"Which breast? What kind of cancer is it? Did you find a lump? What are they going to do? When?"
"It's in my right breast, but there's no lump," Ruby said. "You can't feel a thing. You can only see it on the mammogram, and only if you know what you're looking for. It looks like a bunch of teensy white specks—dead cancer cells. The cancer is called ductal cancer in situ. DCIS."
I frowned. In situ was a phrase I knew from legal Latin. "Inside the milk duct?" I guessed.
"Right. They won't know for sure until the surgery, but they think the cancer is preinvasive, which means they've caught it before it's had a chance to grow through the duct and get into the breast tissue." She gave me a lopsided grin. "While I was at St. Theresa's, I read a couple of books. If you've got to have breast cancer, DCIS seems like the best kind to have."
My chest suddenly didn't feel so tight. "That's wonderful!" I exclaimed. I frowned. What was I saying? "I don't mean wonderful," I said, biting my lip. "I mean—"
"That's okay." Ruby squeezed my hand. "I know what you mean. It's all relative."
I swallowed, trying to think what I'd read about breast cancer treatment. "So what's next? A lumpectomy, then radiation? Then chemo?"
Ruby pulled her hands away. "No," she said. There was a tiny white line around her mouth. "What's next is a mastectomy."
"A mastectomy!" I gasped. "You're not serious." Ruby leaned forward, her eyes holding mine. "That's why I went to St. Theresa's, China. To think about this, and figure out what to do. I've seen two oncologists. They both say that with a cancer like mine, the surgeon would have to take a pretty big slice out of my breast to be sure to get it all. And even with a big slice, it's not a sure thing. There'd have to be radiation to kill any cancer cells the surgery missed."
I started to say something, but she held up her hand. "But even with surgery and radiation—even with all that, there's a risk of recurrence. Only one in ten, they say, pretty good odds. But it's still a risk. On the other hand, if I have a mastectomy and there are no problems with the lymph nodes, I won't have to worry. With a mastectomy, the cure rate is essentially a hundred percent."
"But your . .. breast!" For an instant, I remembered seeing Ruby turned sideways before the mirror at her shop, gazing at her reflection. She must have been imagining, at that very moment, what it would be like to lose a breast. What it would look like, what it would feel like. How much she would miss it.
Ruby gave me an ironic grin. "Yeah, my breast. Well, it's true that I'm kind of attached to it. I've always considered my breasts rather sexy, and it's nice that they come in pairs." She looked down, cupped her hands under her breasts, and fitted then. Then she dropped her hands and gave a little shrug. "But I can live without a breast. And I'm definitely not going to keep a part of my breast if I can trade the whole damn tiing for better odds."
"But to let them take your breast—" I stopped, helpless. "It's so... so barbaric! Like something out of the Dark Ages."
Her mouth tightened. "Cancer is barbaric. I vote that we stop lobbing satellites at Mars and spend the money on breast cancer research." Then she lifted her chin defiantly. "But you're wrong, China—I'm not letting them take it, I'm telling them to take it. I have a choice, and I choose mastectomy." She grinned suddenly and raised her clenched fist in a salute. "Off with the boob! On with the rest of my fife!"
God, I admired her courage. And it was great to hear that determined tone in her voice, and see that flash of self-assertion and boldness and humor that I love so much. To see the old Ruby prevail, when she might so easily have been swept away by anger and despair.
I forced an answering grin and said, flippantly, "Well, they do wonders with reconstruction these days. Implants, I mean—saline, not silicone. And I saw on TV that they can take a flap of tissue from your own body to create a new breast. The Bionic Boob. You probably won't even miss the old one."
Ruby dropped her arm and sat silent for a moment, as if she wanted to tell me something but couldn't quite make up her mind to say it—not for her sake, but for mine, because she wasn't sure how I'd take it. Finally, she said: "To tell the truth, China, I'm feeling pretty negative about reconstruction. I don't think I want somebody to stick a foreign object into my body, even if it is filled with saltwater instead of Silly Putty. And I don't like the idea of slicing off a piece of me to patch another piece, especially when I can't be sure how it will turn out. What if they don't get it right? What if one side is bigger than the other, or harder, or higher, or lower?" She shrugged. "I'm not saying reconstruction is wrong. I'm sure it's right for lots of other women. But not for me."
"But won't you—" I put my hand on my breast, trying to imagine going through life without it. It suddenly felt very precious. "I mean, won't it seem a little—"
"Weird? Yeah, maybe. It's a double-breasted world, and there are plenty of Barbie dolls around to remind me, if I forget. But if I feel the need to be symmetrical, I can always wear a prosthesis." There was that grin again. "A falsie. You buy a bra with a pocket where you slip it in. Some falsies even have nipples. They're made out of silicone and they jiggle, like the real thing. Isn't that a hoot?"
I was abashed by Ruby's bravery. If I had to give up a breast, what would I do? Would I endure the pain and uncertainty of the additional surgery to get a new one, or would I learn to live without it? "I'm sorry," I said, past the painful lump in my throat. "You're right."
Her face darkened. "I don't know about being right. I just have to get through this, one step at a time. First the surgery, then—" She frowned. "No, first I have to tell Shannon and Amy and Mom—and it's Christmas. The timing sucks, doesn't it?"
"We can all chip in and buy you a nightie for the hospital," I said, and then bit my Up. We didn't have to buy her a nightie. She already had one, a negligee that made her feel like Garbo. And that doctor Hark had mentioned— probably one of the oncologists she had consulted. Our suspicions, our theories, all wrong. Dead wrong.
I forced myself to smile. "What about Hark? Are you going to tell him? He's convinced himself that you've fallen in love with a doctor."
"Oh, God," Ruby sighed. "Why does life have to be so damn complicated?"
"He says he loves you. He wants to marry you."
She closed her eyes, opened them again. "Poor Hark. He's a really sweet guy. He deserves some gal who'll put him at the center of her world. Before this happened, I thought that might be me, if I worked at it. Your getting married reminded me how nice it is to have somebody you can count on when things get rough."
"You don't think you can count on Hark?"
Ruby sighed heavily. "I'm sure he'd jump at the chance to be a hero. But I've got enough to do just to take care of myself. I don't want to be responsible for him. That may not be fair, but who said any of this is fair?"
I nodded. I could understand her worry about being responsible. It was almost as if Ruby and I had traded places. "When is your surgery?"
'Two days after Christmas, in San Antonio."
I was aghast. "But that's almost three weeks! Why do you have to wait so long? Why can't you just have it done—like, tomorrow?"
"It's the holidays, I guess—although this kind of surgery isn't considered to be an emergency. But it's still a bitch. It's like there's this giant surgical knife poised over my head and I have to wait three weeks for it to fall."
I grinned. "We'll have to make sure you keep busy."
"Right." She sat up straighter. "I'm not going to sit around and let myself get depressed. I've decided to start weightlifting. And maybe I'll borrow Amy's in-line skates."
I blinked. That wasn't exactly what I had in mind. "But shouldn't you get some rest? I mean—"
Ruby slammed her fist on the table. "I'm not sick, damn it! I don't need rest. Rest is depressing. And I don't need to read any more books about cancer, either. What I need is distraction."
Ruby was right. She is a person of spirit and energy, but she has an unfortunate tendency to obsess. Ruby needed somethin
g to think about besides her cancer.
"Well, then," I said, "before you get involved with lifting weights and zipping around on Amy's skates, maybe you could try a little mental exercise. Put your mind to a case of hit-and-run."
She frowned. "Hit-and-run?"
"Yeah. Somebody ran over Carl Swenson yesterday afternoon."
"Carl Swenson?" She stared at me, suddenly sober. "The mistletoe man?"
"Right. He was cutting mistletoe on Comanche Road, not very far from his house. Somebody hit him and kept right on going." I sighed. "Unfortunately, that somebody might have been the Fletcher sisters' aunt. You met her when you and Betsy Williams and I went out there to pick flowers for my wedding. Remember?"
"Who could forget?" Ruby shook her head. "She's the one who's convinced that the Klingons are parked overhead with their warp drive engines on idle, waiting to take her to a galaxy far, far away."
"That's her," I said. "Only now she says they've taken Carl Swenson instead, to wash dishes and clean latrines." Then I told Ruby the whole long tale—from the discovery of Swenson's body early that morning down to my discovery of the Brazilian real estate brochure in Carl Swenson's mailbox just before dinner.
"Rio!" Ruby stared at me, her eyes big. "That's where all the drug dealers go to hide out, isn't it?"
I nodded. "Of course, that doesn't mean that Carl Swenson is a drug dealer. Anyway, it might have been a mistake. The brochure wasn't even addressed to the right person."
"Maybe, maybe not," Ruby replied. "But assuming it was sent to him, it certainly is suspicious. Where would a guy like Swenson get the money for a plane ticket to South
America, let alone a condo on the beach in one of the most expensive cities in the world?" She wrinkled her nose. "He didn't make it raising goats or cutting mistletoe. He must have been growing something else. Or selling it."
"It's certainly a mystery," I said, eyeing her. She was animated now, and interested, and the weariness had disappeared from her face. I thought of something else— something I'd forgotten to mention to either McQuaid or Blackie. "Corinne Tuttle told me that Swenson built a greenhouse. She overheard her nephew telling somebody about it on the phone." I frowned, wondering for the first time why that particular piece of information had been important enough for Marvin to pass along—and to whom.
"A greenhouse!" Ruby sounded awed, and even a little bit scared. "China, I'll bet that guy was growing marijuana. And Corinne Tuttle's nephew Marvin was helping him. Or maybe Marvin was selling it for Swenson. Or something. I'll bet they were in cahoots." She scooted forward to the edge of her chair. "And didn't you say that Marvin's red Camaro was wearing one of those leather whatchacallits? Maybe Marvin put it on to hide the fact that the front end was damaged. Maybe the two guys had a fight over money or dope or something and Marvin ran him down."
In the past, I've had to warn Ruby about jumping to imaginative conclusions on little or no evidence. But I was so glad to see that this cloak-and-dagger stuff was distracting her from her problems that I was willing to go along with anything she might come up with, no matter how weird or off-the-wall.
"You might have something there, Ruby," I said encouragingly. "Anyway, it's an interesting speculation."
"That's the understatement of the year, China." Ruby was almost breathless with excitement. "Who knows where Swenson's pot has ended up, or how many kids have been hooked on it? And maybe it's more than pot. Why, he and Marvin could've been manufacturing all kinds of illegal stuff out there, and nobody would ever be the wiser." She pursed her lips, concentrating. "Do you know if Blackie searched Swenson's place?"
"I don't think so," I said. "He'd probably have mentioned it if he had. As a matter of fact," I added, "the sheriff doesn't seem to be paying any attention to Swenson. He's fixated on finding the vehicle and the driver—which is probably the right approach, given his assumption that this was an accident."
"Yeah, well, he's still thinking inside the box," Ruby said critically. She frowned. "Maybe it wasn't Marvin after all. Maybe Swenson got crosswise of the drug lords." She caught the quizzical look on my face and added, "Don't be so negative, China. And don't say it can't happen here. Remember that big shootout in Brownsville last spring? And just a couple of weeks ago there was a bust near Kerr-ville. The guys who were growing it got away, as usual, but the narcotics people confiscated some money and a hundred pounds of marijuana."
"I am not negative," I replied defensively. "I'm thinking."
Until this minute, I hadn't seriously considered the possibility that Swenson's death might be anything other than what it looked like: a tragic accident that had been criminalized by the driver's failure to accept responsibility. I'd been focused on a scenario involving crazy old Aunt Velda and her two nieces—which was just about as far-fetched, now that I thought about it, as Ruby's idea about drugs.
I hesitated. The sensible, responsible thing would be for me to call Blackie and suggest that when he went out to
talk to Corinne Tuttle the next morning, he should drive up Swenson's lane and take a quick look in that greenhouse, just to make sure that the guy hadn't been in the pot business. But sitting across the table from me was Ruby, who needed a distraction to keep her mind off her problem. And here was the perfect distraction. I rose to the occasion.
"What would you think about going out to Swenson's place?" I asked. "We could take a look at that greenhouse. If there's anything suspicious about it, we can report it to Blackie." As far as I was concerned, this was a low-risk venture. Chances were that we wouldn't find anything more suspicious out there than a few resentful goats.
Ruby stood up, went to the door, and opened it. "It's pouring rain," she said, coming back to the table, "and it's pitch-dark. We'll need ponchos and flashlights. And I'll have to borrow a pair of boots." She held out one sneakered foot. "It's too wet to go hiking around in these."
Now, this was the old Ruby. "I didn't mean right this minute. Let's get some sleep and head out there when it's light. With an early start, we can be back by the time we have to open the shops. Anyway, Laurel will be there, if we're a few minutes late. And Mrs. K has the tearoom under control. She can manage without us until noon."
"That's a good plan, China," Ruby said. She frowned. "But I think we ought to be prepared. If Swenson's been running a major drug operation out there, he hasn't been doing it single-handed. We might run into some of his friends—or enemies. The situation could get dicey. I know how you feel about your gun, but I think we ought to be armed."
I frowned. I do have a gun, a 9mm Beretta. I am trained to use it and I am licensed for concealed carry, now that the Texas voters have decided that it's kosher to hide a gun in your boot as long as you have the blessings of the Department of Public Safety. But I have always maintained that unless I am fully committed to using a weapon for its designated purpose—to kill or maim someone who menaces my person or the persons of those I love—I am better off leaving it in a locked drawer. On the other hand, it looked as if Ruby was getting into this in a big way. I could always leave the bullets at home. That way, there'd be no chance of an accident.
"Ruby," I said with feigned enthusiasm, "you're right. I'll bring my gun. We'll feel better knowing we can defend ourselves if we have to."
"Absolutely," Ruby said. "And I'll bring my chile-pepper spray. That stuff'11 knock the socks off a grizzly bear. If somebody jumps us, he'll be sorry." The lines were disappearing from Ruby's face, and she looked lively and eager. My harebrained diversionary scheme was working.
"What time do you want me to pick you up?" I asked.
"How about five-thirty?"
I blinked. "Why don't we make it a little later? It's pretty cold at five-thirty in the morning. And very, very dark. The sun doesn't come up before seven, you know."
"I say five-thirty. We want to be there before any of Swenson's cronies show up to clean the place out—if they haven't done it already. We probably should have gone out there tonight, instead of sitting here talkin
g about it." Ruby looked at her watch. "Gosh, China, it's after ten. I'd better get home and get some stuff together." She gave me a grin. "Hey, you know, I haven't thought about my boob for a whole fifteen minutes?" Her grin went crooked. "Until just now, that is."
"That's okay, Ruby," I said. "This expedition will be so exciting that you'll forget about your boob for hours at a stretch."
Little did I know.
Chapter Eleven
It is not a new opinion that the Golden Bough [that Aeneas carried into the underworld] was the mistletoe. True, Virgil does not identify but only compares it with mistletoe. But this may be only a poetical device to cast a mystic glamour over the humble plant. Or, more probably, his description was based on a popular superstition that at certain times the mistletoe blazed out into a supernatural golden glory.
Sir James George Frazer The Golden Bough
I didn't intend to go dashing off to Swenson's place before dawn on that Tuesday morning without letting my husband know, but I'm afraid that's what happened. McQuaid must have gotten involved with his research, because he didn't get in until late—what time, I'm not sure, because I was already sound asleep. When I tried to rouse him at quarter to five, all I got was a muttered "Whazzat? Whozzit?" and a resonant snore.
What the heck, I decided. Let him sleep. If I woke him up to tell him where I was going, I'd have to tell him why, which would mean telling him about Ruby's cancer. The news would hit him as hard as it had me. It could wait until this evening, when we'd have time to talk it through.
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