Blood Orange: A China Bayles Mystery

by Susan Wittig Albert

  “I put it in the bottom drawer of the bedroom dresser,” I said, “and I locked the cottage doors. I’ll be glad to loan you my key, since you left yours behind. All your other belongings are in the bedroom, too.”

  She sighed. “I kinda messed up, I guess. Leaving your place and my stuff like that. Maybe I should’ve done it a different way.”

  Well, duh, I thought. Aloud, I said, “What time do you want to come over?”

  She was hesitant. “What’s good for you?”

  I glanced at the clock. It was six fifteen. “Give me a couple of hours, at least. Caitie and I usually sit down with her homework after supper.” It’s a quiet mom-and-daughter time, and I didn’t want to give it up. “And then I have a little kitchen project.”

  “How about nine?” she asked. “It should be dark by then. And China, please, please don’t tell Mr. Lipman—or anybody else. You won’t, will you? I’ll explain why when I see you.”

  “I won’t,” I said reluctantly, and hung up.

  If I had known what was going to happen, I would have handled things differently. But I didn’t, and there’s no going back, no undoing what has been done.

  In the end, it’s the utter finality that’s so hard to live with.

  * * *

  AT supper, Caitie seemed a little quieter than usual, and I was preoccupied, too—trying not to think about Kelly. It was that business about murder that intrigued me. What did she know, or suspect? What was this business about “unqualified people”? And what was she afraid of?

  The questions buzzed around my head like a swarm of inquisitive flies while Caitie and I finished eating, put the dishes in the dishwasher, and completed an hour’s worth of decimals, subject-verb agreement, and reading comprehension questions. Or rather, Caitie proudly demonstrated that she could do all those things, while I was an admiring audience of one.

  Make that two. Winchester had draped himself across my feet under the table and occasionally thumped his tail on the floor, signaling his approval of what was happening over his head. Of course, since Winchester is only knee high, everything taller than one of Caitie’s chickens happens over his head. He must be used to that by now.

  “Well, that’s it, Mom,” Caitie said finally, pushing her chair back. “I’m going upstairs to finish Anne of Green Gables. I have to write a report on it, and I still have ten or twelve pages to go.”

  Some mothers are called Mom from the minute their kids can say their first words. I’ve come by my name relatively late in the game, and I’m still thrilled whenever I hear it. I leaned over and dropped a quick kiss on Caitie’s head, smelling the sweet floral fragrance of her hair and thinking that it’s nice to know that girls—some girls, anyway—are still reading a book that was written over a century ago.

  “Sounds good.” I glanced at the time display on the microwave. I needed to get started on my kitchen project, and Kelly would be arriving before too long. “One of my friends is coming over in a little while,” I added. “You may hear us talking.”

  She nodded. “Will it bother you if I decide to practice my violin? I’m working on something for the spring recital.”

  “Absolutely not,” I said. When Caitie came to live with us, my mother gave her the violin I scorned when I was eleven, and she immediately fell in love with it. She’s studying with Sandra Trevor, who teaches strings at CTSU and says that Caitie is exceptionally talented. When she told McQuaid and me this, Sandra added that she hoped that we would make sure that our daughter leads a normal life in spite of her talent. She grinned when she said it, but we took her seriously—which is where the cat and the chickens come in. “What are you working on?” I asked.

  “Telemann,” she replied. “‘Twelve Fantasias.’” She stood there for a moment, and I noticed that her shoulders were sagging.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “Not wrong, exactly,” she said, wrinkling her forehead. “But there’s this new kid—Kevin. He moved here from Chicago a couple of months ago. He’s a good violinist. Really good, I mean.” She met my eyes. “Dr. Trevor made him concertmaster today. I’m still in first, but I had to move over.”

  “Oh,” I said. Concertmaster is the title given to the violinist who occupies the first chair in the violin section. It usually goes to the best and most reliable player, who is assigned to play the solo parts and help everybody tune up before they start playing. Caitie has been concertmaster since the current school year started. Up to now.

  “Well, that’s interesting.” I took a breath. “Are you okay with it?”

  “Not really,” she said, and pressed her lips together. “I mean, nobody really likes playing second fiddle, do they?” She laughed a little and I joined in with a chuckle. “But I’m not really second—I mean, I’m still playing first violin, just not first chair. And Dr. Trevor says she’ll rotate our positions. She wants to give Kevin a chance to get some experience, which I think is right. His fingering is better than mine, although his bowing isn’t nearly as good.”

  “So what did you do when this happened?” I asked lightly. “I hope you didn’t throw rocks at him.”

  “I wanted to.” She smiled crookedly, showing her mouthful of braces. “But I congratulated him instead. After all, he earned it, and he’ll do a good job. And I like him.” She blushed. “I mean, he’s okay—pretty much. For a boy. But I told him not to get too comfortable in that chair, because I intend to get it back.”

  “That’s my girl.” I got up and put my arms around her, thinking that there weren’t many adults who could congratulate someone who had just taken something from them that they had worked hard for and wanted to keep. “I’m proud of you.”

  I was. Prouder than I could say. Grace in adversity, that’s what it was, in a thirteen-year-old girl who was more mature than some women twice her age.

  She hugged me back, and we stood there for a moment. Then she dropped her arms. “I need to work on the Telemann. It’s awfully hard, but Dr. Trevor says she knows I can do it. I just have to practice, that’s all.”

  “We’ll love listening,” I said. “It’ll be background music.” A little Telemann was just what we needed to accompany Kelly’s tale of murder and who knew what else.

  “But first I have to finish Anne.” Caitie scooped up Mr. P, who had just come in from his evening yard patrol. She headed for the door, then paused. “Hey, when Dad calls, let me talk to him, okay? I want to tell him about Kevin.”

  “Okay,” I said, “but don’t be disappointed if he doesn’t call tonight. He’s somewhere out in West Texas, where there aren’t any cell phone towers.” At least, that’s what he’d said.

  She nodded. “Well, if he does, I want to talk to him.”

  Caitie headed upstairs, the cat draped over her arm like an orange fur stole. Winchester roused himself to inquire about the availability of cookies, but when none were offered, he stumped over his basket, draped one long ear over his eyes, and fell asleep again.

  I went to the counter and set up the coffeemaker for a pot of Colombian coffee. The evening project I had in mind was making a coffee pecan liqueur for the class I’d be teaching in four weeks. This was super simple and wouldn’t take more than a few minutes, but I didn’t want to put it off, since all liqueurs need time to age. I would demonstrate how to make it during the class, but the one I was making tonight would be just about ready by the time it appeared on the tasting table along with the others I had already made. My favorites so far: a heady spiced rum (with cardamom, anise, and vanilla) and a peach-and-vanilla liqueur that reminded me of summer’s gorgeous Texas peaches. Still on the to-do list, a strawberry shrub.

  While the coffee was brewing, I got out the vodka and brandy, found the pecan, vanilla, and orange extracts in the cupboard, and measured out the sugar and salt. I poured the alcohol and extracts into a clean mason jar. When the coffee was ready, I poured a cup of it into a small sauc
epan, stirred in the white and brown sugars and salt, and brought it to a boil on the stove, making a simple syrup. I was setting the syrup aside to cool when I heard the crunch of car tires on gravel.

  I glanced up at the clock. Kelly was a little early, but it didn’t matter, since my project was just about finished. And I was just as glad. Her remark about murder had been nagging at my mind, and by this time, I was more than just curious. I wanted to know what the heck was going on. I reached into the cupboard and took out two coffee mugs. We would have coffee while we talked.

  When I heard the knock, I went to the kitchen door and turned on the porch light. But I was startled. The woman who stood on the back step was dark haired rather than blond, and not the person I was expecting.

  “Hey, China,” she said jauntily. “Bet you’re surprised to see me, huh?”

  Chapter Six

  The ancient beers, created independently around the world between 10,000 and 30,000 years ago, were quite different from what we know as beer today. There were hundreds if not thousands of them, using some 20 different kinds of yeast, perhaps 15 different sugar sources, and more than 200 different plant adjuncts. Many were sacred beers, scores were highly inebriating or psychotropic, and hundreds contained medicinal herbs. They were made for sacred ceremony, for communicating with the ancestors, as potent nutrient foods, and for healing. Such beers were the expression of an entirely different way of seeing the world.

  Stephen Harrod Buhner

  Sacred and Herbal Healing Beers

  It wasn’t Kelly—it was Ruby’s sister, Ramona. She was wearing a gray jogging suit, white sneakers, and a blue cap that said Comanche Creek Brewing Company. Her short red hair was softly waved and she looked like she’d slimmed down quite a bit since the last time I saw her. Ruby had said that she’d fallen in love. Maybe love had changed her.

  “I know I should have called,” Ramona said brightly, “but I was out at the brewery and I suddenly got this really fabulous idea. About you. And beer. And herbs. And since you live so close, I decided to just pop over and tell you. About my idea, I mean.”

  Love might have changed the way she looked but it hadn’t changed her. Ramona is notorious for her “fabulous” ideas. She has them by the dozen and acts on every single one as fast as she can, and in no particular order. It’s only afterward that she discovers that most of them aren’t that great after all.

  “Gosh, Ramona, I’m sorry,” I said, “but as it happens, I’m expecting company. In fact, when I heard the car, I thought you were my friend. So I really can’t—”

  “But this won’t take more than a few minutes,” Ramona said confidently. She stepped over the threshold. “I’ll be really quick.”

  I sighed. Obviously, she wasn’t waiting for an invitation—but that’s Ramona. She always assumes that if she wants something it will be just fine with everybody else. Given this unfortunate character trait, I was probably right in thinking that the quicker I invited her in and heard her out, the sooner she would be on her way again.

  “Well, okay,” I said, following her into the kitchen. I added a cautionary, “But let’s make it fast.”

  Hearing voices, Winchester raised his head. When he saw that company had arrived, he clambered out of his basket, trotted over to Ramona, sat upright on his haunches, and politely offered her both his front paws, held out straight.

  “What a weird-looking dog,” Ramona said, taking a step backward. “He’s not going to jump on me, is he? I can’t abide dogs that jump.”

  “I doubt it.” I refrained from pointing out that he wasn’t weird, he was a basset. And that this particular basset was hardly in a position to jump when he was making such a valiant effort to balance himself on his haunches, in hopes of impressing a new acquaintance with his I’m-a-good-dog stunt.

  “His name is Winchester,” I said, “and he’s showing you his very best trick. He’d really appreciate it if you’d shake his paw and let him know what a fine boy he is.”

  You can tell a lot about a person by the way she greets a dog. Ramona wrinkled her nose distastefully. With a sigh, she bent over, took Winchester’s right paw between her thumb and forefinger, and gave it a quick shake. “Good dog, Winnie. Now go lie down.”

  Winchester whimpered and looked up at me with a plaintive What-is-this-Winnie-stuff? expression. If he could have rolled his eyes, he would have.

  I took pity on him. “That’s a wonderful trick, Winchester,” I said heartily, and gave his paw an affectionate shake. “You are a very fine boy. Would you like a treat?”

  Not a dog to carry a grudge, he dropped down on all fours, graciously accepted my tacit apology for the bad manners of my guest, and took his treats (I gave him two, to make up for Ramona’s rudeness) to his basket to get acquainted with them. But he kept an eye on Ramona, as if he didn’t quite trust her, which was intuitive of him, as things turned out.

  Making herself at home, Ramona spotted the two coffee mugs on the counter. She picked up the coffee carafe and filled one for herself. “Want some coffee, China?” she asked, as if this were her kitchen.

  “Don’t mind if I do,” I said dryly, took the filled mug she handed me, and sat down. I turned just in time, though, to see the carafe teetering on the edge of the counter. I leapt up and rescued it.

  Ramona didn’t appear to notice. “Maybe Ruby told you my big news.” She put her shoulder bag on the floor beside her chair and sat down with her coffee. “I am now a part owner of the Comanche Creek Brewing Company.”

  “I heard about that this morning.” I pulled out a chair and sat down across from her. “Congratulations. But it’s kind of a departure for you, isn’t it? I had no idea that you were into beer.”

  Of course, that had never stopped her before. To my certain knowledge, the only flower Ramona can recognize is the homecoming chrysanthemum, and yet she came within an inch of buying a florist shop. Ditto the cupcake factory. Ramona has no doubt eaten her share, but she bragged that she had never baked one. Still, she was “over the moon” (she said) about cupcakes. Until she wasn’t.

  “I’m not into beer per se,” Ramona said, spreading her fingers. “But I am into money. And once I started looking into it, I could see that beer is an absolutely amazing investment. Especially right now. Craft beer is really hot.”

  “So I understand,” I said. “I’ve never been a huge fan of beer myself, but I’ve read that some of the smaller breweries around the country are doing some really interesting things. In fact, Young Mr. Cavette, at the market, told me that the brewmaster out at Comanche Creek ordered some blood oranges.”

  “That was my idea,” Ramona said. “I am trying to encourage Rich—he’s Comanche’s brewmaster—to try some different things.” She eyed me. “I suppose Ruby told you that he and I are engaged.”

  The kitchen lights flickered briefly, then flickered again. Winchester raised his head and stared at Ramona, growling low in his throat.

  “Engaged? Not exactly.” I was surprised. Ruby had said that the guy’s current wife was being stubborn about the divorce. “She did mention that you’re seeing one of the Comanche owners. But she didn’t go into details.”

  “Well, we are.” Ramona’s smile had the look of smug achievement. “I am simply gaga about Rich. And being his business partner is a lot of fun.” She wrinkled her nose. “Of course, it’ll be more fun when his other . . . partner is out of the picture.”

  I realized that she must be talking about the man’s wife, who apparently owned the other half of Comanche Creek. “Well, congratulations,” I said again, not knowing what else to say. “So when is the wedding?”

  “We haven’t set a date yet.” She didn’t meet my eyes. “There are a few things that we have to—”

  Outdoors, Ramona’s car alarm suddenly hiccupped and began to shriek. Startled, I half jumped out of my chair. Winchester lifted his head and howled.

 
“That stupid alarm,” she muttered, fishing for her keys in her purse. “I don’t know why it does that.”

  She found the keys at last and went out on the back porch. The car alarm gave one last prolonged shriek, burped twice, and was silent. I frowned, thinking back to the other times I had witnessed Ramona’s poltergeist tendencies, which seemed to emerge when she was excited or nervous or trying to hide something. The carafe, the flickering kitchen lights, the car alarm—was that what was happening here?

  She came back into the kitchen, sat down, and dropped her keys back into her purse. “Now, where were we?” she asked, propping her elbows on the table and picking up her coffee mug.

  “You were saying that you hadn’t set a wedding date yet,” I prompted.

  “Oh, yes. Well, it’s likely to be a while,” she replied. “There are some things that Rich and I have to take care of.”

  Like getting rid of the current wife, I thought wryly. Which might not be so easy if his wife was really stubborn about the divorce. In Texas, each spouse gets half of the community property the couple has acquired during their marriage. What’s more, a spouse can’t sell or otherwise transfer a piece of community property—in this case, the brewery—without the other spouse’s permission. Rich’s current wife would seem to be very much in control of the situation. Or at least, that’s the way it looked to me.

  Ramona was going on. “Oh, and about those oranges. Rich has been brewing beer forever, and he’s very good at doing what he does. But I’m afraid he’s not as adventurous as he might be when it comes to anything new. I read about another brewery that was making a blood orange beer, and I thought it sounded like a great idea. So I got Rich to order the oranges. I want him to try them out.”

  “Interesting,” I said. Ramona at her manipulative best. I was already beginning to feel a little sorry for Rich. “Actually, I was glad to find the oranges,” I added. “I got almost all of the ones that were left at Cavette’s. I’m teaching a class on liqueurs, so I’m going to use them.”