mattered. “The box is still there, I suppose.”

  She took a breath. “Yes, on the shelf in the guest-room closet. An old shoebox.”

  “What’s in it?”

  “Pictures, he said. But of course I haven’t gone through them,” she added hastily.

  “You haven’t?” I was surprised. Ruby is not widely known for her self-restraint.

  “Well, I might have peeked, just a little,” she conceded. “It was only photos of guys on a hiking trip in the jungle. But now I wonder whether there’s something else in the box, something I missed.” Her voice cracked. “Anyway, Colin is dead now. Somebody murdered him. And I think we ought to know more about those photos, don’t you? Maybe there’s a clue to his killer.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Good. I’m glad you agree. So why don’t you go over to my house right now and get it? You’ve still got a key to my front door, don’t you? You can look at the stuff there, or take it back home with you, whichever.”

  “Right now?” I glanced down at my mostly naked self. “Sorry, Ruby. That’s out of the question. The only place I’m going is bed, with my husband. Anyway, I don’t think it’s so urgent that—”

  “Of course you don’t,” she snapped. “You always think that the police are going to solve a crime, and that ordinary people shouldn’t get involved because it’s obstruction of justice or som
ething like that. But deep in your heart, you know better, China Bayles. You’ve seen this happen before. The police are okay when it comes to collecting DNA and fingerprints and hair and all that technical forensic stuff, but they’re not so good at finding out why people do things, or figuring out what’s going on behind closed doors.”

  Ruby had a point, sort of. But before I could remind her that it was the “technical forensic stuff” that persuaded juries, she was going on, and getting more and more steamed up as she went.

  “Anyway, I am definitely not going to invite the police to go and search my house, especially when I can’t be there. They’d have to get a search warrant, wouldn’t they?” Before I could say yes, she added, “And they might get the idea that they could search just anywhere—in my undie drawers or my medicine cabinet.”

  I chuckled. “They couldn’t get a search warrant for your undie drawers, Ruby. Anyway, I need to know why—”

  “Because there could be a clue to the killer in that box!” Ruby exclaimed heatedly. “What more reason can you want?”

  “That isn’t what I meant,” I said patiently. “I’m curious about why Colin left those photos with you in the first place. There’s plenty of storage room at his house—enough for a shoebox, certainly. What did he say about it?”

  She didn’t answer for a moment. “Why?” she repeated slowly. “Let me think.” There was another pause. “I don’t remember that he actually said why he was leaving them with me. He just said he wanted to and I said it was okay. Sort of no big deal, at the time.” She whuffed out her breath. “If you won’t go tonight, I guess tomorrow morning will do. First thing. But when you go, you may need to push on the front door, or bang on it or something. It’s been sticking, and I haven’t had time to get it fixed.”

  “I thought I was going to talk to Lucita first thing tomorrow,” I objected.

  “Right after that, then.” There was a moment’s silence, and when she spoke again her voice was heavy with grief and edged with anger. “I just want to find out the truth, China. I have to know what happened, and why. Somebody murdered him. I have to know who.”

  “I understand,” I said penitently. Of course she was upset—who wouldn’t be? It wouldn’t hurt me to do what she asked—in the morning, though. Not tonight. “I’ll go to Sonora and then to your house. But I really need to take—”

  “And you’ll call me as soon as you’ve learned anything?” she persisted.

  In the background, I heard a door open, and Doris’ querulous voice. “Ramona! Who is that you’re talking to? If it’s Ruby, tell her she has to get over here, right now. I don’t understand why she doesn’t come. I’m having a heart attack—doesn’t she care?”

  Ruby managed a small laugh. “I guess we need another cup of tea.”

  I abandoned what I had been about to say: that I intended to take Sheila or one of her officers with me to get that box. It might contain nothing but family photos or something equally innocuous, or it might contain evidentiary material. The O. J. Simpson case demonstrated that the evidence trail can be as important as the evidence itself, and we were definitely talking chain-of-custody here. A smart defense attorney can get evidence thrown out or discounted if he can show that it might have been tampered with somewhere, somehow, by some unknown person. I know. The custody card is one I’ve occasionally played myself. I wasn’t going to load the deck against the prosecution.

  “Fix the tea, dear,” I said soothingly. “Drink some yourself, and then go to bed and get some sleep. It won’t do your mother any good for you to fall apart.” We said good night.

  As I put down the phone, McQuaid came out of the bathroom, toweling his dark hair. He was still damp, butt naked, and very sexy. “How is she?” he asked.

  “Sad. Angry. Trying hard not to lose her cool with her mother. Doris is in pretty bad shape.” I went to him and put my hands on his shoulders, thinking how lucky I was that we were here together. “Yum.” I kissed him. His lips were cool. They tasted like soap. “Yum, yum.”

  He put his arms around me and pulled me against him. “I’m glad your mother isn’t losing her marbles,” he said, nuzzling my neck.

  “Or yours,” I replied. I shivered as he blew into my ear. “Although there’s always tomorrow.” Doris had seemed to be all right just a few weeks ago, and now—

  “No, there isn’t.” McQuaid made a lecherous sound deep in his throat. “There’s only tonight, woman.” And with that, he scooped me up and dropped me onto the bed.

  “Tarzan,” I said, pulling him down on top of me.

  “You bet,” he growled.

  We had just got to the best part when the phone rang.

  “Good grief,” I said with resignation. “Ruby’s probably thought of something else she wants me to do.”

  McQuaid said something disgusting and reached for the phone. He handed it to me. “Tell her you’ll call back later.”

  I spoke blurrily into the phone. “McQuaid says I’ll call back later.”

  “Come again?” asked a surprised voice, strong and assertively male.

  I refrained from replying that I hadn’t quite had time to come the first time and thrust the phone into McQuaid’s hand. “It’s not Ruby.”

  McQuaid sat up. “Yeah? Oh, Hawk.” His voice warmed. “Hey, buddy. What’d you find out?”

  Jim Hawk, Houston PD, Homicide Division, retired. There was a silence as McQuaid listened intently. I could hear a man’s deep, resonant voice, but couldn’t make out any of the words. But that was okay. I didn’t want to. This was that business about my father—a mystery that I was content to leave unsolved.

  “Oh, yeah?” McQuaid said with interest, when the man finished speaking. “What about Spurgin?”

  Another silence, more listening. And then, “They were both working on the same couple of stories, huh? I guess that means I’d better drop in at the Chronicle and talk to Murray, if he’s still there. He is? Well, that’ll certainly simplify things.”

  A longer pause, McQuaid beginning to grin. “Hell, yes, Hawk, if you’re interested. I can ask, but I can’t guarantee that the client will ante up for an additional investigator.”

  The grin got wider as Hawk said something else. “In that case, welcome aboard, buddy. It’ll be great to work with you again, too. I can get there by ten thirty. I’ll swing past your place and pick you up.” And with that, he hung up the phone and turned eagerly to me.

  “Hawk pulled both the Vine and the Spurgin files this afternoon. Turns out that the cold-case team took a look at both of the cases last year and dug up some interesting connections in the stories the two journalists were working on. The team couldn’t find enough to warrant reopening the cases for a full investigation, but at least we’re not starting from scratch. Luckily, Clyde Murray is still at the Chronicle. If I suggest that there might be a story in this, he may let me have a look at the reporters’ notes. And Hawk wants to work on the case gratis, for old time’s sake. He’s a good man, and he’s on the ground there in Houston. Might save me a few trips.”

  “Peachy keen,” I said, folding my arms across my bare breasts. “Go get ’em, Chief.”

  He leaned on his elbow, looking down at me, one dark eyebrow quirking. “Hey. You’re mad at me.”

  “I am not mad.”

  “Yes, you are. You’re pouting.” He touched my lower lip, which was only slightly protruding. “See that? That’s a pout. But it’s pretty. Kissable, too.” He bent down and kissed it lightly.

  I put my arms around his neck. “I’m not pouting.”

  He kissed me again, with greater dedication. “You’re mad because I took your brother’s case.”

  “Miles is not my brother. He’s my half brother.”

  He kissed my throat. “Your half brother. Your rich half brother, who can afford to hire a PI who hasn’t brought in a paycheck lately.” He kissed my breast. “Now, where were we when the phone rang?”

  I took his hand and moved it to the right place. “There,” I
said. “That’s where we were.”

  There were no more interruptions.

  I dreamed about my father that night. In my dream, I am walking along the freeway where he died. It is dark, and raining, and I am wondering what I am doing out here by myself, without a jacket or umbrella, on such a wet, chilly night. A car, my father’s blue Cadillac, roars past me fast, so fast the tires are smoking, like a cartoon car. And then it takes off—ZOOM—and sails over the guardrail, down the embankment, cartwheeling end over end until it reaches the bottom and bursts into a savage bloom of flame. I stand dispassionate and staring, thinking how sad it is that I can’t cry, can’t feel anything at all. And then Buddy is beside me, in the leather jacket and tight jeans he wore when we were teenagers, and he is crying, huge, ugly sobs that come from his gut and tear the night open. I think how odd it is that he can cry and I can’t, and then the sky is split by a shriek of a siren so fierce that it shakes me.

  When I awake, my face is wet with Buddy’s tears.

  Chapter Nine

  BREAKFAST TACOS, SOUTHWEST STYLE

  1 pound ground pork sausage

  2 cloves garlic, minced fine

  1 tablespoon balsamic vinegar

  2–3 teaspoons chile powder

  4 eggs

  1 teaspoon ground cumin

  1 green onion, chopped fine

  1 Roma tomato, diced

  1 cup diced cooked potatoes salt and pepper to taste

  8 ounces grated Cheddar cheese

  8 flour tortillas

  salsa

  Fry sausage with garlic, vinegar, and chile powder until brown. Push to one side of the skillet. Beat eggs with cumin, onion, and tomato. Cook egg mixture in the skillet with the sausage, stirring until softly set. Add potatoes and mix all together. Add salt and pepper to taste. Warm flour tortillas in oven or microwave. Fill with sausage/egg/potato mixture. Sprinkle with cheese and roll tightly. Serve with salsa. Can be refrigerated or frozen and reheated in the microwave.