Blood Orange: A China Bayles Mystery

by Susan Wittig Albert

  Miriam and her team of volunteer gardeners had already left, and I was in no mood to work in the garden. But Caitie had after-school orchestra practice and I wasn’t supposed to pick her up until five. I swept the floor, dusted the shelves with my handy-dandy feather duster, and finally sat down at my desk to update the sales tax report, a job I hate so much that I put it off until the state of Texas begins to make threatening gestures in my direction.

  But stare as I might at those little green numbers doing pushups across my computer monitor, what I saw were those two sumo-size problems. I might be able to push Kelly Kaufman off to the sidelines, but I couldn’t stop thinking about McQuaid. I was obviously far more bothered than I wanted to admit by Charlie’s revelation that my husband was not working for him in El Paso. In fact, it was all I could do not to take out my cell phone, call McQuaid, and let him know what I was thinking.

  But what was I thinking? I finally made myself face that question. And I didn’t like the answer I came up with.

  This may sound strange, but the problem, as I had been seeing it for some time, was that my marriage to McQuaid was tranquil, settled, and stable. We cooperated to get the necessary things done around the house and in our two businesses, and we did what we needed to do to make life comfortable for each other and safe, interesting, and fun for Caitie, the one remaining child at home. We spent our days at work, and our evenings at home were quiet, almost placid. We might disagree over minor things, but there wasn’t a lot of conflict or controversy, which should be a good sign, wouldn’t you think? And sex is just fine, thank you very much, and well above the curve, at least in my experience.

  But it seemed to me that we were living on a plateau, in a landscape where there wasn’t a lot of excitement or romance or mystery or surprise. For all I knew, of course, this was the plateau that every midlife marriage settles into, when a lot of the getting-there goals and challenges have been met. This might be what marriage is, as married couples relax into the long haul together. Which wasn’t a problem—unless you happen to be longing for excitement, romance, mystery, or surprise.

  And maybe I wouldn’t have thought of this as a personal problem if I hadn’t begun to notice, a few months before, that McQuaid’s job was taking him out of town much more regularly. And not just for a day or two, either. He wasn’t teaching at the university this semester, which meant that he didn’t have to stick around to meet his classes, and lately, he’d been gone for a week or ten days at a time. When he was home, he was a little distant—well, not distant, exactly. Just preoccupied, as if he had something on his mind.

  And now this.

  So. This what?

  Well, for starters, this whatever-McQuaid-was-doing out there in El Paso that he wasn’t doing for Charlie Lipman, who hadn’t used him for a month or more. Although now, thinking about it, I wasn’t sure that he’d actually said he was working for Charlie. I think maybe I just assumed that he was, since he hadn’t mentioned the name of another client.

  But the thing of it was . . . well, the thing of it was that Ranger Margaret Graham was in El Paso, too. Or was she? I saved the computer file—the damned tax report wasn’t actually due for another week, anyway—and sat back in my chair, thinking.

  I’d learned from Sheila that Margaret had been promoted and reassigned to the West Texas Ranger field office. But that had been a year or so ago. There were six field offices in Texas, plus the Austin headquarters, and the Rangers moved around quite a bit. And even within the West Texas office, the Rangers were stationed in various far-flung outposts—Midland, San Angelo, Fort Stockton, and so on. Maybe Margaret had already been assigned somewhere else. I could call Sheila and find out.

  I pinched the bridge of my nose, trying out first one fictional explanation and then another. But I couldn’t think of a reason to ask Sheila about Margaret’s current whereabouts except the truth: I was afraid that my husband might be seeing her behind my back. But that would be admitting to jealousy, insecurity, and mistrust—and I didn’t like to think I was that sort of person. I wasn’t, was I? Of course not.

  But maybe there was another way to dig up the information I needed. Staring me in the face at this very moment was the big Google search box on my computer home page. I was a skilled and resourceful computer sleuth. And if it turned out that Margaret wasn’t in El Paso after all, I wouldn’t have a thing to worry about.

  Fifteen seconds later, I had my answer. I typed “Texas Rangers El Paso” into the search bar, clicked on the first link that came up, and went to a page that announced, “Welcome to the web page of Company E!” in large letters across the top. Beneath that was a flattering recital of Ranger history and a display of individual Ranger photographs, with the commanding officer (Major Burns) at the top, two lieutenants below, and fourteen Rangers beneath that. They all wore white shirts, ties, and jackets, as well as silver star-within-a-wheel badges and white Stetsons. All of the fourteen Rangers were men. One of the lieutenants was a woman. That woman was Margaret.

  And she was no longer just attractive, damn it. Even wearing that too-large white Stetson and the prissy girls’-school crisscross necktie, she was beautiful. I stared at her for a long moment, scarcely even aware that I was holding my breath. Then I exhaled, and with a sinking feeling in my stomach, I turned the computer off.

  One of my sumo wrestlers had just gained about three hundred pounds and was squatting right in the center of the mat.

  * * *

  IT was four o’clock by the time I got in the car and headed over to Cavette’s Market to pick up something for Caitie and me for supper. Cavette’s is a couple of blocks down Crockett Street, next door to the Sophie Briggs Historical Museum.

  Still holding its own in a world dominated by Safeways and Randalls, Cavette’s is a small, family-owned market with wooden bins and wicker baskets of fresh fruits and veggies lined up on the sidewalk and a gorgeous display of custom cakes in its bakery section. Perhaps its very uniqueness accounts for its survival, for the owners—three generations of Cavettes—know every single product they have on their shelves. What’s more, they know all their customers and they call each one by name.

  “Good afternoon to you, Miz Bayles.”

  Young Mr. Cavette—seventy and bald as an onion—straightened up from a box of fresh broccoli he was putting out on the produce counter and offered me the second half of his ritual greeting. “The good Lord takin’ care of you today?”

  “He sure is,” I said with a feigned cheerfulness, and smiled. I was lying through my teeth. But it was the expected ritual response, and I couldn’t upset Young Mr. Cavette (who is a Baptist) by telling him that I was obsessing over my husband’s possible—or imagined—unfaithfulness.

  Sheila once remarked that she thought the shop and all three of its owners ought to be registered as historical landmarks, and I agree. The market has been in its current location since Old Mr. Cavette’s father built it, in the year William McKinley was assassinated and Teddy Roosevelt moved into the White House. Old Mr. Cavette celebrated his ninetieth birthday not long ago with a block party featuring birthday cake, balloons, and party hats, to which we were all invited. Young Mr. Cavette was widowed at sixty-three and remarried at sixty-five; his bride, famous for her custom-baked and decorated cakes, is some five years his senior. The youngest Cavette, Young Mr. Cavette’s son Junior, is now nearly fifty, but he still makes in-town deliveries to homebound seniors. You can see him buzzing around Pecan Springs on his red motorbike every day but Sunday. You don’t get that kind of service from Safeway.

  Thinking about supper for Caitie and me, I picked up a package of tortellini—Caitie likes it—and snagged an avocado and a couple of beautiful blood oranges. We’d have salad tonight with fresh spinach out of the garden and a vinaigrette flavored with Mary Beth’s rosemary-orange liqueur.

  I held up one of the oranges. “I didn’t know these were still in season,” I said to Young Mr.
Cavette.

  “They ain’t.” He piled another head of fresh broccoli in the produce bin. “We get the Texas bloods in the winter. Them are Florida bloods, Taroccos. The brewmaster fella out at Comanche Creek brewery said he needed some. Says he’s thinking of using ’em to make beer.” He wrinkled his nose. “Seems sorta sacrilegious to me, but the customer is always right. So I got him a box. What you see there is what’s left.”

  “In that case, I’ll take a few more,” I said, adding them to my basket. I was remembering a recipe I had seen for a blood orange liqueur. It would make an interesting addition to the liqueurs I was making for my class. I read somewhere that the Tarocco blood orange has the highest vitamin C content of any orange in the world. It certainly has the most delicious fragrance. And blood oranges are beautiful—like shimmering slices of rubies.

  “I’ll just have to take the rest of those oranges,” said a woman behind me, taking the two that were left. “They’re positively seductive, don’t you think?”

  “Why, hello, Janet.” I turned quickly. It was Janet Parker, one of my regular customers at the herb shop. Or at least, she had been. “Golly,” I said. “I haven’t seen you in a while. Where have you been keeping yourself?”

  “I’m a working girl now,” Janet said. She’s tall, angular, and attractive. She was dressed in a tailored white blouse, a slim gray skirt, and a blue jacket, and her dark hair was pulled into a neat bun. “Our youngest is going to college this year, over at A and M. I’m sure you know what that means.”

  “I’m afraid I do,” I said ruefully. “Brian has a partial scholarship at UT, but it still costs an arm and a leg.”

  That’s no lie. I’m sure UT is cheaper than a private university, but Brian’s tuition and fees (even with the scholarship) amount to $2,500 a semester and the rest of it—off-campus room and meals in Austin, books, his car, and a little for extras—adds up to about $6,500. Brian is McQuaid’s son, so he and Brian’s mother, Sally (McQuaid’s ditzy first wife), are picking up the tab together. But I’ve heard the two of them discussing the cost, and I know how it mounts up. To make things even more awkward, Sally wheedles to reduce her contribution and then cleverly manages to forget how much she owes when it’s time to write the check. (Tacky, yes. But true.)

  Janet nodded. “Anyway, both of the kids are out of the house now, which gave me more free time. So I went out and found myself a job.” Her smile was just a little smug. “The perfect job, I have to say. And I’m making enough to pay the college bills, which is wonderful. There’s even a little left over for me.”

  “The perfect job?” I reached over the now-empty blood orange bin and picked up a gorgeous bunch of grapes. “That certainly sounds intriguing. I might be jealous if I didn’t think I had the perfect job.” I put the grapes into a plastic bag and dropped them into my cart. “Where are you working?”

  “At the Pecan Springs Community Hospice. I process the new admissions and schedule all the nurses’ visits.” She peered into my basket. “Avocado, oranges, grapes—looks like you’re making a salad.”

  I nodded. “Plus spinach from the garden and some goat cheese that my neighbor makes. With an orange vinaigrette. Mary Beth Jenkins gave me some orange-rosemary liqueur, and I thought I’d use that to flavor it.”

  “Sounds absolutely perfect,” Janet said. “I’ll give that salad a try. Unfortunately, Harold won’t touch goat cheese—blue cheese, either. Nothing but good old Velveeta for him.” With a sigh, she picked up a bunch of grapes. “The bad thing about working is that I’m always totally wrung out at the end of a long day. I love the people I work with at the hospice, but there’s such a lot of stress. And then I have to go home and cook supper. Seems like we end up going out to eat a lot these days, which probably isn’t too good for our cholesterol.” She reached for an avocado. “You still have a little girl at home, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Caitlin. She’s thirteen.” Then it clicked. “Oh, you’re working at the hospice! Gosh, that’s a coincidence. I ran into Kelly Kaufman just the other day. She’s working there too, I understand.”

  I gave myself a mental slap on the wrist for telling a lie. But I was fishing for information. And I got a bite.

  “She was, yes,” Janet said with another little sigh. She bagged the grapes and put them into her basket. “But not anymore. Which is just too bad, if you ask me. Kelly is a very good nurse, especially in a hospice situation. I really couldn’t understand why Ms. Blake let her go. And neither could anybody else. The staff, I mean. We were totally in the dark.”

  “Well, gosh,” I said sympathetically. “Whatever happened must have blown up very suddenly. I mean, Kelly seemed to really love her hospice work. And she is so responsible.” Except for missing her appointment with her lawyer, of course, and leaving without her purse and her phone and forgetting to lock the door.

  “Yes, suddenly,” Janet replied, frowning. “Although Kelly has been pretty upset lately, with her divorce and all.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “There’s another woman, I’m afraid. It’s apparently been going on for some time, but Kelly has only known for a couple of weeks. She told me that there’s a serious disagreement over the property settlement. She and her husband have a business together.”

  “Yes, a business makes it hard,” I said. “And so does another woman.” I thought fleetingly of Margaret, then pushed the thought away.

  “In a way, knowing the reason seemed to make it easier for her,” Janet said. “The other woman, I mean. But that wasn’t what set off her disagreement with Ms. Blake. Whatever that was, it must have been pretty serious, because afterward, Ms. Blake got the whole staff together—the nurses and the office people—and lectured us about breaching patient confidentiality. We’re supposed to bring any concerns about patient care directly to her, not share them among ourselves. And etcetera. I looked around, and we were all like, what? What’s this supposed to be about?”

  “When was that?” I asked curiously. I remembered being part of a corporation and attending meetings like that, and the memory wasn’t a very pleasant one.

  “A couple of weeks ago,” she said vaguely. She picked up a kiwi, sniffed it, and put it back. “I’m afraid Harold would turn up his nose at kiwis,” she said. Instead, she chose several bananas. “The problem for me,” she went on, “is that Kelly was carrying a big patient load. With her gone, I’ve had to shuffle quite a few schedules—not easy when you’re seriously understaffed in the first place. I really wish Marla would hire a few more people. Some of our nurses have had to take on extra shifts.”

  “Extra shifts are hard when you have a family.” I frowned and suddenly made the connection. “Oh, you’re talking about Marla Blake! I know her. Is she the hospice manager?”

  “Yes, and also the owner,” Janet said. “Or part owner, anyway. She bought the business a couple of years ago with one of our staff doctors. The main office is here in Pecan Springs, but there are branches in Seguin and Lufkin, as well. I handle the scheduling for them, too. Altogether, we have nearly eight hundred clients. We’re quite large, still growing. In fact, we’re planning to open a branch in Fredericksburg, although that’s been delayed. Marla has been out sick quite a bit lately.” She chuckled. “And I’m sure you do know her. Over the years, she’s been a member of practically every civic organization in town. The Pecan Springs Hospital Auxiliary, the ladies’ club, the Friends of the Library.”

  “Of course,” I said. My path had intersected with Marla’s in the Friends of the Library. For a while, she had pretty much run the show for the Friends—which I had to admit was a good thing, since she had a knack for organizing activities and people and getting things done. Yes, she rubbed some people the wrong way—me, too, sometimes. But I had to admire her management skills, however grudgingly. Volunteer organizations need people who are driven to see that the job gets done right, even when they’re stepping on other people’s toes. A
nd now that I thought about it, I remembered hearing that she had dropped out of most of her volunteer activities when she got involved with some sort of health-care business. That must have been when she took over the hospice.

  “Marla is a very hands-on manager,” Janet said, in an explanatory tone. “Very attentive to detail. Which is good, because we’re mostly funded by Medicare and there’s so much record-keeping. But Marla has developed her own software, which makes things much easier and frees up staff time for other duties. And the fact that we’re small and locally owned makes us much more responsive to the needs of the community than the big HMOs.” She cocked her head to one side. “Dealing with end-of-life issues is such a difficult task, you know. We’re large enough to be able to offer all the necessary services—but small enough to be sensitive to the special requirements of each individual and family. We’re devoted to easing the pain that so many families have to go through at the end of a loved one’s life.”

  “Sounds impressive,” I said, although Janet’s spiel struck me as canned. I wondered if she was mentally reading off the script she handed to people who were considering placing their loved ones in hospice care. But who am I to criticize? Mary Beth Jenkins had just told me what a difference hospice care had made during her sister’s last days.

  Janet smiled, accepting the compliment. “I’ve really enjoyed working there. So much so that I’ve been spreading the word about our work.” Her smiled broadened. “In fact, Marla has just hired my sister-in-law to work in sales. Dorothy started last week.”

  “Sales?” I was surprised. “What does a hospice sell?”

  Janet’s eyebrows went up. “Why, our services of course. There are a lot of options out there for end-of-life care, and people need help in choosing the very best for their loved ones. All of us on the staff help in recruiting, which is good because Marla pays nice bonuses when we bring in patients. Dorothy—that’s my sister-in-law—will go out and talk to doctors, nursing homes, assisted living facilities, and individuals to let them know who we are and what we do, so they can refer patients to us. She used to sell real estate,” she added earnestly, “so I’m sure she’ll do very well.”