Holly Blues (18 page)

McQuaid was glad he didn’t have far to drive—just to the bookstore and back to the motel, where he’d make that phone call for Sally. To tell the truth, he was intrigued at the idea that somebody in Sanders might be holding on to information about the Strahorns’ murders. But he’d be damned if he’d help Sally dig up information for some sensational book she wanted to write. Hell, no. He’d make the call, then stretch out on the bed to read. Might even catch a few z’s.

Yeah. He shoved his hands into his pockets, whistling cheerfully, and set off in the direction of the car—walking carefully, because of the ice. It was going to be a good afternoon, after all.

“Homicide? Leslie?”
I stared at Sheila, still trying to comprehend what she had said. “What kind of homicide? How was she killed? A gun? A knife? A blunt object? What?”

The chief frowned and gave her head a warning shake, meaning that this was cop stuff, confidential, top secret. If Smart Cookie knew the inside story, she wasn’t going to tell me.

I swallowed hard, still trying to come to terms with what I had heard. I thought of Leslie, pretty, petite, perky, the third-grade teacher you always wished you’d had, who could turn the times tables into a giggly game or teach a kid how to hold a rabbit or build a drum out of an oatmeal box. If Sally had been the bad girl of the very proper Strahorn family, the wayward, not-quite-respectable daughter, Leslie had been the good girl, the solid citizen, respected schoolteacher, apple of her parents’ eye.

And now Leslie was the victim of a homicide. And crazy Sally—Sally/ Juanita, she of the multiple identities—was a “person of interest.” Why? What had she done that made the cops want to come after her?

Sheila was watching my face, reading my feelings, which were naked and exposed. “Did the two of them get along? Sally and her sister, I mean.”

I didn’t answer immediately. I could see where this was going. Sheila—who was a very good cop, trained to do her job—was pumping me for information. Anything I told her that was relevant to the case would be relayed to the Lake City police, to assist in their interview with their “person of interest.”

But I have a problem with this, a big problem. The words “suspect,” “subject,” “target,” and “material witness” are defined by law, and everyone knows what they mean. The phrase “person of interest,” on the other hand, lacks any legal definition or evidential standard. It can mean anything the authorities—local, state, even federal—want it to mean. Sometimes they use it to keep their guy from lawyering up, as sensible people have a natural tendency to do when they find themselves in the clutches of the cops. Other times, they use it to let the media know that they’re on the lookout for someone they can’t immediately lay their hands on, who just might be involved with a case they’re pursuing, although they can’t specifically tell you how or wouldn’t if they could. The media puts the word out, and the next thing you know, the “person of interest” is either reported to be “cooperating” with authorities or prudently leaves town, which is taken, both by the media and the cops, as an admission of guilt.

Now, you might not immediately see a problem with this—until
you
become a “person of interest,” that is. Imagine that your next-door neighbor is found dead in her garden, killed with a sharp whack from her garden spade. Imagine that the two of you have had a few unneighborly disagreements over the years—she has a dog and the dog has a habit of digging up your rosebushes, say—and that these little squabbles have been witnessed by other neighbors.

Now imagine that you pick up the local paper and find your photograph on the front page. The cops want to find out what you know about this homicide. You’re a good citizen, so you go in for an interview, and then you’re called back for another and another. Imagine that the cops turn up no other leads for weeks and weeks, and that they—and the newspaper and the local television channels, which seem to have no other news but
your
news—continue to regard you as the only “person of interest” in the case.

What happens if this cloud hangs over your head for days, weeks, months, for a year? How are your friends going to feel? Your neighbors? Your boss? Your mother? After a while, in the mind of the public, you become the prime suspect without a single charge being filed or a single hearing held. Tragically, the term “person of interest” has the potential to tar and feather innocent people who have nothing to do with a crime.

And if you think this can’t happen, think again. It happens, and far too often. “Person of interest” has wormed its way into the national lexicon in recent years, and has been used in several high-profile cases seized on by the national media. In some instances, the “persons of interest” have filed lawsuits and won them, sometimes for hundreds of thousands of dollars. All of us, including the media and the cops, have to remember that
all persons
are innocent until they are proven guilty. And that includes Sally Strahorn—or Juanita or whoever else she may be.

I took a deep breath, composed my features, and said, very deliberately, “Afraid I can’t be of much help, Chief. Sally has never told me how she feels about Leslie.”

Sheila sighed. “Oh, please. Don’t go getting all lawyerly on me, China.”

“Hey,” I countered. “I
am
a lawyer. Remember?”

This is true. I may not be in practice at the moment, but you never know. I keep my bar membership current, just in case the shop goes under or there’s a sudden family crisis. It’s good to have a backup.

“As if I could forget,” Sheila muttered, rolling her eyes.

“And why do the cops want to talk to Sally?” By this time, I had fully switched into what McQuaid calls my
hackles-up mode.
My defense-attorney mode. “Why are they calling her a ‘person of interest’?”

Another sigh. “Sorry, China. I honestly don’t know, and even if I did, I couldn’t tell you. But since you’re a lawyer, you already know that.”

“Yeah, I do.” I got off the stool and stood facing her, hands on my hips. “But here’s something I can tell
you
, Chief Dawson, and please take notes. Since you were at Blackie’s last night when I called, you already know that Sally is being stalked.”

Her eyebrows went up. “Really? I thought it was just a matter of a former boyfriend on the phone, wanting to give her a hard time.”

“He might be a former boyfriend, but he is also a stalker,” I said with emphasis. “His name is Jess Myers. He’s from Sanders, Kansas, the same town where Sally—and Leslie, too—grew up. The Lake City police ought to know about this man, in case there’s a connection to Leslie. To her
homicide
,” I added firmly. “Maybe they should add him to their ‘persons of interest’ list.”

“Thank you, Counselor,” Sheila said steadily. “I’ll pass along the tip.” She took a small notebook out of her pocket and flipped it open. “Jess M-y-e-r-s?”

“I think so. There’s a good chance that he’s driving Sally’s car. A yellow convertible. Hazel Cowan, who’s staying in our bed-and-breakfast, saw him last night, hanging around the cottage. He may have tried to force the kitchen window.”

She scribbled for a moment longer, getting it all down. “Description?”

“Dark hair, dark-rimmed glasses, medium height.” I thought for a moment. “And a mole. Under his right eye.”

“Tags on the convertible?”

“Kansas, I suppose. You could run the registration. Hazel Cowan saw him driving it.” I took a breath. “There’s more, too. I don’t know the whole story, but this isn’t the first homicide in that family. The Strahorns—Leslie and Sally’s parents—were shot to death about ten years ago. Just before McQuaid and Sally were divorced.”

Sheila frowned, her attention now fully focused. “Where was that?” “In Sanders, where they lived. I don’t know the details, but McQuaid does. You can ask him.”

She nodded, looked over her notes, and said, “How about Sally’s cell phone? Do you have the number?”

I was saved from answering by the bell over Ruby’s shop door, which chose that auspicious moment to jangle. “Excuse me,” I said. “I’m the only one here this afternoon. I need to go next door and take care of Ruby’s customer.”

“No problem. I’ll be right here.” Sheila reached for her radio, switching it on. I hoped she was going to pass on the information about the Strahorns.

But the customer wasn’t a customer. She was Ruby’s mother. Doris was wearing a green sweater over her cotton print dress, a red coat three sizes too large (obviously borrowed) over the sweater, and fluffy pink rabbit slippers with floppy ears. Her sparse gray hair was disheveled, and her nose was red with cold. As I came in, she was slipping a box of rune stones into the pocket of her coat.

“Ramona,” she said querulously, and pointed toward the stairs that go up to the loft. “I saw Ramona go up there. Tell her to come down. I’ve been standing here waiting for her.”

“Ramona isn’t here,” I said. “You mean Ruby.” For the past year or so, Doris hasn’t been able to keep her daughters straight. Ruby is the one who looks after her, making sure she has what she needs and that she is well cared for. Ramona (Ruby’s sister) lives in a posh north Dallas suburb and stays away as much as possible. Daughters are not created equal—at least, not created with an equal sense of obligation to their mothers. “But Ruby didn’t go up the stairs,” I added. “She’s out looking for you.”

Doris gave me a withering look. “It wasn’t Ruby. I know Ruby. She’s tall and thin as a rail. She needs to eat more. And stop doin’ those things to her hair. She looks like a scarecrow wearin’ a red dust mop on her head. I know my own daughters, don’t I? It was Ramona I saw.” She scowled. “Who the hell are you?”

Doris has known me for years. “I’m China,” I said patiently. “Are you cold, Doris? Let’s get you a cup of hot tea while I make a phone call.” I took her by the elbow and began to steer her toward my shop.

She pulled away. “China,” she said scornfully. “You think I just came in on the turnip truck? You’re no more from China than I am. Your eyes are all wrong.” With her fingers, she pushed up the corners of her eyes to show me what mine ought to look like. She puckered up her mouth. “Shame on you, lyin’ to a poor old woman.”

The door burst open again, and Ruby rushed in. “Mom!” she cried, gathering Doris into her embrace. “Oh, thank God you’re safe! We’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

“Well, you weren’t lookin’ for me very hard, I guess,” Doris said critically. “I’ve been standin’ right here on this very same spot for the past hour, waiting for Ramona to come down those stairs.” She glowered at me. “Something was said about tea quite some time ago, but I haven’t had it yet. More lies,” she added contemptuously. “That’s folks for you. Always lyin’ to old people. Ought to be ashamed.”

Three minutes,
I mouthed to Ruby, over her head.

Ruby nodded, understanding. “Tell you what, Mom. We’ll go back to Castle Oaks and get you a cup of tea there—and some cookies, too. Everybody’s been so worried.”

Doris pulled herself up. “I’m not going back there,” she said with great dignity. “That’s why I’m here. So Ramona can take me home.” She pointed up the stairs. “That’s where she is—up there. I saw her with my very own eyes. You go and get her. Make her come down here and take me home.”

“Ramona is in Dallas right now, Mom,” Ruby said, putting her arm around Doris’ shoulder. “I talked to her on the telephone not ten minutes ago. I’m afraid she can’t—”

At that moment, two orderlies from the nursing home, wearing jackets over their scrubs, appeared in the door. “We’ve brought the van,” one of them said to Ruby. “We’ll take her back to Castle Oaks.”

“No!” shrieked Doris, when she saw them. “Stay away from me. I’m not going back there!” She flung out her arms and backed into a display, which went over with a crash, spilling china angels and fairy tree ornaments onto the floor. “Ramona!” she screeched. “You come on down here and save me! I’m being kidnapped!”

The connecting door opened and Sheila appeared. “Do we have a problem here?” she asked pleasantly. “May I help you, Doris?”

Doris stopped screeching and brightened. “Oh, there you are. I knew you’d come. You’ll take care of me. The police always take care of old folks when they’re lost.”

“Of course we’ll take care of you,” Sheila replied gently. “But I’m afraid I’m here on business, so I can’t give you a lift back to Castle Oaks.”