Death Come Quickly

by Susan Wittig Albert

  I couldn’t disagree with that. That’s why, as a little going-away present, I gave him a four-leaved clover I had found in the yard, encased in a medallion for his key chain. That way, I told him, he’d always have a little luck on his side, and a small, green reminder of home.

  When we went back inside, the house felt empty—especially since Caitlin was spending the weekend, the last of the summer, with my mother and her husband, Sam, at their ranch near Kerrville.

  “Maybe it’s time we got another dog,” McQuaid said. He looked at me with an amused glint in his eye. “Unless you’re sure you don’t want a baby?”

  “I am positive,” I said firmly. “If you want to hear the patter of little feet around the house, we can borrow Baby Grace.” I reached for his hand. “It’s time for lunch. Come in the kitchen and I’ll fix you an egg sandwich.”

  Caitlin’s new rooster, a handsome red-feathered fellow with an iridescent ruff and a sweep of colorful tail, had arrived a few weeks before to take charge of his six-hen harem. We had a family discussion about his name. After much deliberation, Caitie rejected my Corn Colonel, McQuaid’s Big Red, and Brian’s Crockpot. She decided, instead, on Rooster Boy. Clearly delighted to have his very own hens, Rooster Boy is doing his lusty best to ensure that his girls are laying fertile eggs, and Caitie is hoping that one of the hens might demonstrate a maternal instinct. But so far, in spite of Rooster Boy’s solicitous and persistent attentions, none have shown any sign of “going broody.”

  This desirable state of affairs, as Caitie solemnly explained to me, is when a lady chicken decides she wants to be a mother. “When she’s broody, she’ll cluck and fluff out her feathers and won’t get off her eggs until they’ve hatched.”

  “And this takes how many days?” I asked. “Hatching, I mean.”

  “Twenty-one,” she said confidently. “Three whole weeks.”

  “That,” I remarked, “is dedication.” I frowned. “Twenty-one days? How do you know? You’re not a chicken.” I peered at her. “You’re not a chicken, are you?”

  She giggled and said she’d been doing research on the Internet. Ah, life lessons, learned in cyberspace.

  In the kitchen, I got out the small skillet. “An egg sandwich?” McQuaid was querulous. “But we had an omelet for breakfast.”

  “We have lots of eggs,” I reminded him. “How about if I add a few slices of avocado and onion and some alfalfa sprouts?” I keep a quart jar of alfalfa sprouts growing on the sunny kitchen windowsill, so they’re always available for sandwiches.

  “That’s more like it,” he said, making a detour into his study. “While you’re at it, you can pile on a couple of slices of Swiss. And maybe a slice of ham.” At the doorway, he turned. “Did I hear somebody say something about going out for supper with Sheila and Blackie tonight?”

  “Yes, you heard somebody say something,” I said. “Somebody said Beans’. Sixish.”

  “Works for me,” he said and disappeared.

  I was getting the makings out of the refrigerator when my cell phone rang. “Yo, China,” Aaron said. “You got a minute?”

  “Anything for you,” I replied. “How’s Paula?”

  “Not so good. Morning sickness.”

  Same song, I thought, second verse. “Tell her to try ginger tea.” I took out a couple of Caitlin’s eggs. “And peppermint. I’ll email you a link and you can forward it to her.”

  He was wary. “She doesn’t do folk remedies. I think her doctor’s prescribing something.”

  “Whatever.” I closed the fridge. “So what’s up?”

  “The homicide investigator just called with an update. He’s got a warrant for Douglas Clark’s arrest for the murder of Richard Bowen. They’re expecting to pick him up today.”

  “Ah,” I said, with great satisfaction. I put the skillet on the stove. “They got a DNA match, then.”

  As I’d learned when the lead Houston homicide detective interviewed me, Richard Bowen had not gone gently into that good night. On his way out of this world, he had managed to scratch his killer, catching DNA under one fingernail on his right hand. DNA, but no match—until Bowen’s letter came to light and Douglas Clark suddenly became a person of interest. And then a suspect, on the basis of the documents in Bowen’s Chase Bank safe-deposit box and Florabelle Gibson’s statement, taken by the Houston detective. Now it was time for his arrest and arraignment. Sometimes these things work the way they’re supposed to.

  “Yeah,” Aaron said. “Good thing you found that letter and read it. You get points for solving a cold case, Counselor.”

  “Points?” I asked, turning on the burner under the skillet and plopping in a scoop of butter. “No reward?”

  “Virtue is its own reward,” Aaron said piously.

  “Not so much,” I replied. “In this dog-eat-dog world, reward is its own virtue. Listen, I’m making an egg sandwich for McQuaid, and I can’t fry an egg and talk on the phone to you at the same time.”

  “Paula has never made me an egg sandwich,” Aaron said, aggrieved. “In fact, I wanted an egg for breakfast this morning and we didn’t have any.”

  “That’s because you don’t have Rooster Boy and his six-hen harem,” I said.

  He sighed. “I don’t think so. I think it’s because Paula doesn’t like to cook.” Another sigh. “Don’t forget that rain check, China.”

  “I won’t,” I said. But I thought I probably would.

  I broke the egg into the skillet. It had two yolks. Hadn’t I read somewhere that two yolks was good luck—maybe a financial windfall or a wedding in the family? The first I could handle. The second, not so much. At least, not yet.

  • • •

  BEANS’ Bar and Grill is located in a stone building between Purley’s Tire Company and the Missouri Pacific Railroad, across the street from the old firehouse, which was recently converted into a dance hall. It’s a down-home Texas eating and drinking hangout with a pool hall in the back, so the general conversation is frequently punctuated by the sharp crack of a cue and a jubilant “Boy, howdy! Looka that—right in the ol’ pocket!” There’s a mirrored wooden bar down one side for serious drinkers, of whom there are always several. The diners occupy unmatched kitchen chairs around scarred wooden tables. Wagon wheels wound with rusty barbed wire threaded with lights shaped like red and green jalapeño peppers hang like chandeliers from the ceiling, and a cigar-store Indian stands in the corner with a politically correct sign in one hand, requesting that people refer to him as a Native American. The restroom doors are labeled Bulls and Heifers, and favorites on the jukebox (judging by the number of times you’ll hear them during the evening) are Willie’s “Always on My Mind” and Dolly’s “Here You Come Again.” Down-home to the max.

  When we were seated at our favorite back-corner table, Bob Godwin hustled up with two red plastic baskets of warm tortilla chips, a couple of crockery cups of hair-raising salsa, a pitcher of icy draft beer, and four mugs. Bob has tattoos on both muscular arms, thinning auburn hair, and fuzzy ginger eyebrows that meet in the middle. A proud vet, he was wearing a black T-shirt with a skull and crossbones over the words Recon Marines. His golden retriever, Budweiser (Bud, for short), came to the table with him to say hello. Bud wears a leather saddlebag and totes beer bottles and wrapped snacks from the bar to the tables, and cash and tips from the tables to the bar. He gets a pat from everybody, but there’s a hand-lettered sign around his neck that says, Don’t feed me! People were being too generous with their French fries and fried onions.

  Bob posts the menu on the chalkboard behind the bar, under a hand-lettered sign that says, 7-Course Texas Dinner: A Six-Pack & a Possum. I had treated the Whiz to a chicken-fried steak several weeks before, but tonight all four of us agreed on the house special, the Way Too Much Plate: a beef enchilada, two chicken flautas, a pork fajita taco, chile con queso, guacamole, rice, and refried beans.

&n
bsp; “I’ve got news,” Sheila said to me, propping her elbows on the table. She was in civvies tonight, a red plaid cotton shirt, jeans, and red boots, with her ash-blond hair in a single braid down her back. She was beautiful, even if she was no longer pregnant.

  “Me, too,” I said. “News, I mean.”

  “Why don’t you two arm wrestle to see who goes first,” McQuaid suggested. “Now, that would be something to see.”

  “Spin a fork,” Blackie said, and he did it. “China, you won. Go.”

  I related the details of Aaron’s phone call, although not the part about the egg sandwich.

  Blackie sat back in his chair and whistled. “Doug Clark arrested for the murder of Dick Bowen? That’ll make headlines in the Enterprise.”

  “I hope they can make it stick,” McQuaid said. “He’s a slick customer.” Charlie Lipman had dropped his investigation into Clark’s hidden assets shenanigans. I hadn’t been surprised. Charlie is tight with his money, and on this case, he’d been his own client.

  “DNA is pretty sticky,” Sheila remarked. “Sounds like a solid case.” She grinned at me. “My news is along the same lines. We arrested Roberto Soto this morning, China, at his gallery in San Antonio. He’s been charged with the murder of Karen Prior. The feds are still working on the art fraud case. There’ll be charges on that, as well—eventually.”

  “So the palm print and the partial thumbprint matched,” I said.

  “Yep,” Sheila replied with satisfaction. “And after consultations with her lawyer and the DA’s office, Sharyn Tillotson saw the light. She’s going to plead guilty to a lesser charge and has made a full statement incriminating Soto in Prior’s murder and the art fraud scheme.”

  I suppose I should have been elated, but I wasn’t. I was thinking of Felicity and Karen’s mother. Knowing that an arrest had been made might make their loss a little easier to bear. But for the victims of crime, justice is a long, painful journey, full of starts, stops, and setbacks. Today’s arrest was just the beginning. If the family was lucky, the case would go to trial next year. If they were lucky again and there was a conviction, the appeal could take another couple of years—and there could be more appeals after that. And none of that would bring Karen back. For her family and friends, there would be no end to the pain.

  McQuaid hoisted his beer. “Here’s to good, solid police work. Congratulations, Smart Cookie.”

  Sheila shrugged. “Well, maybe. But we wouldn’t have gotten to Tillotson without Irene Cameron. Her statement was crucial. It gave us the key to open the other doors.” She reached for a tortilla chip and dipped it into the salsa. “Irene had the courage to tell the truth. I hope the deal works out for her.”

  Justine had already brought me up-to-date on that part of the case. After she and Irene Cameron sat down together and talked, Irene agreed to tell the full story of the art forgeries she had painted for Roberto Soto and to testify to the conversation she had overheard between Soto and Sharyn Tillotson. Her voluntary statement led to Tillotson’s questioning and to her statement—and that led to Soto’s arrest.

  The feds were involved in the art fraud part of the case, so the process would likely go on for some time. But Justine thought that the prosecutor would recommend probation in return for Irene’s continuing role as a cooperating witness. A deal isn’t done until the judge signs off on it, however, and there’s never any guarantee. As I said, sometimes these things work the way they’re supposed to. But sometimes there’s a catch. Sometimes—

  McQuaid lifted his beer again, in a different salute. “Well, then, here’s to justice,” he said. “Long may it wave.”

  Sitting next to him, Blackie hoisted his. “Or words to that effect.”

  Sheila frowned. “Remember what Margaret Atwood said about justice?” she said.

  “No, what?” Blackie asked.

  “Who’s Margaret Atwood?” McQuaid wanted to know.

  “Famous Canadian author and activist,” Sheila replied. “She’s quoted as saying, ‘Never pray for justice, because you might get some.’”

  “True words,” McQuaid said approvingly. “Here’s to not getting everything we deserve.” The three of them clinked their mugs and drank.

  But not me. “Wait just a darn minute,” I said. “Speaking of justice, what about Christine Morris’ murder? What’s going to happen with that?”

  Sheila lifted her shoulders and dropped them. “We have testimony that puts Soto at the scene the night of the murder, but that’s the best we’ve got—so far, anyway. The original police work—”

  “The original police work sucks,” Blackie said succinctly. “If that had been my case, Bowen would never have been charged.”

  “That was Barry Rogers’ fault,” McQuaid said, leaning toward Blackie. “Did I tell you why I fired that son of a buck? He—” The two of them put their heads together and began to talk.

  Sheila and I exchanged glances. “Well, you can’t win ’em all, Counselor,” she said.

  “I learned that a long time ago,” I said. “And if we’re still talking about justice, I read that Orson Welles said something once that makes a lot of sense to me.”

  Bob Godwin came up to the table with two big plates and put them down in front of Sheila and me. “Ladies first,” he said. “But those are hot. Don’t touch, or you’ll burn your fingers. Gents, I’ll be back with yours in a minute.” McQuaid and Blackie were so deep in conversation that they didn’t hear him.

  Sheila picked up her fork. “Orson Welles?” she asked with a frown.

  “Yeah. Famous movie director.”

  “And what did he say?”

  I picked up my fork. “‘Nobody gets justice,’ is how I remember it. ‘People only get good luck or bad luck.’”

  Recipes

  China’s Purslane and Spinach Salad with Balsamic Vinaigrette

  Malabar spinach (Basella alba) is a climbing vine that thrives in hot weather, long after spinach has bolted. It is high in vitamin A, vitamin C, iron, and calcium, and may be eaten raw or cooked. However, it is mucilaginous, so if you don’t like that texture, use spinach instead. You can always plant it just to enjoy: it’s an energetic vine with pretty red stems, white flowers, and red berries.

  1/2 cup chopped purslane, thick stems removed

  2 cups fresh spinach or Malabar spinach, torn into bite-size pieces

  2 cucumbers, peeled, quartered lengthwise, seeded, and chopped

  6 cherry tomatoes, halved

  2 green onions, both green and white parts, chopped

  Combine all ingredients in a large bowl. Serve with Balsamic Vinaigrette. Serves four.

  BALSAMIC VINAIGRETTE

  3/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil

  2 tablespoons balsamic vinegar

  2 tablespoons red wine vinegar

  1/4 teaspoon Dijon mustard

  1 teaspoon minced fresh herbs (e.g., parsley, chives, tarragon)

  Salt and pepper to taste

  Cass’ Shrimp, Pasta, and Rose Petals

  Use only unsprayed roses from a home garden (florist roses have likely been sprayed). Fragrant roses have the best flavor. Snip the bitter white heel from each petal.

  1 package capellini (angel-hair) pasta (12–14 ounces)

  1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil

  2 cloves garlic, finely chopped

  1/4 red or orange bell pepper, diced

  1 green onion top, chopped

  16 ounces medium raw shrimp, peeled and deveined

  1/2 cup dry white wine

  2 tablespoons unsalted butter

  3 tablespoons grated Parmesan cheese

  Salt to taste

  1/2 to 3/4 cup red or orange rose petals, divided in half

  Garnish (optional): tiny bouquet of rosemary, parsley, and a single pink rosebud

  Cook pasta according to package direction
s. Drain, reserving 1/2 cup of cooking liquid.

  While the pasta cooks, heat oil in a large skillet over medium heat. Sauté garlic, red bell pepper, and green onion top just until soft and fragrant (a minute or so). Add shrimp and wine and lower heat. Simmer until the shrimp begins to turn pink, about 3–4 minutes. Stir in butter and Parmesan. If the sauce seems too thick, add some of the reserved pasta cooking liquid, a tablespoon at a time.

  Toss pasta in the skillet with the shrimp and sauce. Add half of the rose petals and toss lightly. Distribute onto four plates and sprinkle the rest of the petals over each portion. Serves four. Garnish the plates, if desired.

  Cass’ Rose Petal Salad

  Endive (Cichorium endivia) is a flavorful leaf vegetable in the daisy family, related to chicory. To prepare Belgian endive, slice off about one-eighth inch from the stem end. With a paring knife, cut out a cone shape about one-half inch deep from the same end, to remove the slightly bitter core. Separate into leaves. To prepare rose petals, see the recipe for Cass’ Shrimp, Pasta, and Rose Petals, above.

  Leaves of 2 small Belgian endives

  Leaves of 1 small head of Boston lettuce, washed, patted dry, and torn into bite-size pieces

  1/4 cup slivered almonds

  3/4–1 cup prepared rose petals

  1/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil

  6 tablespoons raspberry vinegar

  1 teaspoon finely minced rosemary

  1⁄8 teaspoon ground cardamom

  Salt to taste

  Arrange the endive leaves on four salad plates, and add the torn lettuce. Top with almonds and rose petals.

  In a small bowl, whisk the olive oil, vinegar, rosemary, and cardamom. Add salt to taste. Drizzle over salads and serve immediately.

  Cass’ Chilled Rose and Strawberry Soup

  A perfectly delicious dessert soup with the delicate fragrance of roses. To prepare rose petals, see the recipe for Cass’ Shrimp, Pasta, and Rose Petals, above.

  2 pints fresh or frozen (slightly thawed) strawberries