Cat's Claw (A Pecan Springs Mystery)

warrants, signing death certificates, and marrying people. She says she much prefers to marry people. It doesn’t leave a bad taste in her mouth, like death certificates.
    As long as they stay together, that is. Maude regards the ones who don’t make it as her own personal failures. “I guess I didn’t put enough emphasis on ‘until death do you part,’” she says sourly, whenever she hears about the latest divorce. “Sad to say, but some are in it just for the good times. Married folks, they gotta be like that cat’s claw acacia I’ve got growin’ in my yard. Gotta grab hard and hold on tight when the going gets rough. Only way to get through the bad times. Grab hard, hold on, and ride. No matter what.”
    But even though Maude gave “until death do you part” her very best shot, it may not be enough. Sheila’s and Blackie’s careers in lawenforcement have created a great many conflicts between them over the past few years, and after a couple of broken engagements, I’m afraid to be too optimistic. Or maybe I’m just realistic. I’m married to an ex-cop, and I understand why McQuaid’s first marriage ended in divorce. So did Blackie’s, and while I don’t know all the details, I’m guessing that it happened for pretty much the same reasons. I’m sure that he and Sheila will give it all they can, and I hope it works. Their friends and well-wishers gave them a great sendoff, and we all wish them the best. The rest is up to them.
    I picked up my shoulder bag and paused for a moment before I switched off the lights, liking what I saw. Thyme and Seasons, the Crystal Cave, and the tearoom are housed in an old two-story building that is constructed of blocks of Texas limestone. The shops and the tearoom have stone walls, deep-set casement windows, and the original wooden floors. My shop is small and very full, but I like it that way—there’s an intimacy about it that’s lacking in larger, more open shops, seems to me, and the rustic space suits the down-to-earthiness of my wares. The ceiling-high shelves along the back wall display dozens of jars and bottles of dried herbs, salves, and tinctures. A corner rack holds herb, gardening, and cookery books, as well as copies of my own
China Bayles’ Book of Days
. There’s a display of essential oils, diffusers, and other aromatherapy supplies on an old wooden table—everything you need to create and enjoy herbal fragrances. Along another wall are herbal items from local crafters: jellies, vinegars, seasoning blends, and soaps. There are baskets of dried herbs in the corners, bundles of dried plants hang from overhead beams, and raffia-tied braids of red peppers and garlic are displayed on the stone walls. The air is rich with the sweet-spicy scents of patchouli, nutmeg, cinnamon, and sandalwood—fragrances that remind me of a lingering autumn. I won’t start putting up the holiday items foranother week or two. I absolutely hate going to malls and seeing the Christmas stuff up before Halloween. This is
my
shop, and I don’t rush the season.
    People sometimes ask if I miss my former profession—I was a practicing criminal attorney—or long for the excitements and entertainments of Houston, where I used to live. But I don’t have to hem and haw and fumble for an answer. I love it here. I’m doing something that feels right and healthy for me, for my customers, and for the planet. I don’t know what the future holds—nobody does. But I intend to do this for as long as I can.
    I reached for the switch to turn off the lights. But before I could flick it, the door to the Crystal Cave popped open and Ruby stood there, her cell phone in her hand, her eyes round, her face white.
    “It’s Ramona!” she gasped. “She’s just— She—”
    “Uh-oh,” I said, under my breath. Ramona is a little ditzy. She collects weird accidents, like the time the car ahead of her on the freeway threw a hubcap through her windshield, or the afternoon she was sailing with a friend on a lake near Dallas and a big fish jumped into the boat and bit her toe. Aloud, I said, “What’s happened to Ramona now?”
    Ruby gulped. “She … she’s found a body.”
    “A dead one?” I was startled. Even for Ramona, finding a body is not something that happens every day. “Where?”
    Ruby gave me a look that said,
Yes, dead, you dummy
. Into the phone, she asked, “Where?” After a moment’s listening, she said to me, “Three doors down from my house. In the kitchen.