The Last Blue Plate Special (16 page)

“So do people buy and sell these plates a lot?” I asked. “What’s an antique blue willow plate worth?”

“Oh, say one of the old English ones, circa early 1800s in fairly good condition with a potter’s mark, you’d get up to two
thousand in the right places. The mass-produced American ones, well, maybe five or ten dollars a plate with a manufacturer’s
mark on the bottom. But see, that’s gonna go up, that amount. It’s not a bad long-term investment. The club’s made some good
money selling these things. We support a battered women’s shelter with the proceeds. Stock a nice children’s library for the
kids there, too.”

“A women’s shelter?” I said. “I thought this was a car club.”

“Get real,” Jackie Lauer told me, laughing. “That’s what the guy’s do. We provide the club with a ‘community service’ that
allows it to have tax-free status. Boys and girls don’t play well together, haven’t you noticed? Only works if they play different
games side by side. The boys strut around preening their cars and we ooh and ahh over dishes. But the guys are coming up with
some mechanical innovations that have been useful, for example, to groups trying to help impoverished Mexican communities.
A couple of our guys have gone down there to show people how to retool parts for old cars. Sometimes one car in a village
can make a big difference in things like access to medical care, maybe even save a life or two. We do the same thing with
our support of the women’s shelter. It’s just different, is all.”

I was beginning to think of Jackie Lauer as a sort of pop-psychology encyclopedia. She was right about everything, but put
a chipper, airy spin on it that was bewildering.

“I’m afraid I haven’t been much help,” she said cheerily. “But good luck with your serial killer.”

Only Jackie could have said that.

Brontë was milling around near her dinner bowl, watching me impatiently. Past her dinnertime. I opened a can of Science Diet
Beef and Chicken for her and shaved some cheddar over corn chips for me. Microwaving nachos requires split-second timing in
order to melt the cheese before the chips get soggy, but I managed. Then I made myself a giant chocolate shake with a raw
egg in it and sat at a counter stool to eat. One of the perks of living alone, I acknowledged, is the absence of someone pointing
out that your food habits are weird.

After dinner I went for a swim in the pool and then phoned Kate Van Der Elst at home.

“I don’t want to alarm you, but something’s come up that may be significant,” I began.

Her voice was strained. “What is it, Blue?”

“Ruby Emerald received a deli tray on Saturday night. It may be nothing, because there were a number of upsetting things happening
around her that night, but she did develop symptoms and was taken to a hospital. She said she often gets gifts from her followers,
so she assumed the tray was such a gift, although the card had apparently been lost. What we know is that a deli tray of rather
exotic food arrived with no card. She ate some of the food, but her companion did not. She developed symptoms, and he did
not. What I’m suggesting is—”

“Blue, somebody sent a tray with pâté and caviar and elegant little breads to my fundraiser! Remember? BB said a delivery
service brought it to the gallery shortly before six. He asked me about it and I told him to just put it on the table with
the other snacks. As I recall, the caviar was a hit, although BB thought the garnish of canned figs was odd and threw the
figs away. Do you think somebody’s sending poisoned food in these trays? Nobody got sick at my fundraiser, did they? It’s
so farfetched.”

I remembered watching the mayor of a suburban community scarfing up the last sturgeon egg from a blue willow plate with his
finger. As far as I knew, he hadn’t suffered any ill effects. For that matter, I remembered, I’d enjoyed a good bit of the
caviar myself and I felt fine. Then it hit me. The blue willow plate.

“Something extremely unusual is going on,” I told Kate as a small chill crept up the sides of my face. “This is going to sound
strange, but it involves blue plates, anything with a blue willow design. You probably don’t remember, but in the surgical
waiting room of the Rainer Clinic is a wall of decorative plates. One of them is an antique blue willow.”

“I remember,” Pieter Van Der Elst’s somber baritone interrupted. I hadn’t known he was on the line. “I saw the plates as I
sat there waiting to bring Kate home. What does this mean, Blue?”

“I still don’t know,” I said. “But Kate …”

“Yes?” Her voice was tight with anger now, and not at me. “Don’t eat
anything
at public gatherings between now and the election. Bring your own food, claim you’re allergic to wine and cheese, it doesn’t
matter. Just avoid eating anything from deli trays at public gatherings.”

“I never eat snacks like that,” she said. “I’m on the Zone diet, carry my own snacks with me everywhere. It all has to be
balanced, protein, carbohydrate, fat. I’d weigh three hundred pounds if I didn’t stick to it. But if there’s poisoned food,
why aren’t lots of people getting sick?”

The question was reasonable.

Pieter’s voice answered. “This is insane,” he said. “Kate, Blue has uncovered something important and you refuse to listen
to her! This Emerald woman
did
get sick. She was hospitalized. Mary Harriet and Dixie are dead. Something horrible is happening and you’re too selfish to
care about anything except yourself and this city council nonsense. I’m going to have to …”

“You’re going to have to what, Pieter?” she replied icily.

Even though we were on the phone I felt as though I were standing in the middle of their bedroom, an intruder in a bitter
marital conflict.

“I didn’t call to cause trouble or to become involved in your disagreement over Kate’s candidacy,” I spelled it out. “I called
to provide Kate with some information she needs to have. That’s all. Good night.”

I hung up without engaging in further conversation, hoping I’d embarrassed them sufficiently that they didn’t carry their
dispute into public situations where it would be a detriment to Kate. There’s nothing more damaging to a politician than the
slightest hint of domestic turmoil. Nobody wants to see it. It’s too close to home.

Roxie called as I was fastening on my waist pack prior to running Brontë.

“Long day.” She sighed. “What’ve you been up to?”

I told her about Ruby Emerald’s deli tray and my exhaustive research into blue willow plates, including my morning visit to
the Rainer Clinic.

“Blue, didn’t I specifically tell you not to—”

“I’m your partner, not your employee,” I interrupted, echoing the spirit of Kate and Pieter’s conflict. “I needed to see what
was there.”

The silence at Roxie’s end was long, broken at last by another sigh.

“You’re right,” she finally said, “you have to do things the way you do them. I was out of line.”

My heart melted. So few people ever listen. To anything.

“I got your Christmas gift today,” I said, wanting to bridge the gap.

“What is it?”

“You’ll like it,” I went on. “Rox, let’s do something special for Christmas. Let’s go someplace.”

“We are going someplace,” she said. “We’re going to St. Louis to spend Christmas with your dad and your godmother and your
brother if he’s out of prison by then, and your brother’s wife, Lonnie. We’re going to stay at some inn that has fireplaces
in the rooms and fantastic steaks in the dining room. What do you mean, ‘let’s go someplace’?”

When Rox is tired she becomes incapable of anything but the most concrete ideation.

“I was just fantasizing, thinking maybe Vienna, the opera, you know.”

“St. Louis and a few blues bars will suit me just fine,” she said. “Have you talked to Rathbone?”

“Not since this morning. I got the Rainer employee profiles from him, though. Haven’t had a chance to look at all of them
thoroughly.”

“Well, look at them. We’re having breakfast at Rathbone’s place tomorrow morning. Six-thirty. The idea is to plan interview
strategy. The department’s keeping us on to profile all the medical employees.”

She didn’t sound happy about this.

“Why, Rox? Rathbone told me this case isn’t a high priority. Something about a border patrol agent who got shot over the weekend.
That’s their priority.”

“There’s been another threat, another Sword of Heaven letter. Rathbone got it in his e-mail. Same format as yours. It had
those little plates.” Her voice was tired, ominous.

“Who is it this time, Rox?” I asked.

“Bettina Ashe.”

The name was familiar, but it took me a few seconds to remember.

“Oh God, Roxie, she was there this morning! Bettina Ashe was the woman on the white chair in the operating cubicle with bandages
all over her head. Her husband was in the surgical waiting room. I heard Megan Rainer talking to him.”

“But do you know who she is?”

I’d heard the name. Bettina Ashe. Betsy. The Ashe Foundation. Charitable contributions everywhere.

”Not exactly,” I admitted. “But it’s her husband who’s the bigwig, right? I heard Megan Rainer call him ‘Mr. Ashe’ this morning.”

“His name is John Harrington, and he’s probably used to being called ‘Mr. Ashe,’” Rox explained. “Old Southern family, lots
of class but no money. He married Betsy Ashe fifteen years ago, and while it looks like a marriage of convenience, Rathbone
says they’re crazy about each other. But she’s the Ashe, not he, and she’s worth millions.”

“Rox, there’s something about deli trays. It may be nothing, but both Ruby Emerald and Kate received deli trays from which
the card had apparently been lost. Nice stuff—caviar, pricey cheeses, designer chocolates. Kate’s can’t have been poisoned,
though, because I ate quite a bit of it and didn’t get sick. Still, I think Bettina Ashe should be warned.”

“The police will take care of that,” Rox said. “The husband, Harrington, has hired extra security around Betsy and is putting
major pressure on the police to beef up the investigation. The Ashe Foundation supports a number of police charities, especially
a scholarship fund for children
and
wives of officers killed in the line of duty. You can imagine the response down at headquarters. Politicians and preachers
are one thing, but Betsy Ashe is another. You’re going to be working on this around the clock, Blue. Sorry I can’t do much,
but I have a job.”

“Rox, these interviews Rathbone wants done. They’re really your sort of thing, not mine. I’m not feeling comfortable with
this. I’m
not
a clinical psychologist. And you’re the psychiatrist.”

“Don’t worry,” she told me. “Dr. Bouchie’s crash course in interviewing serial killers is all you need. Plus I’m sending BB
with you.”

“BB?”

“Yeah, I’ve got a plan,” she said, chuckling. “Don’t worry, Blue. Crunch a few numbers in your computer and get some sleep.
You’ll have to get up at four-thirty to get to Rathbone’s house by six-thirty. G’night.”

“Night, Rox,” I said.

But I didn’t crunch numbers and go to bed. What I did was take Brontë for a long walk in the chilly autumn night, through
shadows of ocotillo cactus and rocks so old they’d known the footfalls of prehistoric camels eighteen feet tall. Now these
rocks knew the lesser, scritching footsteps of lizards. I thought about the chuckwalla Brontë had found two nights ago. A
strange lizard that inflates one side of its body in order to compress the other side into rocky cracks and fissures. Sword
seemed like a chuckwalla, I thought. The righteous biblical language of the letters was the inflated part, but what part was
being compressed into hidden places behind it?

When we returned over an hour later there was something on the front step, something wedged against my Dutch door. It gleamed
oddly in the waxing moonlight. Something pale and round. I didn’t think much of it until I was right on top of it. Stuff blows
around in the desert. Tumbleweeds. Trash left by occasional picnickers. I suppose I thought it was going to be a foam container
that had once held a Big Mac and fries, blown two miles across the desert from the road. But it wasn’t.

By the time I was fifteen feet from it I knew what it was. A shining white plate with a blue design. A fence, a pagoda, three
little figures running over a bridge, a boat, a willow tree, and two birds hovering above.

“Oh, my God,” I said as I pulled the Smith and Wesson from my hip pack and released the safety. But there was nobody there.
Nothing but desert wind and the sound of my own heartbeat.

I
picked up the plate with the cuff of my sweatshirt, not that I really thought there would be fingerprints on it. Then I dropped
it in a plastic freezer bag, zipped shut the top, and looked at it. A cheap import, brand-new. Not an antique English plate
or even one of the mass-produced American restaurant blue willows. Sword wasn’t wasting the good china on me, a fact I found
oddly insulting.

Also creepy. I don’t keep my blinds closed at night. Why should I? There’s no one beyond my windows to watch me grating cheese.
The paved road is two miles away and the dirt track to my place is guarded by a locked gate. There’s nothing out there but
rocky hills crumbling under the weight of time. Desert plants, seemingly dead now in the dry season but capable of blooming
overnight after a deep rain. Lizards, jackrab-bits, coyotes, snakes. From outside, the light from my office spills in a hazy
yellow pool through only a few feet of darkness. Beyond that, there’s nothing human. Usually.

The little Smith and Wesson .38 Special revolver I bought after my Glock nine-millimeter became a necessary loss during September’s
Muffin Crandall case is a lot lighter than the Glock. Only fifteen ounces in the aluminum alloy and carbon steel model I chose.
The barrel’s just an inch and seven-eighths long. Not a gun for shooting things at a distance. But distance wasn’t what I
was worried about. What I was worried about was what might still be out there, watching. What might decide to come
in.