Cat's Claw

by Susan Wittig Albert

  Sheila’s irritation flamed into anger. Her jaw felt tight and her head was beginning to pound. Let him, she thought viciously. Let Hardin be furious. And what did Bartlett’s being a local Romeo have to do with anything?

  Aloud, she said, “I really don’t think you understand what—”

  “I do understand, hon,” Blackie said earnestly. “Look. I’ve been in this business a long time, and I know it’s not a good idea for an officer to step outside the command structure and work alongside a subordinate, much less let the subordinate take the lead. It’s even more complicated because you’re a woman. Believe me. When this gets out, it’ll weaken your authority in the department.”

  Weaken my authority. “Because I’m a woman, you mean?” she asked, feeling the heat rising inside her.

  He went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “Bartlett will have a hard time dealing with the fallout, too. You won’t be in the men’s locker room to hear the guys making off-color jokes about being the boss’s handpicked favorite, but he will. He’ll hear it said to his face, and he’ll know that they’re saying it behind his back. It’ll take him a long time to get past this. And what happens if you and Bartlett don’t manage to clear this case—at least, not right away?” He made a gruff noise in his throat. “Jeez, hon, what were you thinking?”

  Sheila picked up her mug of chocolate—cold, by now—and took a sip, trying to cool her temper, trying to see things from his point of view. It was true that Blackie understood the politics in the Pecan Springs Police Department. After all, he’d been sheriff for a good many years and he knew many of the guys. They’d shared dozens of investigations, worked out at the same gym, practiced at the same shooting range. And yeah, it was undoubtedly true that the male officers in the department would raise their eyebrows when they heard that the chief had taken what looked like the subordinate role in an investigation. But she didn’t feel that it was a threat to her authority. She thought of it as a way to get what she wanted—some field time. A way to give Bartlett a chance to shine, without being eclipsed by a senior officer who’d step in and take the credit for his investigative work. As for not clearing the case, that was ridiculous. Of course they would clear the case! That was their job, wasn’t it? Failure was not an option. It hurt to think that her own husband didn’t have faith in her ability to do her job.

  And what was just as bad: the patronizing tone of Blackie’s question. “Jeez, hon, what were you thinking?”—as if she were some airhead bimbo who couldn’t figure things out for herself. As for what she was thinking—

  She clenched her hand around the phone, making an effort to keep her voice level, conversational. “Actually, I was thinking it would be a good idea to show Bartlett that I had confidence in his ability to handle this investigation. We don’t have many cases like this in Pecan Springs, and if Hardin were here, he’d grab it. He—”

  Blackie didn’t let her finish. “Well, you were wrong,” he said flatly. “Tell you what I think you ought to do, babe. First thing tomorrow, you go back to the office. You phone Hardin and brief him on the current status of the investigation. You won’t have to tell him what to do—he’ll understand that he needs to cancel this fishing trip and get his butt back to work. After all, this case potentially involves George Timms, which makes it highly political and very visible, not the kind of case the chief ought to be working. Hardin can take over with Bartlett, and you can go back to the desk.” He didn’t say where you belong, but Sheila heard the words as clearly as if he had spoken them.

  She pulled in her breath, pushing down the anger and resentment that threatened to boil over. “No,” she said emphatically.

  There was a long silence.

  “No?” His voice was wary. “No to which part?”

  “Just… no,” Sheila said. “No to all of it. Bartlett, Hardin, the investigation. This is my job and my department, Blackie. I appreciate your concern.” (Yeah, that was a lie, a big one.) “But if I’m making a mistake, I’m the one who’ll have to live with it.”

  As she spoke, she was wondering if there was something else going on here. Jealousy, maybe? Was Blackie jealous of Bartlett? Or jealous that she had responsibilities—and choices—that he no longer had?

  Another silence.

  “Okay,” he said finally. He sounded resigned. “I don’t like it, but I guess you know what you want to do. I think it’s a mistake. But I’ll support you regardless. You know that.” He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “You know that, don’t you?”

  Did she? Did she know that? She paused for the space of a couple of breaths, thinking that it was a good thing he wasn’t sitting across the table, where he could read her face. Where he could see how angry she was, and how disappointed she was in his lack of confidence in her ability to make decisions.

  She cleared her throat. “Yeah, sure. I know that.” Another lie. “Listen, maybe we’d better just say good night and go to bed. Sounds like we’re both pretty tired, and tomorrow’s going to be a big day.”

  “Right.” He paused, took a breath. “You go get ’em, Sheila.” She knew he was making an effort to smooth out the jaggedness of what had just happened between them. There was a moment’s silence and his voice warmed. “But be careful in this thing. Sounds like it could get dicey.” He paused. “You know I love you.”

  “Yes, I know,” Sheila said, truthfully now. “I love you, too.” And suddenly her anger evaporated. She was thinking about where he was going tomorrow, what he was going to do. She wished he wouldn’t. She wished it urgently. But it wouldn’t do any good to tell him so. She couldn’t come any closer to changing his mind than he could come to changing hers.

  “Stay safe, Blackie,” she added, trying not to sound as urgent as she felt. “Don’t take any chances. Please.”

  She folded the phone and sat there for a moment, struck by the sudden, gut-wrenching thought that it had all been a huge mistake. The coin toss, their decision to marry, the whole thing. It wasn’t that she didn’t love him. She loved him beyond words. It was just that their life together was so complicated, so damned difficult, so full of nooks and crannies where bad stuff could hide. And the bad stuff could wreck the good stuff that they had together.

  What was left of her grilled cheese sandwich was cold, but she ate it and the chips and the pickle anyway, deciding that she didn’t have the energy to work with the photographs tonight. She’d have another look in the morning. She got up to fill the automatic coffeemaker and check the timer. Beside her, Rambo whined, and she let him out the back door for his nightly pit stop. She was turning on the porch light when her cell phone rang again. She flipped it open.

  Dana Kirk’s voice was taut, high-pitched. “Chief Dawson, I just turned on my computer. There’s an email from… from my husband. It was sent today, at two-oh-four, I guess just before he—” She gulped, on the edge of hysteria. “Before he shot himself.” The last words were a drawn-out wail.

  “What does the email say, Mrs. Kirk?” Sheila asked quietly and firmly. She knew, of course, but she wanted to steady the woman—and to verify. “Read it to me, please.”

  “It says… it says, ‘Dana, I’m sorry. You can stop worrying about me. I’m tired and I just can’t go through with the divorce. It’s all yours, the house, the business, everything. Have a good life. Love, Larry.’” She was sobbing now. “‘Have a good life.’ How can I have a good life, after this terrible thing he’s done, after—”

  “After what who’s done?” Sheila broke in, going back to the table in the dining nook to get her notebook.

  “Why, Larry, who else? Don’t you see, Chief? This email proves that Larry killed himself! I didn’t think he could do it the way he did, but it was probably just quick and simple. He got a gun somewhere, and he—” She broke off, weeping. “I’m sorry. I can’t talk now. He’s completely ruined my life.” The connection broke abruptly.

  “Ruined her life?” Sheila muttered, closing the phone. What a self-absorbed, self-centered thing to say! She open
ed her notebook and jotted down the time of the call and a brief summary of what Dana Kirk had said. On the surface, the call seemed to eliminate the woman as a suspect, but that wasn’t necessarily true. She could have killed her husband, or witnessed his killing, then written the email to exonerate herself. Reporting that she had received it could be another means of exoneration—especially reporting it in that half-hysterical tone of

  voice.

  Sheila was still writing when the phone chirped again. She opened it and saw that it was China.

  “Hey,” she said. She leaned forward, propping both elbows on the table. “What’s up?”

  “I got a call from Ruby a little while ago,” China replied. “She and Ramona have figured out why Larry Kirk didn’t shoot himself.”

  “Oh, yeah? Why is that?”

  “Because a left-handed person doesn’t shoot himself in the head with his right hand,” China said. “Ruby happened to remember that Larry pitched left-handed at the neighborhood baseball game last summer. And Ramona saw the gun in his right hand. Looks like somebody shot him and tried to make it look like a suicide.”

  “Thanks, China. That’s the second confirmation we have on that. The guy who manages the computer shop told us that Kirk was a left-hander.”

  “Aw, heck.” China sounded disgruntled, but there was a smile in her voice. “I guess I should’ve expected Wonder Cookie to be way out ahead of us.”

  Wonder Cookie. “Not too far ahead,” Sheila said, smiling. In spite of herself, she liked the nicknames China and Ruby came up with for her. “I’m still trying to figure out the stalker angle.” She paused, thinking of something. “China, did Kirk ever happen to mention anybody with the initials JH? Or maybe the name Jason Hatch?”

  “Initials? I’d have to think about that, Sheila. But I know Hatch. He’s the guy I worked with first, before Larry took over my projects. Not a very nice person, I have to say. Gruff, brusque. A fault-finder. Larry told me that he fired him, or wasn’t going to call him again—something like that.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “It had to do with customer relations, I think. Maybe—” She paused, and her voice tightened. “Wait a minute. Now that I think about it, this might be relevant to your investigation, Sheila. Larry once asked me if Hatch had ever approached me with what he called ‘an inappropriate request.’ I thought at first he was talking about sex and laughed it off. But that wasn’t what he meant.”

  Sheila frowned. “You’re thinking that he might have been talking about blackmail?”

  “Could have been. He wasn’t specific. It was almost as if he were fishing, trying to find something out without telling me what it was he wanted to know. At the time, I had no idea what he was getting at. But now, knowing about Timms…” She began again. “Look, Sheila. I’m guessing that George Timms broke into Larry’s shop because he wanted to get his computer back. You don’t have to confirm, but if there was any extortion involved, you ought to take a look at Hatch.”

  “That’s already on my to-do list for tomorrow.” Sheila was becoming more and more interested in Hatch. One way or another, he was involved with this, either with Timms or with Kirk or both.

  “See? What did I tell you? Wonder Cookie is out ahead of the pack.”

  Sheila chuckled wryly, wishing she were. “If anything occurs to you on the stalker business, you’ll let me know. Right?” She heard Rambo give one short, sharp bark, his signal to come in. She got up and opened the door.

  “I will,” China said. “Have you turned up anything interesting on the case?”

  “Hard to say,” Sheila said, stepping back to avoid the shower of raindrops as the Rotti shook himself off. “I’m not trying to duck your question,” she added, turning off the back porch light. “At this point, there are just a lot of dots on the page, and more to come. Connecting them—well, you know. That happens later.”

  “All those damn dots,” China said, and laughed. “Yeah, I know.” She paused. “Have you heard anything more on Timms?”

  “Not a word.” Rambo put his paw on his water dish and flipped it over, his neat little trick to show her it was empty. Sheila carried it to the sink, where she set it under the faucet and began filling it. “Which is a little weird. Unless—”

  “Unless he’s vamoosed. Out of town. Way out of town, as in over the border.”

  “Yeah.” Sheila’s frown deepened. If they could talk to Timms, they might be able to clear up a lot of things. “Speaking of over the border, Blackie said that Mike is flying to El Paso early tomorrow. Tell him to be careful, will you?” She put the bowl on the floor and Rambo planted his forefeet and began noisily lapping water. “They both need to be careful.”

  China chuckled wryly. “Oh, right. Listen, if we wanted guys who were careful, we married the wrong ones. This pair takes to danger the way a bullrider handles a bull. There’s no stopping them.” She sighed. “Gotta say good night now, Sheila. Keep me posted on the investigation, will you?”

  “Hmm,” Sheila said noncommittally. She picked up her shoes and padded across the kitchen to turn off the overhead light. “Hey, Rambo. Come on.” She took down her duty belt from the hook next to Blackie’s jacket. “Time for bed, fella.”

  “You’re that hard up for fun?” China asked in a pitying tone. “I could send Howard Cosell.”

  Sheila laughed and broke the connection.

  Chapter Eleven

  Cat’s claw vine (Macfadyena unguis-cati) takes its name from the three-pronged clawlike climbing appendages that grasp and cling to plants or surfaces. A high-climbing member of the trumpet vine family, cat’s claw is native to the tropics of South and Central America. In the folk medicines of Brazil, the Yucatan, and Panama, the leaves, roots, and tubers have been widely used to treat inflammation, malaria, and venereal disease. Recent research suggests that the plant may also have antitumor properties.

  Cat’s claw has beautiful yellow trumpetlike blooms and is offered by some nurseries as the “yellow trumpet vine.” Introduced to the U.S. as an ornamental in 1947, it is now classified as a dangerously invasive and ecologically threatening plant across the South, for it can smother and outcompete valuable native plants. Please don’t give it growing room in your garden!

  China Bayles

  “Herbs That Hold Fast”

  Pecan Springs Enterprise

  It was gray and overcast when I got up early Tuesday morning. The rain had stopped, but the air was damp and chill and tendrils of writhing ground fog clutched the trees. The overnight rain, widespread across the Hill Country, had undoubtedly brightened the hopes of the towns that depend on the April wildflower season for much of their annual tourist revenue. The traditional weather calendar that works in the northeast—April showers bring May flowers—doesn’t suit our seasons. For us, it’s the rains in November, December, and January that bring up the April wildflowers—bluebonnets and brown-eyed Susans and winecups—and summon wildflower fans by the thousands. You can call me a cynic if you want to, but gardeners and farmers aren’t the only ones who get down on their knees and pray for rain. Around here, when the winter is dry, the spring wildflower season is a bust, the bed-and-breakfasts and restaurants in towns like Pecan Springs, Fredericksburg, and Boerne are half-empty, and every small-town shop owner feels a hard pinch in her bottom line. Rain is something to celebrate—although, of course, we don’t want a repeat of the flooding that happened when what was left of Hurricane Josephine slammed across Adams County. I caught a glimpse of the TV as I came downstairs and was glad that we weren’t experiencing the early-season snowfall that was blanketing the northeast today. I could celebrate the fact that we weren’t going to be blitzed by a blizzard. In fact, the temperature was heading for a balmy seventy-plus this afternoon. Not bad for November.

  Like every mom with school-age kids, I’m an early riser on weekday mornings, getting the kids dressed and breakfasted and equipped with books and homework and out the door in time to catch the school bus at the corner of Limek
iln Road and our lane. This morning was more challenging than usual, because McQuaid had an early plane to catch and Austin-Bergstrom International is a good fifty minutes away—longer, when inbound traffic on I-35 is heavy. Once you’re at the airport, you have to find a place to park and catch the shuttle to the terminal—and of course, there’s security. These days, flying isn’t a picnic.

  For our breakfasts, I make up a batch of sausage, egg, and bean burritos, wrap them individually, and keep them in the freezer for a quick, nourishing meal-to-go. McQuaid was on his second when I came into the kitchen, dressed in my usual jeans, the shop T-shirt, and a green-and-black plaid flannel shirt, ready for my workday. He got out another burrito, popped it into the microwave, and folded me into a large hug.

  I spoke against his shoulder. “When I talked to Sheila on the phone last night, she said to tell you to tell Blackie to be careful. Ditto from me, for you.”

  “Sure thing,” he said, nuzzling my neck. He let me go and turned to fill his thermos mug with coffee. “Don’t worry, China,” he added, over his shoulder. “We’ll watch ourselves.”

  “I mean it,” I said urgently. I had awakened early that morning and lay beside him, worrying about the trip he was about to make. “Neither Sheila nor I am very happy about you two gringos going over the border to—”

  “I know,” he said, seriously now. “We won’t go across unless we think the trip is worth making—unless we’re sure we can find the boy. Tell Sheila that.” He slipped an arm around me, then bent and kissed me, lingering for a moment.

  I pulled away, frowning. “If you cross, and if you find him, how are you going to bring him back?”

  “We won’t,” he said. He took out the burrito and wrapped it in a paper towel. “Bring him back, that is. We’ll find out where he is, get photos, dig up as much information as we can about the situation, and report to the father.”

  I was relieved. I didn’t like the idea that McQuaid and Blackie might be arrested by the Federales and tossed into a Mexican hoosegow, with a kidnapping charge hanging over them like a Mexican machete.