Mistletoe Man - China Bayles 09 (37 page)

In the wavering light
of the candle, I could see that the apartment had only two rooms, a
living-sleeping area and a galley kitchen with a back door. There was a large
suitcase on the daybed and two smaller pieces of luggage on the floor,
half-packed. Stacks of folded clothing lay on the chairs, and I caught the
sharp fragrance of lavender sachets.

Mrs. Kendall put the
candle back on the table, next to a copy of today's
Enterprise.
She
turned. Her face was pale, her eyes red, and I saw to my surprise that she had
been weeping.

"What is it you
want to talk about?" she asked. She took a tissue and blew her nose.
"If you're hoping that I'll change my mind and stay, I'm sorry to tell
that's not possible. I really must go back to England and take care of—"

"We've come to
return this," I said, extending the newspaper clipping. "I found it
in your reference guide. I'm sure it's very important to you. I don't believe
you meant to leave it there."

Mrs. Kendall stared
at the clipping. "How
...
careless of me," she said. She lifted her eyes to me, then to Ruby.
"You've read it?"

"Yes," I said. "It's helped us to
understand a great deal about—"

Ruby put her hand on my arm. "We're so sorry
about your sister's death in that automobile accident," she interrupted sympathetically.
"It must have been tragic for you. It's so hard to lose someone you
love."

Mrs. Kendall's face
began to crumple and she half turned away. "Amanda was a young woman, and
beautiful," she said brokenly. "So very, very beautiful. Like a
blond goddess." She turned and pointed to a gold-framed photograph of a
young woman with luminous dark eyes and a halo of light hair. "She didn't
deserve to die." Mrs. Kendall clutched her dressing gown at her throat and
her voice was harsh. "You can understand that, can't you? My sister didn't
deserve to die!"

"I can also
understand," I said quietly, "why you decided that Carl Swenson
didn't deserve to live."

She threw back her
head and whirled toward us, eyes wide, mouth twisted, face transformed with
anger and hatred. "Swenson murdered her!" she blazed. "He was
driving while he was intoxicated. It was no accident that she died, don't you
see?" Her voice rose. "He took her life just as surely as if he had
shot her with a gun. He should have paid for her murder with his own worthless
life, but your courts saw fit to slap his wrist and let him go. It took me a
very long time to see that he paid his debt to Amanda's memory. But it's done,
and I'm not sorry." She stamped her foot, hard. "I'll never be sorry
that justice has been done."

Ruby pointed an accusing finger at the
newspaper that lay open on the table. "But aren't you sorry for Donna
Fletcher?" The stark headline was illuminated by the flickering candle.
Woman Arrested for Hit-and-Run.
"How can you allow her to pay for something
you did? Is that your idea of justice?"

Mrs. Kendall's shoulders slumped, and she gave a
low, desolate cry. "I didn't intend for anyone else to suffer," she said.
Her voice had dropped to a whisper and the hatred and anger had left her face.
"How could I have known they would arrest someone else?"

"What did you expect when you took that
truck?" I asked sharply. "Didn't it occur to you that its owner might
be charged with your crime?"

"But I thought
it was
his
truck!" she exclaimed vehemently.
"Don't you understand? I saw him on the ladder, doing something to the
trees, and a little further on, around the curve, there was that old red truck,
parked on the same side of the road. The keys were in it. How was I to know
that it belonged to somebody else?"

His truck.
In all my speculations about what might have
happened on Comanche Road that Sunday afternoon, this possibility had never
once occurred to me. But I could see now how Mrs. Kendall could have mistaken
Aunt Velda's truck for Swenson's.

Mrs. Kendall looked up. "I'd
planned to do it with a gun, you see." She grimaced. "I bought one,
and I had it with me. I had decided to go to his house and find him and shoot him.
But I dislike guns intensely, and when I saw him working beside the road, and
his truck sitting there, it flashed into my mind that I should kill him with
the same weapon he'd used to kill Amanda—his vehicle. It would be poetic
justice." Her voice became pleading. "It wasn't a crime! I was only
doing what was
right.
You can understand that, surely. You can't blame
me for killing the man who killed my sister!"

"And since you were an agent of
justice," I said, "you didn't want to be charged with the crime. So
you were careful not to leave any evidence."

She nodded numbly.
"After it was done, I left the truck where it was. But I wiped my
fingerprints off the steering wheel and the gearshift."

But not the inside of
the door,
I thought. Those were
the careless prints that would convict her. Aloud, I asked, "You didn't
see his green pickup beside the mailbox?"

"Afterward. But
I didn't think anything about it." She sank down in a chair and put her
face in her hands. "It wasn't until just now, when I read the newspaper
article, that I realized I'd made a mistake about the truck. And now they've
arrested the owner. I don't understand why. But surely she has an alibi."
She looked from Ruby to me, her eyes filling with tears. "Surely someone
will speak up for her, and they'll let her go."

Ruby knelt down
beside her and took her hand. "You can't allow another person to be
charged with your crime, Mrs. Kendall," she said gently.
"You
have
to speak up."

Mrs.
Kendall made a whimpering noise.

"In the days and
weeks we've known you," Ruby went on, "we've learned that above all
else, you're a fair person, with extraordinarily high standards. That's why you
felt you couldn't let Carl Swenson live, of course. And that's why you can't
participate in
any
injustice."

Mrs. Kendall
sniffled. "I suppose you're right," she said, "but—"

"So it's only
logical," Ruby continued, "that you should go to the police and
explain what really happened. You can't permit Donna Fletcher and her family to
take the responsibility for something you did—something you felt you
had
to
do."

"Thank
you," Mrs. Kendall said. She fished a tissue out of her pocket and blew
her nose. "Yes, of course, you're right. I must exonerate that poor,
unfortunate woman who has been so unjustly accused. I shall go to the sheriff
tomorrow morning and tell him everything."

I cleared my throat.
"I'm sure you don't want to put off your talk with the sheriff until
morning, Mrs. Kendall. It wouldn't be fair to let Donna Fletcher stay in jail a
minute longer than necessary. You need to take charge of the situation and
straighten things out."

Mrs. Kendall blew her
nose once more. "You're right," she said decisively. "That's
exactly what I must do. Straighten things out."

"And I
think," Ruby went on in her tactful way, "that you'll feel better if
you let us have your gun."

"Oh, no
doubt," Mrs. Kendall said, almost relieved. "I couldn't decide what
to do with it. I couldn't take it back to England with me." She got up and
went to a chest of drawers. A moment later, she came back to the table, the gun
in her hand. "Nasty thing," she said. "I'm glad I didn't have to
use it."

I went through the
galley kitchen to the back door and opened it. Blackie was standing on the
stairs outside. It had been his car I had spotted in the alley when we drove
in.

"Thank you for being so prompt, Sheriff
Blackwell," I said. "Mrs. Kendall would like to arrange for her
surrender."

Chapter
Eighteen

After the sun god
Balder was killed by the wicked Loki's mistletoe dart, the plant was feared and
hated by all as the wicked instrument of death and betrayal. But Balder's
mother, the goddess Freya, redeemed it in honor of her son, decreeing that
mistletoe should became a symbol of peace and reconciliation. From that time
on, enemies who met under a clump of shining mistletoe would lay down their
arms and declare a truce. That is why it is hung in doorways to this very day,
and a kiss of peace and loving kindness bestowed on all who enter.

Scandinavian folklore

The four of us—Justine, Ruby, Donna,
and I were sitting in the visitors' room of the Adams County Jail. It was a few
minutes past nine in the morning and we were waiting for Donna's release. As
soon as the paperwork was finished, she'd be a free woman. Donna had changed
her jail coveralls for street clothes, and you'd have thought that she would be
celebrating. But her face was drawn and bleak and her voice despairing.

"I don't know what
to say, Ms. Wyzinski," she said. "I suppose I ought to thank you,
but—"

"Don't thank me," Justine
said firmly. "Thank China and Ruby. They're the ones who persuaded Mrs.
Kendall to turn herself in and confess to Swenson's murder. As far as you're
concerned, the whole thing is over. You're in the clear, and the sheriff has
decided not to charge your sister with concealing the truck." She drummed
her fingers on the table, frowning. "Aren't you pleased—or at least
relieved?"

Donna's eyes suddenly
filled with tears. "But how can I be glad about anything when Terry—"
She stopped and bit her lip. Her question was barely a whisper. "What's
going to happen to her when she's returned to California?"

The Whiz pursed her
lips. "That's entirely up to the California authorities."

Donna clasped her
hands together, pleading. "You don't suppose they'll let her go, do you? I
mean, the prisons are so crowded, and she's been totally and completely clean
ever since we came here."

"No, I don't
suppose they'll let her go," the Whiz said sternly. She stopped drumming
and said, in a softer voice, "But I happen to know an attorney in
Sacramento who might help her work out some sort of deal. Anyway, she won't be
incarcerated forever. When she's released, I'm sure you'll be there for
her."

Donna lifted her chin resolutely.
"I'll
always
be there for her. She can count on me."

Ruby leaned forward and patted her
hand. "I'm sure she knows that, Donna. It will make the next few months a
lot easier for her."

Personally, I wasn't
convinced that this was an entirely healthy approach to the situation. It
seemed to me that Donna needed to make a life that wasn't entirely centered on
somebody else. It might also be better for Terry if she had to fend for
herself, rather than depending on her sister to shelter her. But now wasn't the
time to express my opinion—and anyway, it was only my personal view. I couldn't
help solve this problem, or even suggest a solution. As Ruby would say, Donna
and Terry would have to find their own personal paths.

"But that's not
all of it." Donna did not look comforted by Ruby's assurance. "If
Terry won't be here to help with the farm work, I don't know how I'll manage.
Even in the winter, there's a ton of stuff to do, especially in the greenhouses.
And there's the equipment to maintain—" She broke off miserably, shaking
her head. "I'll never be able to handle it alone, and Aunt Velda isn't
much help."

"Can't
you hire somebody?" Ruby asked, concerned.

"The person would have to stay on the place
to help me look after it," Donna said. "And since the only living
space is our spare room, she'd pretty much have to be a woman. But flower
farming isn't glamorous work, under the best conditions." She spread out
her hands so we could see the scratched fingers and chapped hands and ragged
nails. "In the winter you're cold, and in the summer the heat is so fierce
you just shrivel up. I'd have to find somebody who's strong and willing to
learn, and willing to live with us. There aren't many women who fit that
description."

Now,
that
was
a problem I could help to solve. I leaned forward. "I know one who
does," I said. "Lucy, from the Diner. She's looking for work."