Blood Orange: A China Bayles Mystery by Susan Wittig Albert

Author:Susan Wittig Albert [Albert, Susan Wittig]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Literature & Fiction, United States, Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, Amateur Sleuths, Cozy, Women Sleuths, Mystery
ISBN: 9780425280003
Amazon: B011IUSTP8
Barnesnoble: B011IUSTP8
Goodreads: 25893982
Publisher: Berkley
Published: 2016-04-05T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter Ten

Long before the Spanish arrived in Mexico in 1521, the Aztecs had produced a fermented beverage from the heart of the blue agave (Agave tequilana). When the Spanish conquistadors ran out of the brandy they had brought with them, they began to drink tequila—and liked it even better. Tequila is traditionally produced in and around the Mexican state of Jalisco, where agave, a succulent, thrives in the area’s volcanic soil and dry, high-altitude climate. The plant, which has fleshy, spiky leaves, is harvested at maturity (eight to twelve years). The large heart (piña) of the plant is peeled, roasted, and crushed, and its sap is fermented and distilled twice to produce tequila.

China Bayles

“Botanical Drinkables”

Pecan Springs Enterprise

Charlie’s office is in an older section of Pecan Springs, where the houses have been turned into professional office space and the lawns have been replaced by an attractive xeriscape of Southwestern native shrubs, grasses, yuccas, agaves, and wildflowers that tolerate heat and don’t need much water—a big issue in Central Texas, where we are learning to live with drought and climate change. His office is in a small gray house with blue shutters, set well back from the street under a couple of large live oak trees, with a cobbled parking area off to one side. By the time I arrived, Charlie’s old truck was the only one in the small lot. I pulled up next to it and went inside.

Soberly dressed in a black polyester suit and a tailored white blouse, Rosie was sitting at her desk with her purse on her lap, ready to leave for the night. She stood, pointed me in the direction of Charlie’s backroom office, and announced that she was locking up.

She was stern. “He has only thirty minutes. I hope he won’t be late for his Austin appointment.”

“I understand,” I said meekly. “We’ll make it a quickie.”

Charlie was sitting at his desk, staring at his computer monitor, a cigarette dangling from one corner of his mouth and an empty shot glass at his elbow.

Most lawyers I know are neatniks, not eager for clients to see stacks of files and mounds of loose paper. Or they hire neatnik secretaries, who are instructed to step in and tidy up the desk the minute the boss leaves for court or lunch or handball. Not so Charlie. His secretaries are forbidden to touch his desk under pain of excommunication, and the top surface is always buried beneath mounds of papers, briefs, folders, books, and the relics of various takeout meals and snacks. A bottle of his favorite tequila lives in his bottom drawer.

“Ah, China.” He stubbed out his cigarette in an overflowing ashtray. “Punctual as always.”

“I was warned,” I said.

“No doubt,” he replied drily. “Bar’s open.” He opened the drawer, took out a bottle of Siete Leguas and tipped it into his shot glass, then pulled out another glass for me. “Join me in a drink?”

“No thanks.” I’m partial to a good tequila sunrise but it’s easy for me to say no to straight tequila.

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