Death Come Quickly (26 page)

She was back inside of ten, with a thick folder full of copies, hot off the press. “Is this all you need?” she asked.

I tucked the folder into my bag. “I'm curious, Tiff. Who is J. D.?”

“J. D.? Oh, that's Jerri Delaney. She's a paralegal who works here part-time. Why?”

“Just curious,” I said. “Listen. There's some information in that binder that I especially want Mr. Brooks to review. Please put it on his desk with a note asking him to call my cell phone, and I'll tell him where to find it. Oh, and tell him it's important, so I'd appreciate a call as soon as possible. Okay?”

“Absolutely.” She was already scribbling on a sticky pad. “Are you driving back this afternoon?”

I looked at my watch. “Actually, I'm dropping in to see a friend—then I'm heading home.”

“Drive carefully,” she said.

I nodded. “I really have to watch out for those Hummers. And the garbage trucks. They're fiendish.”

“I know. Devil drivers.” She gave me a sympathetic look. “Do be careful. And come back and see us soon.”

• • •

T
HE
gray clouds lidded the city, trapping the heat and humidity, and stepping out of Aaron's air-conditioned office was like stepping into a sauna. Out in the car, I rolled down the window, turned on the AC, and phoned Lucia to let her know that I'd be over in a half hour. Then I called McQuaid. It wasn't going to be easy to explain just how I had happened to discover Richard Bowen's nonsuicide note in a sealed envelope in a binder in the Houston office of my former lover Aaron Brooks. But I had to try. McQuaid was working an investigation for Charlie Lipman that involved Douglas Clark. He needed to know about this new development.

I caught him on his way to the Travis County Courthouse to look at some property records. I made my confession as brief and concise as possible, followed it up with a quick reprise of the transcript of the court hearing, a reading of my copy of Bowen's letter, and a quick summary of what Florabelle Gibson had told me about the Bowen-Clark bribery business.

“It sounds like Clark might have gotten tired of paying Bowen to keep his mouth shut,” I said, “and somehow managed to lock him in his car with the garage door shut and the motor running.”

There was a long, long silence. “China,” McQuaid said at last, “is there no limit to the messes you stumble into?”

I frowned. “I am sorry I didn't tell you that I was going to Aaron's office. But this isn't a mess. The letter Bowen wrote is a perfectly straightforward confession of—”

“I know what it is,” he said quietly. “And it's a damn good thing you found it. But it's still pretty messy—unless Houston Homicide picked something up, some piece of evidence that can tie Clark to the scene. Otherwise—” He stopped, but I knew what he was thinking. Bowen's letter would be enough to reopen a closed investigation, but it wouldn't nail Clark. For that, the investigators would need something concrete.

After a moment, McQuaid went on. “On this other business, the Christine Morris murder. You mentioned a San Antonio investigator who questioned Soto's alibi witness. What was his name?”

“Randy Olan.” I took out my notebook, found Olan's contact information, and gave it to McQuaid. “Maybe you could find out whether he's still around, and whether he remembers the case.”

“Olan's around,” McQuaid said. “I know the guy. He's a good investigator. I'll give him a call and see what he can tell us. You may have lucked into something, China.”

“I didn't
luck
into it,” I said huffily. “Luck was not a factor here. I knew what I needed, I went looking for it, and I found it.”

“Manner of speaking,” McQuaid said. “So what's next?”

“When Aaron calls, I'll tell him to read Bowen's letter. He needs to contact the police officer who investigated Bowen's death and turn the note over to him. I also plan to go over all of this with Sheila tonight, since the criminal activity—the bribes and code violations—occurred in Pecan Springs and involved a city employee. She will probably want to contact the investigating officer in Houston and be on hand when they open Bowen's safe-deposit box.” I paused. “Is there anything else I ought to be doing?”

“Sounds like you're covering the bases,” McQuaid said. “What time are you getting home?”

I looked at my watch. It was almost one. “Lucia's expecting me, so I'm going to stop at her shop for a few minutes. I'll be home in time to get supper.” I smiled to myself, picturing V. I. Warshawski hurrying to get home in time to cook for the family. “I'll give Sheila a call and make sure she's available this evening,” I added, “but I doubt there'll be a problem. She's supposed to be in bed, flat on her back.”

McQuaid chuckled. “Flat on her back, huh? While her best friend is out and about, nailing a murderer?”

“I haven't ‘nailed' anybody,” I retorted. “I came into accidental knowledge of serious criminal activity and I am in the process of notifying the proper authorities. After that, it's up to the guys with badges. Isn't that the way it's supposed to work?”

“Oh, right,” McQuaid said sarcastically and chuckled again.

The answering machine was on at Sheila's, so I left a message, then began to think serious thoughts about lunch. Since Aaron had canceled, I needed to get something to eat before I headed over to Lucia's. There's a fast-food joint on every corner, but I knew of a place where I could get something reasonably healthy. I drove over to Potbelly on the Southwest Freeway service road and got a Mediterranean sandwich: hummus, feta, artichoke hearts, cukes, and roasted red peppers on thin-sliced wheat bread.

I'm sorry to report that I gobbled it down more quickly than it deserved.

Yerba buena
(
Micromeria douglasii
, syn.
Satureja douglasii
) means “good herb” in Spanish. It is a low-growing, aromatic herb of the mint family that is known and used as a medicinal plant in many cultures. The minty flavor (resembling spearmint) makes it a popular addition to salads and desserts, while its lemony aroma is used for scent and fragrance. When dried, it produces a pleasant cup of mildly minty tea. Yerba buena is thought to bring good luck.

China Bayles
“Herbs of Good and Ill Omen”
Pecan Springs Enterprise

Lucia's Garden is located in a shopping center on West Alabama, in the Upper Kirby district of Houston, in an upscale area of high-fashion shopping, chef-heavy restaurants, high-end home furnishing shops, and high-rise condominiums. But it didn't start there. It began back in the mid-1980s as a small one-room shop, where Lucia and her husband, Michael, shared their passion for gardening, cooking, and herb crafting with the Houston community, and has evolved through several homes, always with a focus on earth-based lifestyle.

In its current incarnation, Lucia's is a substantial bookstore and gift shop stocked with herbs and herbal products, music, incense, crystals, and intriguing gift items—“tools,” Lucia says, “to help each other live more mindful and fulfilling lives.” Like the Crystal Cave, her shop is also a community learning center featuring bodyworkers and healers—the kind of place where Ruby would feel right at home. And Lucia herself teaches cookery, aromatherapy, and meditation to the many friends she has collected over the years. The South Texas Unit of the Herb Society of America is located in Houston. Lucia is an active member and frequent speaker.

As I got out of the car, I saw several people coming out of the shop carrying packages, and when I opened the door and went in, Lucia herself came toward me. She is dark haired and vivid, with a dramatic flair for vibrant makeup, eclectic costumes, and exotic jewelry—a lot like Ruby, except that Lucia is short and pleasantly roundish where Ruby is tall, thin, and angular. Today, Lucia was dressed in a flowing red tunic over a long-sleeved, scoop-necked black tee, garnished with a soft paisley scarf, a necklace of crimson garnet and warm amber beads.

“China!” she cried and enveloped me in a huge hug. “What a delight to see you! Did you and your friend enjoy your lunch at Tiny Boxwood's?” I had told her that Aaron and I planned to eat there.

I made a regretful face. “He had to bail a client out of trouble. I picked up a sandwich at Potbelly's on the way over here.”

“Oh, too bad,” she said and added ruefully, “We could have gone to Tiny's together, but I'm here by myself today.” She gave a little shrug of her shoulders. “I'm sure you know how that is.”

“I certainly do,” I said. “I wouldn't be in Houston if Monday weren't my day off.” I glanced around at the L-shaped space, the walls filled with wooden shelves, antique pine hutches laden with fragrant soaps and essential oils, and glass display cases filled with handcrafted jewelry. “Your shop looks so great,” I added, taking a deep breath of the sweet, pungent fragrance that filled the air. “I always admire your creative displays.” It's true. Nobody can build a display more artistically than Lucia and her longtime manager, Joel Miles. She travels extensively, she remembers everything she sees, and she comes back brimming with wonderful ideas for the shop.

“Well, let me show you some of the gift items I've begun carrying,” Lucia said enthusiastically. I spent the next few minutes admiring her displays and picking up ideas for things I might like to stock at Thyme and Seasons and new ways to display what I already have. My shop is not nearly as sophisticated and exotic as hers—it has a different character, more rustic and down-home, like the Texas Hill Country itself. Which doesn't mean that it couldn't use a little more pizzazz. Irene Cameron's paintings, or some of the lovely gift items Lucia always carries.

We were in the book section of the shop and I was making notes on some of the latest books on herbs and native Texas plants, when something caught my eye. It was a book of the paintings of Frida Kahlo, the Mexican painter, displayed on a shelf with a half-dozen painted
alebrijes
(fantastical folk figures), a pair of decorated maracas, an Aztec calendar, some lovely Mexican embroidered cuffs, and several tin sculptures. The display was intriguing, but it was the book I was interested in.

It was titled
Finding Frida Kahlo
. I picked it up and began leafing through the pages. It was a collection of photographs documenting a treasure trove of twelve hundred recently discovered paintings, letters, diaries, recipes, jottings, notebooks, and an enormous variety of memorabilia. A small yellow-haired doll. A roll of cherry-printed shelf paper that the artist had used as a journal. A love letter to her husband, Diego Rivera, which she ends with,
I ask my heart, why you and not someone else? Toad of my soul. Frida K
. Twelve hundred bits and pieces of an enormously gifted and creative life, which had apparently been stowed away in five dusty wooden boxes in a dark corner of a converted textile factory in the Mexican village of San Miguel de Allende, discovered recently, decades after her death.

“Wow.” I whistled between my teeth. “What a remarkable treasure! I'll bet the art world is dancing a jig.” After another few moments of looking, I put the book back on the display and asked the question that was nudging itself into my mind, like an impatient stranger, wanting an introduction. “Lucia, have you ever heard of María Izquierdo? There's a private museum in Pecan Springs that has one of her pieces.”

Lucia brightened. “Izquierdo? Oh, yes!” she exclaimed. “Everyone who knows anything about Mexican artists knows her work.” She sighed. “Used to be, Izquierdo was one of the painters whose work was affordable, but not anymore. If you want to see it, you have to go to museums.”

I thought again of Irene Cameron, who had studied Mexican art but said that she didn't know anything about Izquierdo. That still made me uneasy, although I wasn't sure why.

Pulling her dark eyebrows together, Lucia picked up
Finding Frida Kahlo
and began turning the pages. “And as far as the art world dancing a jig about this discovery—well, that's not exactly what's happened. There's an enormous controversy over this collection of Kahlo's work, China. Some people are saying that it's all a big fake.”

“A fake?” I asked, startled. “The paintings, you mean?”

“The paintings, the diaries, the letters—the entire archive. The experts can't seem to bring themselves to believe that
any
of it is real. It's all been denounced as a forgery by lots of big-time art critics, most of whom haven't actually examined the stuff.” She rolled her eyes. “They're saying that Princeton Architectural Press, which published this book, is the victim of a gigantic hoax. And that the author, Barbara Levine, and the antique dealers who claim to have found the material have practiced a gigantic con.”

I stared at Lucia. “A
fake
?” I repeated. My skin was prickling.

Nodding, she put the book back on the display. “Right. But personally, I don't agree. I think it's real, every bit of it. The big problem, in my view, is that the so-called experts seem to believe that they have the authority to say what's authentic. In this case, they don't want to admit that somebody, anybody—other than themselves, of course—can know a Kahlo when they see one.” Her chuckle was sarcastic. “In fact, these experts didn't even need to inspect the archive, up close and personal, I mean. They knew what they wanted to see. They didn't need to use their eyes.”

Know one when they see one.
The phrase echoed in my mind.

“They didn't discover it,” Lucia added, “so they knew without looking that it was fake.”

Didn't need to use their eyes.

“But while this Kahlo collection is probably real,” Lucia went on, “there's plenty of forged artwork out there. The galleries and auction houses are flooded with it, and some of the forgeries are so good that they go undetected.” She sighed. “Would you believe?”

“I'm no expert,” I said quietly. “I really don't know.” But that wasn't quite true. I was beginning to think that I could make an educated guess.

“Well, we will never solve all the problems of the art world, China,” Lucia said. “I have some new yerba buena tea. Let's brew a cup and have a chat. I need to catch up on your life. How's everything in Pecan Springs? How's business? Have you had much of a summer slump? Are you still doing that farmers' market? Oh, and do you think you could maybe talk Ruby into coming over and taking part in our psychic fair next month? She could teach whatever she wanted—astrology, runes, the tarot, the I Ching. She could do readings, too. I'm sure she'd be a huge hit.”

“I'll be talking to her this afternoon,” I said. “I'll ask her if she's interested.”

• • •

B
Y
the time I got back to my car, the sky had turned an ominous, metallic gray with thunderheads piling up in purple-black billows against the western horizon, an occasional lightning bolt darting from one bruised-looking cloud to another. It promised to be a rainy drive home, on slick roads. But I had left early enough to get ahead of the outbound commuting traffic, which was a relief. I kept a close eye on the rearview mirror for Hummers and garbage trucks, but so far, so good.

Nobody was answering at Sheila's house, but when I finally got Ruby on the phone, she had just put Baby Grace down for a nap. They had spent the last hour visiting with Mrs. Kern, she said. Mrs. Adele Kern, the lady who lived on the street behind Christine Morris' house and who (according to the hearing transcript) had been prepared to testify for the defense that she had seen Roberto Soto's late-model blue Mercedes parked in the vacant lot on the night of the murder. It was testimony that the Bowen jury should have heard—
would
have heard, if His Honor hadn't ruled it out.

“I'm surprised to hear that Mrs. Kern still lives in that house,” I said. “It's been quite a while.” But maybe I shouldn't have been. In that pretty neighborhood, people tend to settle in and stay for a while, especially if their families are grown.

“Not only does Mrs. Kern still live in that house,” Ruby said, “but she remembers the whole episode very clearly. She was terribly disappointed that she wasn't called to testify in Bowen's trial, and the thought still rankles. She didn't much like Christine Morris, you see. Mrs. Kern has a very strong judgmental streak and she disapproved of her entertaining a male guest overnight. She's still convinced that Christine Morris' ‘arty boyfriend' had something to do with her death.” She paused, reflecting. “No, it's stronger than that, China. She thinks the boyfriend put on Bowen's shoes and beat her to death with Bowen's golf club.”

The “arty boyfriend,” Roberto Soto. Yes, I thought. It was a damn good thing that Johnnie was able to get an acquittal without Mrs. Kern's testimony. But the judge's error in excluding the evidence—for it
was
an error, in my opinion, and would have been overturned had there been an appeal—had let a possible murderer go free.

I sucked in my breath. Free. Free to kill again?
Had
he killed again? Was there any connection between Soto and Karen Prior? If so, what was it? The image of
Muerte llega pronto
came into my mind and stayed there.

The rain was beginning to splat down on the windshield, fat, heavy drops that sprayed out and washed in muddy rivulets on my dusty windshield. I flicked the windshield washer and turned on the wipers.

“Mrs. Kern loved Baby Grace, of course!” Ruby went on happily. “And she completely understood why I brought her with me. Before we got around to discussing the murder, we had a very nice talk about grandchildren and how important it is for them to grow up with their grandmamas living close by. She showed me photos of her own family. She has great-grandchildren!”

That's what I mean about Ruby having a knack with people. By the time she got to the difficult questions about the night of the murder, she and Mrs. Kern were old and dear friends, just two baby-besotted grandmothers cooing together over their grandbabies.

“But that's not all, China,” Ruby added. “That blue Mercedes Mrs. Kern saw on the night of the murder? She has seen the car parked in that vacant lot lately, driven by that same “arty” guy. Once or twice, it's been parked there all night—which of course gets Mrs. Kern's attention, since she knows that Sharyn Tillotson lives in that place all alone.” She chuckled wryly. “To tell the truth, Mrs. Kern is a bit of a Mrs. Grundy. She suspects that Sharyn is having an affair with the guy, and she thoroughly disapproves.”

“The very same blue Mercedes?” I asked doubtfully.