Cat's Claw (30 page)

“Yes,” Sheila said. She could hear the concern in Chamber’s voice and it reminded her of her own—the worry she had been trying to bury. “He and Mike McQuaid are planning to cross today.”

“Tell the truth, it’s not something I’d want to do.” Chambers cleared his throat. “You talk to Blackie, you tell him luck from me, Sheila. Hope the job goes okay. That’s a dangerous place down there, whatever the mission.”

“Thanks, Curt,” Sheila had said. “I’ll do that.”

Now, she pushed the worry out of her mind and tried to pay attention to Bartlett, who was filling her in on his activities of the morning. Before she had interrupted him with news of Timm’s death, he had completed his interview with Kirk’s contract worker, Dennis Martin. He had caught him at his apartment before he left for the shop.

The interview had not produced any new information, but Martin had confirmed what Richie Potts had told Sheila the night before: that Jason Hatch had been let go because of some kind of difficulty with a customer. What it was, exactly, Martin didn’t know, but it had made Kirk really angry. “Steaming” was the way Martin had described it. And no, he hadn’t worked on Timms’ computer, Martin said, although he knew where it was because he saw Henry Palmer putting it into the bottom drawer of the file cabinet. He claimed that he hadn’t touched it. Bartlett had sent him to the station to be fingerprinted.

“That should take care of everybody who might have had a shot at that computer,” Sheila said thoughtfully. “Except for Hatch, of course. We’ll have Timms’ prints before we leave here. We’ve already got Palmer’s, Potts’, Martin’s, and Kirk’s.”

Bartlett lit a cigarette. “If these people are telling the truth, the only prints we should find on the computer are Timms’ and Palmer’s. Anybody else’s prints show up, he’s on our blackmail suspect list.” He blew out a stream of smoke. “I’ve got Matheson working on a summary of Kirk’s movements for forty-eight hours before his death.”

Sheila took out her notebook and flipped a couple of pages, catching up. “What about the autopsy? Today, is it?”

Bartlett nodded. “I talked to Morse as I was driving out here. She’ll phone when she’s ready to start the autopsy. One of us needs to be there. You or me?”

“Your call,” Sheila said.

Bartlett flicked his cigarette ash. “My case, too. I’ll take it.” He looked at her. “Next dead body is yours.”

“Next dead body,” Sheila said wryly, “we’ll haul Hardin back here to do his share.”

“I’ll go for that,” Bartlett said, and grinned easily. “On the autopsy, there are two major questions we’re interested in, right? Whether there’s any stippling around the entry wound and whether there’s gunpowder residue on the hands.”

“We’ll also want the bullet—or the fragments,” Sheila reminded him. “There wasn’t any exit wound, so it’s still in Kirk’s skull. The angle of entry would be good if Morse can get it, but she may not be able to.” The path of a bullet through hard and soft tissue was often erratic, and it would require careful examination to determine the angle.

“Right.” Cigarette in his mouth, Bartlett made a couple of notes. “Did you pick up anything in the Kirk house this morning?”

“Several things,” Sheila said. “In fact, there’s one that I’d like to follow up on this morning. There’s a message on the answering machine from a woman named Tina. Tina Simpson. I’d like to have a talk with her. She sent Kirk copies of a couple of premium notices. Looks like somebody was paying the bill for a million-dollar life insurance policy on him.”

Bartlett frowned. “The wife?”

“No. This is in addition to the policy Kirk took out on himself. Two hundred fifty thousand on that one, with the wife as the beneficiary, according to her. No idea who the beneficiary is on the larger one.”

“A million bucks sounds like a pretty fair motive to me,” Bartlett said. “Back to the blackmail. I’ll check with Butch on the fingerprint situation. If we get a match on Timms’ computer with one of the other
contract guys, Hatch isn’t so urgent. If we don’t get a match, I’ll put out an APB on him as a person of interest.” He dropped his cigarette and ground it out in the gravel. “Guess I’m ready to head back to town.”

Sheila glanced around. There was nothing more they could do until the team came in and started its work. Meanwhile, there was plenty of work waiting in Pecan Springs.

“You go on,” she said. “I’m going to take a quick walk through the rest of the house. I’ll lock up.”

The tour produced nothing of interest, although she knew that an intensive search would have to be made. When she locked the place and went out to the Impala, she was met by a deputy with a pair of fingerprint cards—Timms’ prints, taken from his body. As she was signing for them, another deputy arrived, with orders to station herself in front of the house. Sheila talked to her for a few minutes, leaving instructions that anyone who attempted to enter should be questioned, logged, and detained for more questioning, if that seemed warranted.

Whatever else was inside Timms’ house was going to wait, undisturbed, until they had the opportunity to do a thorough search.

Chapter Fourteen

I cannot begin to tell you how glad I was to open the door of Thyme and Seasons, take a deep breath of the shop’s sweet, earthy fragrances, and feel Khat winding his sinuous self around my ankles, rumbling his velvet-throated glad-to-see-you purr. After what I had encountered that morning, my little shop felt like a dream of paradise, a safe haven against the ugly world outside. There was only one
other thing I needed: to wash my hands. A gargle wouldn’t be a bad idea, either.

For once, I was glad to see that it was a slow morning at the shop. There were a couple of women outside, walking through the medicinal garden and comparing notes on herbs they wanted to buy. Inside, a mom was browsing through the soaps and lotions while her pigtailed little girl, dressed in white bib overalls and a yellow ruffled blouse, was sitting in the child’s rocking chair that I keep in the corner, humming as she turned the pages of a book. It was such a sweetly innocent picture that I could have hugged the little girl. But I didn’t. Some affections are appropriate. Others are not—witness what I had seen in Timms’ bedroom. I’d save my hugs for Caitie.

Ramona was perched on the stool behind the counter, painting her nails. She looked up as I came in and raised her voice. “Ruby!” she called. “China’s here!” She didn’t add
finally
, but her tone implied it.

“I’ll be here after I’ve washed my hands,” I told her, and headed for the tiny restroom under the stairs. We’ve painted the floor and walls and decorated it with posters of Texas wildflowers, and there’s always a small bowl of fresh green herbs on the commode. But I didn’t just wash my hands. I scrubbed them as hard as I could, using plenty of rosemary soap and the hottest water I could bear. As it rushed through my fingers, I bent over to take a deep, full breath of the soap’s cleansing scent. And for good measure, I went into the tearoom kitchen and got out the bottle of sage gargle I’d made the week before, a strong sage tea with a couple of spoonfuls of cider vinegar added. Back in the bathroom, I swished out my mouth.

But when I was finished, I felt only a little better. Timms’ death had been violent and ugly, but it was a clean kill: a strong, skilled predator
obeying an urgent instinct, taking the opportunity that presented itself, killing its prey without anger or malice or greed. But Timms himself had been a predator, and his victims would suffer for much longer than he had. After what I had seen on the wall of that bedroom, it was going to be a while before I felt entirely clean again. I was only glad that I could escape here, to a place that looks pretty and smells good and attracts pleasant people—moms and little children and people who love plants. I was even more glad that I didn’t have to do what Sheila was doing right now. For the life of me, I don’t know how she does it, how any police officer does it, really. But I reminded myself that they do it for us, and that instead of relief, I ought to be feeling gratitude.

As I came out of the bathroom drying my hands on a paper towel, Ruby bustled through the door that connects her shop to mine. She was wearing her weirdest Queen-of-the-Jungle makeup, complete with amber-tinted contacts and a pair of furry faux eyelashes. She was dressed in a pair of skin-tight black leggings with three half-dollar-sized gold buttons at each ankle, a silky leopard-print top with a boat neck and long, tight sleeves. Around her neck was a curious necklace of devil’s claw seedpods, painted in bright colors and decorated with feathers and beads. If you’re not used to Ruby, her bizarre style is likely to startle you, but this morning I found it wonderfully comforting. The world beyond our shops had gone completely and totally crazy. Ruby, on the other hand, was completely and totally normal.

“Ruby,” I said happily, “you’re gorgeous. That necklace is
wild
.”

“Oh, thank you!” she exclaimed, fingering the painted pods. “These are magic, you know. When you’re wearing devil’s claws, you’re safe. They frighten away the evil spirits, so nothing bad can harm you.” Her long fake fingernails were painted with gold and brown stripes. They
didn’t quite look like claws, but almost. “When you mentioned the police, I began to worry, China. Where have you
been
?” She gave me a closer look. “Are you okay? What happened to you?”

Over the phone, I had told Ruby only that I would be late because I was waiting for the sheriff’s deputies to arrive at the scene of what looked like an accident, and asked if somebody was available to open the shop for me. I thought I should save the gory details until later, when I could take the time to answer her questions. Now was later.

“It wasn’t me it happened to, Ruby,” I said soberly. “It was George Timms.”

“Who’s George Timms?” Ramona wanted to know. Her question took me by surprise. I had forgotten that she hadn’t been around here long enough to recognize his name and be impressed.

“George Timms is one of Pecan Springs’ biggest big shots,” Ruby told her. “He owns the Chevy dealership and property all over town. And he’s friends with everybody—the mayor, the city council. He gets his picture in the paper almost every week.” She looked at me, frowning, her head on one side. “What happened to him, China?”

“A mountain lion happened to him,” I said.

“A mountain lion!” Ruby and Ramona exclaimed, in unison.

Keeping my voice low so that I wouldn’t alarm the customer and her little girl, I told them the first part of the story, the part where I found Timms’ faceless body down by the creek, buried under a tidy pile of twigs. The rest of it—the photographs in Timms’ bedroom—was a separate matter, as was the blackmail situation, which might or might not be related to Larry Kirk’s murder. That was Sheila’s territory, and I didn’t want to get into it. Not now, anyway. Smart Cookie would tell us about it when she had the case wrapped and ready to turn over to the DA.

And anyway, the mountain lion was more than enough for them to handle right now. Both Ruby’s and Ramona’s cheeks were pale and their eyes wide and frightened by the time I finished telling them what I had seen—most of it, anyway. I left out a few of the gorier details, like the rip in Timms’ belly and the Nike-clad foot.