Mistletoe Man - China Bayles 09

by Susan Wittig Albert

  "What about evidence?" Sheila asked dryly.

  I straightened. "What about articulable suspicion?"

  Sheila arched both eyebrows. "China, I'm surprised at you. You're the one who's always talking about the need to preserve privacy and to keep the government out of people's business."

  I sat down in McQuaid's big leather chair and took a sip of brandy. "I know," I said, "but—"

  "But what? You really don't want Blackie to bang on Swenson's door and order him to stay away from the farm—which he still owns, by the way, until the sisters pay off the note. And you certainly don't want him to send one of his deputies out there to confiscate Terry's shotgun. You'd be the first to start yelling police harassment." She grinned. "Why, you'd probably be standing in line to offer your legal services in a lawsuit against the sheriff's office."

  "That's the old me," I said. "I'm a little more mellow these days. But you're right—I don't like the idea of the cops interfering. And Terry isn't keen on getting the law involved either." I paused. "It strikes me that this is a lot like a stalking case, Smart Cookie. As a law-enforcement officer, what do you do when a woman comes to you and accuses her former boyfriend of harassing her? You know, the usual little things." I gave her an ironic look. "Cutting her phone line, slashing her tires, entering her house when she's at work. Do you tell her to be cool, be calm, and come back to see you after he's taken a shot at her? Or do you tell her to go out and get herself a hungry rottweiler and a 9mm handgun?"

  "Well..." Sheila shifted uncomfortably. "It's a problem. You may see something coming but you don't always have the power to stop it. The ex-boyfriend is innocent until he's proven guilty. The Fletcher sisters don't have any proof that Swenson is their vandal. And everybody's got a right to privacy."

  "Seems like privacy is the issue of the week." I laughed shortly. "Ruby brought it up this morning when I tried to get her to tell me what was on her mind."

  Sheila drained her glass and put it down on the end table, her brow furrowed. "I'm glad you mentioned that, China. I'm really worried about Ruby. We were supposed to have lunch together last Monday, but she didn't show up. I called her, but she wasn't at home or at the shop."

  "She's closed on Mondays," I said.

  "Right. It turned out that she'd gone to Austin and forgotten all about our lunch. We rescheduled for a couple of days later, but she called and canceled. And then, when I went over to the shop this afternoon to ask her if she'd like to spend Christmas Eve together, she said she wasn't making any plans for the holiday. She said she might not be here."

  I sat up straight. "Might not be here? But Christmas is her favorite holiday!" Ruby usually hosts an early December tree-decorating party for her friends, organizes a carol-sing for the kids on her block, and roasts a couple of Christmas Day turkeys for her entire family (two grownup daughters, three sisters, mother, and a startling assortment of aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews, and cousins). "I've been at her house when she cooked for twenty-seven people and we had to eat in shifts," I added. "She may be a flake who reads the stars and consults the spirits, but she's passionate about the holidays. She looks forward to Christmas all year long. There's no way she'd miss it."

  Sheila nodded. "That's what I thought. I pushed her a little, but her last word on the subject was 'Bug off,' so I did. She seemed awfully jittery, as if she was under a lot of stress." Sheila chewed on her upper lip. "Which isn't like Ruby at all, you know. She's usually very laid-back."

  "I know," I said. "It's a big mystery. But thanks for telling me. Now I know it isn't something I've done."

  "She's been acting weird to you, too?" Sheila asked, surprised.

  "Very. I thought it might have something to do with the partnership, or maybe it was McQuaid and me." I sighed. "I certainly don't intend for her to feel left out, but with the shop and the tearoom and Brian and McQuaid, there hasn't been much time left over. I thought maybe she was feeling neglected."

  "I know how that is," Sheila said ruefully. "The chief's job is so demanding that I'm ready to crawl into bed at nine o'clock. You and Ruby are the only friends I have left—and I don't see you often enough." She paused. "Maybe Ruby's feeling overworked and wants to take some time off. Are things going okay with the new tearoom?"

  "I think so. The remodeling took longer and cost more than we thought. And we had to experiment a good deal in the first month or so, trying to get the menus right and the costs down. But then Mrs. Kendall showed up, just when we needed an experienced cook, and she had a bushel of great ideas. When she took over the kitchen, everything clicked into place." I lifted the brandy bottle inquiringly, and Sheila held out her glass for a refill.

  "I've been wondering if Ruby might be upset about Hark," Sheila said, while I poured.

  "That occurred to me, too," I said. "But I don't know what the problem could be. They seem to get along together—which has sort of surprised me. They're not at all alike."

  "I can hazard a guess at the problem," Sheila said. "Hark's been seeing Lynn Hughes lately."

  "Lynn Hughes!" I squawked. "Why, she's hardly out of puberty!" Lynn works in Charlie Lipman's law office. She's a sweet young thing, with the accent on "young." She just finished her senior year at CTSU in June.

  "Well, she's a little older than that," Sheila said with a smile. "She's smart, as well as pretty. And since Hark lost all that weight, he's very nice-looking. I can see the attraction."

  I poured another glass for myself. "How do you know they're dating?"

  "I've run into them at lunch twice, and last weekend, Blackie and I saw them at CrandalPs. They were, shall we say, tete a tete? Very cozy."

  "Crandall's," I muttered. It's a fancy new restaurant with an elegant ambiance and a big-ticket menu, the kind of place you take someone you want to impress. "Poor Ruby."

  "So you think that's Ruby's problem?" Sheila asked worriedly. "She and Hark have broken up, and she's eating her heart out?"

  "It makes sense. She's dated Hark longer than anybody else since her divorce." I frowned. "But why hasn't she told us? Why is she making such a big deal about keeping it secret?"

  "Maybe her pride is hurt," Sheila said. "Lynn is ... well, young. Even if Ruby's not that upset about losing Hark, it might be a real blow to her self-esteem."

  "You'd think the guy would have better sense." I shook my head sadly. "Poor Ruby," I said again. "She's always worked so hard to keep her own balance and not let outside forces send her into a tailspin."

  "She must love Hark more than we guessed," Sheila said. "She probably sees his interest in Lynn as a terrible betrayal. I can understand that."

  I nodded, agreeing. Yes, I could understand that feeling, too. I'd been there myself.

  McQuaid, clad only in T-shirt and jockey shorts, rinsed toothpaste out of his mouth and glanced at me in the bathroom mirror. "What does Hark see in Lynn Hughes?" He repeated my question with an amused smile and an arch of one black brow. "I should think that would be obvious."

  "But Hark is old enough to be her father," I said, around my toothbrush.

  He dried his hands on a towel. "So what? Lots of older guys get their heads turned by young women." He colored slightly and looked away.

  Almost a year ago now, McQuaid had had a brief affair with a younger woman, a Texas Ranger. It caused me enormous pain at the time, but after all the trauma of the months following the affair—McQuaid's getting shot, his difficult recovery, the unhappy accident in a barn that laid me up for a couple of months—it has assumed a place of minor significance in our relationship. You don't linger on something like that. You accept it and get on with your life, and after a while you look up and see that what was once a vast and ugly crater in the green landscape of your experience isn't even visible any longer. Ruby would find that to be true, too—but in the meantime, there was still the hurt.

  McQuaid put a still-wet hand on my shoulder. "What I mean is," he said in an explanatory tone, "that maybe Ruby isn't... well, paying enough attention to him. After all,
she's been pretty busy with the new tearoom."

  I rolled my eyes, not believing what I'd just heard. "That's it," I said disgustedly. "Blame the victim." I rinsed out my mouth and made a face at him in the mirror. "Are you going to talk to Hark?"

  McQuaid stepped back and leaned against the door, playing dumb. "Talk to Hark? What about?" He had stripped off his shirt, and I could see the jagged scars, reminders of the shooting.

  "What about!" I whirled. "About Ruby, that's what! She's so upset that she can't even share her feelings with her best friend. Hark needs to know how much pain and suffering he's causing."

  McQuaid shook his head. "It's none of our business, China," he said quietly. "Whatever's going on, it's a private matter. Stay out of it."

  "But she's my best friend!"

  "Ruby's an adult. She's a strong woman. She can handle whatever comes her way."

  "You haven't seen her," I said grimly. "You don't know."

  "I just know that it's not our business. Anyway, Hark may not be the problem." McQuaid paused. "Ruby could be upset about Wade coming back to Pecan Springs."

  "Wade? Wade Wilcox?" He was Ruby's ex, whom she divorced nearly ten years ago. It had been an acrimonious divorce, full of bitter arguments about money and property. The last I'd heard, Wade was living it up in Denver with the young woman for whom he'd left Ruby. That memory brought me up short. Hark Hibler wasn't the first man who had betrayed Ruby for a younger woman—she had been

  there before, too. "What's he doing back here?" "Starting a new business."

  I frowned suspiciously. "What kind of business?" I've only met Wade Wilcox once or twice, but I've got him pegged as a troublemaker. Maybe he'd heard about Ruby's lottery win and thought he could get some money out of her. Maybe he was trying to drag her into one of his shady deals, like the old days, when he'd tangled her up in thousands of dollars of debt. Maybe—

  "How should I know what kind of business Wade's in?" McQuaid asked. "He's not exactly my kind of guy." He turned and limped into the bedroom.

  I watched him as he went, my suspicions of Wade Wilcox submerged in the sweet relief and deep gratitude I always feel when I see McQuaid walk without his canes. Given the uncertainty of the doctors' prognosis, his steady recovery has seemed almost miraculous, as if we are the special beneficiaries of some unimaginable grace. But while I don't discount miracles, I doubt that the doctors took McQuaid's willpower and determination into account when they said that it wasn't likely he'd ever walk again. They didn't take into account the fact that he had spent three grueling years working for the quarterback slot at the University of Texas, or that the white scar that runs diagonally across his forehead was left by a crack-crazy doper who slashed him with a knife during an arrest. He'd heard the doctors' gloomy prognosis as a challenge, and while there were setbacks—times when he was so despondent that he could only sit and stare out the window—the challenge fired his determination. He's regained his strength to the point where he can do almost everything he did before, almost as well. Some things, I think, he does even better, but I may be prejudiced.

  He was stretched out in our brass bed, the sheet pulled up to his chin. His T-shirt and jockey shorts were on the floor beside the bed, as usual. I went to my dresser, got my hairbrush, and began brushing my hair in front of the round antique mirror his parents gave us for a wedding present. A hundred strokes will probably never do much for the wide streak of gray at my temple, but it's a bedtime ritual I can't do without. Then I found my night lotion—some creamy, light herbal stuff a friend made for me—and began smoothing it onto my face. Then—

  "Aren't you coming to bed?" McQuaid asked.

  I put the cap on the lotion. "What? Are we in a hurry?" I opened the top drawer of the dresser, took out my orange Hook 'Em Horns nightshirt, and started to pull it over my head.

  "You won't need that," McQuaid said. He gave me a sly look and pointed over his head. "See?" There was something thumbtacked to the ceiling. A little knot of shriveled green leaves sporting one or two white berries, tied with a droopy red ribbon.

  I squinted. "It must be mistletoe," I said. Of course, that was just a guess. It was clearly not Texas mistletoe, or if it was, it wasn't fresh. But it's the thought that counts, right?

  "I saw it in the grocery store when I bought the wine for dinner, all done up in a little plastic box." McQuaid was clearly pleased with himself. "I figured you'd like it." He threw back the blanket with a lecherous grin. "Come on, China, climb in. I'm going to kiss you all over."

  "Yum," I said, and dropped the nightshirt.

  One thing quickly led to another, and kissing wasn't the only thing we did. My husband's hands moved over my body, and I found myself eager for his touch, his hard mouth, his urgent hunger. My breath deepened with his energy, my heart quickened with his kiss. Shifting slightly, we found the movements we needed to fit each other's rhythms in a way that was deep and perfect and fulfilling, as if we had been practicing this lovemaking all our lives.

  A little later, McQuaid stirred. "If I'd known marriage could be like this," he said sleepily, "we'd have done it a long time ago. Remind me—why did we put it off?"

  "One of us was silly and stubborn," I said.

  "Yeah, right." He nuzzled me. "We won't name any names. 'Night, babe."

  I shifted so that I could see his face. His lashes were long and dark against his tanned cheek. Gently, I traced the curve of his mouth, set in a face that was at once familiar and yet strange. The face of my husband.

  "Good night." I looked up at the scrawny little clump of dried leaves, his gift to me. "Thank you for thinking of the mistletoe," I added. "It's sweet."

  "I knew it would turn you on," he said, and flung his arm across me.

  The moon came out from under a cloud and bathed the mistletoe in a silvery glow, making it look almost pretty. "In Sweden, they used to hang mistletoe from the ceiling to protect against fires caused by lightning," I said. "They had the idea that mistletoe was produced by lightning, because it grows in trees and never touches the ground. Ergo, it could serve as a lightning-conductor. If a bolt of lightning hit the house, it would strike the mistletoe and the house itself would be protected." I smiled, appreciating this odd bit of folk-logic and glad to be able to share it. "Isn't that fascinating?"

  I was answered by a gende snore. McQuaid was sound asleep.

  Chapter Four

  In the Victorian language of flowers, mistletoe symbolized "I overcome everything"; "I surmount difficulties"; "I rise above all."

  Kathleen Gips Flora's Dictionary

  In Northern Italy, mistletoe is thought to grow where a tree has been struck by lightning. It can be destroyed by neither fire nor water, and it communicates its indestructibility to the oak on which it grows.

  Italian folklore

  When McQuaid and I were married, I decided to stop opening the shop on Sunday afternoons, to give myself a little more free time. Since we're not open on Mondays either, I now have two full days to get more or less caught up on the necessities of life: sleeping, shopping, and the laundry. On this particular Sunday, I also had to begin decorating for the Christmas Tour, an event which was looming like a black cloud over the weekend ahead.

  Our rambling old five-bedroom Victorian has a wide veranda, a large fireplace, and a dignified staircase. I could keep people from going up to the second floor by putting a red rope across the stairway. I could put the large Christmas tree in the corner by the living-room fireplace, where we had it last year, and a tabletop tree in the dining room, along with a bowl of glass ornaments and holiday cookies and a three-tiered silver epagier piled with fruit and pine cones. I could put potted poinsettias on the floor, swags on the banister, a couple of rosemary topiaries in the hallway, and wreaths in all the windows. Of course! Wreaths and swags—and I had plenty of those, still in boxes in the back of the truck. I could hang them here until after the tour, then take them to the shop to sell. Now, if I just had somebody to help with all this. Not McQuaid, thou
gh. His idea of a Christmas decoration is a poster-board picture of Santa tacked on the front door. Anyway, McQuaid had gone to pick up Brian and visit with his folks.

  And then I thought of Ruby. Since she apparently wasn't planning a big Christmas at her house, she would probably be willing to help with mine, and a little holiday cheer might raise her spirits. It was nearly two in the afternoon. I'd call and invite her over, and while we were working, we could have some good old-fashioned, soul-baring girl talk.

  I went to the phone and punched in Ruby's number. There was no answer—and no answering machine, either, which struck me as strange. Ruby loves to be in touch. Her answering machine is always on. While I was at the phone, I called Mrs. Kendall, thinking that I'd better pin her down about helping with the food for the Tour. She answered on the second ring. In reply to my question, she said, reassuringly, "Of course I'll help. Tell me what you'd like to serve and I'll bring it over on Sunday morning."

  "That's wonderful," I said enthusiastically. "Thank you. You've saved my life."

  Mrs. Kendall had become such a fixture in our lives that it was hard to believe that neither Ruby nor I had ever met her before that October morning, almost two months ago, when she appeared unannounced in the tearoom. She introduced herself and said that she'd heard we might be seeking help in the kitchen.

  "You'll find me a rather good cook, if I do say so myself," she remarked confidently. She spoke in one of those clipped, precise British accents that always sound so cultured in contrast to our sloppy, folksy Texas drawls. She looked to be in her late forties, with brown hair twisted into a loose knot at the back of her head, piercing blue eyes behind gold-rimmed glasses, a beige sweater set and brown tweed skirt, sensible brown shoes. I could see her hiking long distances over the open moors or putting a corgie through its paces at a dog show. She was a bit dowdy and rather heavy of movement, but commanding all the same. The sort of woman who inspires confidence.