A Plain Vanilla Murder, page 15
Miller makes a note. “Your take on Walker?” he asks, going back to his chicken-fried.
“She’s carrying a load of long-term anger and hostility toward Fairlee. She owns a large business, so she has strong planning skills. Plus, she strikes me as having a short fuse. And her alibi—a daughter, asleep in the house—is weak. I told her to go to the station this afternoon for fingerprinting. And warned her against leaving town. The usual.”
“So far, then,” Miller says, “we want formal statements from Gardner, Selms, and Haley—the old man, not the girl—and Walker. Is that right?”
“And Rudolph.” Sheila sips her iced tea as Miller adds Rudolph’s name to his list. “Heard from Parsons on the search of Fairlee’s apartment? Or from Donnelly on Fairlee’s computer and phone? If there’s anything to Walker’s suggestion that her ex might have been involved in some sort of smuggling scheme, there’s likely to be something in the phone. Or the computer.”
Miller shakes his head. “Nothing from Parsons yet, and Donnelly had just gotten into the phone when I talked to her a little while ago. But Maxwell checked in. She’s finished interviewing the twelve faculty members with offices in the Plant Sciences building. None of them were on the premises over the weekend. She’s got to confirm a few alibis, but she says they all seem reasonable.”
“Good. Glad that’s taken care of. Next on my interview list is Jennifer Haley. Meanwhile, you can get started on those formal statements—and the fingerprints. Maybe we’ll get lucky and find a match for that smudged partial on the suppressor.” She pushes her chair back.
Miller laughs. “Don’t bet on it.” He’s reaching for the check that Bob has left under the salsa cup, but Sheila stops him.
“Mine,” she says, picking it up and pushing her chair back. “I’ll take care of it at the bar.”
“If you insist,” he says with a shrug.
“I insist.” She doesn’t want to argue. She is headed for the restroom. She is halfway there when she hears a woman calling to her.
“Chief Dawson! Hang on a moment, Chief. I have a question for you.”
It’s Jessica, Girl Reporter. Sheila picks up her pace. Jessica will have to wait. She needs to get to the Heifers.
Urgently.
Chapter Nine
Outside of Mexico, vanilla grows in tropical climates such as Madagascar, Tahiti, Java, and Bali. For vanilla plants to thrive and produce a commercially viable crop, farmers have to invest knowledge and a great deal of skilled labor. But vanilla is especially vulnerable to weather and other conditions that can cause huge price fluctuations and seriously affect farmers’ livelihoods. And there is the competition from synthetic vanilla, which is much less costly to produce and is widely substituted for real vanilla in an increasing variety of products.
Countering these forces, Fair Trade is an international program that promotes better working conditions and more bargaining power for farmers. Fair Trade practices enable vanilla farmers to build stronger businesses and form long-term ethical relationships with buyers. Fair Trade farmers are better able to control their lives and contribute to their communities. While Fair Trade vanilla may cost us a little more, the increase in price is more than made up for by the higher standard of living it provides to those who grow it.
China Bayles
“Vanilla: The Ice Cream Orchid”
Pecan Springs Enterprise
Maggie and her daughter Chelsea live not far from the campus in one of a quartet of almost identical condos at the end of a quiet, wooded cul-de-sac off Lampasas Road. The cool, calm September morning had given way to a hot and windy midday, and the temperature was pushing ninety. We needed rain, but while Houston and Galveston had been soaked by tropical downpours all summer, the Hill Country had to make do with scattered showers. In fact, the summer had been so dry that the weather service had issued another red flag alert, warning that conditions were ripe for wildfires. Urban dwellers don’t think about this often enough, but the trees that surround our neighborhoods and blanket our rolling hills are a conflagration just waiting for an igniting spark—a careless smoker, a powerline arc, a bolt of lightning. It wouldn’t take much to set things off.
I parked in the driveway and got out, carrying the lunch takeout boxes in a plastic sack. Maggie’s condo is attractive but small, nothing like the larger, more comfortable home in which she raised Lyle and Chelsea and which had been swallowed by the divorce. When Maggie moved in, she landscaped it with xeriscape plants from the garden center—yuccas, salvia, lavender, santolina, and a large agave in an attractive pea gravel mulch, along with a graceful desert willow.
And beside the drive was a glorious pride-of-Barbados in full bloom, flaunting its frilly orange-and-yellow blossoms. Every time I see this plant—a traditional abortifacient—I remember something I read years ago, written by Maria Merian, a seventeenth-century botanical illustrator who lived and worked in Barbados: “The Indians, who are not treated well by their Dutch masters, use the seeds of this plant to abort their children, so that their children will not become slaves like they are. They told me this themselves.” At the time, of course, an abortion denied valuable human property to the slave’s owners, so the plant was a powerful defense of women’s bodies and a potent tool of revenge—which meant that its use had to be a carefully guarded secret.
When Maggie answered the door, she was wearing blue scrub bottoms and a loose purple knit top. Her spiky green-tipped hair was standing straight up, as if she had been running her fingers through it. Her eyes were red and puffy, and she was barefoot.
She said, “Thank you for coming, China,” and burst into noisy tears. I put down my bag and pulled her into my arms, rubbing her back and making soothing noises.
“It was bad enough to hear that Carl had committed suicide,” she sobbed against my shoulder. “But murder is so much worse. I managed not to cry in front of Chief Dawson, but now I can’t stop. Who could have done such a terrible thing? And why? Carl caused trouble for a lot of people. But he didn’t deserve to be shot!”
I wanted to say that nobody, ever, deserved to be shot. But I only murmured, “I know, I know, dear.” And rubbed a little harder.
A few minutes later, we were in the kitchen. Housekeeping has never been Maggie’s strong suit. Dishes from the night before were stacked in the sink, and the table in front of the large kitchen window still bore the remains of breakfast: bowls of half-finished oatmeal, empty juice glasses, a puddle of spilled milk, a plate of cold toast.
But the fluorescent-lit plant stand beside the table was bright with several pots of blooming orchids, set in a gravel-filled tray. One of the orchids was growing on a sphagnum-covered branch in its own private terrarium, a domed glass container about eighteen inches high, fitted onto a dark plastic base. Inside the terrarium was a small thermometer that registered both the temperature, 74 degrees, and the humidity, 85 percent. I bent over for a closer look at the plants, noticing that the exotic scent of their flowers masked the unmistakable perfume of the kitty box in the corner. The kitty, Maggie said, was with Chelsea, who was having a nap. Hearing that her father had been murdered had thrown her into another tailspin. Lyle had come home from A&M to help Maggie deal with the details. But he had gone out on an errand, so it was just Maggie and me for lunch.
I put the boxes on the kitchen counter, opened the soup containers, and set one of them in the microwave while Maggie piled the breakfast dishes in the sink and cleaned off the table. She had dried her tears, although there was still an occasional hiccup. She brightened when she saw the carrot cake.
“Oh, that’s lovely!” she said, trying to sound normal. “I have some vanilla ice cream we can use for topping. You know, since your workshop on vanilla that I came to last year, I always look for ice cream that has real vanilla in it. I try to buy Ben and Jerry’s, because they work with Fair Trade vanilla farmers.”
I was glad that our segment on Fair Trade vanilla had made an impression, but that wasn’t why I had come. I said, “Do you want to talk about your visit with Sheila Dawson this morning?”
Maggie sighed heavily. “Honestly, China, I just couldn’t believe what she was telling me—that Carl was murdered, I mean. I kept thinking there had to be some mistake. But the chief obviously knew what she was talking about. And she was very professional.” She set out a pair of plates, bowls, and glasses on the table. “Even though she is also very pregnant. I have to say that it felt a little weird to be talking to a pregnant cop.”
I took the first soup container out of the microwave and put the second in. “Did she have any information about how he died? New information, I mean. From the autopsy report, maybe?”
“Well, she said that the stippling—whatever that is—showed that the gun wasn’t close to his head.” Maggie arranged tableware and put folded paper towels, in lieu of napkins, beside our plates. “And that his hands were clean, although I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean, either.”
I guessed that Maggie didn’t watch CSI. “If his hands don’t show traces of powder residue, it means that he couldn’t have fired the gun. And if there’s no stippling on the skin—sometimes called tattooing—the gun was probably more than an arm’s length away.” I slid the slices of quiche onto our plates and added the salad. “Are you sure you’re okay talking about this?”
“More or less.” Maggie took a pitcher of iced tea out of the fridge and filled our glasses. “It . . . it doesn’t seem real. I mean, it’s like we’re talking about some dead guy in a movie, not about my husband.” She pulled up a chair and sat down. “My ex-husband.” There was a moment’s silence, and when she spoke, her voice broke. “My kids’ father. Somebody I used to love. After all that’s happened, it’s sometimes hard to remember I loved him. But I did. Once.”
“I know,” I said quietly. I took the second soup container out of the microwave, filled the second bowl, and put both bowls on the table, along with our quiche and carrot cake, waiting for their topping of vanilla ice cream. I joined her at the table, and we picked up our spoons and began on our soup.
“Did the chief tell you what time he was killed?” I asked.
“Sunday night between eight o’clock and midnight.” She looked at me. Her brown eyebrows were a hard, straight line across her forehead. She wanted to know where I was during that time.”
“Well, did you tell her?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” she countered. “It’s no big secret. I was right here in this house, with Chelsea, where I always am at that hour of the night. It’s not like I have a glittering social life, you know. I don’t go out partying or dancing.” She sighed. “I don’t even have a boyfriend, damn it.”
“Do you and Chelsea sleep in the same bed?” I asked. “In the same room?”
“Of course not.” She bent over her soup. “Chelsea’s bedroom is downstairs, and mine is up. I’m a pretty light sleeper, but Chelsea sleeps like a stone. With her door closed.” A pause, and then a very quiet, “Oh,” as she understood the implications of what she had just said. She looked up at me with a twist of her mouth. “Well, there’s nothing I can do about that. The chief will either believe me or she won’t.”
I let the silence lengthen while I began on my quiche, considering how I should ask the question that was bothering me. Finally, I decided that it was better to come straight out with it. “I heard that somebody broke into Dr. Fairlee’s greenhouse last week and stole a rare orchid. Did the chief ask you about that, too?”
“You heard about that?” Maggie fiddled with her spoon, not looking up. “Yes, she asked.”
No surprise there. “And you told her . . . what?”
She pushed her soup bowl away and reached for her quiche. “What was I supposed to tell her?”
“The truth, I hope.” I met her eyes, challenging her. “Did you?”
“Of course I did,” she snapped. “Why would I steal one of Carl’s orchids? Don’t I already have enough of the damned things?”
I got up from my chair, took the terrarium from the plant stand, and set it on the table between us. The spindly plant under the glass dome boasted a single, weird-looking bloom. The three pink-striped, claw-tipped sepals were clustered around a wine-purple center that looked remarkably like the face of a devil with two pink eyes and pointed purple ears. It was the plant Beverly Selms had described to me. The demon orchid.
Maggie bit her lip.
Bluntly, I asked, “Is this the orchid you took from your ex-husband’s greenhouse?”
No answer.
“Because if it is,” I went on, “you have to tell the police. I’m saying this as a friend, Mags, but a lawyer would say the very same thing. If the cops discover that you’ve stolen the orchid and lied about it, they will assume that you’re lying about your alibi for Sunday night.” I paused. “Are you?”
She leaned forward, her eyes intent on mine. “No, I’m not, China. I was right here with Chelsea, all night. Caitie is the same age—you wouldn’t leave her in the house alone at night, and I wouldn’t either. And I didn’t kill Carl. There were many times when I hated him and wished him dead, but there were still times when I . . . I loved him. And he was my kids’ father.” Her voice was sharp and fierce. “I didn’t kill him! And I don’t know who did, damn it! If I knew, I’d tell you. I’d tell the cops. I’d scream it from the rooftops.”
I believed her. But I wasn’t letting her off the hook. “Did you take the orchid?”
Her eyes went to the plant on the table and her shoulders slumped. “Yes. Telipogon diabolicus. I took the damn thing. Chelsea was staying with Carl that night, so I could come and go as I pleased. He never worked in his greenhouse on weekends when he had his daughter with him.”
“Did you tell the chief that you took it?”
“No.” She let out a long, trembling breath. “What made you think it was me?”
I took a bite of my quiche. “Because you were identified. Somebody saw you in the Plant Sciences building the night the orchid was stolen.”
“Somebody saw me?” She dropped her fork with a clatter. “Who?” Her voice quavered and she took a deep breath. “Who says they saw me? Was it the girl?”
“The girl?”
“That sweet young thing Carl has been sleeping with. Jennifer. Dr. Haley’s daughter.” She sighed. “She thought he was in love with her, but he was only screwing her to piss her father off, and everybody in the department knew it. Everybody except Jennifer.”
I didn’t want to let on that Jennifer was news to me, so I nodded and kept on eating. Maggie took my nod as encouragement to continue. She had clearly been storing up enough bitterness to fuel a big bonfire, and she was ready to torch it.
“Jennifer wasn’t the first one, either, you know.” She drew a ragged breath. “Those field trips to Veracruz to study vanilla?” Her voice hardened. “Wine, some great Mexican food, exotic settings—worked every time. He would pick the one he wanted, seduce her, and when they got back to campus, he and the girl would hook up for a month or two. After that, he was on to somebody new. That was the man I was married to, China. I should have divorced him a decade ago.”
“Yikes,” I muttered. I finished my quiche and pushed the plate away. “All that was going on when I went on that field trip to Veracruz? I didn’t have a clue.”
“That’s because you went for the vanilla,” Maggie said in a meaningful tone. “You weren’t interested in sleeping with the professor.”
“True,” I agreed uncomfortably. “Definitely true.” Still, why hadn’t I noticed? I’m usually a pretty observant person. But perhaps none of the women interested him. Or maybe he was watching his step because he knew I was a friend of Maggie’s, or because of the accident that had killed Shelley Harmon and drawn so much negative attention to his field trips.
Maggie frowned. “We’ve gotten off the subject. Was it Jennifer Haley who saw me in the building the night the orchid was stolen? She hangs out there a lot. And how in the world did you find out about it? Do the police know?”
“Yes, the police know,” I said. I wasn’t going to tell her that Logan Gardner had told Dan Selms and that Selms had told the cops—that would just produce another harsh outburst. “I can’t tell you who saw you, Maggie. The bottom line is that you were seen, and the chief knows it. If she decides that there’s a connection between the theft and the murder, she will get a warrant to search your house and your greenhouses for the orchid.”
I touched the demon orchid’s bloom. “For this orchid. You need to come clean with them before that happens.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Come clean?”
“Yes. If you cooperate with the police and tell them what you did and why, they may be less likely to attempt to connect the theft and the murder.” I paused. “Maybe it’ll help if you tell me why you took it.” That’s a tactic her lawyer would use, if she had one. If she could put it into words now, she would find it easier to tell the police later.
“It’s . . . complicated.” She looked down at her hands.
“I’m sure.” I prompted her. “You probably had several reasons, some better than others.”
She touched the orchid. “I know it sounds petty, but I took the Telipogon because I knew it mattered to Carl. Somebody gave it to him, and he was thrilled with it. I wanted to hurt him. To get even for taking my Dendrobium. For forcing the sale of the house. For being such a creepy jerk about those students. For everything.”
“That’s not petty,” I said.
She paused, took a breath, and came up with more. “I also took it to remind him that if I wanted to, I could get him into a helluva lot of trouble with CITES.” She narrowed her eyes and her voice was hard. “And remind both of us that I wasn’t on the short end of the stick all the time.”
I was surprised. “Sounds like you wanted him to know you took it.”
“Of course I wanted him to know.” Her eyes flickered defiantly. “I told him, didn’t I?”
