Closely Akin to Murder (28 page)

She followed me to the door. “I want you to know how much I appreciate everything you've done, Claire. If I'd been thinking more clearly twenty-three years ago, I would have sent you to the hospital in Acapulco to try to help Ronnie. She had tuberculosis, you know. She probably would have survived if she'd had access to proper treatment, but she was placed in a facility where needles were recycled and drugs were out of
date. She told me in her letter that she'd never survive. Her death inspired me to go into medical research. I fully intended to dedicate my life to the study of mycobacteria, but there's just something so bewitching about viruses, isn't there?”

“Absolutely,” I murmured, groping behind my back for the doorknob.

“There's one more favor I'd like to ask of you, if you don't mind.”

“What's that?”

“If you happen to hear from Fran Pickett, ask her to call me. I want to tell her that I'm not angry anymore, and I will be more than pleased to give her a recommendation if she decides to live out her life at the Convent of the Holy Shrine of San Jacinto. Do you think she might like that?”

Incapable of responding verbally, I managed to nod, then went out to the porch and down the steps. The driver gurgled in alarm as I threw myself into the backseat and told him to head for the airport. As we pulled away from the curb, I looked back at the house. Fran was standing in the doorway with a string of rosary beads in her hand. I couldn't tell if her lips were moving, but I had little doubt that they were.

I was sitting on the stool behind
the counter, trying to take an interest in the mail that had accumulated in my absence. Envelopes with windows went into one pile, preapproved gold credit card offers (there's one deluded industry) in a second, and flyers trumpeting sales in the wastepaper basket. The bewildered retiree was humming to himself as he studied the new arrivals on the rack reserved for romance novels. He was the only customer in the Book Depot; the icy drizzle had pretty much cleared the street and sidewalks.

“I understand you actually knew Azalea Twilight,” he said as he put half a dozen paperbacks in front of me. One of hers,
Sweeter Than Wine
, was on the top. “Was she as bewitching in person as she was on the printed page?”

There was no reason to spoil his fantasy with a description of dowdy Mildred Twiller. “Absolutely. Have you heard anything from your wife lately?”

“Only through her lawyer, but she's of no concern to me anymore. There's more to life than writing scholarly articles, taking that infernal cat to the vet's office, and growing tomatoes. I've never liked tomatoes; the seeds get under my dentures and cause sores.”

I put his books in a sack and handed it to him. “Have you found a new hobby?”

“It would not be decorous to discuss my intentions with such a genteel woman as yourself. All I'll say is please do not be alarmed should you hear noises from my apartment in the wee hours of the night, when the moon blushes above the treetops and the breeze is redolent with the heady perfume of wisteria.”

“Noises?” I said despite my better judgment.

“The pop of a champagne cork, the sensual strains of a tango, the murmuring of endearments.” He gave me a rakish wink. “Or high heels being dropped on the floor.”

I watched him as he sauntered out the door, not sure whether he fancied himself as Casanova or Farberville's newest addition to the transvestite community. Dismissing the question, I took the top bill from the pile and glumly opened it.

At noon, Peter arrived as promised with sandwiches and coffee. We went into my office, cleared off part of my desk, and sat down.

“I received some interesting faxes this morning,” he said as he handed me a sandwich and a napkin. “They were from the detective in Phoenix. It doesn't look as if Beatrice Cooper will be charged with anything.”

I stopped unwrapping the wax paper. “Do you realize how many people died because of her actions? If she'd called the police from the bungalow at Las Floritas and told them the truth, the body count would have stopped then and there. Fran might have been committed to a mental facility in Mexico, which surely would have been better for her. I wonder what would have happened if the party had broken up
before
Oliver
Pickett arrived. He still might have ended up at the bottom of the cliff—after a push from his ex-wife.”

“Detective West is as frustrated as you are, but there's no evidence that links her to any of the deaths. Jorge Farias isn't going to admit she paid him to tamper with the car. Why should he incriminate himself?”

I sullenly ate a dill pickle, then said, “What about Farias? Is he going to get away with killing Santiago and ordering Maisie's death? If those thugs had been any brighter, then Chico, Beatrice, and I would be on that same list.”

“Detective West obtained a fairly decent description of the men from the agents at the car rental desk, and has an APB out on them. If they're picked up, they'll be offered leniency in exchange for testimony against Farias. Apparently, the comandante in Acapulco will do the same thing, although he's less optimistic that any potential witnesses would dare to testify. There is some justice, however. Farias had a heart attack last night and is in intensive care.”

“Gabriella is more than capable of running the agency, especially with Manuel's assistance.”

Peter smiled as he pulled the lid off a cup of coffee. “Does that mean you won't be sending flowers and a get well card?”

“Of course I will—right after Sister Mary Clarissa peddles up on a tricycle to buy a dozen copies of
The Joy of Sex.
What about Chico?”

“He was dropped off at a homeless shelter. It's not a crime to be without identification. He isn't an illegal alien.”

I finished what I could of the sandwich, then pushed the wax paper aside and made a face. “He went to the Tricky M to engage in a spot of blackmail. Beatrice
made it clear she was as broke as he, so they agreed on a few nights of lodging. She probably didn't call Farias until I showed up. I'd offered to pay him for information once, and might do it again.”

“You certainly were a catalyst,” Peter said. “Any chance you want to stir up a little something to night?”

“Like spaghetti sauce?”

“I'll bring a bottle of chianti and candles,” he said, then gave me a kiss that was a great deal more than perfunctory and left.

I cleaned up the remains of lunch and returned to the front room. Rather than opening bills, however, I went to the romance rack and studied the covers. I finally grabbed a couple, sat down on the stool, and randomly flipped through them, looking for a fictionalized “Hints From Heloise.”

I was beneath the blushing moon, gazing up at his glistening chest as surges of heat washed through me, when Caron and Inez came into the store. I crammed the book into the top drawer, but not before they'd exchanged amused looks. In that I could concoct no credible explanation for being lost in the pages of
Daze of Our Love
, I said, “Have you found out about the defensive driving class?”

Caron ignored my question. “This time it Really Wasn't My Fault. All I did was make a deal with Rhonda Maguire's brother. There was no way I could anticipate her reaction. I am not a psychic.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked, thoroughly mystified.

Caron shrugged. “I offered the little dweeb five bucks to find out the name of the guy who's been riding around town in her car. He demanded ten, and we finally settled on seven-fifty.”

“He's a miser,” added Inez. “He has every penny of his allowance in a jar in the back of his closet, and is always looking under the cushions on the sofa in case—”

“That's irrelevant,” Caron said curtly, “and we need to leave before Rhonda thinks to look for us here. She told Emily that she was going to rip off my ears and make me eat them. She also said her father would get a lawyer and sue me for public defamation. I don't think she can do that, but I may be wrong.”

“What did you do to her?” I demanded. I had no view of the parking lot beside the store, and I was in no mood to have Rhonda storm in and mutilate my daughter. If nothing else, our health insurance carried a hefty deductible.

Caron made sure Inez was properly chastised, then said, “The little dweeb listened in on her calls last night. One of them was to a guy. She said something about getting him a check from her mother, so the dweeb took a look at his mother's checkbook.”

“He's in the gifted and talented program,” Inez said.

“And?” I said to Caron.

“Then he went and asked his mother who the guy was. She told him that was the name of Rhonda's algebra tutor. It turns out the guy is in ninth grade. Ninth grade! Rhonda has to pick him up and take him home because he's not old enough to drive. She's two years older than he is, but she has to let him explain her homework. Isn't that hysterical?”

“I still don't understand why Rhonda's so enraged at you,” I said. “Did you broadcast this over the high school PA system?”

She thought for a moment, then shook her head. “No, but it's not a bad idea. All I did was walk into the
cafeteria and ask Rhonda if she was going to invite her neonatal tutor to the Christmas dance next month. Inquiring minds wanted to know.”

“The cafeteria was kind of crowded and noisy,” Inez added, “so Caron had to shout to be heard. Everybody heard Rhonda's response, though. She's lucky the vice-principal wasn't there; she would have had detention for the rest of the semester.”

“What color is Rhonda's car?” I asked innocently. “If it's red, she may have just turned into the parking lot.”

“Here's what we'll do, Inez,” Caron said. “I'll go to the back door and unlock it. You wait by the window. As soon as you see Rhonda coming, hurry to the office and we'll leave that way. We can stay on the railroad tracks most of the way to your house.”

Inez shook her head. “Why should you get to wait in the office?”

“Because that's the plan.”

“No, it isn't,” she answered, “and you know why?”

“Why?” Caron and I said in unison, equally amazed by her defiance.

“It Wasn't My Fault.”

 

Here is an excerpt from

Joan Hess's new mystery, available soon in hardcover
from Minotaur Books!

 

 

Still water may run deep, but the rapids will leave you bruised and battered in Maggody, Arkansas (pop. 755). That is, if the locals don't get you first. Some of them are devious, some are stupid, and some are merely annoying. My mother falls into that last category.

I kept my eyes on the far bank of Boone Creek as she approached the hickory tree. “I came here for the solitude,” I muttered.

“I reckon you can come here for whatever reason tickles your fancy,” Ruby Bee said as she plopped down beside me. She does not plop with grace, being a short and sturdy sort with a deceptively benign face. Her blond hair is sensibly short; anyone who mentions the gray roots is liable to regret it long after the chickens have come home to roost in a condo. “Being that I heard tell you've been sitting out here for nigh onto four hours, I thought I'd have myself a nice lunch while I checked up on you. You can have some or not.” She opened a picnic basket and started pulling out plastic containers. “Lemme see now, I got fried chicken, pimento cheese sandwiches, dill pickles, potato salad, and a couple of chunks of fudge cake. How 'bout some lemonade, Arly? I made it just the way you like it.”

“No thank you.”

“Suit yourself, Miss Sulky Pants.” She kept shooting sly glances at me while she munched on a drumstick. “You intending to sit here the rest of the day?”

“Maybe. Is there a reason why that's any of your business?”

“Can't think of one. Dahlia's looking for you, but it's on account of Jim Bob won't let her park in the handicap space at the SuperSaver Buy 4 Less.”

I couldn't stop myself from wincing. “She's not handicapped.”

“She claims she is, what with the twins and baby Daisy. Not that having a baby should qualify somebody for a handicap sticker. Having babies is normal. If people didn't have babies, well—there wouldn't be any people to not have babies, if you follow me. Sure, it's a chore those first couple of years, but it ain't that hard as long as you got family nearby to help you. I've been there.”

“I know you have,” I said, relenting enough to pat her on the knee. I relented a little more and poured myself a cup of lemonade. “That's one of the things I've been thinking about. If you don't mind, I'd really prefer to be alone. I'll come over to the bar and grill for supper. Okay?”

Ruby Bee does not respond well to subtlety. “You talked to Jack?”

“Yes, I have. Go away, please.”

“What did he say?”

I felt like a hapless hiker being stalked by a mountain lion (although the hiker would have had a better chance than I). “Jack called a couple of days ago to tell me about a fantastic opportunity to join a National Geographic team headed for the Brazilian rainforest.
Their photographer broke an ankle, so Jack's going to be in charge of filming. He won't be able to get in touch with anyone for six weeks, maybe longer.”

“And you let him go?” gasped Ruby Bee.

“I didn't
let
him do anything. He didn't call to get my permission, just to let me know where he'll be and why I won't hear from him.” I threw a hickory nut into the water and waited for it to surface. It did not oblige. I wondered if piranhas were feasting on it.

Ruby Bee wasn't interested in nature. “What did you say to that?”

“I told him to watch out for headhunters.”

“But not a word about your . . . condition? Are you as plumb loco as Dimson Buchanon?”