Dead Man's Bones

by Susan Wittig Albert

  I managed a laugh. “The oldest story in the world.”

  He gave an odd, quirky shrug, then echoed my laugh, tore off the credit card slip, and pushed it toward me. “An old story but true, so help me God.” He was making this into a joke. “I’ll admit to my share of skirmishes, but I’ve never yet cuffed a woman.”

  “Of course not.” I gave him back the slip, signed. “Trouble is, Ruby said it was the pantry door. You guys had better synchronize your stories.” Without giving him time to respond, I glanced at his T-shirt. “You’re a hemp activist, huh?”

  “You bet,” he said, straight-faced and serious now. “There’s our display.” He pointed. “If you’re into subtle ironies, we’ve even got a U.S. flag made of hemp.”

  I turned around. One whole wall of the small shop was devoted to a display of hemp products. Shirts, shorts, pants, sandals (exactly like the pair Colin was wearing), fabric, paper, rope, soaps, food products. And the flag.

  “Quite a collection,” I said, meaning it. “How are people taking it?”

  Pecan Springs is, by and large, a conservative town, and some people would be suspicious of hemp products, “all-natural” or not, legal or not. It’s illegal to grow hemp in the U.S., but it’s not illegal to sell or purchase hemp products imported from other countries. Go figure.

  However, CTSU is just up the hill, and no doubt the hemp items were popular among students. And among the liberals in town and in such nearby art colonies as Wimberley and Gruene, who would be delighted to show off their new pair of hemp shorts, or their “Legalize Hemp” T-shirt. Some of them would even be happy to wear a cap that said “Legalize Marijuana,” although we have our share of drug problems here, close as we are to the border and to the drug pipeline that runs from Mexico through Texas to points north. Tons of high-grade Colombian dope—hidden in boxes of clothing, cheap coffeemakers, made-in-Mexico furniture—are smuggled through the border checkpoints by pasadores, border crossers, with the connivance of a few inspectors and crooked cops. McQuaid had been investigating just such a criminal arrangement when he was shot, and although his work put an end to one bunch of bad guys, there were plenty more where they came from, living and dealing in the dark places.

  Colin was pointing to a poster behind the counter. “As you can see,” he said, “I’m an active member of the Hemp Industries Association. Hemp has been legalized in Canada, and we’re working for legalization here.” He leaned against the counter, regarding me. “You’re into herbs, China. So I suppose you know the story.” He grinned a little. “Or maybe you don’t. Cannabis doesn’t exactly qualify as a poster plant for the Herb Society of America.”

  “I know the story,” I said, “or at least, the outline.”

  For thousands of years, Cannabis sativa was one of the world’s most important all-purpose plants, yielding fiber, oil, food, medicine—and, yes, a psychoactive narcotic—to cultures around the globe. It was primarily the fiber, called hemp, that made this plant so vitally important to humans. Throughout our existence, far more clothing has been produced from hemp than from cotton, flax, or wool—comfortable clothing, too, clothing that absorbs moisture, softens with washing, and doesn’t need much ironing. And until the late nineteenth century, all the sails, ropes, riggings, and nets carried on all the ships of the world were made from hemp. In fact, our English word canvas is derived from the Latin word cannabis. Without hemp, Columbus could not have discovered America; Magellan wouldn’t have had a prayer of sailing around the world; and the English fleet would not have defeated the Spanish Armada. Without hemp, it is safe to say, there would have been no British Empire.

  The American colonies relied on hemp, just as did the Old World. Thomas Paine listed hemp as one of the new nation’s four essential natural resources, which also included iron, timber, and tar. Thomas Jefferson thought it was far more sensible to grow cannabis than to grow tobacco (“which is never useful,” he remarked judiciously, “and sometimes pernicious”). And when Benjamin Franklin started his first paper mill, the fiber he used was hemp, thereby allowing America to have a colonial press without having to obtain paper (and permission) from England.

  It’s a different story in America now, of course. The legitimate and valuable uses of cannabis were ended in the United States by the Marijuana Tax Act of 1937—special interest legislation that, many historians say, was aimed to boost the synthetic fibers and pulp-timber industries by criminalizing their major competitor, hemp.

  Meanwhile, hemp is legally grown in over thirty countries, including Canada, England, Germany, Australia, and France. Its proponents call it a “miracle” plant—not far off the mark, for hemp fiber is now used to produce a strong, lightweight fiberglass-like material, as well as textiles, paper, building materials, carpeting, even circuit boards.

  But Colin was right. Cannabis will never be celebrated by those of us who think of herbs as the teddy bears of the plant world: sweet little warm-and-fuzzies that brighten our gardens, perk up our food, heal our ailments, and offer nothing but good. We can’t think of cannabis that way, or the other two powerful herbal narcotics, opium and cacao.

  I picked up my sack of thirty-seven-dollar lightbulbs. “Thanks, Colin.”

  “Sure.” He grinned. “And thanks for the basil. I’ve got some salmon left over from last night’s dinner—it’ll be perfect, cold, with pesto mayo.”

  Not just a gourmet, but a creative gourmet. And, despite the slight inconsistency in their stories, I seriously doubted that Colin was responsible for Ruby’s shiner. I could be wrong, but I met plenty of abusers in my career as a lawyer, and this man didn’t strike me as quite the type. There was that odd, watchful wariness, though, as if he were mentally watching his back—hardly the look of a man who was completely comfortable with his life. I had the feeling that, one way or another, Ruby’s love affair wasn’t destined to run smoothly.

  COLIN’S mention of pesto mayo—a simple thing, really, just mayonnaise, homemade or store-bought, blended with pesto—gave me an idea. I had planned to have spaghetti for supper, but on the way home, I stopped at Cavette’s Grocery—a family store that has somehow survived the supermarket blitzkrieg—and bought chicken breasts, sourdough rolls, and fresh spinach. While I was picking up a bottle of zinfandel, I ran into Marian Atkins and Jean Davenport. Marian was trying to decide between a red and a white wine. With a puzzled look, she held out both.

  “Jean and I are having chicken cacciatore tonight. Jean says white for chicken, I say red for tomato sauce. What do you think?”

  “Well, if it were me,” I said, pointing to the cabernet sauvignon in her right hand, “I’d go for that nice dry red.” It bore the Falls Creek Vineyards label, one of our fine Texas wineries. “I’d use it in the cacciatore, too. But I’m not much of a wine connoisseur,” I added, as she put the white wine back on the shelf. “You might prefer something else.”

  “I’ll take your word for it,” Marian said. She’s in her early forties, shorter than I, with broad shoulders and practically no waist. Her blonde hair, darker at the roots and permed to a crinkle, was disheveled, and her flushed face was the color of her cranberry shirt. A pale sheen of perspiration shimmered on her forehead, whether from heat or stress, I couldn’t tell.

  “Let’s get both.” Jean reached for the bottle of white and put it into their basket, pointing to a package of frozen chicken cacciatore. “We’re not actually cooking the chicken. All we have to do is stick this stuff in the microwave—which is just about all either of us can handle these days.” Jean, too, looked hot and disheveled, which is unusual for her. She’s a cool lady. When the whole play cast is losing their collective and individual heads, she keeps hers.

  “Play’s got you guys down, huh?” I asked sympathetically. “Hang in there. It’ll all be over in three more weeks.”

  Marian waggled her hand. “The play is . . . well, we’ve done everything we can do. It’s in the hands of the gods.”

  “And it may not run for three weeks,” Jean sai
d wearily. “It may close after opening night.”

  Marian pressed her lips together and narrowed her eyes with a look of combined irritation, impatience, and annoyance. “The problem is Jane Obermann. I suppose you know she sacked Duane Redmond and replaced him with Max Baumeister?” Her tone grew bitter. “Max reminds her of her father. It’s that mustache, I suppose, and his little gold glasses. And the fact that he’s an old acquaintance. The family dentist, as I understand it.”

  From the tautness of her voice, I’d say that Marian was definitely stressed out. She needed to go home, open that wine, and put her feet up. “Ruby said Max was having some trouble getting into the role,” I remarked.

  “Trouble!” Marian gave a disgusted snort. “I’ll tell you, China, if it weren’t for Ruby, we’d be in a helluva mess. She’s taken her role and made it into something special—with Jean’s help, of course.”

  “Oh?” I turned to Jean. “Ruby hasn’t said much about it, except that you’ve made some changes in the script. What have you done?”

  Jean gave me a mysterious look. “You’ll see,” was all she said.

  Marian bent over and took a package of Parmesan cheese out of the cooler next to the wines. “Of course, we don’t know what Jane is going to say. She’ll probably close us down.” She dropped the cheese into her basket. “And today, she ripped me apart over the damn sign. The big one, that was supposed to go on the front of the theater.”

  “Uh-oh,” I said softly.

  “Uh-oh in spades.” Marian’s voice rose, her tone hot enough to fry fish. “Turns out that she wanted ‘Merrill G. Obermann’ on the sign, rather than just plain old Merrill Obermann.”

  “G,” Jean put in, “stands for Gustav. It distinguishes Merrill G. from his ne’er-do-well cousin, Merrill T.”

  “T,” Marian said, “stands for Tobias. Never mind that both of these old farts have been dead for half a century, or that the sign cost nearly a thousand dollars. It has to be done over again. With a G. Which stands for God help us.”

  “What a pain,” I said.

  “You said it. I—” She glanced at her watch. “Holy smokes, we’ve gotta go, Jean. You’re coming to opening night, aren’t you, China? You’ll see what Jean and Ruby have cooked up then.”

  “Of course I’m coming,” I said. “Have you forgotten that Party Thyme is catering the cast party? And since Ruby will have her hands full with the play, I’m helping Janet with the food.”

  “Good Lord, yes.” Marian ran her hands through her crimped curls. “Jane’s got me so rattled that I’d forget my head if it wasn’t nailed on.”

  Jean’s laugh was short and bitter. “If we can just get through opening night without somebody shooting that wretched old bitch, we’ll be lucky.”

  It was the kind of thing people say without meaning, of course, meant to express impatience, exasperation, even anger. One of those trivial remarks that we forget as soon as the words themselves have dropped into silence.

  But given my conversation with McQuaid that morning, I didn’t forget them. They were the first words that would come into my mind on Friday night, when I heard the shot.

  Chapter Eight

  CHINA’S PESTO MAYO

  1⁄3 cup basil leaves, lightly packed

  1⁄3 cup spinach leaves, lightly packed

  2 Tbsp. grated Parmesan cheese

  1 Tbsp. pecans (you can substitute pine nuts or

  walnuts)

  2 Tbsp. lemon juice

  2 Tbsp. olive oil

  2 garlic cloves, mashed

  salt and freshly ground pepper to taste

  11⁄2 cups prepared mayonnaise (low-fat, if you

  prefer)

  1-2 Tsp. prepared horseradish (if desired)

  2 Tbsp. diced sun-dried tomatoes

  In a blender, combine the basil, spinach, cheese, garlic, and nuts. With the blender running, add the lemon juice and olive oil. Process until smooth. Place in a bowl and stir in mayonnaise. Add horseradish to taste (more if you like a zesty bite, less or none if you don’t), and salt and pepper. Add diced sun-dried tomatoes and stir just to mix. Cover and refrigerate until serving time. Excellent on hot or cold chicken, or on cold salmon or cold sliced beef. Makes about 21⁄2 cups.

  Brian had gone to Jake’s house to eat and do homework and whatever else teenagers do when they’re out of sight of adults, and I had planned a pleasant supper à deux on the screened-in back porch. The porch was one of the jobs Hank Dixon had done for us, two summers before. A shady, breezy spot, it’s become our favorite for lazy weekend meals, when the hottest days of summer are over.

  I tossed a green salad and mixed up a batch of basil pesto mayonnaise and sliced some Swiss cheese for the chicken, while McQuaid built a pecan-wood fire in the barbeque, grilled the chicken breasts, and toasted the sourdough rolls. I watched him through the window, loving him, worrying a little because he looked tired and he was whistling between his teeth in the way he does when he’s feeling pain and doesn’t want to take the medication that makes him drowsy. We had been enormously, miraculously lucky. A fraction of an inch, and the bullet that only nicked his spinal cord would have killed him; as it was, the doctors hadn’t given him much of a chance to walk again. But they hadn’t counted on McQuaid’s determination. He no longer jogs but he walks easily, except when he’s tired or in pain, and he manages his other physical activities with enthusiasm.

  When he brought the chicken in from the grill, I spread a cloth on the low, green-painted table, put out the food, and filled our wineglasses. “I ran into Alana Montoya today,” I said, as we helped ourselves to salad. “She’s finished her preliminary work on Brian’s caveman.” I told McQuaid what she’d said about the bullet hole in the skull and the postmortem fracture.

  “I guess I’m not surprised,” he said, layering grilled chicken and Swiss slices on a toasted roll. “Wonder if we’ll ever find out who he was.” He slathered pesto mayo over the top. “Kind of a coincidence, huh? You seeing her last night and today, too.” He paused. “You going to see her again?”

  “We’re having lunch next week,” I said, withholding my suspicion that Alana wanted to talk about her drinking. I frowned. Lots of faculty members drink too much. So why was I protecting her? Was I afraid that McQuaid would think less of her if he knew? But why should that matter to me? Enough already, China.

  We settled into the porch swing, eating and drinking in companionable silence, enjoying the cool evening breeze that blows in from the cedar-covered hills. Howard Cosell sprawled at our feet, one vigilant eye open for any little treat that might come his way, and in the sycamore tree, a wren celebrated the advent of cooler weather with a spill of song.

  McQuaid leaned forward, picked up the zinfandel bottle, and refilled his empty glass. “Oh, by the way,” he said, “I’m flying to New Orleans on Friday morning. I’ll be back around lunchtime on Saturday.”

  “Well, drat,” I said. I held out my glass and he refilled it, too. “That means you’ll miss opening night, and the Denim and Diamonds gala. Ruby will be brokenhearted.” And I had been counting on him to help me tote the boxes of food for the party. Janet balks at carrying anything heavier than a tray of sandwiches.

  “Yeah,” he said ruefully. “Tell Ruby I’m sorry to miss her big night. But I’ll catch the play later. It’s on for three or four weekends, isn’t it?”

  “Three, if it doesn’t fold. Marian and Jean didn’t seem too confident when I saw them today.” I paused. “What’s taking you to New Orleans?”

  “The . . . other case I’m working on.”

  I eyed him. “The résumé fraud thing? What’s that all about, anyway?” McQuaid usually shares at least the outline of his cases, but he hadn’t told me anything at all about this one, not even the name of the client. The case itself was an oddity, since lying on a résumé doesn’t usually warrant the hiring of an investigator. Unless, of course, the liar happens to be a chief honcho of a major corporation. I had read recently of a software company whos
e CFO had lied about having an MBA from a prestigious Western university. When a reporter uncovered the truth and the wire services got hold of the story, the company’s stock fell thirty-five percent. If there were a potential downside of that magnitude in this case, it would make sense to hire McQuaid to look into the suspected problem.

  McQuaid eased back into the swing with a grimace that told me that his back was bothering him. He answered my question with one of his own. “Aren’t you going to ask me how it went with the Obermann sisters this afternoon?”

  “Oh, right,” I said, with interest. “So you saw them today?”

  He nodded. “If Jane is the client from hell, she hasn’t shown her true nature—not yet, anyway. The interview went very well.”

  “Jane must have been on her best behavior,” I said dryly, thinking of my conversation with Marian and Jean.

  “I suppose. We didn’t finish—I didn’t get all the information I needed, and I don’t yet have a signature on the retainer agreement. But Jane certainly seems cooperative enough. And this is a job she wants done. She’s definitely afraid.”

  I pushed the cloth aside and put my feet up, turning the table into an ottoman. “So what happened? Let’s have the blow-by-blow. And don’t leave anything out.”

  McQuaid obliged. He had gone to the Obermann mansion at two o’clock that afternoon, parking in the circular drive in front of the house and going up the walk to the front door.

  “It’s an imposing house,” he said, “or at least it must have been, once upon a time. It needs a lot of fixing up, though—painting, repair, garden work. There’s enough to keep somebody busy full-time for a year or more. It’s an odd place, with those turrets and towers and chimneys and weird dormers.” He frowned. “It has a strange feeling about it, too, if you ask me. I don’t think I’d want to live there.”

  “Maybe it’s the widow’s walk,” I offered. “The Obermann mansion is the only house in town that has one. And Cynthia Obermann is the only woman in Pecan Springs history who killed herself by jumping off her own roof.”