Death Come Quickly (7 page)

The tearoom is an exceptionally attractive place, with hunter green wainscoting partway up the old square-cut limestone walls, green-painted tables and chairs with floral chintz napkins, and deep-set windows that look out onto the gardens. There are hanging pots of ferns and a small crystal vase of fresh flowers and herbs at each table. We also have several tables on the outside deck, in the expansive shade of a large live oak tree.

Sheila was on time, which was unusual. “Let's eat on the deck,” she said when she finally arrived. “Okay?”

“It's a little warm,” I cautioned. I knew this, having already spent a couple of hours in the garden that morning. “You sure? It's much cooler inside.”

“But there's less chance of being interrupted or overheard,” Sheila said. “I have some questions to ask, and I'd just as soon not share them with the rest of your customers.”

I got it. Pecan Springs is a small town, and people aren't above listening in on other people's table conversations, then retailing the news to the next friend they happen to meet. What's more, the good old boys in town may be a little slow in lining up behind our first female chief of police, but the women admire Sheila and always want to chat with her. They'd be less likely to keep interrupting us if we sat outdoors.

The thermometer was nudging 90, but a haze of high cirrus clouds filtered the July sun and a breeze rustled the live oak leaves. I led Sheila out to a table on the corner of the deck and we sat down.

“You feeling okay, Smart Cookie?” I asked. “Not still throwing up, I hope.”

“I bought some fresh ginger on the way home yesterday,” Sheila said. “I made some tea this morning and felt a lot better after I drank it.” She patted her shoulder bag. “I have an emergency supply of your ginger capsules and peppermint tea, just in case.”

“That's great,” I said. “If those don't work, let me know and we'll try something else.” Chamomile, slippery elm, and red raspberry leaf tea were other options. We would find something that helped.

“Oh,
here
you are,” Ruby said, coming out on the deck and closing the door behind her. “Why don't we sit inside? It's a lot cooler.”

“We can get used to it,” I said. “Smart Cookie doesn't want people listening in on our cop talk.”

“Oh,” Ruby said. “Well, okay. I just got off the phone with Felicity,” she added, brushing the leaves off a chair before she sat down. “Her mother is in emergency surgery. There's some new bleeding in her brain, and the doctors aren't very optimistic.” She tried to smile. “Of course, where there's life . . .”

Her voice trailed off as Becky Conway brought glasses of iced hibiscus tea, plates of garden salad, and a basket of rosemary and garlic bread-sticks. Becky is a sprightly college student with short blond hair who helps out in the tearoom and the shops.

“Yes, I heard,” Sheila said gravely. “The update came into the office just before I left. I'm afraid it doesn't sound good.”

Emergency surgery.
Thinking of Karen, lively, intelligent, committed, I felt a twisting pain inside—and a rising anger at the person, a man, presumably, who had put her there. Not quite trusting my voice, I said to Sheila, “Anything on the assailant's vehicle?”

“Nada.” Sheila shook her head. “We're looking, of course. But no. Nothing yet.”

We sat for a moment in silence, each of us dealing with this unhappy news in her own way. At last Ruby sighed and spoke.

“I guess that's no surprise. About the vehicle, I mean. There must be quite a few like it in Pecan Springs.”

“A late-night assault with no witnesses,” I said thinly. “Could be hopeless.” I glanced at Sheila. “How about the phone call Felicity mentioned to you? The one her mother got before she went to the mall. Any leads there?”

Ruby passed the bread sticks and Sheila took one. “The call came on the landline. The carrier is checking and we might have something tomorrow.” She made a face. “Or the next day, or the day after that. I don't know why the phone companies can't respond any faster. But maybe we'll have better luck with the call Kitt taped.” She began munching on the bread stick. “This is good.” She peered at it. “What are these little green bits? Rose leaves?”

“No,” I said. “Rosemary and thyme.” Smart Cookie can be forgiven for failing to learn the fine points of cooking. She has her hands full with the police department.

“The call to Kitt”—Ruby sipped her iced tea—“have you listened to it yet?”

I had told Ruby about the previous night's conversation with Jake, and Amy's friendship with Kitt gave her an extra interest. As if she needed one. In her dreams, Ruby is a Girl Detective, a cross between Nancy Drew and Kinsey Millhone.

“I had a couple of emergencies this morning, but I've made arrangements to meet Kitt as soon as I leave here.” Sheila picked up her fork and began on her salad. “Before I talk to her and Gretchen, though, I want to know more about this documentary they're filming. What's the story?”

“Karen usually has several master's students under her supervision,” I said. “As their thesis project, they film a documentary, which is shown to the public. This summer she's supervising Gretchen and Kitt, as well as three or four other teams.”

“Both Gretchen and Kitt are smart young women,” Ruby put in. “Talented and dedicated. I was impressed by the way they handled their equipment, the cameras and mikes and lights and stuff like that. They've got an interesting project—interesting locally, anyway. And they know what they're doing.”

Sheila took out a notebook and a pen, flipped to a new page, and dated it. “What
are
they doing, exactly? I'll get the story from them, too. But I'd rather you clue me in first.”

Ruby nodded. “They're filming a human-interest documentary about the murder of Christine Morris and the trial of the guy who was accused of killing her—Dick Bowen. It'll also be about Pecan Springs, something like the episodes of
City Confidential
. Have you seen that TV show?”

“Yes. True crime, usually a murder, with a focus on the setting where the crime took place.”

“Right,” Ruby said. “So the film will start with a segment about the town—its history and so forth. Then there'll be a segment about Christine Morris and the way people saw her—neighbors and people who knew her. A segment about the murderer, too, and people's opinions about him, good and bad.” Ruby raised her fork, about to dig into her salad. “The
accused
murderer, that is. In this case, the jury decided he wasn't guilty. So we don't know—officially, that is—who killed Christine Morris.”

Sheila finished writing, put her notebook beside her plate, and went back to her salad. “You haven't seen any of the footage?”

Ruby shook her head. “Kitt said they were planning to get the rough cut done in a few days. Their deadline is the end of the month.”

“Yesterday,” Sheila said, “you implied that people didn't much like Christine Morris—and that it was her fault. You said something like, ‘She made a career out of making enemies.' Can you tell me more about that?”

Ruby picked at her salad. “Well, I guess you could say that Christine was the kind of person everyone loves to hate. She was an outsider to Pecan Springs, so her criticisms—and there were lots of them—rubbed people the wrong way. She was always feuding with her neighbors, fighting with the zoning and planning people, badgering the city council. She was beautiful, thin, platinum blond, always dressed fit to kill. But as far as most people were concerned, she was a royal pain in the neck.”

Sheila made another note. “I went back and read the Morris case file. Unfortunately, the police work on the case seems to have been a little sloppy.”

“A
little
sloppy?” I raised my eyebrows. “I don't know the details, but according to Johnnie Carlson, the police work was downright criminal.”

Of course, that's what the defense always says—or tries to. I've said it more than once or twice myself. In fact, the surest way to win an acquittal is to introduce reasonable doubt by pointing out some carelessness—accidental or deliberate—in the cops' handling of evidence or witnesses or warrants. If the carelessness involves a search warrant, or the lack of one, the fruits of the search, no matter how damning, can be tossed out. And cops are exactly as human as the rest of us. It's only in cop fiction that they do everything right, every time.

Sheila looked at me. “Carlson didn't happen to show you his trial notes, I don't suppose.”

“Nope. No reason to.” I hesitated. The jury had acquitted and the attorney and his client were both dead. Privilege was a moot issue. “They're probably still around somewhere, though,” I said cautiously, thinking of what Johnnie had said about having evidence of an alternative suspect that was excluded by the trial judge. “Why? Something you need to know?”

“Maybe. Probably nothing I can't get from the transcript, though.” Sheila gave me a frowning glance. “Skimming the file quickly, it looked to me like Bubba and his boys made the right call, although they screwed up when it came to the physical evidence.” She paused. “Based on what you've said, though, Ruby, I wonder if Dick Bowen was acquitted because the jury decided that Morris deserved what she got. The . . . um . . . careless police work merely gave them a convenient excuse to acquit.”

“It's possible.” Ruby tilted her head. “Personally, I always thought the jury acquitted him because—”

“Here we go, ladies.” Ruby was interrupted by Becky, who appeared with a tray and three attractive luncheon plates. In the center of each was a mound of thin pasta in a light creamy sauce flecked with orange-pink rose petals, and a half-dozen pretty, pink cooked shrimp. Each plate was decorated with a tiny bouquet of rosemary, parsley, and a single pink rosebud. Sheila looked down at it dubiously.

“Taste it before you say a word,” Ruby cautioned. “It's delicious.”

It was. And even Sheila had to admit it. “Never in my wildest dreams,” she murmured, “did I imagine I would be eating pasta and shrimp with roses—and loving it. Forgive me for doubting.”

“Forgiven,” I said, and there was a brief silence while all three of us indulged ourselves. At last, Ruby put down her fork. “I think it might benefit from a little more Parmesan,” she said thoughtfully.

“I think it's perfect,” Sheila said.

“We could put Parmesan on the table,” I suggested. I looked down at the pasta. “I was wondering about adding just a bit of snipped chives.”

“Or minced fresh rosemary,” Ruby said.

“Oh, that's a good idea,” I replied appreciatively. “Or how about just a tiny bit of—”

“I really, really think it's fine just as it is,” Sheila put in. She looked at Ruby. “You were saying? About Richard Bowen, I mean, and why he was acquitted.”

“The defense was aggressive and the police made mistakes,” Ruby said, “but I always thought that Bowen got off because the jury basically liked him. He was a really nice guy who devoted a lot of time to the community. He wasn't married, and he didn't have a family—brothers, sisters, parents, I mean. He gave a lot of money to charity, and he was always helping people who got into financial trouble. He was on the board of the Friends of the Library and coordinated the fund drive, which you know he couldn't do unless he was a big donor himself. He sang in the choir at the Presbyterian church. He volunteered at the Humane Society one weekend a month, and he worked at the food pantry during the holidays. He liked to wear a Santa suit there, when he was handing out packages of food.”

“Did he have time to work?” I asked. “What did he do for a living?”

Ruby frowned at me. “Don't be cynical, China. Of course he worked—in the town planning department. I don't remember exactly what he did. But everybody knew him as a
volunteer
, you see. He was always getting his picture in the newspaper, maybe partly because he was best buddies with the editor, Frank Donnelly. That was long before Hark took over the paper.” Hark Hibler is the current editor and publisher of the
Pecan Springs
Enterprise
and my boss. That is, I edit the Home and Garden page that comes out once a week, in return for free newspaper advertising for the shop, the tearoom, and Party Thyme, our catering service. It's a good deal all around. Hark is also Ruby's current flame.

Sheila's eyebrows went up. “Bowen was Donnelly's
buddy
?” Her emphasis made the meaning clear.

“Oh, I don't know about
that
,” Ruby replied hurriedly. She frowned. “I mean, I heard some rumors, but I didn't really believe them. This was over a decade ago, remember? I'm sure it was different in Austin or San Antonio or Houston, but here in Pecan Springs, we were pretty naive about that sort of thing. We just assumed that everybody was . . . well, you know. Straight.”

“Yeah,” I said, still cynical. “It's amazing how simple life used to be.” Of course, it never was simple. It just seems that way, looking back.

“Anyway,” Ruby said, “for whatever reason, Frank Donnelly didn't much like Christine. Every time she showed up and harangued the city council, he would print her tirade in the
Enterprise
, along with the most unflattering photo he could find. He was obviously trying to make her look . . . well, like a shrill, angry woman with a big chip on her shoulder.”

“What did she harangue the city council about?” Sheila asked.

Ruby wrinkled her forehead. “It was a while ago, and I've forgotten the details. But as I remember it, she had a beef with the planning and zoning people. She wanted to open an art gallery on the first floor of her house, to sell paintings from her collection. She had bought the vacant lot across the alley behind the house, for parking. But the property was zoned single-family residential. The neighbors were opposed to any changes and the zoning office turned down her request. She took the fight to the council and started trying to dig up dirt on the people in the zoning office. Every meeting, she would jump up and start making accusations. There were a lot of harsh words, back and forth.”