Rosemary Remembered - China Bayles 04

by Susan Wittig Albert

  I pulled into an Exxon station and parked on the shady side of the building, close to the pay phone. When I stepped out of the car, the dry, scorching air seemed to sear my flesh. It was almost too hot to breathe, and in spite of my dark sunglasses, the sun's laserlike glare, ricocheting off chrome and glass, was beginning to give me a headache. I dialed the shop first, and got Laurel.

  "McQuaid called," she said. "He wanted to know if everything was all right with you and Brian." Her voice took on a slightly disapproving tone. "I said you'd just gone across the street."

  After McQuaid's comment last night about taking my responsibility to Brian seriously, I hadn't wanted him to know I was playing hooky today — even if Brian was in good hands. But Laurel is a very straight-up person, without a devious bone in her body. She hates to lie.

  "Did he leave a message?" I asked.

  "He said he'd call back at three. He thinks he's onto something."

  Onto something. Did that mean he'd caught up with Jeff? What would happen when he did?

  "Have there been any other calls I need to know about?" I asked. "Matt Monroe, from the Springs? Chief Harris?"

  "Nope, just McQuaid," Laurel said. "Things have been pretty slow in the store. I've been pulling weeds. Anyway, it's cooler outdoors."

  "It's cooler outside than in? Isn't the air conditioner working?"

  She made a disgusted noise. "It isn't. I hate to complain, but it's almost ninety in here. Customers come in and go right back out again."

  "Call Harold," I said firmly. "Tell him he promised there wouldn't be a second time."

  "I did. He sounded cranky, but he said he'd come over this afternoon." She hesitated. "Listen, China, maybe we ought to call my cousin Emily. She took over my uncle's air-conditioning shop over in Lockhart after he died. I know she'd be glad to come."

  "Let's see what Harold's got to say for himself first," I replied, and we said good-bye.

  I paused and assessed what I'd learned that morning. Not much, when you come right down to it. But sometimes investigative work requires you to pull out the truth bit by tedious bit, like plucking grass out of a thick bed of thyme. Robbins's alibi was definitely holding, although I couldn't rule out the possibility that he had paid somebody to do the job. I once defended a tiny, fragile-looking woman who had hired a large, ugly hit man to do in her co-heir to a sizable chunk of money. On the day of the murder, she was sunning herself in Bermuda. I couldn't accept Robbins's claim to innocence just because he was in San Marcos the night Rosemary was killed. Come to think of it, how many brothers did I know—particularly good-looking ones—who spent entire evenings with their sisters? And it did seem odd that Robbins had done so on the very night his ex-wife was killed. On the other hand, it's impossible to prove a case like that unless the hired killer is caught and implicates his employer.

  I glanced at my watch. Nearly noon. Brian and I needed to be back in the shop at three, when McQuaid called. The thought of Brian reminded me that I'd better check on him, and I dialed Campus Security. Sheila had gone over to Data Processing, but Brian was there. He'd just come back from patrol duty with Officer Williams, he informed me importantly, and he couldn't talk now because he had to leave right away to help Officer Mar-ney rob the parking meters. I hung up with a chuckle.

  Even if Jacoby could locate Brian, which I doubted, there was no way he was going to grab the boy away from Maximum Maxine. McQuaid could rest easy.

  I flipped through the Yellow Pages, looking for the information I needed next. I found it, and went back to the bake-oven that was my car. I had rolled down the windows, but it was still hot enough to grill cheese on the front seat. I started the engine and flipped on the air-conditioning, which blasted me with hot air. Then I drove onto the street, made a rash left turn in front of a UPS truck, and pulled into the Taco Bell drive-thru. The total for my bean burrito and iced tea, including tax, came to one seventy-one. I pushed away the envious thought of McQuaid in Mexico City, no doubt dining on expense-account cabrito and flambeed plantains. This investigation, if that's what you want to call it, was on my nickel.

  It took me ten minutes to find the address I was looking for, on Hopkins, close to Bugg Lane. The door sported a red sign that said Rhodes Real Estate — Helping You Find Your Place in the World in large white letters. By now, it was much too hot for slacks and much, much too hot for my linen jacket, which stuck to my sweaty back like Saran wrap in a microwave. But I left it on because the blouse underneath was wringing wet and I hadn't worn a bra. A minute later, I was glad, because stepping into the real estate office was like stepping into an igloo. I pulled the damp jacket against me, trying to accustom myself to what felt like a blast from the arctic but which probably wasn't more than a twenty-degree temperature drop.

  There were three gray metal desks in the narrow room, two to my right, both empty, and one ten paces in front of me, opposite the door I'd just entered. This one was occupied by a woman in her mid-twenties who was simultaneously talking into a telephone, consulting a card file, and checking something in a thick multiple-listing book. She threw me an I'U-get-to-you-in-a-minute smile and motioned toward a turquoise vinyl-covered chair beside a small table littered with real estate brochures. Behind the chair was a four-foot-high green plastic barrel cactus in a terra-cotta pot. On the floor in front of the chair lay a dirty Navajo rug. On the wall beside it was a gold-framed print of an Indian woman weaving a basket. The cactus, the rug, and the print were the only decorative touches in the otherwise generic room. The windows wore white mini-blinds, the floor was scuffed green tile that hadn't been waxed in recent memory, and the dingy walls were papered with photographs of houses, commercial buildings, and ranch property.

  Instead of taking the chair, I walked over to the wall nearest the desk and pretended a consuming interest in an immaculate wh brk 3-2-2 ranch w/lg frml dining, hdwd floors, WBFP, cvd patio, drapes, curtains, appliances, $77,500, MUST SEE!!!! While I contemplated the out-of-focus photograph of the wh brk ranch, I was listening to the woman, whose boy-cropped brown hair would have frustrated DeAnne no end. You can learn a lot by watching people when they're on the phone, even when you have no interest in the conversation itself.

  The woman was young and pretty, with a wide forehead, thick lashes, and dark eyes. But her voice was high-pitched and harried, her mouth was pinched, and her dress—a khaki-colored shirtwaist with epaulets and a wide plastic belt —cast a sallow shadow on her face. She was explaining in a pseudo-apologetic tone, apparently to an agent from another real estate firm, that Howard had already put down a contract on eight-oh-eight Macomb and she was ninety-nine percent sure the owner had al-

  ready accepted the offer, or would, within the hour. However, wasn't it lucky? She just happened to have a brand-new listing on the same street, only a few blocks away, and much, much nicer, really, a gem of a house, very sweet, with fantastic buyer appeal.

  "Why don't you drive your client by and have a look this afternoon, Patricia? There's new floor tile in the kitchen and a lovely screened-in porch out back and a brand-new thirty-gallon energy-saver gas water heater in the utility room. Oh, and the bedrooms have all been freshly painted and the drapes dry-cleaned. I did a walk-through yesterday, and I'm sure it'll move fast. This weekend, in fact. I've sent a couple of agents by already." She paused, doodling on her desk pad. "That's right, six-twelve Macomb. The owner's been transferred and is ready to sell and I mean really ready, just bring her an offer and watch her jump for it." Another pause, then briskly: "Sure thing, Patricia. If I can help, just whistle. I'll be here another couple of hours. After that, you'll get my pager."

  She hung up the phone, flashed me a smile that was even more superficial than the first, and held up her finger to indicate one more moment. She punched a number into the phone as if she were punching somebody's lights out, turned away from me, and spoke in a half-whisper into the phone, very angry. I moved two paces to my right, listening without shame. Some of my old habits are harder to break than ot
hers.

  "Howard? You better get your ass moving on that contract on eight-oh-eight. I've had two calls on it this morning." Her voice sharpened, impatient, angry. "No, of course I didn't. You think I'm stupid or something? I sent them both to six-twelve, which is a dog, needs a lot of work, but it's our only other listing in the area. You said you'd have that contract to the owner by seven last night, and it's already noon." A pause. "I don't give a shit why you haven't. Just get the fuck out of that bed and do it." Her hang-up barely missed being a grand slam, and only because she'd suddenly remembered that I was there.

  The woman's recovery reminded me of those comediennes who do impersonations. One minute they've got one face and voice, then a turn, a twist of the shoulder and a turn back, and voila! You'd swear to God it wasn't the same person. This gal wasn't that good, and it took her several seconds to recompose her face and flush the anger out of her voice. But when she stood and spoke to me, the corners of her mouth were turned up nicely, there were fetching dimples in her cheeks, and her expression was cheerfully bland.

  "I'm Linda Rhodes," she said, extending her hand. "Glad you stopped by. What can I show you today?" Her smile showed white teeth that were either the result of good genes or expensive preteen braces. She gestured toward the wall. "If you're interested in that three-two-two, I'd be glad to take you by. Rosewood school district, four blocks from the supermarket, very quiet neighborhood, lovely landscaping. You'll love it. Everything you've ever wanted in a house, and then some."

  Linda Rhodes. Did that make her Rhodes's daughter, his sister, or his wife? I couldn't tell without asking. But the Howard she'd chewed out on the phone must be the Howard I wanted. Her tone had suggested that he was either her husband or her brother. Women don't usually talk to their fathers that way.

  "My name is China Bayles," I said. "I'm looking for Howard Rhodes."

  Her gray eyes slitted and her smile went away. "Junior or senior?"

  A complication. There was no way to segue gracefully

  into this one, so I put both feet in it. "The man I'm looking for spent some time in the federal facility at Bastrop."

  Her face wrenched. She sat down and reached for a pack of Virginia Slims and a red plastic Bic. "What do you want him for?" She didn't look up and she didn't invite me to sit down.

  "I want to talk to him about Rosemary Robbins."

  That brought her eyes up, and fast, nostrils flaring. "That bitch," she spat out. "I read about her in the paper." She had to flick the lighter once, twice, three times to get it going. "She deserves to be dead. Too fucking bad somebody didn't blow her away years ago."

  Definitely a woman with a grudge. "You're Mrs. Rhodes?"

  A short, quick shake of the head, eyes down again. A hard pull on the cigarette. "His sister?"

  Eyes up and flinty, jaw working. She took her time answering. Finally, she said, "I'm Howard Rhodes's daughter. Excuse me, but just who the hell are you and what business is this of yours?"

  His daughter. So the Howard on the phone — presumably a late sleeper or a drunk or both—was most likely Howard Junior. Her brother.

  "My name is China Bayles," I said. "I was told that your father might be able to shed some light on Rosemary Robbins's death. Can you tell me where I can reach him?"

  The laugh was brittle as old glass. "Cypress Springs Memorial Gardens. Row twenty-three, plot fifteen. I doubt he'll have much to say." Her voice cracked. "The dead don't, you know."

  I looked at her. Beneath her bitterness was etched a cross-hatching of fresh, raw grief. "When did it happen?" "Three weeks ago yesterday." She leaned back in her

  chair and exhaled a stream of blue smoke from her nostrils. "Time flies, whether you're having fun or not." She examined the tip of her cigarette. "Are you going to ask how?" "How?"

  She bit her Up and half turned away, but not far enough to hide the pain. "He drove into a concrete overpass abutment south of Austin at something over ninety miles an hour."

  "He was alone?"

  She turned and met my eyes, not flinching. "Alone, broad daylight, dry pavement, no skid marks, no blood alcohol. That tell you anything?"

  It did. Some people do it with a gun, some barricade themselves in the garage with the motor running, some put the accelerator to the floor and ram the nearest solid object. The next logical question — had her father's life insurance been in force long enough for his suicide to be covered?—was not relevant to my inquiry. And since he had died more than two weeks before Rosemary was killed, he couldn't have killed her. It was entirely within the realm of possibility, however, that his death was the cause of hers. The woman in front of me looked angry enough to kill.

  "I'm sorry for your loss," I said.

  She shrugged. The grief had gone and there was only a sour resignation left, mixed with bitterness — and anger. "We'd already gotten used to handling the business without him, Howard and me. Slamming himself into the abutment didn't make a dent in Rhodes Real Estate." She darted me a venomous glance and stabbed her cigarette out in a black ashtray shaped like the state of Texas. "You want to know about Robbins? Well, let me tell you, lady. Robbins was a vampire. First she seduced him, then she tried to blackmail him — "

  "Blackmail him? Do you have any evidence of that?"

  "What evidence do I need? She told him she needed this and this assurance about the accounts and oh by the way it would be nice to have a raise, too. In my book, that's black-mail.

  "How do you know this?"

  "Because I was there when she told him what she wanted."

  "You were there?"

  "Well, sure. I was handling his books, wasn't I? I may have been just a teenager, but I knew enough to get the numbers in the right columns."

  "What did your father do when she said she wanted more money?"

  "He told her to go to hell. That's when she turned him in to the IRS. She was the reason he went to prison. I laughed when I read that she was dead." Her voice went up a notch, shrill. "Laughed, do you hear? The bitch ruined my father's life, turned my mother into an old woman and my brother into a drunk." She cocked her finger and aimed it at me as if it were a gun. "A bullet to the head is what she deserved. It's about all she was worth."

  I regarded Linda Rhodes with some distaste. The picture she painted of Rosemary Robbins — seductress, blackmailer, IRS stooge—was ugly and maybe even accurate, but I couldn't be sure. Her father had killed himself. It was natural for her to blame someone, and Rosemary Robbins (who could no longer defend herself) was a logical target.

  But whatever Rosemary had done, the Rhodes family couldn't blame all their troubles on her. I knew businessmen who survived a tax conviction to build a stronger business, wives who endured their husbands' disgrace with equanimity, sons who lived through their father's dishonor without becoming drunks. And daughters who were not ready to kill the cause, real or imagined, of their family's humiliation. Was Linda Rhodes harboring enough blunt, unreasoning rage to murder the woman she blamed for her father's suicide? Had she, or her brother, or the two of them working together, shot Rosemary Rob-bins?

  "I need to know where you were on the Fourth of July," I said.

  There was dead silence. Then she dropped her hand, lifted her narrow chin, and gave me a defiant smile. "That's the night she was killed?"

  I nodded.

  Her smile became mocking. "On the day before the holiday, my brother and I drove my mother to Houston to visit my grandmother. My father's mother." The smile shattered and her eyes suddenly, without warning, filled with tears. "She's ninety-six, in a nursing home. We had to tell her that her only son was dead, and that we'd already buried him." She struggled with the tears for a moment, then opened her drawer and began to search. After a minute she found a wadded-up tissue. She used it to wipe her eyes and blow her nose, then said, "We stayed with my aunt in Bellaire over the Fourth, and drove home on the fifth. Does that satisfy you?"

  "For the moment," I said. "I'm sorry I had to ask."

  I'd bet
that her alibi would check out. And if the Rhodes children had paid someone to shoot the woman they blamed for their father's downfall, it would be tough to prove.

  The energy of anger and grief were both gone from her face, leaving the mouth pinched, the cheeks sagging, the eyes empty. "Yeah," she muttered. She looked away, looked back, reached for the Virginia Slims and the red plastic lighter. "I heard on TV that her boyfriend killed her and ran off to Mexico. Is that true?"

  "That's an avenue the police are exploring, I believe."

  She leaned forward, body taut, voice bitter. "I need to know who killed her. Whether it was her boyfriend, or somebody else, I want to thank him. I can sleep nights, because of what he did." She balled her hands into fists and pressed them to her chest, as if she were holding the pain, like a knife, against her heart. "I don't have to think of her alive and happy and remember him wrapped around that abutment so tight it took two wreckers to pry him loose. I can imagine her with her head blown off." When the phone rang, I was glad. Her malice was a dark, acrid whirlpool, its vortex sucking her down and down, and me with her.

  The phone rang again, and she reached for it. As she did, her face began to change, to lighten, to grow less tense. Her lips curled up in the corners, and she raised her shoulders. On the third ring, she picked up the receiver and spoke into it, a chirpy smile in her voice.

  "Good afternoon, Rhodes Real Estate. Linda Rhodes. What can I do for you this afternoon?"

  Chapter Thirteen

  Lavender's green, riddle diddle

  Lavender's blue.

  You must love me, riddle diddle

  'Cause I love you.

  Folk rhyme

  I drove back to Pecan Springs, trying to sort out what I had learned. In one sense, it amounted to nothing, nada, a big cipher. Robbins and Rhodes—as well as Rhodes's daughter and probably his son — had had plenty of reason to kill Rosemary, but no opportunity. The long morning and a good hunk of the afternoon had been totally wasted.