Spanish Dagger

by Susan Wittig Albert

  “Well, if it isn’t China Bayles!” she bellowed, as I put my key into Ruby’s front door. “And Mae Belle Battersby. Mae Belle, hon, you’re lookin’ awful pert in that uniform. How’s Lester these days? That ol’ boy feelin’ any better?”

  Mae Belle pulled her mouth down. “Lester’s not so good, Miz Wauer. It’s his ankles. Swelled up like balloons.” Lester is Mae Belle’s husband, who seems to be on permanent disability. Mae Belle supports not only him, but also a pair of young grandchildren currently living with them.

  “That’s because he don’t get out enough, Mae Belle,” Mrs. Wauer said sternly. “You got to get up off your lazy ol’ buns and walk, ever’ day. Me, I do three laps of the backyard, fair or foul.” She looked fondly down at Oodles. “Oodles laps, too, don’t you, baby?”

  Oodles, thus directly addressed, ran twice around Mrs. Wauer and gave a flurry of intelligent barks.

  “He says laps are good for us,” Mrs. Wauer translated with satisfaction. “Good for Lester, too.” She raised her voice another notch, as if I were standing three doors down the block and were hard of hearing to boot. “China, what d’you hear from Ruby? How’s her poor old mother?”

  “About the same,” I bellowed back, turning the key.

  “She steal any more of them silk scarves from Dillard’s?” Mrs. Wauer cried. “Mae Belle, you heard about that? Doris went and got herself in trouble with the law.”

  “Well, that’s not exactly what happened,” I said, lowering my voice. Mildred Ewell, who lives across the street, had come out on her porch. It was a beautiful morning, but she was wearing her usual red plastic raincoat and green rain hat and carrying a blue-and-white-striped umbrella, furled. Mildred likes to be prepared. “It’s a rather unfortunate situation, and—”

  My voice was drowned out by Oodles’ yaps. He has not liked Mildred Ewell since she smacked him on the rump with a newspaper. Poodles have a long memory.

  “Oh, it’s a pity, all right,” Mrs. Wauer said, with a shake of her head. “Poor old Doris. Couple of sandwiches short of a picnic, is what I hear.” She pressed her thin lips together. “Comes of livin’ like a canary in a cage, shut up in that place. I told her that, when she fixed it up to move over there. I told her it was a good way to go batty, which is what she’s gone and done. Nuttier’n a jaybird at pecan harvest.” She looked down at her poodle. “Isn’t that what you hear, Oodles?”

  But Oodles didn’t answer. He was jumping up and down, snapping his teeth and telling Mrs. Ewell that if she didn’t go straight back into her house, he would leap off the porch and sink his needlelike fangs into her ankle.

  Mrs. Ewell paid no attention. She had unfurled her umbrella against the glare of the morning sun and was marching down the walk, obviously intending to join our conversation. Feeling that Mae Belle and I had better get inside before the whole neighborhood turned out to discuss Ruby’s mother’s mental condition, I pushed at the door. It was unlocked, but it seemed to be stuck. Ruby’s house is an old Victorian with lots of gingerbread. Something always needs repair.

  “Best place for old folks is right next door to their kids,” Mae Belle remarked sagely. “Miz Bayles, you need a hand? Them old doors ain’t always too cooperative.”

  “Ruby goin’ to stay over there at her mother’s for a while, is she?” Mrs. Wauer persisted, as Mildred Ewell came across the street, ignoring Oodles, who had gone into attack mode and was flinging himself at the folding gate. Mrs. Ewell is ten years younger than Mrs. Wauer, and gets around much better. She’s also the editor of the Herb Guild’s newsletter and a regular customer at Thyme and Seasons—not someone I want to antagonize.

  “Good morning, China,” she said, raising her voice over Oodles’ furious yaps. “I see that Ruby has not gotten around to fixing her front door yet. I offered to send Chester over to help, but she said no.”

  Mrs. Ewell’s son, Chester, a bachelor, is all of fifty-five years old, weighs about two hundred pounds, and has lived with his mother all his life. He’s been sweet on Ruby ever since she moved in. I could guess why she hadn’t taken Chester’s mother up on the offer of help, but I could hardly say so.

  “She probably thought she could fix it herself,” I said apologetically, giving the door another hard push. “Ruby is independent that way.”

  “We are all in need of help at some times in our lives,” Mrs. Ewell remarked knowingly. “That’s what neighbors are for—to help. Chester could be a big help to Ruby, if she’d only let him. I’ve never been impressed by all that female liberation. Let the men help, is what I say.”

  “I’ll be glad to help with that door,” Mae Belle offered. “Don’t look like it wants to budge.”

  Lunging against the gate with increasing ferocity, Oodles offered to escort Mrs. Ewell back home.

  “Speaking of fixing,” Mrs. Wauer yelled, “tell Ruby I said that man came last night and fixed her meter. He said she wanted it done.”

  “Fixed her meter?” I repeated blankly. “Water meter? Gas meter? Electric meter?”

  “I don’t know, now do I?” Mrs. Wauer replied loftily. “All I know is, it’s in her guest room. You’d think a meter would be in the basement, or the garage or out back somewhere, so’s it’s easy to get to when it needs fixin’. But no, this meter’s upstairs.”

  The guest room. Beginning to feel urgent now, I put my shoulder to the door and pushed, without any luck. “How do you know he was a meter man?” I asked, pushing again.

  “’Cause I asked him,” she replied. “And ’cause he was wearing a khaki meter-man uniform, and a brown cap with a bill, like a baseball cap, and he had a clipboard and a big key ring with lots and lots of keys. Oodles and me was doing our last lap about dark last night, when he went up to Ruby’s back door. I told him she wasn’t at home, and he said in that case, he’d go right on in, which he did. I asked him who he was and he said he was from the electric company and they’d had a report of an overload on her meter. O’ course, if he hadn’t told me, I would’ve gone straight to the phone and called the police.” She cast a glance at Mae Belle. “Right, Mae Belle? That’s what you’re s’posed to do, isn’t it? Ask folks to ’dentify theirselves.”

  “That’s right, Mrs. Wauer,” Mae Belle said reassuringly. “You call the police. We’ll be here quicker’n you can say hop toad.” To me, she said, “You oughta let me try that door, Miz Bayles. You just ain’t big enough.”

  “I could send Chester,” Mrs. Ewell offered, as Oodles, bouncing up and down on his hind legs, barked furiously.

  “Okay, you try,” I said to Mae Belle, who outweighs me by thirty pounds. “But just lean on it. Don’t break it if you can help it.” To Mrs. Wauer, I said, “How did he get in? And how did you know that the meter is upstairs?”

  “Guess he had a key. He sure had a bunch on his belt, anyhoo. I figgered he had a right. And I know the meter’s upstairs ’cause my kitchen window looks out on Ruby’s stair window. I seen his flashlight, goin’ up the stairs.”

  Keys on his belt. Just because a door has a lock on it doesn’t mean that it is secure. Most locks are generic enough to be unlocked by one of several different master keys. “What did he look like?”

  Mrs. Wauer looked doubtful. “Like your ordinary meter man, I s’pose.”

  “He had blond hair,” Mrs. Ewell put in, “cut real short, like he was in the military, and big shoulders. I know because he came to my house first,” she added in an explanatory tone. “He had Ruby’s address written down on his clipboard, but it was wrong. When he said he was looking for Wilcox, I sent him across the street.” She smiled thinly. “I believe in being helpful.”

  Blond hair, cut short. Big shoulders. I thought of the man who had confronted Colin in the First Baptist parking lot. The man who had come to collect what Colin owed him.

  There was a solid oomph! Mae Belle had put her shoulder to the door.

  “Did you see the vehicle this man was driving?” I asked Mrs. Ewell.

  “A blue van,” she said promptl
y. “It was parked right out front. It—”

  But at that moment, Oodles’ gate collapsed under his repeated attacks. He rushed down the steps with a wild energy, teeth bared, six pounds of furious poodle.

  “Oodles, you naughty boy!” cried Mrs. Wauer. “You come back here, right now!” But Oodles was giving chase to Mrs. Ewell, who danced backward, defending her ankles with her open umbrella, using it like a medieval shield. I would have liked to see who won, but at that moment, there was another oomph! and a thud. The door had flown open.

  “Don’t think it’s busted,” a victorious Mae Belle reported cheerfully. “But you tell Miz Wilcox she oughtta have Chester give it a look real soon. It’s stickin’ in the frame somethin’ fierce.”

  But I was already pushing past her, taking the stairs two at a time. “Come on,” I yelled over my shoulder, and Mae Belle barreled up the stairs behind me. I took a right at the top of the stairs and ran into Ruby’s guest room. The closet door was standing open, and the top shelf was bare. Colin’s shoebox was gone.

  “Aw, hell,” I said disgustedly.

  “What does that mean?” Mae Belle asked, putting her hands on her hips.

  “It means that what we came for is gone.” The blond, burly man with a crew cut had come to collect whatever Colin owed him—at least, that was one hypothesis. “The Eyes of Texas” tinkled in my shoulder bag. I pulled out my cell phone.

  “We found her!” Ruby said triumphantly.

  “Oh, good,” I said, mouthing, “It’s Ms. Wilcox” to Mae Belle. “You must be relieved. Where was she?”

  “In her car,” Ruby said. “She took the car keys off the board in the office—again—and locked herself in the car. Again. Triple A came out and unlocked her.” She raised her voice over a sudden commotion in the background. “The moving men are here. They’re taking her furniture to the new apartment, and she’s a bit upset about it.”

  That was an understatement. I could hear loud thumps and bumps and Doris, using some very unladylike language.

  “I’ve got to go,” Ruby said, sounding harried. “She’s arm wrestling the moving man for a lamp.”

  “Wait!” I said. “I’ve got something to tell you. About Colin’s box.”

  “Oh, good,” Ruby said. “You got it. Well, I’m glad something went right this morning.”

  “But it didn’t go right. Somebody let himself into your house last night—somebody from the electric company, Mrs. Wauer says. He knew the box was in the guest room closet. He took it.” I glanced around. “He doesn’t seem to have taken anything else, or done any damage.”

  “Took it?” Ruby echoed, nonplussed. “But why? Who? How did he get in?”

  “I think it was the same man that Darla saw with Colin in the church parking lot,” I said. “Mrs. Wauer said he had a bunch of keys. He probably had one that fit your back door lock.” I paused. “Did Colin have a key?”

  “Yes, but he wouldn’t—And why in the world would somebody from the electric company want a box of photos?” Ruby asked, in a dazed-sounding voice. And then, answering her own question: “Because he wasn’t from the electric company! And because there was something else in the box. A clue to Colin’s murder! China, you’ve got to find that man. And that box!”

  “Yeah, right,” I said dryly. “Piece of cake. Listen, Ruby. I told Sheila that you’re planning to adopt Colin’s dog, and she said you needed to pick him up right away, so he doesn’t run amok and eat all the neighbors. And I said—”

  “But I can’t pick him up!” Ruby wailed. “He’s there, and I’m here, and my mother—” There was a loud bang! in the background.

  “You don’t have to pick him up. I told Sheila I’d go over to Colin’s and get him. I’ll take him to my house.”

  “Oh, good,” Ruby said, relieved. To her mother, she said, “Yes, Mom, just wait. I’ll fix it.” To me, she said, “You’re sure it will be okay with McQuaid? I wouldn’t want to—”

  “It’ll be fine,” I said briskly. “But I can’t pick up the dog until lunchtime. I’ve got to go to the police station and get my car, then go to the shop and open up.” I checked my watch. “And I have just ten minutes to get there.”

  “Don’t worry, Miz Bayles,” Mae Belle said, putting a comforting hand on my shoulder. “We’ll get there in a jiffy. I’ll put on the siren for you.”

  On the way, I called Sheila and let her know that Colin’s box was gone, taken by a burly blond meter man with a crew cut, driving a blue van. I won’t tell you what she said. She was definitely not happy.

  Chapter Eleven

  CHINA BAYLES’ TEXAS TARRAGON VINEGAR

  Texas tarragon is another name for Mexican mint marigold (Tagetes lucida), which Southern gardeners like to grow as a fragrant, anise-scented substitute for tarragon.

  Fill a quart jar half full of fresh Mexican mint marigold leaves, washed, drip-dried, and bruised with the back of a spoon. Cover with apple cider vinegar, add a lid, and let set in a dark place for several weeks, until the flavor has developed to suit you. Strain and rebottle. Add to mayonnaise, or mix with honey, mustard, and crushed garlic for a tangy vinaigrette.

  Cass had already come in and was doing her morning thing in the kitchen of the tearoom, banging pots and pans and whistling. Missy had opened the Crystal Cave and was dusting Ruby’s shelves while she listened to whale songs. And Carole Gaye was waiting for me when I unlocked the door to Thyme and Seasons and turned on the lights.

  “How is she?” she asked worriedly. “How’s Ruby? How did she take the news about Colin?”

  “It was hard, but she’ll survive.” I propped the door open with a ceramic frog filled with aloe plants. As the morning sunlight flooded in, I tied my khaki Thyme and Seasons apron over my jeans and pulled the cash drawer from its hiding place under the counter. “But her mother isn’t well at all. Looks like Ruby will have to be in Fredericksburg for a few more days.” I put the drawer into the cash register and adjusted the tape.

  While I was doing this, Missy came in through the door that connects Ruby’s shop to mine. I hated to alarm either of them by telling them what had happened at Sonora that morning, but they’d probably hear about it, one way or another. I got the broom, and while I gave the floor its morning sweeping, I told the story, as briefly and with as little gore as possible.

  Missy stared at me, wide-eyed. “Ohmigod,” she whispered, when I’d finished. “What an awful thing, China!”

  “Do you have any reason to think the two killings are related?” Carole asked anxiously.

  “The police may be working on that theory,” I said evasively, hanging up the broom. “But if you don’t mind, I would really like to forget about it. Sheila’s in charge, and I’ve done what I can. It’s all up to the cops now.”

  The bell over Ruby’s shop door tinkled, and Missy went back to tend her customer. I picked up my feather duster and began to flick dust off the book rack. “Anyway, there’s plenty to keep us busy,” I went on. “How’s the workshop prep coming along? Do you need any help? Are we all set for tomorrow?”

  “I think we’re fine,” Carole said with an understanding glance, and did her part to change the subject. “I’m enjoying your guesthouse, China. I had a wonderful night’s sleep.” She glanced around. “And this morning, I’ve been wandering through your gardens—I love them. I love what you’ve done with your shop, too. It feels so wonderfully peaceful here.” She bent to sniff a bar of fragrant soap, then straightened up, a concerned look on her face. “But there’s something I meant to mention to you. Yesterday evening, a delivery man knocked at the door of the guest house and asked for Ruby’s address. We tried to look her up in the phone book, but it turns out that she’s not listed.”

  “She went unlisted last year.” I frowned. “A delivery man? What did he look like?”

  “A big guy, tall, big shoulders.” Carole used her hands to demonstrate. “Blond hair, buzz-cut. Very polite.”

  Oh, hell. The meter man. Why was I not surprised? “Did you
give him her address?”

  A guilty look crossed her face. “I did. I wrote it down on his clipboard for him. But afterward, I realized that the address I gave him was wrong. Whatever he was delivering, he probably left it across the street. Please tell Ruby that I hope I haven’t caused a problem.”

  “I’ll mention it to her,” I said. “But don’t worry about it.” There was no point in going into the whole story. At least now we knew how the meter man got to Mrs. Ewell’s house.

  Carole nodded. “I got up early this morning and pulled some yucca paper from the plants we gathered yesterday. The sheets are drying now. At lunchtime, maybe you can come back to the cottage and take a look.”

  “I’d like to, if there’s time,” I said. “But I’ve got to do something about Ruby’s dog.”

  “Her dog? I didn’t know she had a dog.”

  “She didn’t,” I said. “But she does now. She’s adopting Colin Fowler’s Rottweiler, and I have to go pick him up. He’s going to stay at my house until she gets back.”

  “A Rottweiler!” Carole exclaimed. “But they’re vicious! Back home, Rottweilers are on the dangerous dog list. They’re banned. People can’t keep them.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said, frowning. “All Rottweilers are banned? The entire breed?”

  She nodded earnestly. “If I remember right, the list also includes Dobermans and pit bulls—really aggressive dogs. I hope Ruby will have second thoughts.”

  “But surely not all of the dogs of those breed ought to be banned,” I protested. “That would be like…well, like ordering all the Smiths to move out of Pecan Springs, just because some guy named Smith got jailed for putting down too many beers on a Saturday night and going after his mother-in-law with a hammer.” I paused, seeing other intriguing difficulties in this. “And what if the dog’s mother was a Doberman and his dad was a loose-living Labrador? Who decides whether a mixed-breed dog is on the list? And what does it cost to enforce a law like this?”