Spanish Dagger Read online

  Sheila pursed her lips, thinking. “Listen, China, I know how hard things are for Ruby, with her mom and all. But would you tell her that I need to talk to her when she gets back? She may know something that could help in the investigation. I’d drive over to Fredericksburg and interview her myself, but the City Council is voting on the department’s budget this evening. I’m asking for new staff positions and some body armor, and if I’m not there to defend the requests, those jerks will cut it.”

  “Body armor?”

  “Yeah. Would you believe? I can’t require my officers to wear vests because we don’t have enough to go around.” She turned down her mouth. “Not enough people, either. I need to send somebody over to Colin’s shop to check it out, but I don’t have an extra officer. I’m glad it isn’t high priority.”

  I shook my head sympathetically. Sheila is always arm wrestling the council for something—more officers, better equipment, more overtime—sometimes successfully, often not, since crime fighting isn’t at the top of the council’s agenda. The town fathers and mothers would rather think of Pecan Springs as a cozy, comfortable place where jaywalking and double-parking are the worst offenses, so Sheila is often reduced to begging. She hates that part of the job. “It sucks,” she says. “But it comes with the territory.”

  However that may be, it left me with an interesting opening, which I took, of course. “Ruby may not be able to come back for a couple of days, depending on how bad her mother’s situation is. If that’s the case, do you want me to see what she can tell us about Colin’s friends, enemies, etcetera?”

  Smart Cookie’s brow furrowed. I could see what she was thinking: that I was trustworthy (more or less), that my legal experience made me a competent questioner, and that she could double-check the information with Ruby later. “I don’t suppose it can hurt for you to get some background,” she said finally. “Yeah, sure. Go ahead, China. See if she has any information we don’t. And give me a call if you pick up anything I should know.”

  From Sheila’s point of view, it wasn’t optimal, but it was the best she was likely to get, at least until Ruby came home.

  Chapter Six

  According to an Oxford University study, Ginkgo biloba, a popular herbal remedy, could improve brain function in people with early signs of dementia.

  Researchers reviewed thirty-three placebo-controlled studies of ginkgo over twenty-six years, involving people with dementia or cognitive impairment. Some studies found that ginkgo boosts peripheral and cerebral circulation, improves the uptake of glucose, thins the blood, and has anti-inflammatory and antioxidant properties. Compared with placebos, the herb improved cognition and mood and emotional function in people with dementia.

  “Overall there is promising evidence of improvement in cognition and function associated with ginkgo,” the reviewers concluded.

  AltHealth News, December 31, 2002

  Fredericksburg is some sixty miles west of Pecan Springs. To get there from here, you take Route 306 across the steep, cedar-clad hills of Devil’s Backbone, stopping at the overlooks to enjoy the views of the rugged terrain, once known as Comanchería, or Comanche country. The Comanches were a fierce nomadic tribe, mounted on mustang ponies and armed with guns obtained by bartering buffalo hides with the Wichita Indians on the Red River. They were given their name by the peaceable and settled Utes, who called them Komántcia, “enemy,” or, literally, “anybody who wants to fight me all the time.”

  When 306 bumps into U.S. 281, you turn north for about thirty miles, through Blanco to Johnson City. At the stop light, where the highway makes a Y, turn left—that’s west—on U.S. 290, and drive past the Lyndon Baines Johnson National Historic Park, where you can see the Johnson Settlement and catch a bus for a guided tour of the LBJ Ranch.

  During April and early May, 290 is always crowded with bluebonnet traffic, even on weekdays: SUVs, vans, chartered buses full of senior citizens. The bloom had peaked the week before, but the roadsides were still thickly carpeted in blue, brightened with patches of deep maroon winecups and yellow huisache daisies. The afternoon sun was bright and the sky was cerulean blue, a perfect background for the children posing for the obligatory baby-in-the-bluebonnets photo, an annual phenomenon along this stretch of road. Farther west, at Wildseed Farms (the largest wildflower farm in the nation and well worth adding to your itinerary), the tourists were strolling through acres of Indian paintbrush and scarlet poppies, so beautiful that they will break your heart.

  But I barely noticed the traffic or the cute babies buried to the chin in bluebonnets. I was trying to think how I could tell Ruby that Colin Fowler had been murdered, and wondering how much of the Dan Reid story she had to know. McQuaid’s information—about the suicide and the dozen crooked cops—helped to clarify the situation somewhat. The tale McQuaid had related would make Colin look like a hero in her eyes, and might soften the blow, if only just a little. I would tell her what I knew—except the part about Colin’s relationship to Sheila. That would hurt, and it had no relevance. This answered the question of what I would tell her, but it failed to address the question of how. I was still puzzling over that when I reached Fredericksburg.

  The town of Fredericksburg was settled in the 1840s and ’50s by German immigrants who landed at Corpus Christi and made their way overland to New Braunfels, and then to this new town, named for Prince Frederick of Prussia. Each settler was given one town lot and ten acres of nearby farmland. They built their cabins of cypress logs, and after surviving the cholera epidemics and Comanche raids that filled the next few years with bitter misery, they replaced those makeshift homes with more permanent dwellings: sturdy Fachwerk houses constructed of upright timbers, the spaces between filled with chunks of squared-off limestone covered with a coat of mortar. You can still see those houses as you drive along Main Street, or West Austin or West San Antonio. Many have been expanded, and some have been converted into attractive antique shops, boutiques, and biergartens. But you’ll recognize them. Those crafty Germans built their distinctive houses to last, and they have long outlasted their builders.

  Cedar Summit, the retirement village where Ruby’s mother and grandmother live (in separate apartments, because they get along about as well as two fighting roosters), is on the south side of town. Its architecture echoes the dominant German style, with independent and assisted living units in two-story buildings clustered around neatly landscaped courtyards, and a nursing facility nearby. It is an undeniably pretty place, an enclave from the hustle and mess and confusion of real life. But this artificial segregation always seems somehow sterile to me, and sad, as if these older people have removed themselves—or been removed—from most of what’s lively and interesting and real. I hope my retirement (if I ever do retire, which I doubt) does not include a retirement community, or if it does, that the community is open to the world around it, not closed off or shut away.

  I parked in the lot, located Doris’ ground-level unit, went up to the oak-paneled door, and knocked. After a moment, Ruby opened the door. I was startled at her appearance. Her delicate, triangular face was bare of makeup, the gingery freckles stood out across her nose, and her frizzy red hair was piled untidily on top of her head and secured with an orange Scrunchy. I rarely saw her without at least lip gloss, and she looked young, vulnerable, bruised. She had on jeans and an oversized black T-shirt printed with silvery signs of the zodiac, and she was wielding a blue feather-duster. Her expression was harried, but when she saw me, she broke into a wide, happy grin.

  “China!” she exclaimed in delight, and some relief. “What are you doing here?”

  “Who is it, Ruby?” came a querulous voice. “Is it Ramona?”

  “It’s China, Mother,” Ruby said, over her shoulder. “You know China Bayles.”

  Of course Doris knows me. We’ve often had dinner together at Ruby’s house, and she has been in my shop on numerous occasions. I wouldn’t say we were friends, exactly, but—

  “China?” Doris said peevish
ly. “What kind of heathen name is that?” A fuzzy pink blanket over her feet, she was stretched out on the sofa in the cluttered living room. “Where is Ramona? What is keeping that girl? I thought she would be here by now. Doesn’t she know how sick I am?”

  I was startled by the thin reediness of Doris’ voice, and by the fact that she didn’t appear to know who I was. “How’s her heart?” I asked in a low voice.

  “Ticking like a clock. It’s her mind that’s not working.” Ruby gave her mother a worried look. “I knew things were bad, but it’s much worse than I thought.”

  “Speak up,” Doris commanded in a petulant tone. “I can’t hear you. Ramona, is that you, Ramona? Where have you been, you naughty girl? I’ve been in the hospital, you know. Is my mother with you? If she is, tell her to go away.” She waved her hand dismissively. “She doesn’t care about me. She never cared.”

  “Hello, Doris,” I said, going toward her with as much enthusiasm as if I were advancing on a cranky old lioness. “It’s China. China Bayles. I’m sorry you’re having trouble with your heart. I hope you’re feeling better.”

  “I am not at all well,” Doris said, enunciating carefully. She propped herself on her elbows, peering up at me. “Who are you? You’re not from that wretched Social Services, are you? If you are, you can just go away again. I told them I’m perfectly well.” Her voice rose shrilly. “Ruby, why are you letting all these people come around and bother me? Where is Ramona? Why doesn’t she come? Doesn’t she know I nearly died last night?”

  “I told you, Mom,” Ruby said patiently, straightening the pillow on which Doris was lying. “Ramona will be here as soon as she gets her car back from the shop. Another day or two, probably.”

  It was obvious that Doris was in a bad way. Her gray hair, normally curled and coifed into a stiff, blue-rinsed cap, was wispily disarranged and patches of pink, peeling scalp showed through. She had lost so much weight that the flesh flapped loosely from the bones of her arms, and her eyes were deepset and frantic. She had always dressed carefully and prided herself on an immaculate appearance, but today she was wearing a dingy yellow muumuu with a cascade of coffee stains down the front. House slippers with the toes cut out peeked from beneath the blanket.

  I glanced at Ruby, startled. I’d known that Doris was having problems, but from a distance, they had seemed funny. Up close, the situation was tragic: difficult enough for Doris, but perhaps even more difficult for her daughters. And now Ruby had to deal with Colin’s death, on top of everything else. I tried to swallow the lump that was suddenly, painfully huge in my throat. How was I going to tell her?

  Ruby motioned with her duster. “I’ve made some coffee,” she said, and led the way to the kitchen, where she closed the door and leaned against it wearily.

  “I just hope I can last until Ramona gets here on Sunday,” she said. “I’ve explained to Mom that she’s moving to a new apartment tomorrow morning, but I don’t think she understood.” She waved her duster around the kitchen. “As you can see, she has to have help, and better supervision. She can’t take care of herself any longer.”

  I followed her glance. The kitchen, small, nicely arranged, and furnished with sleek appliances, was a wreck. Dirty dishes were piled on the counter and in the sink. Food had been spilled on the stove and the floor, and the table in the tiny breakfast nook looked as if it hadn’t been cleaned off for a couple of weeks.

  “Gosh, Ruby,” I exclaimed. “How awful!” Awful for Doris, who had always been so compulsively neat that she wouldn’t permit a pillow to be out of place on the sofa. And horrible for Ruby, who had to arrange her mother’s care.

  “I finally got the bathroom decent,” Ruby said, dropping her duster on the counter. She rolled her eyes. “You can’t believe the mess it was in. Worse than cleaning up after a dozen kids. And scarves—expensive scarves with the price tags still on them. So far I’ve found thirteen. I’m putting them together, by store, so I can take them back.”

  She opened the cupboard, took down the last two clean cups, and poured coffee. “I was thinking of you this afternoon, China, and wondering whether there is such a thing as herbal therapy for dementia.”

  “You might try ginkgo biloba,” I said cautiously. “There’s been some promising research on that lately. Let’s ask Laurel and see what she recommends.” Laurel Riley, who helps out in my shop, recently completed her certification as a Master Herbalist with an emphasis on herbal medicine. She would be up-to-date on the research. I thought of something else. “Lavender will help, too—it has a strong calming effect. It’s been used for centuries to treat hysteria and anxiety. Mix ten or twelve drops of essential oil in a half-cup of carrier oil—almond or apricot oil are good, or olive oil, if she’s allergic to nuts. Use it as a massage oil. You can put lavender oil in her bath, too, or on her pillow, or in a scent diffuser.”

  “That sounds good,” Ruby said gratefully. “It might work for me, too.” She turned, handing me the cup. “I didn’t expect to see you today, China. Is everything okay at the shops?”

  “Sure,” I said, with a hollow heartiness. “Laurel and Missy have everything under control, the way they always do. Cass is keeping a dozen balls in the air, as usual. And Carole is cooking the yucca we collected this morning.” I looked down at my cup. I would have gone on, but I couldn’t. It was as if my brain’s electrical apparatus had shorted out, leaving me without the ability to formulate words.

  Ruby pushed a stack of newspapers—the Fredericksburg Standard—off the seat in the breakfast nook. “Well?” she prompted, sitting down and leaning her elbows on the table. “You didn’t drive all the way to Fredericksburg just so my mom could yell at you.” She frowned, and anxiety puckered her forehead. “It’s not Amy, is it? Or baby Grace?” Amy is the daughter who came back into Ruby’s life after Doris insisted that she be adopted. Grace, just four months old, is Amy’s child, and Ruby adores her. “Don’t tell me something’s happened to my girls!”

  “No, of course not,” I said, waving away her concern. “The girls are fine.” I sat down across from her and took both her hands. Whatever plan I’d concocted on the drive to Fredericksburg had gone completely out of my mind. Clumsy, brutal, I blurted it out.

  “It’s Colin, Ruby. He’s dead.”

  “Dead!” Ruby pulled her hands away, her eyes going wide, her mouth crumpling. There was a silence, then: “No!” she wailed. “No, he can’t be. Not Colin!”

  The next few minutes were utterly awful. Ruby dropped her arms into a patch of congealed oatmeal on the table, cradled her head, and sobbed as if her heart would break. I came around the table and slid onto the bench beside her, putting my arm around her shoulders and pulling her close, murmuring comforting sounds. From the living room, Doris called, even more peevishly than before, “Ramona, why are you crying? Ruby, make Ramona stop crying. Sounds like a sick goat. Hurts my head to hear it!” Neither of us answered her.

  At last, Ruby raised her head, her eyes brimming with tears. “How?” she whispered. “Was it a car wreck? I kept telling him he drove too fast, but he’d never listen.” She knitted her fingers together to keep them from shaking. “He never listened to me at all.”

  I got up and stood, looking down at her. My lips were stiff and frozen and I felt hollow inside. “He was…he was murdered,” I managed finally. “Carole and I found him beside the railroad tracks, behind Beans. It was this morning, when we went to get some yucca for the workshop.”

  “Murdered!” Ruby cried, horrified. “China, you can’t—it can’t be!” Her voice rose, out of control. “No! I don’t believe it. I won’t! It can’t be true!”

  “Ramona!” Doris shrilled. “Ramona, stop that horrible noise this minute! Ruby, make that girl stop her bawling! What are the neighbors going to think?”

  I sat down on the other side of the table and took Ruby’s hands again. They were cold as a December day. “It’s true,” I whispered. “I am so sorry, Ruby. He was…he was knifed. Night before last, probably.”r />
  “Knifed? Oh, my God.” Her voice was weak and shrill. “But who—Who could have done it, China? Why?”

  It was an opening, and I seized it, thinking that rational talk might distract her for a moment. “Sheila thought you might have some ideas, since you knew Colin better than anyone. She’s hoping you can fill in some of the blanks.”

  “But I didn’t really know him,” Ruby said disconsolately. “Colin was the most secretive man I’ve ever met. In the six months we were together, we didn’t talk about much of anything except his business or mine, or music or the art scene. Of course, he was interested in politics and current affairs, and he liked to talk about what he was reading. Our conversations were always interesting, but not…well, personal.” She pulled down her mouth. “Except when I was talking about me. I did that a lot, you know. To encourage him.”

  “He didn’t tell you anything about himself?” I guess I wasn’t surprised. When I was single, the men I went out with had lots to say, but we rarely got past externals. The talk somehow kept us apart, rather than bringing us together. And Colin had more to hide than most men.

  She shook her head sadly. “That was what finally made me decide we’d never have a real relationship, China. You can’t love a man who’s a total mystery.”

  “How about people he knew before he came to Pecan Springs?” I persisted, thinking about the dirty dozen. “Did he talk much about them?”

  She shook her head. “He said he was starting over. He was trying to forget the past. I got the idea he’d been in the military, but I couldn’t—” She gave me a despairing look. “I couldn’t keep nagging him about it, could I? He had to want to tell me on his own, because he trusted me. Not because I pushed him.” She pressed her palms together, steadying her hands. She was talking to herself now, as much as to me. “I didn’t want him to dwell on what had happened in his past—I just wanted him to share. I wanted him to want to open up and let me in. That’s not so wrong, is it?”