Death Come Quickly

by Susan Wittig Albert

  “I thought maybe I could lure you up to Pecan Springs for supper,” I said. The family was already managing without me.

  There was a brief hesitation, and I knew I had her. The Whiz hates to go home to an empty apartment. She hates eating her own cooking even worse. “Got a good restaurant up there?” she asked. “How about that cowboy place?”

  “Beans’ Bar and Grill,” I said. “I’ll treat you to one of Bob Godwin’s chicken-fried steaks.”

  Bob’s chicken-fried is famous across the Hill Country, smothered in cream gravy, with French fries, fried onion rings, and Texas toast on the side. Down-home comfort food, loaded with carbs, fat, and salt, swaddled in country music, and basted with the unforgettable eau de Beans’ blend of mesquite-stoked barbecue fire, tobacco smoke, and beer.

  “Chicken-fried,” she mused. I could see her frowning. “What’s the catch?” she asked warily.

  “A consultation,” I said. “With a potential client.” Under the circumstances, we might have to hold the consultation in my car, parked in Dolores and Jerry’s driveway.

  “What client?” She was suspicious. “It’s not Sally again, I hope.”

  “Nuh-uh. Remember that artist we were talking about? The one whose name you got from your informant there in San Antonio?”

  “The art forger?”

  “That client.”

  “Aha! You’ve been working the case, Hot Shot.” This was said triumphantly. Justine likes it when she thinks I’m throwing my lawyer’s hat back in the ring.

  “A little,” I acknowledged. “Come on up and I’ll tell you about it. If you enjoy stories about art fraud, conspiracy, and murder, this will light your fire.” When I’m talking to the Whiz, I tend to adopt her vocabulary, which is not necessarily a good thing.

  “Murder, huh? I get Beans’ chicken-fried, along with the art fraud and murder?”

  “And conspiracy. And then you can meet the client and hear her side of it.”

  “Has she talked to the police?”

  “The police don’t know anything about her.” Yet. Sheila was next on my to-do list. “But of course, she needs a smart lawyer with her when she’s prepped and ready to talk.” I paused. “Of course, if you’re too busy, there’s always Charlie Lipman—”

  “Ha!” The Whiz snorted derisively. “That hick.”

  “Excellent,” I said. “How soon can you get here?”

  “Maybe an hour, hour and twenty,” the Whiz said. “I’ve got a couple of things to wrap up here first.”

  “See you at Beans’ in an hour and twenty,” I said and flipped the phone closed. It was time to talk to Sheila.

  • • •

  BLACKIE’S big gray Dodge pickup was parked behind the chief’s black Chevy Impala in the driveway of their two-story frame house on Hickory. I parked at the curb, tucked Irene’s painting under my arm, and went up the walk to knock on the front door. Blackie opened it, his car keys in his hand.

  “Hey, China,” he said. “I guess you got the word, huh?”

  Ex-sheriff Blackie Blackwell is proof of the old adage that you can take the guy out of the force, but you can’t take the force out of the guy. He’s quintessentially cop and as square as they come—square shoulders, square chin, square jaw. He’s let his sandy hair grow a little longer now that he’s out of uniform and he’s working on a beard and a mustache. But when I see him, I almost expect us to snap our heels and trade salutes.

  “Ruby told me,” I said. “I’m sorry, Blackie. Very sorry.”

  “I know.” His face softened. “But we can make another baby. Sheila’s okay, and that’s the most important thing.”

  “Where is she?” I asked. “I need to talk to her—tonight, I’m afraid. It’s a police matter.”

  Blackie frowned at me. “She’s upstairs in bed, asleep. Are you sure it can’t wait until tomorrow?”

  “I’m awake,” came a voice down the stairs. A strong, clear voice. An impatient voice. “Is that China? Tell her to come on up.”

  Blackie and I looked at each other and shook our heads. He grinned helplessly and shrugged.

  “You can’t keep a good woman down,” I said and headed for the stairs, carrying the painting.

  Blackie raised his voice. “She’s on her way, Sheila. And I’m headed out for the pizza. If you think of anything else you want while I’m gone, phone me.” He whistled and a burly Rottweiler with a wolfish grin skidded out of the kitchen. “Rambo, you want to go for a ride?”

  Rambo and I are old friends. I paused to give him a hug and he gave me a slurpy kiss in return. A PSPD K-9 officer, he works the day shift sniffing for drugs—nights, too, when he’s called out. He added another slurp, this one to my nose, then went barreling after Blackie. Rambo sees it as his sacred duty to ride shotgun every time one of his people gets into a vehicle. And when Rambo decides to take on an assignment, it’s not wise to interfere. Stubborn is his middle name.

  Sheila was lying against the pillows with her iPad on her lap, wearing a sexy red nightgown, her blond hair hanging loose around her shoulders. Her knees were bent and propped up with pillows. The bedroom television set was tuned to the PBS NewsHour. She flicked the remote to turn it off and Gwen Ifill disappeared. On the table beside the bed was a crystal vase filled with perky daisies and a glass of water, a flexible straw stuck in it.

  “So this is what an off-duty police chief looks like.” I propped the painting against the wall and pulled up a chair beside the bed. “How are you feeling, Smart Cookie?”

  She made a face. “Like somebody’s been digging around in my belly with a blunt instrument. Sore. Bloated, too. But the doc tells me I can go back to the office in three or four days, as long as I promise not to chase any crooks.” She gestured toward her laptop, on a desk on the other side of the room, beside a carton of papers and files. “Connie brought me some of the paperwork from my in-box.” Connie Paige is Sheila’s assistant.

  “Yikes,” I said. “That looks like a month’s supply.”

  “One day,” Sheila said with a groan. “Just one friggin’ day. The paperwork in this job is a killer.”

  I cleared my throat. “I’m sorry, Sheila,” I said quietly. “About the baby. I know how excited you were.”

  “Yeah.” She sighed. “We’re sorry, too. We would have done whatever we could to keep this from happening, but we couldn’t.” She gave a little shrug. “Anyway, it’ll give me a chance to get the department’s pregnancy policy in shape. I’m making that a high priority.”

  “Pretty daisies,” I said, glancing at the vase. “From Blackie?”

  “From Ruby. She picked them in her garden.” She squinted at the painting. “I don’t mean to look a gift horse in the mouth, China, but if that’s for me, I’m afraid it doesn’t fit my décor. I don’t think Blackie would be crazy about it, either.”

  “Would it change your mind,” I said, “if I told you that the last time Sotheby’s sold a painting with this signature on it, it went for a million six?”

  “You’re kidding,” she said incredulously. “A million six?” She looked at me, frowning. “You’re not kidding.”

  “I’m not kidding,” I said. “A million six is a pretty hefty motive for a murder, don’t you think? Two murders, even.”

  It took almost a half hour to tell the whole story, start to finish. I omitted the part about Ruby’s not being able to see the painting. Sheila is one of Ruby’s dearest friends, but she’s even more skeptical of her psychic abilities than I am.

  When I got to the end of the tale, Sheila simply shook her head. “So what you’re telling me is that this art dealer from San Antonio murdered Christine Morris, then looted her art collection by selling the real paintings and substituting forgeries.”

  “Something like that,” I said. “Although he may have been selling forgeries as well. The artist—Irene Cameron—should be ab
le to tell you how many paintings she produced for him and what the subjects were. She might be of help in tracking them down.” I doubted that the Pecan Springs Police Department had the resources for an art fraud investigation, though. They’d probably have to use the feds for that. “And you’ll want to take a look at the transcript of the hearing that excluded the alternative suspect,” I added. “Johnnie Carlson, Bowen’s defense lawyer, had testimony that put Soto on the scene on the night of the murder and information that disputed Soto’s alibi. I can get you a copy of his notes on that. But unless there’s some forensic evidence that isn’t referenced in the case files, there’s not going to be enough to take Soto to trial on that one. In my opinion,” I added. “You might think differently, once you get into the investigation.”

  Sheila nodded. “What about Tillotson? Was she involved in the Morris murder? Or the forgery scheme?”

  “She’s certainly in a position to have known about the murder,” I said, “and to have had a hand in it, as well. What’s more, she has profited handsomely. She’s living in the house, she’s managing the collection, and she appears to be sleeping with her cousin’s lover.”

  “Hang on a minute.” Sheila started to reach down to adjust the pillows under her knees, then winced.

  “Want me to do that?” I got up and pushed the pillows around until Sheila said, “That’s good, thanks.” I sat back down again. “In my opinion,” I added, “if Tillotson doesn’t know what’s been going on, she must be blind as a bat in a blizzard.”

  “Okay, murder number two.” Sheila frowned. “You think Soto killed Karen Prior when she began to suspect that the paintings in the collection weren’t the real thing. Is that it?”

  “Yeah. Karen had done a documentary on art fraud, which might have alerted her to what was going on—and then she saw the painting in the Sotheby’s auction catalog and the same, or a similar painting in the Morris collection. Irene Cameron can testify to the exchange she heard—Soto telling Tillotson that he thought he might have to kill Karen to keep her quiet. With a little luck, you can use Irene Cameron to get to Tillotson and Tillotson to get to Soto.” It’s the standard strategy that DAs use in conspiracy cases. On the basis of Cameron’s information, Tillotson could be charged as a coconspirator, then offered a plea in return for testimony against Soto. She might be in love with the guy, but she’d struck me as a practical woman. She would no doubt rat him out in return for a lighter sentence.

  “You make it sound so easy.” Grimacing, Sheila moved her hips, shifting her position. “We might win a few more convictions, Counselor, if you would stop fooling around with that shop of yours and come to work in the DA’s office.”

  “Not on your life,” I said fervently. “And I didn’t mean to make it sound easy. It would be more of a sure thing if there were some way to link Soto to the attack on Karen.”

  “There just might be,” Sheila said.

  I raised both eyebrows. “Oh, yeah?”

  “There’s a partial palm print on the top of Prior’s car, on the driver’s side, and a partial thumbprint on the driver’s-side door. It doesn’t belong to the victim or to her daughter. Now that we have a suspect—”

  “Great!” I said. “After you’ve talked to Irene Cameron, you’ll have enough to pick him up and get his prints. Let’s hope for a match.”

  “Let’s hope.” Sheila shifted again. “I hate to ask you, but would you mind helping me get to the bathroom? I have to pee and I’m not sure I trust myself to get there under my own steam.”

  “What? Superwoman can’t pee by herself?” I grinned down at her sheer red nightie. “I see the problem, girl. You’ve traded your cape and tights for a Victoria’s Secret. How do you expect to save a dying universe dressed like Barbie?”

  Sheila gritted her teeth. “You wait until you’re in this situation, China Bayles,” she growled. “Just see if I come and help you.”

  “I’m helping, I’m helping,” I protested and pulled the coverlet back. “Come on, sweetie, swing your legs over the edge of the bed.”

  I put an arm around her and she pushed herself off the bed slowly, with a low moan. “And they call this ‘Band-Aid surgery,’” she muttered, leaning dizzily on my arm as we made our way slowly to the bathroom. “Hurts like hell.”

  “Must’ve been a guy who invented that term,” I said sympathetically.

  She made a low sound. “If it hurts like this not to have a baby, I wonder how it feels to have one.”

  “One little challenge at a time,” I said. “First, we pee. Later, babies.”

  In the bathroom, she sat down on the toilet. “I have to but I can’t,” she said after a minute, screwing up her face.

  “Warm water.” I filled a glass at the tap and handed it to her. “Try this. Works every time.”

  She poured, then gave a sigh of relief. “Yes. Oh, yes,” she said happily, handing me the glass. “Oh, yes.”

  I began to laugh. “If the guys at the station house could see you now, Smart Cookie, they would pee their pants.”

  She giggled, laughed, then gasped. “Oh, stop, China,” she moaned. “I can’t laugh! It hurts!”

  Back in bed again, she lay down and let me adjust the pillows under her knees. “Want some water?” I asked and got a fresh glass from the bathroom for her.

  Sipping through the straw, she said, “That letter from Richard Bowen. It sounds as if there was no suicide. Douglas Clark killed him—or had him killed.”

  “That’s where I’d put my money,” I said and sat down again. “But we’ll have to wait for Houston Homicide to take a look at that letter and move to reopen the case. Which they probably won’t do unless their initial investigation turned up some forensic evidence. Fingerprints, hair, DNA, fiber—something that would tie Clark to the scene, once they can attempt to get matches.” I glanced at the clock on the bedside table and saw what time it was. “One more thing, Sheila, friend to friend. Justine Wyzinski is interviewing Irene Cameron tonight. I think she’ll take her on as a client.”

  Sheila wrinkled her nose. She’s encountered Justine before. “You couldn’t get Cameron a date with the local talent?”

  I laughed. “Justine has had dealings with Soto and is aware of the art fraud background in this case. She’ll be up to speed before Charlie can find a clean white shirt.”

  “Speed is Wyzinski’s middle name,” Sheila said dryly.

  “Actually, it’s the Whiz,” I said. “Same idea. Of course, it depends on how Justine sees the situation. But I’m hoping she’ll bring Irene to the station tomorrow, as a cooperating witness. It would be good if someone there was prepared to talk to her. I’ll be glad to brief him—or her—on what I know.”

  “Jack Bartlett,” Sheila said. “I’ll talk to him first thing in the morning. You can be reached?”

  I know and like Bartlett, who is head of the detective unit. “Have Jack try my cell. I’ll be at the shop.” I stood up, then bent over and kissed Sheila lightly on top of her head. “I’m sorry about the baby,” I said again, “but glad you’re okay.”

  “I’ll be a lot better,” she said, “once we get this investigation cooking.” She reached for her cell phone on the bedside table. “I’ll call Jack right now. Let him know what’s going on, what to expect.”

  “Like I said,” I replied with a grin, “you can’t keep a good woman down. Even if she can’t pee by herself.”

  The door banged downstairs and I heard the clickety-clatter of Rottie toenails on the bare wood of the stairs.

  “Woof!” Rambo announced joyfully. He trotted to the bed, put his stubby muzzle on the covers, and regarded Sheila with concern. “Woof?” he inquired.

  “I’m home,” Blackie yelled. “Anybody up there want pizza?”

  “Woof-woof!” Rambo said.

  Chapter Fourteen

  If you’ve found a four-leaved clover, you’re in luck, f
or these are scarce. It has been estimated that there is just one four-leaved clover for every 10,000 three-leaved clovers (Trifolium). According to traditional lore, a four-leaved clover brings good luck, especially if you find it accidentally. According to legend, each leaf represents an important quality, something we all need in our lives. The first is for faith, the second is for hope, the third is for love, and the fourth is for good luck. And if you find a five-leaved clover? Bushels of good luck!

  China Bayles

  “Herbs of Good and Ill Omen”

  Pecan Springs Enterprise

  “I can’t believe it,” McQuaid said as we stood on the front porch, our arms around each other, watching as Brian’s old green Ford disappeared around a curve in the lane. “I just flat can’t believe it.”

  A couple of days before, we had moved Brian into his room at one of the off-campus co-op houses west of the university. McQuaid had wanted him to stay in Jester, the coed residence hall in the center of campus. But I sided with Brian. He was mature enough to handle the independence. He would learn more life lessons in co-op housing, I thought, where the students had responsibility for governing the house. With luck, he might even learn to do his own laundry.

  “I believe it,” I said softly. “It’s what we’ve raised him for. His own life in a new world, to prove to himself who he is and what he can be.” I took a deep breath, thinking of the years that the boy and his father had been at the center of my life. “He doesn’t have to prove anything to us, though,” I added. “For us, he will always be just . . . Brian. Our Brian.”

  McQuaid shook his head. “Well, I wish him luck. And he’s going to need it. The world is a different place than it was when I left for college. He won’t be able to coast, the way I did my first couple of years. He’ll have to be smarter, work harder, do more. And get lucky.”