Rosemary Remembered (15 page)

"What's on your agenda for tomorrow?" I asked, keeping my voice level.

"Checking around. Car rentals, hotels, bars, et cetera." He sounded dispirited and very tired. He gave me the telephone number of the hotel where he was staying. "If you turn up anything I need to know, leave it with the desk. I'll phone the hotel periodically to check for messages."

Maybe La Que Sabe ought to get in touch with McQuaid directly, instead of through me. I pushed aside this slightly crazy thought, and said instead, "You want me to give this number to Matt?"

"I'd rather channel everything through you. Makes for less confusion. You and Brian will be at the shop tomorrow?"

"That's the plan," I replied slowly.

McQuaid's chuckle was sympathetic. "Kid giving you a hard time, honey?"

"No," I said, "Brian's okay. It's just that — "

It was just that my old instincts were kicking in. Whether he was the right man or the wrong man, Jeff needed a lawyer
now.
He needed somebody to file a petition requiring the prosecution to turn over any exculpatory evidence the police had uncovered. He needed somebody to canvass Rosemary's neighborhood and dig up anything that might suggest other suspects. He needed somebody to start building alternative theories of the case that might be used in court.

I wasn't Jeff s lawyer. But if it weren't for Brian, I wouldn't go to the shop tomorrow. I'd start digging, and when McQuaid brought Jeff back and he hired a lawyer, I'd turn over any information I had found. But I'd promised to take Brian, and I wasn't going back on my word.

"It's just that you don't want to go to the shop tomorrow?" McQuaid asked. "How'd you know?"

He chuckled. "I'm psychic. Are you thinking of taking off lor the day to look into this business?"

"Well, yes," I
admitted. "But I'm responsible for Brian."

"I
hope you take that responsibility seriously.'' he said. "Jacoby is a snake.

I shivered.
The child
is
in
peril.
You have much
to fear.
"I
do take it seriously, I said.

"I
wish I were home.

"I
do, too." I laughed a little, teasing. "But I'm afraid I have to settle for Sheila." "Say again?"

"She s moved in tor a tew days," I explained. To help
me
detend the home front."

"Not a bad idea," McQuaid replied. We said a lingering good night. ! put the phone down reluctantly, thinking of the way his eyes looked when he wanted me, the way his mouth fell on mine when he kissed me, the wav . . .

I shook myself, went to the kitchen, and pulled out some cold chicken tor sandwiches. Brian took one and went upstairs to bed, having wrangled my promise to make pancakes tor breakfast. Sheila put together a salad, and we made a night of it, drinking and talking at the kitchen table until well after midnight.

The wine and late supper that had seemed like such a good idea on Tuesday night felt like a very bad one on Wednesday morning. I woke with a headache at seven, pulled on denim cutoffs, and groped my way to the kitchen. I brewed a pot of strong peppermint tea and was into my second cup whe
n Sheila came downstairs, wear
ing a chic black suit with a white blouse and pearls. She looked gorgeously anorexic, irritatingly businesslike, and insufferably alert.

"God," I groaned, "I can't stand to look at you."

"It's not my fault," she said apologetically. "It's my metabolism. I'm one of those people who function well in the mornings." She flicked back her smooth ash blond hair. "I meet with the campus patrol unit at eight sharp every Wednesday morning."

"I'll bet they love you for it," I said. "The bananas are on top of the refrigerator." I paused while she found them. "I've been thinking about Curtis Robbins."

"What about him?" She poured Grapenuts into a bowl.

"If Jeff Clark didn't do it-"

"Don't tell me you're buying that bullfeathers we heard last night. Where do you keep the knives?"

"Top drawer on the left." I paused. "I'm just considering other theories that might fit the facts. How thoroughly did Bubba check out Robbins's alibi?"

She sliced banana on top of the cereal. "He interviewed the sister."

"What else did he do? Did he talk to the sister's neighbors? Did he check out Robbins's movements? What about other suspects? Did he talk to people who knew Rosemary to see if she had any enemies? A former client, maybe, who had a grudge?"

Sheila poured milk on her cereal. "I don't think he spent a lot of time on the ex-husband. The gun turned up, and he dropped Robbins in favor of Clark. The PSPD doesn't have a lot of extra manpower, you know." She perched on a stool and began to eat. "Why are you ask-ing.'

"Does anybody know whether Robbins knew Jeff Clark?" I poured her tea and pushed the honey jar down the counter where she could reach it. "Lily Box saw Robbins at the hotel, and Rosemary claimed he was there to see her. But what if he came to see Clark, not Rosemary? What if he was in Clark's office, alone, and happened to see Big Chuck's gun in the case? What if — "

I was stopped by the ringing of the telephone. Still engaged with what ifs, I answered tersely. But I was jolted into sudden awareness by a man's hard, raspy voice.

"I got a message for yer ol' man, Miz McQuaid."

"I'm not Mrs. McQuaid," I said. "I'm — "

The voice sliced me off, sharp as high-carbon steel. "I don' give a shit who you are, sugar. You live with the bastard, don' you? You tell that motherfucker I'm gonna get that kid of his."

My fingers tightened on the receiver. "Who is this?" I whispered. But it wasn't a real question. I knew.

His chuckle was harshly sardonic. "Ain't he tol' you 'bout his ol' buddy, the jailbird? Well, it don' matter none. He'll know who I am. You hang 'round the phone, baby, at home an' at that cutesy little store of yours. I'm gonna wanna hear yer sweet voice again. You tell him now, you mind?" The connection was broken.

"China!" Sheila stood, staring. "Was that — ?"

I was clenching the phone. Carefully, so my hands didn't shake, I replaced it in the cradle. "The man with the snake." My stomach was churning. I felt sick.

"Hey," Brian said from the doorway, "where's my pancakes?"

Chapter Eleven

Out of this nettle, danger, we pluck this flower, safety.

William Shakespeare
Henry IV, Part I

"Brian might not even be safe at the shop," Sheila said, after I'd sent the boy upstairs to get dressed and related Jacoby's threat. "The guy sounds dangerous."

"I don't have a lot of options," I said, getting out the pancake mix. We have scratch pancakes on weekends; today was the utility version. I thought about the woman Jacoby had knifed in New Braunfels, and shivered.

Sheila took her bowl to the sink and rinsed it out. "How about if I take Brian to the campus? I can't do it tomorrow, because I have to go to Austin. But today would be fine."

"I can't ask you to take the responsibility." I added milk to the mix, broke in an egg, and began to beat it as if I were whipping up on Jake Jacoby. We might be in the middle of a crisis, but there would be pancakes.

"Why can't you?" She grinned. "If the kid gets in my face, I'll stick him with Maxine Marney, one of our patrol officers. She's a weight-lifting champion. Brian steps out of line, Maxine will settle his hash. And pity poor Jacoby, if he tries to muscle in on her territory. She's probably more dangerous than he is."

Maxine Marney had given me a ticket
and
a lecture when I'd failed to yield to a pedestrian on a campus street. I still remembered those steely eyes. "That might work," I said.

She went to the door and raised her voice. "Get into those clothes on the double, kid. You're going to the campus cop shop."

I heard a muffled "Oh, boy!" I wiped my hands on my cutoffs and gave her a grateful look. "I don't know how to-"

"Then don't." She paused, watching me, hands on her slender hips. "Maybe you ought to blow off the shop today, too, China. If Jacoby can't get Brian, he might settle for you." She shook her head, frowning. "But if Jacoby killed Rosemary, how come Jeff Clark's prints were on the gun?"

"It's a mystery to me," I said, pouring puddles of batter onto the hot skillet. "Actually, I was thinking of letting Laurel handle the shop today. Somebody ought to check Robbins out, and his sister, too. I also thought of going up to the Springs to talk to Lily."

Sheila's mouth quirked. "You can't leave it to the cops, can you?"

"I
have
left it to the cops," I replied, and reached in the drawer for the pancake turner. "But it won't hurt to sniff around a little and see if they missed something."

After Brian finished eating, he bounced out to Sheila's car and they drove off. I called Laurel and asked her to take charge of the shop. It was a good time to take off for a day or two, with the herb conference over and the air conditioner problem solved. Then, with Jacoby's threat still ringing in my ears, I phoned the Adams County sheriff
’
s office.

I've met my share of law enforcement people, but Sheriff Blackie Blackwell gets all the gold stars. He's intelligent and careful and he never reacts without thinking, not even when the pot's up to five bucks and he's holding a handful of aces. His father was sheriff here for something like a quarter century, so Blackie knows every inch of the county. Of course, things have changed from the days when Corky Blackwell tracked down sheep stealers and goat rustlers and Reba Blackwell cooked for the prisoners in the county jail. Blackie has drugs to deal with, and hot car rings, and undocumented aliens, and worse. But nothing gets to him. He's somebody you can depend on.

I
told him about Jacoby's phone call. "Sheila Dawson is staying with us at night,"
I
added. "She took Brian to spend the day at Campus Security. I think we've got the bases covered for today, at least, but
I
wanted you to know about the call." Making a threat with the intent to place any person in fear of imminent serious bodily injury is a class B misdemeanor, and a violation of the terms of Jacoby's release. Even without that business with the knife in the New Braunfels saloon, it was enough to land him back in jail.

"Thanks," Blackie said, in his flat, laconic drawl. He doesn't spare words. "Let me know when you get home this evening. And tell McQuaid we'll handle things at this end."

"Mm-m-m," I said noncommittally. I'd already decided not to tell McQuaid about Jacoby's call, just as I hadn't told him about the knifing. It would only worry him, and he couldn't do anything. I paused. Rosemary's murder investigation was Bubba's business, but Blackie is the law throughout the county. He'd know the details of the case. "Do you know how thoroughly the PSPD checked out Curtis Robbins's alibi?" I asked.

Blackie tch-tched. "You're not sticking your nose into
that?"

"McQuaid asked me to ask," I lied.

"They checked with the sister and that was it. They got on Clark pretty early in the game."

"But the gun—the lead to Clark—wasn't found until Sunday night," I argued. "I discovered the body Thursday morning. Thursday through Sunday—that's more than seventy-two hours. The police had plenty of time to take a hard look at Robbins."

"Harris got onto Clark before the gun was found. Some woman phoned in a tip on Friday. Wouldn't leave her name. Claimed that the victim and Clark were romantically involved. Said she thought he had a reason to kill her."

My skin prickled. A woman? Lily Box, maybe? Not likely—she was convinced that Robbins was the killer. Who? "So they let up on Robbins at that point?"

"They only have so much manpower," Blackie said. "I offered a couple of deputies, but Bubba likes to run his own shop." The more likely truth is that Bubba considers Blackie his junior. There may be a fraternity of cops, but there's also a seniority.

"Do you have a name and address for Robbins's sister?" I asked.

Blackie chuckled. "Inquisitive fella, McQuaid. Wants to know every little thing."

"That's him," I said. "Nosy."

It took Blackie a minute to come up with the name, Louise Daniels, and the address, 1-412 Pecan Street, in San Marcos. He added another caution.

"You watch out for Jacoby, now, you hear? That man's mean enough to steal his mama's egg money."

"I will," I said. I th
anked him and hung up, thinking
how good it is to have friends. Blackie, Sheila, Ruby, Laurel. You might even count Ondine and La Que Sabe. How do people function when they have to face life alone?

It was time to make myself respectable. I went upstairs and pulled on beige slacks, a white blouse, and a pale linen jacket. Thinking about Smart Cookie, I added a strand of pearls and a gold bracelet. Too bad I couldn't do something about my hands. No amount of lotion helps, not even comfrey salve. I was back downstairs, checking my purse for car keys and money, when there was a loud rap at the door. Then another, and then the insistent ringing of the doorbell.

I froze. Jacoby? My glance went to the hallway closet, where McQuaid's shotgun was stashed behind the raincoats. I hesitated for a moment, then tiptoed to the door and peered out through the peephole. A yellow Toyota was parked in the drive, and a short, heavyset woman stood on the porch, shifting uneasily from one foot to the other. Her dirty-blond hair was crimped back with a plastic comb, her lipstick had been liberally and hastily applied, and she was dressed in an ill-fitting brownish green suit with half-moons of fresh sweat under the arms. I didn't recognize her, but I was reasonably sure she wasn't Jake Jacoby in drag.

I put the door on the chain and opened it. She was holding a thick white envelope whose size and shape I recognized. It was a summons, and the woman was a process server.

"I'm looking for Michael R. McQuaid," she said. Her voice was thin and high-pitched, with the unmistakable overtones of far West Texas. "He here?"

"He's out of the country on business," I said.

She pulled a white hanky out of her purse and blotted her glossy forehead. "That's always the way on hot days. Hunderd an' one this afternoon, an' the AC in my car ain't worth spit." She eyed me. "You his wife?"

"No," I said. I took the chain off and opened the door. "I'm his lawyer."

"Lawyer, huh?" She pursed her lipsticked mouth. "Since when do lawyers make housecalls?" She was vastly amused by her small joke. "So when do you figger he'll be back?"

"I'm not sure," I said. I glanced at the envelope. So far as I knew, the only legal business McQuaid was involved in also involved Sally and Brian. There was no reason for me to prevaricate. "If this involves a custody action, he intends to cooperate. May I see the summons, so I can let him know the date and the particulars?"

"We-U
..
." The woman drew it out with the air of someone who has already heard too many versions of this response.

"Look," I said, "it's too hot for you to keep driving up here from San Antonio. The minute Mr. McQuaid returns, he'll call you. In the meantime, I can at least calendar the action."

After another moment's hesitation, she handed me the papers, which were exactly what I expected: Notice of Action filed by Sally Jean McQuaid versus Michael Robert McQuaid, Managing Conservator,
in re
the Custody of Minor Child Brian Paul McQuaid for the Purpose of Modifying Original Custody Order under Section 1-4.08 of the Texas Family Code, to be Heard in the Court of blah blah blah.

"Thank you," I said, handing the papers back. "May I have your card?"

She dug for it. "You gonna be talkin' to Mr. McQuaid on the phone? You'll tell him I was here?"

"Of course," I lied. This made how many things I wasn't telling him? I'd lost count.

Miller's Gun and Sporting Goods is one of those hybrid places you sometimes find in small towns that are outgrowing their old ways but haven't yet totally grown into new ones. It's located on LBJ Boulevard, on the border, so to speak, between old and new Pecan Springs, between the original town and the campus. It caters to both the sportsman and the jock, which isn't as easy as you might think.

The store suffers from a split personality. The front half has been remodeled in the last few years: new tile floor, a lowered ceiling, recessed lighting. The plastic shelves and chrome racks are stocked with goodies for students with pockets full of their parents' money: Nikes and Ree-boks, roller blades, weight-lifting equipment and racing bikes and jogging shorts, scuba gear, even a line of ski clothes that will make you the sexiest snow bunny in Aspen.

As you go farther into the store, however, you come to a middle section that has the feel of the seventies, sixties, even the fifties. The floor here is linoleum, there are bare fluorescent fixtures in the water-stained ceiling, and you're surrounded by racks of bowling balls and canoe paddles and wooden shelves stocked with kerosene lanterns, Coleman stoves, enamelware coffeepots, and cast-iron dutch ovens.

And if you venture to the very back of the store — a cavernous place where the walls are red brick, the floor is scuffed pine, and the lights are bare hanging bulbs with factory-style reflectors—you'll find what the
real
Texan needs to conquer the wilderness: rods and lures and minnow buckets and stringers and crawdad nets; collapsible deer stands, camouflage shirts and pants and ponchos; racks of shotguns, rifles, and handguns.

And ammunition. Miller's is the only place left in Adams County where a rancher who wants a dozen of this and half a dozen of that doesn't have to buy a full box of either. He can fill up the pockets of his ammo vest or the loops of his bandolier with number four buckshot cartridges to take a deer, or regular number four if he wants to stop by the tank at sunset and pick off a few ducks, or number eight for dove or quail along the road, or number two if he's after coyote. Somewhere on the sagging wooden shelves he might even find cartridges for a .45-70 buffalo gun, or an open box of ten-gauge cardboard-hulled shotgun shells, which haven't been available for a couple of decades. And out back, in a ramshackle building adjoining the store, he'll find an old-time gunsmith named Frank Getzendaner who'll put a telescopic sight on his rifle, sporterize his father's 8mm Mauser war relic, or put a custom hand grip on his revolver.

This is what McQuaid tells me, anyway. And as I remembered all this, it crossed my mind to wonder whether that gunsmith was the one who had customized the grip of Big Chuck's .38, and whether there was any connection between that gun and the manager of Miller's.

Curtis Robbins was ringing up an assortment of bass lures, and I got in line. He was a darkly handsome, narrow-hipped man whose jeans looked very good on him: the kind of man who makes some women want to check their lipstick and perfume. He was wearing a red polo shirt with the store's name embroidered on the pocket. Its open collar displayed a luxuriant tangle of black chest hair, and the backs of his hands were furry. At his belt hung the emblems of his trade: a heavy ring of keys and a tape measure. He laughed and talked with the customer.