Thyme of Death (14 page)

McQuaid had been gone only a few
minutes when Bubba showed up, complete with soggy cigar. I was a little
surprised to see him. I didn’t think a minor burglary would merit the chief’s
attention, but maybe he just happened to be at the station and didn’t have anything
else to do. Or maybe he liked to keep his finger on what occurred in Pecan Springs.
However it happened, there he was, trailed by a slender, nervous Hispanic
deputy with a carefully trimmed mustache whom I recognized from my frequent
visits to Maria’s Taco Cocina.

Meredith and I went into the kitchen
and sat silently over a cup of tea while Bubba and the deputy searched the
house competently and thoroughly, then made a quick check of the neighbors to
ask if anyone had seen anything. Meredith didn’t speak. She just kept turning
her cup between her hands, her gray eyes dark and shadowed, a muscle working in
her jaw.

When they were finished, Bubba came
into the kitchen. “Guess that ‘bout wraps it,” he said, leaning against the
doorjamb. He took his cigar out of his mouth and looked regretfully at the
unlit end. There was a book under his arm. “This is the first burglary we’ve
had in this part of town for, oh, couple of years now. Folks here got a
neighborhood watch. It pretty much spooks the druggies. They got to have a serious
habit to risk breakin’ into these houses.”

“I see,” Meredith said, low. “So it
was somebody looking for drug money.”

Bubba plugged in his cigar and eyed
her speculatively. “You got a different idea?”

I waited for her to tell him about
the perfume. “No,” she said, looking down. “No, I guess I don’t.”

Bubba held up the book he’d been
carrying. “Found this here book in your room,” he said. “In your open suitcase,
matter of fact.” He turned it over in his hands, chewing on his cigar. “I’ve
heard about it. ‘Course, Miss Martin, at the bookstore, wouldn’t have it on the
shelves. Suicide manual, ain’t it?’

I looked. It was
Final Exit,
published
by the Hemlock Society. The book had fueled a national debate over the right
to die. From what I’d heard, it was full of detailed instructions on how to do
yourself in.

Meredith’s mouth tightened. “Yes.”

“Is it yours?”

“It was Mother’s. She gave it to me
to read, but I never got around to it.” Meredith closed her eyes and swallowed
hard. “That’s not true. I didn’t
want
to read it.” She cleared her
throat. “Mother was... it was something we argued about. She asked me to ... I
said no.”

Bubba tucked the book under his arm
again. “Mind if I borrow it for a couple days?” I looked at him sharply. It
didn’t sound like a question.

Meredith shrugged. “You can keep it,
as far as I’m concerned. I don’t have any need for it.” She chewed on her lip. “Do
you think you’ll catch whoever broke in?”

Bubba straightened up. “Not likely.
They’re probably meltin’ the silver down right now. But we’ll keep our eyes
open. They won’t be back tonight.” He grinned mirthlessly and stuck his cigar
into his shirt pocket. “Won’t be back at all, I’d say, seein’ as how they
already got what they came for. But I’ll send a squad car around to keep an eye
on things.” He gave me a glance. “You gonna be here tonight, Miz Bayles?”

I nodded with a pang of regret for
my lost evening with McQuaid.

“Call me if there’s any more
trouble,” he instructed, and left.

Meredith and I went into the den.
She surveyed the damage once more, then poured herself a large scotch.

There were twin spots of anger, like
forties rouge, on her cheeks, and she slammed the bottle down so hard that the
glasses beside it rattled. She sat down in Jo’s wingback chair and stared into
the cold fireplace.

I poured a drink for myself and we
drank in silence. Finally, I asked her. “Why didn’t you tell Bubba about the
perfume?”

She shrugged, her eyes still on the
fireplace. “Why? Would it help? He might as well be looking for druggies. I
meant what I said to McQuaid, I’m getting a gun. Tomorrow.”

“But this was probably a one-time thing,”
I said. “Anyway, I thought you had a gun.”

“It’s still in Dallas. And that’s
what the cops said the first time I was broken into up there—it was a onetime
thing.” She laughed bitterly. “What do policemen know? Big, burly guys like
McQuaid—they don’t have to worry about being raped. This is a women’s issue. I’ve
got a right to defend myself against being victimized. Don’t I?” She glared at
me. “Well, don’t I?”

I looked at her again, troubled. I
wanted to ask her about the book, but her face was closed up and tight. She
wasn’t inviting questions and the only answer she wanted—about the gun—I didn’t
want to give. After a while we both went to bed.

The moon disappeared behind a cloud,
and the open-weave lacework of sycamore shadow outside the window became an
opaque, impenetrable screen. I frowned. I thought I knew the identity of the
burglar.

Except for a few pieces of old
silver, there wasn’t much in Jo’s house to tempt thieves. But there had been
something that someone wanted. Roz thought her letters were here. It would have
been a simple matter for Roz to follow Meredith to the movie, then return to the
house for a leisurely search. She probably wrecked the place to cover any
tracks she might have inadvertently left and make it look like a real burglary.

The moon came out again and the
tracery of shadows became a moving design. I shivered under the afghan. There
was something else. The perfume. If Roz had been here tonight, had she been
here on Monday, too? When she showed up at my place Wednesday night, she
claimed she’d just arrived from San Francisco. I’d had no reason to suspect
her of lying, and she’d certainly acted the part of a new arrival. But then,
acting came easily to Roz. That was how she made her living.

I clutched the afghan closer around
me. There was another angle to this,
Final Exit.
On the one hand, the
book seemed to strengthen the idea that Jo had committed suicide. In court, it
was the kind of evidence I might use to argue intent. On the other hand, it
also opened a can of worms. Meredith had access to the book. She might have
helped her mother commit suicide. But she’d said she’d refused to read it, and
to my ears at least, her statement had the ring of truth. Somehow, I couldn’t
see Meredith helping her mother to diee and then going off on a lighthearted
shopping spree with Ruby.

But what about Roz? Had Jo asked Roz
here on Monday to help her commit suicide, or simply to be with her when she
did it? But both Roz and Meredith had indicated that Roz’s relationship with Jo
was strained, at best. Roz and Jo had argued over the phone. Was it likely that
Jo would have invited Roz to be with her at the end?

The moon flickered, went dim, and
the shadows faded to black. I stared at the window. There was another
explanation, and it wasn’t assisted suicide. I’d brushed off Ruby’s Mickey Finn
idea because it seemed out of character for Jo to have a friendly drink with
Arnold Seidensticker. But it wasn’t inconceivable that she’d have a morning
drink with Roz, particularly if she thought Roz wanted to mend fences. If Roz
had been here, she could have slipped any number of pills into Jo’s Hot Stuff
and Jo wouldn’t have known the difference. But what about the Smirnoff? I can
always tell whether my Mary is Bloody or Virgin, but Jo wasn’t used to
drinking—maybe she couldn’t.

But there was another glitch in the
theory. If Roz had been in the house on Monday, why didn’t she take the letters
then? She would have had ample opportunity while she was waiting for Jo to—

I sat up straighter. No. There
wasn’t
ample opportunity. RuthAnn Landsdowne had unexpectedly knocked on Jo’s
door at eleven-thirty. The knock might have frightened Roz into a hasty
departure.

I shivered. The whole thing had
suddenly become
possible,
and it made me feel chilly down to my bones. I
could imagine Roz having the opportunity to kill Jo, and I could recreate a
hypothetical method. But there was still the question of motive. Jo had been,
at least by Roz’s testimony, her best friend. What possible reason could she
have had to kill her?

I climbed back into bed and folded
the thin sandbag of a pillow into a wedge that fit my neck, berating myself for
not going through the boxes Jo had left for me. Roz’s letters to her—if that’s
what was in them— might hold a clue. Unfortunately, the boxes were in my car,
and my car had gone home with McQuaid.

I turned over and looked at the
clock: two-thirty. If it weren’t the middle of the night, I’d take Meredith’s
car and go over to McQuaid’s right now. But to do that, I’d have to wake
Meredith
and
McQuaid, and that would mean explanations.

I stirred restlessly. First thing
tomorrow, I’d get my hands on those boxes. If it was Roz who had ransacked Jo’s
house, I wanted to know why. What could be in a few old letters that would
compel a TV personality and First-Lady-in-waiting to risk breaking and entering?

Or murder?

The thought made me so uncomfortable
that I stopped noticing the uncomfortable pillow.

When I woke, the letters were the
first thing on my mind. I told Meredith I had to get back home. “Leave the
house the way it is and I’ll come over this evening and help clean things up.”

Meredith shook her head. “I can
handle it, China, thanks.” Her face was determinedly cheerful, but her eyes
were bloodshot and angry. I had the feeling that she’d slept as much as I had,
which wasn’t very much. “I intend to get to the garage today, too,” she added,
picking up her keys. We headed out to her car. “I have to start going through
Mother’s things and decide what I’m going to keep and what I have to get rid
of.”

The sky was a dull, leaden gray that
had started seeping drizzle by the time I got home. I expected to find my
kitchen sink full of dirty dishes from last night’s dinner. But the dishes on
the drainboard were clean, and there was a terse note on the table.

“Forgot to tell you I’m taking Brian
camping this weekend,” it said. There was a P.S. “I’ll bring your car back as
soon as Hank gets the new pump installed.” There was a P.P.S. “Next time, let’s
eat at
my
place. I’ll take the phone off the hook.”

I reread the note. Maybe McQuaid
had
forgotten to tell me about taking Brian camping. On the other hand, maybe
he’d decided that he’d rather spend the weekend with his son than listen to me
avoid his questions about commitment. I reached for the phone and dialed. I
couldn’t blame him for being pissed. From his point of view, Meredith’s call
was rotten timing.

Brian answered.

“Hi,” I said. “Is your dad there?”

“Nope. He’s gone to get some beef
jerky and stuff. For camping. You know,” Brian said helpfully, just in case I
wasn’t familiar with jerky, “the stuff the Indians used to make for when they
ran out of deer meat.”

“Good stuff,” I said. “Do you know
when he’ll be back?”

“When he finds the jerky,” Brian
said, and put the phone down. Brian’s like that. When he’s finished talking,
he’s finished.

I swore softly and tried Hank’s.
McQuaid wasn’t there, either, and the pickup wouldn’t be finished until ten.
There was nothing more I could do for the moment. Like it or not, the letters
had to wait.

I unlocked, opened the cash
register, and started on my routine morning chores. But I didn’t get very far.
Violett was my first customer, barely five minutes after I opened. I was
rearranging the wreaths on the wall when she came in. I was shocked by the
change in her. The rain had plastered her thin Mamie bangs to her forehead. Her
face looked waxy, and a blue vein etched a fine line under the translucent skin
of her temple. Her plain white blouse was rumpled under her raincoat, and there
was a brown stain over the second button. I wasn’t surprised when she asked me
for something to help her sleep.

“I’ve tried chamomile,” she said in
an exhausted voice. “I need something stronger. I have a book about medicinal
herbs and it says that valerian is what I want.” She shifted, seeming to feel
she had to explain.

“I haven’t been sleeping. I’ve
had... something on my mind.”

“I have some on order,” I said. “I
expect it in today.” Valerian is an age-old remedy for sleeplessness—a
tranquilizer par excellence. “Why don’t you check with me early this afternoon?”

“I will,” Violett said. Her hands
fluttered. “I
have
to get some sleep.”

After Violett left I dialed McQuaid’s
number and got Brian again. His father was still out scouting for beef jerky.

I had scarcely put the phone down
when Constance hurried up the path, oblivious to the drizzle. She bounced
through the door like a red-striped beach ball, wearing an unbelted blue smock,
red turtleneck, red hosiery, and blue canvas sneakers. Her cheeks were puffed
and as red as her sweater and her eyes bulged with important news. She looked
as if she might explode any second and rain red-and-blue rags all over
everything.

“I need your professional opinion,”
she said.

“As an herbalist?”

“No. As a lawyer.”