Mistletoe Man - China Bayles 09 Page 24

  "No, it's not Orville, Mama," Lucy said quickly, before I could speak. "Talk to you later, Charlene. 'Night, now." The line went dead.

  I sat for a while in the darkness, watching the firelight flickering across the ceiling and listening to the storm sounds outside—the hiss of the sleety rain against the window, the pop and crackle of breaking limbs. I thought about the afternoon that Carl Swenson was killed, and the various stories that Aunt Velda and Donna and Terry had told about what happened, and where they were and what they were doing that afternoon.

  And then I thought of something else, and I began to turn the pages of the notebook that Mrs. Kendall had assembled: recipes, menu ideas, procedures, shopping lists— all neatly written out in her careful block handwriting on sheets of paper inserted into plastic sleeves. Some of the sleeves also held menus collected from English tearooms and several held sample paint chips and swatches of cloth labled as tablecloths, napkins, and curtains. Perhaps, once upon a time, Mrs. Kendall had had her own tearoom, or dreamed of it. Perhaps she had come to us in the hope of realizing her dream. Perhaps—

  And then, at the very back of the binder, loose between two pages, I found a newspaper clipping, old and yellowed and much folded. It caught my eye because it didn't seem to belong. And then I realized that it didn't belong—that Mrs. Kendall had inadvertently left it in the notebook. I glanced over it quickly, thinking I should return it to her. And then I read it more slowly, twice, three times.

  And then I sat back and thought some more about Sunday afternoon, and possibilities I hadn't considered before. And about the way people are never who they seem to be, and how hard it is to know what's going on inside someone else. I thought about Mrs. Kendall's classy voice, and the call to Carl. Finally, I sat up straight and punched Ruby's number into the cell phone and told her what I'd been thinking. Then I hung up and went to the kitchen to consult with McQuaid.

  "I don't believe this," Ruby said, when she got into the car a little while later. "It's incredible, that's what it is."

  "I agree," I said. "The scenario seems unlikely, and there's no proof. My idea could be way off the mark."

  That had been the trouble with this hit-and-run killing from the very beginning. There was no proof of anything, just one conflicting story after another, created to explain something totally inexplicable. If my implausible conjecture held any validity, not even the fingerprints on the truck proved what they seemed to prove. But there was still that unidentified set on the door of the truck. Maybe—

  "We went off half-cocked about the money that was missing from the cash register," Ruby said, frowning.

  "What makes you think we're not going off half-cocked now?"

  "Here," I said, handing her the clipping I'd found. "Read it." I turned on the dome light so Ruby could see.

  She read the clipping slowly, her eyes widening. "Oh, God," she whispered, aghast. "So that's what happened to her sister! No wonder she felt so bad about it."

  "It suggests a motive," I said. "A very strong one."

  Ruby let out her breath in a puff. "What do you intend to do?"

  "Talk. Ask questions. Listen." I paused. "Look. I wanted you to read that clipping, but you don't have to come if you don't want to. It's late, and you must be tired. And if I'm wrong, this session might get a little uncomfortable." I made a face. "Hell. If I'm right, it could get a lot uncomfortable."

  "Of course I'm coming," Ruby said. "You're not going off half-cocked without me." She pulled back her sleeve to look at her watch. "Anyway, it's not even ten o'clock yet. It just seems like midnight—probably because my power has been off ever since I got home."

  I shifted into first gear and accelerated slowly, trying to keep the Datsun from fishtailing. The glazed streets and sidewalks were so eerily empty it might have been four in the morning. Along a few blocks in the center of town, the street lights and Christmas lights shone brightly, but the rest of Pecan Springs was pitch-black. When we turned the corner onto Pecos Street, the power was off there too, and there wasn't a glittering Santa or reindeer to be seen. I made a right turn off Pecos and another right into the alley, and spotted the car I was looking for. Where the alley crossed the next street, I made another right, then another back onto Pecos. I swung into the drive and parked next to Mrs. Kendall's white Plymouth.

  A moment later, Ruby and I were climbing the stairs to her apartment, where we could see a faint golden glow through the window. The Duchess was still up, and burning a candle.

  I rapped at the door, waited a moment, and rapped again. A low voice demanded, "Who is it?"

  "It's us, Mrs. Kendall," Ruby replied loudly. "Ruby and China. We're sorry to bother you at this hour, but we'd like to visit for a few minutes."

  The door opened slowly, on its chain, and Mrs. Kendall, wrapped in a floral dressing gown and holding a candle, peered out. "My gracious," she exclaimed crossly. "What are you two doing out on such a dreadful night?"

  "We need to talk to you," I said. "It's important."

  "It must be, to bring you out on such a wretched night." Reluctandy, she unhooked the chain and opened the door. "Although I dare say this visit could wait until morning. As you can see, I am quite busy with my preparations for departure."

  In the wavering light of the candle, I could see that the apartment had only two rooms, a living-sleeping area and a galley kitchen with a back door. There was a large suitcase on the daybed and two smaller pieces of luggage on the floor, half-packed. Stacks of folded clothing lay on the chairs, and I caught the sharp fragrance of lavender sachets.

  Mrs. Kendall put the candle back on the table, next to a copy of today's Enterprise. She turned. Her face was pale, her eyes red, and I saw to my surprise that she had been weeping.

  "What is it you want to talk about?" she asked. She took a tissue and blew her nose. "If you're hoping that I'll change my mind and stay, I'm sorry to tell that's not possible. I really must go back to England and take care of—"

  "We've come to return this," I said, extending the newspaper clipping. "I found it in your reference guide. I'm sure it's very important to you. I don't believe you meant to leave it there."

  Mrs. Kendall stared at the clipping. "How ... careless of me," she said. She lifted her eyes to me, then to Ruby. "You've read it?"

  "Yes," I said. "It's helped us to understand a great deal about—"

  Ruby put her hand on my arm. "We're so sorry about your sister's death in that automobile accident," she interrupted sympathetically. "It must have been tragic for you. It's so hard to lose someone you love."

  Mrs. Kendall's face began to crumple and she half turned away. "Amanda was a young woman, and beautiful," she said brokenly. "So very, very beautiful. Like a blond goddess." She turned and pointed to a gold-framed photograph of a young woman with luminous dark eyes and a halo of light hair. "She didn't deserve to die." Mrs. Kendall clutched her dressing gown at her throat and her voice was harsh. "You can understand that, can't you? My sister didn't deserve to die!"

  "I can also understand," I said quietly, "why you decided that Carl Swenson didn't deserve to live."

  She threw back her head and whirled toward us, eyes wide, mouth twisted, face transformed with anger and hatred. "Swenson murdered her!" she blazed. "He was driving while he was intoxicated. It was no accident that she died, don't you see?" Her voice rose. "He took her life just as surely as if he had shot her with a gun. He should have paid for her murder with his own worthless life, but your courts saw fit to slap his wrist and let him go. It took me a very long time to see that he paid his debt to Amanda's memory. But it's done, and I'm not sorry." She stamped her foot, hard. "I'll never be sorry that justice has been done."

  Ruby pointed an accusing finger at the newspaper that lay open on the table. "But aren't you sorry for Donna Fletcher?" The stark headline was illuminated by the flickering candle. Woman Arrested for Hit-and-Run. "How can you allow her to pay for something you did? Is that your idea of justice?"

  Mrs. Kendall's
shoulders slumped, and she gave a low, desolate cry. "I didn't intend for anyone else to suffer," she said. Her voice had dropped to a whisper and the hatred and anger had left her face. "How could I have known they would arrest someone else?"

  "What did you expect when you took that truck?" I asked sharply. "Didn't it occur to you that its owner might be charged with your crime?"

  "But I thought it was his truck!" she exclaimed vehemently. "Don't you understand? I saw him on the ladder, doing something to the trees, and a little further on, around the curve, there was that old red truck, parked on the same side of the road. The keys were in it. How was I to know that it belonged to somebody else?"

  His truck. In all my speculations about what might have happened on Comanche Road that Sunday afternoon, this possibility had never once occurred to me. But I could see now how Mrs. Kendall could have mistaken Aunt Velda's truck for Swenson's.

  Mrs. Kendall looked up. "I'd planned to do it with a gun, you see." She grimaced. "I bought one, and I had it with me. I had decided to go to his house and find him and shoot him. But I dislike guns intensely, and when I saw him working beside the road, and his truck sitting there, it flashed into my mind that I should kill him with the same weapon he'd used to kill Amanda—his vehicle. It would be poetic justice." Her voice became pleading. "It wasn't a crime! I was only doing what was right. You can understand that, surely. You can't blame me for killing the man who killed my sister!"

  "And since you were an agent of justice," I said, "you didn't want to be charged with the crime. So you were careful not to leave any evidence."

  She nodded numbly. "After it was done, I left the truck where it was. But I wiped my fingerprints off the steering wheel and the gearshift."

  But not the inside of the door, I thought. Those were the careless prints that would convict her. Aloud, I asked, "You didn't see his green pickup beside the mailbox?"

  "Afterward. But I didn't think anything about it." She sank down in a chair and put her face in her hands. "It wasn't until just now, when I read the newspaper article, that I realized I'd made a mistake about the truck. And now they've arrested the owner. I don't understand why. But surely she has an alibi." She looked from Ruby to me, her eyes filling with tears. "Surely someone will speak up for her, and they'll let her go."

  Ruby knelt down beside her and took her hand. "You can't allow another person to be charged with your crime, Mrs. Kendall," she said gently. "You have to speak up."

  Mrs. Kendall made a whimpering noise.

  "In the days and weeks we've known you," Ruby went on, "we've learned that above all else, you're a fair person, with extraordinarily high standards. That's why you felt you couldn't let Carl Swenson live, of course. And that's why you can't participate in any injustice."

  Mrs. Kendall sniffled. "I suppose you're right," she said, "but—"

  "So it's only logical," Ruby continued, "that you should go to the police and explain what really happened. You can't permit Donna Fletcher and her family to take the responsibility for something you did—something you felt you had to do."

  "Thank you," Mrs. Kendall said. She fished a tissue out of her pocket and blew her nose. "Yes, of course, you're right. I must exonerate that poor, unfortunate woman who has been so unjustly accused. I shall go to the sheriff tomorrow morning and tell him everything."

  I cleared my throat. "I'm sure you don't want to put off your talk with the sheriff until morning, Mrs. Kendall. It wouldn't be fair to let Donna Fletcher stay in jail a minute longer than necessary. You need to take charge of the situation and straighten things out."

  Mrs. Kendall blew her nose once more. "You're right," she said decisively. "That's exactly what I must do. Straighten things out."

  "And I think," Ruby went on in her tactful way, "that you'll feel better if you let us have your gun."

  "Oh, no doubt," Mrs. Kendall said, almost relieved. "I couldn't decide what to do with it. I couldn't take it back to England with me." She got up and went to a chest of drawers. A moment later, she came back to the table, the gun in her hand. "Nasty thing," she said. "I'm glad I didn't have to use it."

  I went through the galley kitchen to the back door and opened it. Blackie was standing on the stairs outside. It had been his car I had spotted in the alley when we drove in.

  "Thank you for being so prompt, Sheriff Blackwell," I said. "Mrs. Kendall would like to arrange for her surrender."

  Chapter Eighteen

  After the sun god Balder was killed by the wicked Loki's mistletoe dart, the plant was feared and hated by all as the wicked instrument of death and betrayal. But Balder's mother, the goddess Freya, redeemed it in honor of her son, decreeing that mistletoe should became a symbol of peace and reconciliation. From that time on, enemies who met under a clump of shining mistletoe would lay down their arms and declare a truce. That is why it is hung in doorways to this very day, and a kiss of peace and loving kindness bestowed on all who enter.

  Scandinavian folklore

  The four of us—Justine, Ruby, Donna, and I were sitting in the visitors' room of the Adams County Jail. It was a few minutes past nine in the morning and we were waiting for Donna's release. As soon as the paperwork was finished, she'd be a free woman. Donna had changed her jail coveralls for street clothes, and you'd have thought that she would be celebrating. But her face was drawn and bleak and her voice despairing.

  "I don't know what to say, Ms. Wyzinski," she said. "I suppose I ought to thank you, but—"

  "Don't thank me," Justine said firmly. "Thank China and Ruby. They're the ones who persuaded Mrs. Kendall to turn herself in and confess to Swenson's murder. As far as you're concerned, the whole thing is over. You're in the clear, and the sheriff has decided not to charge your sister with concealing the truck." She drummed her fingers on the table, frowning. "Aren't you pleased—or at least relieved?"

  Donna's eyes suddenly filled with tears. "But how can I be glad about anything when Terry—" She stopped and bit her lip. Her question was barely a whisper. "What's going to happen to her when she's returned to California?"

  The Whiz pursed her lips. "That's entirely up to the California authorities."

  Donna clasped her hands together, pleading. "You don't suppose they'll let her go, do you? I mean, the prisons are so crowded, and she's been totally and completely clean ever since we came here."

  "No, I don't suppose they'll let her go," the Whiz said sternly. She stopped drumming and said, in a softer voice, "But I happen to know an attorney in Sacramento who might help her work out some sort of deal. Anyway, she won't be incarcerated forever. When she's released, I'm sure you'll be there for her."

  Donna lifted her chin resolutely. "I'll always be there for her. She can count on me."

  Ruby leaned forward and patted her hand. "I'm sure she knows that, Donna. It will make the next few months a lot easier for her."

  Personally, I wasn't convinced that this was an entirely healthy approach to the situation. It seemed to me that Donna needed to make a life that wasn't entirely centered on somebody else. It might also be better for Terry if she had to fend for herself, rather than depending on her sister to shelter her. But now wasn't the time to express my opinion—and anyway, it was only my personal view. I couldn't help solve this problem, or even suggest a solution. As Ruby would say, Donna and Terry would have to find their own personal paths.

  "But that's not all of it." Donna did not look comforted by Ruby's assurance. "If Terry won't be here to help with the farm work, I don't know how I'll manage. Even in the winter, there's a ton of stuff to do, especially in the greenhouses. And there's the equipment to maintain—" She broke off miserably, shaking her head. "I'll never be able to handle it alone, and Aunt Velda isn't much help."

  "Can't you hire somebody?" Ruby asked, concerned.

  "The person would have to stay on the place to help me look after it," Donna said. "And since the only living space is our spare room, she'd pretty much have to be a woman. But flower farming isn't glamoro
us work, under the best conditions." She spread out her hands so we could see the scratched fingers and chapped hands and ragged nails. "In the winter you're cold, and in the summer the heat is so fierce you just shrivel up. I'd have to find somebody who's strong and willing to learn, and willing to live with us. There aren't many women who fit that description."

  Now, that was a problem I could help to solve. I leaned forward. "I know one who does," I said. "Lucy, from the Diner. She's looking for work."

  Donna looked confused. "But she's a cook. A good one, too. I don't think she'd be the least bit interested."

  I shook my head. "I talked to her just last night. In fact, she's the one who gave me the idea that Mrs. Kendall was somehow connected with Swenson. Lucy is looking for gardening work, and she wants to find a new place to live, away from her mother and grandmother. She said she'd love to live in the country, and she spoke very highly of you. I'll bet you could work something out."

  Donna looked at me, a new hope in her eyes. "Do you think so? I like Lucy, and I think Aunt Velda would, too. If she's willing to give it a try, so am I."

  The Whiz moved restively in her chair. "Speaking of the Kendall woman, China, what put you onto her? Was it just a lucky guess?"

  "Maybe," I said. "But Lucy told me that the voice on Swenson's phone sounded like Mrs. Kendall's voice, and I put that together with an odd discrepancy. Mrs. K told me once that she had no living relatives, but when she gave me her resignation, she said she had to take care of an elderly aunt. I knew something was going on, although I had no idea what it was—until I found the newspaper clipping about her sister's death. Swenson was named as the driver who caused the accident."

  The Whiz frowned. "Then it's true that Mrs. Kendall came to Texas from England with the intention of getting revenge?"