Cat's Claw (A Pecan Springs Mystery)

paused.“Especially nothing about Timms. We need to keep the lid on that as long as we can.”
    “I’ll do it,” Bartlett said. “Briefing at oh-nine-hundred? Matheson and Blount can join us. By that time, I’ll have put together a plan for the day’s work.”
    “Sounds good to me,” Sheila agreed.
    Bartlett dropped his cigarette, stepped on it, and slid her a sideways glance. “Thank you, Chief,” he said.
    “Sheila,” she said. “And thanks? What for?”
    “No,
Chief,
” he replied. “Thank you for giving me the lead on this case. Means a helluva lot to me. More than you know.”
    Sheila thought of Hardin and his habit of taking credit and understood what Bartlett was saying.
    “You’re welcome, Detective,” she said.

Chapter Nine

    If you’re interested in wild foraging, try a spring nibble of the succulent tips of catbrier, aka greenbriar,
Smilax bona-nox
. (You’ll want to stay clear of the thorny claws of this clutching vine.) Euell Gibbons, in
Stalking the Healthful Herbs,
claims that a jelly can be made from the catbrier root. Delena Tull, writing in
Edible and Useful Plants of Texas and the Southwest,
reports that she had no success with Gibbon’s catbrier jelly but found that the root material produced an attractive red-brown dye. The tropical
Smilax regelii
was used to treat a variety of ailments, including syphilis. Also known as sarsaparilla, it was an ingredient in old-fashioned root beers. Obviously, a plant of many talents.
    China Bayles
“Herbs That Hold Fast”
Pecan Springs Enterprise
    Caitlin was still upstairs. I was finishing my tea and studying the new egg on the table (are first eggs always so
small
?) when the phone rang. I got to my feet to answer it, but McQuaid came in at that moment, shrugging out of the yellow poncho and brushing the rain out of his dark hair with one hand. Since he was nearer, he picked up.
    “Hey, Tom,” he said. “What’s up, fella?”
Banner
, he mouthed to me. Our neighbor up the lane.
    Whatever was up, there must have been a lot of it, for the conversation went on for several minutes. It was mostly Tom talking, though,with McQuaid listening, occasionally saying things like, “You actually
shot
him?” and “How many did you lose?” and “
That
big?” (in a surprised tone). Then, “You’re going to report it to Parks and Wildlife?” Finally, he said, “Thanks for letting us know, Tom. We’ll keep our eyes peeled, but she’s probably long gone by now.” He hung up the phone, went to the fridge, and took out a bottle of Saint Arnold root beer.
    “What was all that?” I asked worriedly. “Who did Tom shoot? Who’s long gone?”
    “Not who,” he said, opening the freezer and getting out a carton of vanilla ice cream. “What. A mountain lion.” He carried the ice cream to the counter and found a large mug. “There were two. They panicked Sylvia’s sheep, but Tom got out there with his gun before they killed any.”
    “He shot a
mountain lion
?” I asked, thinking immediately of the lithe and lovely wild animal I had seen crossing the road.
    “Yeah. Six-foot male, measured nose to tail. The female got away. She’s probably long gone, but he wanted to warn us to keep tabs on our animals.” He turned to me, holding up the root beer. “I’m making a float. Want one?”
    “That would be nice,” I said. Root beer floats are a special treat at our house, and Saint Arnold is a favorite, brewed in a Houston microbrewery and sold (among other places) at the Pecan Springs Farmers Market. But I was still thinking of what I had seen.
    “I may have seen that mountain lion tonight,” I said. “Crossing Limekiln Road, heading north. A beautiful animal, silvery, pale—almost like a ghost. I’m glad to hear that Sylvia didn’t lose any sheep. She loves those creatures.”
    “Tom said the male had a four-inch open gash on his head,” McQuaid said, scooping ice cream into two mugs. “Not a bullet wound—almost like he’d been hit with an implement, a spade or something.” Hepopped the cap on the bottle and poured fizzy root beer over the ice cream. He added a couple of spoons and brought the mugs to the table.
    “Thanks,” I said, picking up my spoon. “Is there a season on mountain lions?”
    He shook his head. “Nope. They’re not considered a game animal. No bounty, either, although the ranchers around here probably wish there were. It might encourage hunting.” He picked up the egg and frowned at it. “I