I took a deep breath, composed my features, and said, very deliberately, “Afraid I can’t be of much help, Chief. Sally has never told me how she feels about Leslie.”
Sheila sighed. “Oh, please. Don’t go getting all lawyerly on me, China.”
“Hey,” I countered. “I am a lawyer. Remember?”
This is true. I may not be in practice at the moment, but you never know. I keep my bar membership current, just in case the shop goes under or there’s a sudden family crisis. It’s good to have a backup.
“As if I could forget,” Sheila muttered, rolling her eyes.
“And why do the cops want to talk to Sally?” By this time, I had fully switched into what McQuaid calls my hackles-up mode. My defense-attorney mode. “Why are they calling her a ‘person of interest’?”
Another sigh. “Sorry, China. I honestly don’t know, and even if I did, I couldn’t tell you. But since you’re a lawyer, you already know that.”
“Yeah, I do.” I got off the stool and stood facing her, hands on my hips. “But here’s something I can tell you, Chief Dawson, and please take notes. Since you were at Blackie’s last night when I called, you already know that Sally is being stalked.”
Her eyebrows went up. “Really? I thought it was just a matter of a former boyfriend on the phone, wanting to give her a hard time.”
“He might be a former boyfriend, but he is also a stalker,” I said with emphasis. “His name is Jess Myers. He’s from Sanders, Kansas, the same town where Sally—and Leslie, too—grew up. The Lake City police ought to know about this man, in case there’s a connection to Leslie. To her homicide,” I added firmly. “Maybe they should add him to their ‘persons of interest’ list.”
“Thank you, Counselor,” Sheila said steadily. “I’ll pass along the tip.” She took a small notebook out of her pocket and flipped it open. “Jess M-y-e-r-s?”
“I think so. There’s a good chance that he’s driving Sally’s car. A yellow convertible. Hazel Cowan, who’s staying in our bed-and-breakfast, saw him last night, hanging around the cottage. He may have tried to force the kitchen window.”
She scribbled for a moment longer, getting it all down. “Description?”
“Dark hair, dark-rimmed glasses, medium height.” I thought for a moment. “And a mole. Under his right eye.”
“Tags on the convertible?”
“Kansas, I suppose. You could run the registration. Hazel Cowan saw him driving it.” I took a breath. “There’s more, too. I don’t know the whole story, but this isn’t the first homicide in that family. The Strahorns—Leslie and Sally’s parents—were shot to death about ten years ago. Just before McQuaid and Sally were divorced.”
Sheila frowned, her attention now fully focused. “Where was that?” “In Sanders, where they lived. I don’t know the details, but McQuaid does. You can ask him.”
She nodded, looked over her notes, and said, “How about Sally’s cell phone? Do you have the number?”
I was saved from answering by the bell over Ruby’s shop door, which chose that auspicious moment to jangle. “Excuse me,” I said. “I’m the only one here this afternoon. I need to go next door and take care of Ruby’s customer.”
“No problem. I’ll be right here.” Sheila reached for her radio, switching it on. I hoped she was going to pass on the information about the Strahorns.
But the customer wasn’t a customer. She was Ruby’s mother. Doris was wearing a green sweater over her cotton print dress, a red coat three sizes too large (obviously borrowed) over the sweater, and fluffy pink rabbit slippers with floppy ears. Her sparse gray hair was disheveled, and her nose was red with cold. As I came in, she was slipping a box of rune stones into the pocket of her coat.
“Ramona,” she said querulously, and pointed toward the stairs that go up to the loft. “I saw Ramona go up there. Tell her to come down. I’ve been standing here waiting for her.”
“Ramona isn’t here,” I said. “You mean Ruby.” For the past year or so, Doris hasn’t been able to keep her daughters straight. Ruby is the one who looks after her, making sure she has what she needs and that she is well cared for. Ramona (Ruby’s sister) lives in a posh north Dallas suburb and stays away as much as possible. Daughters are not created equal—at least, not created with an equal sense of obligation to their mothers. “But Ruby didn’t go up the stairs,” I added. “She’s out looking for you.”
Doris gave me a withering look. “It wasn’t Ruby. I know Ruby. She’s tall and thin as a rail. She needs to eat more. And stop doin’ those things to her hair. She looks like a scarecrow wearin’ a red dust mop on her head. I know my own daughters, don’t I? It was Ramona I saw.” She scowled. “Who the hell are you?”
Doris has known me for years. “I’m China,” I said patiently. “Are you cold, Doris? Let’s get you a cup of hot tea while I make a phone call.” I took her by the elbow and began to steer her toward my shop.
She pulled away. “China,” she said scornfully. “You think I just came in on the turnip truck? You’re no more from China than I am. Your eyes are all wrong.” With her fingers, she pushed up the corners of her eyes to show me what mine ought to look like. She puckered up her mouth. “Shame on you, lyin’ to a poor old woman.”
The door burst open again, and Ruby rushed in. “Mom!” she cried, gathering Doris into her embrace. “Oh, thank God you’re safe! We’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
“Well, you weren’t lookin’ for me very hard, I guess,” Doris said critically. “I’ve been standin’ right here on this very same spot for the past hour, waiting for Ramona to come down those stairs.” She glowered at me. “Something was said about tea quite some time ago, but I haven’t had it yet. More lies,” she added contemptuously. “That’s folks for you. Always lyin’ to old people. Ought to be ashamed.”
Three minutes, I mouthed to Ruby, over her head.
Ruby nodded, understanding. “Tell you what, Mom. We’ll go back to Castle Oaks and get you a cup of tea there—and some cookies, too. Everybody’s been so worried.”
Doris pulled herself up. “I’m not going back there,” she said with great dignity. “That’s why I’m here. So Ramona can take me home.” She pointed up the stairs. “That’s where she is—up there. I saw her with my very own eyes. You go and get her. Make her come down here and take me home.”
“Ramona is in Dallas right now, Mom,” Ruby said, putting her arm around Doris’ shoulder. “I talked to her on the telephone not ten minutes ago. I’m afraid she can’t—”
At that moment, two orderlies from the nursing home, wearing jackets over their scrubs, appeared in the door. “We’ve brought the van,” one of them said to Ruby. “We’ll take her back to Castle Oaks.”
“No!” shrieked Doris, when she saw them. “Stay away from me. I’m not going back there!” She flung out her arms and backed into a display, which went over with a crash, spilling china angels and fairy tree ornaments onto the floor. “Ramona!” she screeched. “You come on down here and save me! I’m being kidnapped!”
The connecting door opened and Sheila appeared. “Do we have a problem here?” she asked pleasantly. “May I help you, Doris?”
Doris stopped screeching and brightened. “Oh, there you are. I knew you’d come. You’ll take care of me. The police always take care of old folks when they’re lost.”
“Of course we’ll take care of you,” Sheila replied gently. “But I’m afraid I’m here on business, so I can’t give you a lift back to Castle Oaks.”
“Oh, pooh,” Doris stamped one pink-rabbit-clad foot. “I saw your car outside and I thought you’d take me.”
Ah, I thought. Sheila’s police car. Yes. This visit had nothing to do with Ruby or Ramona. Doris was looking for a ride in a squad car—that was all.
“I’m very sorry. But please let me make sure that you get safely out to the van.” Sheila extended her arm to Doris. “Shall we?”
“Well, since you’re being so kind.” Doris gathered he
r too-large coat around her, lifted her chin, and accepted the chief’s arm with an imperial smile. Trailed by the orderlies, they left the shop. It was a bizarre parade.
“Thank heavens,” Ruby muttered. She turned to me. “Has Sally shown up?”
“No,” I said. “Not a sign of her.” I took a deep breath. “And something awful has happened, Ruby. Sally’s sister Leslie was killed, up in Lake City where she lives. The Lake City police have named Sally as a person of interest. Sheila is here, looking for her. She hasn’t asked me yet, but I’ll have to tell her that Sally’s driving Brian’s blue Ford. I’m sure they’ll put out an APB on it.”
Ruby paled. “Leslie, dead? Omigod, China, I can’t believe that!” The two of them—Ruby and Leslie—had met several times during Leslie’s visits here. “She’s such a lively young woman, so pretty and—”
“Lively young women can get dead, too,” I said glumly. “It happens all the time.”
“But why are the police interested in Sally?” Ruby cried. “They can’t think . . . They couldn’t possibly believe that she would kill her sister! Not even Sally would do a thing like that.” She put her hand to her mouth. “Unless—”
“Unless what?”
Ruby’s eyes were huge. “Unless Juanita did it.”
“Ruby, I really don’t think—”
“You don’t know about split personalities? One part of the self can do something that the other part of the self would never even imagine—like pick up a gun and shoot somebody, for instance.”
One of the nursing home orderlies opened the door. “Are you coming back to Castle Oaks, Ms. Wilcox? We’re ready to go.”
“Yes, I’m coming,” Ruby replied in a harried tone. To me, she said, “This is something you need to think about, China. Split personalities are—” She gulped.
“We’ll be in the van,” the orderly said, and left.
“I am so sorry about Leslie.” Ruby hugged me. “I’ll be back as soon as I’ve got Mom settled.”
“Better lock her in,” I said and went to get the broom. I had finished sweeping up the pieces and replacing the ornaments on the display when I thought I heard a thump upstairs in the loft. I was about to go and investigate, but Sheila came back at that moment.
“Poor old thing,” she said, shaking her head sadly. “I hope I go before my mind does.”
“You should have seen her in her heyday,” I said, giving one last critical look to the display. “All starched and buttoned up to the chin, spine stiff as a board, voice like a drill sergeant.” The old Doris had no sense of humor, was right about everything, and always had to have the last word. The new Doris is sometimes a little hard on the nerves, but I think I like her better. She has more humanity.
The bell over my door jingled, and Sheila followed me back into my shop, where two older ladies, coiffed in delicate blue white curls, courtesy of the stylists at Bobby Rae’s House of Beauty, had paused to look at the last two of Donna’s wreaths. I recognized them as members of the Pecan Springs Book Club, which meets for lunch on the third Wednesday of the month in the tearoom. The two Bookies (that’s what they call themselves) gave Sheila’s uniform a quick, curious glance, exchanged disapproving looks, then turned their backs.
“I’ve already passed on the information about the Strahorn murders to the Lake City police. Myers’ information, too,” Sheila said in a low voice. “But we need to talk to Sally as soon as possible. Do you know what she’s driving?”
Asked directly, I had to answer. I nodded. “We loaned her the car Blackie sold us for Brian. Dark blue four-door Ford, five years old. Dented left rear.” Minor damage. We’ll probably let Brian drive it as is, on the theory that a few more dings will follow.
“License number?”
Talk to Sally. What Sheila really meant was that she needed to pick Sally up and park her in one of the PSPD’s interrogation rooms until the Lake City police could get here to question her. I considered telling the chief I didn’t know the license number, but my better angel told me she didn’t think this was such a hot plan. It wasn’t, either. I didn’t like the notion of Sally being apprehended as a person of interest, but I liked the idea of Myers catching up to her even less. If the cops had Sally, at least she’d be safe. And Sheila already knew what the car looked like—she’d ridden in it often enough. They’d pick Sally up, sooner or later. Sooner would be better.
I reached under the counter for my shoulder bag and dug the insurance card out of my wallet.“You’re putting out an APB on the convertible, too, I hope.” I handed her the card.
Without answering, she copied down the tag and handed the card back to me. “If Sally shows up here, give me a call.”
It was a command, not a request, and I muttered something that might have been a yes, might have been a no. I was once again chewing on the phrase “person of interest,” and it didn’t taste good. If I were Sally (thank God I’m not), maybe I’d sit tight until the Lake City police were ready to name me a “material witness,” a “target” of their investigation, or a “suspect.” But those terms aren’t very appetizing, either, so maybe I wouldn’t. Maybe, if I were Sally, I would tell them everything I knew about Myers, so they would turn their attention from me to him, where it belonged. Anyway, the word “cooperating” has such a respectable ring to it.
Sheila put her cap back on, nodded and smiled in the direction of the Bookies, and left. As she went out the door, I remembered that she had asked for Sally’s cell number—that was before Doris interrupted us. I hadn’t given it to her, and she hadn’t asked again. I considered running after her with the information, which I had on a scrap of paper on the counter, but I didn’t. Instead, I picked up the phone and punched in the number. Still no answer. Damn. I left another voice mail message, a much more urgent one this time, telling Sally to call me as soon as possible.
The Bookies had finally decided that they would take both wreaths. They brought them to the counter, where they argued for a moment more about which of them was buying the wreath as a Christmas present for the other. They finally settled the matter by agreeing that each Bookie would buy one wreath and then give it to the other Bookie. (You’d be surprised at how often this happens when two people are shopping together.)
“I suppose some of your customers might be glad to see that law enforcement is watching out for them,” the first Bookie remarked to me, adding, “although I personally find it a little . . . well, nerve-wracking to try to shop with the police looking over your shoulder, watching your every move, as if you were a common shoplifter.”
The other Bookie was shaking her head. “I wonder what her mother thinks. A beautiful woman like that, and she’s a policeman.” She sniffed. “I’m surprised that she can’t find some other line of work.”
“Policewoman,” I corrected cheerfully, handing the credit cards back. “And her mother thinks it’s just great, actually.”
“Oh, really?” Bookie Number One did not quite believe me.
I nodded. My better angel had abandoned me, and my worst instincts were about to take over. “They’re in the same business, you see,” I added confidentially. “Sort of.”
Bookie Number Two frowned. “What sort of business is her mother in?”
“She’s the director of the state penitentiary at Huntsville,” I said. I leaned forward and lowered my voice. “She runs Death Row.”
Both Bookies’ eyes grew round as saucers, and one of them raised her hand to her mouth. I repented of my folly immediately.
“Sorry,” I muttered. “Just joking.”
“If that was a joke,” Bookie Number Two reprimanded me sharply, “it wasn’t in very good taste.”
“Not at all,” Bookie Number One agreed wrathfully, taking her wreath. She didn’t say, You ought to be ashamed of yourself, but she looked it.
“You’re right,” I said humbly. “I don’t know what got into me. I apologize.”
But I knew very well. I had been standing behind the counter all day, and I w
asn’t going to get a break anytime soon. I was irritated at Smart Cookie and ticked off at the Lake City police. I was seriously ticked off at Sally, too, but I was also seriously worried about her. As a result, I had alienated two customers, who would probably go straight home to their telephones (Bookies are not the sort to use cell phones or the Internet) and tell all the other Bookies that they’d been insulted by one of the owners of the tearoom and that they should find another place to meet for their monthly lunch.
The minute the two Bookies were out of the shop, I reached for the phone. There was no point in trying Sally again. She had either turned off her phone or . . . I didn’t want to think of the other possibilities.
But there was somebody else I needed to talk to. McQuaid had to know that Leslie was dead and that the police had named Sally a person of interest.
And after that, I had another call to make. I was calling a lawyer.
Chapter Nine
McQuaid: Joe’s Feedlot
McQuaid pulled up next to the black-and-white police cruiser in the parking lot of the hamburger joint outside of Sanders and unclenched his hands from the steering wheel. He flexed his stiff, cadaverlike fingers and sucked in a ragged breath. The drive from Omaha had taken over four hours, twice as long as it should have. The snow had never stopped, blinding white, blowing, flying, pinging pellet-hard against the car windows, clogging the windshield wipers, a blizzard if there ever was one. It had been a slick trip, too, hazardous and nerve-wrenching. Interstate 29 had been plowed, all right, but the snow was coming so furiously that the plows didn’t have a prayer.
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