I nodded. “Yes. Babies can get it from honey.”
“The honey could have kept the stuff alive for a short time. If the killer painted it on the thorns right before Maria came along—”
“Dear God!”
The killer. It was murder. I closed my eyes, fighting sudden tears. Poor Maria. Killed out of hatred, because of a silly, petty fight blown all out of proportion.
Tony was still talking. I pulled myself together.
“I’m sorry, could you repeat that?”
“I said I need to find out more about this Rose Guild. Someone in that club might know who could have been messing with the rose.”
“There’s the neighbor who saw it cut down,” I said. “Alma Chacón.”
“Right. I’ll go talk to her.”
I looked at my computer screen. “The Rose Guild’s website has photos of some of the members. Maybe she could identify the—the person who cut down the rose—by looking at them. If it’s someone in the Guild.”
“Worth a try, though it wouldn’t make sense for the Guild to kill Maria for the bequest. She was making big yearly donations. She was worth more to them alive.”
“There might have been another reason,” I said.
A pause. “Such as?”
“Well, you know not everyone in the Guild got along with Maria.”
“To the tune of trying to kill her?”
“Maybe,” I said, not wanting to acknowledge it.
“Do you have someone in particular in mind?” Tony said slowly.
“I’m not positive. You should show the photos to Mrs. Chacón.”
Another pause. “Okay. What’s the site’s address again?”
I gave it to him, feeling a tiny pang of guilt. I was letting him take a less-than-direct route to finding the killer, but I wanted just a little bit of time before he got to Cora. I didn’t think a slight delay would imperil his investigation. It seemed pretty clear who had cut down the rose, and now, why.
“Any other suggestions?” Tony asked.
“Not now. Let me know what you learn from Mrs. Chacón.”
“Why do I get the feeling you know what she’s going to say?”
“It’s just a hunch.”
“Hm. Don’t do anything stupid, okay?”
“Okay. Bye.”
He hung up, as usual without saying goodbye. It didn’t offend me any more. It was just Tony.
I closed my eyes briefly. I hoped he wouldn’t be angry with me. Maybe he would, but I had to take that chance. I had chided Joan for passively standing by while the fighting went on under her nose. I felt obliged to at least speak my mind.
I took out the phone book from my desk drawer and turned to the residential listings. Luck was with me; Cora Young was listed. I copied down her address, then changed my shorts for a skirt and brushed my hair. Grabbing my purse, I headed out once more.
It was now early evening, still warm but beginning to show signs of cooling down. The sun was just about to set, but I didn’t pause to admire it. I drove straight to Cora’s house on the south side of town, not very far from the Garcias’, ironically, and close to the City Rose Garden.
The house was a comfortable old frame-stucco place, not as large as the Garcias’ and probably a decade or so newer. The trees in the front yard were neat and prim, well-trimmed shade trees, not as grand and sprawling as the Garcias’ cottonwoods.
The front porch light was on, reminding me that the patrol cop had suggested I leave my own light on. Naturally, I had neglected to do so, but I hoped Ramon would stick to his word and find some other way to entertain his pals tonight.
I parked and walked up to the door. A moment after I rang the bell I heard footsteps, then Cora opened the door and looked out.
“Hello, Mrs. Young. I’m Ellen Rosings, remember?”
“Yes,” she said slowly, looking wary.
“I’m sorry to drop by without warning, but I just wanted to ask you a couple of questions about the Rose Guild. It’ll only take a minute or two. May I come in?”
She gazed at me, frowning slightly, then opened the door. I followed her into her living room, noting the furnishings that had been fashionable thirty years before—a little tired-looking now—as well as a few pieces of equally outdated artwork, some pottery, a Navajo rug hanging on one wall.
Cora invited me to sit down and I perched on the sofa. She didn’t offer any refreshment, but then I’d come without invitation. Square, in terms of civility or lack thereof.
“What did you want to know?” Cora asked.
“I’m curious why Maria Garcia was the only Hispanic in the Rose Guild. Do you have any idea?”
Cora blinked a couple of times. “I really couldn’t say.”
“Joan assured me that Hispanics were welcome, but she seemed to think not everyone in the Guild felt that way.”
Cora said nothing. A mulish look settled on her face, and her eyes hardened.
“How do you feel about it?” I pressed. “Would you mind if there were more Hispanic members in the Guild?”
“I hadn’t thought about it. Why do you ask?”
“I have a young friend who is interested in the Guild, but she isn’t sure she’d be welcome, and neither am I. I certainly wouldn’t want her to come into an unfriendly situation.”
“I take it she’s a Mexican?”
I paused at the somewhat less-than-polite term, and the similar edge in her voice. We were getting to the heart of the matter.
“She’s Hispanic, yes.”
“Then she might not be comfortable, being the only one.”
“Now that Maria’s gone.”
Cora was silent. I pressed on.
“It’s a pity Maria died so suddenly. I understand she did a lot for the Guild.”
“Made a lot of trouble, is what she did,” Cora said gruffly.
“Trouble?” I held my face in an expression of innocent inquiry.
“Her and her pushing ways. She’d have been fine if she hadn’t insisted on meddling.”
“How did she meddle?”
“How didn’t she?” Cora sounded exasperated. “Understand me, I don’t mind Mexicans as long as they keep to their place.”
I was astonished. “Their place?”
“Like that little girl you have working for you. She was sweet, and polite.”
“She’s Maria Garcia’s granddaughter.”
Now Cora looked surprised. I hadn’t meant to blurt that out, but I was getting angry.
“Well, that’s what I mean,” Cora said, looking flustered. “She comes from a restaurant family, and she’s working in a restaurant.”
“And I suppose you’d object to her seeking some more challenging form of employment.”
“Of course not. She should try to better herself. Maria Garcia did very well.”
“Except she didn’t keep to her place.”
Cora looked at me like a parent patiently explaining things to an ignorant child. “You have to understand, most of these people have very little potential. I see them all the time at the health clinic—derelicts, drug addicts, teenage mothers ...”
Something clicked in my mind. Cora volunteered at a free health clinic, a place where sickness and infection were commonplace. Could she have had access to botulism there? Something Tony had said about drug addicts niggled in my brain. I tried to pin it down, but Cora was still talking.
“...most of them will never amount to anything.”
“I think it’s unfair to judge an entire race by its worst examples,” I said. “Don’t you see Anglo addicts and homeless at the clinic?”
She gave me a tolerant smile. “When you’ve seen more of the world, you’ll understand.”
I’d had enough of her patronizing tone. I was about to take my leave when the doorbell rang. Cora gave me an odd look, then got up and went to answer it. A moment later I heard Tony’s voice.
I stood and slung my purse over my shoulder, then followed Cora to the front door, where she
was looking at Tony’s badge. Beyond them, I saw a squad car parked at the curb behind my car.
Tony gave me a sharp glance. “I see you have company,” he said dryly.
“I was just leaving,” I replied. “Mrs. Young has been telling me about her volunteer work at a free health clinic.”
Tony’s brows shot up and he looked back at Cora. “Treat any heroin addicts there?”
“Constantly,” Cora said with a glance at me, “as I was just explaining.”
Tony’s eyes sharpened. “When’s the last time you saw a case of botulism?”
27
Cora looked stunned, then her face closed down. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Black tar heroin,” Tony said. “Comes up from Mexico. It’s sometimes contaminated with botulism. The addicts shoot themselves up with it, next thing you know they’ve got a toxic wound. You must see a case once in a while.”
“I don’t recall.”
“Maybe the clinic’s records will say.”
She looked sharply up at him. If I hadn’t already been convinced of her guilt, the anger in her glance at that moment would have sold me.
“But that’s not why I’m here,” Tony said to Cora. “I came to ask why you cut down a rosebush in the City Rose Garden this morning.”
Cora looked startled again, caught off guard by the change of tactics. Tony’s expression was completely professional, but I caught the slight twitch at one corner of his mouth. He was enjoying this.
Cora opened her mouth, but before she could speak Tony added, “You were seen by the woman who lives across the street. She identified your photograph.”
Cora’s mouth snapped shut and a frown settled on her brow. “Excuse me,” she said tightly. “I need to make a phone call.”
“You can make it from the station,” Tony said. “We’ve got more to talk about.”
“Are you arresting me?” she demanded.
“If you insist.”
She stared coldly at him for a long moment. Her face, set with anger and, I thought, a hint of contempt, was as unattractive as a woman’s could be.
“I’ll get my purse,” she said at last. “You’ll have to excuse me, Miss Rosings.”
“Not at all,” I said. “I see that I’ve come at a bad time.”
I glanced at Tony, hoping he picked up on my implicit apology. He gave no sign, but he didn’t look angry, either.
Cora went to a low bookcase and slowly picked up a purse from it. Something about the motion bothered me. As she was turning back, I saw that she had also picked up something else.
“Cora, no!”
“Don't move!” Tony's voice was sharp enough that I, too, froze.
Cora held a large pair of gardening shears. She stared at Tony with pure hatred in her pale eyes, then her gaze flicked down to the gun in his hands.
My heart pounded so hard it hurt. I held my breath.
“Don't,” Tony said in a quieter tone. “You don't want a resisting arrest charge.”
Cora blinked once, then swallowed. “I was just going to put these away. Don't want anyone getting hurt by mistake.”
She pointed the blades at the floor and moved slowly past me toward the front door. Tony stepped back out of her reach, keeping the gun trained on her. She opened a closet, put the shears inside, and closed the door.
“All right,” Tony said. “Come on out.”
Cora shot a glare at me, then obeyed. I followed her out and pulled the front door closed behind me.
Tony and Cora walked down the driveway to the squad car. Tony still held his gun, though he no longer had it aimed at her.
A uniformed officer was waiting in the driver’s seat of the squad. Tony helped Cora into the back seat of the car, looked toward me as he straightened, then climbed into the shotgun seat. The squad pulled away.
I went to my car, got in and turned on the engine, then sat with my hands on the steering wheel and the air conditioner blowing cool on my face as I sorted through mixed emotions. Adrenaline still sang through me. Cora's rage had frightened me, but so had the sight of Tony aiming his gun at her heart.
It seemed that Tony had ample evidence to associate Cora with Maria’s death. Whether she’d be convicted was a matter for the courts. I told myself I was glad, but mostly I felt an overwhelming sense of sorrow. Sorrow for Maria, for her family, and for a society that could still harbor such hatred, even among its supposedly enlightened and privileged members.
On impulse I decided to drive past the rose garden again. It was getting late and there were fewer people in the park, now that the sun had set. I found a parking place near where Maria’s Our Lady of Guadalupe rose had been, and got out to look at the stumps once more.
Someone had placed a vase of cut roses there in front of the cut cane stumps—garden roses, not florist roses. A tall glass votive candle stood beside them, its young flame flickering slightly in the breeze, a small, promising glow against the falling dusk. On the glass was a decal of the Virgin of Guadalupe, surrounded by roses. The wax was pink, and the fragrance of roses hung in the air.
A memorial to a fallen rosebush, or perhaps more to the rose’s champion. I glanced toward Alma Chacón’s house. She wasn’t in the garden at this hour, but I could see her rosebushes blooming behind the picket fence.
Maybe Alma would like to join the Rose Guild, I thought. Smiling softly, I drove home to cut a few roses of my own.
I slowed as I pulled into the driveway. An unfamiliar car was parked behind the kitchen. I coasted into my parking space, staring at the back of the house. The kitchen windows blazed with light.
Captain Dusenberry hadn't shown any interest in the kitchen so far. I got out of the car and walked to the back door, keeping my eye on the kitchen windows.
Movement made me stop short, suddenly breathless, then I recognized Julio's mop of curly dark hair. He had changed out of the suit into a black muscle shirt and cargo pants. He stood by the prep table, talking to another young man who looked vaguely familiar: blond hair, slender, a little taller than Julio. I could just hear their voices, but couldn't tell what they were saying. From the intensity on Julio's face, it was a deep conversation.
I went to the back door and let myself in, careful to make some noise. I closed the door and heard no voices; the place was silent. Having come into the hallway, I had to walk down it a bit and turn into the smaller hall that passed the butler's pantry in order to get to the kitchen. The smell of baking chocolate reached me.
I paused in the pantry to take out an empty vase and half fill it with water. Leaving it on the counter, I continued to the kitchen.
Julio was leaning back against the prep table, arms crossed, waiting for me. His guest stood behind the table and gave me an apprehensive look as I came in. The table was covered with bowls, measuring cups and spoons, and so on.
“I saw the lights on,” I said.
“Sorry,” Julio said, sounding almost surly. “Didn't mean to bother you.”
“No bother. I just came to fetch some … flowers.” I looked at his friend. “Have we met? You look familiar.”
He swallowed.
“This is Adam. He was at the grand opening.”
“Oh—your roommate? Yes, I remember now—you're a chef too, right?”
Adam looked uncomfortable. Julio stood.
“He might apply for the assistant position here. That OK with you?”
Again, a hint of anger or perhaps just defiance in his voice. I looked from Julio to Adam.
“I'm afraid it's just part time for now. The budget won't handle more.”
A shrug. “I don't mind.” He glanced at Julio. “I should go.”
Julio's chin rose. “No—”
“Please don't let me disturb you,” I said, clicking into Miss Manners mode. “I'm about to go out again.”
I met Julio's gaze, saw his slight nod and a look of relief in his eyes, and turned back to the pantry. I grabbed the vase and a small pair of garden snip
s I kept there for flower arranging, and went back outside.
Dusk was gathering in the garden, but I could see well enough to gather some roses. The white and yellow blooms glowed in the evening light. I filled the vase with a mix of colors, then headed back to my car. I decided to cut a few lilacs to go with the roses. I could hear voices again—too muffled for me to make out what they were saying. I got in the car, bringing the garden snips with me and carefully buckling the passenger seat belt around the vase.
It was nearly dark by the time I returned to the park. Street lights were on now, their limited spectrum of light washing out the colors of the roses. I parked and got out, carrying my offering toward the slain rosebush, but slowed as I saw someone else already standing there.
The woman turned her head toward me and the streetlight glinted on brassy hair. I walked up to join Estella Garcia by the dead rosebush. A second vase of roses now stood beside the first—a huge vase, filled to overflowing with roses, no doubt cut from the Garcia family’s garden. I placed my own smaller offering beside it.
“Rosa told us about this,” Estella said in a harsh voice. “Some asshole cut down Mama’s rosebush. Poor little Rosa can’t stop crying.”
“If it’s any comfort, the hateful person who did this has been caught.”
“Yeah?” She glanced at me, a hunter’s sharpness in her eyes. “Who is it? I’d like to give them a piece of my mind.”
“I expect you’ll find out soon.”
I didn’t want to be the one to inform the Garcias that Maria had been murdered. Fresh grief all over again for them, and it would come soon enough. A visit from a police chaplain, who would no doubt be able to comfort them better than I.
“Those are lovely,” I said, leaning down to brush my hand along the large vase of roses.
“Some from every one of Mama’s bushes,” Estella said, her voice now surprisingly soft. “We all went out and cut them.”
I straightened up. “Do you still like roses, in spite of everything?”
She looked at me, her face dour at first, then she shrugged and gave a twisted smile. “How can you not like roses?”
I smiled back. A plan was forming in my mind. I would join the Rose Guild, and encourage some others to join as well: Estella, Rosa, and Alma Chacón. They’d represent three generations, for Alma was about Maria’s age. It would be a start.
A Sprig of Blossomed Thorn Page 18