Rosemary Remembered (19 page)

baby? Just like
AllMy Child
ren."

"I'm sure it would," I said. It wouldn't make me crazy enough to kill, though—at least I didn't think so. How crazy had it made Carol? Crazy enough to steal her ex-lover's gun and shoot her rival in the face with it? Crazy enough to wear gloves, to preserve his prints on the gun? Passionate love turns to passionate hate—the basic plot of many a murder mystery.

Priscilla was talking faster, with greater urgency, as if her story was pushing its way up out of her soul. "That's why when Miss Robbins got murdered, Carol felt like it was her fault. Not because she did it or anything like that. Carol is a very nice, very sweet person who wouldn't hurt a fly. I mean, because she
wanted
her dead. Do you get what I'm trying to say?"

Carol Connally wouldn't be the first very nice, very sweet person to kill the other woman. But I only nodded.

"Well, that's how I saw it, anyway," Priscil
la said. "Like, I mean, I know I
would've felt guilty if I said, T hope a certain person burns in hell,' and then that person goes and gets herself murdered."

"Carol must have been terribly shocked when she heard about it," I said sympathetically. "I can't imagine."

Priscilla bobbed her head. "Oh God, yes. Dazed, sort of. Like she couldn't really believe it. She goes, 'I'll never believe it, not in a hundred years,' and I go, 'I'll never believe it, either.' " Her chin wobbled a little and she sniffled. "It
id
hard to believe, don't you think? I mean, I never knew anybody who died, except for my grandmother and she was really old, seventy-two, and too sick to get around. I just sorta keep remembering Miss Robbins like she was, kind of pretty
—"
She paused, wanting to be truthful. "Well, not pretty, exactly, but nice-looking. Elegant, you might say. I would of gone to the funeral if they'd had it here." She wiped her nose on the back of her large, square hand. "Miss Robbins was always nice to me," she added a little defensively, "even though I was Carol's friend. And everybody knew how smart she was. She had to've been, to find out about the money."

"Oh, really?" I looked at her. "What about the money?"

"Well — " Priscilla glanced at the telephone set on Lily's desk. The button opposite "Monroe" was still lit. She lowered her voice and leaned forward conspiratorially. "There's a lot of money missing from the hotel accounts. Like a
whole
lot."

I stared at her. Priscilla couldn't know it, but she had just given me a whole new view of the crime. Matt had hired Rosemary to do an audit of the hotel books. If she had turned up any discrepancies, she presumably had also discovered who was responsible and had taken the information back to the person who had hired her. To Matt.

But suppose she hadn't gone to Matt. Suppose she had gone instead to the embezzler and offered her silence in return for a cut. That's what Howard Rhodes's daughter accused her of doing. And suppose the embezzler was the other owner, Jeff Clark, who'd gotten tired of splitting the hotel's revenues with his ex-brother-in-law and decided to skim a bit off the top. Had Rosemary offered her silence in return for marriage? Had she been asking, not for just a cut of the deal, but a lifetime partnership? Had she gotten pregnant —or claimed she was pregnant —to put more pressure on Jeff?

An interesting scenario. The prosecution would find it irresistible. But it wasn't the only possible scenario.

"Poor Carol," I said. "She must have been really upset when she heard about the money. If I'd been in her place, I'd be really scared that they'd suspect
me
of taking it."

Priscilla rolled her eyes heavenward. "You better believe she was scared. We both heard Miss Robbins telling Mr. Clark that there was a couple hundred thousand missing. At the very least, Carol figured she'd get fired, even though she and Mr. Clark had been been
—"
She held up two fingers, intertwined. "Well, you know. She thought about looking for another job, but once they checked her references, they'd find out that there'd been trouble here. And she isn't really an accountant, you know. Like she doesn't have a degree or anything. All she does is put the numbers in the books the way Mrs. Monroe taught her when she first came to work here, way back."

"And that was — "

"Ten years ago." Priscilla pulled in her breath and let it out in a puff. "That's how come this whole thing has been so hard on her. After ten years of her doing exactly like she was told, first by Mrs. Monroe and then by Mr. Monroe, and getting bonuses and everything. And then Mr. Clark leading her on to believe that he really loved her and wanted to marry her. Well, of course she had to think she was home free. I would of. Wouldn't you?"

She scarcely heard my murmured "Of course." There was a look of empathetic pain on her face as she felt in her soul the tragedy of Carol Connally's fall from grace and she spoke very fast, in the breathless voice of a witness to catastrophe. "Well, anyway, she really went to pieces. If she hadn't had to leave to take care of Nancy's kids, Mr. Monroe would've sent her home, she was in such a terrible tizzy."

I waited until she had taken a couple of deep breaths. "Having her and Lily out at the same time must be awfully hard on you," I said finally. "The work is probably stacking up."

"There's
mountains
of it," Priscilla said, her voice rich with self-pity. "Not to mention that Mr. Monroe can't seem to do much except
—"

The sound of a door opening made her stop, and a sudden flush flared on her cheeks. She turned, and we saw Matt Monroe, standing in the doorway of his office, collar open, sleeves rolled up. He was scowling.

"Oh, Mr. Monroe, you're off the phone," she said, flustered.

Matt was curt. "If you've got so much work to do, you'd better get back to it, Prissy." He nodded to me. "Hello, Miz Bayles," he said, and motioned me into the office. He shut the door behind us with a resigned look.

"That girl," he sighed, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. "You'd think she was practicing for
Hard Copy."
He stuffed his handkerchief in his pocket and strode to his desk. "I'm glad you stopped by, Miz Bayles. I was goin' to call you so you can get word to McQuaid. I just got off the phone with the bank. Jeffs been usin' that credit card down there in Mexico City—pretty freely, too." He gave a short, sharp laugh. "Running up quite a bill."

"That's surprising," I said, taking a chair opposite the desk. "If I were Jeff, I wouldn't use my cards. Not unless I wanted to be found."

Matt lowered himself into his upholstered leather chair. "He's made it to Mexico — he probably feels safe. And he
would
be, if it was just the Pecan Springs cops after him. He doesn't know McQuaid's on his trail."

"Where did the card show up?"

"Mexico City. He used it to charge the hotel and some clothes, a camera, luggage, stuff like that.
And
a plane ticket."

"I don't suppose he's flying back to Brownsville," I said wryly.

He gave an ascerbic chuckle. "You know better. I checked with the airline by phone to save McQuaid the legwork. He's gone to Acapulco. Tell McQuaid to get the next plane after him. And there's something else you should tell him, too, Miz Bayles. Seems like there's been some big-time funny business with the hotel books. From what I hear from the office help, Rosemary Robbins stumbled onto it. She went to Jeff with the news, instead of to me, like she should of." He shook his head sadly. "If Jeff was dippin' into the till and that lady found out, he was in a shit pot of trouble. She must've offered to keep her mouth shut if he married her, maybe even got herself storked to up the ante. He probably figured it was cheaper in the long run to kill her than marry her." He shook his head. "She was tough as saddle leather.
I
sure as hell wouldn't of wanted to be married to her."

"How much of this have you told the police?"

"Just that Jeff was maybe cooking the books. I don't have anything firm to tell them until I bring in an auditor, which I will, quick as I can." He gave me an apologetic glance. "I know this isn't going to make McQuaid happy, because Jeff s a friend of his. You tell him to watch himself, Miz Bayles. I sure wouldn't have said Jeff was dangerous, but now
—"
He shook his head, his mouth set. "This business is ugly as homemade sin."

I glanced at my watch. "He'll be calling at three," I said. Suddenly I caught myself wanting to connect with McQuaid, hear his voice, talk to him about what I had learned. Living with him, I'd gotten into the habit of telling him what was going on in my life, hearing his side, testing my responses against his. I missed it.
Dangerous dependency,
the other China whispered.
Its
a good thing he'd gone. You can be your own woman again.
The other China be damned. I could be my own woman and still miss McQuaid.

Matt stood up. "Well, when he calls, you tell him to hightail it down to Acapulco. Tell him to stay on the trail, even if he doesn't turn up anything for a while." He shook his head, frowning, deeply troubled. "Jeff has really ripped his britches on this one. He can run from here to Rio, and it's not goin' to solve a damn thing. McQuaid's
got
to find him. You hear?"

I nodded and left. On the way out, Priscilla surreptitiously handed me a slip of paper. I probably should have felt like a rat for having obtained Carol Connally's sister's address and phone number under false pretenses, but I didn't.

As I drove along the winding road to the campus to pick up Brian, I considered what I had learned. Connally's sister lived in South Austin. The way things stood, I probably couldn't get there before the next day. But I
had
to talk to Connally. The facts seemed to support the theory that Jeff had been stealing from the hotel's accounts, that Rosemary had found him out, and that he killed her to keep her quiet. If I were Chick Barton, it was the theory I'd use to construct the People's case.

But I could use the same facts to argue at least two different theories. Maybe it was Matt, not Jeff, who had been stealing from the hotel's accounts. But Matt would hardly have hired an accountant to examine the very books he'd been diddling. No, it was far more likely that Carol had been embezzling money from the hotel and that she had stolen Jeff s gun to kill Rosemary, silencing her and framing him, revenging herself and protecting herself in one brutal act. I remembered that it was a woman who had phoned the police with the tip about Jeff — Carol, no

doubt. There were a few holes in my theory, but at least it was a beginning. If I were arguing Jeff s defense, I'd find a way to plug them.

I sighed as I negotiated the turn into the campus and drove up to the entry kiosk to wrangle a parking permit from the surly guard who doles them out as if they were Dallas Cowboy Super Bowl rings. It was too bad I couldn't drop everything and drive up to Austin tonight to question Carol Connally. But I had to pick up Brian and head for the shop to catch McQuaid's phone call. And after that, I needed to spend the evening being a
mom.
Not an ordinary mom, either, but a mom who is responsible for the safety and well-being of a small boy who is the declared target of a killer ex-con out for revenge.

Life is sometimes very complicated.

When McQuaid called me at the shop, I could hear the frustration in his voice. "I've been trucking around Mexico City all day, and I haven't been able to dig up a trace of Clark," he said. "He's vanished into thin air. I have no idea where to look next."

"I have," I said. "How about Acapulco?" It only took a minute to fill him in on what Matt had learned from the credit card company, and another couple of minutes to tell him about the situation with the hotel books. "Matt wants you to get the next plane to Acapulco. And he wants you to be careful. Clark could be dangerous."

"Oh, Christ," McQuaid said. "Anything else I don't want to hear? Any word from Jacoby?"

I pushed away the involuntary shiver that came with the memory of the cold, rough voice on the phone. For better or worse, I had already made up my mind not to tell McQuaid about Jacoby's threatening phone call that morning. What could he do? Abandon his search and fly home? Stay with the search and lay down even more stringent rules for Brian's safety, while worrying himself half-crazy?

"No," I lied. "Nothing." It wasn't an easy he. It separated us in a way that distance couldn't. "Nothing from Bubba, either," I added. At least that much was true.

"No news is good news, I guess." McQuaid's tone was dry. "What did you do today?"

"Oh, the usual," I said evasively. There was no point in telling him that I'd staved off a process server, eliminated two suspects, and discovered two more. The eliminations only tightened the case against Jeff, which he didn't need to hear. I had nothing concrete to report about the bookkeeper, although of the two suspects, she was by far the more viable. I didn't have anything on Matt, either. I'd spent the entire day coming up with nothing. A big, fat zip, at least as far as evidence was concerned.

"Good," McQuaid said emphatically. "I'm glad you're managing to stay out of trouble. What's the kid up to?"

I glanced over my shoulder. Brian was perched on the stool behind the counter, a book in his lap. "He's studying Klingon. He bought a new dictionary when he was up at the campus today."

"At the campus?" McQuaid asked, alarmed. "I thought he was at the store, with you."

"Smart Cookie volunteered to baby-sit," I said lighdy, "so I took advantage of the offer. I figured that Brian's as safe under the wing of the campus cops as he is here." Safer, actually, but I wouldn't tell McQuaid that.

"Oh," McQuaid said, the relieved father. "Yeah, you're probably right. I doubt if Jacoby could get his hands on him with Sheila around."

"Do you want to talk to him? Maybe the two of you can have a conversation in Klingon." Brian isn't the only Trekkie in the family. When there's nothing else on TV, McQuaid reruns tapes of
The Next Generation,
and he and Brian keep up a running critique on the action.

"I don't know if I can," McQuaid said. "About the only Klingon I can remember is
BortaS blr jablu'Dl'reH
Qa
Qqu' nay.

"Which means?"

" 'Revenge is a dish best served cold.' " He chuckled. "You haven't heard that famous Klingon proverb? Everybody in the galaxy knows it."

"My galactic education obviously doesn't extend to proverbs," I said. "But Brian seems to have gotten as far as 'Where does one find the ice cream?' There's probably a connection there somewhere."

"Well
, fetch him," McQuaid said. "I might as well display my ignorance."

While Laurel and I discussed what to do with the air conditioner (Harold was out back, working on it), Brian and McQuaid talked. Unfortunately, their conversation did not come to a happy end.

"It's not
fair
to keep me from going to the convention!" Brian cried, stamping his foot angrily. "You know how much I want to get that card."

I couldn't hear what McQuaid said in rebuttal but whatever it was, Brian wasn't having any. "You're a Mar-casian slime mold!" he burst out. He thrust the receiver at me and stormed furiously out of the store.

"What's a Marcasian slime mold?" I asked.

"It would turn your stomach," McQuaid said. He sighed. "If I'd said something like that to my old man, he would have belted me. And my mother would've washed out my mouth with lye soap and sent me to my room for a month or two."

"Don't you think maybe it would be okay for Brian to go to the convention with Arnold?" I ventured. I didn't want to say it to McQuaid, but the boy would be safer there, where he was just one small Trekkie among hundreds. Here, he was out where Jacoby could target him.

"No convention," the Marcasian slime mold said sternly. "I want him home, where he's safe. Where he's in your sight every minute."

I cleared my throat. "Actually, I don't think I — "

"Look, China," McQuaid said, "I'm sorry you're stuck with the little turd. If there were any other way
—"

"It's not Brian," I said. "Actually, he's behaving pretty well. It's just that — "

The other China spoke in an I-told-you-so tone.
You just don't like being responsible for the boy, do you? Admit it
. It's a good thing you and McQuaid
aren't married. What kind of mom doesn 't want to be responsible for her child?

"Hey, I've got a thought," McQuaid broke in. "Why don't you phone Blackie and ask him to take Brian for a day? Jacoby's not going to try anything if the kid's in the custody of the sheriff."

"Now
that,"
I said, "is an outstanding idea. I'll do it."
Of course you will,
the other China said.
You'd jump at anything to get the kid off your hands.
"Anything else?"

"Keep your sense of humor. I'll phone you tomorrow. Oh, by the way.
JIH bang SoH."

"Okay, I’ll
bite. What does it mean?"

"I love you," he said. "In Klingon."

"Bang
means love?" Suddenly I missed McQuaid very much, missed laughing at silly word jokes, missed lying beside him in the early morning before the world woke up and the clay's complications had to be dealt with.