Mistletoe Man - China Bayles 09

by Susan Wittig Albert

  Hark is a great guy and I like him, although I've never believed that he and Ruby are a perfect match. She loves to party, and he'd rather stay home and watch CNN. Still, hearing this spontaneous confession of unrequited love, I felt a wave of sympathy for the man.

  "I love her too," I said. "But I guess there's a limit to how much we can pry. She doesn't have to tell us everything that goes on in her life."

  "Yeah," Hark said. "She's entitled to her privacy. Damn

  it."

  We ate our chicken and leftover biscuits in a gloomy silence.

  Chapter Seven

  Many cultures were awed by the fact that mistletoe berries ripened in late autumn and persisted through the winter. In some countries, the plant was worshipped as the fertilizing dew of the supreme spirit and the berries were thought to be drops of the gods' semen. As such, they were believed to have extraordinary powers, and used to enhance fertility.

  China Bayles "Mistletoe Magic"

  When I got back to the truck, I checked the cell phone and found a message from Blackie, letting me know that he had interviewed Mrs. Turtle, who said she'd been indoors all Sunday and couldn't provide any information. He'd also drawn a blank at the house trailer, where there was no one at home. He added that the crime scene work was finished. He was heading back to town and would drop McQuaid off at the house. "And don't forget that you agreed to talk to the Fletcher sisters again," he said. "I sure would like to be able to get a look at that truck."

  "Okay, okay," I muttered, stowing the phone. "But first the deposit." I was carrying around several days' worth of checks and cash receipts from the shop and getting them to the bank would only take a minute. I pulled the blue plastic deposit bag out from under the truck seat and ran across the street, dodging the raindrops.

  When you visit Pecan Springs, Ranchers State Bank is one attraction you won't want to miss. It isn't just that the building is a fine old example of Main Street architecture (although it is), or that the fixtures—pressed-tin ceilings, glass-topped oak tables with green-shaded lamps, pink marble counters and polished brass tellers' cages—are original and in beautiful condition. No, the bank has other claims to historical fame. One muggy July day in 1878, famous Texas outlaw Sam Bass sauntered in, glanced around, and spotted the sheriff leaning against one of the tellers' cages. The sheriff looked up and recognized him, and Sam beat an unceremonious retreat to his horse. Outdistancing pursuit, he rode fifty miles north, intending to rob the bank in Round Rock. Instead, he ran into seven armed lawmen and a hailstorm of bullets. So it was Round Rock and not Pecan Springs that went into the history books as the site of the death of the notorious Sam Bass.

  The bank was not quite so lucky one winter weekend in the early twenties, when the three Newton boys—Willis, Joe, and Jess—came to town, fresh from robbing the San Marcos and New Braunfels banks. They blew the door off the safe with nitroglycerin and vamoosed with fifty thousand dollars in gold, more or less. According to local legend, the boys went in different directions after the heist, Willis and Joe heading south for a rendezvous on the other side of the border. But Jess, who was carrying the stolen money, stopped to see a girlfriend in New Braunfels. He got to drinking, rode out into the Hill Country, and stashed the gold under a rock. When he sobered up, he discovered that one rock looked pretty much like another, and he couldn't remember where he'd hid it. Like most bank-robber tales, this one probably isn't true. Or if it is, Willis and Joe never told it, although they didn't keep much to themselves. Jess died early, but his two brothers lived to be nearly ninety, cashing in on their outlaw reputations by giving occasional interviews. They even appeared on the Johnny Carson show in 1980.

  I like all of the bank's tellers, but my favorite is Bonnie Roth, who is a member of the Myra Merryweather Herb Guild and a frequent customer at the shop. She was wearing a sprig of holly tucked behind her name tag and a pair of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer earrings. I unzipped the deposit bag, took out the cash and the checks, and slid them over to her.

  I let her count the cash in silence, then asked, "What's new?" as she put a rubber thimble on her left thumb and began running a tape on the checks.

  "Well, I suppose you're terribly busy decorating for the Christmas Tour," she said, the fingers of her right hand flying over the calculator keys. "Rowena is thrilled that you've allowed your house to be included." She lifted her head and smiled at me. "You're quite a celebrity in this town, you know."

  "Oh, come now," I said modestly, wondering which of my talents was being singled out. My expertise in herbs? My acute business sense? Or was it my role in helping to solve the murder of a local real estate developer?

  "Don't try to deny it, silly," Bonnie said with a bright little laugh. Her fingers paused for a moment. "You're married to our former acting chief of police, aren't you? Everybody thinks Mike McQuaid is just the sweetest guy. You're awfully lucky." While I was biting my tongue, she added,

  "I can't wait to see your decorations, China. I'm sure they'll be spectacular."

  I took a deep breath and said in an offhand tone, "Actually, I'm not doing anything special for the Tour. It's just our usual Texas-style Christmas."

  Still clicking the calculator, Bonnie smiled. "Well, whatever it is, I'm sure it will be terribly creative. I'm lucky just to get the tree to stand up straight." She missed a check, peered at the tape, added it in and went on. "Speaking of Christmas, you buy your mistletoe from Carl Swenson, don't you? Did you know he got killed yesterday? Somebody ran him down."

  "My stars," I said, feigning amazement. "Where'd you hear that?"

  "Mrs. Turtle was in here just a minute ago," Bonnie replied, her fingers still zipping over the keys. "She was at Cindy Sue's window, though, and I was busy with Mr. Dooley's deposit and didn't get to hear all the details. Just that he got hit, and the driver didn't stop. Mrs. Turtle lives across the road, which is how she knew about it, I guess." She shook her head. "It's really too bad."

  "Did you know him?"

  "No, but my husband did. They were in the same class at Pecan Springs High."

  "Swenson grew up here, then?" Somehow I'd assumed that he was a recent arrival.

  "That's right. On that place where he lives now. But he left after high school and was gone for quite a while. Somebody told me he'd been in prison."

  I was taken aback. "In prison!"

  Bonnie nodded. "Surprised me, too. But of course, you can't always believe what people tell you." She tapped the checks into a neat stack and deftly clipped them together.

  "It's too bad about the accident," I said. "People drive too fast, and they don't pay attention." I paused. "Did Ms. Turtle say whether she saw it happen?"

  Bonnie initialed my deposit slip. "Gosh, I don't know. All she said was, the sheriff had talked to her about it." She filled out the bank's deposit receipt and pushed it through the window. "If you want to ask, you can probably catch her at the pharmacy. She said she needed to get a prescription filled."

  "I'm not sure I know Ms. Turtle," I said. "At least, not to recognize her."

  "Of course you do," Bonnie replied. "Don't you remember? Corinne Turtle. She's the one who always brings that awful lamb casserole to the October herb cookoff."

  "Oh, right," I said. "Corinne. I guess I just didn't remember her last name." But I remembered her lamb casserole, that's for sure. Two years ago, I was one of the judges. A dish like that you never forget.

  Bonnie put the checks in her drawer and pushed it shut. "She never gets a prize, poor thing," she said. "Maybe the judges don't like lamb. You'd think she'd take the hint and try something else."

  Every Christmas, Mr. Hobbs, the pharmacist, invites the local elementary-school artists to paint his front window, and today was the day. All the drugstore items had been moved out of the window and a half-dozen kids were noisily creating an eight by ten picture of Santa's workshop, staffed with elves working under the supervision of a beaming Mrs. Claus. They weren't gifted artists, but they were having fun.

/>   In the back of the store, Mr. Hobbs was handing a white paper sack to a heavyset woman in black slacks and a green coat with a fake fur collar, carrying a furled black umbrella.

  "One every four hours," he said cheerily. "Should take care of your nerves."

  "Oh, I hope so," the woman said. "I need to get a good-night's sleep."

  "Corinne!" I said, when the woman turned around. "So nice to see you again." When she looked puzzled, I added, "Maybe you don't remember. I'm China Bayles."

  "Of course," she said, not very cordially. "You were one of the judges at the herb cookoff a couple of years ago."

  "That's right," I said. "That lamb casserole of yours missed by that much." I held up my thumb and forefinger to show how close the casserole had come to—something. Being tossed out, maybe?

  "It did?" Her smile was surprised. "How nice of you to remember. It's my favorite recipe—and original, too, if I do say so myself. Not something I clipped out of a magazine."

  "I could never forget that casserole," I said truthfully. I glanced down at the sack. "I couldn't help overhearing. Have you tried kava for your nerves?"

  "Kava?" She looked doubtful. "What's that?"

  "It's an herbal remedy that reduces anxiety and stress. And St. John's Wort is good for depression. Neither are addictive, like the chemical alternatives."

  Corinne frowned. "Thanks for the suggestion, but I called Dr. Nichols and he thought I ought to have this." She was clutching her bag as if it were a life preserver. "I need something that works. My nephew Marvin has been staying with me since August. He had a job but he quit, and he hangs around the house all the time. He's driving me crazy. My nerves are a wreck, and I'm not getting enough sleep."

  I nodded sympathetically. "Kids are like that." I paused. "I understand you've had some trouble out your way."

  "You've heard about Carl Swenson, then," Corinne said nervously.

  "How did it happen?"

  She shifted from one foot to the other. "All I know is that he was out cutting mistletoe along the road and somebody hit him."

  "How awful," I said. "Did you see it happen?"

  "Oh, no, of course not," she said quickly. There was a nervous tic at the corner of her eye and her face had a grayish tinge. "It was drizzly yesterday and I was feeling very low. I didn't go out the whole day. In fact, I didn't know a thing about it until the sheriff stopped this morning and told me. It was quite a shock to my nerves. I'm not a complainer, but I just don't know how much more I can take."

  "I'm sure it's very hard," I said, wondering if Corinne had happened to mention Marvin to the sheriff. "With a hit-and-run, they may never find out who did it unless they can find a witness. Somebody who saw the vehicle."

  Up front, where the painting party was going on, one of the kids squealed, "I'm going to tell on you!" Corinne gave a startled yelp. Her hand went to her heart and she began to breathe quickly.

  I put my hand on her arm. "Maybe you ought to sit down, Corinne. Just to catch your breath."

  She shook off my hand and edged toward the door. "No, no, I can't sit. I'm in a hurry. I have to see about my car."

  "I'll walk with you," I said, following her. Outside, she put up her umbrella, made a right turn, and quick-stepped along. I pulled up the sheepskin collar on my jacket and lengthened my stride. "The thing is that you have so little traffic out there," I went on, taking up where we'd left off. "So the person who hit Carl Swenson probably lives on that road, don't you think?" Some instinct made me add, "Or is visiting somebody."

  "I never have visitors," she replied, with a quick, dismissive emphasis, and walked faster. She was holding her umbrella directly over her head, not offering to share it. The water was dripping onto my shoulder.

  "What about your nephew?"

  "Oh, but he's not visiting, he's family. My sister's son." She frowned. "The man who lives in that trashy old house trailer, Clyde McNabb? I hate to say it, but he's terribly reckless. He drinks, too, and he's got a nasty temper. Last year, he got drunk and hit two of Swenson's goats. They had a big argument over it. I don't suppose it would be a surprise if—" She broke off and gave me a quick sideways glance to make sure that I was paying attention. "I wish I'd thought to mention this to the sheriff. Although of course, I don't for a minute mean to suggest that Clyde did it."

  Of course she had meant to suggest it. Which suggested to me that she was hiding something, maybe something to do with her nephew—the one who wasn't a visitor, but family. The one who got on her nerves so badly.

  Corinne made a sharp right at the corner and I stayed with her. "I understand that the Swenson family has owned that land for quite a while," I said. "But somebody told me that Carl moved away after high school."

  "Moved away, joined the Army, got himself into trouble, and ended up in prison." Corinne sniffed. "His father died just about the time he got out, so he came back here and took over the ranch. Not that he does what you'd call ranching. Just a few hundred goats. They're always getting out through the fence. They got in my garden this summer and ate all my sweet corn."

  "I wonder why he went to prison."

  "I never heard." She seemed more willing to talk now that the conversation had shifted to Swenson. "He didn't have a job, you know. But he didn't appear to need one. He sold two hundred acres to those two women who turned it into a flower farm, so he must have been getting regular payments from them. Every month or so, he'd drive off with a load of goats. And there was the mistletoe."

  "It's amazing how little money some people can get by on," I remarked.

  "He didn't seem to want for anything, though," Corinne went on, half to herself. "I overheard Marvin telling somebody on the phone that he'd just finished building a greenhouse. I guess Swenson saw how well those women were doing and decided he'd go into the flower business."

  I frowned, remembering Donna's story about the argument over the ownership of Mistletoe Spring. Maybe Swenson had counted on his own spring for irrigation. And maybe, after the sisters took possession of Mistletoe Spring and cleaned it out, he'd decided to force them off the land and take over their established fields.

  Corinne stopped. "This is as far as I go."

  I looked up. We were in front of Gus's Body and Paint Shop. "Oh," I said. "Having some work done on your car?"

  "An estimate." She gave a nervous little laugh. "Marvin hit a deer last week and smashed the fender."

  "Just the fender?" I pushed my hands into my pockets. "You're lucky. I know a guy who totaled his brand new SUV when he ran into a big buck."

  "The fender is bad enough," she said with a sigh. "I'm afraid it will cost more than I can afford." She managed a shaky smile. "I've enjoyed talking to you, China. Come out sometime and I'll cook that lamb casserole you like so much."

  "That would be wonderful," I lied.

  What in the world did we do before the cell phone was invented? Now there's no more standing out in the rain to use a pay phone, or darting into a convenience store and yelling over the noise of video games. Back at the truck, I turned on the ignition, flipped the heater to high, and called the sheriff's office to give Blackie the information about the smashed fender on Corinne Turtle's maroon Mercury, which seemed to me to be top priority—and urgent. Gus often had a backlog and couldn't get to a repair job for a couple of days. On the other hand, if the customer slipped him a little something extra to go to the top of the list, he could be agreeable. But when the dispatcher said that Blackie couldn't be reached, I elected to call home rather than leave a message. McQuaid picked up the phone on the first ring.

  "McQuaid here," he growled. "Who is it?"

  "Uh-oh," I said. "Writer's block?"

  "How'd you guess?" He sighed. "I never should have started this damn book. If I tell the truth, none of my Ranger buddies will ever speak to me again. If I don't tell the truth—"

  "—there's no point in writing the book."

  "Exactly." McQuaid sighed again. "Hell's bells. I'd a whole lot rather crawl around that c
rime scene than face this stuff."

  "Did you guys turn up anything useful?"

  "The usual roadside litter. Nothing that really stood out, other than the paint chips and glass fragments. If you're on your way home, bring a six-pack. When Hemingway hit a dry spot, he'd tie one on."

  "You'll have to get it yourself, Ernest. I'm headed for the flower farm. Blackie wants me to see if I can get any more information out of Donna and Terry."

  "I'll go with you," McQuaid offered quickly.

  "I'm afraid this is a girl thing. They're more likely to be straight if they're talking just to me. But there's another angle you could check out, if you don't have anything better to do."

  "Oh, yeah?" He sounded eager. "What's that?" "I ran into Corinne Turtle at the pharmacy a little while ago."

  "Who? Turtle? Oh, yeah. The neighbor. Blackie's already interviewed her. She didn't see anything."

  "Right," I said dryly. "Well, it turns out that she's taken her car—a maroon Mercury—to Gus's Body Shop. Her story is that her nephew Marvin hit a deer."

  "A deer, huh?" McQuaid gave a low whistle. "And Tut-tle told Blackie that she lived alone. She didn't say anything about a nephew."

  "I wonder why."

  "Yeah, me too. You know, I've been meaning to ask Gus to take a look at the back bumper on the van. It's been rattling something fierce."

  "It might be a good idea to do that pretty quick, before he does any work on the Turtle vehicle." I didn't say "before he destroys any potential evidence," but McQuaid got the point.

  "I'm on my way." He paused. "But there's something I was supposed to—Oh, yeah. Amy called. She wants you to call her at work."

  "Amy!" Ruby's older daughter. Maybe she was calling with a message from her mother. "Did she leave a number?" The one I'd copied from the Rolodex was her home phone.