Cat's Claw

by Susan Wittig Albert

  “Do you have any fresh dill, Ruby?” I asked. “It would be nice for the salad.”

  “There’s dill and basil in pots outside the door,” Ruby said. She paused, frowning. “Do we want hot bread? I can open a can of refrigerated crescent rolls and spread them with parsley butter before I roll them up. That would be quick.”

  “Sounds perfect,” I said. “Chives with the parsley, too, maybe? And you could grate some cheese into the butter, as well.”

  “Make it Parmesan,” Ramona put in. “There’s some in the fridge. And add a squirt of lemon.”

  “Parsley, chives, Parmesan, a squirt of lemon,” Ruby said, counting on her fingers. “And butter.”

  “Go for it, Ruby,” I said.

  “No, you go, Ramona,” Ruby instructed, getting out the can of crescent rolls and turning on the oven to preheat it. “You can bring in the herbs while I lay out the rolls. And don’t forget the dill and basil for the salad.”

  A few moments later, Ramona was back in the kitchen with snips of herbs. “So this miracle worker—Chief Dawson, that is—earned a couple of national awards for her work at the university,” she said. “Then what?”

  I took up the story. “Dolly Patterson’s discrimination lawsuit resulted in a U.S. Department of Justice consent decree mandating that the department hire women, Hispanics, and African Americans.” I grinned. “The decree came down about the time Smart Cookie was making headlines at CTSU.”

  “Ah,” Ramona said, in a knowing tone.

  “You got it, Ramona,” Ruby put in, as she mixed the herbs and cheese into the butter. “The time was ripe for a change.”

  “Very ripe.” I began tearing basil leaves into the salad. “As it happened, the federal mandate coincided with the election of a pair of women activists to the Pecan Springs city council. They decided that now was the time to turn the department into something that wouldn’t be a permanent legal and social liability and would stop costing mucho dinero in discrimination settlements. They persuaded the council—with a little help from the new city attorney—that it was time to look for another chief. Bubba Harris resigned, and McQuaid filled in as acting chief for a while. Six months or so, maybe.”

  “Some of the council wanted Mike McQuaid to stay on as chief.” Ruby slid me a glance. “But China wouldn’t let him.”

  “I couldn’t have stopped him if he’d really wanted to do it,” I replied. “McQuaid hates politics, and the chief’s job is super political. It’s a desk job and he hates that, too.”

  Ramona frowned. “I’ve never understood why you call your husband by his last name, China. It seems a little, well, strange.”

  “He wasn’t always my husband,” I said. “He was a homicide detective when I met him, and I was a defense attorney. We started off as McQuaid and Bayles. He’s still McQuaid, far as I’m concerned.”

  “Anyway,” Ruby put in, “when McQuaid pulled out, he left the field open to Sheila.”

  “There were several others in the running,” I said, setting the salad bowl on the table with a pair of salad tongs. “A female sheriff from one of the Valley counties, if I remember right, and another woman who was chief in a little West Texas town. There was a guy from Beaumont, and Clint Hardin, from inside the department. Sheila wasn’t even going to apply—she was starting to get serious about Blackie, who at the time was the Adams County sheriff.”

  Ruby had finished buttering the dough triangles and was now rolling them up, wide end first, placing them on a baking sheet. “But Blackie kept encouraging her,” she said “And when the search committee compared years of training and experience, awards, recognitions, that kind of thing, it was clear that Sheila was the top candidate.”

  “Her biggest competition,” I added, “came from Clint Hardin. He was Bubba Harris’ handpicked favorite. And of course, he had the support of the police department. To a man.”

  “To a man.” Ramona repeated with a chuckle. “I’ll bet.”

  “Which is still a problem,” Ruby picked up the baking sheet. “Anyway, the council hired Sheila. They told her to clean up the personnel problems and pull the department out of the nineteenth century. Make it modern and professional.”

  “Or rather, some members of the council did,” I corrected her. “It was a five-four vote—not exactly what you’d call an overwhelming mandate. Sheila would be the first to tell you that it hasn’t been easy. There’s been opposition from inside the department and from the council—as well as the usual community anger that’s directed at the chief whenever the police get out of line, which they do, from time to time.” I leaned against the counter. “Sheila isn’t crazy about the paperwork and she hates politics as much as McQuaid does. To tell the truth, I was hugely surprised when she kept her job as chief and Blackie quit his as sheriff. I fully expected it to go the other way.”

  Ramona shook her head. “It’s not a job I’d want,” she said thoughtfully. “Why does she do it?”

  “Because she believes in justice and in the law,” I said. “And she wants the law to be fair. To everybody. Not just people with money and influence.”

  “And because she’s a tough cookie,” Ruby added, putting the rolls into the oven.

  “So that’s the story,” Ramona said quietly. “Amazing.”

  Ruby laughed. “That’s just the first chapter. Stay tuned for further developments.” She checked the oven temperature and set the timer. “It’ll be about ten minutes. Who’s ready for wine?”

  We poured glasses of chilled white wine and adjourned to the back porch. “Well, Ramona?” Ruby asked, as we settled into our chairs. “Are you going to tell us what kind of business opportunity you intended to check out today? Before you went over to the Kirks’.”

  I sighed, thinking of Larry. He’d been a friend, a good and thoughtful person. I would miss him.

  Ramona propped her sneakers on the porch railing. “I wasn’t going to tell you until I knew something for sure. But I’ve been talking to your neighbor about maybe going into business with her.”

  “Our neighbor!” Ruby exclaimed, both gingery eyebrows going up. “Constance, maybe?” Constance Letterman owns the Craft Emporium, at the corner of Crockett and Guadalupe. “Or—”

  “Molly McGregor, at the Hobbit House.” Ramona looked from one of us to the other. “What do you think of the idea?”

  There was an awkward pause. Finally, I said, “Molly is a terrific gal, Ramona. And she’s done wonders with that children’s bookstore. The concept is good, and the location is—well, it’s right next door to us, so I think it’s just about perfect. But do you really think—”

  “That independent bookstores are going to survive—especially specialty bookstores?” Ramona finished my question. “I know the situation’s scary, China. Between ebooks and online etailers and the big chains, local shops are having a hard time everywhere. But one of my accounts at the advertising agency in Dallas was an independent bookstore, and the owner and I got to be good friends. I could believe in what she was doing, because she believed in it, too.” She made a face. “Which is more than I could say for most of my other accounts. So yes, I’d love to invest in the Hobbit House, if I can. If Molly wants me.”

  I looked at Ruby’s sister with a new respect, feeling that there might be more to her than I had given her credit for.

  Ruby sat forward in her chair, excited. “Gosh, Ramona, I think it’s a wonderful idea. And your advertising and marketing experience would be a real asset to Molly.”

  “You could be right,” Ramona said. “Anyway, I’ve stopped at the Hobbit House several times, just looking around. Yesterday, I mentioned my idea to Molly. She’s interested, so we’re getting together to talk about it.” She made a face. “Or rather, we planned to get together. After I found… well, you know. I had to cancel.”

  That sobered us. Ruby sighed. I stared into my wineglass, thinking of the emails that Larry and I had exchanged last week, planning another upgrade for the website. I loved his enthusiasm and appr
eciated his expertise. He was always upbeat and optimistic. If I were betting, I’d bet that he was not the kind of person who would do himself in.

  “Dana is going to take this very hard,” Ruby said sadly. “I feel so sorry for her.”

  “For her?” I asked acidly. “Hey. Larry is the one who’s dead. Why aren’t you feeling sorry for him? Now that he’s gone, her life will definitely be less complicated. She won’t have to go through a divorce.” That might be a cruel thing to say, but it was true.

  “Didn’t you tell me that Dana is involved with somebody else?” Ramona asked Ruby, frowning.

  “Yes. Which is why it’ll be much harder than it would have been otherwise,” Ruby said.

  Ramona shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

  I didn’t, either. It seemed to me that it would be easier.

  “Sure you do,” Ruby said. “It’s guilt. If you very badly wanted somebody to go away and he ended up killing himself, wouldn’t you wallow in guilt?”

  “Maybe,” Ramona said doubtfully. “Unless the somebody was my ex. Nothing that jerk could do would ever make me feel guilty.” She paused, tilting her head curiously. “Who’s Dana’s boyfriend?”

  “He’s not just her boyfriend.” Ruby studied her wine. “I don’t know if I should tell you, though. Dana didn’t swear me to secrecy, but—”

  “Of course you should tell us,” Ramona said indignantly. “We can keep a secret. Can’t we, China?”

  “Well, I guess,” Ruby said. “As long as you don’t go spreading it around. He’s her boss. The library director.”

  I blinked. “Glen Vance? Mr. Straight himself? You’re kidding!” I couldn’t believe that Dana Kirk had left Larry for Glen Vance, who (in my book) is a pompous and self-important guy who ends up being smarmy when he thinks he’s being nice. What in the world did she see in him?

  Ruby frowned in my direction. “The way Dana tells it, China, ‘Straight’ is not his real personality. Underneath that dignified appearance, Mr. Vance is a tiger.”

  “A tiger,” I said disbelievingly, and sat back again, shaking my head. So it was sex, huh? I would never have guessed.

  “How long has Dana been doing this… this tiger thing with her boss?” Ramona wanted to know. “Is he married?”

  “About six months,” Ruby said. “And no, he’s a widower. His wife died two years ago. When she and Larry separated, Dana moved in with a friend, who has an apartment in Mr. Vance’s complex.”

  “How convenient for both tigers,” I said dryly.

  Ruby opened both eyes wide. “What on earth are you suggesting, China? You can’t possibly imagine that Dana Kirk and Mr. Vance would—”

  My cell phone tinkled its digitized rendition of the opening bars of “Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys.” I fished it out of my jeans pocket and flipped it open. It was Jessica Nelson.

  I waved to Ruby and Ramona. “Gotta take this one, guys.” Wineglass in one hand, phone in the other, I walked to the end of the porch so I wouldn’t interrupt the conversation. A ruby-throated hummingbird hung in the air beside a feeder, its wings a blur, the sunlight sparking its iridescent feathers. A honeysuckle vine wrapped itself around the pillar, its tendrils clinging fast to the wood, its sweet scent filling the air. “What’s up, Jessie?”

  There was no preamble. “China, do you have any idea what kind of connection there might be between Larry Kirk and George Timms?”

  “Kirk and… George Timms?” I was taken aback. If she had asked me about a connection between Larry Kirk and Glen Vance, I could’ve come up with something right off the top of my head. Her name would have been Dana. But Kirk and Timms? What was this about?

  I leaned against the porch pillar. The hummer, startled, flew a dozen feet away and hovered, watching me reproachfully. I moved to the other pillar and the hummer returned to his supper. “I know George Timms, of course,” I said warily, mindful that I was talking to a reporter. “Everybody does. But what in the world makes you think—”

  “I didn’t want to mention this when you were with your friends,” Jessica said, “but I got a phone tip this afternoon. George Timms is about to be arrested for breaking into Kirk’s computer shop. And now Kirk is dead.” She let that hang for a moment, then added, “I thought maybe you’d have some idea what the link is.”

  “Arrested?” I stood up straight, astonished. I hadn’t gotten any further than her second sentence. “George Timms?” Sheila had said they were expecting an arrest in the burglary case that afternoon, so that much seemed to fit. But George Timms? Jessica must have heard it wrong or—

  “That’s crazy, Jessica! Why the hell would somebody like George Timms break into a geek shop?”

  “Because he was being blackmailed.”

  “Blackmailed!” I lowered my voice and looked over my shoulder to be sure that Ruby and Ramona hadn’t heard me. “Who told you that?”

  There was a moment’s silence. “Well, I didn’t get it right from the horse’s mouth, if that’s what you’re asking. I’ve been trying to get in touch with Timms’ lawyer—Charlie Lipman—for verification. No luck yet. But my source is very close to the action, and she says—” Jessica stopped, conscious that she had unintentionally let something slip. Her information had come from a woman, and I had an idea who. Charlie Lipman’s secretary. I knew that he’d had to warn her once before about spilling secrets outside the office.

  “Believe me, China,” Jessica added. “This is going to happen. Timms’ surrender has already been arranged.” She was trying to stay cool, but I could hear the suppressed excitement in her voice. “This is going to be a big story. Front page.”

  I know Jessica well enough to know that she wouldn’t be talking to me like this unless she was absolutely convinced that she had her facts straight. But I still couldn’t get my mind around the idea that George Timms—a stalwart citizen who was active in the Chamber of Commerce and a member of the local Fight Crime in Our Community group (political friends and supporters of our do-gooding district attorney, Howie Masterson, who is farther to the right than Archie Bunker)—would break into Larry Kirk’s computer shop.

  Of course, Timms isn’t exactly a one-sided character. He is an influential and well-heeled member of the community, yes. But he also has a reputation as a maverick with a short fuse and an interest in young women. He’s in his forties, blond, good-looking, well built, twice divorced, and something of a playboy. According to the local gossip, he occasionally veers to the wild side.

  Of course, you can’t believe everything you hear: gossip is one of the worst small-town vices, and in this case, I imagine there’s some envy in the mix. But there’s an abundance of rumors floating around, mostly about parties at a place Timms owns in the Hill Country. And it didn’t take much imagination to make a connection between those rumored parties and the alleged blackmail. But how that might be connected to a break-in at a computer shop, I hadn’t a clue.

  “We’re off the record, China,” Jessica went on. “You knew Kirk, and you’ve served on community projects with Timms. Can you come up with any possible connection—no matter how remote—between this burglary and Kirk’s… suicide?”

  I heard the skepticism in her last word, but I wasn’t going to encourage her by responding to it. No, I didn’t think Larry killed himself. But, I wasn’t going to admit it—not to a reporter. If Jessica was going in that direction, she was going without me.

  “Sometimes coincidences really are coincidences,” I said in a cautionary tone. “And anyway, just because somebody is arrested, it doesn’t automatically make him guilty. Cops have been known to make mistakes. They’re not infallible.” But a mistake was not likely in this case, I thought. The police wouldn’t risk miscalculating where a prominent citizen like George Timms was concerned.

  “I didn’t say he was guilty,” Jessica retorted. “I just said he’s being arrested.”

  I knew. But I also knew that once the story of Timms’ arrest appeared in the papers, t
he community, serving as judge and jury, would render a verdict of guilty. I changed the subject. “Have you told the police what Mrs. Wauer said about that gunshot?” The officer who canvassed the neighbors would no doubt pick up the information, but that could be tomorrow. Sheila could use it this evening, when she was trying to fix the time of death.

  “Not yet. Guess I’d better do that soon, huh?”

  “Not soon, now, as in the minute we hang up.”

  “If you insist,” she said, and clicked off.

  “Right.” I closed my phone, then stood there, sorting out what needed to be done. This called for action.

  I scrolled through my cell phone directory to Charlie Lipman’s office number. Charlie is not only the best lawyer in Pecan Springs and a frequent client of McQuaid, Blackwell, and Associates, but my long-time personal friend and fellow member of the Texas bar. I wasn’t surprised to hear that he was Timms’ lawyer. He had represented Timms in a property dispute a few months before. McQuaid had been the investigator on the case, which involved the boundaries of a piece of very nice Hill Country land not far from where we live. Charlie needed to be told that Jessica Nelson, intrepid girl reporter, had learned about Timms’ arrest. He wasn’t going to like it, but he needed to know.

  But there was something even more important. While it might not be exactly kosher for me to spill the beans about Larry Kirk’s death, I felt obliged to tell Charlie about that, too. It wasn’t a state secret—the Enterprise knew about it, the whole neighborhood knew about it, and half the people in town would know about it before they went to bed. There was no reason Timms’ lawyer shouldn’t know and every reason he should, since his client was about to be arrested for burgling the dead man’s business.

  The office was closed for the day, but Charlie likes to be close to the action. If he was still around, he might pick up. He did—on the first ring.