Holly Blues (35 page)

“Thanks,” I said gratefully. “Did you know he had a gun?”

She nodded. “I think it’s my . . . my father’s gun,” she said in a strangled voice. “Joyce Dillard told me he still had it. He’s the man who killed my parents, China. That’s why I wanted Mike to talk to her. I wanted her to tell him, because I knew he’d make her go to the police.”

“But why didn’t you and Joyce go to the police yourselves? If you’d done that, she might still be alive.”

Her eyes swam with tears. “Because Jamison—the chief of police in Sanders—was convinced that I was involved in my parents’ murders! He would never have believed me! He would’ve thought—” Her voice broke. “And now Joyce is dead. And it’s my fault.”

I put my arm around her and held her for a moment, then let her go. “You arrived at just the right moment,” I said. “You distracted him long enough for me to get that spray to work. Where
were
you? Where have you been hiding?”

She dropped her head. “In your loft.”

“The loft?” I stared at her. Of course. She had helped me hang herbs up there, so she knew where it was. She also knew that we wouldn’t be going up there often during the holidays. It was a perfectly safe place.

Sally nodded. “I was really worried that if I went out on the street, Jess would find me. So I parked Brian’s car where I thought it wouldn’t be noticed for a while. Then I sneaked into Ruby’s shop and went up the stairs, just before Ruby’s mother came into the store yesterday afternoon.” She smiled slightly. “She’s not really all that crazy, you know. It was me she saw going up the stairs, not her daughter.”

“I see,” I said. “And I suppose it was you who raided the refrigerator and stole the quiche. I missed it when I went looking for breakfast.”

“That was me, too,” she confessed. “The loft was a great place to hide. It’s warm and cozy, and it smells really good, with all those herbs hanging to dry. It just didn’t have any room service. I’m sorry. I was so hungry, and the fridge was full of food. I hoped you wouldn’t mind.”

“No, of course not,” I said. “Sally, why didn’t you tell me that you came here from Lake City, where you were staying with Leslie?”

She hung her head. “I should have,” she said. “But I concocted that sob story about the flood on the spur of the moment, and then I was stuck with it. I’m sorry, China. I—”

The shop door opened, and Sheila came in. “Ms. Strahorn,” she said, “I need to ask you to come with me. The Lake City police want to speak to you about—”

I put my hand on Sheila’s arm, stopping her. “Let me tell her,” I said quietly.

I had suddenly remembered that Sally didn’t know that her sister was dead.

McQuaid and I weren’t in a mood to party. Brian wasn’t, either, after his father had told him about Leslie’s death. He took it hard, and the fact that it had come at Christmas only made things worse. But kids are resilient, and although it would be a while before he got over the loss, he would. He’d remember the loving moments, the warmth of their companionship, the fun they had together. Wherever he went in his life, whatever he did, he would never lose the important things she gave him.

In the mood or not, we went ahead with the party, and afterward, I was glad. As a family, trying to behave as we normally would forced a certain normality upon us. We managed to rise to the occasion, as most people do when they have to.

Sally didn’t make it to the party. The police had impounded her yellow convertible, so she drove Brian’s Ford to Lake City to tell the police what she knew, to be interviewed by Officer Jamison from the Sanders Police Department, and to begin making arrangements for Leslie’s memorial service, which wouldn’t be held until after the holidays. She said she hoped she could come back and spend Christmas day with us, and Caitie had to be content with that.

After Saturday night’s party, there were a couple of family get-togethers, one with my mother and her husband, Sam, at their ranch near Kerrville, the other in Seguin, with McQuaid’s family. One evening, we sang carols outside the library. Another, Caitlin and I went to Castle Oaks and helped the members of Pecan Springs’ herb club, the Myra Merryweathers, distribute gifts—handmade herbal soap, cupcakes, pomanders, and some holiday candy—to the seniors.

On Christmas Eve day, McQuaid and I and the kids joined the PSPD Blue Santas to deliver presents to the homes of needy children, and that evening, we had our own private Christmas Eve family party. Santa came in the middle of the night, and when Caitie and Brian got up on Christmas morning, their gifts were under the tree. Sally didn’t make it, but there was such a noisy crowd around the table for Christmas dinner—turkey, dressing, and all the holiday trimmings—that Brian and Caitlin didn’t seem to miss her. For Brian, at least, his mother had been absent so often that he hadn’t really believed she would be there. It was a wonderful day, and by nine o’clock that evening, the kids were ready to crash.

McQuaid and I had just settled down in front of the fire to share mugs of warm spiced tea and enjoy the sight of the Christmas tree, splendid in its lights and glittering tinsel, when Sheila stopped by on her way to Blackie’s, to say Merry Christmas and update us on the situation in Lake City. She had given several of her officers the chance to spend the holiday with their families and had been on duty herself for most of the day, and as usual, things had been busy. A three-car pileup on I-35, a bicycle accident near the campus, a break-in at the pharmacy on the square—drug-related, of course. She hadn’t taken time to change and was still wearing her uniform.

I poured a mug of tea for Sheila. She sat down wearily in McQuaid’s recliner, and put her feet up. McQuaid and I sat close together on the sofa, my head on his shoulder, his arm around me, listening to what Sheila had to tell us.

Myers was in the Lake City jail, awaiting a bail hearing. He had been charged with vehicular homicide in Leslie’s death, although before the hearing, it was likely that the charge would be upgraded to murder. Sally’s convertible had been picked up a couple of blocks from Thyme and Seasons, with damage that clearly linked it to Leslie’s death. The charge of vehicular manslaughter was pending in the case of Joyce Dillard. Myers’ 1998 Dodge truck had been located in the Lake City hospital parking lot where he had left it. The final report wasn’t in yet, but preliminary forensic evidence—damage to a fender, missing paint, a strand of hair—indicated that it was the vehicle that had struck Joyce. Myers’ prints were all over both vehicles.

And then there was the gun Myers had dropped when I zapped him with the pepper spray. It was indeed Mr. Strahorn’s Luger, the gun that had killed Sally’s parents. It seemed likely that the Strahorn case would be reopened and charges filed against Myers.

“And what about Sally?” I asked. “What’s her status?”

“The police seem to have satisfied themselves that she’s innocent,” Sheila said. “She has an alibi for the time of her sister’s death, and Myers’ cell phone records demonstrate that he phoned that tip to the Lake City police, implicating her. What’s more, there’s no evidence tying her to Myers. It’s true that Jamison saw them together in Sanders before Dillard’s death, but Sally claims that it was an accidental meeting. And even Jamison agrees that it isn’t enough.”

“I don’t suppose there’s any reason to hope that Myers will confess and clear all three cases?” McQuaid asked wryly.

“In your dreams,” Sheila replied with a chuckle. “He’s hired a defense attorney, some guy from Waco. And since there are two deaths involved—potentially four—in two different states, I wouldn’t lay odds on a plea deal. This could drag on for years. And even when he’s convicted, there’ll be appeals.”

McQuaid shook his head, disgusted. “Justice doesn’t always win out, does it?” I knew he was thinking of the Strahorns and of Leslie, three people he had cared for deeply. He wanted to see their killer punished. But—

The phone broke the silence. I got up and went into the kitchen to answer it, so as not to interrupt the conversation. It was Hank Jamison, calling from Kansas. I listened for a moment, holding my breath, then wished him Merry Christmas, thanked him for calling, and went back into the living room, where McQuaid and Sheila were still seated, talking.

I put my hand on McQuaid’s shoulder, and he broke off, looking up at me. “Yeah?” he asked. “Who was that?”

“Jamison,” I said. “Hank Jamison. From Sanders.”

“That’s nice,” McQuaid said, brightening. “Calling to wish us Merry Christmas, huh? I’ll phone him tomorrow. He’s a good man.”

“No,” I said. “Not Merry Christmas. Something else.” I sat down and looked from him to Sheila. “He wanted me to tell you—both of you—that he had just heard from the Lake City police. Jess Myers is dead. He tore up a bedsheet, braided it into a rope, and hung himself from the bars of the window in his cell. He was pronounced dead an hour ago.”

Sheila closed her eyes. “Ah, hell,” she said softly.

For a long moment, McQuaid didn’t say anything. At last, he let out a low, slow breath.

SHEILA had gone, the fire was dying down, and still we sat, close together, watching the shimmer of the lights on the tree, the glittering tinsel. I was thinking of the children and how, in spite of everything, we had enjoyed a happy holiday. Things might be hard, the world might not be the way we wanted it, but we were together, and that was what counted.

On the sofa beside McQuaid, Howard Cosell shifted with a contented doggie sigh. McQuaid stirred, stretched, and got up, taking my hand.

“Only one more thing, and the day will be perfect,” he said. He pulled me to the doorway, where the mistletoe hung.

“Perfect?” I asked, teasing. “Is anything ever perfect?”

“This is,” he said, and took me in his arms.

Cream butter until light and fluffy. Gradually add sugar and continue to beat until well combined. Add egg and egg whites, beating until blended. Set aside. In a bowl, sift together flour, baking powder, and salt. Add half the flour mixture to the creamed mixture; stir until blended. In a measuring cup, mix milk and extracts. Add to the batter; mix until blended. Add remaining flour mixture and mix very well. Divide batter evenly among 12 prepared muffin cups. Bake in a preheated 350° F oven until tops are just dry to the touch, 22 to 25 minutes. Remove cupcakes to a wire rack and let cool completely. Frost.

Place white chocolate in a small glass bowl in the microwave and cook on high for one minute. Alternatively, place in a double boiler and melt over boiling water. Stir until smooth and set aside to cool. In a large mixing bowl, combine cream cheese and butter. Using an electric mixer, beat until thoroughly mixed. Add cooled white chocolate; beat until mixed. Using the mixer’s low speed, beat in peppermint extract and 2 cups confectioners’ sugar. Using medium speed, beat until fluffy, adding up to ½ cup additional confectioners’ sugar to make it spreadable. Frost cupcakes, and sprinkle with crushed peppermint candies.

Made the easy way, with canned soup, canned corn, and cooked sausage.

Place sausage, potatoes, onion, carrots, bell pepper, and bay leaf in a slow cooker. Combine corn, soup, and broth, and add to the cooker. Cover and cook on low heat for 6 to 7 hours. Fifteen minutes before serving, remove bay leaf, stir chowder, and add milk and herbs. Cover and cook on high for 15 minutes. Ladle into bowls and top with dollops of sour cream and sprinkles of snipped chives or parsley.