Witches' Bane (21 page)

Ruby picked up her sherry, careful not to spill, and sipped it. “So we have to find out who
really
killed Sybil.”

“Not us,” I said. “His lawyer. That’s the business of the defense.”

Ruby wasn’t going to let me get away with it. “But what if his lawyer doesn’t? The sheriff and the D.A. aren’t going to look anywhere else—they’ve got enough to convict Andrew, and that’s all they want.” Her voice turned bitter. “The truth be damned.”

I had to admit that Ruby was right. It didn’t sound like Andrew had hired somebody who’d make it his business. Unless I was mistaken, his lawyer would sit back and wait for the state’s case before he began to develop a defense. By that time, the trail would be stone cold. Worse, it would have the state’s tracks all over it, muddying up the truth.

I sat looking into my glass as if it were a crystal ball, not liking what I saw. To deflect my thoughts, I said, “What did you do this morning? Didn’t you tell me you were taking off?”

Ruby nodded, still preoccupied with Andrew’s situation. “I made a half-dozen phone calls to Abilene.”

“Still on the trail of the elusive Reverend?”

She looked at me. “He’s not so elusive anymore. I found what I was looking for. I found the name of Billy Lee’s first wife. He married that sixteen-year-old girl he got pregnant.”

“He did? But doesn’t his church say you’re not supposed to get divorced?’

“What do you want to bet that none of them know?”

“Now that
you
know it, what are you going to do? Snitch on the guy?’

Ruby was annoyed. “Stop trying to distract me, will you?” She leaned forward, her voice vibrating with urgency. “We can’t count on anybody else to dig out the truth and make the sheriff cough up Andrew. Come on,
think,
China. We have to come up with something.”

I came up with two things.

The first was talking to C.W. But there was no answer at the office. Angela had said he was staying in the D section at Lake Winds, but I had no idea where. I could make the rounds of the happy hour places—there weren’t that many of them—but I’d probably end up missing him. C.W. would have to wait until tomorrow.

The second was having a conversation with the dead woman’s sister. But right now didn’t seem like exactly the right time. Rita had probably just learned about Jerri’s death and she was still coping, not only with grief but with the inevitable details that attend death. I’d have to wait on that, too.

CHAPTER 16

But not for long. Rita called about nine-thirty the next morning. Her voice was frayed, her breathing uneven. She’d been crying.

“I didn’t know who to call,” she said. “Then I remembered that you used to be a lawyer. Could you come over to Jerri’s house right away? There’s something ...” She stopped, swallowed, getting hold of herself. “I have to show you something.”

“Sure,” I said, and got the address.

“I’m coming too,” Ruby said, when I went next door to tell her I was leaving. “I’ll call Laurel and ask her to run over and stay with both shops until eleven-thirty. I have to get back to do a phone interview with Fannie on the ‘Back Fence.’“

Thinking of Rita’s fragility, I was doubtful. “I don’t know, Ruby. Two of us ...”

“There were two of you yesterday and you did all right.” Ruby reached for the phone, while I went to get a denim jacket to top my denim skirt and sweater. Today was a repeat of yesterday’s gray skies, but the air had chilled down and the rain felt icy. Winter was ripping out of the Panhandle like a locomotive roaring south.

Fifteen minutes later, we were pulling up in front of Jerri’s house. It was a boxy pink frame ranch with fake rock plastered to the front and black make-believe shutters on either side of small windows. The entry was hung with a limp bougainvillea that had been stripped of most of its foliage by an army of leaf-cutter ants, in a hurry to make off with the last of their booty before the freeze. A thin, wavering column of ants marched down the wall and across the sidewalk and into a neat round hole under an anemic juniper. This morning’s
Enterprise
lay in the doorway, a photo of Jerri’s car plastered across two columns on the sodden front page. The headline was terse. “One-Car Accident Kills Spa Owner.”

Rita answered our ring. She was wearing a too-long black dress with padded shoulders. She looked thin and lost inside it, like a child playing dress-up in her mother’s clothes. Her mousy hair was pulled back from a center part and fastened with red plastic barrettes. Her face was the color of pie dough, puckered where tears had furrowed her cheeks. Her eyes were puffy slits behind her blue-rimmed glasses, and her lips were trembling. She looked pummeled by guilt, as if what had happened to her sister was her fault.

“Thanks for coming,” she said. Her voice faltered. “I... I wasn’t sure I should call. But I had to... to tell
somebody”

“We’re so sorry about your sister,” Ruby said. She put her arm around Rita’s shoulders and led her into the living room. They sat on the sofa, Ruby comforting softly while Rita sobbed, not ladylike sobs but hard, wrenching paroxysms that shook her whole frame.

I went into the kitchen, ran tap water into a pan, and put it on the stove. I was surprised when I looked around. I’d supposed that an exercise teacher would be interested in good nutrition. But the counter was littered with single-serving cereal boxes, an open package of chocolate cookies, an empty can of macaroni and cheese, several empty Coke bottles. The remains of a Kentucky Fried Chicken dinner were scattered across the table. Behind the counter was a rack of professional-looking knives that appeared out of place in a kitchen where the food was cooked somewhere else.

When the water was hot I made instant coffee, extra-strong, and carried a mug of it into the living room. If Jerri didn’t cook in the kitchen, she didn’t really live in the living room, either. It was bare and undecorated, with a minimum of furniture—a tweedy sofa, two plastic-laminated lamp tables and gold-colored lamps, a brown chair, a glass-topped coffee table littered with dishes and exercise magazines, and several paperback books with titles like
You Can Make a Killing in Real Estate.
A cheap stereo center and a television stood against the wall. Clothes were tossed carelessly on the chairs, and a wood-burning stove squatted on a square of red tile, a trail of ashes leading from it across the worn carpet to the sliding glass door. Beyond the door was a cement patio the size of a napkin and a dreary, featureless backyard.

On the sofa, Rita had subsided into hiccups, trying for control. She straightened up when I came in and took the coffee gratefully.

“Thanks,” she said. She reached into her purse and took out a cigarette, holding it awkwardly and fumbling with the cheap plastic lighter as if she had only recently learned to smoke. “The last twelve hours have been just horrible. Indescribable. Mama’s acting like the world’s come to an end. She blames me.”

“Blames you?” Ruby asked. “But why?”

“Because ...” Her face twisted like a gray rag. “Because Jerri’s dead and I’m alive, that’s why.” She tried the coffee, winced at its bitterness, tried again. “Jerri was her favorite. Dad’s too. She was the one who knew how to get things done, even if she didn’t always ... I just can’t believe she’s ... dead.” The tears welled slowly out from under her eyelids and followed the furrows down her cheeks. She had the lost and lonely look of an abandoned child.

“What did you want to tell us?” I needed to hear more about Jerri, but that might mean more tears.

She was silent for a moment, her face working. “I ... I don’t know whether I can ...”

Ruby traded glances with me. She put her hand on Rita’s. “It’s hard, I know,” she said. “But there are some things we just have to do, whether we think we can or not. They may be awful, but doing them makes us stronger.” Coping 101, abridged version. It worked.

Rita straightened her hunched shoulders. “I guess I can’t actually tell you,” she said. She set her coffee mug on the table and jabbed out her cigarette in a dirty saucer. “I have to show you.” She put on her glasses and got up, walking unsteadily. We followed her down the hall.

The blinds in Jerri’s bedroom were down and the room was dark and close, with a slightly musty smell. When Rita turned on the overhead light, I saw that the floor was strewn with clothing and magazines. On the table beside the unmade bed was a lamp and a green glass florist’s vase jammed with withered yellow roses. Through the bathroom door I could see a counter piled with makeup and used towels. A red leotard hung on the bathroom doorknob and a pair of hand weights lay on the floor, mute reminders of Jerri’s intense physicality.

“I was ... going through Jerri’s stuff this morning, to get something Mama wanted.” Rita bent over and pulled a pair of dirty white tennis sneakers out of the closet. They were heavily splattered with red. “I found these.” She held them out.

“Blood?”
Ruby whispered.

“Is it really?” She dropped the shoes as if they burned her hands and sat down on the bed, her face hidden from us. Her voice was thick, her hands clenched. “I just don’t know ... I can’t imagine ...” She shook her head from side to side as if she was trying to clear it.

I looked at her. “Did you find anything else?”

Mutely, Rita leaned over, opened the table drawer, and handed me a small doll. It was dressed in black, with black yarn hair and a bit of copper wire twisted around its throat.

Ruby’s eyes widened. “Sybil’s voodoo doll!”

“No,” I said, “Blackie took Sybil’s. This is another one, just like it.”

Rita pressed her lips together. “I’d never in the world have known what it was, but Angela Sanchez came into the office yesterday morning to pick up her check from Mr. Rand. While she was there, she told me about the doll Mrs. Rand got before she died. This one looks like what Angela was talking about.” She put it back in the drawer and looked up, her eyes large and dark. “You don’t suppose Jerri’s death was caused by the same evil force that killed Mrs. Rand, do you?” She managed a weak laugh, chiding herself. “No, that’s silly. I don’t really believe that. But...”

I frowned. There was something about all this that didn’t feel quite right. “Do you mind if we look around?”

Ruby took the two bedrooms and the bathroom, and I went back to the kitchen. I spent ten minutes looking through drawers and cupboards, but all I turned up was more junk food. There was nothing in the trash but empty packaging. The refrigerator freezer held a half-dozen frozen dinners, stashed next to a gallon of Bluebell triple-chocolate ice cream, three boxes of Sara Lee cheesecakes, and a plastic grocery sack filled with Hershey bars. I wondered if Jerri had kept that great shape by bingeing and purging.

I turned from the freezer and stood for a long moment in front of the knives. There were four of them: a heavy cleaver, a substantial-looking butcher knife, a long, sharp boning knife, and a smaller fillet knife. The blades were gray, with a soft, dull sheen, the cutting edges honed silvery sharp. The handles were of unfinished wood, dark with use, and studded with brass rivets. “Green’s Custom Meats” was stamped on the handles.

I went into the living room and rummaged through the litter of magazines and dishes on the coffee table, then through the clothes on the furniture. Nothing interesting came to light until I opened the stove. It was cold, but inside, I saw the remains of a fire and what was left of a gray sweatshirt and pants.

I turned from the stove as Ruby came into the living room. “Did you find anything?”

“Only this.” Ruby held out a scrap of envelope on which was jotted “LW C7, 2:30.” “I copied it from the florist’s card that came with the roses. Does it mean anything to you?’

“Not yet.” I stuck the scrap in the pocket of my skirt and opened the stove. “Take a look at this.”

Ruby bent over and peered into the stove. “Burned sweats,” she said finally. “Is there enough left to test for bloodstains?”

“Bloodstains?” Rita asked from the hallway. “More
blood
!” Her face was white and pinched, her hands and lips trembling. She sagged against the wall as if she might fall.

Ruby went to her. “You’ve got to get hold of yourself, Rita,” she said firmly, as if Rita were a child. She slipped an arm around her waist and led her back to the sofa. “Whatever happened, we have to get to the bottom of it. You must know that, or you wouldn’t have called us to help you.”

Rita collapsed against the seat cushions, arms limp, head to one side. “Yes, but Jerri would never have done anything ... bad,” she whispered hoarsely. “Sometimes she didn’t show consideration for ...” She swallowed. “Sometimes she pushed people around a little. But I can’t believe she’d do anything ... criminal.”

“Rita,” I said, “those knives in the kitchen. Did they belong to Jerri?”

She spoke with her eyes closed, wearily, as if she were almost too tired to get the words out. “They were my father’s. He owned a meat locker in New Braunfels. People would bring pigs and cows they wanted butchered. He was proud of his work. He was proud of the knives. They were his tools.”

A recognizable shape was beginning to emerge out of the confusion, like a hidden image in a child’s puzzle picture. I leaned forward. “Did Jerri work in the locker when she was growing up?”

Rita opened her eyes. “Yes, we both did. Mom and I took care of the customers. Jerri mostly worked with Dad. She killed the animals and helped cut them up. That’s why she got Dad’s knives when he died. She was good with them.” She stopped and looked at me, then pushed herself straight. Ruby put both arms around her. “Why are you asking these questions?” she cried, trying to push Ruby away. “What are you
saying?’

I spoke softly. “Your sister may have been involved in Sybil Rand’s death, Rita. The sheriff needs to make an evaluation of the things we’ve found here.”

“No!” Rita shrieked. “No, no,
no!”
She pounded her fists on Ruby’s restraining arms.

I stared at her. Something didn’t feel quite right. What was it?

Ruby held her tightly. “An innocent man is charged with something Jerri may have done. She’s dead now, and nothing can hurt her. But you have the power to save
him.
Please call the sheriff.”

“I can’t,” Rita moaned. She doubled up over Ruby’s arms, clutching her stomach. “Jerri was selfish sometimes ... and she was ... infatuated with Mr. Rand, but—”

I watched her narrowly. My sense that something was out of place was growing stronger. “When did you find out that your sister and C.W. were lovers?”

A tangle of hair had fallen over her eyes. “Lovers?” She seemed dazed. “Jerri and... Mr. Rand?”

“Yes,” I said. “How long have you known?”

She rocked back and forth against Ruby’s arms. When she spoke, her voice was thin and high, a child’s voice. “Since ... the day before yesterday. When you came into the office.”

“She told you then? Just before I came?”

“Yes, but that’s just what she
told
me.” The little girl voice was laced with bitterness. “She always bragged a lot about the big, important things she was doing. She always had some scheme for impressing people, for making them like her, for getting ahead. But if you listened real close, you’d know she was lying.”

“Did she tell you that she and C.W. were going to be married?”

Rita looked up at me, widening her eyes, incredulous. “Are you saying she killed ... because she thought she could marry ...” She lowered her eyes again, but not before I had seen it. An elusive flash of glee, of triumph, so swift that I almost didn’t see it, almost didn’t recognize it for what it was.

But then it clicked, and I understood everything. Rita knew that her sister had killed Sybil, and she wasn’t going to let her get away with it, even if she was dead. Out of bitterness, out of her lifelong anger at always being forced into second place, she was finally getting even. When she discovered the evidence, she’d deliberately called us here.

She had wanted to show us what Jerri had done, and by showing us, she was showing her mother that her precious Jerri was a bad girl. It was all very complicated, but I knew I was right. And having seen them together, knowing something about their relationship, I could understand her feelings of triumph at finally having got the best of her sister.

I pulled in my breath, getting back on track. “Did Jerri tell you that she and C.W. were getting married?” I repeated.

There was a long silence as Rita struggled to hold on to the only illusion she had left. Finally she dragged out the words. “That’s what she
said.
But it wasn’t true. Mr. Rand was nice to her. But I know he’d never...” She shook her head. “But I guess she thought maybe she could talk him into it. And when she couldn’t, she ...” Her hands clenched into fists. “When she couldn’t, she got into her car and drove off the cliff.”