Thyme of Death (12 page)

“You followed her!” I squawked. “Ruby,
you’ve got to be careful! People
notice
you.” This is true. At six-feet-something
in her heels, with Orphan Annie hair and green eyes and a loose-jointed grace,
Ruby is eminently noticeable. People
enjoy
noticing her.

“I was careful,” Ruby insisted. “I
followed her at a distance, so she wouldn’t see me. I probably wouldn’t have
done it at all,” she added, “except that I saw her having lunch. The opportunity
kind of fell into my lap, so to speak.”

“Where did you follow her to?”

“Peterson’s Pharmacy, on the square.
That’s where she bought the pills. I hung out at the magazine rack. Then I
followed her to the library and then I quit. I didn’t think I’d learn anything
at the Friends of the Library meeting.”

“You might’ve,” I said. “It was a
good lecture. The woman who talked really knows her herbs.”

“Actually,” Ruby said, looking down,
“I went to the courthouse. I was hoping to get a lead on whatever Jo had
discovered that was going to keep Seidensticker from building his airport. I
thought it might be something about the land title.”

“And what did you find out?”

Ruby brightened. “That’s where I
really hit the jackpot,” she said, “China, Arnold Seidensticker has quietly
bought up all the land where the airport’s going to go—
if
the
Anti-Airport Coalition fails, that is,” she added significantly. “Which it very
well might, now

that Jo isn’t around to push it.”

I frowned. “You mean, he owns it
directly? In the Seidensticker name?”

“Well, no,” Ruby admitted. “An
outfit called the Landmark Corporation owns it. But Arnold owns a lot of
Landmark Corporation stock. I know, because I read it in the paper a while
back. If the corporation sells its land to the airport authority, Arnold is
bound to make a pot of money.” She frowned. “But whatever Jo discovered, I don’t
think it has anything to do with the title. The site belongs to Landmark, free
and clear. You see, China? He’s got it all. Means, motive, and opportunity.”

It sounded like Ruby had been
watching “L.A. Law.” “And just how many other shareholders do you suppose the
Landmark Corporation has?”

“I don’t know,” Ruby said. “Why?”

“Because if your logic is accurate,
every single one of them had exactly the same motive. And any one of them could
have walked into Peterson’s Pharmacy and bought those same pills.”

Ruby’s jaw set stubbornly. “I still
think Arnold Seidensticker did it. He stood up in front of the last City
Council meeting and said he wants Pecan Springs to have that airport and that
he’d do anything to make sure it happens.”

“I know,” I sighed. “Motive and
means—right? But what about opportunity?” My pause was heavy with irony. “I
guess you’ve figured out how he talked Jo into swallowing nearly an entire
bottle of sleeping pills.”

“Well, I—” Ruby began.

“Did he do it at gunpoint?” I asked,
piling on the sarcasm. “Or did he just say to her, ‘My dear Ms. Gilbert, I
really think it would be extremely helpful if you took these pills so my
corporation and I can make a cool five or ten million dollars on this airport
deal’?”

Ruby looked at me. “Have you ever
heard of a Mickey Finn?”

“Yeah, sure, but—”

“Well, what if Jo didn’t actually
take
the sleeping pills? What if Arnold Seidensticker, or maybe Lila Seidensticker—one
or the other or both—ground up the barbiturates, enough to kill her, and
dissolved them in Jo’s drink. That spicy Bloody Mary mix probably masked any
off taste. She wouldn’t have known what she was swallowing.”

“I see the logic,” I said slowly. “But
I
can’t
see Jo Gilbert inviting Arnold and Lila Seidensticker—either one
or both—to her house on Monday morning to share a friendly Mickey Finn. The
last I heard, Jo and Arnold weren’t on speaking terms, much less drinking
terms. And if the Seidenstickers—one or both—were going to do it, they’d have
to bring the ground-up sleeping pills with them, slip them into her drink, and
shake it up. It isn’t something you can do in front of your intended victim
without raising at least a suspicious eyebrow.”

“Maybe they doctored the mix at home
and brought it with them,” Ruby suggested helpfully. “That way, all they had to
do was add the vodka.”

I shook my head. “Look, Ruby, I hate
to dampen your enthusiasm, but you haven’t answered my objection. Do you
really
think Jo agreed to have a drink with Arnold Seidensticker early Monday
morning?”

Ruby gave a discouraged sigh. “I
guess I’m a little weak on opportunity,” she admitted. “But I’ll figure it out.
It’ll just take a little more snooping.”

I reached into my pocket and pulled
out the dollar. “You’ve just fired me,” I said, handing it to her.

“But what about our privileged
communication?”

I shrugged. “So you went into a
drugstore to hang out at the magazine rack,” I said. “There’s no law against
that. And you went to the courthouse to consult a public record. That’s your
right as a citizen.” I gave her a sternly cautioning look. “But you’d better be
careful with the snooping. Arnold Seidensticker probably has eyes and ears all
over this town.” I grinned. “Speaking of ears, want to hear some interesting
news?”

Ruby was looking disgruntled. “Yeah,
I guess.”

“The reason Roz didn’t sign the
contract Jane was pushing was because she’s sold out to Disney.”

“Sold out!” Ruby exclaimed. “No
kidding!”

“No kidding. And the reason she sold
out is that Howie”—I slipped into Roz’s breathy stage voice— “doesn’t think it’s
seemly for a Senator’s wife to be in show business.” I dropped back into my own
voice. “Howard Keenan, that is.”

Ruby’s eyes bulged. “Howard Keenan?
As in
Senator
Howard Keenan?”

“You got it.”

“But he’s up for the nomination ...
I mean, he might be ... I mean ...” Ruby gulped. The gingery freckles were
standing out all over her face. She spoke in an awed whisper. “My God.”

“Yeah,” I said thoughtfully. “I
wonder if she’ll do the Oval Office over in pink.”

Before Ruby could reply, a pair of
customers came in. I greeted them with a smile. “What can I help you with
today?”

Without a word, Ruby turned and went
into The Crystal Cave. A moment later, I smelled the special incense she always
burns when she’s upset and needs something to soothe her spirit.

By the time I waited on the two
customers, answered a phone question about the toxicity of
aconitum vulparia
—wolfsbane—and
put the finishing touches on next week’s newspaper ad, it was five-thirty and
time to close for the day. McQuaid was coming for dinner. It was his turn to
cook, which meant that I didn’t have to buy any groceries. But I was out of his
favorite scotch, and I needed to knock the rust out of my knees, and McQuaid
had my Datsun. So I hopped on my bike and headed for Bart’s Liquor Store, over
on Converse, about a mile away. I’d had a bike when I lived in Houston, but I
probably rode it once a month, maybe less. Riding in the city’s high-density
traffic, I felt the way one of Custer’s men might have felt as he topped the
hill and saw what was coming. Now, I take short rides two or three times a week
and longer rides on Monday. I’m not in terrific shape—actually, I’m sort of
average in the creaks and groans department—but I’m working on it. The bike
helps.

I was almost home with the scotch
when I saw a woman getting into a dinged-up old brown Duster that was parked on
the street behind my shop. There was something about the set of her shoulders
that reminded me of Jane Dorman, but elegant Jane wouldn’t be caught dead
looking like this woman, with her shapeless brown sweater and limp
shoulder-length hair.

I glanced back once more, and nearly
wiped out. Sarita Gonzales stepped off the curb right into my path. I grabbed
for the brakes, and she jumped back with a shriek. Sarita is a handsome
Hispanic woman with large brown eyes, a wealth of brown hair, and a ready smile
that shows bright white teeth. She’s a fourth-grade school teacher and the wife
of Rogelio Gonzales, pastor of the Guadalupe Methodist Church. The church is my
neighbor, a few doors down, and Sarita and Rogelio live in the parsonage on the
other side.

Sarita grinned when she saw that I
was the one who had nearly run her down. “Hey, China,” she said, “where you
goin’ so fast?”

I stopped and leaned a foot on the
curb. “Just on my way home,” I said. “How’ve you been, Sarita? How’s Rogelio?”

Sarita’s face went sad. “We heard
about your friend Jo Gilbert. She was a good person, and such energy. I know
you’re going to miss her.”

“Thanks,” I said. I was grateful for
her simple and deeply felt sympathy. “I hear the church is getting ready for
another sale next weekend. How about if I make a few more of those big herb
wreaths for you?” I’d donated several to the church bazaar in the summer, and
they’d been a hit. “And I just got in a new batch of epazote—I’ll package some
of it.” My Hispanic customers buy epazote to flavor their ethnic dishes, those
who don’t grow it themselves. You can find epazote in almost every garden on
the east side of Pecan Springs.

Sarita’s smile was warm and genuine.
“Muy bueno.
You’re a good neighbor, China. You need anythin’, you let me
know,
comprende”

“Thanks,” I said again, and rode
home feeling good. In all the years I lived in my Houston condo, the only
interaction I had with the neighbors was when we had a problem. Here, everybody’s
a friend. Sometimes it feels like we live in one another’s pockets, but this
was one of the days when there didn’t seem to be anything wrong with that.

After I got home, I put one of Ruby’s
spacy New Age tapes in the cassette player and climbed into a hot bath laced
with sweet almond and lemon grass oil. I lay back in the tub and let the heat
and the aromatic fragrance soothe me. It had been a hell of a week and tonight
was my night with McQuaid. I was looking forward to it.

Little did I know.

CHAPTER 8

I dipped a tortilla chip in McQuaid’s
secret-recipe jalapeno salsa, which is so hot it nearly takes your head off,
and settled back into the kitchen rocking chair. “So what did you tell
Patterson after he said
that?”
I asked lazily.

It was nearly seven, the events of
the week were rapidly fading in their importance, and I was feeling relaxed. I
had a tangy margarita in one hand, a crisp chip in the other, and an admiring
eye on McQuaid, who was putting the finishing touches on his tasty-looking
gumbo. He was tasty-looking too, in jeans and a red plaid shirt with the
sleeves rolled up. He was in the middle of an involved story about his run-in
with the department chairman over next semester’s teaching assignments.

“I told Patterson it was time
Hawkins moved over and let somebody else teach the graduate intro course,” he
said, tasting the gumbo and adding another jolt of Tabasco sauce. Hawkins is
senior man in the criminal justice department. He’d had the introductory
graduate course sewed up for years, assuring himself of a steady flow of graduate
students. “I told him if he couldn’t guarantee the course next spring—fall at
the latest— I’d start looking for another job.”

I licked salt off the rim of my
glass. “Kind of ballsy, wasn’t it?” I asked, carefully casual. “What will you
do if Patterson tells you to get your resume together?”

McQuaid put the mixing bowl and
eggbeater into the sink and ran water into it. “Not ballsy at all,” he said,
drying his hands on the crocheted potholder Aunt Mildred sent me last Christmas.
“I’m holding the cards.”

I twirled my glass, not sure I liked
the direction this was moving. “Got a good hand, huh?”

“Yeah, a real good hand.” McQuaid
pulled out a kitchen chair and turned it around, straddling it He rested his
forearms on the back and his chin on his arms. His pale blue eyes were on mine,
and my stomach muscles clenched like a hard fist. “I got an acceptance
yesterday on that article I sent to
Criminal Justice Review.
That makes
three articles in four months, in the top three professional journals.”

“Hey, not bad for somebody who hasn’t
even finished his dissertation yet,” I said. I laughed. “Wait until you get
that Ph.D. You’ll be unstoppable.”

McQuaid’s grin furrowed little laugh
wrinkles at the corner of his mouth, but his eyes were serious. “You bet,” he
said. “Patterson’s no dummy. He’s not going to let go of his only publishing
faculty member, not when he’s saddled with a department full of ex-cops who
hate to write. How would he explain
that
to the dean?” McQuaid’s dean is
an arrogant young firebrand who’s always exhorting the faculty to publish and
threatening to perish the ones who don’t.

“There’s more,” McQuaid said. His
eyes held mine. “I’ve got an offer—well, almost.”

I looked into my margarita. “No
kidding,” I said. “Where?”

“New Mexico State.” McQuaid grinned
proudly, like a kid who’s just won the district high jump championship. “Associate
prof the first year, consideration for tenure the second. Contingent on
finishing the dissertation, of course. But that’s no big deal. I’ll be done
this spring.”