Chile Death Page 5

  There was a tap on the door and a man’s voice called, "Anybody home?”

  "Stop poundin’ on that door an’ get yerself in here,” Jug yelled. Two men came in, one in uniform. They filled the narrow space between the foot of the bed and the door, and Jug gave them a suspicious once-over. "Whore you?”

  “I’m Chief of Police Harris,” the uniformed man said in a surly, threatening voice. He rolled his cigar from one side of his face to the other, pulled his heavy black brows together, and hooked his thumbs over his belt. His belly sagged over the buckle, straining the buttons of his shirt. "I’m here to arrest this roommate of yours and haul him off to jail.”

  "Oh, yeah?” Jug was interested but hardly impressed. "He’s a bad 'un, all right. Gives the aides reg’lar hell. So whut’s he done that he’s headed fer jail?”

  The other man chuckled. “It’s what he hasn’t done that’s the problem.” He strode over to McQuaid, crunching on peanut hulls, and pumped his hand. "Howya doin’, buddy?” he said, in a loud voice. Some people seem to think that people in wheelchMrs. have problems with their ears, too.

  "Sure could be a lot worse,” McQuaid said evenly. "Hello, Jerry Jeff.” To the chief, he said, “Yo, Bubba.” Bubba and McQuaid are not close friends but they both belong to the cop fraternity, which paradoxically makes them brothers. The fact that McQuaid is no longer offi- cally a cop hardly matters, especially now that he’s laid up with a service-related disability.

  Jerry Jeff Cody turned light blue eyes on me, and grinned easily. "Well, hello. China Bayles, isn’t it?” A blond, handsome man with powerful shoulders, he wore a white polo shirt, close-fitting slacks that showed off his narrow hips, and an expensive gold watch that advertised his success as Pecan Springs’ leading insurance ("Covering the Longhorn State”) broker. I’ve known him casually for several years, and known about him rather longer.

  That is, I’ve heard the stories which circulate from time to time about his flings with various local ladies. Unfortunately, Ruby hadn’t seen fit to heed my advice about going out to dinner with him somewhere outside of Pecan Springs. In the local imagination, she had been added to Jerry Jeff's conquest list.

  "Right,” I said briefly.

  Jerry Jeff's teeth were very white, his smile friendly. "Your friend Ruby tells me that you and she are going into business together. Good idea.”

  McQuaid raised his eyebrows. "Oh, yeah? What kind of business?”

  "Restaurant?” Jerry Jeff asked, trying to remember.

  "Tearoom,” I said shortly.

  McQuaid raised his eyebrows. "I thought you’d given that up.”

  "I have,” I said. “This is Ruby’s idea, and I haven’t been able to talk her out of it yet.”

  "Well, it sounds like the right combination to me,” Jerry Jeff said with genial good cheer. "You’ve got a great location, and Ruby’s got marketing smarts.” His smile was patronizing. "You’ll make a super team.”

  I grinned through clenched teeth.

  Jug had been watching Jerry Jeff with a quizzical look. Now he said, "Say, don’t I know you, mister? Didn’t I see you here a couple days ago, comin’ out of Velma’s room?” He glanced at Cody’s wrist. "Don’t recollect you, ’xactly, but I sure remember that watch. Sucker’s big as a gold mine.”

  Jerry Jeff looked like he was going to say no, considered a split second, then shrugged. “Could have been me, I guess.”

  "Velma a friend of yours?” Jug asked curiously.

  "No," Jerry Jeff said. "Not exactly.” He looked uncomfortable.

  Jug shook his head. "You don’t want to mess around with Velma. She’s nuttier'n a fruitcake. Chatters all the time but don’t make no more sense ’n a prairie dog. Speakin’ of nuts," he added, “have one on me." He cackled. " 'Member ol’ Will Rogers? He was always eatin’ peanuts and passin’ ’em around.” He threw Bubba a peanut.

  “Thanks, Pop.” Bubba picked it out of the air, cracked it, and ate it.

  “Catch.” Jug lobbed one to Jerry Jeff, who tossed it into the wastebasket.

  "Thanks, I’ll pass.” Jerry Jeff turned to McQuaid. "Hot and cold running nurses, huh?” he asked, raising his voice. "Waiting on you hand and foot? Satisfying your every desire?”

  McQuaid’s answering smile was thin. "How come you’re not out peddling life insurance to little old ladies?”

  "Because I’m here to persuade you to do your civic duly.” Jerry Jeff sat down on the corner of McQuaid’s bed. "The Cedar Choppers Chili Cookoff is just around the corner, and we’re short a judge. We tried to find somebody to take your place, but didn’t have any luck. So the Honchos sent me to tell you you’re it, and Bubba here came along to make sure you don’t weasel out.”

  "Hell, no." McQuaid shook his head. "No way.”

  Bubba folded his arms over his belly. "Hey, fella. I got to scald my gut with that stuff once a year, you do too. You got to do your civic duly, same as me.”

  "You’re able-bodied,” McQuaid said. "You can run from the sore losers.”

  Jerry Jeff chuckled. "Nothing wrong with your sense of humor, pal.”

  Jug grinned. “Dang right. I told him one yesterday that tee-totally cracked him up. What room does a lion watch TV in?”

  Jerry Jeff snapped his fingers. "His den,” he said, and Jug’s face fell. Jerry Jeff laughed and punched McQuaid’s arm. “Hey, come on, guy. We’re countin’ on you. Remember the blast we had last year?”

  “You had a blast,” McQuaid growled. “You were drunk as a skunk. I had the trots for a week. Man, that stuff is murder."

  "Was I drunk?” Jerry Jeff thought about that. "Yeah, well, maybe. I nearly charbroiled my tongue on the first sample, I remember that much for sure. I guess I spent the rest of the afternoon trying to put out the fire."

  Bubba shifted his weight. "It’ll do you good, McQuaid. You ain’t been out and about for a while. Folks are askin’ about you. You get out there, show ’em how good you’re doin’.”

  "Anyway, China already said you’d do it,” Jerry Jeff put in, not looking at me.

  McQuaid slitted his eyes. "Is that right, China?”

  Before I could answer, Jerry Jeff said smoothly, "She told Hark Hibler, and he ran your name in yesterday’s paper right along with the other judges.” He grinned at me, big and easy. "We’ve got all kinds of volunteer jobs, China. Glad to sign you up, too.”

  McQuaid looked at me, scowling. "Traitor.”

  "If Hark said I said that,” I replied, "he’s an out-and- out liar. If he said it,” I added, with a pointed look at Jerry Jeff.

  "Can’t disappoint your public," Jerry Jeff said to McQuaid. “Everybody’s expecting you to do your share.

  We’re not putting this show on for fun, you know—the money goes to charity. We all have to pitch in.”

  "I gotta, you gotta, ” Bubba growled.

  "Better do it, Mac,” Jug said. "Nothin’ else to do around here on a Sattidy, anyhoo.”

  "Well, hell," McQuaid said in disgust. "Why don’t ya’ll gang up on a guy?”

  Jerry Jeff stood. "I knew you’d do your duty. Want us to send a van around for you?”

  "Get outta here,” McQuaid growled. "Before I sic my physical therapist on you.”

  "Nice guys,” Jug said, when they had gone.

  "One of them, anyway,” McQuaid said. He glanced at me. "You didn’t tell Hark I’d judge that cookoff, did you?”

  "Of course not.”

  He relaxed a little. "Yeah. You can’t trust Jerry Jeff. He tells you whatever he thinks will make the sale. Typical insurance salesman.”

  Jug pursed his thin lips. "Wonder what kinda bidness he’s got with ol’ Velma. A bubble short o’ plumb, I call her. Light-fingered, too.” He looked reflective. "She sure was a looker when she was younger, and smart too. Ol’ Tom Perry, he was a lucky guy, havin’ her work for him.”

  "What do you mean, light-fingered?” I asked.

  Jug shrugged. "Aw, you know. She steals stuff.” He grinned. "Say, you heard about the
guy who stole three miles of elastic?”

  "Yes,” I said hastily.

  "He was put away for a good long stretch.”

  "I’m outta here,” I said, kissed McQuaid, and headed for the door.

  “Rat fink,” McQuaid said scathingly. “Desert a man when he’s down.”

  “But not out,” I said, and blew him a goodbye kiss.

  “Speaking of out,” Jug said, “do you know how the egg gets out of the hen?”

  McQuaid gave a resigned sigh. “Okay, I’ll bite. How does the egg get out of the hen?”

  “Through the eggs-it,” Jug said, and as McQuaid moaned loudly, he gave a triumphant crow.

  Just outside the door, I ran into a stooped, white-haired man in red plastic moccasins, wrapped in a quilt that trailed behind him on the floor.

  I was still shaking my head over Jug's foolishness. “Hello,” I said.

  He held up one hand, his fingers outspread in Mr. Spock’s Vulcan greeting. "Live long and prosper,” he replied gravely. “Have you seen the Klingons?”

  "Oh, there you are, Mr. Walton.” Joyce Sanders, the nursing supervisor, had come up behind us, dressed in green scrubs and carrying a clipboard. “Aren’t you a little lost?”

  "Nope.” Air. Walton motioned toward the ceiling. "Ship’s docked up there. They’ll beam me up whenever I say.”

  “I’m afraid the transporter’s not operating,” she said, and turned him around. "Come with me, and I'll see that somebody sends the shuttle.” To me, she said, "Hi, China. How’s Mike today?”

  “Coping, more or less,” I said, falling into slow step with the two of them. I wondered how Joyce would react if I gave her the most recent report on the use of herbs to treat senile dementia and memory loss. Ginkgo and gotu kola have been shown to increase the blood supply to the brain, and rosemary contains chemical compounds that slow the breakdown of an essential neurotransmitter. She probably had to do things by the book—the medical book—but I’d give it a try, anyway.

  “Mike’s physical therapist says he’s doing quite well,” Joyce said. "If he keeps improving at this rate, the prognosis looks good.”

  “I wish he could come home,” I said.

  “Don’t be too anxious,” she replied. "There’s more to his care them you might think.” An aide came toward us and took charge of Mr. Walton. Joyce turned back to me. “Did you know that you and I have a mutual friend? Dottie Riddle. She said you helped her out of a jam a while ago.”

  "With a lot of help from a couple of friends,” I said. Ruby and Justine Wyzinski and I had pitched in to get Dottie—the Cat Lady of Pecan Springs—out of jail and clear her of a murder charge. It had been dicey there for a while.

  "To hear Dottie tell it,” Joyce said with a smile, "you’re Kinsey Milhone and V.I. Warshawski rolled into one.” She had a pleasant face, round and friendly, with a firm, no-nonsense chin.

  "I wouldn’t put it that way. I’ve had a bit of experience, but mostly on the other side. In a former incarnation, I was a criminal lawyer.”

  We had almost reached the nurses station. Joyce lowered her voice. "I’d like to speak to you confidentially, China. We have a problem here that I don’t know how to deal with. I’d go to the police, but—”

  "Telephone, Miss Sanders,” a nurse called.

  "In a minute.” She was intent. "As I was saying, I’d talk to the police, but it’s not exactly the kind of thing they can handle. It’s too . . . well, delicate.”

  "You’re making me curious,” I said. What sort of problem would involve the police?

  “It’s Mrs. Rider,” the nurse said urgently. "She says she wants to talk to you about her mother’s diapers.” Joyce made a face. “Is it okay if I phone you, China?” "Sure,” I said. "Call anytime. And if you don’t mind, I have a couple of articles I’d like to give you.”

  With a nod, Joyce hurried off to the phone, and I turned and headed for the lobby. The Colonial Manor is a U-shaped building that consists of three sections, each one named after a Texas river: the original center section, called Brazos; a new one-story wing on the left, called Colorado, and a new two-story wing on the right, called Rio Grande. McQuaid’s room was in Colorado, the convalescent unit where the rehabilitation center—an equipment room, a whirlpool, a small exercise pool—is located. Brazos houses the dining room, the crafts room, and the administrative offices, as well as the rooms of residents who require more intensive nursing care, or who are suffering from dementia or early-stage Alzheimers. Rio Grande, the new two-story unit, is an assisted living facility with one- and two-bedroom apartments designed for seniors who need a minimum of help and are still relatively ambulatory. The lobby, where people can gather to talk, watch television, or play cards, is located at the intersection of Rio Grande and Brazos.

  I was in the lobby signing myself out when I looked up to see two women pushing through the double doors that led to Brazos. One was Fannie Couch, whose morning call-in talk show, Fannie's Back Fence, is the hottest thing on Radio KPST. Along with the usual recipes and local gossip (cleaned up for airing on the radio), listeners get plenty of local controversy as well. It’s not exactly Frontline, but every now and then Fannie gets her teeth into a story. She is our down-home version of Leslie Stahl. But you wouldn’t know that from looking at her. Fannie has blue-rinsed white hair, a sweet Southern belle smile, and a Texas twang that rivals Mollie Ivins’s slow drawl. She favors little-old-lady dresses, sensible shoes, satchel-size purses, and Edwardian hats as elaborate as the speaker’s table centerpiece at the Garden Club Fashion Brunch. Today, she was wearing a white straw with silk lilacs and plastic grapes spilling from a tulle-wrapped crown, matching the lilacs in her lace-trimmed print dress. In outfits like these, Fannie looks as if there’s nothing more perilous on her mind than a mint julep.

  Fannie’s companion was Edna Lund, a woman in her early fifties with a disciplined mouth and shrewd eyes. She looked trim and athletic in leather-belted khaki slacks and a sleeveless red blouse that showed tanned, hard arms. For most of her life, Edna lived with her father, Harmon, on the Lund family ranch, the H-Bar-S, out in Gillespie County. After the old man had a heart attack, father and daughter moved to Pecan Springs. She looked after him until he had to be moved to the Manor, where he died a couple of months ago.

  Edna is pleasant, but she isn’t exactly a friendly person, which I suppose is the consequence of living most of her life on nearly six thousand acres of Texas ranch land. She remained isolated even after she and her father came to Pecan Springs, staying at home to manage an increasingly irascible old man who (by all reports) seemed to take a personal delight in making his daughter’s life difficult. Old Air. Lund’s death had apparently left her pretty well fixed, although I’d heard there was a snag in probate and some confusion over the estate, which still hadn’t been settled. Maybe it had to do with locating her brother, who’d been kicked out by his father some fifteen years before and now lived in Alaska—or so I’d heard. Anyway, after she moved Air. Lund to the manor, Edna began to participate more actively in community affMrs., like the library's literacy program. Today, she was carrying a book under her arm, and I guessed that she’d been reading to residents.

  Fannie greeted me with a hug and the standard question. “Hello, China. How’s Mike doing these days?” “Physically, he’s getting stronger. Otherwise, he’s a little depressed.” I handed her the pen so she could sign herself out. “Jug Pratt is doing his best to entertain him.” “Jug Pratt could make a corpse giggle,” Fannie said. "You and Edna know one another?”

  “Of course,” Edna said. "Hello, China.” She consulted her watch, printed the time in precise numbers in the “Out” column, and silently corrected Fannie’s time, which was different from hers by several minutes.

  I don't suppose Edna can help it. For almost thirty- years, she managed the complicated business of the six- thousand-acre H-Bar-S, where (according to Fannie, who’s known Edna longer than I have) she was her father’s first lieutenant.

  "I
understand that you’re a regular visitor to the Manor, Edna,” I said, as the three of us went out the door to the parking lot.

  “My father died here a few months ago,” she said, getting her car keys out of her shoulder bag. “Since then, I’ve been coming to read to some of the residents.”

  I thought of what Lila Jennings had told me a few weeks before, and also of Joyce’s mysterious hint of trouble. “Well, then,” I said casually, “I suppose you’re up on the latest gossip about this place. You’d know if there are any problems.”

  “Gossip?” Edna’s eyes went to Fannie. “You should talk to Fannie about that.” She paused beside a green Toyota pickup. “Don’t forget that you’re going to let me know what I’m supposed to do for the chili cookoff, Fannie.”

  “That’s easy," Fannie said. “You’re working in the check-in tent, where the cooks bring their samples. You’ll be the one who gets the samples together and carries them over to the judging tent. Okay?”

  "Fine," Edna said. “I’m glad to help."

  “So?" I asked, when Edna had driven off.

  "I suppose you’re asking about problems at the Manor,” Fannie said. A breeze came up, and she reached up to hold her hat. She gave me a mysterious smile. "Edna is my secret agent, you know.”

  I blinked. "Secret agent?"

  “Oh, not really,” Fannie said with a little laugh. "That’s just what I call her. I’m doin’ a program on this place in the next few weeks, and she’s pretty much of a reg’lar here. I asked her to keep her ears open and collect the gossip for me. She’s a pretty sharp-eyed gal, you know."

  “So what has your secret agent found out?" I asked with a grin. "According to Lila Jennings, there’s all sorts of trouble out here."

  "In case you hadn’t noticed," Fannie said, "Lila’s imagination tends toward disaster. It’s true that folks aren’t any too happy with Opal Hogge—she’s the chief administrator—and there have been a few thefts and the usual grousing about the food. But the Manor’s not bad, as nursing homes go.” She stopped beside her dusty red two-door Ford. “Speaking of food, is Mike going to judge the chili cookoff? Jerry Jeff said he was going to ask him.”