Holly Blues

by ALBERT, SUSAN WITTIG

  The four women exchanged horrified glances, and all put their needles down at once. Ruth lifted her hand to her mouth, her eyes wide. “You mean, you don’t know? You haven’t heard?”

  “Oh, dear,” Molly mourned. “Oh, dear!”

  Emma and Ella sighed, and then Emma said, in a stricken voice, “We’re so sorry to have to tell you this—”

  “But our dear Leslie is dead.” Ella finished the sentence.

  “Dead!” I exclaimed. “Oh, my goodness. I’m so sorry to hear that. But how—? When? It must have been very sudden. If she was ill, she didn’t say anything about it.” I looked from one to the other, hoping they knew the details. “An accident, maybe?”

  “A horrible, horrible accident.” Emma’s blue eyes were brimming with tears. Ella handed her a tissue. “It was day before yesterday,” she said. “Early in the morning. She was—”

  “Struck by a car out on Wildwood Road,” Ella said. “She was jogging—although why she was way out there, God only knows. She usually just jogged around the block five or six times, then changed and headed for school.”

  “Hit-and-run,” Ruth said, wiping her eyes with her sleeve. “I don’t understand how someone could do that. Hit a pedestrian and then drive away. How can they live with themselves afterward?” She took the tissue Ella handed her and blew her nose. “I just hope the police catch the person who did this awful thing—and soon. We can’t have people like that in our community. Joggers and bicyclists won’t be safe, not to mention the children walking to school.”

  “Hit-and-run?” I echoed dumbly. Sheila had said it was a homicide, and I had assumed that Leslie had been shot or stabbed. But her death was a vehicular homicide. Which suggested that—

  No. I stopped myself. There was no point in guessing. It suggested several things, any one of which might be true. I needed more information. Much more.

  “Hit-and-run,” Molly repeated. “And it wasn’t as if Leslie couldn’t be seen. She was wearing a bright pink jogging suit—the same one she always wore.”

  I leaned forward. “Did anybody see it happen? Have the police identified the vehicle?”

  “That’s the bad thing,” Emma replied. “It was early in the morning, and that road isn’t very heavily traveled. The spot where she was killed was a couple of miles outside of town.” She frowned. “Really—I just don’t know why she was jogging out there. It’s not like Leslie at all.”

  “The children were just devastated, of course,” Ella said. “Leslie’s class was putting on a Christmas program for the parents, and she—”

  “—was in charge of the show,” Emma said. “She promised she’d bring popcorn balls, too.” She wiped her eyes again. “That was so like Leslie, of course. Always there for everyone, always going the extra mile and never asking for anything in return.” She sighed. “I wonder if the driver was talking on a cell phone. They really ought to outlaw them in cars. Our niece’s little girl, Sandy, was hit by somebody who drove around her school bus, talking on one of those blasted things. It took Sandy a long time to recover.”

  “So no one saw it happen,” I said. “And the police don’t have any leads?” Actually, I knew the answer to that. They had at least one lead, a “person of interest” named Sally Strahorn.

  “Nobody actually saw it happen,” Ruth replied. “But Mrs. Dunning, the woman who keeps the books at Jansen Plumbing, lives out that way. She was driving along the road on her way to work just a little before nine and happened to see Leslie lying beside the road. She was already dead, of course,” she added. “The police say the impact killed her. She died instantly of a fractured skull. She didn’t suffer.”

  “Which was a blessing,” Molly said fervently. “I don’t think I could bear to think of that sweet, dear girl lying out there, all alone, suffering.”

  “But if no one saw it, how do they know it was a hit-and-run?” I asked. “She might have been hit with anything.” A stick of firewood, a golf club, a rock—the typical blunt instrument.

  They were all looking at me, horrified. “But . . . But that would be murder!” Emma exclaimed. “That wouldn’t be an accident at all. Whatever makes you think—”

  “Nothing,” I said hastily. “I was just asking, that’s all.”

  “Anyway,” Ella put in, “there were other injuries. I read in the paper that she suffered multiple fractures, but the cause of death was a fractured skull. And as for the police having leads—well, the chief said they might be able to identify the vehicle. There was something about paint. And a phone call to the police. A tip.”

  A phone call.Was it a legitimate tip, or something else?

  “But they’re not releasing any information until the lab reports are back,” Emma said. She frowned at me. “Really, China. You must have been reading too many murder mysteries. To think that somebody might want to deliberately kill dear Leslie! Why, it’s ridiculous, that’s what it is.”

  “Ladies.” Molly stood up. “I think it’s time for refreshments. We could all use a cup of hot spiced punch and some cookies before we go home, don’t you think?” She went toward the counter at the back of the store, and I noticed a Crock-Pot there, with a plate of cookies beside it. She began ladling punch into plastic cups.

  “Did she say ‘hot spiked punch’?” Ella asked hopefully.

  “No, dear,” Ruth replied. “That is, not unless you’ve brought your own hooch to spike it with. Now, move your chairs, and we’ll set up the table.”

  We pulled our chairs back as Ruth spread a protective plastic covering over the quilt, then brought a piece of plywood, laid it across the quilt frame, and spread a flowered table cover over it.

  Emma took off her apron, folded it neatly, and tucked it into a tote bag. “You must not be from this area,” she said to me, “or you would have read the news about Leslie in this morning’s paper. It was the—”

  “—lead story,” Ella interrupted, taking off her apron, too. “I’m sure that everybody in town knows about it by now.” She moved her chair back to the table.

  “I drove up from Pecan Springs,” I said, as Ruth put the plate of cookies on the table. I leaned forward. “I’m also acquainted with Leslie’s sister, Sally. I wonder—”

  “Oh, Sally,” Emma said, rolling her eyes. “Oh, yes. She was here last week. In fact, she—”

  “—came here to quilt with Leslie,” Ella said. She pursed her lips. “Those two are so different. It’s amazing. You would hardly know they were sisters. Isn’t that right, Emma?”

  “Too true,” Emma said. “It’s a pity they couldn’t get along better. Of course, I’m not one to speak ill of someone behind her back, but—”

  “Then don’t,” Ruth said, putting her elbows on the table. “Really, Emma, your tongue is going to get you into trouble someday.”

  “I don’t see how,” Emma said, pouting, “as long as I tell the truth.” Molly set down a tray with five cups of hot punch, and Emma took one. She nodded at the cookies. “Aren’t those Leslie’s gingerbread cookies?”

  “Yes,” Molly said. “She gave me her recipe last year at Christmastime. And this is her punch recipe, too. I thought it would be nice to make some for tonight—to remember her.” She lifted her cup. “Here’s to Leslie. We’ll miss her!”

  “To Leslie,” we all echoed sadly and drank. Molly picked up the cookie plate and passed it around. The cookies were cut in the shape of gingerbread people and decorated with icing and colored candies. “Have a cookie, everyone,” she added. “Leslie wouldn’t want us to be sad. Oh, and I have copies of the recipe, if you’d like to have it.”

  I wanted to get back to the subject of Sally. “Is Leslie’s sister staying at her house?” I bent over and picked up the Thymely Gourmet box. “This is the gift I brought—a gourmet meal. If she’s there, perhaps I could leave it for her. At a time like this, she might appreciate it.”

  The women exchanged looks. There was a lengthy silence. Not even Emma or Ella seemed eager to say anything. Finally, Ruth cleare
d her throat.

  “We don’t know where Leslie’s sister is,” she said. “Yes, she was staying there. I think she arrived three or four days before the accident. Maybe a week. They don’t . . . They didn’t get along very well, you see. In fact, they were arguing the night Leslie brought her here, to our regular quilting evening.”

  Another silence.

  “Arguing?” I prompted.

  “Before they got here,” Emma said. She lowered her voice confidentially. “They stood outside, but the door was open, and I could hear them. It was about money. Sally was trying to borrow some from her sister.”

  “Leslie came into a big inheritance, you see,” Ella added helpfully. She sipped her punch. “Molly, this is delicious. I’d love to have the recipe.”

  “Insurance, dear,” Emma corrected. “Insurance, not an inheritance. She could have moved to a larger house, but she liked it here. Leslie was a thrifty sort of person, always careful with money. Not like—”

  “—her sister.” Ella put her cup down and wrinkled her nose. “Sally was exactly the opposite. Always buying things. Clothes, jewelry, shoes—silly things, very flashy. I know Leslie didn’t like it, but she didn’t criticize. That wasn’t her way. But she didn’t want to loan Sally the money. I couldn’t hear how much they were talking about, but it was a lot. She suggested that Sally might sell that yellow convertible of hers and buy something more serviceable. Get the money she needed that way.” She shrugged. “Seemed like a pretty sensible idea to me.”

  “Sally’s car was here?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Ruth said. “I live on the street behind Leslie, just across the alley. There’s a graveled parking space back there, behind the garage. That’s where it was.” She chuckled ironically. “You couldn’t miss it, really. It was such a gaudy color. Bright yellow. And cute. It’s a really cute little car. But it’s not there now. It’s been gone for a couple of days, actually. I haven’t seen Sally, either.”

  “Do you know when it disappeared?” I asked.

  “When?” Ruth shook her head slowly. “Not exactly. Before the accident, I think. The evening before, maybe? I can’t remember. I drove up to Waco to see my mother, and it wasn’t there when I got back. I know, because that was when I heard the news about Leslie, and I went to the window to look. Haven’t seen it since, either.” A frown furrowed her brow. “Why are you so interested in all this, China?”

  Emma was staring at me. “You don’t think . . .” Whatever she was going to say, she bit it off. Above her tortoiseshell glasses, her blue eyes were sharp.

  “No, no, no. Of course she doesn’t,” Ella said in scoffing tone. “Don’t be a silly goose, Emma. Nobody could think that. It’s totally ridiculous. Now be quiet.”

  “Think what?” Molly wanted to know. Bewildered, she looked around the group. “What in the world are you girls talking about?”

  “China suspects that Sally might have been driving the car that killed her sister,” Ruth said. Her frown deepened. She was studying me intently. “Isn’t that it, China?”

  “Well, I—” I stopped, not wanting to tell them what I thought, because I wanted to hear what they had to say. Emma obliged me. She wasn’t going to let Ella have the last word.

  “If that sister of hers was the one who did it,” she said sharply, “it had to’ve been done deliberately.” Her round, pink face became stern. “Which would make it murder, wouldn’t it?” She narrowed her eyes. “Murder! Is that what you think, China?”

  Ruth’s mouth tightened. “And Sally couldn’t leave the car there because somebody might spot the damage and report it. So she drove it away. That’s why the car is gone. And that’s why Sally hasn’t been around since her sister’s death. That’s what you’re thinking—isn’t it, China?”

  Ella snapped her fingers. “I’ll bet she did it for money,” she said emphatically. “I know for a fact that Leslie left her sister a lot of money in her will.”

  “Not everything, of course,” Emma said. “She left some of it to her nephew. And I’m sure there must have been insurance as well. Her sister will probably get it.”

  Her nephew? That had to be Brian. I shivered. I hadn’t thought of that possibility. It hadn’t even entered my mind.

  “And just how do you two know so much about Leslie’s will?” Ruth inquired archly. “Have you been snooping again?”

  The twins exchanged half-guilty looks. “We have not been snooping,” Emma replied huffily. “Our niece, Janie, is a paralegal in the lawyer’s office next door to us. That’s where Leslie made her will.”

  “Janie told us,” Ella confirmed. “She knew we’d be interested.”

  Normally, I might have made some cutting remark about attorney-client privilege, but at the moment, I was too busy being grateful for small-town gossip.

  But Ruth had put down her cup and was looking at me suspiciously. “I’m really curious,” she said, “about why you’re so curious about all this. What’s your interest in it?” She narrowed her eyes. “You’re not a cop, are you?”

  I was saved from answering by the tinkle of the bell over the door. A pair of customers came in, and Molly got up to greet them. It was my chance to get out. I picked up my box and stood, too.

  “It was nice to meet you all,” I said hurriedly. “Thanks so much for the quilting lesson, and for the cookies and punch. Oh, and the conversation, too. I need to be on my way. Good night, now.”

  “Wait!” Emma protested, pushing herself out of her chair. “You can’t leave! We want to know what you—”

  But I was pulling on my coat and heading for the door. I didn’t think they could tell me any more than they already had—and they’d already told me a very great deal. I didn’t want to be entangled in an argument where I might say more than I intended. I’d probably already done that, anyway.

  Out on the street, I reached for my cell phone. I’d wait to call Justine until I found out whether Ruby, aka Big Bird, had picked up any information. But I could call McQuaid and tell him about Leslie. He’d want to know. When I clicked on the phone, though, I found a message from him, an urgent one, placed just a few minutes before, at seven twenty-three. What he had to say rocked me.

  Joyce Dillard was dead. Her body had been found in a ditch beside the road.

  I listened to the message again, holding my breath. Beside the road. The similarities between the way Joyce Dillard and Leslie Strahorn had died were chillingly clear. Two women, both victims—most likely—of vehicular homicide. Two women, connected through their acquaintance with Sally Strahorn. The implication of that connection would be all too obvious, at least to the police.

  From the end of the block, I could hear the clang-clang-clang of a Salvation Army bell. A couple of women walked past me with a curious look, and I stepped back against the storefront, moving out of the traffic. I replayed the message a third time. It ended with “Call me as soon as you can. I may have an update on Dillard.” I hit the talk button.

  “You’re where?” McQuaid demanded angrily, when I told him. “What the hell are you doing in Lake City, China? I thought you were with Ruby.”

  “I am with Ruby,” I said, although I wasn’t, at the moment. I didn’t think it was a good idea to mention Big Bird. “Justine is willing to take Sally’s case, if it comes to that, and she asked me to dig up whatever facts I could. Lake City seemed like the place to dig. Ruby came along.”

  “Now, look, China—” he began, but I stopped him.

  “Let’s not fight about this, McQuaid. Just listen, okay? It’s important. I got your message about Joyce Dillard. And I’ve found out how Leslie died. Listen to this.”

  I sketched out what I had learned at the quilt shop, ending with, “One of the women I talked to says that Sally’s car was parked behind Leslie’s garage for several days. It disappeared about the time Sally headed for Pecan Springs. About the same time Leslie was struck. The cops don’t have a lead on the hit-and-run vehicle. Yet. Or if they do, they’re not making it public.”
r />   There was a silence. “Sally told you she came on the bus. Right?”

  “Correct. But we don’t have any way of knowing whether that’s true. Maybe she drove her car to Pecan Springs and parked it, and Jess Myers picked it up. All I know is that when he phoned the shop, he told me to tell her he had it—the car, I mean. When I gave her that news, it scared her. Oh, and Hazel Cowan saw him driving it,” I added. “In Pecan Springs, yesterday evening, around six.”

  “What else?”

  “Only that Sally tried repeatedly to phone her sister yesterday evening. But that was after the hit-and-run. She wouldn’t have tried calling if she had known Leslie was dead.”

  “You think?” McQuaid asked wryly. “Don’t sell her short, China. Maybe she was just trying to establish her innocence. Maybe she lied. Maybe she wasn’t phoning Leslie. Could’ve been Myers she was trying to reach.”

  “Damn,” I muttered, feeling sick. He was right. All I had was Sally’s say-so about trying to call her sister. And what was that worth? She was an accomplished liar. I could testify to that.

  “The cop here—Jamison—is pretty well convinced that Sally did it,” McQuaid went on. “Killed her folks, or at least set them up for Myers. Killed Joyce Dillard, too. Jamison is a good cop. Smart. He was the police chief when the Strahorns were killed, so he’s got a good handle on the evidence—what little there was. He got demoted when he didn’t clear the case.”

  “What does he think about Myers?”

  I could hear the shrug in his voice. “Not so much.”

  “In spite of the fact that he was on the Strahorn suspect list?” I demanded. “And that he’s in Pecan Springs right now, stalking Sally?”

  “I’m just telling you what he thinks. And doesn’t. And you don’t know for a fact that Myers is stalking Sally. For all you know, maybe he’s just trying to connect with her. Maybe the two of them are involved in a joint venture.”