Rosemary Remembered by Susan Wittig Albert Page B
Authors: Susan Wittig Albert
Tags: Mystery
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ripped beyond repair, and neither of us knew it yet.
The shop is closed on Mondays. I pulled on shorts and an old tee and went down to the kitchen to make coffee, noticing that the thermometer on the porch already registered eighty degrees. The sky was a metallic blue and the sun a golden coin above a copper horizon. I turned on the ceiling fan. The day was going to be another scorcher.
Brian came down a few minutes later, wearing a sullen look on his face and his iguana, Einstein, on his shoulder. Without saying a word he submerged a shredded wheat biscuit in a bowl of milk, and disappeared up the stairs with the bowl, a banana, and the dead mouse. The mouse, presumably, would be breakfast for one of his snakes. Ivan the Hairible, a furry black tarantula, would get part of the banana. I had never asked what Einstein ate.
A little later, McQuaid came downstairs, gritty-eyed and unshaven. He gave me a curt nod that I returned equally curtly, and went out to the shop. I took orange juice out of the refrigerator, and three eggs. I was getting out the skillet when Harold, of Harold's Air-Conditioning and Refrigeration, called to ask what time he was supposed to meet me at the shop. We agreed on eleven, and
I went back to the eggs. I'd broken two into a bowl and was holding the third when the phone rang again.
"They've found the gun," Sheila said without preamble.
"No shit," I said, and immediately thought about On-dine and La Que Sabe.
"No shit." Sheila was grim. "You'll never guess who it belongs to."
I hate youll-never-guess games, even when they're played by my friends. "Who?" "Jeff Clark." I dropped the third egg.
Chapter Six
Raspberry leaves have a long tradition of use in pregnancy to strengthen and tone the tissue of the womb, assisting contractions and checking any haemorrhage during labour.
David Hoffman The Holistic Herbal
"Jeff Clark?" I repeated, stunned. Egg yolk was dripping off the edge of the counter.
"Yeah," Sheila said. "Ain't that a stunner?"
McQuaid, his tee shirt already sweaty, came into the kitchen and began to rummage in the cupboard beside the refrigerator. "I'm looking for the cleaning fluid," he said. "Do you know where it is?"
I held up the phone. "It's Sheila. They found the gun that killed Rosemary."
McQuaid's head snapped up. "All right," he said. "Where'd they find it?"
"Where'd they find it?" I said, into the phone.
"By the river, under the 1-35 bridge. A couple of guys were bank-fishing. Around midnight, one of them relieved himself in the bushes. He peed on it."
"Under the 1-35 bridge," I repeated to McQuaid.
"Where's the cordless?" McQuaid asked, and I pointed to the dining room. He came back with the phone to his ear, speaking into it. "What's this about a gun?"
"A couple of fishermen found it," she said. "They called Bubba. He figures it was tossed off the bridge, maybe out of a car window, with the idea that it would land in the river. He recognized it right away."
"Recognized it?" McQuaid was startled.
"Yeah," Sheila said. "Apparently you don't forget this gun, once you've see it. A nickle-plated Smith & Wesson .38 with an elaborate monogram carved into a rosewood grip. The initials are C. C."
"Damn," McQuaid said under his breath.
"Those aren't Jeff Clark's initials," I said.
"No," McQuaid said. "They're his father's initials: Charles Clark."
"Right," Sheila said. "Bubba recognized the gun because Big Chuck shot an armed robber at the hotel some years ago, and he impounded it for a while."
"Who says it's the murder weapon?" McQuaid asked. "If it was found at midnight, they haven't run ballistics yet."
"The chief himself took it up to DPS in Austin," Sheila said. "At six this morning. He dragged somebody out of bed. It's the gun that killed Rosemary, all right."
We were all three silent. I was thinking about Ondine and La Que Sabe and wondering how the hell she knew. McQuaid's face was working. I knew he was thinking about Jeff.
"Prints?" he asked
The shop is closed on Mondays. I pulled on shorts and an old tee and went down to the kitchen to make coffee, noticing that the thermometer on the porch already registered eighty degrees. The sky was a metallic blue and the sun a golden coin above a copper horizon. I turned on the ceiling fan. The day was going to be another scorcher.
Brian came down a few minutes later, wearing a sullen look on his face and his iguana, Einstein, on his shoulder. Without saying a word he submerged a shredded wheat biscuit in a bowl of milk, and disappeared up the stairs with the bowl, a banana, and the dead mouse. The mouse, presumably, would be breakfast for one of his snakes. Ivan the Hairible, a furry black tarantula, would get part of the banana. I had never asked what Einstein ate.
A little later, McQuaid came downstairs, gritty-eyed and unshaven. He gave me a curt nod that I returned equally curtly, and went out to the shop. I took orange juice out of the refrigerator, and three eggs. I was getting out the skillet when Harold, of Harold's Air-Conditioning and Refrigeration, called to ask what time he was supposed to meet me at the shop. We agreed on eleven, and
I went back to the eggs. I'd broken two into a bowl and was holding the third when the phone rang again.
"They've found the gun," Sheila said without preamble.
"No shit," I said, and immediately thought about On-dine and La Que Sabe.
"No shit." Sheila was grim. "You'll never guess who it belongs to."
I hate youll-never-guess games, even when they're played by my friends. "Who?" "Jeff Clark." I dropped the third egg.
Chapter Six
Raspberry leaves have a long tradition of use in pregnancy to strengthen and tone the tissue of the womb, assisting contractions and checking any haemorrhage during labour.
David Hoffman The Holistic Herbal
"Jeff Clark?" I repeated, stunned. Egg yolk was dripping off the edge of the counter.
"Yeah," Sheila said. "Ain't that a stunner?"
McQuaid, his tee shirt already sweaty, came into the kitchen and began to rummage in the cupboard beside the refrigerator. "I'm looking for the cleaning fluid," he said. "Do you know where it is?"
I held up the phone. "It's Sheila. They found the gun that killed Rosemary."
McQuaid's head snapped up. "All right," he said. "Where'd they find it?"
"Where'd they find it?" I said, into the phone.
"By the river, under the 1-35 bridge. A couple of guys were bank-fishing. Around midnight, one of them relieved himself in the bushes. He peed on it."
"Under the 1-35 bridge," I repeated to McQuaid.
"Where's the cordless?" McQuaid asked, and I pointed to the dining room. He came back with the phone to his ear, speaking into it. "What's this about a gun?"
"A couple of fishermen found it," she said. "They called Bubba. He figures it was tossed off the bridge, maybe out of a car window, with the idea that it would land in the river. He recognized it right away."
"Recognized it?" McQuaid was startled.
"Yeah," Sheila said. "Apparently you don't forget this gun, once you've see it. A nickle-plated Smith & Wesson .38 with an elaborate monogram carved into a rosewood grip. The initials are C. C."
"Damn," McQuaid said under his breath.
"Those aren't Jeff Clark's initials," I said.
"No," McQuaid said. "They're his father's initials: Charles Clark."
"Right," Sheila said. "Bubba recognized the gun because Big Chuck shot an armed robber at the hotel some years ago, and he impounded it for a while."
"Who says it's the murder weapon?" McQuaid asked. "If it was found at midnight, they haven't run ballistics yet."
"The chief himself took it up to DPS in Austin," Sheila said. "At six this morning. He dragged somebody out of bed. It's the gun that killed Rosemary, all right."
We were all three silent. I was thinking about Ondine and La Que Sabe and wondering how the hell she knew. McQuaid's face was working. I knew he was thinking about Jeff.
"Prints?" he asked
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