Spanish Dagger

by Susan Wittig Albert

  Allan hasn’t done it by himself, of course. Betty, a slender, sweet-faced woman with a certain air of innocence about her, works in the garden and at the cash register, as well as managing the family home, a small house directly behind the greenhouses. The nursery and the children keep her so busy that she doesn’t have much time for herself, but I invited her to join our local herb society and she’s been faithful about attending the meetings—helpful, too, since she knows so much about the native plants of the Southwest. And I gave her a hand with a minor legal matter having to do with one of her employees. No biggie, but she was grateful and I was pleased to be able to do something useful for her.

  Allan and Betty have other help, as well. Every day after school, you’ll find Betty’s two teenaged children, Ricky and Jeannette, hard at work in the greenhouse. A bright, energetic boy of seventeen, Ricky says he wants to be a plantsman like his stepfather; Jeannette, one of Brian’s classmates, is hoping to major in botany when she goes to college. Sonora is a family business.

  The nursery is separated from the parking lot by a pink adobe fence, with a double wooden gate in the center, painted an electrifying blue. The gate was still closed, latched but not locked, but since it was after eight, I knew they were open. I lifted the latch, pushed open the gate, and walked past the central garden, where the waterfall was splashing into the pool and several bright red cardinals had flown in to enjoy an early-morning splash. I could see a few workers moving around at the back of the garden, but the place was so quiet, I thought everybody must be in the greenhouses—a lovely place to be on a cool morning.

  When the nursery belonged to Wanda, the sales area and shop were located in a dilapidated red barn with a leaky roof. The Conrads tore down the barn and replaced it with an attractive adobe structure with blue-painted trim and a red tile roof, much more in keeping with Sonora’s Southwestern theme. The adobe houses the garden shop, the checkout counter, and the office, which is where I was headed.

  Actually, I was just as glad that I hadn’t run into Allan or Betty. All I wanted to do was find Lucita and confirm that her phone calls to Colin had to do with those potted yuccas in his backyard. Then I could call Ruby and reassure her that Lucita was not a Significant Other. And when I met Sheila at Ruby’s to pick up that box, I’d tell her that Lucita was not a Person of Interest, so she wouldn’t have to send an officer out here to do an interview unless she had reason to think otherwise. Which she would, most likely. Smart Cookie doesn’t take anybody’s word for anything—certainly not mine.

  The door to the shop was closed and when I pushed it open, I found that the low-ceilinged room was deserted and dim. The lights hadn’t been turned on yet, and I paused just inside the door to let my eyes adjust. In front of me was the sales counter and cash register, the wall behind it hung with photos of the Sonora staff. There was Allan at the grand opening, with his trademark white straw hat pushed back on his head, cutting the ribbon strung across the gate. Betty and the two kids, faces shining, standing beside one of the large, rare agaves their father had brought back from a trip. The greenhouse workers, the garden crew—all looking happy and proud to be a part of a successful enterprise. There was also a certificate from the Chamber of Commerce: Sonora Nursery, a rising star in the constellation of Pecan Springs businesses.

  I looked around. The small shop was crowded with merchandise, but attractively so: shelves stacked with ceramic pots, racks crowded with books and small tools, corners piled with bags of potting soil and amendments. The air had a pleasantly dusty smell, the smell of dried earth. But there was something else, too—a coppery undertone, ripe, rich. It was a smell I recognized, and a tsunami of apprehension suddenly swept over me.

  “Hello,” I called urgently, raising my voice. “Anybody here?”

  As if in answer, a door opened somewhere at the back of the shop. A woman’s voice—Betty’s, I thought—said, “Lucita! We’ve been waiting for you. Did you forget that we’re meeting in the—”

  The rest of the sentence was swallowed by a frightened gasp. There was a scuffle of footsteps, a moment of silence, and then a shrill, ear-piercing shriek.

  The sound jarred me into action. I strode around the end of the counter toward the office door, which hung slightly ajar. I pushed it open and stepped through. Betty, still shrieking, was backed up against a wall, staring in horror at the still form of a heavyset, dark-haired woman who was sprawled beside an overturned office chair in a litter of papers, a scattering of coins from an empty cash box, and a lake of thick, congealed, copper-scented blood. Her arms were flung out, her torso and thick legs were twisted, and one shoe was off. Her face, frozen in its final grimace, was gray-white, the color of dirty paper. It was turned to one side, toward me. I bent down and reached for the pulse at the woman’s wrist. But it was a futile gesture. I knew she was dead.

  Her throat had been slashed.

  Chapter Ten

  Long, long ago, while the earth was yet young, the creatures of the day and the creatures of the night got into a dispute. Day creatures, favoring the bright, clean light of the sun, when everything was clear and understandable, wanted day-all-the-time. Night creatures, loving the moon and the stars and ambiguity and things that go bump in the dark, wanted night-all-the-time. They decided to have a contest to see who would win the right to dictate to the universe which it would be: continual day or continual night.

  The game went like this. The day creatures and night creatures took turns hiding a piece of sacred yucca root in one of four moccasins, with the other side guessing which moccasin held the yucca root. They began playing at sunrise one morning and ceased playing at dawn the next day, with the customary lying and cheating and drinking and fun along the way. They played all day and all night, and you’d think that one side or the other would have prevailed.

  But as the second day’s sun rose, they had played to a draw. Exhausted, they had to admit that neither side could win. The game had taught them that both light and dark are an irrevocable part of the divine plan, and that no creaturely effort can change this settled arrangement.

  Traditional Navajo story

  I don’t know what excuse Sheila gave to Jackie Barnes’ third-graders, but she pulled up in the Sonora parking lot, the siren wailing, about fifteen minutes after I made the 911 call. By that time, I had secured the two doors to the garden shop, stationed an employee at the front gate to turn away customers, and was riding herd on a small group of eight frightened, silent employees. I had my arm around Betty, who was still sobbing. She was scared, too. I could feel her trembling.

  A few minutes later, Sheila strode toward me, her eyes dark, her mouth set in a crooked line. At her heels were two uniformed officers, a man and a woman; a third stayed behind to replace the temporary gatekeeper.

  “Where’s the victim, China?” she demanded in an I’m-not-believing-this tone.

  “In there,” I said, nodding toward the garden shop. “In the office, at the back.” I met her eyes and said distinctly, “Her name is Lucita Sanchez. She’s the bookkeeper.”

  Sheila’s voice hardened. “The one who phoned—”

  My sharp nod cut her off. There was no reason to broadcast the information that we were aware of Lucita’s connection to Colin, and every reason not to. If one of the huddle of wide-eyed workers behind me already knew, he or she would be at the top of the suspect list.

  “I see,” Sheila said grimly. She didn’t ask how it was that I happened to be present at the second murder scene in as many days, but I knew she’d demand an explanation later.

  Betty, her brown eyes red and streaming, moved forward, and I dropped my arm. “Lucita Sanchez was…she moved up here from Brownsville the middle of March,” she said, in a small, hopeless-sounding voice. “I can’t believe…My husband is going to be soupset that something like this could happen here. So upset!”

  “I’m very sorry,” Sheila said, sounding as if she meant it. She looked from me to Betty. “Were you the one who found her?”
<
br />   “Yes,” Betty said. She swiped at the tears with the sleeve of her denim shirt. “Me and China.” She made a stab at an introduction. “My friend China Bayles. She came in about the same time I did. It was…” Her voice broke. “It had to be a robbery. The cash box was empty, just a few coins left. But why they killed her, I don’t know. There wasn’t much—most of our sales are credit cards or checks. And Lucita would’ve given them anything they wanted.”

  Sheila gave me a quick glance, and I nodded shortly. It was true that the cash box was empty. But robbery wasn’t the motive. I’d bet my boots on that.

  Sheila turned back to Betty. “And you are—” she prompted.

  “Betty. Betty Conrad. My husband, Allan, and I own this place. He’s in San Antonio, and won’t be back until later today. We were having a staff meeting in one of the greenhouses. Lucita was late, and I went to the office to get her. That’s when I found—” She choked.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Conrad,” Sheila said gently. “I know how hard this must be for you. I’ll want to talk to you in a few minutes, and to your husband, as soon as he gets back. And to everyone else who was here at the nursery last night and this morning.” She nodded to the female officer, then swept her glance over the group. “This is Officer Ward,” she said, in an authoritative tone. “She will take your names and some preliminary information and find a place where you can wait until we interview you. It may take some time, but we’ll make it as quick as we can.” She turned to me, motioning briefly. “Ms. Bayles, come with me.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said meekly, and followed, feeling as if I were being summoned out to the woodshed.

  In the shop, Sheila turned to me, her fists on her hips, scowling darkly. “I assume that you came here to talk to Lucita Sanchez—even though you told me not an hour ago that she had nothing to do with Colin’s murder. So what’s the deal, China?”

  “I didn’t think she did,” I protested. I held up my fingers in the Brownie oath. “I came because Ruby made me promise I’d talk to her. I hate to disappoint Ruby, especially now that she’s having such a tough time with her mom. I had an hour to kill before you and I met to pick up Colin’s box, so I came over here.”

  At the mention of the box, Smart Cookie’s mouth tightened. “I’ll have to send somebody else to Ruby’s house with you. I can’t leave here right now.” She looked at me. “You know these people, I assume. The Conrads? The employees?”

  “I’m one of Sonora’s customers. Betty belongs to the Herb Guild and I gave her some help on a small legal matter, so I know her better than I know Allan. I had several conversations with them when they were thinking of buying this place. They’re both hard workers, creative, energetic. They’ve got good ideas, and Allan seems to have experience and strong connections with growers. He’s innovative, too. You need all that, in their line of business. They’re making a success of this place when Wanda Rathbottom couldn’t.” I paused. “I don’t know any of the others. I never met the victim.”

  “Do you have any idea how the Sanchez woman might have been connected to Colin?”

  “Not a clue,” I said. “Last night, I was guessing that her calls had to do with some purchases he made at Sonora. Those yuccas and the agave in Colin’s backyard came from here.” From her mystified look, I gathered that she hadn’t noticed the potted plants, even though she’d been standing right beside them. “You might start by checking the company records to see whether he had an account here. If he didn’t, we’ll know that she had another reason to call. I—”

  The door opened and the crime-scene team leader came in, armed with a large black duffle bag and a camera tripod. And at that point, my cell phone rang, in one of the pockets of my vest. I flinched. Brian had programmed the ring tone so that it gave me the cheery assurance, “The Eyes of Texas Are Upon You”—not exactly the right theme music for a murder scene. Sheila shook her head, turning away as I took out my phone.

  It was Ruby. “Did you try to call, China?” She was breathless. “I’ve been outside running around, but I’m anxious to hear. What did you find out? What did Lucita tell you about Colin?”

  More cops—the rest of the crime-scene team, I guessed—crowded into the small shop, and Sheila began to give them instructions. I stepped into a far corner and faced the wall, speaking as quietly as I could. “Lucita couldn’t tell me anything, about Colin or anybody else.”

  “Why not?” Ruby asked. “And why are you whispering?”

  “Because she’s dead. And I’m whispering because there are about a dozen cops in this room.”

  “Dead!” Ruby cried. “Oh, my God!” She gave an audible gulp. “How…how did she die?”

  “Somebody slashed her throat,” I said grimly. “Betty found her. I arrived about five seconds later.”

  “Slashed her throat! How horrible!” There were a few seconds’ silence as Ruby digested the news. “She was killed because she was involved with Colin. I know it!”

  “It’s possible,” I said cautiously. “But if you’re imagining a romantic involvement, I can set your mind at rest. Lucita wasn’t exactly a come-hither type. But we shouldn’t count out some other connection.”

  Ruby sounded bewildered. “But what other connection could there be?”

  Sheila had stopped talking to her team and was looking in my direction.

  “I really need to hang up, Ruby.” Belatedly, I thought of something. “How’s your mom this morning? Any better?”

  “She’s disappeared,” Ruby said flatly. “She walked out of the house while I was in the shower, and I’ve been out looking for her ever since. I’ve called the police.”

  “Walked out? Oh, God, Ruby, I’m sorry!”

  “I know,” Ruby said, resigned. “Heaven only knows where she’s gone.” She pulled in her breath. “But it’s not as bad as finding somebody with her throat cut. Are you okay?” Without waiting for my answer, she hurried on, “You’re going over to my house, aren’t you? Be sure and call me when you’ve found the box. But don’t call Mom’s number—I’ll probably be out looking for her. Call my cell phone.”

  “I will,” I said. “Good luck.” I cut the connection and went back to Sheila, whointerrogated me with her eyebrows. “Ruby,” I replied.

  “She okay?” Sheila asked.

  “She’s lost her mother. As in wandered away,” I added hastily, when Sheila looked shocked. “She walked out the door while Ruby was taking her shower. But don’t worry. Fredericksburg’s finest are on the case.”

  Sheila gave her head a pitying shake and turned toward the office. I put my hand on her sleeve. “Don’t forget that you’re going to send an officer with me to Ruby’s house.” Now that Lucita Sanchez was dead, I was feeling rather urgent about that box. And the morning was wearing on. I had to get moving.

  Sheila gave me a look that said she was too busy to think about another thing. “Stop by the station on your way through town,” she said. “I’ll call and find out who’s available.” She motioned brusquely to the crime-scene team leader. “All right, Kathy. Bring your guys and come on—we’ve got work to do.”

  THE Pecan Springs Police Department has moved out of its cramped quarters in the basement of the building that houses the Parks and Utilities Department and the town’s famous flock of bats, and into another building, catawampus across the square. I parked, got out of the car, and was about to dash inside when I was met by Mae Belle Battersby, Pecan Springs’ peerless meter maid and traffic officer. She was zipped and buttoned and belted into her polyester police uniform, which was tight enough to make her look like a plump, pink-cheeked sausage.

  “Mornin’, Miz Bayles.” Mae Belle hailed me, raising her cap jauntily above her gray curls. “I hear we got us an important assignment.”

  “We have?” I asked in surprise.

  “We cert’nly have,” she said, with a cheerful relish. “Chief radioed not five minutes ago. Talked to me person’lly. Said I’m s’posed to go some’eres with you to fetch somethin’, and I�
�m supposed to keep an eye on it. Said you’d give me the scoop on the way.”

  I didn’t hesitate. Mae Belle may be a few minutes past prime time, but she has been a valued employee of the Pecan Springs Police Department for at least a decade and knows her way around town blindfolded. And whether she is emptying the parking meters into her two-wheeled coin collector pushcart or writing traffic tickets for those who are overparked or double-parked around the square, she takes her work with complete and utter seriousness. As a witness to the collection of Colin’s box, she would do as well as any other police officer, and better than several others I could name.

  “Well, great,” I said. “Let’s take my car. I’ll bring you back on my way to the shop.” It was pushing nine fifteen and the shop is supposed to open at ten, so I’d have to hustle.

  “Heck, no,” Mae Belle said, beaming proudly. She jingled a set of car keys. “Chief said for me to take a squad car. I don’t get a chance to drive one of them babies very often, and I ain’t goin’ to miss out. No sirree bob. And I’m gonna run that bubblegum machine on top, too.”

  “I don’t think the chief would want you to—” I began.

  “She said to make it snappy, so that’s what I aim to do,” Mae Belle said. “Come on, Miz Bayles. Time’s awastin’. We got us a job to do!”

  Which is why I arrived at Ruby’s house in a squad car with the light flashing and siren wailing, and marched up the steps to Ruby’s front door closely escorted by a stern-faced uniformed officer of the law, arms akimbo and police gear belt rattling. It was unfortunate that we were walking up to Ruby’s front porch at the very moment that Mrs. Wauer, Ruby’s neighbor, opened her front door to let Oodles—a fat, white miniature poodle with a sequined collar and a blue bow over each ear—out on the porch. A folding baby gate was stretched across the steps to keep Oodles from going AWOL.

  Mrs. Wauer is pushing eighty, and even though she is frail and bent almost double from osteoporosis, she has a shrill voice and a pair of lungs that would be the envy of a marine drill sergeant. Ruby says she talks loud because she used to live on a farm in East Texas and got in the habit of talking to humans at the same decibel level she used to call the cows and pigs. I think she talks loud so that all the neighbors can hear, even those who are watching Desperate Housewives with their windows closed and their air conditioners running.