Death Come Quickly

by Susan Wittig Albert

  I didn’t tell him what I had planned for tomorrow because it wasn’t actually scheduled yet, although with any luck, it would be. If I told him, he would definitely be worried.

  He’d be jealous, too.

  • • •

  KAREN Prior’s house on Steven F. Austin Drive wore a large black bow on the front door, and some thoughtful person had left a pot of white chrysanthemums and a card on the front steps. I picked them up and when Felicity came to the door, I handed them to her.

  “One of your friends left these for you,” I said soberly. “Felicity, I am so very sorry about your mother.”

  Felicity was pale and vulnerable looking, her ash-blond hair pinned on top of her head, the straggling ends curling damply around her slender neck. Barefoot, in white shorts and a ragged green T-shirt and no makeup, she looked as if she were about twelve years old.

  “Thank you,” she said and held the flowers up to her face. “People have been giving us so much. Food, flowers, everything.” She gestured toward the living room, which was banked with bouquets. “You should see the kitchen. The refrigerator is totally full. Gramma and I will never be able to eat it all.”

  “I hope your grandmother is okay,” I said quietly. I had met Karen’s mother a couple of summers ago, when she’d visited Pecan Springs. Karen had been her only daughter.

  Felicity let out a long, jerky breath and the words tumbled out with it. “She’s not okay, not really. How can she be okay? How can either of us ever be okay?”

  There wasn’t anything I could say to that, but there wasn’t time to say it, anyway. Felicity was rushing on.

  “The only way I can explain it to myself is that Mom’s luck just ran out. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and something random and horrible happened to her. Maybe the person who attacked her didn’t mean to kill her.” Another breath, this one pulled in, and more words. “But it is what it is. I guess we just have to get used to it, somehow.”

  I was long past the point of agreeing with her, even for politeness’ sake. I had already convinced myself that Karen’s death had nothing to do with luck. The person who attacked her might not have intended to kill her, true—although according to Sheila, she’d been hit more than once, and hit hard. And I was sure that their meeting was no accident. Karen had something, or knew something, that her attacker wanted or needed. Or thought he did. But of course, he—or she—could have been wrong. Karen could have been killed for . . . nothing.

  Felicity tilted her head, watching me curiously. “You wanted to look for something in Mom’s studio? Some notes, I think you said?”

  “Yes. She told Gretchen Keene and Kitt Bradley that she was making notes on material she thought they should delete from the documentary they were working on for her class. The notes could be here or in her briefcase or in her office at school.”

  Felicity looked as if she wanted to ask me why I wanted the notes, but she turned and led the way to a large, windowless room at the end of the hall—her mother’s home video studio. Two walls were lined with bookshelves and in the corner between them was a built-in desk, piled high with untidy stacks of what looked like student papers and portfolios. Karen’s brown leather briefcase sat open on the desk. A third wall of the room was a solid bank of video equipment, with several monitors and a large soundboard. She used another corner of the room for recording, so there were several cameras, a couple of mikes, and a ceiling rack of directional lighting and lights on tripods. A fourth wall was a green screen, with a couple of chairs.

  “Mom did a lot of her work here,” Felicity said. “It’s just the way she left it.” Sudden tears filled her eyes and she blinked rapidly. “Make yourself at home, Ms. Bayles. Would you like something—coffee, tea?”

  “No, thanks,” I said. “I’m hoping I can find what I’m looking for on the top of one of those stacks, so I won’t have to dig for it.”

  I had to dig. It was in the very bottom of her briefcase, jotted on the back of a used envelope from the personnel office at CTSU and luckily sticking out of her grade book. At the top was written, in Karen’s bold hand, Keene/Bradley: problematic material for discussion. Under that was written, in a brief list, four items: Bloody photo, Gibson’s suspicions, Irene Cameron—painting, Sharyn. There was a phone number at the bottom, with a 210 area code—San Antonio. And in the envelope I saw a thumb drive, neatly labeled Keene/Bradley—the copy of the raw documentary footage that Gretchen and Kitt had given her for review, I guessed.

  As I picked up the grade book, I noticed something under it—a catalog from Sotheby’s in New York, which even I, definitely nonliterate in the arts, recognized as a prominent art auction house. The catalog, dated the previous November, advertised an auction that featured Latin American art. On the cover was a painting of orange and red curtains, gracefully knotted and so realistic that I could see every last wrinkle. It was entitled Angelus, by Claudia Bravo, and was estimated to sell at auction for a minimum of $900,000.

  I suppressed a whistle at the price. Way too rich for my blood, and for Karen’s, too, I was sure. What was her interest in this catalog? There was a yellow sticky note on one of the inside pages and, curiously, I opened to it. The photograph on the page looked like the painting I had seen in the girls’ documentary, the one Kitt had said was Karen’s favorite in the Morris collection. It was María Izquierdo’s Muerte llega pronto. Death Come Quickly. The flower was Herb Robert, the herb of ill omen. It was estimated to sell for $110,000 to $125,000.

  I frowned down at the photograph. How could the painting be hanging in a private collection in Pecan Springs and be on the auction block in New York at the same time? But then, I don’t know much about art. Maybe the two paintings weren’t quite the same. After all, I’d had only a glance at the one in the documentary. The artist had probably painted several versions of the same scene, either to correct a problem or maybe just to decide which one she liked best. Artists did that sometimes, didn’t they? I remembered reading that Edgar Degas painted thirty-some studies of women taking a bath—although maybe he just liked working with nude models.

  I copied everything down and left the envelope and the thumb drive where I found it, slipping it into Karen’s grade book rather than leaving it sticking out. I also took the precaution of closing the briefcase and putting it on the floor under the desk, out of sight. I would let Sheila know what I had discovered and why I’d been looking for it. She could send someone to pick it up, if she thought it was important. But I slipped the Sotheby’s catalog into my purse. I was curious about it. I wanted another, more careful look.

  Back in the hallway, I suggested to Felicity that it might be a good idea to lock her mother’s studio and put the key in a safe place.

  She frowned. “But why—”

  I could have told her that someone might come looking for whatever it was he had wanted to find when he attacked her mother. But I didn’t.

  “Because the police may want to have a look,” I said. “I’ll let Chief Dawson know I was here. But it would be a good idea not to let anyone else in the room. You might tell your grandmother, too.”

  Felicity thought about that for a moment, a small frown deepening across her forehead. “You’re not thinking that the attack on Mom was . . .”

  She looked up at me, her gray eyes widening as she began to get a glimpse of what was behind my suggestion.

  “But it couldn’t be, Ms. Bayles!” Her hand went to her mouth. “My mother has never done anything that somebody might want to kill her for! What possible reason could there be?”

  I wondered whether it was easier for Felicity to believe that her mother had been the victim of random bad luck than to think she might have been deliberately targeted.

  “You’re most likely right,” I replied gently. I wanted to say that the reason, if there was one, was locked inside the skull of a killer. But she didn’t need to hear that, not right now. �
�We don’t know for certain, though, do we? So let’s just play it safe.”

  She nodded hesitantly. “I guess,” she said, although I wasn’t entirely sure she was persuaded.

  I left her on the porch, holding a large basket of cake and cookies that had appeared beside the front door. I went out to my car and called Blackie. He was at the hospital, waiting for Sheila to be released. She was doing better, he said, but she’d still have to stay in bed.

  I briefly sketched out the situation and suggested that he ask Sheila to send somebody over to the Prior house to put a police seal on the door to Karen’s video studio, and a strip of crime scene tape on the front of the house. That would go a long way to deter a possible break-in. And Sheila wouldn’t have to get out of bed to do it. A simple phone call would take care of the job.

  Blackie agreed but gave me the same line I’d heard from McQuaid. “This is police business, China.” He didn’t say Buzz off, but I heard the warning in his voice.

  I have learned that it’s useless to argue with cops or ex-cops on this subject. Law enforcement types (and Blackie and McQuaid certainly fit the description) do not like civilians messing around in what they regard as their business. But there’s a limit to what the law can do and do well, and the smartest cops (and ex-cops) understand that, somewhere down deep in the recesses of their cop hearts.

  So I said, with a smile in my voice, “Tell Sheila I’ll update her this evening. Okay?”

  I hung up before he could tell me I should go home and make lunch for my husband and kids.

  • • •

  FLORABELLE Gibson and Mimi the foul-tempered Pekinese live in a one-bedroom apartment in a seniors-only complex on Buchanan Drive, on the south side of Pecan Springs, not far from the river. The apartment is on the second floor, with a quilt-sized balcony bright with blooming geraniums, with pots of basil, lemon verbena, and straggly lemon balm, along the railing, where they could catch the sun.

  I rang the little brass button beside the door and heard, from inside, Florabelle’s quavery voice. “Is that you, China?”

  “Yep, it’s me,” I said pleasantly.

  “Well, then, come on in. I’d get up and open the door for you but my feet are killin’ me.”

  The draperies were drawn against the July sunshine and the room was dim. But it was light enough to see that Kitt’s camera had been exceedingly kind to Florabelle. She had gained weight since the last time she was in the shop, and in person, she was even heavier than she had appeared in the video. She was sitting on the sofa, surrounded by crocheted pillows. Her face was puffy and sallow, as if she hadn’t been sleeping well. Her blue-white hair was covered with a hairnet decorated with colorful ribbon butterflies, and she wore a gaudy red-and-green-print cotton housecoat with red buttons the size of silver dollars. The loose garment did nothing to conceal her enormous bosom and outsize white thighs, unattractively visible because her feet were propped on a hassock in front of her. She wore men’s white socks and no shoes. Her swollen ankles were the diameter of small trees. Next to the sofa, within arm’s reach, was an aluminum walker. I felt immediate compassion for her.

  “China Bayles, honey, you are a sight for sore eyes!” she cried happily, holding out her hand. “So glad you dropped in to see me!”

  Mimi the Peke with pique, on the other hand, was not thrilled at the idea of a stranger (more or less) intruding into her private domain. She crouched in a wing chair that obviously belonged to her and told me so in two sharp warning barks, followed by a muttered snarl, just to make sure I got the message.

  I opened my shoulder bag and took out the small, ribbon-wrapped package I had picked up on my way out of the house that morning. I handed it to Florabelle. “I remembered that you used to buy this lavender bath oil when you came into the shop.”

  It wasn’t a bribe, exactly. More like a little friendship offering. But I did hope it might make her a little more willing to talk to me.

  “Oh, thank you!” she cooed and untied the ribbon. She held up the bottle. “How’d you know I was completely out? I would’ve come to the shop to buy some, but I’m not getting around as much as I used to. I have to wait for somebody to take me, because I can’t drive, with my ankles all swelled the way they are.” She nodded toward the small kitchen, separated from the living room by a counter. “After you called, I stirred us up some lemonade—with a little snipped lemon balm in it. It’s in the fridge and the glasses are in the cupboard on the right, over the sink. Would you mind getting us a glass apiece?” She grimaced. “It’s my bad luck to be stuck on this couch. I can cook my meals and do the housework, what little there is of it, with just me and Mimi. But once my feet are up, the rest of me likes to just sit.”

  “I feel that way sometimes, too,” I said. I went into the kitchen, got out the pitcher of lemonade, and found ice cubes in a tray in the small refrigerator freezer. On the four-burner gas stove, there was a pot of simmering chicken, with some carrots and potatoes peeking out. A head of cabbage and bag of celery were on the counter.

  “Want me to put the cabbage and celery in the fridge?” I asked.

  “Oh, did I leave them out? I was making some chicken soup for supper. That’s something I can eat on for three, four days, once I get a pot of it made. Yes, please do put them away, dear.”

  Pouring the lemonade, I said, in a conversational tone, “I had a chance to see you on film yesterday. I’m a friend of Kitt Bradley. She showed me the video she made of you and Mimi.”

  Florabelle’s eyes brightened. “Oh, that!” she said, waving her hand. The ribbon butterflies bobbed on her hairnet. “Mimi dearly loves being on camera. Did she look pretty?”

  “Beautiful,” I said, putting the glass on the table beside Florabelle, being careful to stay well outside of Mimi’s snapping range. “Her green bow exactly matched your dress.”

  “See there, Mimi?” Florabelle said happily. She leaned toward the dog and patted its head gently. “This lady says you looked beautiful.” Mimi did not seem terribly impressed.

  “Nice that you noticed her hair bow,” Florabelle said to me. “Mimi does like to dress up a little, when she’s got somebody to admire her. I’m afraid she gets bored, just the two of us here all day, all by our lonesomes, with nothing to do but watch television.” She sipped her lemonade, then put down the glass. “That filming session was just real . . . interesting. Made me remember all kinds of stuff.” She shook her head. “Poor Mr. Bowen. He sure got the short end of the stick in that situation. Real bad luck.” Another head shake. “He’s dead now, y’know.”

  “That’s what Ruby Wilcox told me,” I said quietly. “Somebody else said it was suicide.”

  “Ruby.” Florabelle smiled. “Now, there’s somebody I like and don’t see near enough of. Next time you see her, tell her Florabelle would love it if she would drop in for a visit. If she’s got the time, she could bring her tarot cards and do a layout for me. I’d really like to get a peek at what’s around the next corner. Ruby is so good at that. She—”

  “I’ll tell her.” I cut her off, wondering what was behind the nervous chatter. “Suicide,” I repeated. “Was that what you heard, too?”

  Florabelle didn’t quite meet my glance. “Suicide is what Frank Donnelly put in the paper, because that’s what the police said. He put it on the front page, too, even though it happened over there in Houston.” She took an uneven breath. “And if you’re asking me for my personal opinion, no, I have to say that I didn’t believe it happened that way. Frank didn’t, either. He told me so. Real upset about it, he was. Can’t say I blame him.”

  “My goodness,” I said. I was surprised. “But if it wasn’t suicide, then how—”

  Now that she had gotten started, she was going on, with a rush. “The thing that made up Frank’s mind, y’see, was that Mr. Bowen didn’t leave a note for him or let on in any way whatsoever that he was thinking of doing something so s
erious as killin’ himself. Frank just kept saying that, over and over. ‘Dick would’ve cued me in,’ he’d say. ‘He wouldn’t leave like that without saying good-bye to me.’” She looked down at her pudgy fingers, pausing delicately, selecting a neutral phrase. “Frank and Mr. Bowen were . . . best friends, y’see.”

  “Ah,” I said and nodded. “Ah, yes, that’s what Ruby said.”

  She sighed. “Of course, everybody knew what was going on between them. But back then, folks didn’t talk about s-e-x the way they do now. Gay marriage and all, right out in the open. Which is good, if you’re asking me for my opinion. To each his own is the way I see it.” She cast a pious look upward. “Whichever way God made us, that’s whichever way we are, and He wouldn’t want us trying to change it.”

  “I heard it was carbon monoxide poisoning,” I said. “Mr. Bowen sat in his car in a closed garage with the motor running. But you don’t think that’s how it happened?”

  Florabelle eyed me for a moment, as if she were deciding how much to say. “Well, that’s the way they found him,” she said at last. “Sitting in his car in that garage, stone-cold dead, and his car outta gas, after running for who knows how long, hours probably.” She stopped, biting her lip.

  “I see,” I said encouragingly, and waited for the but.

  After a moment, she came out with it, in a different, edgier voice. “But that’s not to say that he got in that car on purpose, you know. In order to kill himself, I mean. Somebody else could have put him there, couldn’t they? Not saying somebody did,” she added hastily, correcting herself. “Just saying they could have. Of course I might be wrong.” She picked up her glass and swigged the lemonade. When she put it down, her fingers slipped and it clattered on the tabletop. “But I don’t think so.”

  Well. This was too big to deal with right now. I filed it away to consider later and went on to the issue I had come to discuss.