"Yeah," Ruby said gleefully. "And spit feathers."
McQuaid laughed out loud. "Couldn't happen to a nicer guy," he said. "I gotta hand it to you. You were on the right track about Swenson." He looked at me. "Was it the Rio condo brochure?"
"That, and Corinne Tuttle's remark about a new greenhouse," I said. "And Ruby's intuition."
"A lucky guess," Ruby said modestly.
McQuaid frowned. "Of course, Swenson's pot-growing operation complicates the investigation. It opens up a whole new series of questions."
"Not really," I said with a sigh. "At least not yet. The Fletcher sisters are still front and center, I'm afraid."
"Donna's confessed," Ruby said.
"No kidding," McQuaid said. "With pot in the picture, my money was on one of Swenson's confederates. Tell me about the Fletcher woman."
I had just finished giving him the details of Donna's confession when Howard Cosell, who had been patiently waiting for his chance at the sauce bowl, got up and went to the door, growling low in his throat.
"Company, Howard?" I asked.
"On a night like this?" McQuaid said, surprised.
Howard's rumbling growl was drowned out by a heavy-knuckled rap-rap-rap at the kitchen door. Before I could push back my chair, it came again, louder and more impatient.
"It's the Whiz," Ruby said.
McQuaid raised his eyebrows. "Another intuition?"
"Nope," I said. "There's only one person in the entire world who knocks like that."
It was indeed the Whiz, standing on the back porch with an umbrella and a bottle of red wine, waiting impatiently for me to open the door.
"When you get to heaven," I said, letting her in, "you'd better knock with a little more finesse. You might find yourself locked out." I closed the door against the sleety rain and relieved her of the dripping umbrella, the wine, and her coat.
"Who's going to heaven?" Justine said, running her hands through her damp hair. "Not me, that's for sure." She nodded at Ruby. "Hey, Ruby. How ya doin'?" Without waiting for an answer, she went on. "I'd get bored sitting around with a harp all day. I need action." She smacked her fist against her palm. "Gotta keep the blood pumping, the body moving. Gotta outrun Father Time."
"Have you tried aerobics?" McQuaid wanted to know.
"Ha ha," the Whiz said. She rubbed her hands together, eyeing the table with pleasure. "Just in time for dinner, I see. Hey, look at that spaghetti! Good thing I brought burgundy."
When Justine Wyzinsky and I were in law school together, she whipped the pants off all the competition—including me—to get to the top of the class. Now, twenty-odd years later, she's still just as competitive and a lot more experienced. But Justine is still every bit as untidy as she was in her student days. She's short and stout, with broad hips and shoulders to match, and her clothes always look like she's just returned from a cross-continental trip on the Trans-Siberian railway. Tonight, there was a coffee stain on the lapel of her wrinkled gray jacket, a splash of mud on the hem of her crooked skirt, and if she'd combed her brown hair and put on lipstick since she got up this morning, there was no sign of it.
I set another plate at the table and handed McQuaid the wine and a corkscrew. "You got my message, I assume," I said, getting out the wineglasses. "Have you seen Donna yet?"
"Yes to the message and yes to the client." Justine sat down and used her napkin to polish the water off her plastic-rimmed eyeglasses. "Although I must say that she didn't seem overly enthusiastic when I offered my services. I got the impression she'd just as soon hang out in her cell as talk to me, and that she intended to plead guilty and go straight to prison without the formality of a trial. In fact, she as much as told me she didn't want to be bailed." The Whiz put her glasses back on, pushed them up on her nose, and pursed her lips. "Odd, wouldn't you say? Most people facing arraignment are delighted when somebody shows up with a key." She looked at me. "Makes me think there's something going on here."
"There is," I said, as McQuaid poured the wine. I took a sip. The burgundy was robust, a perfect foil to the spaghetti sauce. "Very nice wine, Justine. Thanks." I put down my glass. "I think she's covering for somebody."
"Probably her sister," Ruby put in.
"Her sister?" McQuaid asked, surprised. "Yesterday, Blackie seemed to think it was the old lady."
"That was before we located the vehicle," I said. "It's possible that Aunt Velda was driving the truck, but not likely that she hid it. It's only a mile across the ridge between Swenson's place and the flower farm, but the terrain is up and down, mostly up. Aunt Velda is spry enough to walk a mile on level ground, but it would've been hard for her to cross that rocky ridge."
Justine helped herself to spaghetti. "Pardon moi, but none of this makes a dime's worth of sense. I need the whole story, start to finish. What you know and what you surmise."
It took a few minutes to sketch out the situation, starting from the time Swenson's body was discovered, ending with Donna's trip to the jail, and including a heavily edited sketch of the drug bust at Swenson's place. While I talked, Justine dispatched one helping of spaghetti and started on another.
"Let's see if I've got this straight," she said, wiping spaghetti sauce off her chin with her napkin. "Initially, both sisters claim that the old lady drove off with the truck and came back without it. They deny any knowledge of the hit-and-run or the whereabouts of the truck. When the vehicle is discovered in the victim's shed, Donna abruptly changes her story. She says she accidentally hit Swenson, then hid the truck at his place." She paused, frowning. "What does Terry say?"
"She'll say whatever Donna says," I replied wryly. "If there's a cover, she's in on it."
"Maybe they're all three guilty," Ruby ventured. "Maybe Aunt Velda drove the truck, and both of the sisters hid it."
Justine made a face. "What a can of worms," she said disgustedly. "I hate cases like this. There's no good hook to hang a defense on. The jury will be cross-eyed." She brightened. "But we're only talking accidental death. At the worst, failure to lend assistance, maybe obstruction. If Donna's willing to plead, we can bargain. I can probably get her off with two years, and she'll be out in half that time."
"It might not be as easy as that," I said. "Swenson and the sisters had a disagreement over property. They were convinced that he was behind some vandalism at their place, and Terry was sitting up nights with her shotgun, all set to blow him away. Dutch Doran may not let Donna plead to the lesser charge. He might try to bump this up to vehicular homicide."
"Your district attorney is an idiot," the Whiz snapped. Justine and Dutch have been acquainted for years, since they both worked in the San Antonio D.A.'s office. "He doesn't have the brains to spit downwind."
"And there's the pot-farm angle," McQuaid put in. "Dutch ran for office on a get-tough-on-pot platform. He'll be on it like a hound on a ham bone—and he won't let go-"
"But there's no way he can connect the flower farm and Swenson's operation," Ruby protested.
I nodded. "Not even Dutch would be dumb enough to try that."
"Dumb is Doran's middle name," Justine said. She frowned. "But you're sure there's no connection?"
"Good question," McQuaid said, looking at me. "How do you know the sisters aren't growing marijuana in one of their greenhouses? Maybe that story they gave you about the survey boundaries was just a bunch of cock and bull. Maybe they've been growing pot and Swenson decided to muscle in on their business."
"That's nonsense," I said sharply. "Whatever those women are up to, marijuana has nothing to do with it."
McQuaid gave me a skeptical look. "Oh, yeah? How do you know?"
Slowly, thoughtfully, Justine took another helping of spaghetti. "How long have these women lived here?" "Six or seven years," I said.
"Where were they before?" I shook my head. I'd never bothered to ask. "California," Ruby said. "That's what Donna told me, anyway."
Justine wound spaghetti around her fork. "Has either of them been in trouble with
the law? Possession, maybe? Or dealing?"
"Not that I know of," I said. I frowned. "What are you getting at, Justine?"
Justine rolled her eyes. "Come on, China. You can figure it out for yourself."
And then I saw it. "Of course," I said, and made a face. "Why didn't I think of that?"
"Because you're too close to the situation," Justine said. "These people are friends of yours, or at least friendly acquaintances. You'd like to believe that they are who they say they are." She regarded me thoughtfully. "Which is hardly ever the case—as you'll recall if you'll cast your mind back to your legal career. People are almost never who they pretend to be. They always have something to hide."
Ruby put down her glass with a thump. "What are they hiding?" She frowned. "What are you two talking about?"
"A possible motive for Donna to protect her sister," McQuaid explained.
Justine reached for her wine and leaned back. "If the defendant has a record of prior prosecutions, a court is likely to assess a higher penalty than it would in the event the defendant had never before been charged with a crime."
Ruby blinked.
"In other words," I said, "somebody who's clean gets off easier than somebody with a criminal record. Justine is suggesting that Terry has been arrested before, and that this
is a possible motive for Donna to take the rap." "Oh, dear," Ruby said sadly.
"A possible motive," I repeated, with a glance at Justine. "We don't know that's what happened."
McQuaid pushed back his chair and stood up. "I'll put in a call to Blackie. He would've automatically run a check on Donna, but he probably won't think to see if the other sister's got a record." He gave Justine an inquiring look. "Got any problem with that, Counselor?"
Justine shook her head. "Absolutely not," she said emphatically. "If my client is innocent, let's get her the hell out of jail."
When Justine had gone, Ruby and I put the dishes in the dishwasher, got back in the Datsun, and navigated through the icy rain to Mrs. Kendall's apartment. This time I drove through the alley, thinking that there might be a light in the back of the apartment. There was a second stair that looked like it might lead to the kitchen, but no light, and no sign of the Plymouth.
"Maybe she's skipped town," Ruby said glumly.
"Maybe it's time we talked to her landlord," I said.
We drove around to the street, parked, and knocked at the Victorian house at the front of the lot. The door was opened by a thirty-something man wearing jeans and a flannel shirt and holding a paintbrush in one hand. Behind him, through the open door, we could see that he was painting the hallway, with the help of a little girl who looked to be about four years old. She was happily smearing yellow paint on the wall he was about to cover. Upstairs, a baby was crying.
"I understand that you have a garage apartment," I said.
He nodded. "It's rented right now, but our tenant just gave notice. Are you looking for a place?" He glanced from me to Ruby. "It's kind of small for two people."
I started to speak, but Ruby interrupted me. "We know somebody who is," she said. "When is your tenant moving out?"
"Daddy," the little girl said, "look at the flower I painted."
"Early next week," the man said. "I'll need a day or so after she's out—got to fix the hot water heater and replace the bathroom faucet." He cocked his head. "I might even knock a little off the first month's rent, since I wouldn't have to go to the expense of advertising."
"Daddy!"
The man turned. "I'll look at it in a minute, Taffy. I'm talking to these people right now."
"What's the rent?" Ruby asked.
The man turned back to us. "Four-seventy-five a month. All bills paid. We let our current tenant go month-to-month because she wasn't sure how long she'd be in the United States. But we'd rather have a lease." He grinned. "You know how it is in a college town."
"Sounds great," Ruby said enthusiastically. "What's your phone number?" He told her, and she jotted it down on a piece of paper from her handbag. "Thanks," she said. "If things work out, I'll be in touch in the next day or two."
We thanked the man and went back to the car. "So Mrs. K is leaving town!" Ruby exclaimed, climbing in.
"I guess that settles it," I said. "I suppose she needed the two hundred dollars for travel expenses."
Ruby wrapped her arms around herself, shivering. "Are we going to stake the place out and wait until she comes home?"
"On a night like this?" I put the key in the ignition and started the car. "Anyway, we were up at five this morning, and it's been a long, hard day. I'd rather go home and make myself a hot toddy and fall into a bubble bath."
"But what about Mrs. K—and our two hundred dollars?"
"I'm sure we'll never see her again, or the money, either. I vote that we write her a termination letter first thing in the morning and send it by registered mail."
Ruby sighed. "Sounds like a good idea. Anyway, I need to call Shannon and Amy. I'm going to have both of them over for dinner later this week and tell them about my surgery." She didn't sound as if she was looking forward to it.
I put the car in gear. "What was all that stuff about renting the apartment?" I asked with a frown. "The landlord seemed like a nice guy who's trying to make his mortgage by renting out the rooms over the garage. It wasn't very nice to mislead him."
"I wasn't misleading him," Ruby replied. "Amy's been looking for a place to live. I'm going to tell her about this one. It's a nice neighborhood, and the rent is less than she's paying now." She pushed her hands into her pockets. "Except that I forgot to ask about pets. Amy has cats. I'd better call him back and check before I get her hopes up."
"Good luck," I said, and turned the corner onto Nueces. I thought of Mrs. K and sighed. "Unfortunately, Justine was right. People aren't always who they pretend to be. Who would have guessed that the Duchess would stoop to stealing money?"
Ruby turned to look at me. "With Mrs. K gone, we'll have to make some immediate plans. Which of us is cooking tomorrow?"
I stopped at the light at Nueces and Rio Grande and
reached into my coat pocket. "We'll flip for it," I said, handing her a quarter. "Heads you cook, tails I cook."
Ruby flipped the coin and caught it on the back of her hand. She peered at it. "It's tails," she announced.
"Oh, goody," I said. "Guess I'll go in early and make sure I know what I'm doing. Do you think we have enough supplies? Do you suppose Mrs. K wrote down her recipes? Maybe we should change the menu. I'm really good at spaghetti."
Ruby looked at me. "Maybe we should put an ad in the paper right away."
Chapter Fifteen
On Midsummer Eve people in Sweden make divining rods of mistletoe, or of four different kinds of wood, one of which must be mistletoe. The treasure-seeker places the rod on the ground after sundown, and when it rests directly over treasure, the rod begins to move as if it were alive.
Sir James George Frazer The Golden Bough
I parked the car in front of the Diner and got out, shivering in the cold, crisp morning air. The temperature was just below freezing, which was worrisome. The weather forecast for the day—Wednesday—included precipitation. That might mean rain, which isn't much of a problem, or it might mean ice, which nobody in the Hill Country likes to think about. We can handle 100-degree days, two-year droughts, and six-inch gully-washers, but a half-inch of ice can bring down century-old oaks, knock out all the utilities, and glaze every road in the county. When there's ice, all we can do is shut down for the duration.
It was almost seven, and the Diner was empty except for a couple of construction workers sitting at the booth in the far corner, tucking into heaping plates of eggs and bacon with grits and gravy. Docia was in the kitchen and Lucy was out front, which was just fine with me. If Lucy was still grieving for Carl Swenson, there was no telling what she might do to the biscuits.
Anyway, I wanted to talk to her. Belatedly, I had remembered Lila's cryptic remark tha
t Swenson's death hadn't been an accident and that Lucy knew something about it. The conversation was probably a waste of time— without a doubt, it was the old Ford that had killed Swenson, and the vehicle belonged to the Fletcher sisters. But I wanted to tidy up all the loose ends, and Lucy was a loose end. Unlike her grandmother, though, she's usually reserved and uncommunicative. I didn't think I'd get much out of her.
"Mornin', China," she said in her laconic voice, as I sat down at the counter. Under her white bibbed apron, she was wearing jeans and a navy shirt that made her olive complexion look even more sallow. "Coffee?"
"Please. And I'd like scrambled eggs, a small bowl of grits and gravy, and orange juice."
Lucy wrote this down, pushed the order through the wide pass-through to her mother, and turned back with the pot to pour my coffee. Her lank, stringy hair was tied back in a ponytail. It needed a wash.
"Your grandmother said yesterday that you and Carl Swenson were close," I remarked. "I'm sorry about his death. It must have been a shock to you."
Lucy bit her lip. "Yeah." She pushed the cup toward me and went to the juice machine. She put a glass under it and pulled the handle. The juice foamed over the rim of the glass. She wasn't looking at me.
"I understand from your grandmother that you don't think his death was an accident," I said quietly.
Lucy's head jerked up and she looked directly at me, startled out of her reserve. "Gramma told you that?"
I added cream and sugar and stirred my coffee. "If it's true, I'd like to hear about it."
She put the juice in front of me, her dark eyebrows pulled together in a frown. There was a pimple on her chin. "Is this about... I mean, is your husband ..." The frown became a scowl. "But he's not the chief now. So how come you're asking?"
I kept wishing that Lucy would meet my eyes. "I'm asking because Donna Fletcher has been arrested for running him down. I want to help her, if I can. If there's any reason to believe that somebody else wanted Carl Swenson dead—"
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