Cat's Claw

by Susan Wittig Albert

  “Oh,” I said, feeling deflated. “You mean neighborhood gossip central.” Ruby had taken me to their meetings as a guest, so I spoke from personal observation. The ladies claimed that they got together to make quilts, and their quilts were truly beautiful. But they also got together to trade, barter, and embellish all the local news, about three-quarters of which was garden-variety gossip. I’d be very surprised if they had a single shred of genuine information.

  “Well, yes,” Ruby conceded. “I suppose they do gossip a fair amount. They don’t have much else to do. On the other hand, sometimes neighbors see things they aren’t supposed to see. And they tell other neighbors, who have seen other things, and so on.”

  I had to acknowledge the truth of that. Still— “Who’s in there?” I asked, gesturing toward the tearoom.

  Ruby began ticking the Stars off on her fingers. “Ethel Wauer from next door—next door to me, that is. I think you know her.”

  “Oh, I know her, all right,” I said. “She’s the ringleader. I hope she didn’t bring that yappy little dog. Oodles, isn’t that his name?”

  “Of course she didn’t,” Ramona said in a snarky tone. “She left him at home to annoy the neighbors.”

  Ruby continued. “There’s also Jane Jessup, who lives on the other side of Ethel—the one with the beautiful vegetable garden. And Mildred Ewell from across the street. And Hazel Schulz. She lives on the far side of the Kirks’.”

  “Sounds like a quorum,” I said, feeling resigned. “But if they have some serious information, they should march right down to the police station and tell the cop at the duty desk. Somebody will be glad to take their information and pass it along to the investigators.”

  “Well, it’s not that kind of information,” Ruby said, almost apologetically. “I mean, it’s not the kind of report that they can walk into the police station with. It’s more…” She waved her hand. “It’s vague. They’re not really sure what they know, you know. They just know what they think they saw and heard. And it’s all kind of mixed up.”

  I rolled my eyes. What they think they saw and heard. It wasn’t every day that a neighbor was killed in his kitchen, especially in a small town like Pecan Springs. Larry’s death was likely to be the subject of dozens of wild stories flying around the neighborhood. Somebody had seen a mysterious male visitor in the dead of night. Another person had noticed an unfamiliar car parked down the block. The lady on the corner had seen a stranger loitering in the alley. And these sweet little old ladies had compiled all these rumors and bits of gossip into a story they were dying to share.

  “Anyway,” Ruby went on, “they don’t want to tell the police. They’re here because they want to tell you.”

  “Me?” I asked, surprised. “Why me?”

  “Because you’re famous,” Ramona replied, with a chuckle that just missed being sarcastic.

  “That’s ridiculous,” I scoffed. “I’m not famous. I—”

  “Yes, you are,” Ruby said. “Last summer, you helped to locate Jessica Nelson when that guy kidnapped her. And before that, there was the burglar you squirted with pepper spray right here in the shop—remember? And before that, it was the drugs that somebody was trying to smuggle in those pots of yucca. If it hadn’t been for you, the smugglers would have succeeded.”

  She paused, and I knew she was thinking of Colin Fowler. He’d been investigating that drug smuggling ring when he was killed. She touched her devil’s claw necklace again, swallowed, and went on.

  “The Stars have heard all these stories, China, and they’ve decided that you’re a regular Miss Jane Marple.”

  Ramona smothered a giggle.

  “Miss who?” I asked blankly.

  “Miss Marple. You know—in Agatha Christie’s mysteries. So they want you to listen to what they have to say.” She patted my arm. “And anyway, it’ll be a chance to sit down and have a nice cup of hot tea and a couple of cookies. You look like you could use a break.”

  I couldn’t argue with that. With a sigh, I followed Ruby into the tearoom.

  Thyme for Tea occupies the back half of the building that Ruby and I share. Like our shops, the dining room has limestone walls, well-worn wide-board floors, and an embossed tin ceiling. With its green-painted wainscoting, chintz chair seats and place mats, and pots of ivy and bundles of dried herbs hanging everywhere, it’s a friendly and attractive space, appealing to the local clubs and groups that like to meet there for lunch.

  But the lunch crowd wasn’t here yet. The dining room was empty except for four little old ladies sitting around a table. They were wearing dresses, hats, and gloves, as if they had come for high tea. But one of them had apparently brought a deck of cards, for they were playing bridge while they waited. They were totally engrossed.

  “One spade,” Ethel Wauer said.

  “Pass,” said Mildred Ewell.

  “One heart,” said Jane Jessup.

  “Pass,” said Hazel Schulz.

  They all looked at Ethel, who hesitated. “Four hearts,” she said tentatively. “Or maybe—”

  “Ladies,” Ruby said, “China Bayles is here. Do you still want to talk to her?”

  “You bet your boobies we do,” Ethel said brightly, folding her cards. Ethel is a spry eighty-something, with very white hair that she wears in a boy’s cut, as short as possible. “Girls, put away your cards.”

  “But Ethel,” Mildred said, looking at her hand, “I was about to—”

  “Never mind, Mildred,” Jane said. “We’re here to talk. We can play cards later.”

  Feeling resigned, I pulled up a chair. “What was it you wanted to talk about?”

  “I’ll bring another pot of tea,” Ruby offered, and went off.

  I waited as the ladies handed their cards to Ethel, who put them carefully into their box and the box into her handbag. Then I repeated my question. “What did you want to talk about?”

  The ladies looked from one to the other. “You tell her, Jane,” Hazel urged. “You’re the one who looked out the window.”

  “No,” Jane said, shaking her head. “That was Ethel. Ethel, you tell her.”

  “All right, I will,” Ethel said, and straightened in her chair. “Mr. Kirk was a very nice man and we all liked him. We don’t think he killed himself.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Because that wasn’t the kind of person he was,” Jane said indignantly. “He disinfected my grandson’s computer. And anyway, we saw—”

  “Ethel saw her,” Mildred corrected her. “Two different times.”

  “After Mr. Kirk had gone to the shop,” Hazel said.

  “But I also saw—” Jane began huffily.

  “Wait,” I said, holding up my hand. I turned to Ethel. “Mrs. Wauer, are you going to tell me what you saw, or am I going to have to guess?”

  Mrs. Wauer leaned forward, blue eyes sparkling in her lined face. “Well, it’s like this, China. I wash my dishes at the kitchen sink, once or twice every day. I was washing dishes, and I looked out the window and saw—”

  “You need a dishwasher, is what you need,” Hazel said. “My cousin works at Jim’s Appliance Store. He’d be glad to install one for you, Ethel.”

  “Get a KitchenAid,” Jane advised. “They’re the best. I have never had a minute’s trouble with mine, except for the time a fork got into the—”

  I broke in. “Mrs. Wauer, just what did you see when you looked out the window?”

  “A woman,” Mrs. Wauer replied. “Walking down the alley. Two different times—and both of them after Mr. Kirk had gone to work.”

  “How do you know he’d gone to work?” I asked.

  “Because Oodles doesn’t like bicycles,” Mrs. Wauer said.

  I frowned. “What does Oodles not liking bicycles have to do with—”

  Mildred Ewell leaned forward. “Oodles barks at bicycles,” she said darkly. “He goes totally bananas when he sees a bicycle. Once he knocked down his gate and chased Mr. Kirk down the street. He bit him on the ankle
and tore his pants.”

  “Oodles was very sorry afterward,” Mrs. Wauer said repentantly. “He just lost his head for a moment.”

  “So Oodles barked and you knew that Mr. Kirk had ridden off to work,” I said, trying to keep the conversation on track. “And then what?”

  “And then I saw the lady in the alley,” Ethel said.

  “Not just once,” Hazel put in excitedly. “Twice! After Mr. Kirk had gone to work! Now why, I ask you, would somebody be going to Mr. Kirk’s house when he wasn’t there?”

  “How do you know she was going to Mr. Kirk’s house?” I asked reasonably. Ruby appeared at that moment with a pot of hot tea.

  “It’s mint,” she said. “I thought you might need a picker-upper.” She pulled up a chair and sat down at the table.

  “Thank you,” I said gratefully, wishing it were laced with something very strong. I poured myself a cup, sweetening it with honey. “How did you know she was going to Mr. Kirk’s house?” I asked again.

  “Because she went in his back gate,” Mrs. Wauer replied. “She walked down the alley as pert as you please, right past my kitchen window, then opened the Kirks’ back gate and went in.”

  “When was this?” I asked.

  Mrs. Wauer frowned. “Well, one time it was Monday, because that’s the day Mr. Hamer comes to cut the grass. Monday two weeks ago. The other time…” She paused. “I’d have to check, but I’m pretty sure it was the day I took Oodles to the vet to get his shots. That would’ve been on a Friday. Friday before last.” Her voice took on a defensive tone. “And I don’t call it snooping, the way some folks do.” She gave Mildred Ewell a reproachful look. “When I see people walking down the alley, I notice, especially when they’re all dressed up. In fact, I think everybody ought to make it their business to pay attention to strangers in our neighborhoods. There’s too much crime everywhere, even in Pecan Springs.”

  “I agree with that,” Hazel said sadly. “Mrs. Howard’s mother’s watch was stolen at the nursing home. And the police didn’t do a blessed thing about it.”

  “What did she look like?” I asked.

  “Mrs. Howard’s mother didn’t get a look at her,” Hazel replied. “She was taking a nap when it happened.”

  I sighed. “No. The woman in the alley. What did she look like, Mrs. Wauer? Can you describe her?”

  “Black hair,” Mrs. Wauer said. “Straight, with bangs. Once, she was wearing a red suit, skirt above her knees.” She clucked her tongue. “Other time, it was blue. Don’t know how women can walk in those short skirts and high heels. Ridiculous.”

  “Stylish,” Jane said, “but too much makeup, in my opinion.” She smiled at Ruby. “Although we love your makeup, dear, because you’re our friend.” She turned to me. “I saw her myself, China. Once. But not in the alley. She was getting into a car, out in front of the McNallys’. Fortysomething, trying to look younger. But the red lipstick didn’t help, if you ask me.”

  “Mrs. McNally’s daughter Polly knows her name,” Mildred Ewell offered. “Polly was there when she parked her car out front. She recognized her.”

  “Hyundai,” Hazel said.

  “Her name is Hyundai?” I asked, surprised.

  “No, that’s her car,” Hazel said. “Or something like that. One of those cute little foreign things. That’s what Mrs. McNally said.”

  “Bright red,” Jane said disapprovingly. “Like blood.”

  “The car?” I asked. “Or her suit?”

  “Her lipstick,” Jane said. She gave me a withering look, as if I hadn’t been paying the right kind of attention. “Her suit was blue. Her car was sort of silver colored. I don’t know whether it was a Hyundai. It might have been something else.”

  “A Corvette?” I asked sharply, thinking of Timms’ car.

  “No, no. Nothing like that.” She waved her hand. “If it had been a motorcycle, I could probably tell you what make. My nearest and dearest used to ride Harleys, when he was alive.”

  “She was just sitting there, according to Mrs. McNally,” Hazel said. “Just sitting in her car, like she was waiting.” She gave me a meaningful look. “Maybe waiting for him to come home. Mr. Kirk, I mean. So she could kill him.”

  “Or sleep with him,” Mrs. Wauer said tartly. At her friends’ frowns, she said, “I have always been one to call a spade a spade.”

  I took a comforting drink of my tea. “Let me see if I’ve got this straight,” I said. “You’re telling me that you have seen a stylishly dressed woman in her forties, with long black hair, straight, with bangs, who drives a silver-colored car that might be a Hyundai. She’s been observed in the vicinity of the Kirks’ house several times, in the alley and out on the street. And Mrs. McNally’s daughter Polly knows her name. Correct?”

  The ladies burst into a spontaneous round of applause. “Bravo!” cried Hazel Schulz.

  “Didn’t I tell you that China is smart?” Ruby asked, beaming at me proudly.

  “Sharp as a tack,” Mrs. Wauer agreed. “A regular Agatha Marple.”

  Mildred Ewell leaned over and patted the older lady’s hand. “That’s Agatha Christie, dear. Or Jane Marple.”

  “That’s what I said,” Mrs. Wauer retorted. “Agatha Marple. She lives in England, although I think she must be dead by now. She’s been solving mysteries ever since I was a girl.”

  “If Mrs. McNally’s daughter Polly knows this mystery woman’s name,” I said, “what is it?”

  The ladies looked at one another. Finally, Jane said, “We don’t know. Mrs. McNally didn’t tell us.”

  “Mrs. McNally herself doesn’t know,” Hazel put in. “Polly was about to tell her who she was, but the phone rang at that moment and Polly had to go pick up her daughter at school because the girl had a terrible earache, and the conversation never got back to her name.”

  “Polly’s had so much trouble with that girl’s ears,” Mildred said. “I told her she should take her to a specialist. But Mrs. McNally says that Polly says she’ll grow out of it.”

  “I agree,” Mildred said. “People spend too much money on doctors. My grandmother used to put warm olive oil in my ears, with mullein and garlic. Felt real good.” She smiled reminiscently. “And then she’d kiss my ears, and that would make it even better.”

  “St. John’s wort, too,” Jane put in wisely. “That’s the very best herb for ear problems.”

  “And calendula,” Mrs. Wauer added. “My mother swore by calendula oil for ears. She also used it for cradle cap and diaper rash. She said it was good for both ends.” The ladies chuckled.

  I rapped the table with my knuckles. The ladies stopped chuckling and looked at me.

  “Excuse me,” I said. “But did any of you see this person yesterday? Around the time that Larry Kirk was killed?”

  The ladies interrogated one another with their eyebrows, one after another shaking her head. Mrs. Wauer turned to me. “No,” she replied regretfully. “We didn’t.”

  “Well, then,” I said, “does anybody happen to have Mrs. McNally’s phone number? Would somebody be willing to phone her and get Polly’s phone number, then phone Polly and ask for this person’s name?”

  Hazel raised her hand like a little girl in class. “I can do that.”

  “Good,” I said. “And would you be willing to telephone me with whatever information you can get?”

  “Of course,” Hazel said. “I’ll call you right away.”

  “Good,” I said, and gave her my cell phone number. “If you’ll do that, I’ll pass the information along to the police and they can add it to their list of things they need to investigate.” It was possible that the Little Old Ladies League, as I was beginning to think of them, had just identified the stalker that Larry had emailed me about. I had no way of knowing whether this woman was his killer, of course. But identifying the stalker would be a very good thing.

  I finished my tea and looked around the table. “Well, ladies, is that it?”

  The ladies traded glances, then all fo
ur of them nodded. “That’s it,” Mrs. Wauer said, with great satisfaction. “I think we can go home now, girls. China can take it from here.”

  Jane was leaning forward, looking intently at Ruby. “Forgive me, dear. I could be wrong, ’cause I’ve left my glasses at home. But it looks like something is crawling up your neck.”

  “It’s a devil’s claw,” Ruby said, leaning forward to give Jane a better look at her necklace. “It’s made of the dried seedpods of a Southwestern desert plant. It’s for protection against evil. When you’re wearing this, nothing bad can touch you.”

  Mrs. Wauer gave a gusty sigh. “Well, all I can say is, it’s a pity that poor Mr. Kirk didn’t have some devil’s claws. He might have been able to escape from the clutches of that woman.”

  The ladies nodded soberly as they picked up their handbags and trooped out.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Sheila was a systematic thinker who habitually made mental lists, constantly fact-checked against her assumptions, and tried to anticipate, rationally, what was likely to come next, since unexpected events could be (and often were) life-threatening. These were habits that she shared with Blackie, a methodical man who thought pretty much the same way. She had often reflected that she would never be able to live with somebody who didn’t operate the way she did. A disorganized and impulsive partner would drive her crazy.

  She had plenty to think about as she drove back to Pecan Springs, moving fast but without lights and siren. But before she let herself think about any of the casework, she picked up her cell phone and speed-dialed Blackie’s number. It rang four times, then went to voice mail. She left a quick “Hope everything’s okay. Call when you can” and turned the phone off. Wherever he was, whatever he was doing, she could only trust that Blackie was okay. His image came up in her mind—strong, competent, always careful—and she took a deep breath. He’d be fine. He was on the move, or out of cell phone range, or so focused on what he was doing that he wasn’t thinking of anything else. He was fine. Of course he was fine.

  She boxed up that thought and put it on the back shelf of her mind, turning to the things that needed immediate attention. Now that Timms was no longer a suspect in the Kirk homicide, she needed to follow up on a couple of things she had found earlier that morning, before she was interrupted with the news of Timms’ death. Top of the list: an interview with Tina Simpson, either at home or at work.