Spanish Dagger Read online

  I was watching Hark, and not entirely comfortably, either. In my days as a lawyer, I learned to smell lies. I could sniff one now, although maybe it wasn’t quite a lie. But Hark knew something, I’d bet. He had a lead that he planned to follow up on his own. A lead that might take him to a story.

  Smart Cookie eyed him, smelling what I smelled. But she only said, in the most pleasant voice she had used so far, “If you can keep a lid on this for twenty-four hours, I’d be personally grateful, Hark.”

  “Oh, yeah?” he asked, raising one darkly ironic eyebrow. “How grateful?”

  She ignored him. “Forty-eight would be even better. And if you hear anything around town, let me know. Okay?”

  “I’ll do what I can,” Hark said guardedly. He stuck his notebook into his back pocket and put out his hand. “Camera?”

  “Give the man his camera,” Sheila said to the cop, who handed it over.

  “The world has come to a pretty place,” Hark muttered, “when the press can’t do its job without pressure from the police to suppress the story.”

  “You’re not doing it for the police, Hark,” I reminded him gently. “You’re doing it for Ruby.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Ruby.” He gave me a hopeful look. “Suppose I’ll get points for this?”

  I shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “I doubt it,” he said ironically.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Me, too.”

  Then a car door slammed and we all turned. Maude Porterfield, the justice of the peace, had arrived at the crime scene, and things were about to happen. I said hello to Maude and good-bye to Sheila and Hark, then stood for a moment looking bleakly down at Colin’s body, wondering whether I should say some sort of small good-bye for Ruby, or even for myself.

  But it was too late for that. For Colin, no more hellos, no more good-byes, just a long, dark night.

  Chapter Four

  Margaritas are traditionally made with silver tequila, which is produced from the blue agave (Agave tequilana), a stately plant with long, stiff leaves, each defended by a row of sinister teeth and a needlelike tip. This well-armed relative of the yucca thrives in an arid climate in volcanic soil. In the Tequila region of the state of Jalisco, Mexico, where much of the blue agave is commercially grown, the fields cover the slopes of two extinct volcanoes. The word tequila may be derived from the Náhuatl Indian word for volcano, which seems somehow fitting.

  If tequila isn’t your cup of tea, consider the agave’s healing properties, much prized in folk medicine. The macerated pulp from the heart of the plant has been used as a compress for wounds, infections, chapped lips, sunburns, and rashes. The fresh leaves are an effective emetic and have also been used to treat intestinal disorders. And if you don’t have any fresh agave leaves handy, tequila is said to have the same therapeutic properties. ¡Salud!

  Sadly, Carole and I gathered up our cargo, and I took her back to the cottage so she could start processing the yucca we had collected. It was already after ten, so I had to hurry to open the shop.

  I was still shaken by what had happened this morning, but as usual, I felt better the minute I opened the door and stepped inside. Thyme and Seasons isn’t very big, but it’s stuffed to the rafters with things that look pretty, smell delightful, and are good for you, and I find it as soothing as a summer afternoon in the garden. The century-old building that houses the shop is constructed of native Texas limestone, with pine plank floors and cypress rafters. The shop’s stone walls are covered with herbal swags and wreaths, while bundles of herbs and braids of garlic and peppers hang from the ceilings. The wooden shelves are loaded with large jars of bulk herbs, bars of handmade soaps, packages of herbal cosmetics, bags of potpourri, vials of essential oils, bottles of herbal vinegars, boxes of fragrant herbal teas, and books about herbs and gardening. The aisles and corners are crowded with baskets of dried plants and flowers—tansy and sweet Annie and celosia, salvia and yarrow and goldenrod. The sweet, spicy scents were so heartwarming I just wanted to close my eyes, let them flood through me, and wash away the horrible sights I had seen this morning.

  But there wasn’t time for that. Cass arrived to open the tearoom, and a minute later, our friend Melissa Grody came in to help with Ruby’s shop. Missy is a pretty strawberry blonde with gold-framed glasses and a soft, sweet-sexy voice that reminds her friends of late-night hotline voices. She’s been studying for her entrance test into the nursing program, and we all have our fingers crossed for her. She has a special interest in herbal remedies, so maybe she’ll find a way to use that in her nursing career.

  Missy and Cass both know Colin and were appalled when I told them what had happened. “I can’t believe it,” Missy murmured sadly. “How is Ruby going to deal with this, along with everything else?”

  “Who’s going to tell her?” Cass asked, and both of them looked at me. “It ought to be done today, before she finds out by accident.”

  I was saved by the bell. A pair of ladies came in looking for presents for a bridal shower, and ended up buying a whole trousseau of herbal soaps and cosmetics. For the next hour, I was so busy with customers that I barely had time to think, which was definitely not a bad thing. When I finally surfaced, I discovered that my brain had been working on the problem while my hands were busy. So I called McQuaid and asked him to meet me for lunch. He suggested Miguel’s Cantina, a dark, dusty place with very loud Tejano music, where you can sit at a table in the back room and talk without being overheard.

  I agreed. Miguel makes the best margaritas in Pecan Springs. It wasn’t noon yet, but Missy agreed to watch both shops, and I took off. I was ready for anything that would lift my spirits.

  MCQUAID was killing time with a two-day-old copy of the Enterprise when I arrived. There was a large plate of cheese-covered nachos in the middle of the table. An enticingly salt-rimmed margarita (most people’s favorite way to drink tequila) was waiting at my place, and a bottle of Dos Equis sat in front of McQuaid. He folded up the newspaper as I sat down.

  “What’s up, babe?” McQuaid’s voice—a deep baritone that resonates with male strength and authority—is one of the things I love about him. He raised his beer. “Salud. Everything going okay?”

  “Not exactly,” I said unsteadily, and reached for my frosty drink. “Salud.” I saluted, sipped, and put the glass down, meeting his eyes. “Carole and I found Colin Fowler this morning, along the MoPac tracks, behind Beans. He was dead.”

  McQuaid coughed. “Dead!” he managed, when he could get his breath. “You’re joking.”

  “I wouldn’t joke about something like that.” The cosmic Chicano music of Los Lobos came through the loudspeaker, the guitar fast and loud. I leaned forward and put both elbows on the table. “Okay, McQuaid. It’s time to come clean. I need to find out how you know Colin Fowler. Dan Reid, that is.”

  “Dan…Reid?” He frowned. “What makes you think I…” He stopped. “Sheila,” he said. “She told you.”

  “She told me that much. And you’re going to tell me the rest.” We had been through this a time or two. McQuaid, who learned a long time ago that keeping secrets might be essential to staying alive, had always maintained that he’d never laid eyes on Colin until the guy showed up in Pecan Springs and began dating Ruby. I had the feeling that this wasn’t the whole story, but there hadn’t been any special reason to pursue it. Now I was going to find out the truth of the matter.

  “And when you’ve told me what you know about him,” I added, “I’ll be glad to tell you how he died.”

  McQuaid’s mouth set in a stern line. “What I know about him is confidential,” he said. “It’s police business.”

  “My, these nachos look good,” I said pleasantly. I picked one up, flicked off a jalapeño seed (those things are hot!), and popped it into my mouth. I closed my eyes, exaggerating my pleasure. “Oh, yum.” Sometimes male strength and authority have to be countered by female canniness.

  “How did he die?” McQuaid growled.

  I opened
my eyes. “What do you know about him?”

  There was a silence.

  He smiled, showing white teeth. “You tell first, hon.”

  I smiled, too. “I don’t think so, dear.”

  “Welcome, señor, señora.” The waiter, young and diffident, appeared at my elbow. “May I take your order, por favor?”

  I glanced at my watch. “Oh, gosh, just look at the time. On second thought, I don’t believe I can stay for lunch.” I pushed my chair back, picked up my bag, and got to my feet. “Sheila told me to stop by the police station and see if there were any developments in—”

  “Sit down,” McQuaid said, in his steely cop voice.

  “Señor?” asked the waiter nervously, glancing at the third chair.

  “Not you,” McQuaid said. “Her.” He looked at me. “Sit down, China. Please.” To the waiter, he said, “I’ll have the usual. And bring me another drink.”

  “Pérdon, señor,” the waiter said humbly, pencil poised. “I’m new here. What is the usual, por favor?”

  “Numero siete. La señora will have numero ocho.”

  “I am so sorry,” I said regretfully to the waiter, “but la señora must leave.” To McQuaid, I added, “I’ll see you at home tonight, dear.” I paused, considering. “No, on second thought, I may not make it home until late. But there’s some leftover casserole in the fridge. Just stick it in the microwave. Oh, and don’t forget that Brian has a soccer game at six thirty. His clean shorts are in—”

  “For Pete’s sake, I’ll tell you what you want to know!” McQuaid roared. To the waiter, he said, in a level voice, “The señora will have number eight.” To me, he said, “Sit down.”

  “Promise?” I asked.

  “Promise,” he said, and I resumed my seat.

  “Siete y ocho, pronto,” said the waiter. “Muchos gracias.” He fled.

  “I’m so glad you reconsidered,” I said sweetly. “Now, how is it that you came to know Dan Reid?”

  “Blackmail,” McQuaid muttered. As he saw me push back my chair, he added hastily, “It was in Houston, just before I left the department. At the time, he was working undercover with the Dallas PD. In the Organized Crime Division.”

  “Tell me something I don’t already know,” I said, raising my voice over the soulful strains of Ruben Ramos singing “Es Demasiado Tarde.”

  McQuaid gave me a resigned look. “Did you know that he got a year for tipping off an informant who was about to be arrested? The informant was murdered.”

  “But only a year,” I remarked pointedly. “Odd that he didn’t get more, especially since the informant ended up dead.”

  “Exactly,” McQuaid said, with a wry twist in his voice. “And listen to this. About four months after Reid was sentenced, his supervisor was indicted on multiple charges of conspiracy, money laundering, mail fraud, wire fraud—the whole nine yards. He shot himself before he could be brought to trial.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Ah,” I said. The picture was becoming clearer.

  “Yeah. But his suicide didn’t save the skins of the dozen or so dirty cops who were also indicted, most of them for protecting drug deals and escorting shipments of cocaine. They got what was coming to them. Fifteen to thirty.” I could hear the satisfaction in McQuaid’s voice. There’s nothing he hates more than police corruption.

  “Reid’s sentence,” I said. “It was very light. Too light—especially in comparison to the other sentences.” I’d seen that sort of thing before, and knew what it suggested. “He might have flipped,” I said—admitted corruption and then agreed to finger other cops in return for a lighter sentence. “Or maybe he was working undercover for somebody else. For the FBI, maybe. Or the DEA.”

  This sounds convoluted, I know: an undercover cop ostensibly tracking down drug dealers while he is secretly working for an outside agency, the Federal Bureau of Investigation or the Drug Enforcement Administration, to finger the crooked law enforcement officers who are part of the ring. But that’s about the only way bad cops can be caught and convicted. McQuaid himself had had a similar—and dangerous—assignment with the Texas Department of Public Safety a few years before, and got pretty badly shot up when the arrest didn’t go the way he expected. He no longer uses a cane, but he limps sometimes when he’s tired. I like to think that the episode put an end to his days of derring-do, but I know I’m fooling myself.

  “There was plenty of speculation about that,” McQuaid said. “Sending Reid to jail might’ve been a way of making him look like a bad cop and legitimizing him for another undercover assignment. It’s been done—but of course that’s only a guess. He could just as easily have been a crooked cop who flipped.”

  I looked at him. “Why didn’t you tell me this when Ruby first starting dating this guy? Good cop, bad cop, either way, he was bad news. She could’ve been in danger.”

  “And I was going to swear you to secrecy?” He gave a scornful chuckle. “Get real, China. If I told you, and you told her, it would’ve whetted her appetite. It’s the danger factor. Makes a guy look like a super-stud.”

  I made a face, but I had to admit that he was right. We sat back as the waiter came to the table bearing our food: chipotle enchiladas with spicy black beans and rice and another Dos Equis for McQuaid, an ensalada de nopalites and iced tea for me. Nopalites or nopales are the green pads of the prickly pear cactus, carefully stripped of their spines. They’re cubed, blanched, chilled, and tossed with thin-sliced red onions, corn, tomatoes, mild chile peppers, cilantro, feta cheese, and vinaigrette for a light, spicy salad. Grilled chicken is not traditional, but Miguel adds it anyway. I heartily approve.

  When the waiter had gone, McQuaid added, “I didn’t discuss any of this with Reid, if that’s what you’re wondering. I didn’t even let him know that I recognized him. If the man was guilty, he served his sentence—light as it might be—and deserves the chance to get on with his life. If going to prison was part of the job—creating a new cover story, maybe—I wouldn’t want to get in his way.”

  I picked up my fork, wondering what it must be like to spend a year in jail as part of your job assignment. Not very pleasant, and dangerous, to boot. I thought of the dozen dirty cops, whose time in prison was definitely not a job assignment.

  “Do you think it might have been a revenge killing?” I asked thoughtfully.

  “Because he cooked a baker’s dozen of corrupt police officers? Yeah, sure. That’s happened before. Cop rats out buddies in return for a light sentence, cop ends up in a box.” McQuaid attacked his enchiladas with cheerful enthusiasm. “Okay, it’s your turn,” he said, his mouth full. “How did it happen, China?”

  My turn. I put down my fork, seeing Colin’s face. A nice face, with a strong mouth and wary, watchful eyes. Whatever I thought of the careless way he had treated Ruby, he had always been decent to me. And now he was dead.

  “He was stabbed in the chest.” I frowned, thinking of what I’d seen. “Up under the ribs. Got his heart, most likely. He was wearing a shoulder holster, but the gun was gone.”

  “Weapon? Witnesses? Was it a robbery?”

  “No witnesses—yet. Not a robbery, either. He had a couple of fifties in his wallet, and credit cards. The cops were still looking for the weapon when I left the scene.” It was a knife, obviously, but they wouldn’t know what type or how it was used until the autopsy report came down, which might take awhile. Adams County is too small to have its own medical examiner. Victims’ corpses are sent to Bexar or Travis, whichever has the shorter waiting list. Since those are big counties, with plenty of crime, the waiting list can be pretty long.

  “Knifed.” McQuaid dug into his beans. “Doesn’t sound like a cop. Cops prefer guns. On the other hand, the killer might have wanted to be up close and personal. Wanted to look him in the eye while he shoved it in. Hate can do that.” He looked up at me and his glance softened, something just occurring to him. “My gosh, I didn’t even ask. How’s Ruby taking it, China?”

  “Ruby doesn’t know
yet.” I pushed my salad away, my appetite suddenly gone. “She’s in Fredericksburg, trying to cope with her mother.” I told him about Doris locking herself in her car and then having a heart attack. “I’m hoping we can keep Ruby there for a while—keep her in the dark. Maybe the police will find out who killed him before she gets back.”

  “They won’t,” McQuaid said matter-of-factly. “You know that as well as I do. No witnesses, no weapon, no apparent motive—and too many possibilities, given the guy’s background. It could’ve been somebody taking revenge for what happened in Dallas. Could’ve been connected to a current assignment. Could’ve been connected to his business. It could even have been a disgruntled ex-wife or girlfriend.” He gave me a look. “Any local enemies that you know of?”

  I shook my head. “But that doesn’t mean anything. To tell the truth, I only knew him through Ruby. She would have a much better idea of who—” I stopped.

  “Yeah,” McQuaid said in a practical tone. “Ruby was closer to him than anyone else in town. She’s the one who’s most likely to know whether somebody local had it in for him, or whether he’s had any recent communications with people from his past. Sheila’s going to want to talk to her, sooner rather than later.” He put out his hand, took mine, then let it go. “I know you don’t want to do this, China, but you can’t put it off. Somebody’s going to have to tell her. You don’t want the cops to do it, do you?”

  I shook my head numbly. My salad, which had looked so tasty just a few moments before, was now distinctly unappetizing.

  There was a pause while McQuaid ate the last of his refried beans. “After all that, I don’t suppose you want to hear what I did this morning.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “Why not?” I motioned to the waiter to bring me a to-go box. I wasn’t hungry now, but I hate to see a good salad go to waste. “So what did you do this morning?”

  He put his elbows on the table and gave me a steady look. “You said last night that you didn’t want to hear about it. Still feel that way?”