Thyme of Death (13 page)

I cleared my throat. “Hey, I’m
impressed.”

“Well, it’s not definite yet. I’m
going to interview next week, which will give Patterson something to think
about.” He paused. “But if I get the graduate course and the merit committee
recommends a raise, I guess I’ll stay here another year or two. After that, I
can write my own ticket anywhere.”

I realized I was actually holding my
breath. I didn’t want him to go. I liked things the way they were.

“Brian’s doing great in school,”
McQuaid was saying thoughtfully. “Pecan Springs is a good place for him, close
to his grandparents. No point in dragging him around the country unless it’s
clearly a better deal than I’ve got here.” He paused, pursed his lips, still
watching me. “And of course, there’s us.”

The silence hung between us, empty,
inviting me to ask if
we
were really a factor in his career planning. I
raised my glass again.

“Well, hey,” I said lightly, “here’s
to success in departmental politics. What do you want to bet that Patterson
caves in and gives you that course?”

McQuaid was silent for a moment, as
if he’d been hoping for a different response. Then he gave me a little grin and
stood up. “Whatever Patterson decides, he’s got to do it by Monday. That’s when
spring course assignments are due in the dean’s office.” On his way back to the
stove, he said, over his shoulder, “Okay if I keep the car until tomorrow? Hank
had to order a water pump from San Antonio.”

“Fine by me,” I said. “I’m not going
anywhere.” I got the salad, took the French bread out of the oven, poured the
wine, lit the candles, and we sat down to eat. The gumbo was fine, the wine was
right, and we laughed a lot at things that weren’t all that funny. After dinner
we stacked the dishes, put on a Pavarotti tape, and took our wine and the
candles into the living room. A half hour later, we switched to Vivaldi and
moved the wine and the candles into the bedroom. In bed with McQuaid, I found
myself thinking—when I could think past the warm billowing of desire—that maybe
I was a fool to let a man like this get away. He could

make a mean gumbo, carry on an
interesting conversation,
and
make love gently, warmly, passionately.
What more did I want?

No, that wasn’t the question, I
thought a few minutes later, letting the lassitude ebb and flow through me like
a warm ocean. It was what I
didn’t
want that kept me from opening fully
to McQuaid. Sex was one thing. But I didn’t want to go halves with somebody on
my life. I didn’t want a child, even one as winsome as Brian. I didn’t want to
be a faculty wife and live in the dust storms of faculty politics. I didn’t
want to leave Pecan Springs. What I wanted to do was lie here in my own bed,
within the solid stone walls of my own house, feeling soft and languid and
ripe, and in a few minutes, make love again.

McQuaid propped his head on his
elbow and looked at me, thoughtful in the candlelight. He traced my lips with
his finger. “That,” he said softly, “was pretty great. Ten plus, you think?”

“No bonus points for timing?” I
asked, wanting it light.

He grinned. “Maybe,” he said. “I’ll
consider it.” He bent over and kissed the tip of my nose, his hand warm on my
breast. He rubbed the nipple between thumb and forefinger and the ebb warmed,
began to flow again. “Hey, China, remember what I was saying before dinner?
About the job?”

I turned my head away. “Umm,” I
said. This was such a fine, full moment, bodies speaking to bodies, flesh to
flesh, a language without words. Why did we have to
talk?

McQuaid rolled over on his back and
clasped both hands under his head, staring up at the rough pine boards of the
ceiling. “Look,” he said, “I know you’d like to avoid the issue. But sooner or
later, we
have
to talk about it. We can’t—”

The phone rang on the bedside table.

McQuaid sighed and put a pillow over
the phone. It rang again.

I sat up. “We can still hear it.
Anyway, it might be Brian.” Brian was at his grandmother’s for the night, which
was a rare treat for us. McQuaid and I hardly ever spend the whole night
together, and I never stay over at his place when Brian’s there. McQuaid doesn’t
mind making love with a ten-year-old in the next room, but it’s something I can’t
get used to. What’s more, I don’t want to.

McQuaid sighed. “Answer it,” he
said.

I reached for the phone. It was
Meredith. “China,” she said urgently. “Please come over. I need you.”

The clock on the table said half
past ten. “Meredith, don’t you think it’s a little late? How about if we make
it for breakfast tomorrow.” McQuaid elbowed me. Tomorrow was Saturday. We
could sleep until at least eight forty-five. “Or lunch,” I amended. “Lunch
would be better.”

Meredith’s voice held a whimper. “Somebody
broke into the house tonight, China.”

I sat up straight, pulling the sheet
against me. “Broke in? You mean, a burglary?”

“Yes. I went to an early movie. I
just got home. The
screen on the back door is ripped loose. The place is a disaster,
papers and things all over. Can you come? Please?”

“Sure,” I said. I looked over at
McQuaid. “Have you called the cops?”

There was a hesitation. “Should I?”

“No need, not at the moment. I’ll
bring one with me.

McQuaid, bless his heart, didn’t say
a word. We got dressed, climbed into the Datsun, and headed for Meredith’s.
After my initial explanation, I didn’t say much either. But when McQuaid pulled
up at Jo’s and switched off the motor, he put his hand on my shoulder.

“I’m sorry we got interrupted
tonight, China. I’d like to get back to the subject when we can.”

Talking wasn’t going to change
anything, now or later. There were things I wanted, things I didn’t want, and
the things I wanted didn’t fit the things
he
wanted. It was as simple as
that. But his eyes were on me. I nodded.

He let go of my shoulder and leaned
across me, pulling my flashlight out of the glove compartment. It’s as big as
a billy club. McQuaid gave it to me for Christmas. “Let’s go,” he said.

Meredith met us at the front door,
armed with the fireplace poker. Her face was taut, her shoulders rigid. She
gave McQuaid a grateful glance. He’s big and reassuring and still wears that
cop look. She leaned the poker against the wall.

“Thanks for coming,” she said. She
glanced from McQuaid to me. “I hope I didn’t interrupt anything.”

“No, of course not,” I lied. I
looked over her shoulder. Jo’s tidy living room was a wreck. The sofa cushions
had been pulled out, chairs were tipped over, lampshades hung awry, curio
cabinet doors and drawers gaped open. Books and papers littered the floor.

McQuaid whistled. “A burglar with a
tornado complex,” he said, and turned for the door, flicking on the
flashlight. “I’ll take a look around outside.”

Meredith and I went into the den,
where the same tornado had struck. “They went through the whole house, even the
kitchen,” Meredith said. “Whoever did it pulled out every drawer in the place.”
She reached out to straighten a lamp and I stopped her.

“Don’t touch anything. There might
be prints. What’s missing?”

Meredith put her hands behind her. “Some
antique silver. My grandmother’s.” She bit her lip. “It was only worth a couple
of hundred dollars, but I suppose if somebody was hard up for drug money—” She
stopped and frowned. “But it wasn’t druggies, China.”

I was looking at Jo’s desk. All the
drawers had been pulled out and the contents dumped in a pile under the
lamp—old bills, index cards, scribbled notes, envelopes. “Why not?” I asked. I
bent over to look at the envelopes.

“I smelled it again,” Meredith said.
She looked at the heap of notes and envelopes. “Perfume.”

I straightened. “You’re sure?”

“Yes. No.” Meredith frowned down at
the rubble.

“Yes,” she said. “Tell me,” I
commanded. “From the beginning.” She closed her eyes, as if she were replaying
a movie inside her head. “I unlocked the front door and came in. I turned on
the hall light, and that’s when I saw the mess in the living room. That’s when
I smelled it again. At least, I think I did.” She paused for a moment,
thinking. Then she opened her eyes. “I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe it was the
shock of seeing... all this. Maybe it brought back ...”

She might be right. The trauma of
finding the wreckage might have reawakened her associations with finding her
mother’s body. On the other hand, the scent might be the only clue. It was my
guess that the person who did this had worn gloves. There wouldn’t be any
prints.

We went upstairs, following a trail
of rubble. “Mother’s bedroom is a mess,” Meredith said bitterly, opening the
door. Jo’s drawers were dumped onto the floor, clothes pulled out of the
closet, shoes scattered. “Mine, too, but not quite so bad.”

“Let’s have a look anyway,” I said.
We went into Meredith’s room. The drawers had been jerked out of the dresser
and the floor was littered with lingerie. A blue suitcase lay open at the foot
of the bed with a couple of books in it, and other books had been shoved off
the nightstand onto the floor.

Meredith sighed. “It’ll take forever
to clean this mess up,” she said.

I put my arm around her shoulders
and led her back downstairs. McQuaid came in and flicked off his torch. “All
clear,” he told Meredith. “It looks like you were right about the burglar
coming in the back. All the windows are intact, but the screen has been pulled
loose from the back door, enough for the burglar to reach the hook. After that,
it was a simple matter of opening the door and letting himself in.”

“Or herself,” I corrected him, and
explained about the perfume. McQuaid gave me a doubtful look. Cops mistrust
intangible clues.

Meredith frowned. “I don’t know,
China. I’m not sure I smelted it.”

McQuaid turned to Meredith with a
cross look. “Why didn’t you lock the back door?” he asked irritably. “They’d
probably have forced it, but at least they’d have to work for what they got.”

Meredith lifted her shoulders
wearily and let them fall. “This isn’t the big city. I didn’t think it was necessary.”

“Pecan Springs has its share of
burglaries,” McQuaid said. He paused, adding weight to his words. “Next time,
lock up.”

Meredith looked at him. “Next time,”
she said, adding equal weight to hers, “I’ll have a gun.” There was an angry
glint in her eye.

McQuaid produced a statistic from
his course on crime in America. “Handguns are a hundred times more likely to
kill or injure their owners than criminals.”

“Not
my
handgun,” Meredith
said firmly. “I refuse to be a victim.”

McQuaid might have gone further with
it, but he was anxious to get me to leave. He looked at me. “Anything missing?”

“Some silver. A couple of hundred
dollars worth.”

“There’s your answer. Kids after
drug money. Have you called the cops?” McQuaid asked.

“Not yet,” Meredith said. She
frowned. “Will it be that guy with the wet cigar?”

McQuaid flashed a grin. “Bubba’s a
character, but he’s a good cop. He’s thorough. If there’s a lead here, or a
connection to other burglaries, he’ll turn it up.”

I found a tissue and used it to pick
up the phone. Bubba himself answered my call to the police station. He said he’d
send a car. I thanked him and hung up.

“China,” Meredith said, “I’m not
afraid of staying alone, but I’d appreciate the company.” Her voice was thin
and frayed—and angry, very angry. It was building in her, like a storm. “Could
you stay tonight?”

Standing behind Meredith, McQuaid
shook his head emphatically.
No,
he mouthed.
No.

I sighed. Brian probably wouldn’t
stay over with his grandmother again for several weeks. On the other hand,
Meredith needed me. It must have been nerve-shattering to come home and find
her mother’s house like this. No wonder she was angry. I couldn’t turn her
down.

“Sure, I’ll stay,” I said.

McQuaid’s mouth tightened. I knew he
thought I was staying because I didn’t want to continue our interrupted
conversation. Maybe so, but that was only part of it.

‘Tell you what,” I said, with a
false heartiness, “how about if I brew some chamomile tea? That’s exactly what
you need, Meredith. You’ll have some too, won’t you, McQuaid?”

“Thanks,” McQuaid said flatly. “But
I’ll be on my way. There’s nothing I can do here except make the local boys
nervous.” He was right about that. There was an undercurrent of animosity
between the Pecan Springs P.D. and the “academic cops” at the university.

“Okay,” I said. “See you later.”

“Yeah,” McQuaid replied. “Later.” He
wasn’t happy.

CHAPTER 9

The bed in the spare room was narrow
and lumpy and the pillow was as comfortable as a sandbag. I tossed and turned
for a half hour. Finally, I got up and sat in an equally uncomfortable rocking
chair by the window, pulling a crocheted afghan around my shoulders. Outside,
the sycamore tree wove a lacework of gnarled, knitted shadows against the
nearly full moon. I stared at it and thought about the events of the night.