Cat's Claw (A Pecan Springs Mystery)

to move into a command position in a paramilitary organization dominated by men, especially in a small town like Pecan Springs. A small
Texas
town.”
    “Doesn’t sound like you’re a big fan of the police,” Ramona remarked wryly.
    “China used to be a defense attorney,” Ruby said with a laugh. “Defense attorneys hate cops.”
    “Defense attorneys don’t hate cops,” I protested, as we turned up the walk to Ruby’s front porch. “They’re fine with the police when the cops do what they’re supposed to do, obey the law, and behave themselves. Which they don’t always do, you know. There are plenty of examples of cops acting
outside
the law.”
    Like most other residences in the neighborhood, Ruby’s two-story frame house sits in the middle of a large, shady yard. But while the other houses are traditional Victorians—which is to say that they look like dowdy old ladies on their way to a friend’s funeral—Ruby’s Painted Lady is nothing short of dazzling. Ruby has radically rejuvenated the old house by painting the siding, shutters, porches, and gingerbread trim with wonderfully wild color combinations: spring green, smoke gray, fuschia, and plum. The wicker furniture on the front porch is daffodil yellow, the cushions are covered in a bright red-and-green tropical print, and green-painted buckets of red geraniums march up the steps. Ruby says she knows why her house makes its next-door neighbors uncomfortable. “It’s as if your grandmother painted her nails passion purple,” she says, “put on fire-engine-red lipstick and mauve eye shadow,and went out dancing with a man half her age. The other houses are all jealous.”
    “I guess that’s what I don’t understand,” Ramona said thoughtfully. “Chief Dawson really
is
an exception, isn’t she? I mean, this is Texas, which has to have more macho males per square mile than anywhere else in the world. And she could be a fashion model. How in the world did she ever get the job?”
    “Right time, right place,” I replied, as Ruby opened the door and we followed her inside.
    “I want to hear about it,” Ramona said, heading for the stairs. “But first I have to get out of these pants. They’re ruined. Excuse me.”
    Ruby and I went down the hall toward the kitchen. When she moved in, the house was in terrible shape, outside and in. It took months to restore the golden oak woodwork and floors. And then, being Ruby, she papered the walls in bright orange, yellow, even red, electrified with black-and-white stripes and checks and zigzags and polka-dots, like a Mary Englebreit painting.
Bam. Pow. Kazaam
.
    But for all this sizzling color and pattern, it’s still a comfortable house, with Ruby’s quilts and weavings hung on the walls, baskets and sculpture and bowls and books arranged on the shelves, with a star map painted on the dark blue living room ceiling. And the kitchen—well, a couple of years ago, Ruby grasped the decorating possibilities inherent in watermelons. She put up red-and-white striped kitchen wallpaper, added a watermelon border, and painted the table red and the four chairs green and red, with little black seeds painted on the seats. A watermelon rug, watermelon place mats, and red and green dishes. It’s a picnic.
    Ramona came back downstairs in jeans and a white sleeveless top and the three of us collaborated on supper. Ruby sliced peaches forshortcake, I made a simple salad with greens from Ruby’s garden, and Ramona took the lid off the slow cooker to stir the soup. While we worked, Ruby and I filled Ramona in on Sheila’s back story. Actually, I was glad to be able to talk about this and get my mind off Larry’s situation, which loomed like a somber cloud at the back of my mind.
    “It began with a bad situation in the police department,” I said, “which at the time was all male. A woman named Dolly Patterson applied for an opening as a patrol officer. She had completed three years of college, graduated from the police academy, and had four years’ street patrol experience in El Paso, with excellent evaluations from her field officers. Bubba Harris—he was the chief at the time—passed her over in favor of a guy with no college, no academy, and no experience, who just happened to be the nephew of the city attorney. Ms. Patterson filed a discrimination suit and won, as anybody with a lick of sense could have predicted. Especially the city attorney.”
    Ramona put the lid back on the slow cooker. “But I