"Stay for coffee," she urged. "I want to hear more."
"It's late," I said. "I have to get home and put in calls to McQuaid and The Whiz. And I need to stop at the store and see what kind of progress we've made on the air conditioner. I didn't have time to check with Laurel before she closed."
The lights from Maggie's Magnolia Kitchen spilled out onto the street when Brian and I drove up Crockett. All the street parking in.front of the shop was taken, and I remembered that Maggie was hosting a wedding rehearsal parry that night.
"I guess we'll park in the alley out back," I said, and made a right onto Guadalupe. A flare of auto lights close behind me caught the mirror and I blinked.
"I think I’ll come in with you," Brian said in a small voice. "It might be kind of creepy sitting in the truck, thinking about that woman getting killed right here." He patted the seat beside him.
I made another right into the alley. "I don't want you to stay in the truck," I said. I pulled in beside the stone guest house at the back of my lot, turned off the lights and the ignition, and dropped the keys into my purse. "Come on. Let's — "
The lights had turned into the alley behind us, illuminating the cab of the truck with a bright glare. Suddenly an old Ford scraped around us in the narrow alley and braked to a hard stop at an angle, in front of us. The lights went off and the darkness closed around us like a heavy curtain.
"Brian," I said urgently, "get down!"
"What?" Brian asked, startled. His door was half-open. "What are we — ?"
"Just get down," I snapped. I yanked him back into the truck and shoved him onto the floor, pulling his door shut and locking it. Ahead of us, a car door had slammed, and heavy footsteps were crunching on the gravel. I locked my door and began to grope in my purse. Why hadn't I kept the keys in my hand? I couldn't pull forward, but I could've put the truck into reverse and —
"Is it a robber?" Brian's whisper was terrified. "Is it that Jacoby guy?"
"I don't know," I said, fumbling desperately. "Stay down." If only I'd brought the gun. I might not have to use it, but it could have been a deterrent. My fingers closed over something the size of a pocket flash. The air conditioner was off and and the sweat was beginning to run down my face and neck and trickle down my back, sticky and warm. Warm like blood. I suddenly had a vision of Rosemary lying on her back on this seat, a bullet through her head. Brian made a whimpering noise. No, it wasn't Brian, it was me. I was whimpering. I tightened my throat. McQuaid hadn't been paranoid. He'd been right.
There was a rapping on the door. "Roll down the window," a raspy voice growled. "I wanna talk to you." "No," I said.
"I ain't got no gun," he said. "I ain't gonna hurt you. I bin waitin' for you. I just wanna talk." His laugh was high-pitched, too shrill for such a big man. I could see the ominous hulk of him, silhouetted against Mr. Cowan's back porch light, which had just gone on across the alley. Mr. Cowan, who is eighty-something, is a one-man Neighborhood Watch.
"What do you want to talk about?"
"Stop stallin'. Roll it down."
"McQuaid isn't here. He's in Mexico. If you want to get even, he's the man you want."
The laugh was short and sharp. "I'll do that. But right now, I'm gonna fix you and that kid of his." He moved his head to peer around me. "I see you found him. Where was he? Out shootin' pool with his buddies?"
Beside me, Brian stiffened. "I was not," he said indignantly. "I was with — "
I cut in. "You knew Brian was gone?"
"Course I knew." Jacoby was deeply injured. "I watch TV, don't I? Didn't make me feel good to see my face plastered all over the TV screen, did it? Made me feel like a criminal. What kinda crap is McQuaid tryin' to pull, anyway? Puttin' me away once wasn't enough for him?"
"McQuaid didn't have anything to do with this. And I'm sorry about the TV coverage," I added sincerely. "I really thought you were the one who — "
"You're gonna be sorrier." His voice was bitter. "I lied. I got a gun right here." He brandished it. "You gonna roll this window down, or do I gotta blast a hole in it?"
The hot stillness closed around me, smothery. I took my right hand out of my purse and with my left, began to roll down the window.
"No, China!" Brian whispered.
"Hey, that's more like it," Jacoby said, pleased. He leaned forward and I could see the glint of light along a barrel, could smell garlic mixed with cheap booze on his breath. I raised my right hand slowly, my heart in my throat. "Now we kin talk friendly-like," he said. "I bin waitin' a long time for this."
As my hand cleared the top of the window, I pulled back hard on the trigger. It was point-blank range.
"Yiii!"
Jacoby staggered backward, dropping his gun, flinging both hands up to his face. I leaned on the horn as he fell to his knees, clawing at his eyes and screeching, a raw, horrible scream that even the blast of the horn couldn't drown out.
Across the alley. Air. Cowan's door opened, and I let up on the horn. "What's that racket out there?" he cried. The old man's quavery voice was accompanied by a shrill yapping. "Shut up, Aliss Lula. I cain't hear a gol-durned thing with you bar kin' like a idiot."
"It's me, Air. Cowan," I yelled. "China Bayles. I've got a murderer out here. Call 911, please. Quick!"
Air. Cowan's door slammed. Jacoby was on his hands and knees, trying to crawl in the direction of his car. Tears were streaming down his face and he was wrenched by spasms. I scrambled out of the truck and grabbed up the gun.
"On the ground!" I shouted.
Jacoby collapsed and rolled over, hands digging at his eyes, groaning. Brian jumped out of the truck.
"Wow," he said. "Just like on TV. What'd you blast that guy with, China?"
I held up the small metal cylinder McQuaid had given me. "The mother of all hot peppers," I said.
Chapter Nineteen
There's rosemary, that's for remembrance. . ..
William Shakespeare Hamlet
"El rio abajo?" McQuaid asked, turning away from the barbecue with a fork in his hand. "What the hell is that?"
"It means underground river," I explained, setting the tray of foil-wrapped sweet corn ears on the table next to the barbecue. I surveyed the red-gingham-covered table, set for six with my Aunt Tullie's colorful Fiesta Ware. The weather had turned blessedly cooler, it was Sunday night, and Blackie, Sheila, and Ruby were joining us for a picnic.
"I know what it means," McQuaid said. He turned a piece of chicken. "What does it mean?"
Sheila lifted her glass to Blackie for a refill of before-dinner white wine. "The Edwards Aquifer," she said. "You know, where we get our water. The fountain that Jeff had put in just before he was killed—the water is tapped from an artesian spring. The pipe for the fountain runs in a trench. The dirt was already loose there and it was easier digging, so that's where Matt put the body. Alongside the pipe. El rio abajo. Where La Que Sabe said to look."
"You don't really believe that stuff, do you?" Blackie asked, setting down the wine bottle.
Sheila reached down to fondle Howard Cosell's ears. He sighed and sank to the ground in a paroxysm of utter bliss.
"Of course she doesn't. She's too intelligent." McQuaid flipped one of the chicken halves. "Now's the time to put the corn on," he said to me. "The chicken will be ready in about twenty minutes."
"If she doesn't, she should," Ruby said emphatically, tripping across the grass with the veggie plate. "La Que Sabe knew where the body was buried, and Ouija told us where to find Brian—playing Gurps."
"Not so fast, Ruby," Blackie said. "As I understand it, China and Sheila located Brian without giving a thought to that Ouija thing. They didn't have a clue where he was."
Ruby gave him a knowing smile and tossed her carroty head. She was all in green this evening: oversized green checked shirt with the sleeves rolled up, green and white striped leggings, green sandals, even green paint on her toenails and fingernails. She had spent all afternoon, she told me, cleaning up the mess the storm h
ad made of her garage and talking to the insurance adjuster. In the end, she'd get a new garage. A bonus, as it were, for hosting La Que Sabe.
"They didn't need a clue," she said. "Ouija predicted where they'd find Brian, and when they got there, there he was. It's the same with el rio abajo." With that indisputable logic, she picked up her glass. "Might I have a refill, please?" she asked sweetly.
Sheila chuckled, I grinned, and Blackie poured.
McQuaid sat down on the picnic bench. "Let's take it from the top," he said. "There are a few things I don't have straight yet. Matt killed Rosemary to keep her from marrying Jeff. Right?"
I sat down beside McQuaid and leaned against his arm. He ruffled my hair affectionately and pulled me closer. We hadn't discussed our differences since he got back because we'd been so glad to see one another. The other China had wanted to slug it out, lay down the law about curfews, and make a clear statement about personal freedom, but a good opportunity hadn't presented itself. That might be just as well, actually. Maybe the best thing is to just sort of muddle along, telling the truth as much as possible, lying only when we have to, and trying to be smart enough to learn from our mistakes.
"Actually, he had two reasons for killing Rosemary," I said. "The first reason was her discovery that he'd been skimming the accounts."
"Wait a minute." McQuaid frowned. "Matt said be hired Rosemary."
"Matt lied," I said. "It was one of his many lies. Jeff hired Rosemary because he thought something was wrong with the accounts. Carol mentioned that fact the first time I talked to her, and Sheila and I even talked about it. But it didn't make sense until some of the other pieces began to fall into place. Rosemary uncovered Mart's theft and reported it to Jeff. That was one motive for her murder."
McQuaid grunted. "The other, I suppose, was the hotel itself."
"Yes. Matt was the beneficiary of Jeff s will. If Jeff married Rosemary, that would change. In the event of his death, his half of the hotel would go to her, not to Matt. Taken together, it was a powerful combination of motives for a double murder."
"But that's the puzzling part," Ruby said. She took the lawn chair next to Sheila, kicked off her sandals, and propped her bare feet on Howard Cosell. He rolled over to expose his belly, all four paws in the air, a foolish, cloggy grin on his face. "Matt went to a lot of trouble to make everybody believe that Jeff was still alive, somewhere in Mexico. But somebody has to be dead before you can inherit their money. If Matt wanted the hotel, why did he do all that?"
"Because his plan got screwed up," I said. "He intended to make Jeff s murder look like a suicide. Man goes berserk, kills fiancee with father's famous gun, then shoots self."
"Not a bad plan, actually," McQuaid reflected. "The gun was exactly the kind of weapon somebody might use for a ritual murder-suicide."
I nodded. "But Jeff did not go gentle into that good night, as the poet says. Matt and Jeff struggled for the gun. Three shots were fired, two of them in places where you couldn't or wouldn't shoot yourself."
"I'm surprised the gunshots weren't heard," Sheila said, slapping at a mosquito. "The fight happened at the hotel, in Jeff s office. When Bubba used Luminol on Jeff s desk and on the floor, he found the bloodstains Matt thought he'd wiped up."
"It was the Fourth of July," Blackie reminded her. "If anybody heard shooting, they'd think it was firecrackers."
Flames flared up in the barbecue and McQuaid got up to squirt some water on the coals. He sat back down again. "So Matt took Jeff out and buried him under the rosemary bush?"
"Not that night," I said. "Of course, if he'd been successful in making the death appear to be a suicide, he would simply have left Jeff slumped over the desk, where Lily would find him on Thursday morning, along with the gun. Rosemary would have been found at about the same time, shot by the same gun. With both Rosemary and Jeff
dead, Matt would be home clear, with the hotel in the bag."
"I guess that's where he had to improvise," Blackie said.
I nodded. "Until he came up with a better idea, he wrapped Jeff in garbage bags and stashed him in the back of the hotel's walk-in freezer. It's one of those old-fashioned coolers, about as big as a boxcar, and there's a lot of stuff in there. He could be reasonably certain that nobody'd find the body before he'd figured out what to do with it, and with the gun."
"How do you know that?" Ruby asked curiously. "Did he tell you?"
Blackie shook his head. "He's not talking," he said. "It's only on TV that the accused spills the beans when he's caught." He gave a short laugh. "In real life, the lawyer shows up and tells the criminal to keep his damn mouth shut and let the prosecution build its own case."
"So how do we know about the freezer?" Ruby demanded.
"There was a commotion about it when I was at the hotel on Thursday. Matt insisted on keeping it locked, even though that meant a lot of extra work. And when Harold came out to repair the freezer on Friday evening, he saw something big wrapped in black plastic."
"Bubba found bloodstains in the cooler, too," Sheila put in. "They're being checked for a match with Jeffs blood."
I went on. "After the body was temporarily disposed of, Matt must've stuck Jeff’s car someplace — his garage, maybe—and then worked out an alternate plan. Nobody was looking for Jeff, of course, because he'd told everybody he was going fishing at South Padre. The trip was a cover to conceal his and Rosemary's wedding trip to Mexico. That part of it is in Jeff s journal, which turned up after a more thorough search of his house."
"That journal's going to be a big help to Chick Burton," Blackie said. "It pretty much nails the prosecution's case."
"What does it say?" Ruby asked.
"That Jeff hired Rosemary to confirm his suspicions that Matt was stealing money out of the accounts," I said. "That he loved Rosemary and had been pleased about the baby and disappointed by the miscarriage. That they planned to marry, take a short honeymoon, and come back and blow the whistle on Matt. If they had lived to do what they intended, Matt would have been finished."
Ruby sat up in her chair and tucked her feet under her. Howard Cosell looked up at her sadly, then struggled to his feet and went to lie down under the picnic table. "So how did Jeff s body get into the herb garden?"
"The freezer broke down on Friday afternoon," I said. "Matt was in a panic. He hauled the air-conditioning repairman away from his supper." I grinned wryly, remembering what Harold had said about Matt having something in the freezer he didn't want thawed out. "Harold didn't stock the parts to fix the freezer, and Matt couldn't even be sure that the thing could be repaired. So he had to bury the body. The trench for the fountain piping had been dug and the pipe installed. All he had to do was widen the trench, put Jeff s frozen body into it, and cover it up. Then, because the rosemary hadn't yet been planted and he didn't want anybody else digging in the area, he stuck it into the hole. The trouble was, he didn't take the time to unwrap the burlap around the roots and he put the bush in crooked. I doubt if he even realized what a botched-up job he'd made of it."
"He really did botch it up," Sheila said. "His plan, I mean. Without a body, Jeff wasn't dead. And unless Jeff was dead, Matt couldn't inherit the hotel."
"I guess that's where I came in," McQuaid said. "Matt phonied up a quit claim giving himself Jeff s share of the hotel. Then, very late on Friday night, he drove Jeff s Fiat to Brownsville. Before he left town, he slung the gun out the window, at a spot where he knew it would be found."
"How do you know that?" Ruby asked.
"The part about the gun? I'm guessing. But we do know that he drove the car to Brownsville, because the Brownsville PD turned up somebody who saw him park it—a panhandler, looking for loose change. Matt gave him a ten, which impressed the hell out of the guy. It was good for a weekend drunk."
"And the Mexico gig?" Sheila asked.
"Piece of cake," McQuaid said. "All he had to do was hire somebody to use Jeff s plane ticket to Mexico City, spend a night in the hotel, and run through a c
ouple of hundred dollars on Jeffs credit cards."
"Was the money actually spent," I asked, "or did Matt lie about the calls from the bank?"
"Bubba's still checking on that," McQuaid said. "What we do know is that when he'd made all the arrangements, Matt took the bus back here. We know that because Bubba turned up a bus driver who remembered him. Matt told everybody he'd gone to San Antonio for the day."
"Which totally pissed Lily off," I put in. "She hadn't planned to work that weekend."
McQuaid nodded. "Then he sent me down there to find the Fiat and the quit claim, which was just as good as a dead body."
"Hiring you to look for Jeff made, his flight seem a lot more real," Blackie said. "Not only that, but it deflected suspicion from him. It was clever sleight of hand."
"Yes," Ruby remarked wisely, "but La Que Sabe knew. She told China that you were following the wrong man. She said to look for the man who wears a snake. That was Matt Monroe, of course. His boots were made of snakeskin."
McQuaid gave me a quizzical look.
"I'll tell you later," I murmured. "If you really want to know."
"I'm still not quite clear about Carol Connally," Blackie said. "Where does she come into the picture?"
"She was hired about ten years ago by Jeff*s sister Rachel," I said. "Carol had never done any bookkeeping and had no idea of the significance of some of the procedures Rachel taught her. You see, Rachel had her own private account and was siphoning money into it."
"Stealing from her brother, in effect," Sheila put in. "It wasn't hard, because Jeff only looked at the year-end summaries she prepared, not at the account books themselves."
"That's right," I said. "After she died, Matt carried on his wife's scheme. But Carol's no dummy, and she caught on. To insure her continued cooperation, he opened an account in her name at the bank and every now and again he'd drop some cash into it. You know, a bonus."
"He bought her," McQuaid said.
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