She shook her head. “Just that it makes sense. But I guess that’s not evidence.”
It wasn’t. “And Bowen’s suicide. Do you have any specific reason to suspect that it was . . . something else?”
Another head shake, a regretful one this time. “I wish I did have a reason. I would really like to know what happened to Mr. Bowen—and if somebody killed him, I’d like to see the killer pay.” She gave me a long and penetrating look. “If you can come up with anything in what I’ve told you that helps you find out who mugged your friend, why, you can add a whole lot better than I can. I don’t see it, myself.”
Mimi, sensing that we had come to the end of the conversation, stood up, stretched, and gave a sharp, commanding bark.
I got Mimi’s message. It was time I left.
Chapter Nine
In Mexico, marigolds are known as flor de los muertos, the flower of the dead. According to legend, they sprang up from soil stained by the blood of the unlucky victims of the early Spanish explorers. Today, Mexican families visit the cemeteries where their loved ones are buried, bringing offerings of marigolds and other flowers, food, and drink. The orange and yellow flowers, like the rays of the sun, are thought to lift the souls of the dead so they can feast on the offerings. Marigolds were said to bring good luck.
China Bayles
“Herbs of Ill and Good Omen”
Pecan Springs Enterprise
When I parked the car in Florabelle’s lot, I had cracked the windows and put up one of those folding sunshades that keep the sun out. But while the shade may block the light, it doesn’t do much about heat. Getting into my little Toyota was like climbing into a solar oven. I folded the shade and stowed it, rolled down the windows, turned on the engine, and powered up the air conditioner. I’d let it run for a while until the heat buildup in the car had dissipated.
And I’d take a moment to replay my conversation with Florabelle Gibson and consider what I had just heard. When I’d made arrangements to see her, I was on a fishing expedition. In the video, she had intimated that she knew something, but frankly, I had pegged her as somebody who was trying to boost her sense of self-importance by pretending to know more than she did. What I had found was something altogether different. Florabelle might be lonely and in ill health, but she knew more, remembered more, and suspected more than I could possibly have guessed. She had a story to tell and she was pleased to have an audience. But how much of what she had said was reliably informative? How many of her suspicions had any factual foundation?
For starters, I was convinced that she was telling the truth about the bribery. I remembered something Johnnie had said. His client was innocent of the murder, he had insisted, but “not exactly pure, which is another part of the story.” Was he talking about the corruption? A careful investigation of the city records from that era might turn up some affirming evidence, if somebody knew the right places to look. But to what end? I didn’t see how any of that old business could have any connection to the attack on Karen.
And while Florabelle’s claim that Clark had murdered his ex-wife might be credible, it looked, at least from this distance, impossible to prove—unless, of course, Johnnie had offered Clark as his alternative suspect and documented the evidence in his case file. Otherwise, while there might be a motive (the hidden assets, assuming they had existed), there wasn’t a single sliver of evidence. All I had was what-ifs and maybes. The police must have immediately considered the ex-husband a prime suspect, especially since there had been a nasty divorce. If they had done even a half-competent job, they would have checked the man’s alibi for the night of the murder.
On the other hand, the lead investigator had seriously compromised the existing evidence, so there was plenty of reason to suspect police incompetence. And Clark might have hired somebody to do the killing for him. But that theory was as suppositional as everything else. No facts, no evidence, no proof—unless I could find something in Johnnie’s trial notes. And once again, no connection to Karen, as far as I could see.
The same thing was true about Florabelle’s idea that Clark had framed Bowen for the killing. Obviously, someone had framed him—that is, if Bowen hadn’t committed the crime himself. But unless Johnnie had come up with something, there was no evidence that it was Clark who had framed him. No wonder Florabelle hadn’t gone to the police. She had nothing at all on which to base any accusation.
And then there was her notion that Bowen hadn’t committed suicide, which was as unfounded as anything else. I had to admit that it was intriguing, but—
My cell phone rang. It took a moment to fish it out of my bag and see Ruby’s ID. “Hey, Ruby,” I said. “What’s up?”
In her usual Ruby way, she plunged right into it. “China, I’ve been thinking about Karen—and about the possible connections between her murder and the documentary. And a lot of other stuff, too.”
A lot of other stuff. I picture the interior of Ruby’s mind as something like a large crystal ball, with ghostly images forming out of the pearly shadows, taking on luminescent shapes and disappearing, then reappearing in another form. Ruby is an intuitive. She doesn’t think logically. Her mind leaps from apples to soccer balls to kids’ dirty uniforms to milk and chocolate chip cookies after the game. But she comes up with some startling insights, based on ways of knowing that are entirely unlike any standard linear logic. For Ruby, two plus two can just as easily equal 104—and more often than not, she’s right. I make it a habit to listen to her.
“So I called Sharyn Tillotson,” she concluded.
“Sharyn Tillotson?” I asked, drawing a blank. Then, “Oh, Christine Morris’ cousin.” Ruby had mentioned her earlier, and I had copied her name from the list in Karen Prior’s briefcase.
“Right,” Ruby said. “Sharyn and I knew one another back in high school. We haven’t kept up with each other’s lives, but you might call us friendly acquaintances. I think I told you that she manages the Morris Foundation, which operates the museum. She chairs the board of directors.”
“Uh-huh.” The air conditioner was beginning to cool the car. I chased out an inquisitive bee and rolled up the windows.
“We talked for a bit on the phone. It turns out that Sharyn is our go-to girl for information about the Morris Museum. She seems to know more about it than anyone. And maybe I didn’t mention it, but Karen was on the museum board.”
“I heard that last night, from Kitt and Gretchen,” I said. “Seems to be a connection there.”
“I could talk to Sharyn by myself,” Ruby went on, “but I really think it would be better if both of us saw her. She’s offered to give us a tour of the museum this afternoon, but only if we can get there by twelve thirty or quarter of one. She has something she has to do at three. And she’ll be out of town all next week.”
The museum. Which also happened to be the place where Christine Morris was killed, next door to Dick Bowen’s house.
“Sure,” I said. “Let’s do it.” I was supposed to see Paul Cameron at three or three thirty, so a tour of the museum would fill the empty hours between now and then. I looked at my watch. It was not quite twelve, and I hadn’t had anything to eat since breakfast. It would be nice to sit down to a leisurely lunch with Ruby, but there wasn’t time. “I’m only about twenty minutes away from the museum. How about if I pick up a quick bite to eat, then meet you there?”
“Super. Oh, and by the way,” Ruby added, “I didn’t think it would be a good idea to tell Sharyn why we’re curious about the place. So I made up a cover story.”
“A cover story?”
“You know,” she said impatiently. “A reason for the two of us to invite ourselves to the museum this afternoon. I told her that you were generously considering donating your time—and the plants—for an herb garden at the museum. A garden of lovely Mexican herbs. She was ecstatic at the idea, China. After your garden is up and growing, she wants to give a par
ty to celebrate it. She thinks it could be an excellent fund-raiser.”
“An herb garden!” I squawked. “Ruby, I don’t have time for—”
“Never mind, dear,” Ruby said in a soothing voice. “I didn’t say you were actually going to do it. I said you were considering it. You can consider it and decide not to, can’t you? Or you can consider it and suggest it to the herb guild. I’ll bet they’d be glad to take it on as a project. I also suggested to Sharyn that we knew of someone who might be interested in donating to the museum. Donating cash, that is.”
“Honestly, Ruby—”
“Well, we do.”
“Well, who?”
“My sister, that’s who. Ramona has scads of money.” That was true. Ruby’s sister, Ramona, got the best divorce deal in the whole wide world. She’s been trying to buy a business, but she hasn’t yet figured out which one to buy. Ruby added, “Giving her money to worthy causes makes Ramona feel good about herself. I thought if Sharyn believed we had a possible donor on the hook, she’d be more willing to talk to us. And tell us more.”
“Ruby,” I said severely, “you are so wicked.”
“I know,” she said in a modest tone. “Sometimes I surprise myself.”
• • •
THE Taco Bell was the nearest fast-food emporium, so I zipped through the drive-up and got a chicken burrito and a medium diet iced tea. I wolfed it down, realizing how hungry I was and thinking that when you’re hungry, even fast food is good, particularly Tex-Mex fast food. While I was eating, I thought of something else I needed to do, and now was the right time to do it. I licked the salsa and sour cream off my fingers, pulled Aaron Brooks’ business card out of my wallet, and flipped open my cell phone. When he picked up, I said brightly, “Hi, Aaron. It’s China. China Bayles. A voice from the past.”
His chuckle was just as I remembered it, as warm and rich as a cup of chocolate on a chilly evening. “Yo, China. You sound very present to me. What’s up? Are you in town? Will we have a chance to get together? I hope so.”
Aaron always makes me smile. We have seen each other only sporadically over the years since I left the law, moved to Pecan Springs, and married McQuaid. But on the rare occasions when we’ve managed to get together, it’s as if we haven’t been apart for more than, oh, an hour or two. Instant connectivity, its warmth and engagement essentially unchanged from the last time we connected. I have no idea whether Aaron has that kind of relationship with other women. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he does, dozens of them. But that’s none of my business. We have it, and I was planning to exploit it, shamelessly.
“I’m not in town yet, Aaron,” I said, “but I’m planning to drive over tomorrow—that is, if I can see you. I have a huge favor to ask.”
“Hey, wow, tomorrow? That’s wonderful, China!” There was no hesitation at all. “I’m in court first thing in the morning, but I’ll be back in the office by ten. Will you be alone, or will Mike be with you? How about lunch?” Then a slight pause, perhaps for breath, but still no uncertainty. “I hope it’s a favor I can deliver on.”
“I’ll be alone,” I said. “I’ll need to get back to Pecan Springs at a reasonable hour—the kids are at home this summer—but I’d love lunch. Thanks. And yes, I hope you can deliver, too. It’s maybe a little dicey, on your end.”
I told him what it was. When I finished, he was quiet for a moment, processing. I pictured him raising one blond eyebrow, pursing his lips, frowning. In his midforties now, Aaron is a Robert Redford lookalike—that is, the way Robert Redford looked when he was in his forties, which in my opinion was totally yummy. No wonder Aaron makes a girl’s heart pound. Even a married girl. But this was business and I love being married. I told my heart to stop acting as if it belonged to the ingénue in a chick-lit romance.
“Look, Aaron,” I said, “if you’re nervous about doing this—confidentiality and all that—maybe you should go through Johnnie’s notes yourself. He was your partner, after all, so there couldn’t be any serious objection. I could tell you more definitively what I’m looking for. If you see something you think might help, you could—”
“Nah.” He broke in. “That’s not necessary, China. The issue of privilege is moot. You probably don’t know this, but Johnnie’s client in that case—I forget his name—is dead. He checked out a few months before Johnnie died. The old car-in-the-closed-garage trick. As I recall, there were no surviving relatives.”
“Bowen,” I said. “Richard Bowen. And yes, I’ve been told about his death.” I paused and added, offhandedly, “I’ve also been told, by someone who says she knew him pretty well, that suicide was unlikely. Do you have any information about that?”
Information, that was what I was after. Not suspicions or hunches, but facts—although Bowen’s death was only tangentially related to my main purpose for making this trip: getting a look at whatever Johnnie Carlson had included in his trial notes about his alternative suspect.
But of course, it might be a wild-goose chase. Johnnie’s notes could be incomplete, or his theory wildly off the mark. When the case permits, every defense lawyer will attempt to introduce an alternative suspect in order to create a reasonable doubt, and the attempt is often built on flimsy evidence. Johnnie’s evidence, whatever it had been, might not have been relevant to the Morris murder. And there might be no connection at all to Karen’s death. In fact, now that I thought about it, I wondered why I imagined that the two were related in the first place. I could be wasting the whole day—except for seeing Aaron again, of course, which would be rather nice. Perhaps you could call it a wild-gander chase.
“Oh, yes, Bowen,” Aaron said thoughtfully. “No, I don’t have any information about that. He died a couple of weeks before Johnnie, as I remember it. I do know that Johnnie had stayed in touch with him—I think he even helped him locate the house he bought, here in Houston.” He paused. “Okay. I’ll have the case file out for you so you can get started on it when you arrive. You can read it in the office, or copy and take whatever you like. What time, do you think?”
Houston is two and a half hours from Pecan Springs. If I could get out of the house right after breakfast—
“Maybe I can make it by ten,” I hazarded. “Or shortly after, depending on the traffic, of course.” You can never predict Houston traffic. I don’t know how one stalled car or one minor fender bender can shut down three lanes of a four-lane freeway and back traffic up for miles, but it happens. Frequently. And by the time you finally get to the point of the slowdown, the dramatic event that strangled the flow of traffic has been magically erased. All that’s left are the skid marks. You never get to see what happened.
“Super,” he said, with evident satisfaction. “Skip breakfast and come hungry. Remember that café you used to like so much? Tiny Boxwood’s, at that garden center? Let’s go there and grab some quiet time. We’ve got a lot to talk about.”
His voice held the smile—dimpled, just a little on the shy side—that was famous for warming the cockles of the coldest juror’s heart.
It certainly warmed mine.
• • •
RUBY was waiting when I got there. She was dressed as if for a garden party, in a summery short-sleeved floral print dress and white sandals, with a white stretchy band around her frizzed carrot-orange hair. She eyed me. “You’re not wearing your jeans,” she said, noting my denim wraparound skirt with approval.
“It’s Sunday,” I said. “And this is uptown.” I looked at the house and whistled. “Definitely uptown.”
It’s relatively easy to find houses like the Morris house in Austin, especially out in West Lake Hills. Here in Pecan Springs, not so much. It had probably cost close to a million dollars to build back when Doug Clark gave it to his bride. It was likely worth three times that now, or more. The architecture was striking, white windowless boxes stacked next to and on top of boxes, with a second-floor wing cantilev
ered out to one side, under a flying saucer roof. It dwarfed the nearby houses, making them look tired and anachronistic. It was no surprise that the neighbors were outraged when it was built, although they might have a different idea about it these days, especially now that the landscaping was in place. And the fact that it was now a private museum probably raised the property values across the neighborhood, rather than otherwise.
Sharyn Tillotson, the foundation president and chair of the museum board, met us at the front door, a heavy, carved oak affair that looked as if it had come out of a Mexican cathedral. I recognized her from the documentary: a solid-framed, striking woman, rather tall, neatly dressed in white summer slacks and a silky blouse, with an antique silver Mexican medallion necklace that matched her silver earrings. She wore low white heels and her brown hair was pulled back into a bun at the nape of her neck and skewered with a pin that matched the silver medallions. She had a square jaw, almost masculine, and a firm mouth that looked as if smiling might be a challenge.
But she was smiling now, as she should be, since Ruby had led her to believe that she knew someone who might give the museum some money—and that I was eager to install an herb garden on the museum property. Sharyn especially wanted to let me know that this was a very good idea.
“Let’s go around to the plaza,” she said, in a voice that was deep for a woman, with almost the resonance of a man’s. “I know the perfect place for an herb garden, in a corner next to the rose garden.” Over her shoulder, she added, “We’ve been thinking of converting the plaza into an outdoor dining area. We do occasionally invite our donors to join us for parties and other fund-raising events. A garden of Mexican herbs would fit beautifully into what we have in mind.”
I had to admit that the corner was lovely. The big chain-link fence was history now, replaced by a dense yaupon holly hedge that separated the museum from what had once been the Bowen house. It was already too hot for roses, but a few stragglers were still in bloom. I could picture a garden that would include at least a dozen herbs, and probably more, since many herbs that are native to Mexico are native to Texas, as well. A garden would require very little maintenance—far less than those roses, which really didn’t belong here in this setting. I rattled off a few of the herbs that came to mind, the familiar ones: marigold, prickly pear cactus, lemon verbena, cumin, Mexican oregano, cilantro, epazote, papaloquelite, Mexican tarragon, basil, peppers, and hoja santa, the Mexican root beer plant.
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