"That's what it looks like," I said. "She'd been trying to track Swenson down ever since he was released from prison, and was successful only a few months ago."
"So she began calling and threatening him," Ruby said.
"She even bought a gun," I added. "She had it with her when she drove out there on Sunday."
"So Carl's death wasn't an accident," Donna said.
"Not hardly," I replied. "She told the sheriff that she went out there with the intention of finding Swenson and shooting him. But instead, she found the track, parked beside the road where Aunt Velda had left it when she went to look for the cave. Mrs. Kendall thought it was Swenson's truck, and she was suddenly possessed of the desire to kill him with it."
"Suddenly and irrationally possessed?" the Whiz asked, with a gleam in her eye.
"I suppose some wily defense attorney will try to cop a temporary insanity plea," I replied dryly. "But don't forget that she'd purchased a gun and she had it with her, which clearly indicates premeditation."
The Whiz cocked her head, her eyes narrowing. "Perhaps she intended only to threaten him with the gun." She leaned forward in her chair. "Perhaps she intended only to give clear and substantive expression to her quite understandable feelings of grief and despair over her sister's tragic and untimely death—her beautiful sister, crushed beyond recognition under the wheels of a drunken driver ten years before. Ten years, mind you, to the very day!"
"Don't get carried away, Justine," I cautioned. "This isn't what you—"
"But when my client saw the truck," the Whiz said, rising dramatically, "she was instantly seized by the maniacal and irresistible urge to kill."
Donna looked confused. "I thought I was your client."
"This is just something that happens occasionally," I said in a stage whisper to Donna. "She'll get over it."
The Whiz ignored us. "Suddenly and unexpectedly bereft of her reason, robbed of all normal sense of right and wrong, Mrs. Kendall leaped into the truck, accelerated cra-zily, and ran down the man who had run down her sister." She dropped her voice almost to a whisper. "And when it was all over, this poor woman had no recollection of what she had done in her crazed state. She—"
"When it was all over," I said, "Mrs. Kendall left her victim lying beside the road while she coolly and deliberately wiped her fingerprints off the steering wheel and the gearshift. Then she abandoned the truck, returned to her car, and calmly drove home, where she told the landlord that she was vacating her apartment." I paused, thinking I'd better include the exculpatory fact I had reported to Blackie. "On the other hand, she had been drinking."
"Drinking!" the Whiz exclaimed. She smacked her fist against her hand. "Aha! She definitely wasn't in full pos^ session of her faculties!"
I shook my head. "Nice try, Justine, but that dog won't hunt. Mrs. Kendall is one cool character, with an extraordinarily strong sense of fairness. She will never let her attorney portray her as losing her wits, even for an instant, and she certainly won't admit to being so drunk that she didn't know what she was doing. No doubt about it—Dutch is going to go for vehicular homicide on this one, and he'll get it."
The Whiz thought about this for a minute, then sat back down in her chair. "You're probably right," she said, in her normal voice. "Anyway, I've got a bigger case load than I can handle right now." She looked at me. "If you've got any time to spare, China, I could use some help in the office. And I hate to see your investigative talents go to waste."
"Thanks," I said, "but I like what I'm doing. Besides, we just lost our cook. Ruby and I are going to need some help ourselves."
Ruby tilted her head. "So what happened next, after Mrs. Kendall drove away?" She turned to Donna. "How did the truck get into Swenson's tractor shed?"
Donna flushed. "We're to blame for that," she said. "When Aunt Velda wandered out of the woods, the truck wasn't where she'd left it. She went looking and found it up the road, around the corner. She also found Carl, dead. She left the truck—I guess she figured she didn't want to touch it after that—and walked home. She gave us this lunatic story about the Klingons borrowing it to take care of Carl, and that he was dead, or gone, or something. We didn't believe her, of course. We just figured it was her usual crazy talk. But we needed to get the truck off the road. It doesn't have any plates."
"So that's when Terry found the body," I said.
Donna nodded sadly. "It was dark by that time, and he'd already been dead for a couple of hours. Terry saw the broken headlight, and the blood on the grille. She thought Aunt Velda had run Carl down, either accidentally or on purpose."
"From the evidence, a natural assumption," the Whiz observed.
Donna bit her lip. "You never can tell about Aunt Velda. Sometimes she's really level-headed, other times she's just plain goofy. Anyway, when Terry saw the truck, she got scared. She figured that if we said Aunt Velda ran Carl down, nobody'd believe us." She shifted position to look at me, and her wooden chair creaked. "Like you said, China. They'd think we were using her to shield one of us, because she isn't—well, because any jury could see that she's not all there. She couldn't really be held responsible."
"So Terry was afraid the sheriff would suspect one of you," the Whiz said.
"Right," Donna said. "He might even think we'd done it on purpose, because we'd already told China about Carl making all that trouble. And China had heard Terry threaten to shoot him if he didn't stop." She dropped her eyes. 'Terry also knew that her criminal record would turn up if they did a background check on her, and they'd find out about California."
"Did you know about that?" Ruby asked gently. "The escape, I mean."
Donna gave a rueful sigh. "Yes, but not until after it happened and the California police came looking for her. The escape wasn't Terry's idea, you know. There were some other women, and they were all in a prison truck with a bunch of plants they were supposed to be taking somewhere. One of the women had bribed a guard to leave a gate open and the driver just went right on through. They drove for a while; then they all jumped out of the truck and scattered. Terry went with them. She knew the authorities wouldn't believe she hadn't been in on the escape."
I wasn't sure I believed it, either, but I could see that Donna did, so I didn't say anything. Donna took a breath and went on with her story.
"She hid out for a while so they wouldn't trace her to us. Then Aunt Velda and I moved to Texas, and she joined us. Aunt Velda had some money saved up, and we used it for a down payment on Carl's place. We wanted to, grow flowers, which was what Terry did when she was in prison." Her smile was twisted. "We figured that California would give up on her after a while. The prisons are really crowded out there, and drug users are a dime a dozen."
"So it was Terry who put the truck in Swenson's shed," Ruby said.
Donna nodded. "She was scared that the sheriff would show up and start asking questions, so she knew she couldn't bring it back home. The only thing she could think of was to drive it to Carl's place, where we could get it when the excitement died down. So that's what she did. Then she walked home across the ridge."
"Why didn't she wipe her fingerprints off the truck?" I asked.
Donna gave a little shrug. "I guess she just didn't think of it. She was pretty panicked. Anyway, she was hoping that no one would notice, that anybody looking at it would think it belonged to Carl. The truck didn't have plates, so it wouldn't be easy to trace."
Ruby turned to me. "Those unidentified fingerprints the sheriff found on the door—I suppose they'll match Mrs. Kendall's."
"They already have," I said. Blackie had told me that much.
"Well, I guess that about wraps it up," the Whiz said decisively. She looked at her watch. "Where the hell is that paperwork? I have to get back to San Antonio."
"Hey," I said, "don't you want to go with us to pick up Aunt Velda at the nursing home?"
"I think I'll pass," the Whiz said.
"What? And miss a chance to get your picture in the paper?" Ruby ask
ed. "Hark is going to be there with a photographer when we check her out." She grinned. "Can't you just imagine the headlines? Woman Finds Long-Lost Bank Loot. Secret Cave on Mistletoe Creek Yields Treasure."
"Aunt Velda is hot news," I remarked. "Hark says the wire services will jump on this one."
Donna managed a small smile. "Aunt Velda's certainly enjoying the attention. I talked to her on the phone a little while ago. She was getting her hair fixed for the photographer."
"Well, maybe I should go along after all," the Whiz conceded. "Has she filed a writ of possession under Chapter
72 of the Property Code? She'll need to do that in order to ensure her title to the abandoned property."
"Maybe you can take care of that," I said. "What's your fee for something like that?"
The Whiz frowned. "The standard commission is five percent. And I have lost some expected income, now that I've managed to get my client"—she nodded at Donna— "cleared of all the charges against her." She gestured expansively. "Tell you what. I'll file the writ and take care of all the paperwork for the standard commission, and consider it payment for my work on Donna's case."
"Five percent!" Ruby hooted. "What nerve!" She turned to me. "China will do the paperwork for nothing. Won't you, China?"
"Oh, yeah, sure," I said. "Right after I've finished making the party food for the Christmas Tour." I made a face. "And with no Mrs. Kendall to help, either."
A broad grin split Justine's face. "And whose fault is that? You were the one who was in a big hurry to catch a killer."
As it happened, Lucy offered to cook for the Christmas Tourists, and that event came off without a hitch. Then Ruby's friend Janet called and said she was back from Dallas and looking for work, so we were able to fill Mrs. K's empty place in the kitchen, after all. And since Mrs. Kendall had so conscientiously prepared the reference guide for her replacement's use, our customers never knew the difference.
But the big event was Ruby's surgery, two days after Christmas. Sheila and the Whiz and I, along with Amy and Shannon and Ruby's mother, sat in the hospital lounge, chewing our nails and drinking coffee and waiting nervously for the surgeon to tell us that everything was okay. It took longer than we expected, but at last the word came. The surgery was successful, Ruby was recovering nicely, and there was every reason to believe that the cancer would never recur. Relieved and jubilant, we trooped to Ruby's bedside with armloads of flowers and a bootleg botde of champagne.
But the real celebration didn't come until early February—Friday night and Saturday, February first and second—when a dozen of Ruby's closest friends gathered at her house for an all-night, all-day body-painting ceremony. Of course, most of Ruby's friends are in tune with her unusual interests, but some of us aren't, and had to be persuaded. The Whiz, for instance, who frowned severely when I told her what we were planning.
"A body-painting ceremony?" she asked suspiciously. "It sounds really weird. What is it?"
"It's an ancient form of herbal body-art called mehndi" I said. "On Friday night, we make up a paste of henna and water and tea and eucalyptus oil, and we paint it on our bodies in ritual designs. Then we let it dry, and on Saturday, when we take it off, we're beautiful."
The Whiz made a face. "Sounds like we're messy and weird. Isn't henna that funny herbal stuff that Ruby puts on her hair to make it redder?"
"Right. For centuries, people have used it to dye hair and paint their fingernails and color textile fibers. It's probably the most popular cosmetic herb of all time."
"I'm not much into cosmetics," the Whiz said with a disdainful look. "Anyway, I can't go into court with funny-looking squiggles painted all over my face. Judges have no sense of humor."
"Paint the squiggles on the soles of your feet," I said. "The judge won't ask you to take your shoes off. Ruby will be really disappointed if you don't come and join the fun, Justine."
"But what happens if I can't get this henna stuff off?" The Whiz was plaintive. "I could be marked forever."
"It'll come off," I retorted. "After three weeks, maybe a month, you won't be able to tell it was there." I frowned. "I'm not asking you, I'm telling you, Justine. This is for Ruby. Stop being a jerk and put it on your calendar. Friday and Saturday, February first and second."
The Whiz pursed her lips. "February second? That's Groundhog Day, isn't it?"
"It is. It's also a Christian celebration for the purification of the Virgin Mary and the blessing of candles, called Candlemas. And in pagan cultures, it's a festival called Imbolc, halfway between the winter solstice and the spring equinox. It celebrates the return of spring and new life. Which is why we're having the party that day. To celebrate Ruby's recuperation and to wish her continued good health."
"Okay, okay," the Whiz said with a resigned sigh. "You don't need to make a federal case of it. I'll be there."
"And you'll paint?"
"My feet," the Whiz growled.
Ruby's body-painting party went on all night—we camped out in sleeping bags on the living room floor—and most of the next day. We brought our favorite party foods and drinks and flowers, and there was lots of story-telling and dancing and listening to music and lollygagging and laughing—the sorts of things women do when there're no men around to make them feel self-conscious.
But the most important part of the party was the body-painting itself. Each of us tried out different designs on paper until we had something we liked, then we mixed up the henna paste and painted it on ourselves. If there was a place we couldn't reach, we painted it on each other. With Sheila's help, I painted an arm band and a bracelet on my left arm (because I'm right-handed). With a little help from me, Sheila painted concentric hearts and stars around her belly button. With no help from anybody, the Whiz painted a geometric design on her instep, and Amy and Shannon and the others painted their ankles and wrists, or the palms or the backs of their hands.
But the most important body-painting was Ruby's body—which was why we were there in the first place. Ruby was wearing scarlet tights and a silky white off-one-shoulder tunic. It covered her left breast and revealed the empty place where her right breast had been, where the diagonal scar, almost completely healed now, curved sinuously from her underarm to her breast bone. She had already drawn the design she wanted us to paint, a delicate tracery of feathery lines and flowers. Her daughters were first, then each of us took a turn, lovingly and reverently painting a part of the pattern until the whole design was completed on our friend's bare, breast-less chest. When we were finished, she sat in the middle of the floor while we made a circle around her, holding candles and flowers and incense, each of us offering our prayers and best wishes for her vibrant health and a long, long life. As I stood there, I was swept by a complicated mix of feelings. I felt a deep sadness for Ruby's loss, relief because it wasn't mine, and guilt because I felt relieved. Glancing around at the women's intent faces, I was sure that we all shared these same feelings, and something more—a deep realization of what is really important in our lives: the grace of friendship, the joy of caring for one another, and the resolute strength to care for ourselves.
"Well, another great party comes to an end," I remarked, as we said goodbye to Amy and Shannon and shut the door. It was Saturday afternoon and Ruby and I were all alone, with the usual aftermath of a party—food to put away and a couple of rooms to straighten. "I think everybody enjoyed themselves, don't you?"
"Even Justine," Ruby said with a laugh. "Did you notice that she got carried away with the spirit of things and painted a flower on the back of her hand?"
"No kidding!" I exclaimed. "What's the judge going to say?"
Ruby's answer was lost in the peal of the doorbell. "I'll get it," I said, with a glance at her newly ornamented bare chest. She'd probably want to put on a blouse before she met the public.
"It's one of the girls," Ruby said, "coming back for something she forgot."
But it wasn't one of our friends. Instead, it was a plump, pretty woman with a halo
of fluffy blond hair, a carefully made-up doll's face, and beautifully manicured nails. She was wearing a pastel yellow suit and yellow pumps and carrying a yellow shoulder purse the size of a diaper bag. Beside her on the porch was a yellow plastic case with Sherry Faye Cosmetics printed on it in large red letters.
"Hello." Her voice had a built-in artificial lilt. "I'm Tiffany. I'm here for the party."
"You're a little late, Tiffany," I said. "Everybody's gone."
Tiffany's eyebrows registered surprise, her mouth consternation. She looked at her watch. "But it's not due to begin for another half-hour!" she exclaimed. "I've come early to set up the sales table."
Ruby stepped forward. "You've got the wrong house," she said. "You're looking for June Cook. She lives across the street." To me, she added, in an explanatory tone, "June is hosting a Sherry Faye cosmetics party. She does it once every couple of months. She said we could come if we wanted to."
"Oh," I said. I grinned. "Maybe we're not beautiful enough yet. Maybe we should go and buy some lipstick and stuff." I turned back to Tiffany to say that we'd drop in a little later, but I was stopped by the expression on her face. She was staring at Ruby's bare and beautifully decorated chest. She started to say something, but whatever it was, we couldn't hear it. She tried again, blinked, gulped, and gave it up.
Ruby smiled sweetly. "I'll bet you're wondering why I'm dressed like this," she said, gesturing at her scarlet tights, her one-shouldered tunic, and her henna-painted chest. "Actually, we've been having our own party. A celebration. I've just been initiated."
Tiffany found her voice, or part of it. "Initiated?" she squeaked.
"Yes." Ruby lifted her chin. "I've just joined the Tribe of One-Breasted Women. It's a very elite group, you see. Membership is limited to women who are willing to sacrifice—"
But Tiffany wasn't waiting around to hear the prerequisites for membership in Ruby's tribe. She had snatched up her yellow plastic sales kit and was fleeing as fast as her yellow pumps could take her, down the walk and across the street, to the refuge of the Sherry Faye cosmetics party, where the women covered their breasts and painted only their faces.
Mistletoe Man - China Bayles 09 Page 25