Spanish Dagger Page 7

  Oh, that. So McQuaid was already in hot pursuit of my father’s hypothetical killer. I might have known. I was about to tell him he could keep his activities to himself, when my Inner Teacher spoke up. You do want to hear about it, she reprimanded me sternly. Don’t pretend you don’t.

  I frowned. I had enough to worry about with Colin’s death, and Ruby. Why should I—

  Because, said my Inner Teacher, with irrefutable logic.

  I sighed. “So what did you find out?”

  Good girl, my Inner Teacher said approvingly.

  McQuaid relaxed. “I talked to Jim Hawk. He remembered the car-bomb case very vividly. He couldn’t tell me whether there have been any later developments in the investigation, but he’s agreed to dig up the case file for me. He thought he might have kept some notes about the stories Max Vine was working on, although at the time, he didn’t uncover any significant leads.”

  “And the other reporter? Spurgin? The hit-and-run victim?” If I was going to hear about one reporter, I might as well hear about the other. I doubted if there was any connection between the two of them and my father, but—

  “That wasn’t Jim’s case, but he’s going to pull that file, too. He said he’d phone tonight, late. If he turns up anything interesting, I’ll drive to Houston tomorrow to take a look. I might drop in at the Chronicle, too, while I’m there. I used to know a few of the reporters there.”

  “Lotsa luck, babe,” I muttered ironically. Sixteen years is even longer in the newspaper business than it is in law enforcement. But newspapers probably maintain more complete morgues. If McQuaid happened to know the right people, and the right people were interested in his questions, he might even get access to Vine’s and Spurgin’s research notes. Newspapers have a tendency to hang on to stuff a lot longer than your average human being.

  The waiter appeared at my elbow with a to-go box and a worried look. “The salad was fine,” I told him reassuringly. “I just don’t feel like eating right now.” I spooned the nopalites into the box, closed the lid, and stood up. “I may not get home from Fredericksburg until late this evening. Please don’t forget about Brian’s soccer game.” Pecan Springs was playing San Marcos in what was sure to be a hot contest.

  “Where’d you say his clean shorts are?”

  “In the dryer. And make sure he finishes his English paper after the game. It’s due tomorrow.” Brian loves to do his science homework, but he always manages to put off writing his English papers until the very last minute.

  McQuaid looked up at me. “I’m glad you’ve decided to tell Ruby, China. It’ll be easier for her, coming from you.”

  I picked up my box. Easier? I didn’t think so. But I didn’t have any choice, did I?

  No, said my Inner Teacher gently. You don’t.

  Chapter Five

  Like its relatives in the genus Agave, yucca is high in saponin, the natural detergent found in many plants. (In Latin, sapo means soap.) Saponins seem to function as part of the yucca’s immune system, something like a “natural antibiotic” that protects the plant from disease and keeps it healthy. Native Americans used yucca to wash themselves and their clothing, as well as to treat various illnesses. Now, scientists who study these plant chemicals are discovering that saponins can help to fight fungal infections in humans, combat viruses and microbes, and enhance the effectiveness of vaccines.

  I checked in with Cass and Missy to make sure things were under control, stopped to answer a customer’s question about planting lavender (add sand and gravel to the soil for good drainage—don’t overwater), and suggested to another that if she was worried about deer having her landscaping for lunch, rosemary or the silvery herbs, especially the artemisias, would be a much better bet than antique roses. Unfortunately, deer feel about roses the way I feel about hot fudge sundaes. They’re somewhat less enthusiastic about roses with thorns, but even a few sharp stabs won’t stop them when they’re hungry.

  Then I went to the cottage to tell Carole that I was going to Fredericksburg. I found her in the kitchen, working with the yucca we had gathered that morning. She had chopped the fresh leaves into one-inch pieces and was cooking them, with washing soda, in a large stainless steel pot on the stove. She put down the wooden stirring paddle, and I saw that the cooking pot was covered with foamy, meringuelike suds.

  “Soap?” I asked, frowning, and then realized what was happening. Yucca is rich in saponin, which makes it a natural cleanser. In fact, one species of yucca is called “soaptree.” Carole could probably do her laundry with that yucca stew and have enough cleaning power left for a bath and shampoo.

  Carole turned off the burner under the pot. “I’ll go with you, China. You don’t have to do this alone.”

  Regretfully, I declined. Now that I had accepted the responsibility of telling Ruby the horrible news, I didn’t think it was fair to share the burden. “I’ll be back this evening,” I said. “Let Cass know if you need anything.”

  “Need anything?” Carole rolled her eyes. “You’re kidding.” She opened the fridge and I saw a dish of lasagna, a salad, and a slice of mint chocolate cake. “Those gingerbread waffles were to die for. And now this!”

  “Ah,” I said, and grinned. “The Thymely Gourmet strikes again.” From behind my back, I produced the to-go box. “And here’s another offering. Ensalada de nopalites.”

  “Oh, Lord.” Carole put it into the refrigerator. “If you guys keep plying me with food, you may not be able to get rid of me.”

  “Stay as long as you like,” I said cordially. “But only until next Tuesday.”

  Carole cocked an eyebrow. “Next Tuesday? What happens then?”

  “The cottage is rented to a lady who is flying down from Chicago for her daughter’s wedding,” I said. An herbal wedding—a large and elaborate one, with the ceremony at the First Baptist Church and the reception at the Springs Hotel. Thyme and Seasons was providing the herbs, and Party Thyme was doing catering. The next couple of weeks were going to be very busy, which is good. Being busy is a necessary prelude to making money, which is a necessary concomitant to putting groceries on the table and paying the utility bills.

  Especially if your husband is an underemployed private eye.

  AS it turned out, I didn’t get away from Pecan Springs right away. Not wanting to see Ruby unless I had the latest information, I stopped at the police station to find out from Sheila if there had been any new developments that I could share with Ruby.

  I found her hunched over a gray metal-topped table in the cafeteria, her lunch spread out in front of her: a vending-machine Cello-wrapped turkey-and-cheese sandwich, a large bag of Cheetos, and a can of cherry Coke. I averted my eyes. For Sheila, this is a comfort-food meal. I don’t know how she does it, but she can eat two or three of these a day without gaining an ounce. Heaven only knows what the insides of her arteries look like.

  “Anything new in Colin’s case?” I asked, pulling out a chair. Sheila has gotten touchy about sharing information, so when she slanted me a questioning look, I added, “I’m going to Fredericksburg to tell Ruby what happened. If there’s anything you can tell me, I’d appreciate it.”

  There was, but not much, and Sheila was able to give it to me between sandwich bites. A neighborhood canvas had turned up a witness, a kitchen worker at Beans who was taking garbage out to the garbage bin shortly before ten on Tuesday night. He had heard somebody yelling bloody murder in the general direction of the railroad tracks. He had been afraid to investigate or call the cops (“Hey, ya’ll don’t ’spect me to git involved in no killin’, do ya?”). Still, the report helped to fix an approximate time of death, and confirm that Colin was killed where we found him. If there were other witnesses, they hadn’t turned up yet. And there was still no sign of a weapon. Sheila was about to go over to Colin’s house to supervise a search, and no (in answer to my unvoiced question), I could not go along. It was police business.

  But yes, Sheila thought it was a good idea for me to tell Ruby what had ha
ppened. “She’s got to know. You can help her deal with it.” She shook out the last cheesy crumbs of Cheetos into the palm of her hand and licked them up.

  “She pulled the plug on the relationship, you know,” I said quietly. “She finally decided it wasn’t going anywhere, so she called it quits.”

  Not looking at me, Sheila wadded up the bag, made a ball of it, and tossed it into the trash can. “No, I didn’t know. Recently?”

  “Three weeks ago. She was seeing him occasionally, but he was no longer invited for overnights.”

  “Poor Colin,” Sheila said dryly. “Must’ve come as a shock that she’d throw him out of bed. He always thought he was God’s ordained ambassador to deprived womanhood. Not to speak ill of the dead,” she added, and her voice became sad again. “He was a good man, in his way. When he loved you, you were his and he was yours, for at least, oh, thirty seconds.”

  I leaned forward on my elbows. “McQuaid just told me about the Dallas cops. The ones who got fifteen to thirty, the supervisor who killed himself. Have you picked up anything that would suggest that this might be a revenge killing?”

  Sheila shook her head. “Nope. Nada.” She didn’t quite meet my eyes.

  I sat back. The chief might know something, but she wasn’t telling me. Police business. And then I remembered something. “Uh-oh,” I said. “Rambo.”

  “Rambo?”

  “Colin’s Rottweiler. He probably hasn’t been fed since Tuesday. He must be ravenous. If you’re sending somebody over to Fowler’s place, tell them to be prepared for the dog.” I said this without any intent to manipulate, I swear to God—although the minute the words were out of my mouth, I saw their potential.

  Sheila looked doubtful. She has been bitten several times and has developed a phobia about attack dogs. Rottweilers are at the top of her do-not-call list. “Actually, I was headed over there myself.” She hesitated, not wanting to admit that she’s a chicken where big, possibly dangerous dogs are concerned. “Do you know this animal, China? Is he aggressive?”

  I have not been personally introduced to Rambo, although I have heard Ruby say that his bark is worse than his bite. However, I could see where this might lead. I put on my concerned-for-the-safety-of-my-friend look, shook my head gravely, and lied through my teeth.

  “Sure, I know the dog. And yes, he’s definitely an aggressive animal.” How wrong could I be? Aren’t all Rottweilers known for their ungovernable urge to chow down on the postman, the neighbor’s kids, and your arm? “Even Colin was a little uneasy around him,” I added for good measure. “He only kept him because he’s a super watchdog. Guess he figured that nobody would have the guts to come on the property if Rambo was on the job.”

  I could see her considering the problem. “I’d send the animal control officer, but he quit last week, and I don’t have the money to rehire.” She gave me a cautious look. “I don’t want to put you in any danger, China, but since you know this animal, maybe you’d be willing to go over there with me. Do you think you could handle him?”

  “I suppose I could,” I said, feigning reluctance. “I could try. Although,” I added, rubbing it in just a little, “I wouldn’t want to intrude on police business.”

  “You won’t,” Sheila said firmly. “Remember that you’re there just to handle the Rottweiler. Until the place is released, it’s a crime scene. I don’t want you poking around. No snooping. Okay?”

  “Snoop?” I was indignant, my motives impugned. “How can I snoop when I’m trying to keep a crazy dog from eating my favorite police chief?”

  Smart Cookie shuddered.

  COLIN had lived in a two-bedroom frame on Oak Street—a small house with a narrow front porch, a yard that contained a couple of scrappy desert willows, and a low hedge along the walk. It wasn’t far from I-35, and the vibrating hum of traffic was a steady monotone beneath the courting chorus of a male mockingbird. He was doing his spring-fling thing at the top of a utility pole, launching himself into the air just as he reached a crescendo in his symphony of stolen songs.

  Sheila and I went around to the back, where Colin had apparently been doing some landscaping. Three spiky yuccas and a handsome Agave zebra were still in their five-gallon black plastic nursery pots, waiting to be set into the ground. I was a little surprised to see them. Colin hadn’t struck me as the gardening type. But then, gardeners are everywhere, in all disguises, and yuccas and agaves have an architectural quality that makes them a strong addition to many gardens, especially attractive to men. To tell the truth, I thought a little more highly of Colin, now that I could see he had an interest in plants.

  Sheila pulled on a pair of thin plastic gloves and tried Colin’s keys until she got the right one, while I took note of the chain-link run and domed doggie igloo beside the garage. It was sheltered behind a large red-tipped photinia bush in glorious bloom, its blossom clusters as large as saucers. I could hear the Rottweiler on the other side of the door, growling and snarling. He was on his hind legs, his claws scrabbling at the door. I could hear his jaws snapping. I could almost hear his teeth clicking, picture the drool dripping.

  “I hope you know what you’re doing with this dog, China,” Sheila said ominously.

  “So do I,” I said under my breath. I shivered. Why had I thought my experience with an elderly basset would qualify me to control a Rottweiler? Why hadn’t I thought to bring a leash? Or a muzzle? Or something large and heavy to beat off this vicious dog? Or—

  But when Sheila cautiously opened the door and we jumped to one side, Rambo had his own high priority, and we were not it. He practically knocked the two of us over as he rushed down the steps, raced to the nearest bush, and hiked one hind leg with a nearly audible sigh of relief. I had no idea that Rottweilers had such a large capacity. While the dog was taking care of his long-overdue business, I opened the fridge and found a pack of hot dogs. I filled a bowl with water and carried the bowl and the hot dogs to the dog run.

  By the time I got out there, Rambo was finished peeing and had gone to the farthest corner to do the other thing, his back modestly turned, his eyes blissfully closed. I waited until he had finished, set the water bowl in the run, tossed the hot dogs after it, and closed the gate as the dog raced in for the kill, as though they were baby bunnies. I stood for a moment, watching him wolf down weenies. There must be some dry dog food in the house. I’d see that Rambo had enough to tide him over for a few days, and I’d give some thought to finding a new home for him. Maybe there was a Rottweiler Rescue somewhere in the area.

  After putting myself into imminent peril just to get a peek inside the house, I was disappointed. The rooms were spartan, with no special effort at decoration, but everything—even the bathroom—was neat and scrupulously clean, unusually so for a man living alone. There were a couple of yellow puddles and a smelly pile, testimony to Rambo’s distress. But otherwise, it just felt empty, vacant, almost as if it had never been truly occupied. There were no personal touches, no photographs, no ghosts.

  More to the point, there was no evidence of a struggle and the place had not been tossed. Sheila and her team would make a meticulous search of the drawers, the closets, and the file cabinet in the bedroom. If there was a computer, they’d take it, and any disks they could get their hands on. They would confiscate and study the usual personal stuff—phone bills, checkbooks, bank statements, safe deposit records, address books, and messages on the answering machine—for possible clues to his killing. But now that I had seen the place, I was willing to bet that if Colin had something significant to hide, something that might be a motive for his murder, he wouldn’t hide it here. Even if I had been inclined to snoop, there wouldn’t be anything to find, although I did note, just for future reference, that the kitchen window was unlocked.

  I located a fresh can of Alpo and a suitable plastic dish, and fed Rambo, who did not seem all that aggressive at the moment. In fact, he looked downright sad and lonely and scared, as if he were wondering what was going to become of him now that
the guy who dished out his doggie food and took him for his two-a-days had disappeared. I petted him gingerly, promised to put in a good word with whoever was in charge of recycling Rottweilers, and secured the gate.

  I was examining the potted yuccas and wondering if Sheila would let me adopt them when I noticed a piece of paper protruding from under a pot. I tilted the pot and squatted down to read what was penciled on the paper. The handwriting was small and careful, almost like printing. “Call, please. There’s been a change in plans. L.”

  L? I frowned. Who was L? A friend? A girlfriend? A rival to Ruby? The paper appeared to be the corner of a torn scrap of envelope. Not wanting to leave prints, I picked up a twig and carefully turned it over. On the back—the top left front of the envelope—was part of a logo, printed in green ink. It was torn, and all I could make out were parts of two letters, one a curly S, the other a loopy N or an M, artistically intertwined. It was vaguely familiar but I couldn’t recall where I had seen it. I turned the envelope over again and resettled the pot. This was police business. No point in advertising that I had been snooping when I promised I wouldn’t.

  Sheila came around the house from the front, where she had been stringing crime-scene tape. “What’ve you found?” she asked, seeing me standing beside the potted yucca, looking down at it.

  “Dunno.” I motioned. “A piece of paper.” I watched as Sheila bent down, turned up the pot and read the note. “Anything interesting?”

  “Maybe.” She replaced the pot and straightened. “What about the dog?” Smart Cookie might be a very good friend, but she is also a very good police officer. She wasn’t going to tell me about L’s efforts to contact Colin about the change in plans. It was now an official police secret.

  I nodded toward the run. “He’ll be okay where he is until somebody figures out what to do with him. Seems like a friendly guy.” Glancing at my watch, I said, “If I’m going to drive to Fredericksburg, I’d better get on the road.”