Witches' Bane (18 page)

Leatha turned and shook her head. “Just call back. The woman said it was too complicated to put into a message. Anyway, she had something she wanted to ask you.”

I sat behind the counter and dialed the New Orleans D.A.’s office. Busy. A minute later, I tried again. Still busy. I’d just put the phone down when it rang. It was Miss Texas. Frostily, she put Charlie through.

“I was thinkin’ that maybe Ruby might like a little cheerin’ up tonight,” he said, “seein’s how her friend Drake’s got himself locked in the pokey. Think maybe I ought to take her out to dinner?”

“Sounds like a reasonable thing to do. When she comes in I’ll—”

The door to the Cave opened. “I’m back,” Ruby said. “Anything new?”

I held out the receiver. “Charlie Lipman wants to ask you a question.”

Ruby took it. “Hi, Charlie.” There was a pause. “Well, I don’t know,” she said doubtfully. “Shannon came down from Austin, and we were planning to—” Another pause, and some lip-biting. Then, decisively, “On second thought, Charlie, that sounds like fun. I’m sure Shannon would enjoy it. Yes, we’ll see you at seven. Thanks.” She handed me the receiver with a suspicious look. “Did you set that up?”

“Would I do something underhanded like that?” I hung up the phone. “I’m a little surprised that you decided to go.”

She gave me a hard stare. “You and Shannon think I’m a flake, don’t you.” It wasn’t a question. “A real looney-tune.”

“Well—” I dragged it out.

“Don’t give me a hard time, China. Shannon told me you two had a serious talk about me. About how weird I am.”

“It was mostly Shannon who talked. She said she was worried and wanted to know what we should do. I suggested locking you in the closet and dropping the key in the river, but since that didn’t seem practical—”

“—you sicced Charlie on me.”

“I didn’t. It was entirely his own idea. Anyway, you could have said no.” I looked at her. “Why didn’t you?”

“Because I don’t feel right about Andrew seeing Sybil without telling me,” Ruby said with dignity. “We didn’t have an exclusive arrangement or anything like that. But I’m old-fashioned. I like to know who else is sleeping with the man I’m sleeping with, even if I am having safe sex. It’s the principle of the thing.”

“I take it you talked to Andrew this morning.”

Ruby nodded glumly.

“Did he say they were sleeping together?”

“Not exactly. But he didn’t say they weren’t. My right brain still doesn’t believe he killed her, but my left brain isn’t so sure anymore. You said it yourself, China. He was at the scene of the crime, and maybe he had a motive, after all.” She stopped, frowning. “Although I just can’t see him trashing out my store and stealing my knife. I can’t believe he’d want to incriminate me that way.”

“You’re not incriminated if your knife was stolen,” I pointed out. “You’d hardly trash your own store.”

“Whose side are you on?”

“Yours.”

Ruby sighed. “It’s all very confusing. Anyway, if Andrew’s cleared, maybe I’ll see him again. I’ll decide that when the time comes. In the meantime—” She lifted her chin with a frosty smile. “In the meantime, I’ll go out with whomever I please, even Charlie Lipman. And you and my wacko daughter can stop plotting to save me from myself. It’s not necessary.”

“We weren’t plotting.” I didn’t want to show how relieved I was that she was being sensible about Andrew. At the same time, though, I felt a kind of perverse regret. Ruby gave so much of her self in love, was so beautifully open, so passionate. I was sorry to see her close herself off, be careful, be cool. And I couldn’t help thinking that Andrew had lost something important when he lost her unquestioning support. Who but Ruby could believe so uncompromisingly in his innocence? I looked at her. “What else have you been up to today?”

She tossed her head. “Oh, just talking to a few people on the phone, doing a little research.”

“Research? If you’ve decided to cool it on Andrew, why are you digging into—”

Ruby leaned forward and put both elbows on the counter. “I’ve been digging into the Reverend. I found out that he went to prison for six months for stealing that car in Abilene. After that, he went to Dallas and got religion.”

“How’d you find that out?”

“My brother-in-law Raymond has a sister, Raynelle, who lives in Abilene. It turns out Raynelle and Bob Godwin went to school together. She knows a lot about Billy Lee. She dated his cousin Harpo.”

I was trying to keep it straight. “Raynelle kept track of Billy Lee after he left Abilene?”

“Raynelle didn’t,” Ruby said, “but Harpo did. See, I called Raymond, who gave me Raynelle’s number. Then I called Raynelle and she called Harpo. It took a little while, but she finally tracked him down through his mother. He raises ostriches over around Brownwood. Isn’t that interesting? I thought ostriches lived in Australia.”

“Africa, actually.”

“Oh, really? Maybe it’s emus that come from Australia. Anyway, Harpo raises them for the meat. He says they don’t have any cholesterol.”

I thought of the toll charges Ruby must have rung up to discover the virtues of ostrich meat. “So what else did you find out about the Reverend?”

“Well, after he got saved in Dallas, he went to work for Harvey Haines, that big TV evangelist who raised all those millions of dollars from sweet little old lathes who sent in prayer requests. I guess that’s where Billy Lee leamed how to preach.” She paused, waiting for my reaction.

“Why is that interesting?”

“Haines is in jail, isn’t he? For fraud?”

“That’s what I heard. But I don’t see the connection.”

Ruby was patient. “If Billy Lee learned his trade from Harvey Haines, he could very well have learned a trick or two about how to take people’s money.”

“Ruby,” I said cautiously, “exactly where are you going with this line of inquiry?”

Ruby was nettled. “Hell, I don’t know. I just know that Bubba’s not making any progress on finding out who trashed my store and stole my knife, and I somehow can’t believe it was Andrew. I still think Billy Lee had something to do with it. Anyway, he got a girl pregnant back in Abilene and did time for stealing a car. That’s enough ammunition right there to stop him from printing lies about us in his newspaper. Isn’t it?” She put her hands on her hips. “Well, isn’t it?”

“I just hope the Reverend’s cousin doesn’t call him up and ask him why some pushy person named Ruby Wilcox is digging around in his past.”

“Are you kidding?” Ruby asked, incredulous. “V. I. Warshawski never gives anybody her real name. Harpo thinks I’m B. J. Jones, and Billy Lee and I went to school together.” She looked at me. “So how about you? What’d you find out from New Orleans?”

“Nothing from the D.A.’s office yet,” I said, “but I found out that—” I was about to tell her about Jerri’s affair with C.W. and the note Sybil had left her husband when Laurel Wiley opened the connecting door and interrupted us.

“Ruby,” she said, “Shannon’s on the phone. Do you want to take it, or shall I have her call back?”

“I’ll take it,” Ruby said. “I want to tell her we’ve got a date tonight. See you later, China,” she tossed over her shoulder.

When she had gone, I picked up the phone again. This time, I got through to Joyce.

“China!” she boomed. Joyce is a bulky woman, strong-willed and confident, with a voice that projects all the way to the back of the courtroom, even when she whispers. It could almost carry from New Orleans to Pecan Springs. “Hey, how’re you and your plants doing over there? Working hard?”

I held the receiver an inch from my ear. “I don’t know about the plants, but I quit every day at five.”

“Oh, yeah? You’ve turned over a new leaf.” She laughed uproariously. “I understand you’re interested in Andrew Drake. He a client?”

“A friend of a friend,” I said. “What’ve you got?”

“Not a lot. The case was closed three years ago. Seems that Drake borrowed thirty thousand dollars from some little old lady named Georgia Forgette. She lived uptown, east side of Audubon Park.
He
claimed it was a loan, anyway. She claimed fraud. But she died before the case got to the grand jury. End of story.”

I’d already heard me broad-brush version. I needed the details. “What’d she die of?”

Joyce’s chair creaked. “Funny you should ask. Unfortunately, I don’t have an answer. I didn’t have one for somebody named Blackwell, either, when he called yesterday. You know him?”

“Yes. Why don’t you have an answer?”

Joyce’s weariness was audible. “Because the file isn’t complete. The autopsy report’s missing. So are several pages of follow-up.”

My skin prickled. “Somebody lost an
autopsy report!
How’d that happen?”

“Beats the hell out of me. It wasn’t my case. Anyway, I told Blackwell I’d get the Department of Health to send us a copy of the death certificate, and one to him, and I’ve queried the coroner’s office about the autopsy report. But they installed a new mainframe over in Health, and everything’s in delay mode. The coroner ain’t too swift, either. I’ll get back to you as quick as I’ve got something.”

“Judging from the file, what’s your best guess?”

“Judging from the file, all I can say is that Drake was released. But maybe I’d better add that while we do plenty of dumb things around here, we don’t usually let murderers skinny out.”

I chuckled. “Want to bet?”

“Bet your sweet ass I wouldn’t,” Joyce said cheerfully. There was the sound of papers rustling. “Hey, you want to do some personal legwork, here’s a little something for you. I didn’t spot this when I talked to the sheriff, so it’s an exclusive. The dead woman’s older sister lived with her at the time of the alleged crime. There’s a note here says she now lives in Texas. Some town called Fredericksburg. Your neck of the woods?”

“About eighty miles.” I picked up a pencil. “Do you have a name?”

“Virginia Forgette, 802 Dallas Street, age sixty-eight at the time of the alleged crime. It might be worm talking to her. Or you can wait until the coroner figures things out.”

I jotted down the information. It might indeed be worth talking to Virginia Forgette. Of course, it wouldn’t prove anything about Sybil’s death, one way or another. But if Virginia Forgette accused Andrew of murdering her sister, it’d be one more indication that Blackie was barking up the right tree.

Joyce’s chair creaked again, as if she were leaning back. “Hey, I hear from Linda Corbey that you’re hanging out with some hunka-hunka ex-cop. Any truth to the rumor?”

I could hardly deny it, since Linda had taken McQuaid and me to dinner when she’d been in Austin a while back. “Some,” I admitted. ‘The hunka-hunka part, anyway.”

Joyce sighed gustily. “Boy, some people have all the luck. Not only did you quit before the bear got you, but you grabbed the door prize on the way out. When are you getting married?”

“I’m not.”

She was intrigued. “Oh, yeah? How come? The way Linda tells it, he’s got it all. Good looks, sex appeal, brains.”

“Yeah, sure. But that doesn’t mean I ought to marry him.”

Joyce went on as if she hadn’t heard me. “My assistant got married last month. Ripe old age of forty-five. First time, too, so I guess there’s hope for the rest of us. Guy she married lives in Atlanta. They’re commuting weekends to keep love alive.” She chuckled. “I’ve been thinking maybe I’d take an hour or two off to look for the right man.” She laughed again, louder, to let me know she was making a joke, and that she was perfectly okay single. But there was something about her laugh that made me think she wasn’t perfectly okay. She’d paid a lot of dues to get where she was. Maybe she was looking at what she’d bought and counting what it cost.

I was closing for the day when McQuaid came in, looking good, sexy, smart, and exasperated.

I pushed the plant rack into the corner. “What’s wrong?”

“Patterson,” he growled.

“What’s he done now?”

McQuaid paced up and down. “It’s what he
hasn‘t
done. I asked him three months ago to set up the rooms and the equipment for this conference, and do you think he did it? Hell, no. He’s been sitting with his thumb up his ass for three months, and this morning he tells me I have to do it. It took all day to fill out the paperwork, walk it through, get everything cleared—in addition to teaching two classes. Then, come to find out, somebody else is using the taping equipment, so I have to rent it, which will eat a big hole in the conference budget.” He made a disgusted noise. “Jesus, what a twerp. I really think the guy’s losing his grip.”

I started clearing the register. “After all that, I think you deserve a day off. You’re not teaching tomorrow, are you?”

“Nope. But I’ve got a lot to do. The conference starts Thursday night and—”

“Blow it off. Bag it. Tell the twerp you’ve been called out of town on an important investigation. Let him see what it’s like when you’re not there to say yessir.”

McQuaid stopped pacing. “An investigation?”

“Yeah. Tell him you have to go to Fredericksburg to ask a lady whether Andrew Drake murdered her sister.”

CHAPTER
14

“You’ll be gone again tomorrow?” Leatha asked as we finished eating the chicken chalupas I’d thrown together for dinner. Chalupas make a fast meal—cooked chicken, mashed avocado, cheese, lettuce, tomatoes, and chiles, piled onto a fried corn tortilla. Instead of sour cream, I use a spoonful of low-fat cottage cheese on top.

“Do you mind?” I asked. It was a pointless question, actually. I was going, whether she minded or not. And I wasn’t going for Ruby, either, who seemed to have stepped back from her involvement with Andrew. I was going because I was tantalized by the question of what had happened in New Orleans three years ago, and whether it had anything to do with Sybil’s murder. I frowned, thinking I should call Ruby and tell her about what Joyce had said. But she was out with Charlie, and anyway, I didn’t want to. Ruby had had enough bad news. Let her have an evening of fun.

Leatha pushed her plate back, a serious look on her face. ‘To tell the truth, I feel like a fifth wheel, China. I like helpin’ out in the shop, but the rest of the time ... I feel like you’d rather be doin’ almost anything else but talk to me.”

I wished I could deny it, but I couldn’t. I’d worked hard to build a wall between us, and tearing it down wasn’t going to be the job of a minute or two. Hugs, kisses, the past is forgotten, the old wounds forgiven—forget it. In fact, I didn’t think it could be done at all. I could never be the daughter she dreamed of, anymore than she could be the mother I had needed. We’d have to live with the givenness of our lives and get along as best we could.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Maybe—”

She was quick to pick it up. “Maybe I should go back to Houston? That’s probably a good idea.” She brushed a shred of lettuce off her pale blue lambswool sweater. “But first I have to say somethin’.”

“What is it?” I avoided looking at her. I might feel guilty if she left, but at least there wouldn’t be any more of these uncomfortable conversations. And she had Sara, the prospective stepdaughter, who sounded like a viable substitute for me. Under a thin veneer of natural jealousy, there was a lot of relief. Maybe Sara would do for her what I couldn’t.

She put down her napkin and laced her fingers under her chin, intently determined. “The other day, I said you’re a lot like your daddy. It wasn’t a compliment.”

That got me. “Oh?”

“I probably wouldn’t be sayin’ this on my own, but Marietta thinks I should just get everythin’ off my chest at once, and then we can go from there. Dr. Neely thought so too. She said if I had anythin’ to say to you, I should just say it.”

“Well, then,
say
it.” I felt the old bitterness coming up, acid in the back of my throat. Oddly, it felt good. It had been a real strain, dealing with a reformed Leatha. It was a relief to feel angry.

“Your father was an impatient man who didn’t like to fool with people. He never wanted to be bothered with anybody else’s problems—unless he was gettin’ paid to do it in court, of course. When it was part of his job, he could be just as sweet as the next one. But as far as his personal life went ... well, he just never could connect. With his mother, maybe, but not with me. Not even with you.” She played with the string of blue beads that exactly matched her sweater. “Of course, back then I didn’t know any better. I was glad for what little I got and thought I ought to be glad for that much. But now I realize how hard it must have been for you.”

I frowned. It felt very strange, listening to my mother rehash our psychological history, giving the same explanations I’d often given to myself. Next thing you know, she’d be telling me I ought to—

“That’s why,” she said, “I really think it’d be a help if you got some therapy.”

“Therapy!”
I exploded.
“You’re
telling
me
to get therapy?”

“Why not? What’s so bad about gettin’ help when you need it?” She leaned forward and put her hand on my arm. “You’re what they call an adult child, China. That’s the term people use to describe—”

“I know what it means,” I said crossly. “And I don’t need therapy. I’m doing just fine. I dropped out of the rat race, I’ve got a good business, friends—”

“China, China.” Her voice was mild, her eyes pitying. “It’s nice that you’re not workin’ as hard as your father anymore. It’s nice that you’re tryin’ to slow down. But don’t you think it’d be even nicer if you could have a real relationship?”

“I
have
a real relationship.” I kept my voice level. “Two of them. There’s Ruby. And McQuaid. Isn’t that real enough for you?”

“Yes, but is it a
growing
relationship?” she asked. She leaned forward, her eyes as bright as one of the Reverend’s flock. “To be in a real relationship means to make room in your life for the other person, China, even if you have to give a bit. Your daddy never could an’ you’re so much like—”

I dropped the last of my chalupa on the plate. I couldn’t decide which was worse, a mother addicted to booze or to therapy. “Thanks for the advice, Leatha. I’ll think about it.”

Leatha looked at me. Then she looked at her watch. “If I threw my things in my suitcase and left right now, I could be back in Houston by eleven.” Her tone was light, carefully casual. “Sam called just before dinner. He got in today, unexpectedly. He’s at the apartment.”

I matched her tone. “Really? I know you’d hate to miss a chance to be with—”

“Of course,” she said thoughtfully, giving me another chance, “he doesn’t like me to drive at night.”

“But you’d be taking the Interstate all the way,” I said, refusing it. “I mean, there’s really no—”

Leatha laughed. “I know. Aren’t men just
terrible!
Sam’s such an old fogey about my drivin’.” She pushed back her chair and stood up. “I believe I will go back tonight, China. Can you find somebody to help in the store tomorrow?”

I stood up too. “Of course. And please don’t bother about the dishes. I’ll do them.”

Leatha paused, wanting to get in one last word. “Your friend Mike is an awfully nice person, China, and he’s got such a
sweet
little boy. I hope you marry him.”

That tore it. “Why don’t
you
marry him, if you think he’s so great?” I shouted.

“Where’s your mom?” McQuaid asked when he came the next morning to pick me up. “Is she minding the shop?”

“She went back to Houston last night,” I said shortly. “Laurel’s taking care of things today.”

McQuaid looked at me. “Did you two have an argument?”

“Whatever gave you that idea?” I’d pulled on my green corduroy skirt that morning, and now I added a green cardigan sweater. The gray clouds sagged like heavy pillows and the north wind was chilly with the breath of an early snowfall in the Panhandle. There would be frost by nightfall. “Come on, let’s go.”

“Did you call this woman?” McQuaid asked. “I don’t want to drive all the way over there for nothing.”

“I called her,” I said. “She’s expecting us.”

We were walking out the door when Ruby phoned. “Just wanted to tell you that I’ll be out this morning. I’ve asked Laurel to take care of the shop.”

“Then she’ll be watching both stores,” I said. “McQuaid and I are going to Fredericksburg.” I took a deep breath and gave her a rundown on our errand.

Ruby’s voice was small. “Do you think he might have killed her?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “If he did, the N.O.P.D. and the D.A.’s office really screwed things up.”

“Can I go with you? I’d like to hear that woman’s story for myself.”

I considered quickly. Ruby might
think
she wanted to hear, but she probably didn’t. And there was the problem of logistics. I gave her that one. “Three is a pretty big crowd when you’re questioning somebody.”

“McQuaid doesn’t need to go.”

“I just don’t think it’s a good idea. You’re involved. That’s not to say you couldn’t handle it. It’s just that—”

She sounded resigned. “Let me know when you get back.”

We took McQuaid’s blue Ford pickup. I grew up in Houston, where you don’t happen onto coyotes and rattlesnakes every day, so I’d never gotten used to riding with a loaded gun in the rack behind my head. In this state, it’s legal to carry rifles and shotguns in your vehicle as long as they aren’t sawed off and thereby concealable. McQuaid carries a twelve-gauge shotgun. When I first knew him, I thought this was a little strange, especially after I found that the gun was Dutch-loaded with 00 buckshot and rifled slugs. I wasn’t exactly reassured when McQuaid told me it was his retirement insurance, protection against human varmints out of his past, rather than wildlife in the present. Ex-cops like McQuaid are always in season.

While he drove, McQuaid gave me the gist of the article he was writing on criminal profiling from crime-scene analysis. In return, I gave him an abridged version of my conversation with Leatha, leaving out the part about marrying him.

“Therapy, huh?” he said thoughtfully.

“Yeah. I’m glad that Leatha’s getting herself straightened out, although I’m not sure it’s any easier to relate to her sober. But I don’t think therapy would do me much good.”

“I guess it depends.” McQuaid put his arm around my shoulders and pulled me over against him, like a couple of teenagers on a date.

“Depends on what?”

He rubbed the back of my neck. “Depends on what you want.”

I shivered, liking the feel of his fingers. “What do you mean, what I want?”

McQuaid’s answer, when it came, was studiedly casual. “Kids who grow up with a bad family experience, you can understand why they wouldn’t want to have anything to do with family. If they get to the point where they think maybe they want family, a little therapy might help them figure out how to handle it.”

I was silent. We were driving along FM32 between Witherley and Blanco. The road follows the Espinazo del Diablo—the Devil’s Backbone, the roughest country in this part of Texas. Driving west, you look down on mile after mile of white limestone cliffs, precipitated out of a shallow Cretaceous sea a hundred million years ago, studded with dense cedar brakes. Groves of live oak line the road and startled deer break for cover across rock-strewn meadows. It’s awesomely wild and beautiful.

I broke the silence. “Are you saying I should get some therapy?”

He glanced at me, blue eyes serious. “Depends on what you want, China. Me, I’d like to be a family. You, me, Brian. We’re good together, all three of us. I think it could be better if we’d make a commitment. A long-term commitment.”

I sighed. We were coming to the M-word.

He grinned and smacked my shoulder lightly with his hand. “Hey, it’s just a thought, counselor. Take it under consideration and don’t let it bother you.” He retrieved his arm and slowed to let a truck and horse trailer pass. “Drake’s hearing was held late yesterday afternoon. First-degree murder. The D.A.’s taking it to the grand jury on Monday. Looks like they’re not letting the grass grow under their feet on this one.”

I was grateful to him for changing the subject, although I didn’t like the new topic any better than the old. “Who did the autopsy? Travis County?”

Of the counties along the I-35 corridor, Adams County is the least populated, too small to hire its own medical examiner. It uses the services of two nearby large counties, Travis and Bexar. The J.P.s say they prefer Travis, which has a faster turnaround and where they can get verbal reports from the M.E. before the formal report is issued.

“Yeah, Travis. There ought to be something out this morning.”

“Andrew found a lawyer, I presume.”

“Some guy from San Antonio, according to Blackie. Apparently a friend with a small office who’s willing to do the work cheap.”

I frowned. A good defense doesn’t come cheap. In our legal system, the state usually holds all the big cards, including money and manpower. If you’re a small-time lawyer, you don’t have the wherewithal to develop a case of your own, so you’re forced to defend your client against the state’s case. In most instances, what that buys you is a guilty verdict, or at best a plea bargain to jail time. My favorite law professor used to say that what’s true for football is also true (if clichéd) for criminal law: the best defense is a damn good offense. Big or small, you’ve got to develop your own theory of the crime and convince the jury that it’s a plausible alternative to the theory the prosecution is peddling. Without your own theory, you’re at the mercy of the State.

McQuaid glanced sideways at me. “I stopped at the Doughnut Queen for coffee this morning. The breakfast crowd is making book that Andrew’s guilty. It was the Satanist bible that convicted him. Mrs. Bragg says she’s sure she saw him lurking around her chicken coop the night her chickens were killed. Everybody’s convinced that he butchered Bob Godwin’s goat and strung him up by the heels. A regular one-man Satanic band.”

“Yeah,” I said. “If it were my case, I’d petition for change of venue. You couldn’t come up with an impartial jury in this county.”

“That’s the trouble with small towns. Most of the people have small-town minds.” He looked thoughtful. “Come to think of it, though, it’s not a lot different in the city. Once the grand jury returns an indictment, most people figure the law has done its job. The trial’s just window-dressing.”

I didn’t say anything. McQuaid was right—people’s attitudes about crime and punishment are basically the same, whether they live in Pecan Springs or Houston. But Andrew’s situation gave me a glimpse of a Pecan Springs that wasn’t as safe and secure as it seemed—not so much because a horrible murder had happened there, but because too many of its citizens were too quick to assign guilt. Like Pauline Perkins, who had chased off the demonstrators because they were testimony to a difference of opinion, the people of Pecan Springs wanted to get rid of Sybil’s killer as quickly as possible—after they had squeezed all the sensational juices out of her death.

Once past Blanco, we took the shortcut through Luckenbach, a tiny hamlet that is remembered as the subject of a song—’Take Me Back to Luckenbach, Texas, the Home of Willie and Waylon and the Boys.” We got to Fredericksburg about ten. It isn’t a big town—only about six thousand— but like Pecan Springs it’s a tourist town, so it looks bigger than it is. The main street is lined with businesses like Udderly Texas, which displays a six-foot fake saguaro cactus festooned with cow jewelry and neckties painted with cows, and the Plateau Cafe, where diners are surrounded by rusty ranch equipment and the skulls of dead cows. I often drive over to visit Sylvia and Bill Varney, who own the Fredericksburg Herb Farm, a much larger enterprise than Thyme and Seasons. Their shop is located in a lovely old house a lot like mine, except that it has a tearoom and B and B accommodations and is surrounded by acres of fragrant herb gardens, laid out in precise shapes and bordered by gravel paths. I covet the garden, and shake my head at the hard work and sweat Sylvia and Bill have poured into it.