Death Come Quickly

by Susan Wittig Albert

  Translation: if the defense intends to argue that somebody else committed the crime, the attorney has to present the evidence to the judge before the jury is allowed to hear it. He doesn’t have to demonstrate a bulletproof link between the alternative suspect and the crime, but he does have to convince the judge that he is not just guessing, wasting the court’s time, gumming up the works, or leading the jury into the wilderness. The attorney can’t simply haul witnesses into court and fire questions at them willy-nilly, with the hope of coming up with some clever bit of information that will magically convert speculation into fact, like the miracle of changing water into wine.

  And the trial judge has the last word on the matter—until appeal, anyway. He’s supposed to recuse himself if he feels that his friendship with one of the opposing counsel (or the royal flush dealt to him by the prosecutor the previous Saturday night) might prejudice his opinion. But most of the time judges don’t. They like to think of themselves as impartial as Solomon, which is a pile of horsefeathers, of course. Any defense attorney will tell you that a judge is just a lawyer who’s been promoted (via election or appointment) to the bench—and that most trial judges like to be seen as coming down like a ton of bricks on criminals. Ergo, they tend to favor the prosecution.

  “Yeah, too damn bad,” Johnnie replied with a shrug. “But I knew we weren’t in trouble. The investigating officer was in a hurry to pick on somebody—for his own reasons, of course. And Bowen made the mistake of living right next door. The cops targeted him as their perp without bothering to consider anybody else. But there was another suspect, a viable one. Someday I’ll show you the notes on my argument in chambers, China, and you’ll see why I say that.”

  “Too bad you didn’t pull a Perry Mason,” Aaron had said lazily.

  I laughed. “Yeah. You could’ve scored a few extra points for justice.”

  Johnnie grunted. “Who gives a damn about justice? I didn’t need to go to the trouble. The cops zeroed in on the wrong guy when they picked Bowen. He was Pecan Springs’ favorite son, a stalwart in the community. He had given money and time to every worthy cause in town. The jury was in his corner start to finish, and the investigators’ mistakes gave the jurors more than enough cause for reasonable doubt. I knew Bowen was going to walk, and he did. To hell with justice.”

  That may sound callous, but it’s not. Finding the real murderer wasn’t in Johnnie’s job description. All he had to do was get his client off. Justice was not his problem.

  He downed his drink in one gulp. “But as I say, China, I’ll be glad to show you my alternative suspect notes. Maybe someday they’ll be relevant. To something or other.”

  “Hey.” Sheila turned back to Ruby. “I’m lost. What’s all this about? And what does it have to do with Karen Prior?”

  “Karen is a faculty member in Radio-TV-Film at CTSU,” Ruby explained. “She’s supervising the filming of a documentary about Christine Morris’ murder. It’s a thesis project for a couple of her graduate students—just about finished now, I understand. And yes, it was brutal—the Christine Morris murder, I mean. I was still married to Wade then, and we lived down the street.” Wade Wilcox and Ruby have been divorced for as long as I’ve known her. “I saw the place where she was killed,” Ruby added, “and the puddle of dried blood. It didn’t get cleaned up for days and days.” She shuddered. “The thing about Christine, though—” She stopped.

  Sheila waited a moment, then asked, “What about her?”

  Ruby sighed. “I hate to speak ill of the dead. But the truth is that everybody spoke ill of her, and while she was still very much alive. She was an out-of-towner—a ‘foreigner’ from River Oaks—who had an inflated idea of her own importance.” River Oaks, deep in the heart of Houston, is one of the wealthiest neighborhoods in Texas. “She came to Pecan Springs and made a career out of making enemies. I’m sure that documentary will be very interesting.” She shook her head, frowning. “Gosh. With Karen in the hospital, I wonder what’s going to happen to the film. The girls—Kitt and Gretchen—have already put a ton of work into it. I hope they’ll be able to finish it.”

  Sheila started to say something, but her cell phone dinged. She spoke briefly into it, then snapped it shut. “I think I might need to know more about that documentary,” she said. She pulled out her notebook. “Kitt and Gretchen? Last names?”

  “Kitt Bradley, Gretchen Keene. Kitt is a friend of my daughter, Amy. Both Kitt and Gretchen are grad students in the RTF department. You can reach them there.”

  “Gretchen Keene?” I repeated, surprised. “I know her. She’s Jake’s sister.” Jake is my son Brian’s longtime girlfriend. Gretchen, who was a student in a couple of McQuaid’s undergraduate criminology classes, had been to our house several times, either with Jake or with McQuaid’s class. I hadn’t known she was interested in film.

  Sheila wrote down the names and flipped her notebook shut. “I have to get back to the office. How about if I drop in tomorrow and get you to tell me what you know about the situation behind the documentary? It may turn out to have something to do with the attack on Prior. And regardless of what Bubba says, the Morris case is still an open cold case. It might just give us a lead.”

  “Of course,” Ruby said. “I’ll be glad to.”

  “Make it around noon.” I put the currency, the checks, the credit card slips, and the calculator tape into the bank deposit bag. “Cass has come up with a couple of new items for the tearoom menu, using roses. You can give us your opinion.”

  A few years ago, Ruby and I remodeled the back of the building, adding a small but fully equipped and state-licensed commercial kitchen and a tearoom, Thyme for Tea. Cass Wilde does the cooking and Ruby and I and a couple of helpers manage the serving. Cass also does the cooking for our catering service, Party Thyme, and the three of us work together to staff the events—small parties and large. (If you’re interested, you’ll find brochures on the counters in our shops and on the tables in the tearoom.) Obviously, we are a busy bunch. But you can’t have a successful business without keeping busy. It takes a lot of sweat to grow a healthy bottom line.

  “Roses? You said roses?” Sheila wrinkled her nose. “Roses are for pretty, not for eating.”

  “Wrong,” I said. “Prepare to be surprised.”

  “Well, if you’re sure.” Sheila paused, with a mysterious look. “But I came here with a question and some news, so before I go, I want to tell you. You have to promise to keep it a secret, though.”

  “Tell us what?” Ruby asked, leaning forward. Her eyes were sparkling. Ruby likes nothing more than having a secret, although she’s not very good at keeping them.

  “Hey, wait.” Sheila lifted a cautioning hand. “First you have to promise not to breathe a word—to anybody.”

  I zipped the deposit bag shut. “I hope your secret isn’t another job, Smart Cookie, because that would mean you’d be moving out of town.” I paused, frowning. “But if that were the case, I’m sure I’d know about it already. Blackie would have told McQuaid.”

  Sheila and I are more than just friends. Her husband and my husband are in business together: McQuaid, Blackwell, and Associates, Private Investigators. Blackie Blackwell and Mike McQuaid. I got used to calling my husband—a former Houston homicide detective—by his last name when we met on a domestic violence case, with both of us on the same side, for a change. Yes, I know. It’s dicey to fall for a cop because most of them spell trouble. And because the only thing shared by most female defense lawyers and most male cops is a permanent and reciprocal antagonism. But while I still keep my bar membership current, I am no longer a practicing attorney and McQuaid—although he’s still in the investigating business—is no longer a cop. He’s a part-time faculty member in the CTSU Criminal Justice Department and a private investigator. And since Blackie signed on last year, their caseload has tripled. They’re a good team. They have all the work they can handle, and then som
e.

  “It’s not another job,” Sheila said. “Well, I suppose it is, but not in the way you’re thinking.” There was that mysterious look again. “But I won’t tell you unless you promise.”

  “Hey, I know!” Ruby snapped her fingers. “You’ve decided to buy the house!”

  Sheila and Blackie live in an older two-bedroom, two-bath rental home on Hickory Street, on the other side of the alley and just a couple doors down from Ruby’s house on Pecan Street. Everyone in the neighborhood likes them and Ruby is hoping that they’ll buy the house and stay put.

  “Or you’re moving out to the country?” I guessed.

  Blackie owns a big house with a barn and thirty-five acres not far from where McQuaid and I live. That would be ideal for them. But it’s a half-hour drive from town and Sheila’s job means that she’s on call twenty-four/seven. So Blackie is renting the country house to a friend and keeping the barn and pastures for his horses. He and Sheila drive out there whenever they can get away from their jobs. Sheila has learned to ride, and Rambo—Smart Cookie’s Rottweiler, a sworn K-9 officer with his own police badge and bulletproof vest—loves having plenty of open space to run.

  “It’s not the house,” Sheila said. “We’re still thinking about buying it, but we think we might need a little more room.” Her eyes twinkled. “That’s a hint.”

  “More room, more room.” Casting her eyes toward the ceiling, Ruby tapped an orange-painted fingernail against her teeth. “It’s not the job; it’s not the house. How about a new hobby? Something that takes up a lot of space. Photography, maybe? Or quilting? But when would you have time for—” She stopped. “Help me out here, China.”

  Now, this was more than a little funny, because Ruby is a highly intuitive person who—when she puts her mind to it—can read other people’s minds. In fact, she could go into the fortune-telling business and very likely make a fortune for herself. She inherited this gift from her grandmother, but she has learned how to dial it down, and she leaves it in the off position whenever possible. I admire her restraint. It’s one thing to do birth chart readings and teach classes in the I Ching and runes and other methods of looking into the future. It’s quite another to invade a friend’s privacy by reading her thoughts, as if she were an open book. I’m glad Ruby keeps that gift of hers under wraps most of the time—like right now.

  “I hate guessing games,” I grumbled, getting my shoulder bag out from under the counter. “If somebody thinks I need to know something, she should just come straight out and tell me.” I reached for the wildest, wackiest thing I could think of. “But okay, I’ll bite. How about you’re pregnant? Is that it?”

  Sheila stared at me. “How did you guess, China? Do I . . .” She looked down at her trim waist. “I can’t be showing yet.” Her usually calm voice rose—and broke.

  “Don’t tell me I’m . . . showing!”

  Chapter Two

  Purslane (Portulaca oleracea) is a small annual succulent with smooth, flat leaves and yellow flowers. In the United States, it’s considered a weed, but elsewhere in the world, it is eaten as a salad or leafy vegetable. Purslane is high in omega-3 fatty acids and rich in vitamins and minerals. It may be stir-fried, braised, steamed, or served raw. In Mexico, it is called verdalagos and is often used as an ingredient in salsas and taco fillings.

  In ancient Greece, purslane was thought to attract good fortune. If you found a patch of it, you would be happy. As a medicinal, it was taken internally to treat colds, stomachaches, and fevers, and used topically to treat hemorrhoids and wounds. It can cause uterine contractions, however, and was once used as an early-term abortifacient. Pregnant women should avoid it.

  China Bayles

  “Herbs of Good and Ill Omen”

  Pecan Springs Enterprise

  “Pregnant?” Ruby gasped. “Sheila, you’re . . . pregnant?” And then, arms windmilling, she rushed to engulf Sheila in a huge hug.

  “Hey, careful!” I cried as Sheila took a step backward, falling against a rack of handmade cards and other paper items. “Watch it!”

  But it was too late. Papers were flying everywhere. The rack went over. As it fell, it knocked down a wooden shelf that held a display of dried herb and flower arrangements, sending them in all directions. Behind the shelf, on the wall, a dried-flower wreath swung from side to side, then slid down to the floor with a thump.

  There was a silence, then a long, angry yowl. Khat crawled out of the rubble, streaked across the floor, and disappeared into Ruby’s shop.

  “Oh, dear,” Ruby said, aghast. “Did . . . did I do all that?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “No.” Sheila was sitting on the floor, a half-dozen dried sunflowers in her lap. She picked a leaf out of her mouth. “I did.”

  “Oh, Sheila!” Ruby cried. “I’m sorry! I’m such a klutz!” She bent over, brushing bits of dried stems and flowers off of Sheila’s shoulders. “I didn’t . . . I didn’t hurt you, did I? Oh, Sheila, forgive me! Please forgive me! The baby—”

  “No, you didn’t hurt me,” Sheila said, scrambling to her feet. “Or the baby. But we’ve made a mess of China’s beautiful displays.” She bent over and started to pick up cards. “We’re going to need a broom. There are dried twigs all over the floor.”

  “You are pregnant!” I cried. “Stop that, Smart Cookie! Ruby, take those cards away from her.” I pushed the stool around from behind the counter. “Sit down, Sheila. Now!”

  Ruby took the cards out of Sheila’s hands. “Is there anything I can say besides I’m sorry?” she asked plaintively. “I am really, really, really sorry.”

  “You can say you won’t do it again,” I said. “Sheila, sit down.”

  “I don’t need to sit down,” Sheila protested, laughing. “Stop fussing, China. I am not some little Victorian lady. Rambo and I ran three miles this morning, and then I did fifty push-ups.”

  “Fifty push-ups.” I rolled my eyes. “Fifty push-ups. Your kid is going to be an Olympic champion.”

  “Wouldn’t hurt my feelings,” Sheila said. “Blackie’s, either.” She set the card rack on its feet again. “Anyway, you can stop trying to baby me. I am perfectly healthy. I’m just a little pregnant, that’s all. Happens to lots of women.”

  “There is no such thing as a little pregnant,” Ruby said severely. “You either are or you’re not.”

  “Ruby’s right,” I said. “It’s all or nothing. No in-between.”

  “How would you know, China?” Sheila asked, and I subsided. Yes, I am a mother. And yes, I have two kids, two wonderful kids. But no, I’ve never been pregnant.

  “Well, I know,” Ruby said. “Been there, done that. Twice. And you are not ‘lots’ of women, Smart Cookie. You are a female police chief.” She frowned down at Sheila’s belted trousers, trim as always. “How far along are you, anyway? Three weeks? Four?”

  “Eight or nine,” Sheila replied. She picked up the wreath and hung it back on the wall.

  “Eight or nine? Why, that’s two months!” Ruby cried. “It’s July now. Two months means that we’ll have a baby by—” She began counting on her fingers. “By February! By Valentine’s Day!”

  “Sounds about right,” Sheila agreed. She eyed me. “But I do have a question for you, China.”

  “Ask me,” Ruby said. “China’s never been pregnant. What does she know?”

  “She knows about herbs,” Sheila retorted. She turned to me. “What can I use for morning sickness?”

  “Oh, poor you!” Ruby exclaimed. “That’s misery.”

  “Bad, huh?” I asked sympathetically.

  “It’s not good. But the really bad thing is that it’s a giveaway.” Sheila made a face. “I don’t want the boys at the PSPD figuring out that I’m pregnant. Not until I’ve broken the news to the mayor and the city council. I really want to keep my job, you know.”

  “You do?” Ruby asked d
oubtfully. “You mean, you still intend to—”

  “Of course I do,” Sheila said, frowning. “Why wouldn’t I?” She turned back to me. “Do you have any suggestions?”

  “Ginger,” I said promptly. “Go over to Cavette’s Market and ask Mr. Cavette for three or four pieces—hands, they’re called—of fresh gingerroot. They’re in the produce section. Slice off five or six thin slices, and boil them in a couple of cups of water for about ten minutes. You can add some lime, if you like, and honey. And for emergencies—” I stepped to a nearby shelf and took down a couple of small bottles. “Here are some capsules. Keep these in your purse.” From another shelf, I took a box of tea bags. “Peppermint tea is good, too. You can brew it in your regular mug and sip it at your desk and nobody will be the wiser.” I put the bottles and the box in a paper bag and handed it to her. “On the house. Just for our favorite preggie police chief. Run out of these and I’ll fix you up with more.”

  “Thanks, China,” Sheila said gratefully. “I knew I could count on you.” She glanced at both of us. “And you promised, remember? You’re not going to tell a soul.”

  “Did we promise?” I gave Ruby an innocent look. “I remember something being said about a promise, but I don’t actually remember uttering that word myself. I—”

  “Shut up, China,” Ruby said firmly. “Yes, we promise. Of course we promise. Every woman has a right to keep her pregnancy to herself. If something goes wrong, then she doesn’t have to make explanations. But nothing is going to go wrong,” she added hastily. She paused, frowning. “Blackie knows, doesn’t he?”

  “I told him last week,” Sheila said.

  “He must be thrilled,” Ruby said. “When will we know whether it’s a boy or a girl?”

  “In another few weeks,” Sheila said. “And of course Blackie’s thrilled. We both are. But . . .” Her voice trailed off and she bit her lip.