Death Come Quickly (29 page)

“He offered you more money?”

She nodded tearfully. “He promised me more, a lot more, if I would keep on. And I need it! I have to have it for Paul. Dear, dear Paul.” She sat up straight, suddenly remembering, and knuckled the tears from her eyes. “Paul! Oh, my gosh! I've left him alone too long, China. He's probably up from his nap by now. I locked the bedroom door, but—” She jumped up. “I need to go back to the house. If I'm gone too long, he could start another fire. He could—”

“One more thing,” I persisted. “Are you willing to tell what you know to the police?” This was tricky for me. I couldn't represent her, but she needed a lawyer with her when she was answering questions. Maybe I could get the Whiz to—

“Yes,” she said. “I'll tell. I . . . I have to do
something.
I can't live with this any longer.”

“Okay, then,” I said comfortingly. “You go, Irene. Do what you need to do for Paul. I'll take care of the rest.” I went to the easel and took down the painting. If I left it there, she might decide to destroy it, and it was essential evidence. “I'm taking this with me,” I added, “for safekeeping. I'll be in touch, very soon, so we can do whatever it takes to get this straightened out.”

She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “You're . . . willing to help me?”

“Yes,” I said. “As long as you'll help the police.”

And that's when we heard the first fire siren.

• • •

W
ITHIN
five minutes, there were two Pecan Springs fire trucks and a half-dozen firefighters on the scene, hauling hoses around the back of the house. The kitchen was in flames and there was plenty of greasy black smoke, but it didn't look as if the fire had spread very far. The neighbors were gathering out front, watching sympathetically. Irene was hysterical, crying out for Paul. But a few moments later, she found him standing under a tree in the backyard, his face streaked with soot and tears.

“I didn't mean to do it, Irene,” he said sheepishly. “I was making supper to surprise you, and I didn't know the grease would—” He began to cry.

“Hush, dear,” she said in a comforting, motherly tone. “It's all right, really it is.” She put her arm around him and led him toward the backyard swing.

“You weren't there, so I called 9-1-1,” Paul said, sounding like a little child. “Did I do the right thing?”

“You did exactly the right thing,” Irene said. “I'm proud of you. And just look, Paul—the firemen are taking care of everything. They've already got the fire put out. And the insurance will cover the damage.”

“It will?” Paul brightened. “You mean, it's not going to cost any money?” He became crestfallen. “I don't think we have any money, Irene. I lost it all in that stock deal. It's all gone.”

“Not to worry, dear,” Irene said and held him close to her. “As long as we have each other, we'll be fine.” She turned to look at me. “We'll be fine,” she repeated consolingly, but I heard the uncertainty in her voice.

“You might not be able to sleep here tonight,” I said. “Why don't you give me your cell number, so I'll know where you are.”

I was jotting down the number when a heavyset woman came over to us. “Irene,” she said, “Jerry and I have a guest room, and we're right across the street. Why don't you and Paul come and stay with us until you get the damage cleaned up? That way, you'll be close to home and everything you need.”

“Oh, thank you, Dolores!” Irene exclaimed gratefully. “I don't want to impose, but that would be wonderful.”

“You won't be imposing. And Jerry will be good company for Paul while you do what you have to do about repairs.” She nodded at me and turned to leave. “Just come when you can.”

“Neighbors,” Irene said, shaking her head. “They're wonderful.”

I nodded. “I'll call you as soon as I've figured out what's next,” I said. There was nothing more I could do right now. I left her and Paul on the swing, their arms around each other.

• • •

B
ACK
in the car, I made a call to Justine, catching her as she was finishing up her work for the day.

“Let's make it snappy, Hot Shot,” she said. “I'm about ready to head home for a nice, long soak in a hot bath and a slug or two of bourbon to take the edge off, before I do something about supper.” Justine may be a whiz before the bench, but cooking is not on her list of lifetime achievements. Put her in front of a stove and she's clueless.

“I thought maybe I could lure you up to Pecan Springs for supper,” I said. The family was already managing without me.

There was a brief hesitation, and I knew I had her. The Whiz hates to go home to an empty apartment. She hates eating her own cooking even worse. “Got a good restaurant up there?” she asked. “How about that cowboy place?”

“Beans' Bar and Grill,” I said. “I'll treat you to one of Bob Godwin's chicken-fried steaks.”

Bob's chicken-fried is famous across the Hill Country, smothered in cream gravy, with French fries, fried onion rings, and Texas toast on the side. Down-home comfort food, loaded with carbs, fat, and salt, swaddled in country music, and basted with the unforgettable eau de Beans' blend of mesquite-stoked barbecue fire, tobacco smoke, and beer.

“Chicken-fried,” she mused. I could see her frowning. “What's the catch?” she asked warily.

“A consultation,” I said. “With a potential client.” Under the circumstances, we might have to hold the consultation in my car, parked in Dolores and Jerry's driveway.

“What client?” She was suspicious. “It's not Sally again, I hope.”

“Nuh-uh. Remember that artist we were talking about? The one whose name you got from your informant there in San Antonio?”

“The art forger?”

“That client.”

“Aha! You've been working the case, Hot Shot.” This was said triumphantly. Justine likes it when she thinks I'm throwing my lawyer's hat back in the ring.

“A little,” I acknowledged. “Come on up and I'll tell you about it. If you enjoy stories about art fraud, conspiracy, and murder, this will light your fire.” When I'm talking to the Whiz, I tend to adopt her vocabulary, which is not necessarily a good thing.

“Murder, huh? I get Beans' chicken-fried, along with the art fraud and murder?”

“And conspiracy. And then you can meet the client and hear her side of it.”

“Has she talked to the police?”

“The police don't know anything about her.” Yet. Sheila was next on my to-do list. “But of course, she needs a smart lawyer with her when she's prepped and ready to talk.” I paused. “Of course, if you're too busy, there's always Charlie Lipman—”

“Ha!” The Whiz snorted derisively. “That hick.”

“Excellent,” I said. “How soon can you get here?”

“Maybe an hour, hour and twenty,” the Whiz said. “I've got a couple of things to wrap up here first.”

“See you at Beans' in an hour and twenty,” I said and flipped the phone closed. It was time to talk to Sheila.

• • •

B
LACKIE'S
big gray Dodge pickup was parked behind the chief's black Chevy Impala in the driveway of their two-story frame house on Hickory. I parked at the curb, tucked Irene's painting under my arm, and went up the walk to knock on the front door. Blackie opened it, his car keys in his hand.

“Hey, China,” he said. “I guess you got the word, huh?”

Ex-sheriff Blackie Blackwell is proof of the old adage that you can take the guy out of the force, but you can't take the force out of the guy. He's quintessentially cop and as square as they come—square shoulders, square chin, square jaw. He's let his sandy hair grow a little longer now that he's out of uniform and he's working on a beard and a mustache. But when I see him, I almost expect us to snap our heels and trade salutes.

“Ruby told me,” I said. “I'm sorry, Blackie. Very sorry.”

“I know.” His face softened. “But we can make another baby. Sheila's okay, and that's the most important thing.”

“Where is she?” I asked. “I need to talk to her—tonight, I'm afraid. It's a police matter.”

Blackie frowned at me. “She's upstairs in bed, asleep. Are you sure it can't wait until tomorrow?”

“I'm awake,” came a voice down the stairs. A strong, clear voice. An impatient voice. “Is that China? Tell her to come on up.”

Blackie and I looked at each other and shook our heads. He grinned helplessly and shrugged.

“You can't keep a good woman down,” I said and headed for the stairs, carrying the painting.

Blackie raised his voice. “She's on her way, Sheila. And I'm headed out for the pizza. If you think of anything else you want while I'm gone, phone me.” He whistled and a burly Rottweiler with a wolfish grin skidded out of the kitchen. “Rambo, you want to go for a ride?”

Rambo and I are old friends. I paused to give him a hug and he gave me a slurpy kiss in return. A PSPD K-9 officer, he works the day shift sniffing for drugs—nights, too, when he's called out. He added another slurp, this one to my nose, then went barreling after Blackie. Rambo sees it as his sacred duty to ride shotgun every time one of his people gets into a vehicle. And when Rambo decides to take on an assignment, it's not wise to interfere. Stubborn is his middle name.

Sheila was lying against the pillows with her iPad on her lap, wearing a sexy red nightgown, her blond hair hanging loose around her shoulders. Her knees were bent and propped up with pillows. The bedroom television set was tuned to the
PBS NewsHour
. She flicked the remote to turn it off and Gwen Ifill disappeared. On the table beside the bed was a crystal vase filled with perky daisies and a glass of water, a flexible straw stuck in it.

“So this is what an off-duty police chief looks like.” I propped the painting against the wall and pulled up a chair beside the bed. “How are you feeling, Smart Cookie?”

She made a face. “Like somebody's been digging around in my belly with a blunt instrument. Sore. Bloated, too. But the doc tells me I can go back to the office in three or four days, as long as I promise not to chase any crooks.” She gestured toward her laptop, on a desk on the other side of the room, beside a carton of papers and files. “Connie brought me some of the paperwork from my in-box.” Connie Paige is Sheila's assistant.

“Yikes,” I said. “That looks like a month's supply.”

“One day,” Sheila said with a groan. “Just one friggin' day. The paperwork in this job is a killer.”

I cleared my throat. “I'm sorry, Sheila,” I said quietly. “About the baby. I know how excited you were.”

“Yeah.” She sighed. “We're sorry, too. We would have done whatever we could to keep this from happening, but we couldn't.” She gave a little shrug. “Anyway, it'll give me a chance to get the department's pregnancy policy in shape. I'm making that a high priority.”

“Pretty daisies,” I said, glancing at the vase. “From Blackie?”

“From Ruby. She picked them in her garden.” She squinted at the painting. “I don't mean to look a gift horse in the mouth, China, but if that's for me, I'm afraid it doesn't fit my décor. I don't think Blackie would be crazy about it, either.”

“Would it change your mind,” I said, “if I told you that the last time Sotheby's sold a painting with this signature on it, it went for a million six?”

“You're kidding,” she said incredulously. “A million six?” She looked at me, frowning. “You're not kidding.”

“I'm not kidding,” I said. “A million six is a pretty hefty motive for a murder, don't you think? Two murders, even.”

It took almost a half hour to tell the whole story, start to finish. I omitted the part about Ruby's not being able to see the painting. Sheila is one of Ruby's dearest friends, but she's even more skeptical of her psychic abilities than I am.

When I got to the end of the tale, Sheila simply shook her head. “So what you're telling me is that this art dealer from San Antonio murdered Christine Morris, then looted her art collection by selling the real paintings and substituting forgeries.”

“Something like that,” I said. “Although he may have been selling forgeries as well. The artist—Irene Cameron—should be able to tell you how many paintings she produced for him and what the subjects were. She might be of help in tracking them down.” I doubted that the Pecan Springs Police Department had the resources for an art fraud investigation, though. They'd probably have to use the feds for that. “And you'll want to take a look at the transcript of the hearing that excluded the alternative suspect,” I added. “Johnnie Carlson, Bowen's defense lawyer, had testimony that put Soto on the scene on the night of the murder and information that disputed Soto's alibi. I can get you a copy of his notes on that. But unless there's some forensic evidence that isn't referenced in the case files, there's not going to be enough to take Soto to trial on that one. In my opinion,” I added. “You might think differently, once you get into the investigation.”

Sheila nodded. “What about Tillotson? Was she involved in the Morris murder? Or the forgery scheme?”

“She's certainly in a position to have known about the murder,” I said, “and to have had a hand in it, as well. What's more, she has profited handsomely. She's living in the house, she's managing the collection, and she appears to be sleeping with her cousin's lover.”

“Hang on a minute.” Sheila started to reach down to adjust the pillows under her knees, then winced.

“Want me to do that?” I got up and pushed the pillows around until Sheila said, “That's good, thanks.” I sat back down again. “In my opinion,” I added, “if Tillotson doesn't know what's been going on, she must be blind as a bat in a blizzard.”