Death Come Quickly

by Susan Wittig Albert

  Fifteen minutes later, McQuaid was back in his chair, this time with a glass of iced tea and a couple of Cass’ lavender cookies.

  “Was he sober?” I asked.

  “Almost.” McQuaid shook his head. “Dunno how that guy functions, the amount of booze he puts away.”

  I put The Herbarist down again and peered over the top of my glasses. “You going to tell me what that trip to Austin was about?” Not nagging, honest.

  “Yeah. Charlie says it’s okay.” He munched on a cookie. “Actually, what he said was, ‘Tell China to figure it out and tell us what’s going on.’”

  I frowned. “Was he being sarcastic? He was really PO’d with me when I got involved in that business with George Timms.” Timms was a local big shot who recently got into trouble over breaking and entering and suspicion of murder—then had a fatal encounter with an authentic Texas mountain lion. Charlie came close to accusing me of siccing the cat on his client.

  “Sarcastic? Not on your life, kid.” McQuaid chuckled. “Lipman’s got a crush on you. If I hadn’t married you, he would’ve been first in line.”

  “Oh, yeah? Well, I’m complimented,” I said ironically. “The next time he gives me hell for sticking my nose into one of his cases I’ll just think of it as a big smoochy kiss. So what was up with your trip to Austin?” Not nagging, no.

  McQuaid stretched out in his chair. “Charlie asked me to look into the details of a major property deal—a mall development on I-35 south of Austin, about twenty years ago.”

  I considered this for a moment. “Help me out here. Is this supposed to be related to what we’ve been talking about?”

  McQuaid shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. We’ll see what it looks like after I have a chance to dig into the financing details. But Charlie has the notion—could be a cockamamie idea, of course—that the development package was part of a hidden assets scheme.” He gave me a significant look. “Doug Clark was the developer—one of the developers,” he corrected himself. “It was a big project, and there was quite a bit of local money in it, one way or the other.”

  “Ah, so,” I said thoughtfully. A hidden assets scheme. Now, that was interesting. In fact, it was downright intriguing. I sipped my wine, imagining the possibilities, which were legion. “According to Ruby, Charlie handled Christine Morris’ divorce. She sued on grounds of adultery, and Charlie brokered a substantial property settlement. Christine got the house, the artwork they’d acquired while they were married, and a big chunk of change—exactly how big, nobody knows, of course.” I paused. “But from what you’ve just said, I get the idea that Charlie is now thinking that not all of the marital property was declared at the time of the divorce.”

  “What?” McQuaid raised both eyebrows, pretending enormous astonishment. “You’re suggesting that somebody cheated?”

  Maybe you won’t be shocked to learn that one spouse can (and sometimes does) attempt to conceal money and property from the other spouse, during the marriage—and during the divorce. If so, you won’t be surprised when I say that, given the will and the way, those assets may be so cleverly hidden that they can never be traced and properly divided. If you’re planning to get a divorce and you suspect that your spouse intends to tiptoe away in the dark of night with some of the community property hidden under his coat, you need to hire a lawyer who specializes in preventing (or discovering) this sort of shenanigan. Don’t hire Charlie Lipman. He’s a good guy, a good lawyer, and he talks a good game—when he’s sober. But he might not be careful enough when it comes to getting an accurate valuation of your marital property and community assets. I would hate for you to get gypped.

  “So the bottom line is that Charlie suspects that Doug Clark got away with a chunk of change,” I said. “And if it was a mall deal, it might have been a big chunk.”

  “It’s possible,” McQuaid acknowledged, putting words to what was going through my mind. “Charlie handles a lot of run-of-the-mill divorces, but he isn’t a specialist. At the time, he might not have asked the right questions or dug deep enough to find everything.”

  “And there’s the alcohol,” I said. Charlie was drinking now. He might have been drinking back then.

  “Yes, there’s that,” McQuaid agreed.

  I chewed on my lip. “But let’s say that Doug Clark hid some of the marital assets and defrauded his wife out of some of her share of the community property. The Clark-Morris divorce was a long time ago. And besides, the wench is dead. Over a decade dead. Not to be callous, but the issue seems moot to me.”

  “Moot to me, too,” McQuaid conceded. “But let’s just say that, at some point after the divorce was final, Christine herself began to suspect that the divvy had been based on an incomplete accounting, and decided she wanted more.”

  My turn to raise an eyebrow. “Is that what happened? If so, I wonder when.”

  It wasn’t an idle question. In Texas, the court divides the community property when the decree is granted. If one spouse discovers hidden assets after that time, she (or he) can file a motion to overturn the divorce agreement and reallocate the assets. There are exceptions, but in general, this should be done within two years after the final decree. After that, the injured spouse—ex-spouse, that is—has to sue the other for marital fraud in civil court. There is no statute of limitations on fraud.

  And then the issue began to seem a little less moot. Yes, the wench was dead, which was the point. Was she dead because she was prepared to charge her ex-husband with marital fraud? Was Doug Clark the alternative suspect Johnnie had been prepared to name?

  “I have no idea when,” McQuaid replied, “or even if. Charlie didn’t get into that kind of detail. He just gave me the general picture, pointed in the direction of the assets—that is, where he thought the assets might have been hidden—and told me to start digging.” He finished one cookie and picked up a second. “That’s what I was doing this afternoon.”

  “Did you have any luck?”

  “Not yet. But I talked to a guy who was involved in the deal and came up with a couple of leads. I don’t know if they’ll pan out, but they’re worth following up. I can’t do anything more until Monday, when the Williamson County tax assessor’s office is open and I can look at the property records.”

  I nodded. McQuaid is a top-flight investigator, competent, thorough, and dogged. It’s what he liked best about police work—what he likes best about being a PI. If the information was out there, he would find it.

  But a bigger question had come to me. “Doesn’t all this seem a little . . . um, coincidental? Gretchen and Kitt are currently making a documentary about the Christine Morris case. Karen and Gretchen are attacked, and Gretchen’s files are stolen. And here’s Charlie, almost two decades after the fact, hiring an investigator to look into Doug Clark’s financial holdings.”

  “Yeah,” McQuaid said.

  “Not to mention that private investigators don’t come cheap,” I said. “Even those who are friends of the lawyers who hire them and might be inclined to give them a break.”

  “Hey.” McQuaid gave me a wounded look. “I bill Charlie at the same rate I bill every other lawyer.” He finished the cookie and licked his fingers. “Well, maybe a little less. But not much.”

  I went on. “I have known Charlie Lipman a long time, and while I wouldn’t exactly call him a skinflint, I’ve never known him to put down so much as a nickel of his own money on a case. So who the heck is picking up the tab? It certainly isn’t the possibly defrauded spouse, who has gone on to glory. But who else would have an interest in this matter?”

  “I have no clue.” McQuaid sat there, his eyes narrowed, going over the situation in his mind. “But it’s something I’d like to know.” He looked at me. “What’s on your agenda tomorrow, China?”

  “It’s Saturday,” I reminded him. “You know what that means.”

  He nodded. “Farmers’ market. Right?
And then you’ll be at the shop the rest of the day?”

  “That’s the plan.” This is the second year for the Pecan Springs Farmers’ Market, which has turned into a popular community tradition. “Caitie will be helping, as usual. When we’re done, she’s going to play with one of her friends. I’m picking her up after I close the shop. I assume that Brian will finish painting the porch. What about you?”

  “Not sure yet,” he said. “But if Charlie’s available—and sober—I’d like to talk to him.”

  “One more thing,” I said. “On the way out of the hospital this evening, I stopped to chat with Helen Berger, the charge nurse. She said that the doctor will likely release Gretchen tomorrow, probably after lunch. I’m thinking it would be good if she stayed here for a few days, instead of going home. Just to be on the safe side. Jake could stay, as well. The guest room has two beds.”

  McQuaid cocked his head. “And this is because . . .”

  “This is because some unknown assailant killed Karen,” I said patiently, “and conked Gretchen over the head. Because if Gretchen were my daughter, and I was in the jungles of Belize on a research trip, I would want a friend to keep a close eye on her. Because—”

  “Probably the smart thing to do,” McQuaid interrupted. He stood up and stretched. “Hey, it’s a pretty night out there. How about if we go sit on the porch swing for a little while?” He held out his hand enticingly. “Looks like a thunderstorm might be coming in from the west. We can listen to the tree frogs and watch the lightning flicker, and . . . well, neck.”

  Tree frogs, flickers of lightning, maybe even a roll of thunder or two. Around our house, there is never a dull moment.

  But necking . . . now, that’s another matter entirely. You never know where something like that might lead.

  Chapter Five

  The plant we call Queen Anne’s lace (Daucus carota) was said to be associated with the devil, perhaps because of its similarity to the deadly poison hemlock. The flower is named for Anne, wife of James I of England and an avid lace maker. The tiny reddish-purple flower in the center was said to represent a drop of the queen’s blood, caused when she pricked her finger. Children were warned not to pick it and bring it into the house, because bad luck would certainly follow.

  In traditional medicine, a tea made from the root of Daucus carota was prescribed as a diuretic to prevent and treat kidney stones. Hippocrates reported that the seeds of the plant were used as a popular contraceptive and abortifacient.

  Other folk names for the plant: mother-die, devil’s plague.

  China Bayles

  “Herbs of Good and Ill Omen”

  Pecan Springs Enterprise

  Friday night’s thunderstorm was gone by midnight and the morning sun rose in a brilliant blue sky, on what promised to be a very hot July Saturday. It was a perfect day for loading up the kids and a big picnic cooler and the tubes and heading for the Guadalupe River or driving to Austin to go swimming in Barton Springs, which averages a chilly 68 degrees year-round, even when it’s 102 in the shade.

  But summer Saturdays are market days. Caitie and I were up early and out in the garden to pick and bundle up bunches of fresh basil, rosemary, dill, parsley, sage, and cilantro (not my favorite herb, but lots of people like it). Usually, I like to do the picking after the morning dew has dried, but we were pushed. By the time the raindrops and dew had dried, our market stall would be set up and the cooler of fresh herbs would be half-empty. By noon, when the market closed, every bunch of herbs would be gone and I’d be wishing we’d picked more.

  This is the farmers’ market’s second summer, and both the vendors and the shoppers are thrilled with its success. The location is especially convenient to Thyme and Seasons: across the street from the shop, in the parking lot of Dos Amigas restaurant. This morning, two of our local farms (CSAs, or community-supported agricultural enterprises) had set up double booths and were displaying an artful arrangement of organically grown summer vegetables. Donna Fletcher’s Mistletoe Creek Farm booth was especially attractive, with baskets of tomatoes, tomatillos, green beans, and red and yellow and green bell peppers; stacks of sweet-corn ears; pyramids of cantaloupes and melons; and trays of eggplant, okra, cucumbers, and summer squash. A couple of Fredericksburg peach growers were having trouble keeping up with the traffic at their booths, while other booths featured home-baked artisan breads, as well as cheese from Hill Country goats, honey from hardworking Adams County bees, and even locally brewed beers. The idea, of course, is to encourage people to develop a taste for locally grown vegetables and fruits, instead of lettuce imported from California or cheese from Wisconsin or apples from New Zealand. It’s an idea that seems to be catching on.

  Caitie and I do this every Saturday morning between May and October, so it doesn’t take us long to be ready for the early-bird customers. Leaving Becky in charge of the shop for the morning, I set up the blue plastic canopy (the Texas sun would be brutal without it), put up the shelves at the back of the stall, and covered our two tables with red-checked oilcloth. On the shelves, Caitie arranged packages of dried herbs and potpourri, handcrafted soaps and lotions, homemade herbal jellies, boxes of herbal teas, and books on growing and cooking with herbs. From the canopy, I hung several chili ristras, onions, and rosemary wreaths and swags. On the table: trays of two- and four-inch pots of herb plants: parsley, thyme, sage, bay, lamb’s ears, and artemisia—as well as a stack of copies of my own book, The China Bayles Book of Days, which always sells well at market, especially since I’m there to autograph it.

  As soon as we got set up, I phoned Gretchen at the hospital to find out how she was feeling and ask if she would agree to come and stay with us for a few days. She was better, she said, although she still had a headache.

  “And a beautiful green and purple eye,” she added ruefully. She was hesitant to accept my invitation. But when I said that Jake could stay, too, and that McQuaid and I thought her parents would say it was a good idea, she agreed.

  “Did you talk to Kitt about the situation?” I asked.

  “Yes.” There was a pause, and then she said, “Kitt and I have been thinking about this, Ms. Bayles. We’re afraid that our documentary has stirred up trouble. We can’t imagine what or why, since both of the people involved are already dead—Christine Morris and the guy who was acquitted—not to mention the prosecutor and the defense attorney. And now Dr. Prior—” Her voice trembled, then broke. “Anyway, Kitt and I have decided to drop it. We feel just terrible, like we’re to blame for what happened. And without Dr. Prior, we can’t go on.”

  “I understand why you feel that way,” I said sympathetically. “But you’re not to blame, Gretchen.”

  “But we must’ve done something.” Gretchen’s voice was full of pain. “Otherwise, Dr. Prior would still be alive.” She sniffled. “If we could only figure out what it was that we did that started all this!”

  “Maybe we can,” I said. “Let’s talk about this tonight and see what we can come up with. I’m working today, but Jake has your mom’s car. How about if I call her and ask her to pick you up when the doctor releases you?”

  Her answer was unhesitating. “Sure, it would be great if Jake could pick me up. And would it be okay if I ask Kitt to come over for the evening? Her husband had to drive up to Dallas—his mom’s in the hospital—so she’s all by herself tonight.”

  “Of course,” I replied. “We’re planning a backyard barbecue this evening. Please invite her to stay for the night if she wants to. We can put a futon mattress on the guest room floor. It’ll be an all-girls sleepover.”

  “Thanks, Ms. Bayles. I’ll tell her.” Gretchen sounded relieved. I thought I knew why.

  I was digging out the last bundle of basil for a customer when somebody said, “Good morning, China.” I turned to see Charlie Lipman, looking like Rush Limbaugh after a hard night on the town. His shoulders sagged, the pouches under his eyes sagged onto
his mottled cheeks, and his belly sagged over his belt. Charlie is no older than I am, but to look at him, you’d swear he’d already crossed over to the south side of sixty. When he occasionally remembers to smile, you can glimpse the man he used to be, before life’s disappointments turned him sour.

  I took the money for the basil, thanked the customer, and said, “Hey, Charlie. What’s up?”

  He took the unlit cigar out of his mouth. “Jes’ saw Mike,” he drawled. “He says you mebbe know somethin’ ’bout this here doc-u-ment’ry them girls’re doin’ over at the college.”

  Charlie was born to upper-class parents in a Dallas suburb, graduated at the top of his university class, and spent a year at Oxford. He speaks a polished and lawyerly English when he’s before the bar. Fishing, hunting, or hanging out at the farmers’ market, he likes to talk Texan.

  “I know a little,” I said, “but not as much as you’d like. If you want to get the story straight from the horse’s mouth, go across the street to the Crystal Cave and ask Ruby Wilcox. She was interviewed for the film.” I paused, then added, “When your client was murdered, Ruby lived down the street.”

  Charlie chewed on his cigar for a moment. “Might do that,” he acknowledged.

  I should have kept my mouth shut, but my curiosity was getting the better of me. “This hidden assets business you asked McQuaid to look into. Do you think it could have had anything to do with Morris’ murder?”

  If my question bothered him, he didn’t show it. He took the cigar out of his mouth, admired it briefly, and put it back. “Dunno,” he said. “But myself, I never thought Bowen did it. Bubba and his boys did their usual slipshod work with the evidence, or worse. And Ring-a-Ding—” He shrugged and lapsed into pure Texan. “Fella couldn’t pour piss out of a boot if the directions was written on the heel.”