Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two - McQuaid: A New Case
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven - McQuaid: Omaha
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine - McQuaid: Joe’s Feedlot
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven - McQuaid: A Body in the Snow
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen - McQuaid: The Sycamore Court Motel
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Recipes, How-To, and Ideas for Holiday Giving
China Bayles Mysteries by Susan Wittig Albert
THYME OF DEATH
WITCHES’ BANE
HANGMAN’S ROOT
ROSEMARY REMEMBERED
RUEFUL DEATH
LOVE LIES BLEEDING
CHILE DEATH
LAVENDER LIES
MISTLETOE MAN
BLOODROOT
INDIGO DYING
A DILLY OF A DEATH
DEAD MAN’S BONES
BLEEDING HEARTS
SPANISH DAGGER
NIGHTSHADE
WORMWOOD
HOLLY BLUES
AN UNTHYMELY DEATH CHINA BAYLES’ BOOK OF DAYS
With her husband, Bill Albert, writing as Robin Paige
DEATH AT BISHOP’S KEEP
DEATH AT GALLOWS GREEN
DEATH AT DAISY’S FOLLY
DEATH AT DEVIL’S BRIDGE
DEATH AT ROTTINGDEAN
DEATH AT WHITECHAPEL
DEATH AT EPSOM DOWNS
DEATH AT DARTMOOR
DEATH AT GLAMIS CASTLE
DEATH IN HYDE PARK
DEATH AT BLENHEIM PALACE
DEATH ON THE LIZARD
The Cottage Tales of Beatrix Potter by Susan Wittig Albert
THE TALE OF HILL TOP FARM
THE TALE OF HOLLY HOW
THE TALE OF CUCKOO BROW WOOD
THE TALE OF HAWTHORN HOUSE
THE TALE OF BRIAR BANK
THE TALE OF APPLEBECK ORCHARD
THE TALE OF OAT CAKE CRAG
Nonfiction books by Susan Wittig Albert
WRITING FROM LIFE
WORK OF HER OWN
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
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This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Albert, Susan Wittig.
p. cm.
eISBN : 978-1-101-18669-5
1. Bayles, China (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Women detectives—Fiction. 3. Herbalists—Fiction. 4. Texas—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3551.L2637H65 2010
813’.54—dc22
2009050296
http://us.penguingroup.com
For Natalee Rosenstein and the rest of the Berkley Prime Crime team—the best support group an author could hope to have, for more years than any author has a right to expect. Thank you.
Author’s Note
Like many other novelists, I enjoy working with settings. I go to great lengths to create a fictional world that seems as real to you as the streets, shops, and backyards of your own community—and I’m always pleased to learn that readers have set out across Texas in search of the locations that appear in this series. That’s a compliment. Thank you.
But for those of you who don’t already know this, I have to confess that Pecan Springs is not a real town. It is modeled after the little city of San Marcos, not as it is now, but as it was in the early 1970s, before it was irrevocably changed by commercial and residential growth and the morphing of Southwest Texas State (where I was once a professor/ administrator) into Texas State University. The town of Lake City and the Little Blue River are also fictional, although the description of Lyndon Johnson’s support of efforts to dam the Little Blue are typical of the fifties push to build dams on flood-prone Texas creeks and rivers—like the dam on the San Gabriel River that forms Lake Georgetown. For those of you who are familiar with the area, Lake City is located in the neighborhood of the village of Salado, on Salado Creek. In fact, it might even look quite a bit like Salado, which boasts more shops per capita (sixty shops for nine hundred residents, at latest count) than almost any other village in Texas. Sanders, Kansas, isn’t real, either. But if you have a map handy, you might place it west of Troy, on Route 36.
These towns and villages are fictional, and so are their residents. But the plants that appear in this series are the real thing. China Bayles and I hope that you will seek appropriate, informed advice before you use any medicinal herbs. Plants are “natural,” yes, but they can have potent effects, especially when used with other medicinal herbs and/or with over-the-counter and prescription drugs, and these combinations are often not fully understood. Do your own careful homework and use all medicines with attention. China and I would not like to lose any of our readers—especially you.
Susan Wittig Albert
Bertram, Texas
Prologue
Sally
The Greyhound bus rolled to a stop in front of the Pecan Springs bus depot. Sally clambered out of her seat, slung her leather purse over her shoulder, and climbed down to wait while the driver pulled the bags out of the luggage carrier. The trip had taken longer than scheduled. They’d been stuck in traffic on I-35 just north of Austin—an eighteen-wheeler carrying live chickens had jackknifed across two lanes of traffic, taking out an SUV and a pickup truck. The carnage hadn’t been a pretty sight, and Sally, who was more than a little superstitious, had crossed her
fingers, hoping that the spilled blood wasn’t an omen. She already had enough problems. Big ones. Problems she couldn’t see her way out of.
While she was waiting for her bag, she bent over and did a couple of ankle stretches, pulling the kinks out of her back. This was the first time she’d ridden on a bus since she was in college, and how long ago was that? Twenty years? The bus wasn’t what she would have picked if she’d had her druthers, but she didn’t, and that was that. Life had its kinks. She needed to get her act together and find a way out of this mess.
The battered canvas duffle bag—her sister Leslie’s—landed at her feet with a thud, and she straightened, looking around. Pecan Springs hadn’t changed much since she’d been here to visit her son Brian—how long ago was it? A couple of years? She’d lost track. But it was still the same small Texas town with the same cozy courthouse-on-the-square look, although the place was gussied up for Christmas, with green garlands, red and white candy canes, pots of poinsettias, and decorated trees in the shop windows. Like Lake City, where Leslie lived. Small-town Texas Christmas. Okay if you were cool with that sort of thing, which she wasn’t, not so much. She and Juanita preferred city streets, skyscrapers, bright lights, and action. If you had to have Christmas trees, they ought to be silver ones, big, really big, and the ornaments ought to be all the same shape and color. Blue was nice. Blue, with white lights, the kind that blinked, and glittery blue garlands. And instead of “Hark the Herald Angels Sing” caroling out of the loudspeaker, she’d rather hear something upbeat. “Holly Jolly Christmas,” maybe.
Except that Christmas might not be so holly-jolly under the circumstances, as Juanita would no doubt remind her if she were here. She would chuckle in that sour, cynical way she had and say, What we need is a party, Sally Jean. Come on, girl, let’s go shopping. Let’s get lively! But Juanita hadn’t been around much recently, and Sally was glad. Juanita made messes—awkward, ugly, dangerous messes—that Sally had to clean up, which was not a very pleasant way to live.
She gave another wary look around. She was pretty sure she’d managed to sneak out of Lake City without being spotted. She hoped so, anyway. That was the idea behind taking the bus and putting her hair into a ponytail and wearing ragged jeans and a purple Central Texas State sweatshirt under Leslie’s scruffy old denim jacket. She caught a glimpse of herself in the bus depot window. Not exactly Elle. The sight of her would make Juanita break out in a rash of hysterical giggles. But this wasn’t your usual holiday getaway, and Sally wasn’t out to impress anybody with the way she looked. This was serious business. She had to be careful. She shuddered. Very.
She picked up her duffle bag. Maybe Pecan Springs hadn’t changed in the last few years, but she had. The last time she’d been here to see Brian, she’d thought she was set for life. She’d still had some of that nice pot of money she had gotten (finally!) from her parents’ insurance, a great condo in San Antonio, a top-dollar job as a sales rep with a multinational, a fab fiancé—although, as Juanita pointed out, Artie may have been fab to look at, but down deep, he was a total jerk. He had cleaned out her bank account and left her on her own, to start over again
It wasn’t the first time. Sally had been down before, way down: detox, divorce, and some really bad credit card debt, not to mention those quirky episodes with Juanita, who took enormous delight in showing up at the worst possible times. But Sally was a survivor, like those roly-poly dolls she and Leslie had when they were kids, the ones you couldn’t knock down. After Artie left, she’d sold her condo and the fancy furniture, given away Juanita’s stuff (her therapist’s idea), and moved to Kansas City, not far from the little town where she’d grown up. She knew her way around the city, which was a definite plus. She’d found an apartment right away and a job selling advertising at the KC Star. She’d hoped to get a position as a reporter. She’d been a journalism major in college, even had a part-time job in Features at the New Orleans Times-Picayune some time back. But she had to pay rent, and the advertising salary had been okay, for starters. What’s more, News and Editorial were on the same floor. She could make a few friends among the reporters and editors. And when the time was right, she could pitch a story idea that would win her a spot on the news staff.
But that—the story, her big idea for a really great, knock-your-socks-off true-crime story—was what had gotten her into this latest trouble. Deep trouble. Bad trouble. Worse than detox or divorce. Worse than any of Juanita’s escapades, even. Which is why she was here in Pecan Springs. She was hiding out. She was looking for help. Help from Mike McQuaid, Brian’s father. Her ex.
A couple of college girls had gotten off the bus. Sally shouldered her duffle and fell in behind them as they walked up the hill in the direction of the campus, chattering. A couple of blocks later, she took the first right, onto Crockett Street. She wasn’t happy about what she was about to do, but she had run out of options. She didn’t have much choice.
What was it somebody had said about home and family? When you have to go there, they have to take you in? Well, now was the time, and this was the place.
She had to go there. And they had to take her in.
They had to.
Chapter One
The Holly and the Ivy
When they are both full grown
Of all the trees that are in the wood
The holly bears the crown . . .
Traditional Christmas song
In ancient Rome, holly was gathered to celebrate the solstice feast known as the Saturnalia, in honor of the god Saturn, whose season this was. The Romans believed that the shiny, sharp-pointed leaves of evergreen holly protected their homes against lightning bolts, and that the red berries repelled the witches and other mischievous or evil spirits who might seek indoor hospitality during the coldest weeks of the year.
Holly sprigs were also exchanged as tokens of friendship, offering a sincere wish that the recipient might enjoy a season free of bothersome bolts from the blue.
China Bayles, “Hollies for Your Garden,”
Pecan Springs Enterprise
“Well, what do you think, China?” Ruby took another turn. She was wearing silky green skintight pants and a gauzy, butterfly-sleeve knee-length tunic in red and green, studded with tiny gold stars that twinkled as she twirled. “I found it at Margo’s Second Verse when I went out to lunch yesterday. I didn’t mean to buy anything, but I saw it in the window and couldn’t resist.”
“It’s pure Ruby,” I said, adding another package of handcrafted rosemary-mint soap to the tiered display I was building on the shelf in my shop. “Makes you look just like a Christmas tree.” I reached over and turned down the volume on the CD player, which was treating us to an old-fashioned rendition of “White Christmas.” I gave her outfit a critical glance. “You know, what you need is one of those battery-powered strings of fairy lights. You could wear them as a necklace. Or in your hair. You could even get the kind that blink on and off. Green and red would be nice. Seasonal.”
Ruby frowned. “You can stop teasing now, China.” She sounded put out.
I was instantly repentant. Ruby is my best friend and business partner. I like to tease her, but I’d never do anything to hurt her feelings.
“I apologize,” I said, putting down the soap and giving her a hug. “I love your outfit, Ruby. It’s gorgeous. Really and truly. You should wear it to the party on Saturday night. People won’t be able to keep their eyes off you.”
She smiled, mollified. “You think?” She looked down at her strappy green high heels. “These go, don’t they?”
“Perfectly,” I said. The heels boosted her to six foot three, at least. But when you’re already six feet something in flats, another couple of inches don’t much matter. Especially when the guy you’re dating is right up there in the stratosphere with you. I stood back, holding her at arm’s length, and looked her up and down. “It’s terrific, twinkle stars and all. Hark will love you.” Ruby has been seeing Hark Hibler, the editor of the Pecan Springs Ent
erprise. I have to admit that I’m rooting for Hark. He’s one of the good guys, about as steady as they come, which is a relief to Ruby’s friends, given the recent crashes in her love life.
Ruby pursed her lips. “Well—”
“Don’t tell me,” I groaned. “You haven’t broken up with Hark again, have you?”
“I’m considering it. He’s just . . . he’s so . . . I mean—” She sank down on the stool beside the counter, her gauzy sleeves fluttering like the wings of a wounded red and green moth. “He’s so serious.”
“That could be because he cares about you,” I said drily. “Seriously. And anyway, what’s wrong with serious? Serious is steady. You can depend on serious.” Which is more than could be said for—
“I just wish he were more exciting, that’s all,” Ruby said petulantly. “Is that wrong? I mean, isn’t it okay for a girl to like a little excitement?”
“Maybe you could do with a little less excitement in your life,” I said. I love Ruby dearly, but it’s my considered opinion that somebody who has her head in the clouds, the way she usually does, needs somebody with both feet on the ground, like Hark. He’s devoted. He adores her.
Ruby’s shoulders slumped and she sighed. “I just keep thinking of Colin and wishing—”
“I know,” I said sympathetically. Colin had been one of those truly dangerous men, the kind you love, lose, and long for until your very last breath. “But Colin has been dead since April, Ruby. Christmas is only two weeks away. The old year is almost gone. It’s time to look to the future, don’t you think?”
Holly Blues Page 1