“There’s the financial motivation, as well,” McQuaid added. “That should be easy to establish. Through their father’s will, the sisters got only an annual allowance, while their nephew eventually inherited the estate and the house. When they arranged to have him declared legally dead, they got everything.”
“And Bob and Lila can both testify to the fact that Andy was hard up for cash to support his drug habit and wanted to sell the house his aunts were living in.”
“Sounds pretty tight,” McQuaid said. He added dryly, “I don’t see how even Howie Masterson can mess this one up.”
“Don’t be so sure,” I said. “Jane has the bucks to hire herself the best defense. And she’s an old woman—a big sympathy factor there. Her attorney will play that for all it’s worth, and he’ll have a lot of help from her. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if she manages to intimidate the jury into an acquittal.” I paused. “The one I’m really worried about is Juan. He’ll have to testify in court to what Hank told him.”
“Yeah,” McQuaid said. “That’s a problem.”
I glanced at the old Seth Thomas clock over the refrigerator. It felt to me like three in the morning, but it was only midnight. “I wonder if Justine is still up. I could call and see if she’s willing to help Juan.”
McQuaid pushed back his chair. “Well, if I were The Whiz, I’d be a heck of a lot more receptive if I were asked during working hours. Ask me at midnight, and I’d say no on principle.”
I raised my eyebrow. “Wouldn’t it depend on what you were asked, and who asked you?”
“It might,” he said, and grinned. “Did you have something special in mind?”
On second thought, Justine could wait. I’d call her in the morning, first thing.
I connected with Justine, whose practice is in San Antonio, and got a promise from her to take Juan’s case, if I could persuade him to talk to her. Leaving Ruby to mind both shops, I took the bag of Juan’s clothing over to Taco’s Grill, where I gave it to Rosie, who turned out to be a cute young girl, Juan’s girlfriend, most likely. I also left him a note, saying that I had located a lawyer who was willing to work with him on his immigration situation and asking him to get in touch with me or McQuaid as soon as possible.
Since we’d been interrupted in our conversation about Cassandra’s partnership proposal, Ruby and I used our free moments during the day to discuss Cass’s scheme. Obviously, we needed to give Janet time off to rest her knees, and Cassandra was undoubtedly a skilled and experienced cook. Her offer to help with the catering was welcome, as well, since Ruby had booked two more events just this morning. And both of us were enthusiastic about the personal chef idea. We know quite a few professional people who would love to open their freezers and find a stack of tempting and healthy meals, as an alternative to the high-fat, high-sodium, high-calorie foods they’re likely to get when they eat out.
“The big question,” Ruby said thoughtfully, cocking her head to one side, “is the partnership. There’s no doubt that we could use the cash she’s offering.” Cassandra had made a straightforward business proposal: She’d put in a certain amount of cash for a certain percentage of the business—the amount and the percentage to be negotiated. “But when you and I went into business together,” Ruby added, “we had already worked together for five or six years. I probably know Cass better than you do, and I honestly don’t feel I know her very well. Mostly she’s pleasant and helpful, but sometimes she’s sort of in-your-face.”
“Well,” I said, “we certainly can’t decide whether she’ll work out as a partner until we know her better. The only honest thing to do is to tell her that. If she wants to take a chance on us, I guess that’s up to her. But it’s going to mean giving up a steady paycheck—maybe she won’t want to risk a sure thing for something that isn’t.”
“She seems like a risk-taker to me.” Ruby reached for the phone. “Okay if I have a chat with her?”
“Be my guest,” I said, and went off to help a customer who was trying to decide whether she should give lavender another try, having failed for the last two years in a row. Growing lavender is a little dicey in the heat and humidity of central Texas, but I introduced her to some Spanish lavender that might do better in her garden than the English lavender she’d been trying to grow. I also told her that I amend the planting soil with plenty of sand to improve the drainage, and mulch the plants with three or four inches of pea gravel or granite chips. And then I wished her luck. Sometimes I think that the world is made up of two kinds of people. Those who can grow lavender and those who wish they could.
Tuesday was a busy day, and Wednesday was its twin. When we closed the cash registers at five-thirty on Wednesday evening, Ruby and I were both pleased. And not only that, but Ruby and Cassandra had had a couple of productive phone conversations. Cass was not only willing but eager to take the risk. She’d be taking over for Janet in the kitchen a couple of days a week, and would be helping Ruby with the catering, starting on Saturday afternoon. We agreed to revisit the partnership question in a couple of months, when we knew each other better. Ruby and I were excited—in a restrained, cautious way—at the prospect of being joined by another pair of helping hands, and Ruby said Cass was excited, too.
I was closing up when Ruby came through the door between our shops.
“Would you mind giving me a ride home?” she asked. “Amy’s car conked out this morning, and she’s borrowed mine.”
I went to lock the front door. “No problem. Do you want to stop somewhere along the way?”
“At the theater, if you don’t mind. I need to pick up one of my costumes for repair.” Ruby bent down to give Khat a good-night pat. “Max stepped on my skirt in the Sunday matinee. I was darn lucky not to be standing there in front of everybody in my bare minimums.”
“Fine with me,” I said. “I’ve got three more large salvias to put into the landscaping. I’ll do that, while you get your costume.”
It took only a few minutes to pop the plants into the ground, which was still moist under its thick blanket of mulch. Just as I finished, Ruby came out of the theater, her costume over her arm, and we started to walk back to Big Mama, who was parked in the lot. There was a shout behind us, however, and we turned to see Jane Obermann, dressed in black, standing at the back of her garden, gesturing at us.
“Ms. Wilcox,” she called in a peremptory tone, “I want a word with you about your performance!”
“Oh, no.” Ruby gave me an apprehensive look. “Do you mind coming along, China? I need some moral support. And knowing what I know about that woman—” She shuddered. “Why hasn’t Sheila arrested her yet?”
“Because she doesn’t have enough evidence to persuade Howie to sign off on the case,” I said. “Things don’t happen in real life the way they do in mystery novels, Ruby. Even when the cops have a pretty good idea who the killer is, they have to be able to make the charge stick, especially in a high-profile case like this one. Otherwise, they risk lawsuits.”
When we reached Jane, she gave me a haughty glance, then turned to Ruby. “What I have to say to you, Ms. Wilcox, is better said in private.”
“China is my friend,” Ruby said with dignity. “I want her to hear.”
Jane peered at me. “Ah, Ms. Nails,” she said.
“Bayles,” I said. “China Bayles.”
Unflustered, she turned toward the house. “At least we can go indoors. I don’t intend for the neighbors to eavesdrop.”
“Looks like I’m in for it,” Ruby muttered.
“I’ll be with you,” I said comfortingly, although I wasn’t sure I’d be much comfort. The truth was that Ruby and I were in the presence of a woman who, we were convinced, was a three-time killer, and both of us had every right to be frightened.
In the library, we were not invited to sit. Instead, Jane seated herself and began to tell Ruby, firmly and in no uncertain terms, what she thought of her interpretation of Cynthia Obermann. I stood off to one side, noticing that the bloodstained rug had been removed and another moved into its place. If Jane Obermann recognized me as one of the people who had responded to the gunshots on Friday night, she didn’t give any sign—but then, she had me confused with someone else altogether. Someone named Nails.
“As a playwright,” she began, “I must tell you that I am absolutely disgusted by what you and your so-called director have done to my script. In fact, I intend to consult with my lawyer to determine whether I should—”
She was interrupted by an abrupt rapping at the front door. With an imperial “Wait here,” she rose from the chair and went through the hall. We heard a surprised exclamation, a muted exchange, and then Sheila came into the room, in uniform, followed by two uniformed officers, one male and one female. Jane Obermann followed the trio.
“I fail to understand what you mean by a ‘warrant,’” she was saying, with an air of offended dignity. “This is a house of mourning. My poor sister has only recently died. You have no right to—”
“I’m sorry, Miss Obermann,” Sheila said firmly, “but the warrant gives us the right to conduct a search. I would very much appreciate it if you would let Officer Beard and Officer Murray go about their business. And as I said, I have several questions to ask you, so you might want to sit down while we talk.” She glanced at Ruby and me, pretending not to know us. “If you don’t mind, I’ll ask your guests to leave. This is a police matter.”
I almost grinned at that, but I understood. If I were Sheila, I definitely wouldn’t want an experienced defense attorney, friend or no friend, eavesdropping on my interrogation. But Jane Obermann had other ideas.
“No,” she said, in a contrary tone. She sat down in her chair, folded her arms across her bosom, and glared at Sheila. “I demand that Ms. Wilcox and Ms. Nails be allowed to stay. I want them to be able to testify that I am being treated like a common criminal.”
Hardly a
common
criminal, I thought wryly. A common criminal—somebody from East Pecan Springs, or somebody whose family name was Jones or Smith—might be in jail already. But I only nodded. Ruby gave a silent shrug, and Sheila pointed to chairs.
“Then I’ll need to ask you to sit down and say nothing,” she said to us. She reached into her bag and took out a notebook and a pen. “I’ll note for the record that Ms. Wilcox and Ms. Nails . . .” She looked at me.
“Bayles,” I said firmly. “China Bayles.”
“Yes. Ms. Wilcox and Ms. Bayles are here at Miss Obermann’s request.”
We sat down as the two uniformed officers made their way to the kitchen and were heard to be opening and closing drawers—with some unnecessary loudness, I thought. Sheila must have wanted Jane Obermann to know that the kitchen was being searched.
“I have a request, several questions, and some information that I think might interest you, Miss Obermann,” Sheila said, reaching into her bag again. “First, the request. I have here a fingerprint kit. I would like to obtain your fingerprints for—”
“My fingerprints!” Jane Obermann exclaimed angrily, curling her hands into fists. “Absolutely not!”
“—for the purposes of exclusion,” Sheila continued smoothly. She put the kit back into her purse. “However, if you prefer, I shall be glad to arrange for a police car to call for you and take you to the station, where—”
“You’re saying that I
have
to do this?” Jane narrowed her eyes to slits.
“I’m afraid so,” Sheila said, with an apologetic smile. She took the kit out again. “It will take only a minute.”
Ruby and I watched while Sheila deftly inked Jane’s fingers and thumbs and pressed them onto the fingerprint card. She handed her a wipe with a “Thank you, Miss Obermann. I appreciate your cooperation.”
From the kitchen, there was the sound of rattling silver-ware. “What are they looking for?” Jane Obermann demanded—more nervously now, it seemed to me.
“They have a list,” Sheila said. She opened her notebook to a clean page. “Now, to the questions. I understand that you mentioned to several people that your sister had a delicate heart. When was her heart condition diagnosed? And what was the name of the diagnosing physician?”
There was a silence. “I . . . I’m not sure,” Jane said finally. Her forehead was wrinkled, as if she were making an effort to remember. “It’s something that poor Florence knew for quite some years. Where she learned it, I couldn’t say.”
Sheila was writing busily. When she finished, she looked up. “Thank you. Doctor Mackey, Florence’s physician, was not aware of a heart condition. Can you tell me why?”
“I have no idea,” Jane said fiercely. “And I don’t know why you’re asking these questions. My sister’s health was between herself and her doctor.”
“Thank you,” Sheila said. She continued to write, her pen scratching against the paper. The silence stretched out. At last, she stopped. “Now, one additional matter, with regard to your sister. Before her death, she suffered nausea, abdominal pain, low blood pressure, and cardiac dysrhythmia.” She paused, and I could see the question coming. “Are you aware that oleander is a deadly plant poison that can cause these symptoms and lead to fatality?”
Jane’s face went white. “Oleander?” she managed. “What . . . what is that?”
“The large shrubs that line the path in your backyard are oleander bushes,” Sheila said. “I take it, then, that your answer is—”
Jane gathered herself. With great dignity, she said, “I shall have no further conversation with you. You cannot force me to talk to you unless my attorney is present.”
Sheila closed her notebook and put it away. “You are neither under arrest at this moment, Miss Obermann, nor in custody. You are not a suspect, only a person of interest. As such, you are free to refuse to answer any questions, at your discretion.” She sat back in her chair, while we listened to the sounds of continued movement in the kitchen, the opening and shutting of drawers and cabinet doors, and the murmur of low voices.
I gave Sheila an admiring glance. She was handling this interrogation with real dexterity. The conversation was mannered and calm, but beneath its polite surface, tensions bubbled like hot lava.