"I've been arrested, China." Her voice was so low, so tightly controlled, I could hardly make out what she was saying. "For Miles' murder. You're my lawyer. You've got to—"
"Whoa," I said quickly. "When did this take place?"
"Chief Harris woke me up about six-thirty." There was a note of something like incredulity in her voice, as if she still didn't quite believe it. "He had two other policemen with him, and a policewoman. The men searched the house and the cattery while the woman made me sit in the living room. After about forty minutes, he arrested me."
The cattery? What did Bubba expect to find in the cattery? "Did you sign a consent-to-search form?"
"A consent-to— No, he had a warrant. He brought it with him."
"Do you know what they found?"
"No," she said. "If they found anything, they didn't tell me."
I had kept my voice neutral, but I was concerned. The fact that Bubba came armed with a warrant to search the house and the cattery suggested that he was looking for something specific that would link Dottie to Harwick's death. In order to get the warrant, he had to go before a judge with a sworn affidavit describing the areas he wanted to search, the items he intended to search for, and the reason he expected to find those items in that place. Judges don't hand out search warrants on a whim, especially on Saturday night, which was most likely when Bubba had requested it. So I had to assume that he knew what he was after and where he was likely to find it. He must have probable cause—the letter, most likely.
"He's charging me with murder," Dottie said. She was making an effort to stay in control, but I could hear the panic cutting into her voice as the reality of her situation began to crowd out the incredibility. "You've got to—"
"It's okay, Dottie," I said quietly. "Has the chief asked you for a statement yet?"
"Yes, but I said I wanted my lawyer here, so he told me to call you. Please, China, come just as quick as you—"
"Tell him that your counsel will be available later in the day. You'll give him a statement then. And refuse to talk to him until your lawyer is sitting right beside you."
"Later in the day? But—"
"I can give you legal advice, Dottie, but I won't represent you. For that, you need somebody who's in the courtroom regularly."
"China!" She made a noise Hke a stifled wail. She was beginning to lose it. "If you won t, who will I—"
"I'm going to call a friend," I said, cutting off the hysteria. "Go back to wherever they're keeping you, sit down, and have a cigarette. I'll be in touch. And don't forget—no statement until your lawyer is present." The minute Dottie hung up I pulled out my Rolodex, looked up Justine Wyzinski's number, and dialed.
Justine and I sat next to one another in first-year criminal law at the University of Texas. Everybody called her The Whiz because she could whip a complex tangle of issues into a comprehensible legal theory faster than anybody else. I was insanely jealous of her, which made me work like hell to keep her from getting too far ahead—which of course earned me the nickname of Hot Shot. This madness went on until we both made it to the relative security oi Law Review and could relax and let our rivalry ripen into a wary mutual respect. When I left the law. The Whiz publicly expressed the conviction that I was non compos and ought to be committed, while I privately thought she was bananas to stay with it. But aside from that minor difference of opinion, we were more or less friends. Justine had her own criminal law practice in San Antonio, where if I remembered correctly, she had once brought a charge of animal abuse against the owner of a big boarding kennel. If the gods were on my side, she'd be home this morning, have a hole in her calendar, and be willing to take on Dottie's case.
The Whiz is not an early riser. She answered the phone on the seventh ring, still groggy. "She strung him up for beating up on a cat?" she asked when I had outlined the plot. There was an unmistakable note of admiration in her voice. "Must be one helluva woman."
"She is, but not because she strung him up," I said. "I mean, that isn't what happened. That's why she needs you. Tell you
what. Why don t you wash your face and make some coffee and call me when you can focus without blurring."
Fifteen minutes later, I was explaining the situation to a more functional woman. "A warrant, huh?" I could hear her gulping coffee, revving up her motor. The Whiz doesn't move at a speed lower than Mach 2. "What was he after?"
"No idea," I said. "I've given you all the information I have." I thought of McQuaid and Smart Cookie. "By the time you get here, though, I might have more."
"You think I ought to take the case?"
"I hope you will," I said. "I don't know what the chief has tucked up his sleeve, but I know Dottie Riddle. She's nutty about cats. But she didn't kill Harwick."
"Tell her I'll be there in a couple of hours. I've got one or two things to tidy up here first." If I knew The Whiz, that didn't mean she was going to make her bed. It meant she had two briefs and an interlocutory to write before breakfast. She paused. "If your friend didn't kill him, who did?"
"No idea," I said. "He might have killed himself, with the intention of deliberately shifting the blame to Dottie. Or if it was murder, there are plenty of suspects." I thought of the chanting crowd on the mall, the "Hang Harwick Instead" signs, the bomb threats. "A cast of thousands. All we need is Cecil B. deMille and we're in business."
The Whiz was brisk. "I'd settle for Paul Newman and a few dozen viable suspects to take the heat off. I hope you have plenty of time to spend on this case. I'll need a good investigator and help in preparing the defense."
I was dubious. Working for The Whiz might recharge some of those old competitive urges. Or I might resent being demoted from Hot Shot to gofer. I gave her a less revealing reason. "I don't think I can take time off. I've got a business to run."
"Excuse me. Hot Shot," The Whiz said firmly, "but Pecan Springs is your turf. I'd be crazy to get mixed up with a small
town murder without a good local backup who knows the accused, the cops, and the terrain. You don't have to appear in court if you don't want to—//this gets to court, which with any luck it won't. But somebody has to run down witnesses, take depositions, handle the day-to-day contact with the client. I can't manage all that shit. If you're not on board, I'm not either. Got it?"
I got it. But I wasn't going to give her the satisfaction of hearing me say it.
"The shop is open one to five. Drop by when you're finished at the jail." I hung up.
Sunday afternoon in the shop was a lot like Saturday. Maybe it had to do with the light drizzle that dampened the outdoors or the fact that spring seems to encourage people to learn something new. Whatever, it was a day to sell books. Herb gardening books, cookbooks, herb craft books—they walked out of the store faster than I could put them back on the shelves. I also sold out of the Moth Attack blend that I grow and mix myself—southernwood, wormwood, rue, and santolina. I guess it was also a day to think about mothproofing winter wools.
But while my hands were busy, my mind was with Dottie and The Whiz in the PSPD's interrogation room, which is painted a nervous burnt orange and furnished with gray tables and chairs. I wanted to hear the questions Bubba asked Dottie, listen to The Whiz's whispered advice, think strategy, plan moves. But I couldn't, so I did the next best thing. I called McQuaid.
"Dottie was arrested this morning for Harwick's murder," I said. "Justine Wyzinski has agreed to represent her and wants me to help build the defense. I need some information. Could you phone Smart Cookie and ask her—"
"I was just going to call you," he interrupted. "Sheila says that Bubba went in with a warrant looking for the pentobarbital
sodium. He found it in the medical supply cupboard in Dottie's cattery. Beuthansia-D Special, used to euthanize animals. He located one partially used fifty-millileter multiple-dose vial, and one full vial."
"Uh-oh," I said.
"Yeah. He also took a hairbrush. He intends to match Dottie's hair against some hairs he found in the noose around Harwick
's neck."
I sighed. "You've made my day."
"Not yet," he said. "He also took a length of nylon rope he found in the garage. For what it's worth," he added, "Sheila thinks that Bubba's barking up the wrong tree. That's why she's leaking the information."
"Tell her thanks," I said heavily.
"Sure. Listen, I've turned up a couple more possibles. Houses, I mean. Want to see them this evening?"
I wasn't exactly in the mood, but maybe househunting would help. "Okay," I said. "Sevenish?"
"Yeah. Oh, by the way, the English prof phoned. If the rent's a problem on Meadow Brook, he might come down."
"How about the lease?"
"Afraid not. He's hanging tough on two years." McQuaid sounded regretful, thinking, no doubt, of that enormous garage.
"As far as I'm concerned, it's nothing doing unless he backs off on the lease," I said. "Even then, the place is too big. What would we do with five bedrooms?"
"Yeah," McQuaid said. I could hear the grin in his voice. "Did anyone ever tell you that you're hard to please?"
I made lavish kissing noises into the phone. "See you at seven."
When we hung up, I began to go through my game plan for the week ahead. I was glad that Laurel would be back on Tuesday. I might need to ask her to pinch-hit for me in the shop. For additional backup, I could ask Ruby.
Ruby. My redheaded twin volcano. I hadn't heard any rum-bhngs from that direction since Friday night. Was it because I'd been too busy to Hsten, or because the elemental fire had died down? Could I count on her to help with the shop? I probably could, if only because she'd want me to be free to help Dottie.
I was about to risk an inquiry into the matter when the door opened and Amy came in. She seemed paler and more wary than before, but it was hard to tell. Hypervigilance seemed to be her normal style. As usual, she didn't beat around the bush.
"I heard that Dr. Riddle has been arrested for Dr. Har-wick's"—she licked her lips—"murder. Is it true?"
I forgot for the moment that Amy was Ruby's daughter and therefore almost one of the family. I looked at her, remembering that she had called Harwick a sadist and a butcher, remembering that she had known about the doped coffee before I did, remembering that she had driven away from Ruby's party with the young man who took care of Harwick's animals.
"I'm curious," I said. "Why is Harwick's death so important to you?"
Patches like rust stains spread across her cheeks, and her mouth looked strained. "I just want to know, that's all," she said. "Why do I have to have a reason?"
"Because there's a murder investigation going on. Because anybody who has any information about the way Harwick died—"
"I don't have any information," Amy said. "That's what I'm asking you for." There was a note of desperation in her voice, laced with fear. When you've worked with people who are afraid of the truth, you learn what a lie smells like. Amy was afraid, and she was lying.
"There was a link between you and Dr. Harwick," I said. "What was it?"
Amy flinched and turned her head. "You know what it was.
He was abusing his research animals."
"No, not that. Or rather, more than that. Why are you so interested in his death? What is there about it that makes you afraid.^"
Amy pulled herself up. "You're wrong," she said. "And I didn't come here to get harassed. I came to get information."
There was a noise behind me. I turned. Ruby was standing in the connecting door between our shops, her feet wide apart, her hands planted on her hips.
"If that's what you want. Amy," she said, pointedly ignoring me, "I'll be glad to tell you anything you want to know."
Amy's eyes slitted. "You will?"
"Of course, dear," Ruby said. She smiled, but she still didn't look at me. "You don't have to go behind my back to—"
"I don't think," I interrupted tactfully, "that we're talking about what you think we're talking about, Ruby."
Ruby exploded. "I don't give a shit what you think, China Bayles!"
"Mother," Amy said. "Please don't—"
"You stay out of this. Amy," Ruby said.
"Ruby," I began, "I wish you wouldn't—"
Ruby's face was as inflamed as her hair. She spoke with the kind of passionate indignation that only she can summon. "Why do you have to keep trying to get between me and my daughter, China? Don't you care that we're trying to piece together our lives? Or is it because you don't have any idea what love is all about?" She began to ooze scorn. "Or is love for you always a matter of how much private space you'll have to yourself?"
I cast a look at the door. "Ruby," I said, "the shop is still open, for pete's sake. There are people in the garden. Please lower your voice."
Ruby stamped her foot. "I will not lower my voice! I don't care if the whole world hears me! China Bayles, you are an ice-cold, stone-hearted, insensitive—"
"Mother!" Amy roared. "Will you shut up? You're making a fool of yourself!"
Ruby stared at Amy, her fists clenched, her eyes filling with tears, the tears spilling over and running down her cheeks.
Amy closed her eyes and spoke into the silence. Her voice was rough. "I didn't come here to ask China anything about you, or about us. I came here about. . . something else entirely. Something that doesn't have anything to do with you." She opened her eyes, so vulnerable, so filled with pain, so like Ruby's. "In fact, I almost didn't come, because I didn't want to set you, "
"Didn't want—" The words came out like a small cry, and Ruby put one fist to her mouth, holding them back.
"No." Amy spit it out. "I didn't."
Ruby put out a hand. "But you can't mean that. Amy. You went to all the trouble to find me. You cared about me. You can't just turn away and pretend I'm not—"
"Yes, I can!" Amy shouted furiously. "Looking you up was a stupid idea! I should have known better!" She wheeled and almost ran for the door. When she reached it, she turned. "I want you to forget about me, okay?" she cried. "Just forget I ever existed. Go back to thinking I'm dead, or lost, or whatever it was you thought before I came along and messed up your life!"
I stared at her. Ruby's explosion I could attribute to her misunderstanding of the situation. Amy's was inexplicable. Nothing Ruby had said could account for her reaction.
"Amy," Ruby whispered, pleading.
"Just forget me!" She slammed the door behind her so hard that the glass shattered all over the floor. Ruby stood rooted, wordless, her eyes streaming tears.
"I'm . . . sorry," I said. The words were so meager, so inadequate, that I immediately wished I hadn't said them. I stepped forward and put my arms around her. 'Tm so sorry," I said again. Two times inadequate is no improvement, but I couldn't think of anything else.
"Why?" Ruby sobbed brokenly, onto my shoulder. "Why is she doing this?"
"I don't know," I said. "I wonder if it's because—" I didn't finish the sentence. Ruby didn't want to hear what I was wondering. Neither did I. It would only make both of us feel worse.
Whatever else it accomplished, the fight between Amy and Ruby had vented the passion that fueled our fire—Ruby's and mine, I mean. Closing was half an hour away, but Ruby hung up our "Closed" signs and locked both doors while I nailed a piece of plywood over the empty pane. Then we adjourned to my kitchen. Ruby sat down at the table and dropped her head in her hands.
"She's right. I was a fool to think we could mean anything to one another."
"You're a mother," I said. "Sometimes mothers just don't know when to quit."
I hadn't meant to come out with it that way, but it was true. My mother recently decided that she and I should become best friends and make up for all our lost years. The new intimacy she clearly hopes for has been hard for me to take. I spend a lot of effort finding excuses not to see her or return her calls. I could sympathize with Amy—on that score, anyway. But my heart— yes, my stony, icy, insensitive heart—went out to Ruby.
Ruby raised her head. "All I want is for us to get to kno
w one another Is that too much to ask of a daughter you haven't seen since the day she was born? Well, is it?"
I looked at her. Ruby is truly a wonderful person, but she has
an unfortunate tendency to obsess. My experience as her best friend has taught me that the best antidote to obsession is diversion. Ruby needed something else to think about.
"Ruby," I said, "it's tough about Amy. But something much worse has happened. Dottie Riddle was arrested this morning for killing Miles Harwick."
Dottie was Ruby's friend before she was mine. "Omigod," Ruby breathed. "Tell me about it."
Ah, diversion. I related what I knew of the situation, up to the point where The Whiz had asked me to investigate. I had just finished the story and was wondering where to go from there when synchronicity knocked. It was The Whiz herself, with a briefcase in one hand and a bottle of sherry in the other, one sensibly shod foot tapping out the ten seconds it took me to get to the door and open it.
"I hope you've got time for business," she said, not wasting any breath on a greeting. She stepped inside and stopped, casting a questioning look at Ruby. "Oops. Didn't know you had company."
"Ruby isn't company," I said, suddenly inspired. "She's my assistant investigator. Ruby Wilcox, Justine Wyzinski. Dottie's lawyer. Otherwise known as The Whiz."
Ruby's eyes flew wide open. I gave a warning shake of my head.
"Good work, Hot Shot." The Whiz put her briefcase on the table, opened it, and began to thumb through her notes. "Judging from what turned up this afternoon, there's enough to keep two people busy. Glad you're here. Ruby. This way we won't waste any time." The Whiz had switched from impulse power to warp drive.
"I'm glad too," I said. "Time and tide wait for no woman."
"Absolutely." Scraps of paper were flying right and left as Justine sorted. "I have to be back in San Antonio fifteen minutes ago, so we'll get right down to it. Ruby already knows the facts of the case, I assume."
Hangman's root : a China Bayles mystery Page 11
