Witches' Bane (8 page)

Ruby shuddered. “Not so loud.”

I left Lillie’s a few minutes later. At home, I fixed Khat’s supper, made a salad, and stuck some leftover chicken-rosemary-parsley casserole into the microwave. I was just sitting down to eat when the phone rang.

“I’m so glad I caught you, China,” my mother said, in that sweet southern voice that pours over you like warm honey. Then came the stinger. “I waited and waited last night, but you never returned my call.”

“Sorry, Leatha,” I said. “I was busy.”

She sighed. “You’re always so busy, China. I worry that you’re working too hard at that dear little shop of yours. Why, we haven’t seen one another since Easter, and here it is almost Thanksgiving.”

Not quite. I was in Houston in May for a meeting of herbalists, and I stopped in for a short visit. And it wasn’t Thanksgiving yet, not by three weeks or so.

“Anyway,” she went on with a little pout in her voice, “I’ve decided to take matters into my own hands. If Mohammed won’t come to the mountain, the mountain will just have to come to Mohammed. I want to see you.”

“That’s nice,” I said guardedly. It wasn’t, but maybe I could put it off. “I’ll have some free time around Thanksgiving. But the holidays are pretty busy, come to think of it. Maybe we should wait until after New Year’s.”

Leatha is one of the most passive people I know. When she comes up against it, she usually pours herself a scotch. But it was clearly steel-magnolia time.

“I’ll be there on Sunday night about eight, China. It’s time we had a mother-daughter talk.”

Oh, shit.

CHAPTER 6

Saturday morning I woke with a huge headache, the kind I usually get when I drink too much red wine. But it wasn’t wine. It was everything that had been building all week, with Leatha’s phone call topping the whole mess, like the last piece of garbage that won’t fit into the trash can.

When I was practicing law, I had neither the time nor the inclination to think about my relationship with Leatha. I’ve had time since I quit, but still no inclination. Lots of daughters have mother problems—meddling mothers, abusive mothers, pushy mothers, drunk mothers. That was my problem with Leatha. I can remember coming home from elementary school and finding her with her third or fourth scotch, alone in the large house that was done in the stark, monochrothatic style my father preferred, filled with the expensive modern art he bought as an investment, so passionless that it chilled the ambient temperature by ten degrees. There was a new white Cadillac in the four-car garage every year, but the house and the car couldn’t make up for her husband’s nearly total absence—her husband, my father, a lawyer and a man of enormous intellectual strength and compelling physical vitality, whom she loved with an all-absorbed, all-absorbing passion. For Leatha, the scotch compensated, in ways her daughter couldn’t, for his absence. I couldn’t find anything to compensate for hers.

The headache wasn’t going to go away by itself. I got dressed and went out to the herb garden, where I picked a leaf off a feverfew plant and chewed it, making a face at its bitterness. In early summer, feverfew—
Tanacetum parthenium
—is completely covered by white daisylike flowers that some people call bride’s buttons. The seventeenth-century herbalist Nicholas Culpeper recommended the leaves for headaches and for “melancholy and heaviness, or sadness of spirits,” a perfect prescription for me. Culpeper had the headache part right, anyway. By the time I’d gotten dressed, made the bed, and fixed breakfast, the headache was under control. I couldn’t say the same for my melancholy and heaviness.

But the way I felt before I went to the shop didn’t begin to compare to the way I felt when I got there. Without a special reason, I don’t go into the Crystal Cave unless Ruby is there. This morning, I had a special reason. There was a puddle of something dark seeping under the connecting door. I stared at it for an awful second, my heart thudding in my ears. It had to be blood. But when I touched my finger to it and sniffed, it smelled like the scented oil people put in lamps. Highly flammable stuff.

I unlocked the door and pushed it open. What I saw brought my headache roaring back. Books lay helter-skelter, merchandise was strewn around, shelves were down, crystals and beads were spilled. The side door was open. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to see that somebody had jimmied the lock.

I grabbed for the phone. Ruby was there in ten minutes, wearing paint-stained jeans and a rhubarb-pink sweatshirt that should have been in the laundry hamper.

“Happy Halloween,” she said. She closed her eyes for a minute as if she were hoping the mess would go away. She opened them again, resigned. “How’d they get in?”

“The side door. The lock was a cheapie. I should have replaced it when you moved in. I’m sorry, Ruby.”

“Not your fault. Did they get into your store too?”

“Just yours. I guess we’d better call the cops.”

“Yeah, I guess. The insurance won’t be good unless we report it.” She looked around disgustedly. “Although I’ll bet they didn’t take anything. They just wanted to trash up the witch’s lair. Sprinkle a little holy water.”

I frowned at her implication. “You think Harbuck is behind this?”

Ruby waved her arms. “They harassed us until the mayor ran them off. They purified Bob’s shed by burning it down. Of
course
they did this. Who else?”

“I don’t know. Ruby.” I surveyed the damage. “Harbuck isn’t my idea of a righteous man, but I don’t think he’d—”

Ruby’s face was the color of her sweatshirt. “Don’t be obtuse, China. You heard what Bob said. Billy Lee is bad news, a hell-raiser. He’s got a record. I tell you, we’ve got to do something about him!”

“I guess we start by calling the cops,” I said, and headed for the phone.

I’ve got to give it to Bubba, he’s quick. He was standing at the door, cigar and all, less than five minutes after I called in the report. But Pecan Springs is a small town. The guys sipping Saturday morning coffee in the Doughnut Queen would probably hear about the break-in within the half hour.

“More trouble, huh?” Bubba asked with a grunt. A burly young policeman with automatic-tint glasses was standing just inside the door with a notebook and a pencil. His glasses were still dark, and I wondered how long it would be before he could actually see.

Ruby was checking the fifty dollars in change she hides in a bank bag in the plastic trash can behind the counter. I tell her it’s a bad place to keep money, but she says she’s the only one who empties the trash and she won’t throw out a bank bag. “What does it look like?” she asked icily. “A Chamber of Commerce picnic?”

“They got in through the side door,” I said.

“Figgers,” Bubba said. “Harvey, go check that door. I’ll be around in a minute.” Harvey stuck the pencil behind his ear and left. Bubba turned to Ruby. “Change all there? Anythin’ missin’?”

Ruby pulled in her breath as if she were counting to ten. “I haven’t had a chance to do inventory, but yes, the change is all here. I doubt if the Right Reverend Harbuck would risk leaving his fingerprints on a vinyl bank bag.”

Bubba’s cigar tilted toward the ceiling. “You sayin’ it’s the Reverend?”

“Him or his disciples.”

“Y’got proof?”

“That’s your job.”

Bubba pulled his cigar out. “Miz Wilcox,” he said patiently, “it’s my job to find out who broke into your store, not to pin it on somebody just ‘cause you got it in for ‘em. I know you’re pissed from hell to breakfast, and I can’t say as I blame you. But it don’t help for you to go throwin’ up accusations like an armadillo diggin’ dirt. Now, simmer down and let me handle it. Ya’ll go get some coffee and come back in, oh, say, ten-fifteen minutes.”

For Bubba, it was a long speech, and it caught Ruby by surprise. I took her arm. “Come on,” I said sympathetically. “I’ll make tea.”

In my kitchen, I evicted Khat from the rocking chair by the window and Ruby sat down. I put on the copper kettle and measured tea into the blue china teapot McQuaid gave me for Christmas last year—lemon balm tea, with a bit of lemon verbena and dried lemon peel. Besides tasting good, lemon balm is supposed to reduce fevers. I thought it might cool Ruby off a little.

When the tea was ready I poured it into two earthenware mugs and put out honey for the tea and a jar of ruby-red jelly for the raisin scones. The recipe for the scones came from Jean and Ron McMillen’s
Cooking with Malice Domestic,
a cookbook filled with the favorite recipes of famous mystery writers, as much fun to read as it is to cook from.

Ruby came to the table and sat down. She hadn’t said anything for four or five minutes, which is probably a record. But she drank her tea and ate a scone slathered with jelly, so I guessed she was all right.

She pointed to the jelly. “What’s that?”

“Prickly pear jelly.”

“You’re kidding. Those green things that look like mittens covered with thorns?”

“They’re good for jelly,” I said. “Wonderful, in fact.” The fragrant magenta fruits ripen in September. If you wear leather gloves, heavy jeans, and snake boots, you can pick enough to make a tangy jelly that glimmers like rubies and smells like a field of Texas wildflowers. “I ate the pads in Mazatlan once, but I think it’s an acquired taste.”

Ruby devoured another scone. Finally, she sat back. “I
know
it was Harbuck.”

It never helps to argue with Ruby. All I could do was point out the obvious. “Bubba might turn up a print or two, but unless they’re on file, I’m afraid there’s not much chance that—”

Ruby tossed her head. “Oh, I doubt if we’ll ever prove it, but I know, just the same. Someday I’ll get that holier-than-thou devil. You just wait and see.”

I changed the subject. “Guess who’s coming for a visit?”

Ruby closed her eyes for a moment. She opened them. “Your mom.”

I frowned at her. “How’d you do that?”

“It’s my Inner Guide,” Ruby said. “She’s very left-brained.” She gave me a sympathetic look. “When?”

“Sunday night.” I sighed heavily. “Maybe I should ask your Inner Guide how to cope.”

We were interrupted by a knock. It was the burly young cop. “We’ve got it all wrapped up,” he announced. He must have been working in the shop because his glasses were transparent again. “Chief Harris said to tell you, when you figure out what’s missing, make a list and bring it to the station.”

“Thank you,” Ruby said. The cop left. She turned to me. “And thanks for the tea and the comfort, China,” she said. “I feel a lot better.”

“I didn’t do a very good job with the comfort bit.”

“Good enough.” Ruby smiled. “It’s hard to believe that horrible cactus can produce such fabulous jelly, isn’t it?”

There was a metaphor in there somewhere. I smiled back.

It was nearly ten when I finally opened the store. Ruby didn’t open at all. She spent the day cleaning and sorting and restocking. Between customers, I helped. At noon, I went to the Canton Palace and got take-out specials for two—chicken with cashew nuts for me and beef with garlic sauce for Ruby, who likes it hot. Her fortune cookie said, “A surprise is in the cards.” My fortune cookie was empty.

At two, Sybil Rand phoned to ask if she could ride to the party with us, since we knew the way. She also asked if we’d mind stopping by a few minutes early, so she could show us something. Her call reminded me that I’d planned to take some herbal incense. I found it and put it in a bag.

About four, looking disheveled and dusty, Ruby came through the connecting door.

“Well, I guess that’s it,” she said.

“Anything missing?”

She scowled. “My knife.”

“The ritual knife you showed us at the class Tuesday night?”

“Uh-huh. At least, I think it’s missing. I brought my box of tarot cards and ritual pieces to the store, and left it on the counter so I’d remember to take it to the party tonight. I thought the knife was in the box, but maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it’s at home.”

“When you find out, better let Bubba know.”

“I will,” Ruby said wearily. “But right now, I’m going home and wash off this crud. I tried to call Andrew, but I guess he’s already gone to San Antonio. He was planning to see a friend down there—some guy he used to work with.”

“We don’t
have
to go to the party tonight,” I said. “If you’re too tired, we can skip it.” If we skipped it, I could call McQuaid and see if we could connect for the evening. It was a tempting thought, given how little I’d seen of him lately.

Ruby shook her head. “I promised to do tarot readings. I guess I’ll have to dig up something exotic to wear. What time are you picking me up?”

“About six thirty. Sybil wants a ride, and she’s asked us to stop by a few minutes early.”

Ruby stretched. “What a day. What a week. Are we having fun yet?”

“Without a doubt. And there’s more coming, according to your fortune cookie.”

“Yeah. A surprise is in the cards. I wonder what the universe has cooked up for us now.”

“Cooked up for you,” I said. “My fortune cookie was empty, remember?”

* * *

Ruby came out to the car dressed like a belly dancer in gauzy red harem pants slung low over her hips and a matching red bolero that left no reasonable doubt about anything. She was wearing three-inch gold hoop earrings, bangle bracelets, a gold chain-link belt, and gold sandals. Her eyelids sparkled with gold eyeshadow, and there was gold dust in her hair and on her shoulders. She was carrying a tambourine.

“Wow,” I said respectfully.

“Thank you.” She glanced at me. “Batwoman, I presume?”

“Close enough.” I was wearing the only exotic thing I own, a black nylon jumpsuit with a neckline that dove all the way to my navel. I bought it at a yard sale for a dollar and a quarter. I was also wearing the black Batman hood that McQuaid’s son Brian had left under the sofa cushion the last time he was over. “Find your knife?”

Ruby shook her head. “I guess they wanted a trophy with my name on it.”

“Maybe we should go by the police station and let Bubba know.”

“In these outfits? He’d arrest me for indecent exposure and have you tested for rabies.” She rattled her tambourine. “Rev up this Batmobile, chum. I’m ready to party!”

Lake Winds sprawls over several hundred park like acres on the east side of Canyon Lake. The Rands’ house was the largest on a street of homes with six-figure price tags, within shouting distance of the eighteenth tee and a stone’s throw from the lake. From the street, it looked like a fort with carved double doors wide and high enough to take a delivery van. From the rear, when Sybil led us into the backyard, it was a glass box with a wraparound deck, a garage big enough to house the Pecan Springs fire department, and a landscaped swimming pool shaped like the state of Texas. The grand tour began in Sybil’s poison garden, which occupied a lovely green corner north of the pool’s Panhandle.

“That’s where they pulled up the wolfsbane,” Sybil said, pointing to a hole in the ground. Behind it was a lush oleander and a spreading wild cherry tree. Since I820,
U.S. Pharmacopoeia
has listed wild cherry as an expectorant and mild sedative, but the bark, leaves, and pits contain a fatal cyanidelike chemical. At the foot of the tree was a thriving clump of monkshood, close cousin to wolfsbane and just as deadly. The brick path was bordered with pennyroyal, the oil of which is used in pet flea collars. One woman died after swallowing two teaspoons of it, and as little as a half teaspoon can produce convulsions.

As I looked at Sybil’s plants, I thought again of the fascinating paradox they posed. Each one was well-tended, green, and innocently lovely—but not one was what it seemed. And what of Sybil, who had brought these odd and threatening plants together? I could dismiss the question lightly— after all, some people raise piranhas, others wrestle rattlers. But standing here, up to my ankles in virulent plant poisons, the question held greater energy. Who
was
Sybil Rand, that she found pleasure in creating such a dangerous collection? Why did she do it?