Rosemary Remembered - China Bayles 04

by Susan Wittig Albert

  "Then don't." She paused, watching me, hands on her slender hips. "Maybe you ought to blow off the shop today, too, China. If Jacoby can't get Brian, he might settle for you." She shook her head, frowning. "But if Jacoby killed Rosemary, how come Jeff Clark's prints were on the gun?"

  "It's a mystery to me," I said, pouring puddles of batter onto the hot skillet. "Actually, I was thinking of letting Laurel handle the shop today. Somebody ought to check Robbins out, and his sister, too. I also thought of going up to the Springs to talk to Lily."

  Sheila's mouth quirked. "You can't leave it to the cops, can you?"

  "I have left it to the cops," I replied, and reached in the drawer for the pancake turner. "But it won't hurt to sniff around a little and see if they missed something."

  After Brian finished eating, he bounced out to Sheila's car and they drove off. I called Laurel and asked her to take charge of the shop. It was a good time to take off for a day or two, with the herb conference over and the air conditioner problem solved. Then, with Jacoby's threat still ringing in my ears, I phoned the Adams County sheriff’s office.

  I've met my share of law enforcement people, but Sheriff Blackie Blackwell gets all the gold stars. He's intelligent and careful and he never reacts without thinking, not even when the pot's up to five bucks and he's holding a handful of aces. His father was sheriff here for something like a quarter century, so Blackie knows every inch of the county. Of course, things have changed from the days when Corky Blackwell tracked down sheep stealers and goat rustlers and Reba Blackwell cooked for the prisoners in the county jail. Blackie has drugs to deal with, and hot car rings, and undocumented aliens, and worse. But nothing gets to him. He's somebody you can depend on.

  I told him about Jacoby's phone call. "Sheila Dawson is staying with us at night," I added. "She took Brian to spend the day at Campus Security. I think we've got the bases covered for today, at least, but I wanted you to know about the call." Making a threat with the intent to place any person in fear of imminent serious bodily injury is a class B misdemeanor, and a violation of the terms of Jacoby's release. Even without that business with the knife in the New Braunfels saloon, it was enough to land him back in jail.

  "Thanks," Blackie said, in his flat, laconic drawl. He doesn't spare words. "Let me know when you get home this evening. And tell McQuaid we'll handle things at this end."

  "Mm-m-m," I said noncommittally. I'd already decided not to tell McQuaid about Jacoby's call, just as I hadn't told him about the knifing. It would only worry him, and he couldn't do anything. I paused. Rosemary's murder investigation was Bubba's business, but Blackie is the law throughout the county. He'd know the details of the case. "Do you know how thoroughly the PSPD checked out Curtis Robbins's alibi?" I asked.

  Blackie tch-tched. "You're not sticking your nose into that?"

  "McQuaid asked me to ask," I lied.

  "They checked with the sister and that was it. They got on Clark pretty early in the game."

  "But the gun—the lead to Clark—wasn't found until Sunday night," I argued. "I discovered the body Thursday morning. Thursday through Sunday—that's more than seventy-two hours. The police had plenty of time to take a hard look at Robbins."

  "Harris got onto Clark before the gun was found. Some woman phoned in a tip on Friday. Wouldn't leave her name. Claimed that the victim and Clark were romantically involved. Said she thought he had a reason to kill her."

  My skin prickled. A woman? Lily Box, maybe? Not likely—she was convinced that Robbins was the killer. Who? "So they let up on Robbins at that point?"

  "They only have so much manpower," Blackie said. "I offered a couple of deputies, but Bubba likes to run his own shop." The more likely truth is that Bubba considers Blackie his junior. There may be a fraternity of cops, but there's also a seniority.

  "Do you have a name and address for Robbins's sister?" I asked.

  Blackie chuckled. "Inquisitive fella, McQuaid. Wants to know every little thing."

  "That's him," I said. "Nosy."

  It took Blackie a minute to come up with the name, Louise Daniels, and the address, 1-412 Pecan Street, in San Marcos. He added another caution.

  "You watch out for Jacoby, now, you hear? That man's mean enough to steal his mama's egg money."

  "I will," I said. I thanked him and hung up, thinking how good it is to have friends. Blackie, Sheila, Ruby, Laurel. You might even count Ondine and La Que Sabe. How do people function when they have to face life alone?

  It was time to make myself respectable. I went upstairs and pulled on beige slacks, a white blouse, and a pale linen jacket. Thinking about Smart Cookie, I added a strand of pearls and a gold bracelet. Too bad I couldn't do something about my hands. No amount of lotion helps, not even comfrey salve. I was back downstairs, checking my purse for car keys and money, when there was a loud rap at the door. Then another, and then the insistent ringing of the doorbell.

  I froze. Jacoby? My glance went to the hallway closet, where McQuaid's shotgun was stashed behind the raincoats. I hesitated for a moment, then tiptoed to the door and peered out through the peephole. A yellow Toyota was parked in the drive, and a short, heavyset woman stood on the porch, shifting uneasily from one foot to the other. Her dirty-blond hair was crimped back with a plastic comb, her lipstick had been liberally and hastily applied, and she was dressed in an ill-fitting brownish green suit with half-moons of fresh sweat under the arms. I didn't recognize her, but I was reasonably sure she wasn't Jake Jacoby in drag.

  I put the door on the chain and opened it. She was holding a thick white envelope whose size and shape I recognized. It was a summons, and the woman was a process server.

  "I'm looking for Michael R. McQuaid," she said. Her voice was thin and high-pitched, with the unmistakable overtones of far West Texas. "He here?"

  "He's out of the country on business," I said.

  She pulled a white hanky out of her purse and blotted her glossy forehead. "That's always the way on hot days. Hunderd an' one this afternoon, an' the AC in my car ain't worth spit." She eyed me. "You his wife?"

  "No," I said. I took the chain off and opened the door. "I'm his lawyer."

  "Lawyer, huh?" She pursed her lipsticked mouth. "Since when do lawyers make housecalls?" She was vastly amused by her small joke. "So when do you figger he'll be back?"

  "I'm not sure," I said. I glanced at the envelope. So far as I knew, the only legal business McQuaid was involved in also involved Sally and Brian. There was no reason for me to prevaricate. "If this involves a custody action, he intends to cooperate. May I see the summons, so I can let him know the date and the particulars?"

  "We-U .. ." The woman drew it out with the air of someone who has already heard too many versions of this response.

  "Look," I said, "it's too hot for you to keep driving up here from San Antonio. The minute Mr. McQuaid returns, he'll call you. In the meantime, I can at least calendar the action."

  After another moment's hesitation, she handed me the papers, which were exactly what I expected: Notice of Action filed by Sally Jean McQuaid versus Michael Robert McQuaid, Managing Conservator, in re the Custody of Minor Child Brian Paul McQuaid for the Purpose of Modifying Original Custody Order under Section 1-4.08 of the Texas Family Code, to be Heard in the Court of blah blah blah.

  "Thank you," I said, handing the papers back. "May I have your card?"

  She dug for it. "You gonna be talkin' to Mr. McQuaid on the phone? You'll tell him I was here?"

  "Of course," I lied. This made how many things I wasn't telling him? I'd lost count.

  Miller's Gun and Sporting Goods is one of those hybrid places you sometimes find in small towns that are outgrowing their old ways but haven't yet totally grown into new ones. It's located on LBJ Boulevard, on the border, so to speak, between old and new Pecan Springs, between the original town and the campus. It caters to both the sportsman and the jock, which isn't as easy as you might think.

  The store suffers from a split personali
ty. The front half has been remodeled in the last few years: new tile floor, a lowered ceiling, recessed lighting. The plastic shelves and chrome racks are stocked with goodies for students with pockets full of their parents' money: Nikes and Ree-boks, roller blades, weight-lifting equipment and racing bikes and jogging shorts, scuba gear, even a line of ski clothes that will make you the sexiest snow bunny in Aspen.

  As you go farther into the store, however, you come to a middle section that has the feel of the seventies, sixties, even the fifties. The floor here is linoleum, there are bare fluorescent fixtures in the water-stained ceiling, and you're surrounded by racks of bowling balls and canoe paddles and wooden shelves stocked with kerosene lanterns, Coleman stoves, enamelware coffeepots, and cast-iron dutch ovens.

  And if you venture to the very back of the store — a cavernous place where the walls are red brick, the floor is scuffed pine, and the lights are bare hanging bulbs with factory-style reflectors—you'll find what the real Texan needs to conquer the wilderness: rods and lures and minnow buckets and stringers and crawdad nets; collapsible deer stands, camouflage shirts and pants and ponchos; racks of shotguns, rifles, and handguns.

  And ammunition. Miller's is the only place left in Adams County where a rancher who wants a dozen of this and half a dozen of that doesn't have to buy a full box of either. He can fill up the pockets of his ammo vest or the loops of his bandolier with number four buckshot cartridges to take a deer, or regular number four if he wants to stop by the tank at sunset and pick off a few ducks, or number eight for dove or quail along the road, or number two if he's after coyote. Somewhere on the sagging wooden shelves he might even find cartridges for a .45-70 buffalo gun, or an open box of ten-gauge cardboard-hulled shotgun shells, which haven't been available for a couple of decades. And out back, in a ramshackle building adjoining the store, he'll find an old-time gunsmith named Frank Getzendaner who'll put a telescopic sight on his rifle, sporterize his father's 8mm Mauser war relic, or put a custom hand grip on his revolver.

  This is what McQuaid tells me, anyway. And as I remembered all this, it crossed my mind to wonder whether that gunsmith was the one who had customized the grip of Big Chuck's .38, and whether there was any connection between that gun and the manager of Miller's.

  Curtis Robbins was ringing up an assortment of bass lures, and I got in line. He was a darkly handsome, narrow-hipped man whose jeans looked very good on him: the kind of man who makes some women want to check their lipstick and perfume. He was wearing a red polo shirt with the store's name embroidered on the pocket. Its open collar displayed a luxuriant tangle of black chest hair, and the backs of his hands were furry. At his belt hung the emblems of his trade: a heavy ring of keys and a tape measure. He laughed and talked with the customer.

  trading fishing stories with an easy macho camaraderie, and I could see why men thought he was a regular guy. But beneath the smile and the dark good looks, there was a suppressed nervous energy that made his movements almost jerky, as if he were holding himself in check. I watched closely, looking for signs of the domestic bully. Was this the kind of man who could beat up his wife, stalk her, and end by murdering her?

  My turn. "Mornin', ma'am," he said softly. He flashed a smile, and I wondered how many women dropped into the sporting goods store just to see that smile, receive that soft greeting. "What can I get for you?"

  "I want to talk to you about your wife's murder," I said. His jaw hardened, and I held his gaze, not letting it slide away. "I was the one who found her body."

  He looked at me for a long moment, his jaw working. Then he jerked his head toward a half-open door in the wall behind the counter. "Let's go in there." Eyes still on me, he raised his voice to a curly-haired teenage girl in an off-the-shoulder white blouse and flounced denim skirt who was rearranging a shelf of sweats.

  "I'm takin' fifteen, Julie. Cover the register. Gimme a holler if you get backed up."

  The office was windowless and hot and smelled of stale cigarette smoke, but Robbins shut the door anyway. He punched a button on a floor fan, which began to churn the warm air sluggishly around my ankles, not cooling it appreciably. He motioned me to a Naugahyde upholstered chair against the wall, under a girlie calendar that displayed the substantial endowments of auburn-haired Miss July, who was wearing a red, white, and blue top hat and very little else. Robbins dropped into an ancient wooden desk chair and tilted it back. The office was hot enough to make me want to take off my linen jacket, but

  I decided against it. Robbins might take it wrong.

  "Rosie was my 6x>wife," he said tonelessly. "We got divorced in March." He reached into his shirt pocket and took out a pack of Camels. "So you found her body? What do you want?"

  "My name is China Bayles," I said. "I'm a lawyer. My partner, Mike McQuaid, is working for Matt Monroe. Mr. Monroe is concerned about allegations of his partner's involvement in your ex-wife's death. We are cooperating with the police in this matter." Having already dished up a couple of outright lies this morning, this equivocation came easily. I am a lawyer, having kept my Bar Association membership current. McQuaid is my partner, so to speak, and he's definitely cooperating with the police. Matt Monroe is McQuaid's client, and he's worried about his partner, Jeff Clark.

  He lit his Camel with a cheap plastic lighter, puffing on it as if it were a cigar. "Yeah, I know McQuaid. Ex-cop, isn't he? He special orders reloading supplies here." He sat back and thought for a moment, obviously working it out. Then he said, with an attempt at carelessness, "So Matt doesn't think Clark did it, huh? He's hired you and McQuaid to hunt up another suspect, and you've landed on me."

  "The police questioned you about your alibi, I understand."

  "Sure, but it didn't get them anywhere. That ol' dog just ain't gonna hunt, Ms. Bayles." Still leaning back, he gave me an aggressively confident look. "I loved Rosie, in spite of her. I didn't kill her. You're wasting your time trying to pin it on me."

  "How long were you and your wife married?"

  He blew out a cloud of foul-smelling smoke. The tiny office was filling up with a blue haze, the upper layer

  filtering the light, the lower layer slightly stirred by the fan. "Five years, all told, including about six months when we were separated." "Children?"

  He shook his head. "I would've, but Rosie was against it. She even got an abortion a couple of years ago, without saying a word to me." His laugh was off-key. "The way the law is now, a woman can murder a man's baby and there's not a damn thing he can do about it."

  I stared at him, feeling his hurt. Three weeks before she died, she was pregnant. At the time of her death, she wasn't. Maybe Ruby was right. Maybe abortion had been a motive for murder.

  "Why didn't she want a child?" I asked, more gently.

  He turned his lighter in his fingers. "Too busy to be bothered, I guess. She' was never happy unless she was working. Used to drive me nuts. Not that I don't like my job, but I sure as hell don't live it fourteen, sixteen hours a day the way she did, twenty during tax season. She had something to prove, and babies would only get in the way." His hands twitched. They were big hands, the backs matted with heavy, dark hair. "At least that's how it was when she was married to me. But apparently she changed." His tone was matter-of-fact, but beneath it there was a deep hurt, and a deeper anger.

  "What makes you say that?"

  The words sounded as if they were wrenched out of him. "Because she was pregnant and she aimed to keep it."

  "She told you that?"

  "Hell, she threw it up to me. Said I'd never treated her like a woman, so she'd refused to give me the one thing that would make me feel like a man. So now she's got some other poor bastard in love with her, and she's telling me she's dying to have his kid." Each word lay the wound open wider so I could see into his heart. I could understand his bitterness, his anguish,' but I wasn't sure that his picture of Rosemary was an accurate picture. Perhaps it had been his violence that had made her refuse to have his child, and she had poured herself i
nto work to escape him. Perhaps her refusal, and her escape, had fueled his violence.

  I gave him a straight-on look. "That sounds like a motive for murder."

  "You bet it does." He leaned forward intently. His eyes were the eyes of a man who had carried a heavy burden for a very long time and knew he could never put it down. "I hated her enough to kill her. Came near to it. Why I didn't, lord only knows. But I didn't. Somebody else did."

  "Who, then?"

  He shrugged. "The police figure it was Clark. That's how come they laid off me. She was carryin' his kid, or so she said. She was killed with his daddy's gun. And now he's in Mexico. A man doesn't run if he doesn't have something to hide."

  I tried a different tack. "Suppose Jeff Clark didn't kill her, Mr. Robbins. Suppose you were asked to name others— clients, acquaintances, neighbors—who might have had a grudge against her. What would you say? Where would you tell me to look, if I were looking for her killer?"

  I thought for a moment he would blow off the question. He pulled on his cigarette, then stubbed it out in an overflowing ashtray. When he looked up, he'd decided to give me an answer. It was hard to tell whether he was being straight or trying to throw me off the track.

  "Well, first off, you maybe ought to dig around some up at the hotel. The bookkeeper there had the hots for

  Clark. She was pretty pissed when Rosemary snatched him away from her. A regular Peyton Place, that hotel." "The bookkeeper's name?"

  "Carol something. Ask Julie, out front. She's the one who told me." His mouth twisted into a bitter smile. "Ro-sie sure could pick 'em."

  "Anybody else?"

  "Yeah, now that you mention it. Look up Howie Rhodes, over in San Marcos. Real estate broker—deals in commercial land, mostly, some residential. Rosie did his books for a couple of years. The business seemed straight enough in the beginning, but when she got into it, she said things didn't look right. There was a lot of unexplained cash, and some pretty slick laundering going on. She began to think Rhodes was dealing." He paused and flicked the cigarette lighter, staring at the flame, then flicked it again.