Chile Death

by Susan Wittig Albert

  "While were waiting for the results,” McQuaid went on, "maybe you could have a talk with Jerry Jeff’s widow.”

  "I suppose you’re interested in the fallout from the divorce settlement,” I said thoughtfully. That was what interested me, anyway, especially Roxanne’s charge that Jerry Jeff had failed to report all his income. It isn’t unusual for an about-to-be-ex to hide a big hunk of his (usually his but not always) assets from the other party. The situation has a little more resonance, though, when the income has been concealed from the avaricious eyes of the Internal Revenue Service.

  "The settlement, plus anything else you can dig up.” McQuaid said. “Roxanne might also be able to give you the names of people who had it in for him.”

  “From the tone of her voice during their confrontation, I’d say jhe had it in for him. There won’t be any settlement now, of course. And Roxanne will get at least double from his death what she would have gotten in a divorce—not counting the life insurance. And don’t forget that he was an insurance salesman. Probably insured up to his eyeballs. Charlie will know something about the size of the estate.”

  "Okay. You get Roxanne’s stoiy. Ill get back to Charlie, and we can compare notes.”

  “You’re the boss,” I said. "Anything else?”

  "Yeah. About last night.”

  I grinned. "I thought we agreed that you were a jerk and let it go at that.” I picked up his hand and kissed it.

  “That aside — ” He chuckled, then sobered and touched my cheek. "I owe you an apology, China. I’ve been depressed lately, and I’ve been taking it out on you.”

  I shook my head. "You’ve had a rough time. I’m proud of the effort you’re making. I understand why you feel the way you do. Really, it’s okay.”

  “No, it isn’t. But it’s hard to make plans for the future when I can’t even go to the bathroom by myself.” His voice hardened. "I hate the idea of depending on you for everything. And I meant at least part of what I said last night. I still think you’d be better off without me.”

  "Hey. That's enough.” I put my finger on his lips. “I don’t want to hear any more of that nonsense, McQuaid. I don’t care what you think, I’m not going to — ”

  He batted my hand away. “Damn it, China!” he exploded. “Will you shut up and let me talk?” He grabbed my hand and held it, hard, and the line of his mouth softened. “I still think you’re better off without me. A woman would have to be nuts to commit herself under these, circumstances. But if you really mean what you said last night about not caring whether I walk or crawl, I’d be a blithering idiot not to take you up on it.” He gave me a crooked grin. "I may not be functioning worth a damn below the belt, but the brain still works.”

  I frowned. "You mean—”

  “I know I’m not very romantic. I should tell you that I’m sorry I’ve been such a miserable shit for the last few months. I ought to tell you how much I respect and admire and love you—more than I can ever imagine loving anyone. I ought to say how much I want to be back in your bed. But I’m not very good at sweet talk. Hell, if you still want me, let’s go for it. Let’s get married.”

  “Still want you?” I laughed, a little hysterically, and leaned forward to kiss him, hard. “You jerk!" He pulled me awkwardly into his wheelchair, and my arms went around him.

  Five minutes later. Jug trudged in, pushing his walker. McQuaid and I hurriedly broke apart, and he grunted. “Yep, I figgered I’d see you in his lap sooner or later." He shook his head, the corners of his mouth turned down, and lowered himself painfully into his chair with a long sigh. "Damn. I’m gittin' too old to go gallivantin’ around on Sundays. Think I'll tell that brother of mine to come here if he wants to see me.” He leaned his head back wearily. “What y’all been up to?”

  "We’re getting married,” McQuaid said.

  Jug raised his head. “That right? Well, I figgered that chili you ate yestiddy would change things. Nothin’ like a couple of bowls of Texas red to fire up a man’s private parts.” He grinned. "I’ll have to save up my strength so’s I kin be first in line to kiss the bride. When’s the big day?” "I don’t know," McQuaid said. "We haven’t got that far.” He gave me a questioning glance. "I suppose we ought to wait until I can walk back up the aisle with you, China. In fact, maybe it would be a good idea to hold off on setting the date until we see how the therapy—” "Forget that," I said firmly. I turned to Jug. "A couple of months at the outside.” I patted McQuaid’s hand. "As soon as we can clear the groom’s calendar.”

  "Yeah.” Jug smiled amiably. "Better land the sucker while you got him hooked. He could be like the fish that jumped into the boat and then jumped out again.” He looked at us. "You heard that one?”

  "Yes,” we chorused in unison, and I said to McQuaid, "How about going along with me to the lobby? I’ve got something else I need to talk to you about.”

  “Yeah, folks gettin’ married got lots of private talkin’ to do,” Jug said reflectively. He reached for the TV remote control and flicked the set on to ESPN. "You figgered on how many kids yer gonna have yet?”

  “We have all the kid we can handle,” McQuaid said without hesitation, and I felt a surge of relief. I’m past the age when starting a family is easy, but McQuaid is five years younger. I’ve always thought that a younger woman would give him a chance at another family.

  I fetched cans of soda from a machine in the hall, and we found a quiet corner in the lobby next to a large aquarium which bore the sign, Do NOT Feed the Fish!!! Now that we’d finally agreed to get married, I found it hard to believe. But there were so many questions that had to be answered. When should we tell Brian? Did McQuaid want to phone his folks, or should we wait until they came for a visit? Was it okay to tell Ruby? What kind of ceremony should we have? When? And above all, when could we plan on his coming home?

  We had time to settle those questions, however. Right now, I was feeling urgent about my conversation with Angela, and I wanted to tell McQuaid about it. It took only a few minutes to give him a condensed narrative version, including Carita’s firing and the potentially deadly encounter Angela had witnessed. By the time I finished, he was shaking his head.

  "Bad news,” he said emphatically, in his cop’s voice. "Unfortunately, it’s the sort of thing that’s hard to investigate unless the victim is capable of being interrogated or a credible witness is willing to come forward.”

  "That’s the problem,” I said. "According to all reports, Velma Mayfield suffers from increasing dementia. And the girl, Angie, may not be a credible witness. Hogge fired her cousin.”

  "A tough situation.” He eyed me. “What are you going to do?”

  "I thought I’d do some digging into Opal Hogge’s background. When I told Fannie Couch that Hogge had fired Carita Garza, she remarked that Hogge might not have asked the police to investigate the thefts because she doesn’t want them out here.”

  "What’s she afraid of?”

  "I don’t know. Fannie had to leave before I got the details. But I’ll find out.”

  McQuaid nodded. "The Manor is a locally owned facility, you know. In fact, one of the board members—Colin Gaskill—teaches in the Sociology Department at the university. If you can substantiate the aide's claim that Hogge abused Velma Mayfield, I’m sure Colin would take it seriously.” He looked grim. "Elder abuse isn’t just a crime, it’s bad for business.”

  "Good idea. Thanks.” Of course—the board. Why hadn’t I thought of that? "I also wondered if you’d stop in and see Velma Mayfield—she’s in Brazos, Number 33—and tell me what you think about her competence. Maybe she remembers what happened. Even if she doesn’t, she might be able to tell you something about her relationship with Opal Hogge. Bunny—that’s what she calls Hogge—sounds like a kid’s nickname. They must have known one another for quite a while.”

  He nodded. "You’re going to talk to the nursing supervisor, aren’t you? Somebody should examine the old woman for bruises. And it might be a good idea for her to make sure
that Velma isn’t left alone with Mrs. Hogge.”

  “I plan to talk to Joyce tomorrow,” I said, "after I’ve filled in some of the background.” I looked at the clock on the wall over the aquarium. "I promised Ruby I’d meet her at four. I’ll push you back to your room.”

  "I can push myself,” McQuaid said. "I need to work on my upper arm strength. On the way, I'll stop and see Miss Velma.” He looked at me. “I hope you’re planning to give Ruby the go-ahead. That money is burning a hole in her pocket. And you’ve been wanting to open a tearoom.”

  I sat down again. "But it’s complicated," I protested. “I’ve been in business by myself for a long time. I’m not sure I want to get involved in a partnership.”

  The corners of McQuaid’s mouth quirked. "But Ruby’s your best friend.”

  “All the more reason not to be her partner,” I said firmly. "Friendship doesn’t automatically qualify two people to be in business together. Anyway, I don’t know enough about Ruby's business ability to make such a major commitment.”

  The amusement went from his mouth to his eyes. "She’s always paid the rent, hasn’t she? Have her checks ever bounced? And don’t you rely on her for other kinds of advice?”

  "Well yes,” I conceded, "but I’ve never seen her books or her bank statements. For all I know, she’s a really lousy businesswoman. And what happens if the partnership doesn’t survive? Most of them don’t, you know. Then you’ve got a hell of a mess to clean up—legally, financially, and otherwise. I might wind up losing a friend, as well as a partner and a tenant.”

  "A lot of marriages don’t survive, either, but that doesn’t keep people from trying.” McQuaid paused for a moment, regarding me thoughtfully. "What are you afraid of, China? Losing your independence on two fronts at once?”

  "Hey,” I protested, "that’s not fair. Not to mention tacky.”

  "Think about it.” He pushed his chair backward and wheeled it around. “Are you going to tell Ruby about our getting married?”

  "Is that okay?”

  “It’s up to you. I think it would please her.”

  The news did more than just please her, it made her ecstatic. "Oh, China, that’s wonderful!” she cried, when I told her. She turned around from the kitchen counter where she was sprinkling peanuts over a chocolate-frosted cake. “It’s perfect, absolutely perfect, for both of you. I couldn’t be happier if I were getting married myself!” She held me out at arm’s length and studied me. “How do you feel?”

  "Stunned,” I said. “Bewildered. Dizzy, daft, dazed — ”

  "Sit,” Ruby commanded, pushing me down onto one of her green kitchen chMrs. "Relax and get hold of yourself. Comfort food, coming up.”

  Ruby’s kitchen is not exactly a spot to relax in. The wallpaper is red and white striped with a watermelon border above the white beadboard wainscot. A green lamp hangs over a red table and four green chMrs. The cabinets and floor and window shutters are white, like the wainscot, but there’s a green and red watermelon rug under the table, the curtains are vintage tea towels in a hodgepodge of designs, and the windowsills are lined with cobalt blue botdes in all shapes and sizes. The room is a cheerful riot of bright colors and lively patterns, and Ruby—in a yellow tunic, red shorts, and blue sandals— looked right at home.

  "When’s the wedding?” she asked eagerly, over her shoulder, as she poured glasses of cold lemonade. "Will there be a lot of guests, or just a few? Maybe you should have it in the garden behind the shop.” She paused, and

  I could almost see the lightbulb turning on. "If you did that, we could hold the reception in our new tearoom.” She whirled excitedly, ideas popping like popcorn. "We could even combine the wedding reception with our grand opening! That should get everybody’,) attention!”

  It got mine. "Stop right there,” I said. "Haven’t I got enough to handle, without you whipping around like a hurricane, making all my plans for me, telling me what to—”

  "There, there.” Ruby set my glass and a plate of cake in front of me and gave my shoulder a motherly pat. "Everything will be all right. Drink your lemonade and eat your cake and we’ll talk about dates and—”

  "No dates,” I said, leaning back in the chair. "Give me a day or two to let it sink in, please. My gosh, Ruby, we haven’t even told Brian yet. You’re the first."

  “I’m flattered,” she said, and sat down across from me with lemonade and cake. She pointed at my plate. "That is called Peanutty Pepper Cake. I made it especially for you, so you can see that peanuts and chiles really do go together.” She eyed me. "You’re not allergic to peanuts, I suppose, but you’d better take it slow until you see how hot it is.”

  Ruby’s Hot Lips Cookie Crisps are incendiary, so I took her advice. But the creamy chocolate frosting mellowed the heat, and the cake had a rich peanutty taste. "Great!” I said, around a mouthful. "Can I have the recipe for my column this week?"

  "Would you believe? All you have to do is make up a yellow cake mix, add a half cup of crunchy peanut butter, and throw in a half teaspoon of cayenne pepper—more, if you want it hotter. The frosting comes out of a can. Of course, if you’d rather have chocolate cake, you’d start with a chocolate cake mix. Nothing easier.” She forked up a bite herself. "Since you don’t want to talk about your wedding, let’s talk about the tearoom. If we got the ball rolling on the renovations right away, we could be open by early September.”

  It might have been the chocolate, the chile, or just plain Ruby, but I was already feeling better. And Ruby’s voice was determined, which suggested that this was a discussion of major significance. "Open for what, exactly?” I asked. “Are you thinking of offering a daily menu? We’re talking hypotheticals, now, not plans,” I added hastily, so she wouldn’t get the idea I was agreeing to anything just yet. "Nothing concrete.”

  She pushed her plate aside and leaned forward. "Hypothetically,” she said with a glint of something like amusement, "we wouldn’t be open every day. At least, not until we’ve got all the bugs ironed out and we see what kind of traffic we get. Let me tell you what I have in mind.”

  What Ruby had in mind, I had to admit, sounded very practical. The tearoom, a separate business from our two shops, would be open on Wednesdays, Fridays, and Saturdays from twelve to four and by special arrangement. Since I had my hands full this summer. Ruby would be responsible for getting the permit and arranging for the necessary renovations. Meanwhile, we would plan the decor and the menu together. Ruby’s friend Gaitlin was interested in managing the food, and Caitlin’s partner Gina, who works for an ad agency in Austin, had volunteered to do publicity. Ruby herself had drawn up a projected business plan, including start-up expenses and a six-month operating budget. The costs would be split fifty- fifty, with Ruby loaning me my share at a very reasonable rate of interest. The tearoom would pay rent to me. Within a year, according to the plan, my share of the profits would allow me to begin repaying my debt to Ruby. Her numbers looked solid, and I had to admit that the whole thing was very businesslike.

  "Well, what do you think?” Ruby asked, when we’d finished going over the papers she’d laid out on the table.

  “I’m impressed,” I said sincerely. "You came up with this all yourself?" I looked down at the columns of numbers. “All this figuring and stuff?”

  Ruby made a huffy noise. “Of course I did. What do you think? I paid a bunch of merry elves to do it? I conjured up a troop of fairies with calculators? I waved my magic wand and — ”

  "I just mean ...” I gestured around the kitchen. "I’ve always been impressed by your creativity and imagination, Ruby. I guess I’ve never seen the other side of you before.” "That’s because you’ve never looked.” She gathered up the papers and put them back into their folder. "For heaven’s sake, China,” she added irritably, "Ive been making a living at the Crystal Cave for over five years now. I couldn’t do that without oome business brains.” She looked at me, frowning. "I’ll accept your apology.”

  "I grovel at your feet,” I said. "I lic
k your toes. I — ” "Yuck.” She put the papers into a plastic file box marked TEAROOM and her tone became brisk. "Well? What do you think? Is this a partnership or isn’t it? Are you in or are you out?”

  I frowned. This was a Ruby I had never met before, a crisp and efficient Ruby. Had her found money totally changed her personality? Or had this management-type person been concealed somewhere inside my best friend for all the years I’d known her and was just now emerging, like a butterfly out of a chrysalis, empowered by a fat checking account?

  "Well?” Ruby demanded. She bent over, put both hands on the table, and looked me squarely in the eye.

  "I’m . . . in,” I said. "I guess.”

  “I’ll ignore that last bit.” Ruby straightened and thrust out her hand, smiling. “Shall we shake on it, partner? One for all and all for one, and all that stuff?”

  We shook. The earth did not open. The sky did not fall. We drank some more lemonade, ate some more cake, and talked for a while about colors and fabrics and what we might call our new enterprise. I offered Teatotally Terrific, but she rejected it as not having the right ambiance. She proposed Magnolia Tea Room, but I objected on the grounds that it was too close to the name of Maggie's defunct restaurant. Then we both came up with A Tea Room of Our Own, which many of our friends would recognize as a play on the title of Virginia Woolf s famous essay, and Just Our Cup of Tea. We were debating the merits of these, when Ruby casually suggested Thyme for Tea.

  “That’s it!” I said, snapping my fingers. “Thyme for Tea—Ruby, it’s perfect! It alliterates, it’s memorable/it ties beautifully into herbs and the shop. You see? I jaQ you were creative.” For the first time, I felt enthusiastic about the project. Somehow, the name had made it real. We weren’t just playing teashop in my dollhouse with Ruby’s Monopoly money.

  “Thank you,” Ruby replied solemnly, as if she too were struck by the symbolism of this decision. Then she shook herself. “Well, now that we have a name, I can get Gina to work on a logo and a design for our sign, and I’ll see the architect and get started on the Health Department stuff. You’ll need to go over it, though. There’s a lot of fine print.”