Holly Blues

by ALBERT, SUSAN WITTIG

  When I called, the police came promptly, a pair of male officers. One, Officer Swanson, was barely out of his teens and a lot more comfortable making traffic stops and checking drivers’ licenses than investigating an apparent abduction. The other, Officer Parker, was pushing thirty, tall and dark-haired, and (I judged) harbored a burning desire to make detective. The investigator in Leslie’s hit-and-run had gone to Houston for a family funeral, so she wasn’t available. Her absence was giving Parker his chance to show his stuff, and he was out to make the most of it. He turned Ruby and me over to Officer Swanson while he did a preliminary investigation.

  It didn’t take much to convince Swanson that Ruby and I were just a pair of loony females who had come looking for a friend, stumbled onto a crime scene, and (by this time slightly hysterical) called the police. He took our statements, writing down our more-or-less truthful answers: We were friends of Leslie’s and had expected to find her home this evening. The back door was unlatched, so we came in, and found—well, we found what they could see. We also discovered the wreath and the bow on the front door, and figured out that Leslie was dead. We were desperate to know what had happened to her, so Swanson—at Ruby’s frantic begging—filled us in with the details.

  And in the process, he told us something that a more experienced cop might have kept to himself. Early this morning, the police had received a telephone tip from an anonymous male caller who told them that the hit-and-run vehicle they were looking for was a yellow Mini Cooper convertible with a broken left front headlight. He had happened to see it leaving the scene, driven by a woman he recognized. Her name was Sally Strahorn. She was the victim’s sister, and from what he understood from someone who knew them both, the two didn’t get along. He thought Sally might have gone to Pecan Springs.

  This important bit of information cleared up a major mystery, at least for me: why the cops were looking for Sally, and why they had named her a person of interest. I didn’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to guess who might have placed that phone call.

  Then, while Ruby kept Swanson busy, I made a pass at Officer Parker. Well, not a pass, exactly. I gave him an admiring smile and let him know that I was impressed with the professional way he was going about his investigation. I mentioned (in passing, of course) that I was married to an ex-homicide investigator, which elicited a mild interest: that is, he glanced up from the broken chair and tilted his head, as though he might be listening.

  Then I wondered out loud whether—since Leslie’s death had first been investigated as an accidental hit-and-run—the victim’s hands had been bagged. Probably not, I thought. If the coroner was still holding the body (privately, I thought this was likely, since Sally was the nearest kin and she wasn’t pressing for its release), might it not be a good idea to ask for a fingernail scrape? Since the scene in the kitchen suggested a serious struggle, it was possible—wasn’t it? Maybe?—that there would be some telltale DNA that would cinch the case against the driver of the murder vehicle? My husband had solved an important case in just that way. Wasn’t that how they did it on CSI?

  As I talked, I could see the scenario taking shape in Parker’s mind, like a Hollywood movie, with himself in the starring role, maybe played by Tom Selleck, in the guise of Chief Jesse Stone, of the Paradise PD. He would order the nail scrape. The DNA would prove that Sally had forced her sister into that car and then run her down. And Officer Parker would be promoted to Detective Parker.

  Well, he might indeed be promoted. But I was pretty sure that any DNA that might be found under Leslie’s nails would not belong to Sally.

  I was remembering something that Hazel Cowan had happened to mention when she told me about the man who had taken her parking space behind Thyme Cottage.

  There were scratches on his face.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The ancient Italian opinion that mistletoe extinguishes fire appears to be shared by Swedish peasants, who hang up bunches of oak-mistletoe on the ceilings of their rooms as a protection against harm in general and conflagration in particular.

  Sir James George Frazer, The Golden Bough

  I didn’t think it was smart to tell Officer Parker what I knew about Jess Myers. It would just lead to more questions I couldn’t answer. And anyway, I was sure that the man they wanted was no longer in Lake City. He was in Pecan Springs, either looking for Sally or with her, or—

  I didn’t want to think of the third possibility.

  We left as soon as the police allowed us to go, taking our Thymely Gourmet boxes with us. We finally got to eat Cass’ sandwiches and salad en route back to Pecan Springs, where we arrived shortly after ten.

  It was late and we were tired, so we drove straight to my house, where I packed my pajamas and toothbrush and clean undies and picked up an accusatory Howard Cosell, who clearly feared that his entire family had gone away and left him forever. But Howard isn’t one to bear a grudge for long, and when he found out that he was going for a ride, he galloped out to Big Mama as fast as his stubby basset legs could carry him. We drove back to town, to Ruby’s house, where I fed Howard, took him out to Ruby’s backyard for his last-call chore, and bedded him down in the guest room where I was assigned to sleep. Then Ruby and I crashed.

  But not before I made some phone calls. I reached McQuaid at the Sycamore Motel in Sanders, where he was just turning in for the night. He listened to my terse recap of what we had learned in Lake City, then agreed to call Jamison, the officer on the Joyce Dillard case, and ask him to run a make on all the vehicles that Jess Myers currently owned. One of them might have been the hit-and-run vehicle that killed Joyce Dillard. If I was right, Myers had driven it to Lake City, where he traded it for Sally’s yellow convertible, which he used to run down Leslie Strahorn. Myers’ vehicle could be parked somewhere in Lake City, not very far from Leslie’s house.

  “Oh, and when you talk to Jamison about Myers’ vehicles,” I added, “maybe you could ask him to phone the Lake City police and get them to look for it.”

  “Good idea,” McQuaid said. “I’ll do it. You’re sure you’re at Ruby’s house?” he asked, although I had already told him where I was.

  “I promise you, dear heart,” I said in a reassuring tone, “that Howard Cosell and I are at Ruby’s house. Howard is asleep on a folded quilt beside the bed, although I’m willing to bet that the minute I climb under the covers, he’ll jump in beside me. Ruby is taking a bath.”

  “And the kids?” he persisted, clearly worried.

  “They’re fine, too. I called to check on them while we were driving back. Brian was playing a video game with a couple of friends, and Caitlin was having the time of her life reading The Tale of Peter Rabbit to Baby Grace. We’re all safe from the bogeyman.” I sobered. “All of us but Sally.”

  Sally. By this time, I was feeling terribly urgent about her. The longer we went without hearing, the more ominous the silence. And the hell of it was that we couldn’t do a damn thing about it. We had no idea where to look for her—or them. But I knew with a certainty that if Myers had her, it wouldn’t be for long. Sally was the one who had heard Joyce Dillard’s accusations. Myers was obviously frightened beyond all rational thought. He had no reason to keep her alive and every reason to kill her—fast, before she could tell anyone else what she knew.

  “Yeah, Sally,” McQuaid replied grimly. “Well, I can tell you that she’s still alive—or she was, an hour or so ago.” He told me about Sally’s phone call, and the fact that it was dropped. “Which might mean that she was in a moving car, trying to get away from Myers or—”

  The unfinished sentence hung between us, but I could fill in the blanks. Or Myers has caught up with her, and somebody will find her body beside a back road somewhere.

  I’d had another thought. If Myers had half a brain (which he might or might not) the smart thing to do would be to kill Sally and make it look like a suicide. That way, she could be blamed for Leslie’s death and maybe Dillard’s, too. All three cases could be closed, and maybe
the Strahorn double murder, as well. Myers would be off the hook completely. It was a chilling thought that turned me cold to the bone. I didn’t want to share it with McQuaid. He had enough on his plate already.

  McQuaid let out his breath. “Look for me home by noon, China, if the snow quits and the planes are flying.” His voice softened. “You know, I was really pissed when you and Ruby drove up to Lake City, but I’m glad you did. You’ve tied these cases together. Joyce Dillard and Leslie, I mean. We may not be any closer to winding things up, but we know a helluva lot more than we did.”

  “For whatever good that does,” I said, but I was glad of his approval. We said our I-love-yous and our good-nights and hung up.

  Next on my list of phone calls was Sheila. I caught her this time, not in Blackie’s bed but watching television with him, at her house, at the end of a long day. I could hear the weariness in her voice as she filled me in on what little she knew.

  No, nothing had been heard from Sally. Brian’s car was still in the church parking lot, with a man watching it. Yes, Sheila had received an APB on Sally’s yellow Mini Cooper convertible. No, it hadn’t been spotted, either. And no, she still hadn’t heard any of the details surrounding Leslie’s death.

  I gave her a brief rundown on what Ruby and I had uncovered in Lake City and waited for her to lecture me about investigating without a license, or obstructing justice, or trespassing on a crime scene, to all of which sins I had to plead guilty, more or less. But she only said, “Well, at least now we know why the Lake City police have named Sally as a person of interest. If we pick her up—or get a lead on her car or on Jess Myers—I’ll give you a call, either on your cell or at the shop. Now, get some rest, China. You’ve earned it.”

  Coming from Sheila, that was praise, and it seemed like a very good idea. But I had one more phone call to make. I caught Justine just home from the office, cooking a late-night omelet in her apartment kitchen. The Whiz, whose life revolves around her work, lives in a very small condo (no pets, no maintenance, no grass to mow or flowers to water) that is as messy as any bachelor pad. I could picture her standing at the stove, a spatula in her hand, eggs, onions, mushrooms, and cheese in the skillet. She put me on the speakerphone so we could talk while she coped with her omelet, although before we were finished, it had turned into scrambled eggs. The Whiz never was much of a cook, but as she says, it all ends up in the same place anyway, so why bother?

  I gave her the report I had given McQuaid and Sheila, with their contributions added in for good measure. Justine listened attentively, asked a couple of good questions, and summed it all up with “Good job, China. I’ll be glad to take you and Ruby on as investigators any time you’re ready to sign up. You’ll have to take the loyalty oath, of course.”

  “Loyalty?” I hooted. “Loyalty to who?”

  “Whom,” the Whiz corrected crisply. “Objective case. Object of the preposition ‘to.’ To whom.” I heard the clank of a dish and the sound of a stool scraping across the floor. Justine was sitting down to eat.

  “Whatever. Who should I be loyal to?”

  She tsk-tsked. “ ‘To whom’ should I be loyal, China. Why, to the truth, of course. Who else?”

  “That’s assuming there is a truth,” I said darkly, “and that we know what it is.”

  I am a skeptic where the truth is concerned. It’s always much more complicated and nuanced than you might think. There is almost never just one truth, and often the so-called truths contradict each other. I was thinking of Sally and the lies she had told me. I thought I understood those lies a little more clearly now and knew that they were born of fear and denial and out of a desperate hope that she could hide from Myers. If she had come clean in the beginning, we might not be in this fix right now. Maybe. If Sally and Joyce Dillard had gone to the Sanders police with what they knew—or thought they knew—Myers might be in jail right now. More importantly, Joyce Dillard and Leslie Strahorn might still be alive. And Sally might—

  “Let me know when Sally turns up,” the Whiz said with her mouth full.

  “If she turns up,” I amended. I looked at my watch. It was nearly midnight. “She hasn’t been seen for fourteen hours. It’s possible that Myers has her.”

  “When she turns up,” the Whiz replied. “Dead or alive. Sounds like it could be either. Sleep tight, China. Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

  “Tell that to Ruby,” I said. “It’s her bed I’ll be sleeping in.” I looked at the inviting blue and green patterned quilt—one of Ruby’s own creations—spread on the double bed. “In about thirty seconds, as a matter of fact.”

  But before I turned in for the night, I did one more thing. I opened the Christmas card I had purloined from the stack on Leslie’s hallway table. It was a lovely card, with a host of singing angels circled with a holly wreath, and it brought a lump to my throat. Under the printed message was written, in Leslie’s neat elementary-teacher hand, “Merry Christmas to my favorite nephew, to Mike and China, and to Caitlin, from Aunt Leslie. See you soon!” Enclosed was a handwritten note, to me, dated December 9.

  Dear China—

  I just got a phone call from Sally, who is visiting in Sanders this week, where we used to live. She would like to come here to Lake City for a few days (says she’s got something secret to tell me!). Then she wants to go down to Pecan Springs to see Brian. I’ve got stuff to do here over Christmas (choir program, school program, church party, etc., etc.) but if it’s okay, I’ll drive down on 12/27 and stay overnight. Sally wants to go to San Antonio and do some shopping, so we’ll do that before we come back here. Hope you are all well. Bet Caitlin is looking forward to her first Christmas with you. I can’t wait to meet her!

  Lots of love, Leslie

  The hot tears rushed to my eyes, and I held the note close to me for a moment. Leslie had been a very special person. We were all going to miss her terribly—Brian most of all. And then the sadness was swept aside by a fiercely corrosive anger at the person—the man, Jess Myers—who had killed her.

  If it was the last thing I did, I was going to get him for it and for all that he had done.

  I didn’t fall asleep easily that night, partly because Howard clambered up into the bed to join me and partly because I couldn’t stop thinking of Leslie. After I fell asleep, the troubled thoughts became ugly dreams. It was a long, restless night, and I was glad when the sky turned pale and the clock said six thirty. The bad dreams were still with me, though, like dark clouds boiling just above the horizon, and I felt deeply apprehensive as I got up, washed my face, and combed my hair. I pulled on clean undies and yesterday’s jeans and shirt, and went quietly downstairs, leaving Howard Cosell sound asleep and snoring, tummy and personal parts exposed and all four basset paws in the air.

  I had closed the shop early the day before, leaving several important chores undone. Dusting, for instance, which has to be done at least once a day, since dusty merchandise suggests that it’s been on the shelf for a while. So I planned to go to the shop early this morning. I’d told Ruby she should sleep in for as long as she wanted, and I would open the Crystal Cave. When she did come in, she could leave Howard in her backyard, where he and Oodles the poodle could trade taunts through the fence. Howard would like that. There’s nothing he likes better than barking at birds, squirrels, and dogs that are smaller than he is.

  I was letting myself out the door when Ruby came down the stairs. “I just got a call from Christina Staples,” she said excitedly. “You know—the woman who gave Sally a ride to the bus station the morning Leslie was killed.”

  “And?” I asked.

  “And Leslie was still alive when Christina stopped to pick Sally up!” she exclaimed. “Christina spoke to her. And then she drove to the bus station and watched Sally get on the bus for Pecan Springs. So Sally wasn’t even in Lake City when Leslie was run down. She’s got an alibi.”

  “Good work, Ruby,” I said. “Justine will be glad to know that. And Sally definitely owes you one.” When we find he
r, I thought grimly. If she’s still alive.

  “Thank you,” Ruby said. “You’re leaving? Have you had any breakfast?”

  “I didn’t want to wake you up by clattering around in your kitchen,” I said, opening the door. “I thought I’d get something at Lila’s. See you later.”

  The sandwiches I’d eaten last night were ancient history, and I was anticipating a largish order of bacon, eggs, and hot biscuits with jelly. But Docia hadn’t come in (Lila had no idea where she’d spent the night), and the kitchen wasn’t up and running yet. Lila was pitching a hissy fit, but she stopped long enough to fix me up with two jelly doughnuts, one raspberry and the other lemon, and a big coffee to go. (I frequently remind myself that coffee is an herb, too. Couldn’t get along without it.) That wasn’t going to be enough to keep me going, but there was leftover quiche in the kitchen fridge at the shop—I’d seen it there late yesterday afternoon. I could warm it in the microwave and eat it with my jelly doughnut.

  The morning was cold, in the upper thirties, with low fog and drizzle. The radio weather forecaster was predicting much colder weather for the weekend, and maybe even snow, the tail end of the same storm system that was bedeviling McQuaid in Kansas. He had called while I was at the diner to say that it looked like he’d be able to make his flight. With luck, he’d be in Austin by midmorning, home by noon, and would have the Christmas tree up before Brian and Caitie got home from school. We’d decorate it tonight and start getting ready for tomorrow evening’s neighborhood party. Our guests were bringing potluck dishes, but after work this evening, I’d need to pick up the baked ham we’d ordered, and drinkables.