Mistletoe Man - China Bayles 09

by Susan Wittig Albert

  Brian looked puzzled. "Crash? I didn't hear any—" "Brian," McQuaid said.

  "Oh, that crash," Brian said. "Oh, no problem. I'll sweep it up." He found a bowl and put the lizards in it. I frowned. "Sweep what up?"

  "The soap." Brian put a glass lid on the bowl, put the bowl beside his plate and sat down. "It was the shelf over the dryer that fell down. Bleach and stuff. But nothing broke," he added hurriedly. "Just a bunch of soap spilled on the floor." He looked at me. "What's for dessert, Mom?"

  McQuaid sighed. 'Take those lizards upstairs and put them where they belong. Then get the broom and sweep up the soap. Then we might consider dessert."

  "Cookies and ice cream," I said.

  Brian frowned. "Store-bought cookies? Or did you bring home some from the tea room?"

  "Brian!" McQuaid said sternly.

  "Okay, okay," Brian said, pushing his chair back. "Don't get your dandruff up." He picked up the bowl of lizards and departed hastily.

  "Dandruff," McQuaid said, rubbing his temples. "Good Lord, that makes me feel old. I used to say that to my old man when I was his age."

  I leaned my elbows on the table. "So what did you find out about Corinne's car when you went to Gus's?"

  McQuaid looked up. "Nothing. It wasn't there."

  I stared at him. "But she said Gus was giving her an estimate."

  "Just one spoonful, please." McQuaid held out his bowl. "She didn't give him the chance. She told him she'd changed her mind and decided it wasn't worth spending money on an old Mercury that didn't run very well. She'd already driven it away before I got there. I've told Blackie," he added, taking the bowl from me. "He said he'd go out to her place and take a look. He asked me to tell you thanks for your heads-up. It was a lucky thing you happened to bump into her." He set the bowl on the floor and Howard Cosell began to work on it, tail wagging ecstatically. He gets plenty of dog food, but it isn't the same as the people-food that comes from the table.

  "That wasn't luck, it was superior detective work," I said. "I followed her from the bank to the pharmacy, and then to Gus's." I made a face. "Wish I'd followed her into the body shop."

  But I wouldn't have been any the wiser, even if I'd got a look at the car. Only an expert could tell whether the Mercury had hit a human or a deer, and that, after testing the blood spatters. Still, Corinne had certainly acted suspicious, pulling her car out of the shop immediately after our conversation. And I hadn't seen it in the driveway at her house. Where was it?

  "Maybe all that stuff about Aunt Velda's truck is totally irrelevant," I said. "Maybe it was Corinne who hit Swenson. Or Marvin. By the way, he drives a red Camaro—an expensive vehicle for an unemployed kid. I saw the car, but the front end had one of those leather thingies on it and I couldn't tell whether there was any damage. I'll tell Blackie to check it out, too."

  "Speaking of the old woman," McQuaid said, "what did you learn when you went out to the flower farm?"

  I summarized as well as I could. "The bottom line," I concluded, "is that the sisters claim that Aunt Velda drove the truck away yesterday afternoon. But she came home on foot, and Terry and Donna insist they don't know what she did with the vehicle."

  McQuaid looked skeptical. "Sounds pretty far-fetched to me. You sure one of the nieces wasn't driving?"

  "I'm not sure of anything at this point," I said. "I've left a message for Blackie," I added. "When he phones, I'll update him."

  McQuaid sat back in his chair. "What did you find when you stopped at Ruby's?'

  "Absolutely nothing," I said sadly. "She's gone, her suitcase is gone, and her house is so clean, you'd think she was expecting a potential buyer." I stopped, and a horrible thought bit me. "Omigosh," I exclaimed. "You don't suppose Ruby's putting her house up for sale!"

  "Not without telling you, surely," McQuaid said with a frown. "After all, you're partners."

  "Yes, but she's been acting so strange lately—maybe she's decided she wants out of the partnership." The thought made my stomach tighten. What would I do without her? I didn't mean that just in terms of our joint business arrangement, either. Ruby's my dearest friend. I love her.

  McQuaid frowned. "How about her daughters? Did you connect with Amy? What did she have to say?"

  "I stopped at the clinic. Amy doesn't have a clue, and she says Shannon doesn't either. I fielded a phone call from Wade while I was at Ruby's. He says he loves her and wants her back—"

  "After six or seven years?" McQuaid asked incredulously. "Maybe he just found out about the lottery."

  "Whatever, he claims not to know what's going on with her, and I believed him on that score. I also had a talk with Hark."

  McQuaid frowned. "I hope you didn't give the guy a hard time about Lynn Hughes."

  I made a wry face. "Sheila and I were wrong about that. He was hiring Lynn, not seducing her."

  "Oh, yeah?" McQuaid shot me a triumphant look. "Maybe next time you won't be so quick to accuse a guy."

  I ignored that. "Hark's theory is that Ruby's seeing somebody new. Amy agrees, and thinks maybe she went away for the weekend with her new lover. That seems to be the best guess, but it's just a guess. We don't have anything to go on."

  "Ruby's an adult," McQuaid said reasonably. "She's certainly entitled to a Utile R and R every now and then. And there's no law that says she has to tell her kids or her business partner every little detail of her life." He stood up. "I'll check on Brian, then I'm going to the university. There's a book in the library I need, and some notes I've left in my office. I may be late. Can I help with the dishes before I go?"

  I shook my head. "That's okay." At our house, the cook usually does the dishes—that way, he or she isn't tempted to dirty every pan in the cupboard. "Is the writing going any better?"

  McQuaid shrugged. "I'm into the section about Bill Sterling, the Ranger commander who was tried for murder in 1915. He put a bullet in the back of an unarmed South Texas rancher. It's ugly, but the facts are undisputed. What's more, nobody can accuse me of making it up. It's in the archives—along with the story about Tom Horn, the guy who captured Geronimo. He was hanged for murder in 1903."

  "Police brutality," I said.

  "It was a brutal era," McQuaid replied. "Not even the ordinary citizen had any respect for the law."

  "How can citizens respect the law when law enforcement officers behave like hooligans?" I shot back.

  McQuaid grinned. "You'll have to read the chapter when I've finished it, Counselor. I think you'll approve." He came around the table and bent to kiss me. "Thanks for the dinner. Sorry about the lizards and the soap. The kid is getting out of hand."

  "The kid is fine," I said, and grinned. "Especially considering that most of his friends wear earrings and nose rings and are hard-wired for rap. Compared to that, a few lizards and tarantulas are a picnic."

  "Yeah. Come to think of it, he's not so bad." He kissed me again and left.

  I cleared the table and was rinsing the plates when Blackie called. I told him what I'd found in Swenson's mailbox and gave him a quick report, conveying as much as I could of the flavor of the conversation at the flower farm—admittedly a difficult task.

  "I told them to call you if they find the truck," I concluded. "I don't think there's much more I can do, at least at this point. The sisters' stories don't jibe, and Aunt Velda can't or won't confirm that she concealed the truck. Maybe you should talk to them again and see if you can sort it out."

  "I'll give it until midmorning," Blackie said. "Could be that they'll come up with the truck before then. I plan to be out that way first thing tomorrow, anyway. I'm going to drop in on Corinne Turtle. I want to take a look at her car and talk to that nephew of hers." He paused. "Thanks for the lead, China. Turtle sure didn't give me any indication that she was hiding a damaged vehicle. Or an unemployed nephew with an expensive red car."

  "You probably scared her," I said. "Maybe it was the uniform. Are you going to follow up on the brochure in Swenson's mailbox?"

  "I'm not s
ure what bearing it has on the hit-and-run," he replied.

  "I'm not sure, either. Maybe I've just got a case of idle curiosity."

  Blackie chuckled dryly. "Yeah, well, I've got a couple of other investigations going on right now. I don't have time for anything idle—curiosity or otherwise."

  We said good night and I went back to my work. I was loading the plates into the dishwasher when Howard Cosell raised his head and gave a low, throaty growl. Basset hounds aren't much good as watchdogs, but Howard is fiercely possessive about what he regards as his personal property. When he hears a step on the path outside, he lets you know that there's an invader out there, and that he is preparing to take matters into his own hands. He hopes, however, that you will stand by with the broom, just in case the marauder is larger and more aggressive than expected. Howard is not as brave as he would like you to think.

  I went to the kitchen door, turned on the porch light, and looked out. It had started to rain again, and the slanting drops shone silver in the light. Someone was standing on the steps, shoulders hunched under a heavy wool cape. Raindrops were shimmering in her red hair.

  I flung the door open. "Ruby!" I exclaimed, astonished and delighted. "Come in!"

  "Is it okay?" she asked in a small voice. "I don't want to interrupt your dinner. I know I should have called first, but—"

  "Of course it's okay, silly," I said happily, pulling her into the kitchen. "I'm so glad to see you! Where have you been, for heaven's sake? I've been calling and calling, but your answering machine was turned off."

  "I've been ... away," she said, and shrugged out of her cape. I hung it on the peg by the door and turned. She was wearing jeans and an old green sweatshirt, and she looked haggard and weary. There were dark circles under her eyes, and her gingery freckles stood out against her pale skin. She clasped her arms around herself, shivering.

  I frowned. Something was definitely wrong here. Ruby was in some sort of serious trouble. "You need a cup of hot coffee. Have you eaten dinner?"

  She collapsed into a chair. "Dinner? I don't think I—" She frowned, as if she were trying to remember when she had eaten last. "I'm not hungry, China. Let's just talk, if you've got a few minutes."

  "I have all evening," I said briskly. "And yes, you are hungry. You're having a bowl of sausage soup." I ladled some of the still-hot soup into a bowl, added the last two pieces of garlic bread, and put it in front of her.

  Rubbing her forehead, Ruby looked down at the bowl. "Honestly, China, I don't think I can—"

  "Eat," I commanded sternly, pouring coffee. "No excuses. What's more, you're not allowed to say a single word until it's all gone. Every drop, down the hatch. Now."

  She gave me a small, tight smile. "Is that the tone of voice you use to Brian?"

  I grinned. "You bet. When I talk tough, the kid knows he'd better toe the fine. You too. No back talk. Just eat."

  Ruby heaved a dramatic sigh to show that she was acting under duress and picked up her spoon—very slowly, to show that she couldn't possibly manage more than a single mouthful.

  But she did. I tidied the counter, scrubbed the sink, and turned on the dishwasher, noticing that the more Ruby ate, the more eagerly she went about it. By the time I was finished, her bowl was empty and the garlic bread had disappeared. I put a plate of cookies on the table, poured myself a cup of coffee, and sat down across from her.

  "That was very good," I said approvingly. "Now we can talk."

  "Thank you," she said. Her color was better and she seemed more relaxed. But her eyes were still dark and the hand that held her coffee cup trembled a little. "I came to say I'm sorry, China. I know I've been behaving very badly the past couple of weeks." She took a deep breath. "But maybe you haven't noticed. You've been pretty busy."

  "I've noticed," I said. "I thought maybe you were mad at me for being so busy. I wouldn't blame you," I added.

  She sighed heavily. "I wish that was it. It'd be a lot easier to tell you what's going on."

  I swallowed hard. What was it? Was she getting married? Was she moving to another city? Had she killed somebody?

  "So?" I said. "What the hell is it?" "It's hell, all right." She put down her cup and looked straight at me. "I have breast cancer, China."

  Chapter Ten

  ML-l, the galactoside-specific lectin found in mistletoe, has been used by German researchers in controlled medical experiments with cancer patients who were undergoing other conventional treatments, such as chemotherapy. These studies suggest that ML-l used as a complementary treatment enhances the activity of most immune parameters and improves the quality of life.

  summarized from Ralph W. Moss Herbs Against Cancer Chapter 9, Mistletoes and Medicine

  I felt as if all the breath had been sucked out of me. As if the solid Texas limestone under my feet had just gaped open. As if I were sliding down the tilted deck of the Titanic into a sea as cold as death.

  "Breast cancer!" I whispered. "Oh, Ruby! Oh, no!"

  "Oh, yes," Ruby said. She managed a crooked grin. "Weird, huh? I mean, I've done everything right. Light on the red meat, heavy on fish and chicken, five-a-day fruits and veggies, plenty of exercise, safe sex, no cigarettes, hours of meditation, tons of positive attitude." Her voice broke, and I could hear tears in it. "I have enough positive attitude to make the world go round. And when I bought that new life insurance policy last summer, I got their top rating. I could live to be a hundred. I could be immortal. I can't have breast cancer. It's impossible." She closed her eyes, sighed, and opened them again. She gave weight to each word. "But it's true."

  I stared at her bewildered, only half-comprehending. "But what... where ... how...." I thought of her absence over the past few days, and my glance went to her breasts, full and round and beautifully shaped under her green sweatshirt. Breasts I had envied, had coveted, flat-chested as I am. "I mean, you haven't...."

  "Haven't got my boob amputated yet?" Ruby asked wryly. "Later. I mean, soon. Soon enough. But not yet."

  "Then where..." I couldn't seem to finish my sentences, couldn't string enough words together to ask what I needed to know. But it didn't matter. Ruby read my mind again.

  "Where have I been? I decided I was going to go crazy if I didn't get away. Maggie picked me up on Saturday evening. I've been staying in a cottage at St. Theresa's, trying to get my head straight."

  Of course. St. Theresa's is a monastery in the Hill Country west of Pecan Springs. Sister Margaret Mary—our friend Maggie Garrett, who used to own the restaurant across the street from our shops—is one of the Sisters of the Holy Heart. They live at the monastery and support themselves by growing the best garlic in Texas. They also offer their guest cottages for personal retreats. I've been there before, and so has Ruby. St. T's is a good place to go when you've got something on your mind and you need to be quiet and alone with it.

  Something like ... breast cancer. I suddenly felt desolate and deserted, as if Ruby had started off on a long, dangerous journey and had left me behind in a place that was safe and comfortable but cold and terribly, terribly lonely. I thought of all the things we had done together over the years of our friendship, the shared pleasures, the shared pain. I thought of all the lessons Ruby had taught me about being partners, about being sisters, and my chilly desolation suddenly flared into a hot and bitter anger. When it came to something really important, she hadn't cared enough to share it with me. She hadn't given me a chance to help.

  "I would have been glad to go to St. Theresa's with you," I said. The resentful tears began to run down my cheeks. "Why did you leave me out? For Pete's sake, Ruby—why didn't you tell me?"

  Ruby gave me a look of startled compassion, intent and somber. "I'm sorry if you feel left out," she said. Her voice seemed to be coming from a great distance.

  I was almost blinded by tears. "Well, then, why—"

  "Because I needed to live with this thing alone for a while, by myself. I had to think about what it means, and what I ought to do. I have some big decis
ions to make, and I didn't want anybody else—not even you—to bear the burden of making them."

  "But I would have been glad—"

  "You're the first to know, China," she said quietly. "I haven't told Shannon or Amy, or even my mother. I came to you first."

  I stared at her, suddenly realizing that my tears were the self-pitying tears of a little girl who is crying because she has to sit on the sidelines during the crucial inning of the big game. At the same time, they were the frightened tears of an adult woman who is terrified that she might be dragged into a game she can't win. If Ruby could have cancer, so could I. It was my own desperate fear and vulnerability that had brought me to tears, and I felt immediately ashamed.

  I gulped. "I'm sorry," I said. The words were so slight, so meager, that I wished I hadn't said them. "I'm terribly sorry," I said, but that wasn't any better. I reached across the table and took both of her hands. "What can I do?"

  "Nothing, for now," Ruby said. "Just hold my hands."

  The old schoolhouse clock over the refrigerator ticked somberly. The water heater in the closet gave a hissing burp as the gas came on. Howard Cosell lifted his head, sighed, and put it down again. Ruby's hands were colder than mine.

  "I'm scared," I said finally. "Are you?"

  "I'm so terrified I can hardly think," Ruby said thinly. "I wake up in the morning in a cold sweat. During the day, I can't concentrate. When I go to bed at night, it's hours before I fall asleep. And I'm angry, too." Her voice rose and she gripped my hands passionately. "This isn't fair, damn it! Everything was so wonderful! I won the lottery, we've just opened the tearoom, my daughters have grown into lovely women. And now this!"

  I wanted to say that fate isn't fair, that good fortune is just that—fortunate, arbitrary, capricious—and we don't always get to choose all the circumstances of our lives. But the words seemed so silly that I swallowed them. Ruby didn't need to hear my moralizing. What could I say?

  We sat for a while, she in her anger and fear, me in mine, desperately holding each other's hands as if we were clinging to a life raft in an icy sea, as if there were no life raft and all we had was each other. After a while, the questions started rising inside me. At first I held my breath and pushed them down, not wanting to give them voice, not wanting to hear the answers, as if the weight of the words might swamp our fragile raft. But pushing them down made my chest hurt so much that I couldn't breathe, and at last my need to know overcame my fear of the truth, and they came bursting out all at once.