Holly Blues

by ALBERT, SUSAN WITTIG

  I was still putting the bank deposit together when the phone rang. I debated whether to answer, since the Closed sign was hung on the door and I had to stop at the bank before going to get Brian. But thinking it might be McQuaid calling about something he’d forgotten, I picked up.

  “Thyme and Seasons Herbs,” I said, cradling the receiver against my shoulder as I stamped the last three checks. “How may I help you?”

  There was a momentary pause. Then, “I’d like to speak to Sally,” a male voice said.

  “Sally?” I clipped the stamped checks to the bank deposit slip. “Sally Strahorn?”

  “Yeah, right. Is she there?”

  “Not at the moment.” I reached for a slip of paper and a pencil. “Who’s calling? Give me a number, and I’ll have her call you back.”

  “Don’t bother.” Another pause. “Just tell her a friend called.” The man’s voice was mild and almost ingratiating, but I thought I heard an undertone of something else. In the next second, though, the tone was lightened by an ironic chuckle. “Tell her I’ve got her car. She’ll understand.”

  “What was that again?” I asked, not sure I’d heard right.

  “Her car. The yellow Mini. Just tell her I have it.” There was a sharp click as the connection was broken.

  I frowned at the receiver as I put it down. A friend had Sally’s car? I thought back to our conversation the day before. She’d said it was repossessed, hadn’t she? But there wasn’t time to think about that now. I put the checks and currency into the blue bank deposit bag and zipped it shut. I just had time to drop off the deposit and drive to the high school for Brian.

  IT doesn’t take long to get from one end of Pecan Springs to another, even with a detour through the drive-through window at Ranchers State Bank, where Bonnie Roth (known to her friends as Loose-Lips Roth) took my money away from me. Bonnie and I are both members of the Myra Merryweather Herb Guild, and she is one of my most loyal customers. As she tallied my deposit, she handed over some of the local gossip. This kind of community service is not part of her job description, but Bonnie is a valuable employee in all other respects, and Helena Stubbs, her supervisor, knows it. Helena turns a deaf ear when Bonnie starts retailing the news.

  By the time my money was safely in the bank’s hands, I had heard two stories—that Sheriff Blackwell and Chief Dawson were secretly married and that Lila Jennings had sold her diner to Bert Dankins—both of which I seriously doubted. Sheila wouldn’t get married without giving me a heads-up, and Lila had said just that morning that the deal with Bert was off. That’s Bonnie for you, though. She passes along every little scrap of news that blooms in her gossip garden, true or not.

  But as she handed over my deposit slip, she leaned forward and whispered into the teller’s microphone something that I knew to be true: “Maybe you’ve already heard this, but Sally Strahorn is in town.”

  Pecan Springs is growing fast, but at heart it’s still a small town, where everybody knows everybody else’s business and is happy to share it with as many people as possible. McQuaid is something of an icon here, for he once served as the interim police chief and solved (with a little help from his friends) a particularly notorious local murder. His ex-wife has been around often enough for people to learn something of her history.

  I smiled nicely. “Yes, I know. We’ve invited Sally to stay at our house for the holiday.” There was no point in adding fuel to the fires of gossip.

  “Oh, good.” Bonnie breathed a gusty sigh of relief. “To tell the truth, I was a little worried when she cashed that big check this morning and drove off with all that money. You never really expect anything bad to happen, although it’s certainly true that sometimes it does, don’t you know?” She took a deep breath, getting wound up for more. “I mean, I know Hark Hibler hates to print those awful things in the Enterprise, but he can’t just leave them out, now can he? Just last week, there was that piece about poor old Mr. King getting mugged on his way home from winning twenty-seven dollars playing bingo, and the week before, Betty Banning’s car got broken into at the mall and somebody stole the new flat-screen TV she’d just bought.” She fanned her hand, dismissing these ugly snippets of crime. “But now that I know Sally is staying with you and Mr. McQuaid—” She smiled broadly. “I’m just glad she’s being taken care of.”

  I unzipped my bank bag and stuck the deposit ticket inside. “All that money?” I asked casually, latching on to the one new fact that Bonnie had handed me. Sally had cashed a check and driven away with a lot of cash? But she’d said she was broke. Where did she get the check? And how much money were we talking about?

  But it had occurred to Bonnie, a bit belatedly, that she might have said too much. She glanced over her shoulder and gave a nervous laugh. “Guess I shouldn’t have mentioned that check.” She pursed her lips and made a gesture meant to suggest a key turning in a lock. “My lips are sealed. Definitely.”

  Well, heck.

  But I smiled. “Very professional. We’ll take good care of Sally,” I added reassuringly. “Don’t you worry about a thing, Bonnie.”

  TWENTY minutes later, Brian and I were settled in a booth at Gino’s Italian Pizza Kitchen. This historic joint served up Pecan Springs’ very first pizza sometime back in the 1950s, and in spite of the fancy franchises that have mushroomed along the interstate, Gino’s pizza is still the best in town. It has the same delicious crust (thick or thin), the same tempting cheese that strings when you pick up a slice, and the same fresh mushrooms, anchovies, and Italian pizza sausage heaped generously over the top. Fads may come and fads may go, but Gino’s just keeps keeping on.

  Gino’s interior hasn’t changed much, either. It still has the same brown-painted wainscoting and fake beams across the fly-specked ceiling and the same uncomfortable fake leather cushions in the booths. Brian and I sat down, ordered iced teas, and waited, listening to the blare of music from the loudspeakers and the crack of billiard balls from the pool parlor in the next room. Gino’s pool parlor is also a local family tradition, where kids play side by side with the grown-ups.

  “She’s late,” Brian said with an exaggerated look at his watch. He added, unnecessarily, “I told you so. Didn’t I tell you so, Mom? Sally never gets anywhere on time.” He scowled. “I hope she hasn’t wrecked my car.”

  I conceded that yes, he had told me so and no, she probably had not wrecked his car and was just about to point out that he was late half the time himself, when Sally and Caitlin appeared at the entrance.

  “They’re here,” I said brightly. I waved, and Caitlin ran to the booth.

  “We went to the petting zoo!” she cried excitedly, scooting onto the bench beside me. “I got to pet the alpaca!” She giggled. “He licked my fingers.”

  “He didn’t eat them, did he?” I demanded with mock alarm, leaning over to look. I leaned back, as if in relief. “Nope. There they are. All ten of them. Glory be.”

  Caitlin giggled that delightful little-girl giggle of hers that always makes me smile. Brian rolled his eyes, big-brother style, and scooted over so Sally could sit beside him.

  “We had fun,” Sally announced as the menus were placed in front of us.

  “I’m glad,” I said. “But I’m even gladder that Caitie brought all her fingers back.” I was rewarded by another giggle from Caitlin. “Okay, gang. Time to get serious. What kind of pizza do we want?”

  The next few moments were filled with a spirited discussion of the relative merits of anchovies, jalapeño peppers, green peppers, and onions. After various negotiations, I signaled to the waiter, who took our order and left us with plates of salad and glasses of iced tea (the national drink of Texas, even in the winter).

  Brian turned up his nose at the salad. “I’m gonna watch ’em play pool,” he said, elbowing his mother to move, so he could slide out of the booth. “I’ll be back when the pizza’s here.”

  “Me, too,” Caitlin said, jumping up. “I’ve never watched anybody play pool.”

  “N
o,” Brian said, very big brother. “You’re too young. You stay here.”

  “She is not too young,” I said firmly. “But both of you keep your mouths shut and stay out of the way. Any complaints, you’re in trouble.” When they had left, I said to Sally, “Caitlin has led a sheltered life. We’re trying to give her more experiences. Broaden her out a bit.”

  “Pool is definitely a broadening experience,” Sally said and laughed. “She’s a cute little kid, China. It’s such a shame about her parents—and her aunt.” She sobered. “I know what it’s like to lose parents,” she added, and I remembered that hers were dead. They’d been shot to death in their home, in a senseless robbery. But Sally had been an adult then, not a little girl.

  “You just have to wonder how much one small child can handle,” I said. “I’m glad that the two of you are getting along so well.”

  Sally nodded. “I thought maybe I’d pick her up after school tomorrow and take her to the mall to look for Christmas gifts for you, Mike, and Brian. Will that work for you?” She paused. “Speaking of Mike, I tried to talk to him again this morning, but he was in too much of a hurry to get out of the house. Do you suppose you could persuade him to sit down with me?”

  “I’ll try,” I said, “when he gets back from Omaha.”

  “Omaha?” Her eyes widened. “He’s in Omaha?”

  “On business,” I said, just in case she thought he had gone for the fun of it.

  She leaned forward, urgent. “When will he be back? I really needed to talk to him last night. I’m afraid—” Whatever she was about to say, she bit it off.

  “Friday night,” I said.

  “Friday night!” Her tone implied that it might as well be next year.

  “That’s the plan.” I paused. “Is there something I can do, Sally?”

  “I wish.” She sat back in her seat, shaking her head gloomily. “No. I’m afraid Mike is the only one who can help me.”

  “What is it you want him to do? Of course, it’s none of my business, but . . .” I let my voice trail off.

  She looked away. “I need him to . . . to talk to somebody for me. It’s . . . it’s an investigative matter.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Yeah, well, he’s certainly the guy you want to talk to. Investigation isn’t my line of work. So I guess you’ll have to wait until he gets back. Or you could call. He’s got his cell phone with him.” I felt guilty suggesting this, although it was still my considered opinion that McQuaid could have found a few minutes to talk to her, especially since she seemed to think it was so urgent.

  “Call him?” She brightened, then thought about it and got gloomy again. “I’d rather talk to him in person. This is pretty complicated. It would be hard to tell him over the phone. He might . . . He might not believe me.”

  I hate it when people reject suggestions as fast as you can make them. “Well, I guess it’ll just have to wait, then. In the meantime, if you’d like to take Caitlin Christmas shopping, be my guest.” A year ago I might have had reservations about trusting Sally to do something like this, but now she seemed almost normal. “Why don’t you pay for what she picks out—within reason, of course—and I’ll pay you back.”

  Sally ducked her head, looking embarrassed. “Could I maybe get an advance? As I told you, I’m not exactly rolling in the stuff right now.”

  No? What about the cash she’d picked up at the bank? I was troubled, but I didn’t want to give Bonnie’s information away—not just yet, anyway. I picked up my purse, opened my wallet, and handed over three tens. “This should be enough. We’re not having a big Christmas this year.”

  “Tell me about it.” Sally tucked the money into her purse, laughing wryly, then picked up her iced tea and took a sip. “While Caitie and I are at the mall, I was thinking I might see if anybody’s hiring temporaries for the holiday. I could maybe earn enough to help with the groceries and pay for gas for the car.”

  A job? Well, then, maybe she had already unloaded the cash. But where? And how much? Which reminded me of something else. “I was closing up this afternoon when I got a phone call,” I said, picking up my fork to begin on my salad. “It was for you.”

  She looked up, startled. “For me? But nobody knows where—” Her voice cracked. “Who . . . Who was it?”

  “Some guy. He didn’t give his name.” I was watching her. There was something in her voice—apprehension? fear?—that didn’t fit my casual announcement of the phone call. “He just said to tell you that a friend called, and that he has your car.”

  I can’t say exactly what happened next, whether Sally dropped her full glass of iced tea, or whether it was wet and slipped out of her fingers. It didn’t break—Gino’s glasses are tough—but it made a large, messy splash all over the table. Hurriedly, we slid out of the booth and waited while the server jogged over with a towel to mop up the spill.

  “Sorry, China,” Sally muttered. “I didn’t splash you, did I?”

  “Even if you had, it wouldn’t matter,” I said. I was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt—my usual working garb. “I’m totally washable.”

  We sat down again. Our salads had escaped the deluge, and I returned to mine. Sally toyed with hers. I let the silence deepen, waiting to see what she would say next. After a moment, she took a deep breath.

  “The man who called—did he say where he was calling from?”

  “Nope. I asked him to leave a number, but he didn’t do that, either.”

  I frowned at my salad. Throughout my whole life, I have staved off other people’s efforts to dig into what I consider my personal business, and I don’t pry into other people’s private affairs. But this time, my curiosity was about to override my passion for privacy. And anyway, the guy had called my shop, which meant that Sally must have told him where she was going and probably given him my number. Which made it at least partly my business. Right?

  “This guy,” I said. “How did he get your car? Didn’t you tell me it was repo’d?”

  Sally didn’t quite meet my eyes. “Yes, that’s right. Maybe he . . . Maybe he bought it off a lot in Kansas City, and knew it was mine.” She laughed a little, flushing. “I don’t think there were any other yellow Mini convertibles in town. Wouldn’t be hard to identify it.”

  That was probably true, although I had the uneasy feeling that there was more to this than Sally was telling me. “How did he know where to call you?” I persisted. “And why didn’t he leave his name?” And then I got it. I chuckled. “A secret admirer, I’ll bet.”

  I expected a chuckle in return, but Sally flung down her fork. “How the hell should I know?” she flared angrily, and pushed herself out of the booth. “I’ll be back in a minute. I have to make a phone call.”

  She slung her bag over her shoulder and headed for the door, reaching for her cell phone as she went. She was in a hurry.

  Puzzled, I returned to my salad. What was going on here? I hated to say it, but it sounded like Sally was up to her old tricks again. She knew the guy who had called and she was going outside to try to call him back. But if that’s what it was, why get all steamed about it? Why lie?

  Well, whatever was going on, it would stay a mystery for the moment. The pizza appeared (extra large, with anchovies on my portion, no jalapeños for Sally and Caitlin, and onions for everybody). I fetched the kids from the pool room, and Sally came back to the table.

  “Everything okay?” I asked her, opting to act as if nothing had happened. I put a slice of pizza on Caitlin’s plate.

  Sally nodded and managed a smile, but there were worry lines between her eyes. Something was definitely not okay, but she wasn’t going to talk about it in front of the kids. Caitlin was oblivious, but Brian picked up the signals—I could see it on his face. He was worried, irritated, too. I couldn’t say that I blamed him.

  We polished off our pizza and trooped out to the cars. The kids were excited about getting their tree, even Brian, who is not quite old enough yet to be cool about Christmas. Caitlin wanted to ride with S
ally, but Sally shook her head and muttered something about having to make another phone call. So Caitlin joined Brian and me in McQuaid’s old blue pickup truck, which I had driven today so we could haul the tree home.

  Whatever was behind it, the phone call business went on all evening. When we joined the others on the hay wagon at Mistletoe Farm, Sally made at least two calls—attempts, rather. The person she was calling didn’t seem to be answering. I saw her try again while we were singing carols around the big bonfire. And again as Brian and I roped our chosen tree—a fragrant, flawless, freshly cut six-foot Virginia pine—into the back of the truck.

  “Oh, it’s pretty!” Caitlin cried, dancing around. “Sally, look how pretty!”

  “Very nice,” Sally said. She frowned and pocketed her cell.

  “You still haven’t been able to connect?” I wasn’t going to ask who she was calling, but she volunteered it, sounding anxious.

  “No, and I don’t understand it. She said she was going to be home tonight. Leslie. My sister,” she added. “Remember her?”

  Ah, yes. Of course I remember Leslie. She lives in Lake City, a pretty little town about forty miles north of Austin, where she teaches elementary school. Leslie visits us several times a year, primarily to see Brian, for whom she has a great fondness. She has no children of her own and is deeply disappointed (this is my take on the subject, anyway) by Sally’s neglect of her son, so she tries to make up for it as much as she can. Brian doesn’t do this much now, because summers are pretty busy with other things, but when he was younger, he used to spend a couple of weeks every summer with his aunt, who took him fishing and canoeing on the local lake and hiking in the nearby state park. Leslie keeps in touch with birthday and Christmas presents and playful surprise cards that she draws herself. And once, when Sally was on an extended detox “vacation,” Leslie and McQuaid collaborated in an intervention—a wrenching experience for both of them, but helpful to Sally, at least for a while. McQuaid hasn’t said much about Leslie, but I had the feeling that there might have been something between them once, before I came on the scene. Life is complicated, isn’t it?