Mistletoe Man - China Bayles 09 Read online

  "Excuse me?" Blackie asked.

  "What's going on?" McQuaid asked.

  "I'm doing the laundry, that's what's going on," I said disgustedly. I hit the washer's Off button and began to fish around in the water. "And Brian is going to lose his Internet privileges if he doesn't keep better tabs on his lizards. Last week, I found one curled up inside my bath mitt. Now there's a pair going for a swim in the washer."

  "Better fish them out," McQuaid said urgently. "They're not amphibians. They'll drown."

  "Serve 'em right," I gritted. I grabbed one by the tail and tossed it into the laundry sink.

  "I realize that you two have other things on your mind," Blackie said mildly, "but I need China's help. This is an official problem."

  I retrieved the second lizard and sent it after the first. "You'll have to get in line," I said. "After I've finished the laundry and the vacuuming, I have to go check on Ruby." "Then there's the grocery shopping. Then—"

  "The mail carrier found Carl Swenson in the ditch in front of his place about an hour ago," Blackie said. "Dead."

  "Dead!" McQuaid blew out his breath.

  I said, cautiously, "I don't suppose the sheriff would be involved if Swenson had died of natural causes. A heart attack, say." I thought of Terry's shotgun, and shivered.

  "Right the first time," Blackie replied. "I'm at the scene now."

  "So how did he die?" McQuaid asked. "Hit and run," Blackie replied.

  I felt an intense relief. Not a shotgun, after all. And the last time I'd seen the Fletcher sisters' van, the engine had been in pieces all over the ground.

  "When did it happen?" I asked. In the laundry sink, the two lizards were scrabbling over one another, trying to climb up the slick sides.

  "Sometime yesterday," Blackie replied. "It rained about ten o'clock last night. Swenson's clothes are wet. The ground under him is dry."

  "What do you want China for?" McQuaid asked.

  Blackie grunted. "Isn't it obvious? The Fletcher sisters live less than a mile away. They had a couple of dozen good reasons to want this guy dead. I need to hear their story, and I thought the conversation might be more comfortable for them if China was there. If she can spare the time from her laundry." His voice became dry. "And her lizards."

  "Wait a minute," I said. "I hope you're not asking me because I'm a member of the bar." But that didn't make sense. A sheriff doesn't take a lawyer with him to question a suspect. It's up to the suspect to get a lawyer.

  "Lord help us," Blackie said. "No. I'm asking you because you're their friend, and they've already talked to you about their problems with Swenson."

  I was silent for a moment, thinking. I've never known Blackie to lie, but I couldn't help thinking there was more to it than that. "Do you have any particular reason to suspect that Donna and Terry are involved in Swenson's death?" I asked warily.

  "Other than your graphic description of Terry and her shotgun?" Blackie countered. "And the fact that they're the nearest neighbors?"

  "They're not the nearest neighbors," I retorted. "Somebody named Tuttle lives on the other side of the road, around the curve. I've seen the name on the mailbox. And there's a house trailer just past the Tuttle place, on the other side of the road. The Fletcher farm is further on. Anyway, their van isn't drivable, remember? Somebody put sugar in the gas tank."

  "Yeah, I remember," Blackie said. "And thanks for the information about the neighbors. We'll check out these other folks." He paused. "But I really would like you to be there when I talk to the ladies, China. It'd be easier for them, and for me. What do you say?"

  "She says yes," McQuaid put in promptly. "Right, hon? You don't have much to do this morning, do you?"

  I gritted my teeth. Being called "hon" is my biggest peeve, next to lizards in the laundry, having words put into my mouth, and hearing that I don't have much to do. But the Fletcher sisters were my friends, or at least Donna was. She'd probably feel better if the sheriff showed up in my company. Anyway, who was I trying to kid? I wanted to know what had happened to Swenson and I wasn't going to learn it hanging out here, chasing lizards and waiting for bulletins from the sheriff's office.

  And there was an added incentive, albeit a trivial one that I am slightly embarrassed to mention in the face of death. It was obvious that Carl Swenson wouldn't be delivering any more mistletoe. If I wanted some for the shop,

  I was going to have to harvest it myself—and there was a very nice batch of it growing along the right-of-way not far from where the man had been killed.

  "Okay," I said. "I'll be there as soon as I can, Blackie."

  "Thanks," Blackie said. "I appreciate this, China."

  "I don't have anything very important to do this morning," McQuaid said promptly. "I'll drive you, China."

  "If you've got some time, that would be great, Mike," Blackie said. "I'm short a deputy today. You can lend a pair of hands."

  "Another pair of eyes never hurts, either," McQuaid said. To me, he added: "I hope you got those lizards out of the wash."

  "They're in the sink," I said. I leaned over to look in. One lizard was in the sink. The other was missing, and so was the drain cover. The absent lizard had probably gone down the drain.

  Chapter Five

  In Wales, a sprig of mistletoe gathered on Midsummer Eve is placed under the pillow to induce prophetic dreams.

  Welsh folklore

  European mistletoe has long been known as "allheal, " a plant with many medicinal applications. It has a long tradition of use as a remedy for epilepsy and other convulsive disorders, and as a heart tonic, in place of foxglove (digitalis). American mistletoe was used by Indians to treat toothache, measles, and dog bites.

  China Bayles "Mistletoe Magic"

  When we got to the crime scene a half-hour later, Swenson's body still lay on the ground, probably because the local Justice of the Peace had arrived only a few minutes before we did. In Texas, when death by foul play is suspected, a JP is supposed to inspect the scene and file a report—an archaic requirement that sometimes causes a fair amount of confusion and delay. This particular JP was a man named Bull Arnold, who is not known for his high intellectual achievements or his skills in diplomacy. He's coming up for reelection next year, and there's going to be some stiff competition for the post. I know that Blackie, for one, will be just as glad if Bull loses.

  Bull is a loud-talking, barrel-chested man who moves as slow as molasses on a cold December morning. This morning was plenty cold too, with the temperature hovering around 35 degrees and a chill drizzle misting through the air. Blackie and his deputy, who was holding a camera, were standing beside the sheriff's car, talking to Bull. They were wearing hooded yellow slickers, and McQuaid and I pulled on our own slickers as we got out of the truck. McQuaid left his cane in the truck. Macho pride, I thought. But I was glad to see him getting around without it.

  Bull squinted at us through rain-spotted glasses. He took the damp cigar out of his mouth. "Well, if it ain't McQuaid," he bellowed. "Thought they booted you outta the chief's job a coupla months ago and put that goldanged woman in your place. What the hail you doin' out here?"

  McQuaid smiled. "Oh, just keeping my hand in. Don't want to get rusty, you know." He turned to Blackie. "How's that goldanged woman of yours, Sheriff?"

  "The chief? Hey, she's doing great." Blackie's eyes lightened. He shot a sidelong glance at Bull. "She stopped a guy for running a light yesterday and found a quarter-pound of crack stashed in his trunk."

  "Sheila's one tough cookie," McQuaid said. He looked directly at Bull, who colored. "Smart, too. Got the makings of a goldanged good chief." He turned toward Swenson's body, which was covered with a yellow tarp.

  Bull jammed his cigar back in his mouth. "Seems like it was a hit and run," he barked importantly, to show that this was his precinct and he was still boss. "That's how I'm gonna write it up. Somebody came along, accidently clipped him a good 'un, and got scairt. Fled the scene."

  "Any idea what time it happen
ed?" I asked.

  Bull gave me a look which suggested that I shouldn't have been allowed to leave my laundry. "Sometime 'fore dark yestiddy," he said, gesturing toward an aluminum ladder that was leaning against a hackberry tree. "It looks like he wuz out here trimmin' trees. Which don't make a hail of a lotta sense." He frowned, and I could see him wondering why anybody would go to the trouble of trimming hackberries along a county road.

  Blackie pursed his lips. "Hey, Bull, I sure hate for you to stand around out here all morning and get wet. Why don't you go on back to your office? We'll wrap it up here, and you can fax me your paperwork."

  An EMS ambulance came around the corner and pulled onto the grass. They weren't running the siren, and they didn't seem in a big hurry. They'd probably been told that their patient wasn't going to suffer a relapse.

  "Reckon I will," Bull said, deciding that the trees weren't something he ought to worry about. "I got me plenty o'thangs to do." He lowered his head and shook it, and I could see where he got his name. "Ask me, wimmin don't got no bidness in law enforcement," he muttered. "Who's gonna stay home and mind the kids?"

  Blackie hooked his thumbs in his belt and smiled a long, lazy smile. "Why, Bull, I just might do that, if the chief and I ever decide to have any. Sure beats rounding up hit-and-run drivers."

  Without a word, Bull stalked off, climbed into his Jeep Cherokee and spun his wheels, splashing mud over us.

  "Sonofabitch," McQuaid muttered.

  The deputy looked down at his mud-spattered slicker.

  "That's why we signed on to be cops," he said. "So we'd get some respect."

  A grin cracked Blackie's face. "Hail," he said, "I thought we done it to harass the local JayPees. You got all the photos you want, Pete?"

  "I'll get a couple more long shots," the deputy said.

  Blackie glanced from McQuaid to me. "Want to take a look at the body?"

  The ditch was full of chunks of limestone rock. Swenson was face down, arms flung out, legs at odd angles. His blond hair was rain-slicked, his denim jacket and jeans soaked through. One boot was missing, one leg clearly broken, and there was a puddle of blood under his mouth. In life, he hadn't been much to look at, but death had brutally altered him, twisting his face in a mask of anguish and pain and rendering him vulnerable, helpless. I thought of the ugliness of violent death, and the sadness of dying alone, and swallowed hard.

  "Looks like he died of a skull fracture," Blackie remarked matter-of-factly. "Left side's caved in." He sighed. "But I don't think he died fast."

  I didn't think so either. In his last agonized moments, Swenson had clawed at the dirt, trying to pull himself out of the ditch. He had died clutching fistfuls of dry, dead grass.

  "Any sign of paint flecks on the clothing?" McQuaid asked.

  "Didn't see any," Blackie replied, signaling to the EMS team. "But we've located some glass—headlight glass, probably—at the point of impact. Everything will go to Travis for analysis." Adams County is too small to have its own crime lab, so anything that might turn out to be evidence in a criminal case is sent to either the Travis or Bexar County labs.

  "Where's the glass?" I asked.

  We left Swenson to the tender mercies of the EMS crew and Blackie led us up the road about five yards, past a leather cowboy boot, its location marked with a flag of yellow tape. We stopped beside a scattering of glass shards along the gravel shoulder, also nagged. Nearby, a portable metal frame had been set up—around a tire print, I assumed—and a plaster cast was hardening, shielded from the rain by a square of plastic.

  "Is the print a clear one?" I asked.

  Blackie tilted his hand to show that it was maybe good, maybe not so good. "It won't help us locate the vehicle, but it might help identify it."

  McQuaid knelt down to peer at the glass. After a minute he looked up. "Got a collecting kit? There are a few paint flecks here too. Red, looks like."

  "No kidding?" Blackie looked pleased. "Yeah. I'll get you a kit."

  I turned to look along the fence line. A few yards away was the ladder. On the ground next to it was a five-gallon plastic bucket. I went over to look. The bucket was half full of mistletoe. A pair of loppers lay beside it.

  "Well, we know what he was doing when he was killed," I said.

  "Clearing that stuff out of the trees?" Blackie asked, coming up beside me. "But hackberries are just trash trees, and these aren't even on his property. So why was he bothering?"

  "Because he was getting paid for it," I said. "That bucket of mistletoe, full, would be worth twenty dollars wholesale. He supplied my shop, and he had quite a few other customers." I looked twenty yards further up the road, where a new green Dodge pickup, was parked near a mailbox. In it, I spotted a half-dozen or more filled garbage bags. The rest of the harvest, waiting for Swenson to truck it off to market.

  Blackie put his hand on my shoulder. "How about it, China? You ready to go see the Fletcher sisters?"

  "I guess," I said. "But I don't see the point. Their van's out of commission. They couldn't have—"

  "Fine," Blackie said. "It'll be just a friendly visit. Come on. We'll take my car."

  I shook my head. "Let's take McQuaid's truck," I said. "As long as this is just a friendly visit." I paused. "But before we leave, there's something you can do for me."

  "Yeah? What?"

  "Let me pull those bags of mistletoe out of Swenson's truck. It's already cut and there's no sense in letting it go to waste." Whatever else the man might have been, he was certainly industrious. And he must have had some other source of income, besides mistletoe. You don't make the payments on a twenty-thousand-dollar truck out of pocket change.

  "Let's take a look," Blackie said. We walked to the truck, where he peered into each of the bags. "Well, that clears up one mystery," he said.

  I grinned. "So what did you think it was, Sheriff Black-well? Marijuana?"

  He returned my grin. "I never saw marijuana with little white berries on it. Take what you want and let's go."

  The rain had slowed to a chill drizzle when I drove up in front of the Fletcher house and leaned on the horn. The racket brought a still-bandaged Max bouncing out of the barn and Donna, more slowly, out of the greenhouse. Terry was nowhere in sight. I took a quick look and saw, to my surprise and dismay, that the brown panel truck was gone from its parking place beside the barn.

  "Hi," Donna said, coming up to greet us. She pushed her taffy-colored hair out of her eyes with a nervous gesture. "Didn't expect to see you again so soon, China." Her eyes flicked to Blackie. She took in his uniform with barely disguised dismay, then focused on me again. "Did you want more wreaths? If you do, I'm afraid we'll need a little more time. Everything's piling up, what with the work of repairing the greenhouse and the van and all. We're pretty swamped just now and—"

  I raised my hand to stem the babble, not liking the apprehension and anxiety I heard in Donna's voice. Did she know about Swenson? "We'll probably need some more wreaths before Christmas," I said, "but not right away." I turned. "Donna, this is Sheriff Blackwell. There's been an accident up the road and—"

  "An accident?" Donna asked, her eyes widening. She thrust her hands into the pockets of her green down vest. "Oh, gosh, I hope nobody was hurt."

  "Somebody was killed, Ms. Fletcher," Blackie said soberly. "A neighbor of yours. Carl Swenson."

  Donna's hand flew out of her pocket and went to her mouth in a gesture of surprise and dismay so faked that it wouldn't have fooled a five-year-old. "Oh, dear!" she cried shrilly. "Oh, I'm so sorry to hear that! When did it happen? This morning?"

  "We're not quite sure yet," Blackie said. "Why don't we go inside? I have a few questions I'd like to ask you, and it's pretty wet out here."

  "But I don't know anything about the accident," Donna protested, shaking her head emphatically. "We're at the end of the road, and I didn't see or hear a thing. Not a single thing." She stopped talking but kept on shaking her head.

  "Donna," I said quietly, "let's go i
nside. The sheriff has been out in the rain for the last hour, and a hot cup of coffee would help take the chill off."

  Donna drew in her breath as if to protest again, but changed her mind. "Oh, of course," she said in a tinny voice. "By all means, do come in and get warm, both of you."

  On the way up the walk, she turned to me and said, "I would have asked you in right away, but I didn't want to bother Aunt Velda. Today isn't one of her better days, and strangers really set her off. She always thinks they're from—well, you know." She glanced at the sheriff and added, "Our elderly aunt lives with us. She isn't... well, she's not exactly right, mentally. Alzheimer's, they think. The social worker says we ought to put her in a nursing home, but we want to keep her with us as long as possible."

  I was a little surprised to hear this. Aunt Velda had some strange ideas, but I hadn't heard that she might be suffering from Alzheimer's.

  "We won't disturb your aunt," Blackie said in a kindly voice, and Donna seemed to relax a little.

  The kitchen was warm and the coffee was hot, but neither helped to get the conversation off to a comfortable start. Blackie took off his gray felt Stetson and put it on the table, while Donna fidgeted with coffee cups. In a moment, she had poured the coffee and was sitting down across from us.

  "Mr. Swenson was struck by a vehicle and killed," Blackie said, "near his home. The driver didn't stop. Since you're his neighbor, I wondered whether you or your sister might have seen anything out of the ordinary." He looked straight at her. "Something you'd like to tell me about."

  "No," Donna said quickly. "As I told you, I don't know anything about it. I didn't go out at all yesterday." She laughed shakily. "Well, of course I was outside. In the barn and the greenhouse, I mean. But not on the road. I didn't go out on the road at all. So I can't help you, I'm afraid."

  "What about your sister?" Blackie asked. He looked around. "Is she here?"