She was still frowning. “Well, good night,” she said, and went slowly down the path toward her car, a white Hyundai sedan.
Faster, faster, I urged silently. Faster!
It seemed to take forever for Ramona to get into her car, close the door, and turn the key in the ignition, but at last she was headed back down the lane. I stood in the yard, watching her twin red taillights disappearing into the darkness. When they were gone, I thought silently, Okay, Kelly, the coast is clear. You can show up anytime now.
A round gold moon was rising over the trees to the east, and I heard the low, breathy who-who-whooo of one of our pair of resident great horned owls. A couple of months ago, they moved into a vacant squirrel’s nest in the live oak tree on the other side of the stone wall. The nest is on our side of the tree, and we can watch them through binoculars. They now have a couple of little owlets just beginning to scramble out of the nest and flap their wings. They will be flying soon, and in another two years, they’ll have their own territories and their own families not far away in the Hill Country. A comforting thought, that. Friends may be involved in difficult relationships, husbands may disappoint you, and somebody with better fingering may come along and snatch your chair in the orchestra. But the owls go on. And on and on.
I went back into the house and found my copy of a book called Sacred and Herbal Healing Beers by Stephen Harrod Buhner. I wasn’t going to “consult” with Ramona and her boyfriend. But if I did, this would be the book I would use as a resource. It was full of recipes for old herbal brews that everybody has forgotten about—or that we’ve never heard of: cardamom seed ale, broom ale, juniper beer, molasses ale, heather mead, maple beer, and on and on. I completely lost myself in its fascinating pages, and when I glanced up at the clock, I was startled to see that it was almost eleven.
McQuaid hadn’t called, but I wasn’t going to allow myself to wonder where he was, or with whom.
Kelly hadn’t come.
And it wasn’t until the next day that I would find out why.
Chapter Seven
Of course there were many kinds of ale that were dependent upon their various ingredients . . . “Hysope-Ale,” “worm-wood ale,” “ale of rosemary,” and “Bettony.” “Heather ale” was of very ancient origin in certain parts of the country and butter ale was most plentiful in the seventeenth century.
Edward Emerson, 1908
Quoted in Sacred and Herbal Healing Beers
Stephen Harrod Buhner
To make a Buttered Ale, take three pintes of Beere, put five yolkes of Egges to it, Straine them together, and set it in a pewter pot to the fyre, and put to it halfe a pound of Sugar, one penniworth of Nutmegs beaten, one penniworth of Cloves beaten, and a halfepenniworth of Ginger beaten, and when it is all in, take another pewter pot and brewe them together, and set it to the fire againe, and when it is readie to boyle, take it from the fire, and put a dish of Sweet butter into it, and threwe them together out of one pot into an other.
A Good Huswifes Handmaide for the Kitchin, 1594
It was raining the next morning, for which I was very grateful. The Hill Country—in fact, most of Texas—has been clutched in the dusty grip of drought for nearly four years, making life difficult for ranchers, farmers, and gardeners. The Highland Lakes (a chain of seven large man-made reservoirs that provide water to Austin and cities downstream on the Lower Colorado River) are all dangerously low, and the Edwards and Trinity aquifers, which supply the wells of millions of rural users, are in trouble as well. Weather forecasters had been confident of an El Niño spring: warm, moisture-laden Pacific air swirling across the Baja and northern Mexico into the American Southwest, producing soaking rains all across Texas. But every forecast has proved to be yet another disappointment, and I had gotten to the point where I didn’t believe it would ever rain again. Seriously rain, I mean. The way it used to.
The light morning rain that was coming down out of the low gray clouds this morning wasn’t a drought-buster, either. But the ranchers would welcome even a half-inch rain that would help the late spring and early summer pasture grasses, and if this kept up for another hour or two, I wouldn’t have to water the gardens at the shop and at home until the end of the week. It could rain all day if it wanted to, without a word of complaint from me. It was warm enough to go without a jacket, too—the forecast predicted seventies by noon.
Thyme and Seasons opens for business at ten in the morning, but I’m usually there by seven thirty or eight. I took a deep breath, pulling in the lovely scents of the place, which always feels like a safe haven from the mad, mad, mad world outside. I especially love the early morning quiet time when I have the shop all to myself and can pretend that it’s the only world there is. This morning, I tied on my green Thyme and Seasons apron over the T-shirt and jeans that are my everyday uniform, made sure there was enough change in the cash register, picked up the messages on the answering machine, and checked the shelves to see what kind of restocking I needed to do. Oh, and of course I had to feed Khat, who has a bowl in the back corner by the bookshelf. He hadn’t had a bite to eat since supper the night before and was on the verge of utter starvation. A seventeen-pound Siamese shop cat requires a great many calories to keep him purring.
Thyme and Seasons occupies a small, square space, with thick limestone exterior walls; tall, narrow windows, set deep into the walls; a scarred and somewhat uneven pine floor; and cypress beams supporting the embossed tin ceiling. In the middle of the room, a long, narrow wooden rack is filled with glass jars of dried culinary and medicinal herbs, along with bottles of extracts and tinctures. Antique hutches and wooden shelves along the walls are stocked with herbal vinegars, oils, jellies, and teas. The pine cupboard in one corner displays personal care products: herbal soaps, shampoos, massage oils, and bath herbs. There are three shelves of cookbooks and gardening books and a rack of stationery and cards and gift baskets. Handcrafted wreaths and swags hang on every wall, and baskets and buckets of dried herbs—yarrow, sweet Annie, larkspur, statice, and tansy—are stacked on the floor, along with bowls of fragrant potpourri. Outside the front door, there’s a five-foot-tall rack of potted herbs for sale and some larger pots of shrubby herbs: lavender, rosemary, and bay.
This morning, I wanted to finish editing the monthly e-letter and calendar that goes to customers of Ruby’s shop, my shop, and our tearoom, along with ads for Party Thyme and the Thymely Gourmet. I set up my laptop on the counter, pulled up a stool, and was settling down to work when I heard a knock at the door. I ignored it, and the second, louder knock as well, since there was a definitive Closed sign hanging in plain sight, and under that, a sign announcing the open hours. Whoever was knocking could see that the lights were on and guess that I was in the building, but you’d think he or she would respect the signs.
At the third knock—rapid-fire and more urgent than before—I lost patience. I muttered a couple of very bad words (you don’t want to know what they were), climbed down off my stool, and marched to the door, ready to take somebody’s head off. But the woman standing with her fist poised for an even louder knock was Sheila Dawson, our Pecan Springs chief of police. She was wearing a bright yellow rain poncho over her usual dark blue cop uniform, her blond hair was swept back and up beneath her cop cap, and she looked very official.
But also very beautiful, because that’s Sheila. If she wasn’t in uniform and you didn’t know that she is an experienced police officer with superior field skills, you’d probably think she should be on a movie screen or the cover of a fashion magazine. Those high cheekbones, delicate features, deep-set blue eyes, creamy complexion—if she weren’t such a nice person, no other woman would tolerate having her around. The evil-doers she encounters in her line of work are so taken aback at their first sight of her that they forget (almost) the skullduggery they’re up to. But while her friends call her Smart Cookie, “Tough Cookie” fits her even better. You don’t want to mess with
Sheila when she’s serious about something. This morning, she had a serious look on her face. And a white paper bag from the Nueces Street Diner in her hand.
“Hey, China,” she said when I opened the door. “I need to talk to you.”
“We’re closed, but since it’s you, Sheila, I’ll let you in.” I said, in a mock-grudging tone. “Especially because I’ll bet those are jelly doughnuts in that bag.”
“Right the first time,” she said as she came in. “Raspberry and lemon cream.”
I rolled my eyes. “To die for,” I said, shutting the door behind her. Lila Jennings at the diner makes the very best jelly doughnuts in the world. Her raspberry is so good that I refuse to worry about the calories. “How about a cup of tea to go with?”
“Sounds wonderful.” She took off her cap and pulled her poncho over her head. She was wearing her duty belt, loaded down with official police gear and, yes, a gun. Seeing that, I was reminded that she’s not just a friend. She’s a cop, and what she does is hazardous.
But right now, she was thinking of less hazardous matters. “This thing is going to drip on the floor,” she said apologetically, holding the poncho at arm’s length.
“Don’t worry about it.” I hung it beside the door. “The floor is going to get dripped on all day. That’s the nature of floors in wet weather. But it’s raining, which is definitely good, so you won’t hear me complain. Bring those jelly doughnuts and come on back to the kitchen. I’ll brew us some tea.”
Khat had appeared out of the shadows and was rubbing Sheila’s pant leg, rumbling an ecstatic, throaty purr. He doesn’t like men and he is neutral about most women, but he absolutely adores Sheila. When she stops in, he forgets that he is top cat, drops his dignity, and behaves like a smitten kitten. Now, still purring, he trailed her as we went through the door at the back of the shop and into the tearoom.
The tearoom is about twice the size of Thyme and Seasons. It has the same limestone walls, well-worn wide-board floors, and embossed tin ceiling. With its green-painted wainscoting, chintz chair seats and place mats, terra cotta pots of herbs on the tables, and wreaths and bundles of dried herbs on the walls, it’s a friendly and attractive space, designed to appeal to the local clubs and groups that meet there for lunch. When all the tables are filled (which happens once in a blue moon), we can seat forty, and French doors open out onto a wooden deck where another dozen people can enjoy the surrounding gardens.
Behind the tearoom, the kitchen is fully equipped, professionally organized, and large enough to prepare a luncheon menu for a full house, as well as the Thymely Gourmet meals that Cass and her kitchen helper prepare for afternoon delivery. Cass would be here in another half hour to start her daily work, but for now, the kitchen was dark. I turned on the lights, filled the teakettle with water at the sink, and set it on a burner.
“So what brings you out on a rainy morning?” I asked, as I took down a china teapot, two dark green mugs, and two small matching plates. Khat temporarily abandoned Sheila and settled himself at his food bowl (he has one in each shop and one in the kitchen) to enjoy a second helping of breakfast.
Sheila opened the bag. “A one-car crash,” she replied evenly. “A bad accident, made worse by a malfunctioning airbag.” She put a doughnut on each plate. “I think.”
“You think it’s a bad accident?” I opened the tea canister and took out a couple of chai tea bags. “You don’t know for sure?”
She licked the sugar off her fingers. “I don’t know if it was an accident. Or something else.”
“Well, that certainly sounds intriguing enough,” I said.
She turned to face me. “I understand that you’re acquainted with Kelly Kaufman.” It wasn’t a question.
I put the tea bags into the cups. “I am,” I said slowly. “Don’t tell me that she was in the crash!” But I could already feel a cold shiver rippling across my shoulders. I had expected Kelly to show up at my house at nine o’clock the night before, and she hadn’t. I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear what came next.
“Kaufman was driving west on Limekiln Road last night, sometime between nine and eight fifty, alone.” Sheila pulled down a paper towel and began wiping her fingers. Her voice was calm and measured, a cop’s voice. “The officer who investigated the crash estimated that she was doing at least sixty-five—fifteen miles over the posted speed. Her vehicle ran off the highway just past Comanche Creek Road. It went down a steep slope and smashed head-on into a tree. She was belted in but the airbag didn’t pop. She was pinned behind the wheel.”
I stared at her, feeling the cold seep into my bones. I knew that part of the highway. It was narrow and twisting, just two lanes, no passing lane—and dangerous. “Oh, my God,” I whispered. “Is she . . . is she okay?”
“Multiple fractures, concussion, internal bleeding. She’s critical. The doc says it doesn’t look good.” Sheila was watching me, her head tilted. “The owner of the vehicle, a woman named Lara Metcalf, said that Kaufman had been at her place during the day and into the evening. She was on her way to your house when the crash happened.”
“What was she driving?” I asked. “Was alcohol involved?” Kelly and her friend might have had some wine with dinner. “Or distracted driving?”
“She was driving a metallic gray Chevrolet Astro van that belongs to Metcalf and her husband.” Sheila was studying me. “If alcohol was involved, the investigator didn’t say so. There was no cell phone in the van, and no GPS, so it doesn’t seem like a distracted-driver situation. The investigator thinks it was a matter of speed. Or maybe she veered to avoid a deer crossing the road.”
That was certainly possible, I thought. Limekiln Road snaked through a heavily wooded area. I’d had to slow down for deer myself, driving home after dark. And once, in the rain, a mountain lion. The sight of it had taken my breath away.
“There weren’t any skid marks, though,” Sheila added. “Doesn’t look like she braked.” She wadded the paper towel and tossed it into the trash. “Metcalf says that Kelly Kaufman told her that she wanted to talk to you—something about a murder. Do you mind answering a few questions?”
Murder. The word fell like a stone into the quiet pool of kitchen sounds—the low hum of the refrigerator, Khat’s rumbling purr, the click of the clock above the doorway.
Then the kettle began to hiss. I picked it up and poured boiling water over the tea bags in our mugs. I was stalling for time, trying to decide what I could—and should—say. Kelly hadn’t told me much, but she wasn’t my client, so nothing she’d said to me was privileged. Neither was that business about the guest cottage, renting it, then leaving it under mysterious circumstances yesterday morning—in a metallic gray van. If Sheila wanted to question me, I was duty-bound to answer. So instead of making her fish for the information, I might as well tell her the whole thing, start to finish.
“It’s a longish story,” I said, putting the mugs and the doughnut plates on a tray. “We might be able to expedite the process if I just tell you what I know. Let’s sit down at a table in the tearoom.”
Khat went with us, of course. And of course, he jumped up on Sheila’s lap the minute she sat down and began rubbing his cheek against her arm while she ate her doughnut. When she finished, she held him while he snuggled up against her. Beauty and a lapful of the beast.
I told the whole story, from Kelly’s first call reserving the cottage to her arrival and unconventional departure and her phone call of the night before. What she had said about the murder was still fresh in my mind, so I gave Sheila the gist of that part of the telephone conversation and told her about Kelly’s being afraid. I’m really, really scared, she had said, and I had heard the fear in her voice.
I also told her about Charlie’s visit to the guest cottage and our discussion with the police officer who had come in response to our call, as well as my back-alley encounters with Mr. Cowan and Mary Beth Jenkins. I knew that She
ila would have access to the cop’s report and that she would interview Charlie, if she thought he could—or would—provide any relevant information. But if Kelly was his client, he would be limited in what he could say. Like most lawyers, Charlie observes attorney-client privilege scrupulously.
But I didn’t tell Sheila everything. I intentionally left out a couple of items. For one thing, my conversation with Janet Parker at Cavette’s market, about Kelly leaving the hospice. For another, Ramona’s visit and her story about her relationship with Kelly’s husband. If Sheila asked me, I’d tell those parts of the story, but I couldn’t see that they were relevant to the car crash.
Finished with my narrative, and my doughnut, I picked up my teacup. “So,” I said, and sipped. “That’s what I know. Now, tell me what happened—and why you think it might not be an accident.”
Car wrecks are always bad enough, especially when friends and loved ones are injured. But they happen, and we all learn to sweep up the pieces and get on with our lives the best way we can. If this wreck wasn’t an accident, though, it was something else, and we were facing a whole new set of questions. Deeply disturbing questions.
Sheila told the story, briefly and factually. There were no witnesses to the crash. It occurred after eight fifty, when a patrolman drove past the site and saw nothing, and before nine twenty, when a teenager out with his best girl spotted the wreckage and phoned 911. It happened just inside the city limits, so a couple of Pecan Springs officers were on the scene within a few moments, and EMS immediately after that. Kelly had been carrying no identification. (Of course not: her wallet was still locked in the bedroom in my guest cottage.) The officer checked the registration on the Astro, phoned the Metcalf residence, and told Lara Metcalf that her van had been wrecked. Metcalf said she had loaned the vehicle to Kelly and identified her. She also gave the officer Kelly’s husband’s cell phone number so he could be notified.
Blood Orange: A China Bayles Mystery Page 10
