Mistletoe Man - China Bayles 09

by Susan Wittig Albert

  I squirmed uncomfortably. Sure, I wanted to know. On the other hand—

  Blackie gave me an inquiring glance. "What are you thinking?"

  "That I don't like to comer my friends."

  "Look at it this way. If they've committed a criminal act, you're the best thing that could happen to them."

  "I'm not a criminal lawyer. Not anymore."

  "You could help them find one."

  "I'm not your deputy, either. And I won't pull any funny stuff."

  "Like what?"

  "Like an illegal search, that's what. And I can't go back until this afternoon. I've got to check on Ruby this morning. Something's going on with her and I don't know what it is."

  "This afternoon is fine. Gives them a little time to think about it." Blackie rubbed the side of his face. There was a nick on his jaw where he must have cut himself shaving that morning. "And I'm not asking you to do a search. All I want you to do is encourage those women to tell the truth. In the long run, that's the best thing they can do, and you know it."

  I sighed heavily. "All right, I'll do it. On one condition." I turned the key in the ignition and started the truck. "What's that?"

  "That I come straight out and tell them it was your idea." I wasn't going back there under false pretenses. These were women whose hard work and dedication I admired. "I'd also like access to any information you dig up, and I want to be part of the team. Unofficially, of course." I grinned. "Which means you don't have to pay me. I'm cheaper than a helicopter."

  Blackie thought for a minute, figuring out just how much this deal might cost him. He eyed me. "You're sure you're not going to take on their case?" Translated, this meant, You promise not to give them anything you get from me?

  "I can guarantee you that I will not become their lawyer," I said without hesitation. "The prosecutor will have to hand over all the exculpatory evidence, anyway, whoever is charged."

  "You're on," Blackie said. "But let's keep this arrangement between ourselves. It's a little irregular."

  "I don't know what you're talking about," I said. "You're the sheriff. This is your county. You can do whatever you want to do, right?"

  "Yeah, sure," he said. "I just don't advertise."

  So that was how we left it. When we arrived back at the crime scene, the EMS guys had taken Swenson away, McQuaid had bagged up the glass, and he and the deputy were on their knees, making an inch-by-inch search. The rain had started falling again.

  "I knew we should have brought two vehicles," I said to McQuaid. "I need to go back to town and make a bank deposit. I have to check on Ruby, too."

  McQuaid got painfully to his feet. "Why don't you take the truck and go on, China? When everything's wrapped up here, I'll catch a ride with Blackie or Pete."

  "You sure?" I asked. "It's wet out here." And cold, too. The wind had started blowing, which meant that the chill factor was 10 or 15 degrees below freezing. I pulled my sheepskin-lined jacket tighter around me.

  "Yeah," he said. Water was dripping off his nose and his shoulders were hunched against the wind, but he was grinning. "It's fine, really. You go on back." He rubbed his thigh. "You could leave my cane, though. And there's a pair of gloves under the seat."

  I shook my head. "I'm not believing this. It's raining, the thermometer's heading south, and you're having a great time."

  McQuaid grinned a little sheepishly. "Well, it's a change. I get tired of sitting in front of the computer."

  I sighed. Once a lawman, always a lawman. Oh, well. At least nobody was shooting at him. And if I was going to agree to do a little investigatory work for Blackie, how could I begrudge McQuaid the exquisite pleasure of crawling around a crime scene in the rain?

  Chapter Six

  In northern Europe, mistletoe is thought to act as a master-key, for it is said to open all locks.

  Sir James George Frazer The Golden Bough

  From the centre of the ceiling of this kitchen, old Wardle had just suspended with his own hands a huge branch of mistletoe, and this same branch of mistletoe instantaneously gave rise to a scene of general and most delightful struggling and confusion; in the midst of which Mr. Pickwick, with a gallantry that would have done honour to a descendant of Lady Tollimglower herself, took the old lady by the hand, led her beneath the mystic branch, and saluted her in all courtesy and decorum.

  Charles Dickens The Pickwick Papers

  Ruby's house is almost as flamboyant as she is. Shaded by huge old live oaks and surrounded by composed, commonplace houses, it's a staid old Victorian with original gingerbread trim and shutters, radically rejuvenated by sensational combinations of gray, green, fuschia, and plum paint. The front porch is filled with white wicker furniture and hung with baskets of asparagus fern, which keeps its cheerful green color all winter long. I know why Ruby's Painted Lady makes her neighbors uncomfortable. It is as if your grandmother has suddenly taken to wearing fire-engine-red lipstick and mauve eyeshadow and going out dancing in the middle of the week.

  There was no response to my loud knocking at both the front and back doors. I checked the garage to see if Ruby's red Toyota was there, and frowned when I saw it—her bicycle, too. We don't have public transportation in Pecan Springs, unless you count the Greyhound bus that goes to Austin and San Antonio, and Tippit's Taxi, which takes senior citizens to the grocery store. I couldn't imagine where Ruby might have gone without her car. I went back to the truck, retrieved the cell phone from under the seat, and called Ruby's number again. No answer.

  I stood for a moment, hesitating. Fictional sleuths do it all the time, but I am not fond of breaking and entering. It is an easy way to lose your bar privileges, which I have gone to some effort to retain over the years. It was a good thing Ruby kept a spare key hidden under the second brick to the right in the path that led to the kitchen door. She left it there, she always said, so that I could come in and make myself at home if she happened to be out—which covered this situation exactly.

  Except that when I looked for it, the key was gone. I straightened up with a sigh. Well, there are certain circumstances under which breaking and entering are justified, such as when you are worried about the psychological stability and physical health of your best friend. Her car was in the garage, wasn't it? This gave me probable cause to believe that she might be in the house, in need of aid and assistance, didn't it? I went to the garage, located a screwdriver, and jimmied a window. I climbed through and found myself on the table in Ruby's breakfast nook. So far so good, except that I knocked a bowl onto the floor as I was climbing off the table.

  Guiltily, I picked up the broken pieces of china and put them in the garbage. Then I stood still and looked around. Inside this gorgeous Painted Lady, Ruby has stripped the woodwork and floors to the original light oak and papered and painted the walls—but not in their original fusty old tints. Ruby is fond of oranges, yellows, and reds, charged with occasional stripes and checks and colorful patterns. The kitchen, wallpapered in red and white, with a watermelon border around the wainscoting and red-painted table and chairs, is particularly zingy. When you first come in, it takes a while to get used to the decor, and to the New Age music and incense that wafts gently on the air.

  But not today. Today, nothing wafted, not a sound, not a scent. I raised my voice and shouted Ruby's name. Nothing. The house was quiet as a tomb—and about as cold as one, too. The heat wasn't turned on. Looking around, I noticed something else strange. The kitchen was absolutely immaculate, the counters shining, the towels folded on the racks, the stove gleaming. And when I walked through the dining room and into the living room, I saw that these rooms were spotless too—and not just dusted and vacuumed, but neat. It was an altogether unnerving sight.

  I'm afraid this sounds terribly tacky, but it isn't meant to, believe me. Ruby is an artistic person who thrives on creative chaos. She is happiest when she is totally surrounded with clutter. Her sewing machine sits for weeks on the dining room table, there are untidy heaps of book-marked magazines be
side her reading chair, and dust bunnies lurk in the corners while last night's dinner dishes marinate in the dishpan.

  Today, however, the sink was empty and shining, the dining room table was cleared, and there wasn't a dust bunny or a dirty dish to be seen. The house was picture-perfect, as if it were awaiting a photographer from Better Homes and Gardens, or a convention of real estate salesmen. But without Ruby's wonderful messes, the rooms seemed empty and vacant. It was as if the real Ruby had abandoned ship, moved out, gone somewhere else, leaving only her memory behind.

  I went to the foot of the stairs, intending to go up and check to make sure that something terrible hadn't happened. But when I put my foot on the first tread, I hesitated, not because I was afraid of what I might find (I really did have the sense that the house was empty) but because I was suddenly and uncomfortably aware that I was violating my friend's privacy. If she had wanted me to know she was going away, she would have told me. If she had wanted me to know where she was going, she would have told me that. And here I was, breaking into her house, poking my nose into a part of her life that she obviously intended to keep from me. Who did I think I was? What kind of arrogant, disrespectful person would intrude where she wasn't wanted?

  And yet—

  And yet, Ruby was my friend and my partner, and what concerned her concerned me. Maybe she was feeling bad about Hark, or was trying to escape from Wade. Maybe she was in some kind of trouble and needed me. Maybe she didn't even know she needed me, so she couldn't ask for my help. But I knew, and I wasn't going to let her down. I took a deep breath, pocketed my apprehensions, and started up the stairs, calling her name. The weight of the silence told me that there would be no answer.

  In Ruby's bathroom, the towels hung pristinely from the racks, the fixtures polished and shining. The bedroom, which was usually as cluttered as a teenager's with clothes, makeup, and books, was as uncharacteristically neat as the downstairs had been, the bed made with the gorgeous blue comforter she'd bought a couple of months before, the bedside tables tidied. I went to the closet to check for her suitcase, which always sits in the corner behind her coat. It was gone.

  I was standing there, trying to think what I should do next, when the brash jangle of the telephone shattered the silence. I hesitated a moment, then picked it up. The caller might have a clue to Ruby's whereabouts.

  It was Wade Wilcox. "I need to talk to Ruby, China," he said, after I had identified myself. There was an urgent edge to his voice. "Where is she?"

  "I don't know," I said truthfully. But even if I had known where Ruby had gone, I wouldn't have told Wade. Ruby had married him when she was a college sophomore and divorced him after seventeen years, a daughter named Shannon, and a big house just off the country club's ninth green. Shannon was out of college now and working for a computer company in Austin, the big house had been sold to pay off the big bills, and Ruby had built a successful business and a new life. Her ex-husband had no right to think he could just waltz back in and claim her attention.

  Wade cleared his throat. "Something serious is going on with her and I want to know what it is," he said, sounding genuinely concerned. "I tried calling all day yesterday, but she wasn't home. And the answering machine is turned off. That's not like Ruby. Where is she, China?"

  "I'm telling you, Wade, I don't know. I'm as much in the dark as you are." I paused. The only Wade I know is the handsome, charming, sexy jerk who hurt Ruby so deeply that it's taken her years to recover—if she has. Given the fact that she's never maintained a romantic relationship for more than a few months, I've occasionally wondered whether she was still carrying a torch for him. But I hadn't seen him for a long while. Maybe he'd grown out of his jerky phase. Maybe he'd cleaned up his act. "What do you think is going on?" I asked cautiously.

  "I can't even hazard a guess," he said. "We had dinner on Friday evening and she seemed—I don't know. Angry, maybe. Resentful. Certainly very upset. But she wouldn't give me a clue. She kept saying that this—whatever it was—was something she had to deal with herself."

  I frowned. Ruby had gone out to dinner with Wade? Why hadn't she mentioned it to me? But after our argument on Saturday morning, she probably hadn't been in the mood for girlish confidences about old lovers.

  "I was afraid maybe it had something to do with Shannon," Wade was saying. "That she was sick or in trouble or something. But Ruby's always been straight with me where Shannon's concerned, so I don't think it's that." He sighed heavily. "Maybe it's just me. I guess I couldn't blame her if she was a little ticked off about the way I've treated her. I haven't exactly been Prince Charming."

  I wasn't going to argue with that. Prince Charming doesn't run off with a young woman barely out of her teens, or put his wife through an agonizing divorce. But Wade had brought up something I hadn't thought about. Maybe Ruby's strange behavior had something to do with Shannon. Or with Amy, the daughter she had borne out of wedlock before she married Wade and who had re-entered

  Ruby's life a couple of years ago. I doubted whether Wade knew about Amy, so I wasn't going to mention her name. But it was something I could check into. Amy lives and works in Pecan Springs.

  "My husband told me you were back in town," I said evenly. "You're going into business here?"

  "I'm planning to open a financial consulting office," Wade said. "You know, advice on stocks, bonds, mutual funds, insurance—that sort of thing." His voice got slick, smiling, and I could picture him sitting back, putting his feet up, sticking a cigar in his mouth. The big man. The high roller. "Maybe we could get together and talk about your financial future, China. Every business owner ought to have a retirement plan."

  "Thanks," I said dryly, thinking that Wade Wilcox, with his affinity for the baccarat tables at Vegas, was hardly the man I'd choose to help me with my investments. "But I'm afraid my funds are tied up just now."

  "Yeah, Ruby told me that you and she had gone into business together. Some sort of lunchroom, something like that?"

  "A tearoom," I said emphatically.

  "I thought everybody in this town drank Lone Star. You sure you gals know what you're doing?"

  "You bet we do," I growled.

  "Well, you don't need to bite my head off," he said, offended. He was silent for a minute, then his voice changed again, became softer, more personal. "Listen, China. I know you're Ruby's best friend, so I don't mind telling you what's on my mind. I've been hoping that maybe she and I could ... well, you know." He laughed awkwardly. "Second time around."

  Second time around! I nearly snorted. If you asked me, the only reason Wade Wilcox was interested in Ruby was because he'd heard that she'd won the lottery and he hoped he could get a piece of the action. The guy had some nerve. If he'd handed her that line of bull, I wasn't surprised that she'd seemed angry and resentful.

  "I've always cared for her, you know," he went on. His voice had taken on a velvety sound, like a forties' crooner singing his favorite song. "I always respected her right to do what she chose, to make her own decisions, even when I felt that she was making a mistake. And deep in my heart of hearts, I've never stopped loving her. We were good together once, I know we could make it happen again. And now that we're a little older, a little wiser, I bet it'll be better than ever. I've talked to Shannon about this and she thinks it would be wonderful."

  Talked to Shannon! I was indignant. What business did Wade have dragging her into this? And what daughter wouldn't want her parents to get back together again? If Shannon had called her mother and pressured her to go back to Wade, I wasn't surprised that Ruby had packed up and fled.

  Wade was warming to his subject "China, I'll bet you could help. How about if you talk to Ruby? She always listens to you. You could tell her how much I—"

  Horsefeathers. "Wade," I said, interrupting, "I can't help you. Ruby hasn't confided in me. I don't know what her feelings are, and I feel uncomfortable talking like this behind her back." On her phone. In her bedroom. In her absence. I looked around at the neat, quiet r
oom, feeling a sudden panic. Where the hell was she?

  "Well, I can certainly understand how you feel." Wade made one more effort to sound like the concerned ex-husband. "But I tell you, China, I'm worried about her. If you find out what's going on, will you let me know?"

  "Probably not," I said fiercely, and hung up the phone. I hadn't accomplished a single thing by coming here, except to get trapped in an unwelcome, thoroughly unpleasant conversation. I might as well leave—through the door, this time.

  But before I went, maybe it would be a good idea to look for Shannon's and Amy's phone numbers. I could call them and ask if they had any idea what was going on with their mother. There was a small writing desk by the window, overlooking the bleak and wintry garden at the back of the house. On the desk was a telephone and a Rolodex. I flipped to Wilcox—nothing but a phone number for Wade, with a Denver area code. I went back to the beginning and began to leaf through all the cards. I found the numbers I wanted filed under G—for girls, probably. I'd call them this evening. But I wouldn't tell them that I had gotten their numbers by breaking into their mother's house.

  When I got back to the truck, I realized that my surreptitious activities had made me hungry. I put the truck in gear and drove to the Nueces Street Diner, thinking that it was a good day for a hot meatloaf plate. And since it wasn't quite noon yet, my chances were good. If you get to the Diner at the tail end of the lunch hour rush, you can't count on the meatloaf.