Mistletoe Man - China Bayles 09

by Susan Wittig Albert

  "If you make an untruthful statement to the police, you can be charged with obstruction of justice. And if you lie under oath, you're committing perjury. If you want to protect your aunt from prosecution, Donna, this is not the way to do it."

  Without answering, Donna pulled her crocheted wool cap over her ears. From the jumble of stitches and the rainbow of mismatched colors, I could guess that Aunt Velda had made it for her.

  It was a long, silent ride back to town.

  "Donna killed Swenson!" Ruby exclaimed, startled. "You're kidding!" She was sitting in the empty tearoom, the cash drawer and her calculator on the table in front of her. She had traded her early morning Indiana Jones outfit for a denim dress with a sunflower-print vest.

  "That's what she says," I replied grimly. "She claims she hid the truck in the shed, too. Blackie's got her at the county jail right now. He's agreed to hold off on the formal questioning until she has a lawyer—which she doesn't want."

  I sat down across from Ruby. Laurel, who helps Mrs. Kendall with the tables and the register, had swept the floor and set the tables for the next day's lunch, and the place looked wonderful. I'd been skeptical about the color scheme Ruby had suggested—hunter green trim and wainscoting, green-painted tables and chairs with floral chintz chair pads and napkins. But I had to admit now that it was perfect, as were the dozens of stylish touches Ruby had added: terra-cotta pots of rosemary and thyme on the tables, floral paintings, hanging pots of ivy. I'd been reluctant to become her partner in this enterprise, but now I couldn't imagine the tearoom—or my life—without her. I thought of her upcoming surgery and swallowed the sudden cold fear.

  "How'd we do today?" I paused and added, as casually as I could, "Are you feeling okay?"

  "I'm fine, but this place has been a three-ring circus," Ruby said, deftly rolling the cash register tape and securing it with a paper clip. "I got here just as sixteen ladies of the Library Book Club were starting their lunch. When they left, a big group of tourists strolled in. Mrs. K was terribly out of sorts about something—I never figured out what— and things were pretty chaotic for a while. But we rang up over four hundred dollars on the tearoom register alone, which is pretty amazing for a cold and rainy Tuesday."

  "That's terrific," I said, impressed. I reached for a stack of freshly washed green napkins and began to fold them. They'd go into the water glasses at each place.

  Ruby nodded. "We're doing great. But we probably need to hire somebody to help Mrs. K in the kitchen. Today was almost more than she could handle by herself."

  I finished the first napkin and laid it aside. "Oh, by the way, I meant to tell you that I talked to her on Sunday afternoon, to ask if she'd do the refreshments for the Christmas Tour. I think she'd been tippling."

  'Tippling? The Duchess?" Ruby's eyes opened wide. "I would have thought that lemonade would be her absolute limit."

  "It was the anniversary of her sister's death. She seemed pretty depressed." I took another napkin and began folding.

  "That's a shame," Ruby said sympathetically, clipping the checks and putting them into a bank bag. "Maybe that explains the way she was acting today. We were busy, sure, but that didn't seem to be her problem—at least not entirely." She pulled the cash drawer toward her and took out the twenties. "She left early, without even saying goodbye. Laurel and I were talking about Carl Swenson, and when I looked up, the back door was closing behind her. She and her sister must have been very close. I wonder how she died." As she counted the twenties, a shadow crossed her face. I hoped she wasn't thinking of cancer.

  "I don't know," I said. "Speaking of sisters, I need to call Terry and let her know where Donna is."

  "I hope you're also going to call Justine." Ruby entered the twenties total into her calculator. "Donna may not want a lawyer, but she needs one. And Justine is the best." She picked up the tens and began to count.

  Justine is Justine Wyzinski, known to her friends as the Whiz. She and I were in law school together at the University of Texas. She practices in San Antonio—family law, usually, but she helped out when Dottie Riddle was arrested for her neighbor's murder. If anybody could get Donna out of this jam, the Whiz could.

  "I put a call in to Justine from the jail," I said. "She's in Austin, so I left a message asking her to stop by the jail and have a chat with Donna on her way back to San Antonio." I leaned my chin on my hands. "Something is bothering me about this thing, Ruby." I reported Donna's reaction when Blackie told her that the truck had been found, and summarized my misgivings. "It's hard for me to imagine Donna doing such a thing. Terry, yes, and even Aunt Velda. But if I'd had to put those three women on a suspect list, Donna would have been at the bottom."

  Ruby counted the fives and entered the number into her calculator. "Do you think she's covering for Aunt Velda?" She picked up the stack of ones.

  I frowned. "Or her sister." I wasn't sure why I said that, exactly. Maybe it was the way Terry had acted the day before, when I talked to her in the barn. Or the silent communication that had passed between the two women a little later, or the clumsy way Donna had tried to alibi Terry, contradicting what her sister had already told me.

  Ruby counted the ones. "I can understand Donna taking the blame for that poor old woman. But why would she cover for her sister?" She entered her count and began adding up the total. "It doesn't make any more sense than hiding the truck in Swenson's tractor shed. That was just plain stupid."

  "I'm not sure I agree," I said slowly. "If you think about it, hiding the truck in the victim's shed isn't such a goofy idea, after all. They couldn't leave it beside the road or out in the middle of a field, and they sure didn't want it at the flower farm. When you come right down to it, Swenson's shed is the last place anybody would think to look. Even if somebody did happen to spot the truck, they'd figure it belonged to Swenson. And unless they were just looking for front-end damage, they'd never see it, the way that truck was parked." I paused. "But I have absolutely no idea why Donna would take the blame for her sister—if that's what she's doing. It's a mystery to me."

  Ruby didn't seem to be listening. She was frowning at the total on the tape. "Something's wrong, China. We're two hundred dollars short."

  "Did you count the checks and the credit cards?"

  "Of course I did," she said with a withering look. "I always count the checks and the credit cards before I start on the cash." She pushed back her chair and stood up. "I need to call a customer about a special order. Why don't you run the tally over again and see if you can find my error."

  But I didn't have any better luck. "I'm afraid you're right," I said, when she came back a little later. "We're two hundred dollars short, to the penny."

  We looked at one another, open-mouthed. In addition to Ruby and me, only two people have access to the tearoom's cash register during the day: Laurel and Mrs. Kendall. Laurel has worked for me for almost five years and we've been friends longer than that. It was inconceivable that she would take anything out of the register. Which left—

  "Mrs. K," Ruby and I said in astonished unison. There was a moment's silence while we tried to digest this information.

  "It can't be," Ruby said at last. "There must be another explanation. Goblins or something. Let's think for a minute. Maybe it'll come to us."

  We stared at the tape. It stared silently back. Nothing came to us.

  "Well," I said finally, "We know for sure that it isn't you or me, and neither of us is willing to believe that Laurel did it. That leaves Mrs. K."

  "I would never have thought it," Ruby said sadly. "She's such a fine person—so trustworthy, so competent, so full of wonderful ideas."

  "I'm afraid we've got a problem, Ruby," I said regretfully. "We can't make any accusations we can't prove. But we can't afford to have a thief working for us. Even if we watched Mrs. K like hawks, we'd always know we couldn't trust her. We'd be miserable."

  "But we need her!" Ruby cried distractedly. "What in the world would we do without her?"

&nbs
p; "We'd be in deep, serious trouble," I said, meaning it.

  "And we've got to remember that I'll be out of commission after my surgery," Ruby said. "I don't know how long, but at least a couple of weeks."

  "We can't have you rushing it." I picked up the cash drawer and stood up. "I'll phone Terry and bring her up to date on Donna's situation. Then I think you and I should pay a visit to Mrs. K."

  Ruby bit her lip. "But if we don't have proof, what can we do?"

  "We can lay all our cards on the table. We can tell her about the shortage and ask her if she knows anything about it. Maybe she'll admit the theft and return the money." I thought about Mrs. Kendall's deft handling of culinary complexities and her tasty shepherd's pie. "In which case I'd be inclined to give her a second chance."

  "And if she doesn't admit it?"

  "She may get huffy and quit, and if not, we'll have to fire her. We don't have an employment contract and she's only been here a couple of months—well within the term of a probationary period. We don't have to give a reason for letting her go."

  "Spoken like a lawyer," Ruby said. She looked at me, her eyes wide. "But what will we do, China? We have to have somebody in the kitchen. And Mrs. K is—was—perfect." She gave a longing sigh. "Her tomato-and-cheese soup is fabulous. Everybody at lunch today raved about it."

  "Don't worry," I said comfortingly. "I can make tomato-and-cheese soup, too. If worst comes to worst, I'll cook."

  Ruby made a wry face. "I was afraid you'd say that."

  "What's this 'afraid' stuff?" I was indignant. "I'm not a bad cook. And now that we've got the menu straightened out—"

  Ruby put out her hand. "You're a great cook, China," she said in a placating tone. "You'd do just fine. I just meant that—" She shifted uncomfortably. "Well, you're not exactly long on patience. I can just imagine you in the kitchen and sixteen women from the Library Book Club in the tearoom, all wanting sausage rolls and shepherd's pies at the same time. You'd start yelling."

  Ruby knows me better than I know myself. "You're right," I conceded. "I don't have the patience to be a chef. I wouldn't just yell, I'd probably throw eggs or something. But don't worry. We'll figure it out."

  "Who's worrying?" Ruby tossed her head. "It's all relative, China. In the grand scheme of things, losing a cook is pretty insignificant." She grinned. "Compared to losing a boob."

  I forced an answering grin. "I won't argue with you there."

  Chapter Fourteen

  The real reason why the Druids worshipped a mistletoe-bearing oak above all other trees of the forest was a belief that every such oak had not only been struck by lightning but bore among its branches a visible emanation of the celestial fire; so that in cutting the mistletoe with mystic rites they were securing for themselves all the magical properties of a thunderbolt.

  Sir James George Frazer The Golden Bough

  Terry didn't seem surprised when I told her that Donna was being held in the county jail.

  "How soon can I see her?" she asked gruffly.

  "Tomorrow morning, I'd guess," I said. "You can phone the jail and find out about visiting hours. I've put in a call to a friend of mine—a lawyer—who might be able to take your sister's case. If she can't, she'll be able to recommend somebody."

  There was a silence, then Terry replied: "Donna doesn't want a lawyer."

  "Donna doesn't know what's good for her," I said shortly. "If she doesn't get a lawyer, the judge will appoint somebody to defend her."

  "She doesn't want a defense. She thinks she'll get off easier if she pleads guilty."

  I narrowed my eyes. It sounded as if Donna had told her sister what she intended to do. More likely, she and Terry had cooked this thing up between them. The thought made me steam.

  "Whose side are you on?" I demanded angrily. "Have you forgotten what I told you yesterday? The district attorney is going to be taking a close look at this case. If there's any evidence—anything at all—that might indicate that Swenson's death was something other than an accident, Doran will charge your sister with vehicular homicide." I paused to let that sink in, and added, slowly and emphatically: "Donna needs a lawyer. A good one."

  Another silence. "Yeah, sure," Terry said. "I didn't mean—" She cleared her throat. "Tell that lawyer friend of yours that we want her to take the case. Whatever it costs, we'll come up with the money." More throat-clearing. "You don't think I can see Donna tonight?"

  "Call and ask," I said. "They might let you if there's a compelling reason." I thought for a second and came up with one. "Like finding out about your aunt's medications."

  "Yeah, right." Terry sounded relieved. "Aunt Velda's medicine. That's what I'll tell them."

  "Look, Terry," I said grimly, "I'm going to level with you. I have my doubts that Donna was the one who drove that truck, and I'm pretty sure the sheriff shares that feeling. Taking the rap for somebody else is a stupid thing for her to do. And if you're letting her do it, you're stupid, too."

  There was a silence. "You think that's what she's doing?" Terry asked uneasily.

  'I’d bet on it. Who's she covering for? You or your aunt?"

  For a moment, I could hear Terry's uneven breathing. Then there was a click. She had hung up.

  The address Mrs. Kendall had given us—3437-B Pecos Street—was that of a garage apartment behind a large Victorian house in the older part of Pecan Springs. For years, the residents of this neighborhood have put up elaborate Christmas decorations, vying with one another for the honor of being named Christmas House of the Week on the front page of the Enterprise. As we drove through the early dark, we saw a fantasy wonderland, tiny white lights like ribbons of stars draping the houses and topiary reindeer glittering on the lawns, while Christmas carols rang out from hidden loudspeakers. There was no snow, of course— in fact, a chill drizzle was misting through the air—but it was beginning to look a lot like Christmas.

  Ruby pointed out the number we were searching for, and we pulled into the drive that led around behind the big house. We saw a large double garage next to the alley, and above it, an apartment—but we didn't see Mrs. Kendall's white Plymouth. We parked, got out, and went around to the stairs at the side, where a light illuminated the apartment number and under it, on the mailbox, a card bearing the name Victoria R. Kendall. We climbed the stairs and knocked. No answer. The windows were all dark and the door, when I turned the knob and pushed, was locked.

  "Maybe she's out buying Christmas presents," Ruby suggested.

  "Yeah," I growled. "With our two hundred dollars." The drizzle was turning into something that felt suspiciously like sleet. Ruby pulled her coat closer. "What do we do now?" she asked with a shiver.

  I pushed back my sleeve and peered at my watch. It was after five-thirty. "We do dinner now," I said. "Brian's eating with a friend tonight, but McQuaid's expecting to be fed. Let's go to my house and cook a pot of spaghetti. We can come back in a couple of hours. With any luck, Mrs. K. will be home by then."

  "Sounds like a plan." Ruby raised a hopeful face to the dark sky. "You don't suppose it could snow, do you?"

  My idea of a quick and scrumptious dinner is a pot of al dente spaghetti dressed lightly with chopped fresh parsley and a full-bodied olive oil and served with tomato sauce and Parmesan cheese, hot herb bread, and a tossed salad—a meal which takes all of about fifteen minutes to throw together. By the time the pasta pot was boiling, the home-canned sauce was bubbling on my old Home Comfort gas range and the air was rich with the summer fragrance of tomatoes, basil and garlic. Exactly eight minutes later, I was draining the pasta while Ruby put the finishing touches on a garden salad and took the foil-wrapped bread out of the oven. McQuaid came in from his workshop, letting a blast of cold air into the kitchen, and the three of us took our places, McQuaid at the end of the scarred pine table, Ruby and I across from each other.

  While the food was going around and Ruby and McQuaid were speculating about how bad the weather might get before it got any better, I sat, quietly observing.
McQuaid and Ruby are the two people I am closest to and I love them both—love them with a fierceness that almost surprises me. As a young woman, schooled in the feminist movement and eager to carve out a career for myself in a male-dominated world, I thought that the way to success was to be independent, unconnected, uncommitted—to keep other people at arm's length, so that their messy emotions didn't spill into my life and complicate it. Over the past half-dozen years, though, I've learned that we can't live that way, not if we expect to live fully and deeply. Now I know that you have to love, even when your lover betrays you. You have to embrace intimacy, even though you fear to lose your closest and dearest friend. Ten months ago, I had to come to terms with the realization that I might lose McQuaid. Now, I was sick with worry about Ruby. I loved them both all the more because I know how fragile we humans are, and how much we mean to one another— which made me think of Carl Swenson, and wonder whether he had been loved, and how deeply, and by whom. He had been hated, too—had that been the reason for his death?

  McQuaid forked spaghetti onto his plate. "Blackie tells me," he said conversationally, "that the two of you created some excitement out at the Swenson place this morning."

  Ruby's glance said, You're married to him. You handle this.

  "A cheap thrill," I replied with an elaborate shrug. "Nothing we couldn't handle."

  McQuaid grunted. "Almost got yourselves arrested for possession, I hear." He didn't look up as he spooned tomato sauce onto his spaghetti and passed the bowl to Ruby.

  "Possession of what? A garbage sack full of mistletoe?" I gave a short, casual laugh. "But while we were poking around, we just happened to find the truck that killed Carl Swenson. If we hadn't been there, Captain Talbot might have towed it to Brownsville."

  "Yeah. Heard that, too. Congratulations." He looked up, his pale eyes glinting with amusement. "Also heard that when you two got through with Talbot, he was mad enough to eat a duck."