Cat's Claw

by Susan Wittig Albert

  “These young people,” Mildred said with a sigh. “Always getting up to monkey business.”

  Ethel cackled. “It’s not like you ever did that in your younger years, is it, Mildred?”

  “Not hardly,” Mildred retorted in an injured tone. “At least, not that. We might’ve gone out behind the barn for some neckin’, but that’s as far as it went.” She tilted her head and a remembering smile ghosted across her lips. “Mostly, anyway.”

  “I wonder if the Kirks will sell their house,” Hazel said. She squinted at her needle, trying to rethread it. “You know, that garage of theirs is two feet over on our side of the property line. Sam has been having fits about it for years. Sometimes he gets so mad, he could just chew bullets.” She stopped squinting and handed her needle and thread to Jane. “I can’t see to thread this dratted needle, Jane. Will you?”

  “Yes, Hazel, we all know about Sam and the property line and the Kirks’ garage,” Mildred said crisply. “And we all wonder why you and Sam don’t just sell them that piddling little strip.”

  Hazel rolled her eyes. “Oh, you know Sam. What’s his is his and he won’t give up one single inch of it.”

  “Except that the Kirks’ garage has taken two whole feet instead of one single inch, and has for years and years,” Ethel put in. “So let’s not talk about it again, shall we?”

  “Anyway, now that the Kirks are getting divorced, they’ll probably sell the house,” Hazel said, taking her threaded needle from Jane and going back to her sewing. “And Sam can blow his cork at whoever buys it next.”

  “Maybe Ruby’s sister will buy it,” Mildred said. “You know, she finally left that husband of hers up in Dallas—they’ve had trouble for years and years—and she’s staying with Ruby. I heard she was looking for her own place. The Kirks’ house would be perfect for her, just three doors down from Ruby.”

  Ruby Wilcox was also a Texas Star, but since she worked during the day (she owned Pecan Springs’ only New Age shop, the Crystal Cave, and was the part owner of Thyme for Tea), she could only come to night meetings.

  “Or maybe Chief Dawson and her sheriff husband will buy it,” Jane suggested. “You know they’re renting Aubrey Drew’s mother’s house, across the alley from me, on Hickory Street. But Aubrey might want that house back, and of course it would be better for us if the chief and the sheriff would stay in the neighborhood. The Kirks’ place would be perfect.” She smiled archly at Hazel. “Except for poor Sam, who couldn’t get too mad at them, even if their garage does lap over the property line by two feet.”

  “Chief Dawson.” Ethel snorted. “For the life of me, I can’t think why these modern women don’t use their right names. Their married names. Why couldn’t she be Chief Blackwell? She’s married to the sheriff, isn’t she?”

  “He’s not sheriff any longer,” Mildred pointed out. “I don’t understand why he quit. There’s been a Sheriff Blackwell in Adams County for as long as I can remember.” She shook her head sadly. “I’m sure his daddy would be disappointed, if he were still alive.”

  “I don’t suppose he gave up his guns just because he quit being sheriff,” Jane pointed out. “I heard he’s working as a private investigator, like on TV. Anyway, if anybody tries any funny stuff in this neighborhood, it’s good to have them right here to protect us. When the bad guys see the chief’s car parked in the driveway, they know they need to go somewhere else.”

  Hazel smiled wistfully. “I just think it’s so romantic, don’t you? Two law enforcement officers, falling in love and getting married. And Chief Dawson—why, she’s beautiful. If you ask me, she could have had a career in modeling. I wonder why she decided to be a cop instead. Doesn’t make any sense to me.”

  “Wonder if their kids will grow up to be police like their mommy and daddy,” Ethel remarked.

  “I don’t think a chief of police should have any kids,” Mildred said, and bit off her thread. “She wouldn’t find time to raise them right. And what would happen to the children if she got herself killed?”

  “Well, I personally don’t think a woman has any business being the chief of police,” Ethel asserted. “Or a policeman, either. It’s not natural.” She shuddered. “What if she meets some big huge man in a dark alley somewhere? Why, he could rape her and she wouldn’t be strong enough to stop him!”

  “She’s got a gun, doesn’t she?” Mildred asked tartly. “She’d just shoot his you-know-whats off. I would, if some man tried to put a finger on me.”

  “It’s policewoman, Ethel,” Jane said. “She’s not a policeman, she’s a policewoman.”

  “It’s police officer,” Hazel said. “I read that somewhere. They don’t want to be called policemen or policewomen. Officer is what they want to be called.”

  “Well, I think the chief and the sheriff should definitely buy the Kirks’ house when it goes on the market,” Jane said. “I personally would feel very safe with them living next door—with or without children.” She pushed back her chair and stood up. “It was my turn to bring the refreshments today, girls. I baked some curry and cardamom cookies from a recipe I got from China Bayles, over at Thyme for Seasons.”

  “That’s Thyme and Seasons,” Mildred amended.

  “Whatever,” Jane said, with a wave of her hand. “China made them for one of our craft workshops last month, and everybody raved, so I thought I’d give them a try. Oh, and there’s coffee, of course. Are you ready?”

  The Texas Stars put down their needles and nodded. They might not agree on everything, but they could achieve a strong consensus where cardamom cookies and coffee were concerned.

  Chapter One

  Some herbs have hooks, designed to clutch and hold on to anyone or anything that comes near. One of the most interesting is cat’s claw acacia (Acacia greggii, also called devil’s claw and wait-a-minute bush), which grows on alkaline soils in semiarid grasslands and chaparral from Central Texas westward into California and south into Mexico. It is a perennial shrub or small tree that produces numerous slender, spreading branches studded with stout, quarter-inch, recurved thorns. In spring, creamy-yellow flowers (much loved by bees and butterflies) bloom in two-inch spikes, producing gray-brown beans that may be as much as five inches long.

  Cat’s claw has been used by Native Americans as food, medicine, and fiber. But it is always the thorns that attract attention. They are sharp, strong, and clawlike, holding fast and refusing to let go. Writing about it in Arizona Flora, naturalists Thomas H. Kearney and Robert H. Peebles remark that the cat’s claw acacia is probably the most hated plant in the region, “the sharp, strong prickles tearing the clothes and lacerating the flesh.”

  China Bayles

  “Herbs That Hold Fast”

  Pecan Springs Enterprise

  Ruby Wilcox climbed onto the stool beside my cash register and propped her elbow on the counter. “I’ve been thinking, China.”

  “About what?” I asked absently, only half-listening.

  I was online, on my laptop, wrapping up a reply email to the guy who manages the Thyme and Seasons website for me. I’d just finished telling him (in answer to his question) that he didn’t need a lawyer to deal with a stalker. If he knew the person’s identity, he could simply go to the Adams County courthouse and file a temporary ex parte restraining order. Four pieces of paperwork and a short hearing and he was done. The next time he spotted the stalker, he could pick up the phone and the cops would be on the case. On the other hand, if he didn’t know who the stalker was and he was seriously worried about the situation, he should go straight to the police. They used to dismiss stalking as a nuisance rather than a serious crime. Now, they take it more seriously. At least, that’s what they say. I haven’t had to test their claim.

  “About our business,” Ruby answered. “I’ve just finished going over our books, China. I don’t want to be smug about it, but the bottom line for October looks really good, especially when you consider that the economy’s not that great right now.” Ruby traced out a
dollar sign on the counter with the tip of a purple-painted fingernail decorated with silvery glitter. “We need to keep up the momentum. So I’ve been thinking about some of the things we can do to gear up for the holidays.”

  I hit “send” and the email zipped off into cyberspace. I felt guilty because I was several days late in replying to Larry. My inbox was too full again (I really have to do something about this state of affairs) and I hadn’t noticed his email until just now. The situation worried me and I hoped he would do what I was suggesting. Maybe I was overreacting. But when it comes to stalking, experience has taught me that it pays to be a worrywart.

  I turned my attention to Ruby. “The holidays? Oh, puh-leese, Ruby. Give us a break, can’t you?” I puffed out an exaggerated sigh. “I’m glad that you’re glad about the October bottom line. But let’s take a little time off before we start thinking about Christmas, okay? Relax for a few days. Catch our breaths.”

  Our shop Siamese jumped up on the counter, stepped delicately past my laptop, and rubbed his head against Ruby’s arm, rumbling his deep-throated purr. Khat isn’t a demonstrative creature, but he’s especially fond of Ruby, who gave him his name. His first owner had the bad luck to die under unpleasant circumstances, so he came to me. At the time, he was called Pudding, which neither he nor I thought even remotely appropriate. I called him Cat, or The Cat. (As far as he is concerned, he is entirely singular. No other cats are fit to enter his imperial presence.) But Ruby objected that this wasn’t nearly distinctive enough for such a regal being. She is a great fan of Koko, the talented Siamese cat–sleuth of the Cat Who mysteries, and has always wanted a cat who could tell time, talk to ghosts, and had fourteen tales. Which is how Pudding became Cat and Cat became Khat K’o Kung.

  “Catch our breaths?” Ruby stroked Khat’s charcoal ears. He purred even louder. “Well, sure, we could do that—it might be nice. But it’s also good to be ahead of the pitch.”

  I frowned. “Pitch? What pitch?”

  “In a manner of speaking.” She leaned forward, her eyes glinting. “Listen, China, I got this great idea last night while Ramona and I were eating supper.”

  Ramona is Ruby’s sister, younger by about three years. She’s not as tall as Ruby (who is six feet and impressive in sandals, six-plus and stunning in heels) and she doesn’t have Ruby’s outrageous sense of style. But she has the same frizzy red hair and freckles and shares Ruby’s weird interests: the tarot, the I Ching, and the Ouija board. Ramona was working in a Dallas advertising firm, but she received a large cash settlement when she and her doctor husband divorced. To get a new start, she quit her job and moved to Pecan Springs, where she’s staying with Ruby while she figures out what she wants to do with the rest of her life. I’m sympathetic (I’ve been there and done that myself), but I am not Ramona’s greatest fan. In my opinion, she takes advantage of Ruby’s generosity. This time, she’s been at her sister’s house for three weeks and she hasn’t contributed a penny toward expenses—even though the settlement left her with plenty of pennies.

  Ruby was leaning forward with an eager look. “So here’s my idea, China. How about if we—”

  “Stop!” I logged off the computer. “Don’t you think we’ve had enough on our plates for the past couple of months? And our November calendar is already full. Let’s not add any new events.”

  “But, China, I wasn’t talking about adding events. I was talking about promoting—”

  “But nothing, Ruby,” I said firmly, and closed my laptop. “Let’s just don’t, okay?”

  Khat sat down, curling his charcoal tail around his charcoal paws, regarding us thoughtfully, his blue eyes flicking from one to the other. He likes to hear us argue. He thinks it’s a game, like tennis or badminton. He keeps score.

  Ruby wasn’t finished. “But really, China—this won’t take a lot of effort.” She fluffed her carroty red hair with her fingers. “And it’s got a huge payoff. Potentially, that is, with just a little extra work. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before now. And of course Ramona will be glad to contribute her—”

  “No!” I put the laptop on the shelf under the counter. “Enough already, Ruby! I am not taking on any new projects. Meanwhile, it’s five o’clock. I am shutting up shop and then I am going home.” I waved her away. “Good-bye, Ruby. Scat.”

  With an exaggerated sigh, Ruby unfolded her six-foot-plus self from the stool where she had been perched. She was wearing a gauzy raglan-sleeved top, brown and black with orange stripes, over an orange turtleneck and black leggings. She looked like a Monarch butterfly about to take flight—a disappointed Monarch. But she waggled her fingers to show that she didn’t harbor a grudge and disappeared through the connecting door that links our shops, Thyme and Seasons Herbs (mine) and the Crystal Cave (hers). Then she stuck her head back through and delivered a parting shot.

  “Someday, China Bayles, you’ll come to me on your hands and knees and say you’re sorry. You just wait and see—you’ll grovel.”

  Khat gave a commanding meow, directing me to grovel right now.

  “I’m already sorry,” I muttered sarcastically. Khat flicked his tail twice, reprimanding me. Then he jumped down from the counter and went to take sides with Ruby. As far as he was concerned, she’d won that round.

  It was Monday, and our shops were closed, which of course hadn’t meant that we’d taken the day off. Ruby had spent the day cleaning and dusting and restocking shelves, and I had come in to work in the garden and do some reordering and bookkeeping. Now, I finished up my chores and started putting things away. But by the time I was ready to leave, I was feeling thoroughly ashamed of myself. Ruby and I have been best friends for well over a decade and business partners for most of that time. In all those years, I have rarely known her to have a bad idea. Some of them may have been a little … well, flaky. But even those mostly turned out okay in the end.

  After all, our tearoom—Thyme for Tea—had proved to be an outstanding idea, hadn’t it? Ruby had thought it up.

  And our catering service, Party Thyme, which handles a lot of the weddings and parties and other big events in town? Ruby’s idea.

  And Ruby had been the one who suggested joining forces with Cass Wilde, who runs her Thymely Gourmet meals-to-go service out of our tearoom kitchen and handles the tea room lunches and the Party Thyme food—an inspired idea, since Cass is an inspired cook.

  There you have it. Thyme and Seasons, the Crystal Cave, Thyme for Tea, Party Thyme, the Thymely Gourmet. Five profit centers under one roof, three of them Ruby’s bright ideas. Of course, they’re not all hugely profitable every month. But enough of them are profitable enough to keep the bottom line from bleeding an ugly red all over our account books. And in lean times like these, with the Pecan Springs business community struggling to keep its collective head above water, showing a profit every month is something to brag about, even if we do have to work our fingers to the bone to make it happen.

  I held out my hands and looked at them. They were a mess, as usual. Unless you wear gloves, which I usually don’t, the Hill Country’s caliche soil will dry your skin and collect under your nails. But my fingers weren’t exactly worked to the bone. I was exaggerating.

  Still, it had been an exceptionally busy few weeks. For one thing, October is always a whirlwind where families with kids are concerned, with school and extracurricular activities and Halloween. And our family is no different. Brian, my husband’s son, is a senior in high school and getting ready to choose a college. Caitlin, our adopted daughter, has just turned twelve and is practicing for another violin recital. (The adoption is a long story. I won’t go into it now.)

  October had been busy for my husband, too. McQuaid teaches part-time in the Criminal Justice Department at Central Texas State University and invests the rest of his working hours in his business: McQuaid, Blackwell, and Associates, Private Investigators. “Blackwell” is Blackie Blackwell, former Adams County sheriff and McQuaid’s new partner. (Long story there, too.) Since Blac
kie joined the firm in August, the caseload has tripled. McQuaid says that having a former sheriff as a partner is very good for business.

  And of course, autumn is busy in the shops and the tearoom. In addition to the day-in, day-out activities (lunches, teas, and other special events), Ruby and I offer a crafting series that runs every Saturday afternoon until Thanksgiving. There’s the Pecan Springs Farmers Market, open Saturday mornings through the end of October—a great market that brings foodies and locavores (people who are trying to shop and eat locally) from Austin to the north and San Antonio to the south. We have a booth there, which is fun but a lot of work, even when Caitlin and Brian and Ruby’s daughter Amy pitch in to help. And then there’s the task of keeping the herb gardens around the shop looking halfway decent as the summer heat dwindles and the long Texas autumn begins. That’s mostly handled by a group of volunteers, bless ’em. But somebody has to supervise, and since Ruby doesn’t know a weed from a wonderberry, that somebody is me.

  And then there was the wedding.

  Ah, yes, the wedding. That was what really kept us busy in late summer and early fall. It took place on a September Sunday in the garden, primped to perfection and looking its prettiest. I worried about the weather, because when McQuaid and I were married (also in September, several years ago), Hurricane Josephine nearly swamped us. But the day was bright and decently cool and the outdoor wedding was gorgeous. The reception was held in our tearoom and catered by Party Thyme, with a Texas-style buffet and table centerpieces of orange and yellow marigolds, purple gayfeather, sprigs of garden herbs, and colorful squash, as well as take-home favors: herbs in tiny terracotta pots, each herb labeled with the name of the plant and Sheila’s and Blackie’s names and wedding date. We had to hire six extra helpers and servers, and even then, we were stretched. But it was worth it, just to see Sheila Dawson and Blackie Blackwell finally become husband and wife. Or police chief and husband, as Enterprise editor and local wit Hark Hibler put it.