Blood Orange: A China Bayles Mystery

by Susan Wittig Albert

  I didn’t quite get the connection between real estate and health-care services, but I didn’t let my ignorance show. “Sounds like a match,” I said politely, thinking that—with the graying of the nation’s population—hospice care must be a growth industry, especially since it was funded by the government. “Maybe you’ll get so busy that Marla will have to ask Kelly to come back to work.”

  “I sincerely doubt that,” Janet said regretfully. “I didn’t hear what went on between them, but I saw Kelly when she ran out of the office. She was crying. And Marla was so upset, she hasn’t really been the same since. Others probably can’t tell that, but I can.” She pushed out her lips. “Orange vinaigrette, you said?”

  I nodded. “I make it with minced garlic and a spoonful of Dijon mustard.”

  “Oh, good,” Janet said happily. “Howard just loves mustard. I’m so glad I ran into you, China. You have a great evening, now.” She waggled her fingers in farewell as we said good-bye.

  Chapter Five

  Interestingly, some of the oldest herbal liqueurs are strongly associated with colors. Green Chartreuse, for instance, was created as a medicinal drink by Carthusian monks at their monastery in the Chartreuse Mountains of France in 1764. The secret recipe reportedly contains a blend of 130 herbs, including wormwood, lemon balm, hyssop, sweet flag, peppermint, angelica, and cardamom. The aromatic green liqueur gave its name to the color chartreuse in 1884.

  Strega, a popular Italian digestif (served after meals to enhance digestion), is colored a distinctive yellow with saffron, one of the seventy-some herbs and spices, including mint and fennel, that flavor the drink.

  Campari, an Italian aperitif (served before meals to enhance appetite), was originally colored red with a dye derived from crushed cochineal insects, found on prickly pear cactus. Among other herbs, Campari also contains gentian, wormwood, and quinine (extracted from the bark of the cinchona tree).

  The first of the orange liqueurs, Curaçao, is named for the Caribbean island, where Valencia oranges were planted by Spanish settlers. The Valencias didn’t thrive in the island’s arid climate and were abandoned. The fruits of their wild descendants (called “laraha”) were bitter and inedible. But it was discovered that sun-dried laraha peels had a heady orange aroma and flavor. These—with sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg, and cloves—were added to the local rum, and Curaçao was born.

  China Bayles

  “Botanical Drinkables”

  Pecan Springs Enterprise

  I picked Caitlin up on the way home from the market. She recently celebrated her thirteenth birthday, so she is officially a teenager. But she is fine-boned and small for her age, and there is often a waiflike sadness in her eyes that makes me want to throw protective arms around her and hold her close. It reminds me of the tragedies that have taken so much from this young girl: her mother’s accidental drowning, her father’s murder, and the death from cancer of her beloved aunt. Dark-haired and dark-eyed, she is my niece, daughter of my half brother Miles, whom I didn’t meet until the last weeks of his life. My family relationship with Caitie might seem a little distant, but our heart connection has been strong from the very beginning, and I find it hard to imagine life without her. Now she is officially our daughter, and her resilience and growing self-confidence have made me very proud.

  As a young woman, I was never sold on marriage, partly because my parents had a terrible marriage (witness the decades-long affair that produced my half brother Miles). I valued my single status and cherished my independence and my autonomy, first in my law career, and later, after I bought Thyme and Seasons and settled down in Pecan Springs. Even after McQuaid and I moved in together and I found myself being a mother to his son Brian, I didn’t consider myself a genuinely domesticated person. I was still an I, first person singular, who just happened to live with a guy and his son.

  But that began to change when McQuaid and I married and bought a large and rather shabby two-story farmhouse on Limekiln Road, some twelve miles west of Pecan Springs, in the Texas Hill Country. The house is white with green shutters, has a porch on three sides and a turret in the front corner, and is set back nearly a half mile from the road behind a dense stand of hackberry, cedar, and oak and a grassy meadow that, in the spring, is gloriously carpeted with bluebonnets, paintbrush, and wine cups.

  It was the privacy that sold us on the place, and the extra room it offered. There are bedrooms for the kids (Caitie has claimed the round turret room), craft space for me, and office space for McQuaid. The house is separated by a low stone wall from an old, worn-out peach orchard on one side and dense woods on the other. There’s a kitchen and herb garden in back, and deep in the woods, a hundred yards beyond the garden, a clear, spring-fed creek ripples over limestone ledges between banks of maidenhair ferns under a canopy of cypress trees. All of us love the place, inside and out, and it’s hard to think of myself as an independent I here. It hasn’t always been easy, but I’ve learned to think of myself as an interdependent we—first person plural. Which may be why, come to think of it, I was so bothered by the idea of McQuaid and Margaret.

  When we got home, Caitie ran into the house and bestowed a quick hug on her orange tabby cat, Mr. Pumpkin (aka Mr. P) and on our new basset puppy, Winchester, then rushed up to her turret room to change out of her school clothes into the bib overalls, T-shirt, and sneakers she wears around the house. Back downstairs, she dashed out to the chicken coop that McQuaid and Brian built for her, to gather eggs and check on her chickens. Mr. P went along to make sure the chickens didn’t try anything tricky. When it comes to Caitie, that cat is very possessive. A battered, bedraggled old reprobate, the tomcat was obviously at the tail end of his ninth life when he showed up on our doorstep one rainy evening, angling for supper and a dry place to sleep. What he got was Caitie, who fell in love and begged to keep him.

  I had been doubtful. “You already have a lot to do taking care of your chickens. Are you sure you can handle another project?”

  “Of course I can,” Caitie replied staunchly, and when she added, “He’s just like me, he needs a home,” I had to give her a hug and agree.

  She started her flock about a year and a half ago, with three Rhode Island Reds, three white leghorns, and (a little later) Rooster Boy, a fetching, red-feathered fellow who is inordinately proud of his iridescent ruff and sweep of colorful tail. Then our neighbor gave her a pair of Golden Laced Polish chickens—docile birds with glossy brown feathers mottled with gold highlights and an amazing ornamental frizzle of feathers on their heads. They look like feather dusters darting after bugs in the grass. She named them Goofy and Doofus and plans to exhibit them at the Adams County fair this summer. As Caitie banged the door behind her on her way out to the coop, I reminded myself that some teenagers are boy-crazy or clothes-crazy or (worse) both. Our teenager is chicken-crazy, and I admit to being relieved. Boys and clothes can wait.

  In the kitchen, I was greeted by Winchester, who had been contemplating the change in his life situation from his basket in the corner of the kitchen. Winchester came to us just a few weeks ago from a basset rescue organization in Austin. He is heir and successor to our beloved Howard Cosell, who crossed the rainbow bridge the previous year but whose exploits live on, with love, in family legend. Every now and then, one of us thinks of Howard and says something like, “Do you remember when Howard Cosell cornered that stupid armadillo and . . .”

  And then we all shake our heads and laugh and sigh a little sadly, because Howard was truly a dog of remarkable talents, and we miss him.

  Like Howard, Winchester is long and low-slung, with droopy basset jowls and floppy basset ears that have a tendency to dangle in his food and water bowls. He’s only about three years old, but from his mournful expression we suspect that he must have already endured an exceptionally hard life, overflowing with disappointments and disasters. He frequently gives voice (long and loud, embroidered with plaintive little yips and
a yodel) to the belief that the world is going to hell in a handbasket and he does not expect the situation to improve anytime soon. Among other issues, he hasn’t yet settled the question of unlimited access to McQuaid’s leather recliner; who owns the entire foot of the bed; and whether bassets are allowed to eat bagels. There is also the little matter of Mr. P, an infinitely wily (but ultimately irrelevant) creature who is waiting to clean up any leftover kibble the instant Winchester retires for his nap.

  However, Winchester’s weeks in our household have taught him that when Mom comes home, she usually puts more kibble into his bowl. So he brightened when he saw me, scrambled out of his basset basket, and stationed himself hopefully beside his bowl: his very own, because it has his name on it, W-I-N-C-H-E-S-T-E-R, in big orange letters. When the food arrived, Winchester enjoyed that one brief, shining moment when his bowl was exactly as full as it should be, then got down to business. Like Mae West, he believes that he who hesitates is a damn fool. It’s always better to eat fast, just in case another dog or two might have been inadvertently invited to dinner. And of course, there is always the cat.

  I glanced at the answering machine on the counter, noticed that there were two messages, and played them as I unloaded the groceries. The first was from my mother, letting me know that her husband (Sam, whom I love dearly) had breezed through his latest stress test as if it were a stroll in the park and that Sam’s doctor had announced that he’s on his way to a full recovery. I breathed a quiet hallelujah. Sam gave us a bad scare last Thanksgiving. He had to have coronary surgery, and he and Leatha (my mother) were forced to postpone their plan to open their Uvalde County ranch as a birding retreat. We’ve all been worried about his health, so this was good news. Very good news.

  The second call, not so much. It was from McQuaid.

  “Sorry I missed you, China,” he said, gruff and heavily apologetic. “I’m probably going to be out of touch for the next couple of days. This investigation is taking me into an area where there might not be cell phone coverage. There’s no problem, and no danger, so don’t worry if you don’t hear from me for a while. I’ll call when I can. Hope everything is okay with you and Caitie.” There was a moment’s pause, during which I heard the unmistakable clinking of glasses. McQuaid took a breath, then added, with emphasis, “Lots of love to my two best girls.”

  His two best girls? I hoped so, but my conversation with Charlie—and the revelation that McQuaid wasn’t working for him in El Paso now and hadn’t worked for him there in some time—had raised some great big red flags. I didn’t like the way I was feeling. Why hadn’t he called my cell phone instead of leaving a message on our answering machine? Did he want to avoid talking to me or answering my questions? For instance, where in Texas—or New Mexico, for that matter—was there no cell phone coverage? Who was clinking those glasses in the background of his call? And what about Margaret? Was he seeing her?

  I frowned and played the message again, trying to find some little bit of something I could hang on to, something that would ease my ugly suspicions, or at least let me paper over them. But I couldn’t, so I deleted both calls, wishing I could erase McQuaid’s call from my mind as easily as I could wipe it out of the telephone’s digital memory. I didn’t need to be worrying about something I couldn’t control. I turned away and forced myself to give some serious thought to supper. It was time to eat, and part of the salad was still out in the garden.

  In our part of Texas, garden vegetables often do better in the fall than in the spring. The spring garden is cut short by our brutal summertime heat, which can strike as early as mid-May. But so far, the weather had been mild and the early veggies were thriving. We had already had several meals of Sugar Ann peas, and the Kentucky Wonder pole beans looked as if they’d be ready to harvest in another couple of weeks. The spring greens—spinach, kale, collard, and chard—were flourishing, and I gathered enough beautifully fresh spinach for our supper salads, a handful of radishes, and several green onions.

  Back in the kitchen, I washed the veggies in the sink, put the water on to boil for the tortellini, and began making the lemony sauce that Caitie likes: butter, lemon zest and juice, chopped green onion tops, fresh basil, and parmesan cheese. I was stirring the green onion tops and minced basil into the melted butter when the telephone rang. I dried my hands hurriedly and reached for the phone, hoping it was McQuaid. And then remembered that I wasn’t going to worry about something I couldn’t control.

  But it wasn’t McQuaid—and I was in for a jaw-dropping surprise.

  “China, this is Kelly.”

  “Kelly? Kelly Kaufman?” I turned off the burner under the butter. “Where are you? Are you okay? What—”

  “I’m sorry,” she said quickly. Her voice was light and high. “Really. I’m very sorry. I hated to do it the way I did, but I couldn’t think of another way. I know it was clumsy. I hope you’re not too angry with me.”

  “Angry?” I laughed shortly. “Well, I wouldn’t say that, exactly. But you certainly succeeded in worrying me. You could at least have left a note, you know.” I was trying not to sound accusing but not succeeding very well.

  “I thought of that,” she said. “But I was afraid somebody else might find it.” She sounded rueful. “And if I let you in on my plan ahead of time, I figured you’d tell me not to do it.”

  I chuckled ironically. “Oh, you think?”

  She reacted to my obvious sarcasm. “This isn’t a game, China. It’s important.” She dropped her voice. “I probably did a stupid thing when I left the cottage, but I did it for my own safety. I’m afraid. I mean, I’m really, really scared. I was absolutely desperate to get away.”

  For her safety? This call was beginning to sound like a script for a B-movie thriller. But I could hear the fear in her voice, and I didn’t want to underplay it. “I understand that, Kelly,” I said more softly. “I get that you’re afraid. But just so you know, Charlie Lipman and I reported your disappearance to the cops.”

  “I thought you might. But please don’t tell the police you’ve talked to me and that I’m okay,” she added, drawing out the word please. “Don’t tell Mr. Lipman, either. I’m not sure I can trust him. It’s better for me if he doesn’t know where I am. I’m calling you because I think you can help me.”

  She couldn’t trust her lawyer? My puzzlement deepened. “Kelly, I’ve known Charlie Lipman for a long time. He may be going through a rough patch lately, but he’s perfectly competent to handle your divorce. He—”

  “This isn’t about my divorce, China. It isn’t about me at all. It’s about—” She lowered her voice again, as if there was somebody else in the room with her. “It’s about a murder. I know that you were involved with stuff like that before, back when you were practicing law. That’s why I’m hoping you’ll be willing to help me.”

  I was alarmed. “A murder? You mean, you think you’ve killed somebody?” I thought immediately of a case I’d read about, where a nurse inadvertently administered a fatal dose of the wrong medication. Her patient died. She was convicted of criminally negligent homicide.

  “No, not me,” Kelly said hurriedly, and rushed on. “I didn’t kill anybody, China. But I know who did, or at least I think I do. And there’s another legal thing I need to talk to you about. I’ve got a lot of evidence about the other cases—the unqualified people, I mean. All that documentation is on my laptop. There’s bound to be some sort of evidence of the murder, too, but I don’t have it.” Her words were tumbling together and she stopped, breathless. “I have some ideas, but that’s why I need you, China. To help me get evidence that will stand up in court. About the murder, and this other legal thing.”

  Unqualified people? This other legal thing?

  “Whoa,” I said. “You’re going way too fast, Kelly. There’s a whole lot of backstory to fill in. First of all, I need to know why you left the cottage the way you did. Second, why don’t you trust Charlie Lipm
an? He’s your lawyer, and you ought to—”

  “Look,” she broke in. “I want to answer all your questions. But the thing is really complicated, and I’d rather not go into it over the phone. Could you, like, drive over to my friend Lara’s house this evening? That’s where I’m staying. It’s near Wimberley. We could go over the files and I could explain everything.”

  Explain everything? I was beginning to think I was being used for some purpose I didn’t understand, and I didn’t like it. I didn’t like getting in Charlie Lipman’s face, either. Kelly was his client. Whatever this thing was, she ought to take it to him first. If she didn’t like the way he responded, she should get herself another lawyer. But not me. I’ve kept my membership in the bar, in case of emergencies—that is, if the shop goes broke and I absolutely, positively have to have money. Otherwise, I’m out of the business.

  Yeah. Well, that’s all true. But on the other hand, now that the question of murder had been raised, I was curious. I wanted to know what Kelly was talking about.

  “Sorry, but I can’t drive over to where you’re staying,” I said. “We live in the country and I don’t think it’s a good idea to leave my daughter alone in the house at night.” I paused. “Do you have access to a vehicle? I’m out on Limekiln Road. If you want to talk, why don’t you come over here?”

  There was a silence. “I suppose I could do that,” she said slowly. “But it would have to be after dark. I don’t want to risk being seen. And I’ll have to be careful.” She laughed ruefully. “My driver’s license is in my shoulder bag, which is on the—”