Cat's Claw (A Pecan Springs Mystery)

town.”
    Sheila glanced around. There was nothing more they could do until the team came in and started its work. Meanwhile, there was plenty of work waiting in Pecan Springs.
    “You go on,” she said. “I’m going to take a quick walk through the rest of the house. I’ll lock up.”
    The tour produced nothing of interest, although she knew that an intensive search would have to be made. When she locked the place and went out to the Impala, she was met by a deputy with a pair of fingerprint cards—Timms’ prints, taken from his body. As she was signing for them, another deputy arrived, with orders to station herself in front of the house. Sheila talked to her for a few minutes, leaving instructions that anyone who attempted to enter should be questioned, logged, and detained for more questioning, if that seemed warranted.
    Whatever else was inside Timms’ house was going to wait, undisturbed, until they had the opportunity to do a thorough search.

Chapter Fourteen

    Another “hold-tight” herb is the devil’s claw (
Proboscidea parviflora
ssp.
parviflora)
, a pretty pink-flowering annual that grows in deserts and arid uplands. Its sinister common name refers to the seed capsule, which splits open at one end into two curved horns or claws. These claws readily cling to any passing animal or human, so that the seeds may be widely distributed. The fresh green pods and dried black seed capsules were used for food and in basketry by Native American tribes of the southwestern United States.
    The plant was also considered medicinal and was used to treat joint pain and rheumatism. Painted and decorated, the dried devil’s claws have a striking appearance and are often used for jewelry and other crafts.
    China Bayles
“Herbs That Hold Fast”
Pecan Springs Enterprise
    I cannot begin to tell you how glad I was to open the door of Thyme and Seasons, take a deep breath of the shop’s sweet, earthy fragrances, and feel Khat winding his sinuous self around my ankles, rumbling his velvet-throated glad-to-see-you purr. After what I had encountered that morning, my little shop felt like a dream of paradise, a safe haven against the ugly world outside. There was only oneother thing I needed: to wash my hands. A gargle wouldn’t be a bad idea, either.
    For once, I was glad to see that it was a slow morning at the shop. There were a couple of women outside, walking through the medicinal garden and comparing notes on herbs they wanted to buy. Inside, a mom was browsing through the soaps and lotions while her pigtailed little girl, dressed in white bib overalls and a yellow ruffled blouse, was sitting in the child’s rocking chair that I keep in the corner, humming as she turned the pages of a book. It was such a sweetly innocent picture that I could have hugged the little girl. But I didn’t. Some affections are appropriate. Others are not—witness what I had seen in Timms’ bedroom. I’d save my hugs for Caitie.
    Ramona was perched on the stool behind the counter, painting her nails. She looked up as I came in and raised her voice. “Ruby!” she called. “China’s here!” She didn’t add
finally
, but her tone implied it.
    “I’ll be here after I’ve washed my hands,” I told her, and headed for the tiny restroom under the stairs. We’ve painted the floor and walls and decorated it with posters of Texas wildflowers, and there’s always a small bowl of fresh green herbs on the commode. But I didn’t just wash my hands. I scrubbed them as hard as I could, using plenty of rosemary soap and the hottest water I could bear. As it rushed through my fingers, I bent over to take a deep, full breath of the soap’s cleansing scent. And for good measure, I went into the tearoom kitchen and got out the bottle of sage gargle I’d made the week before, a strong sage tea with a couple of spoonfuls of cider vinegar added. Back in the bathroom, I swished out my mouth.
    But when I was finished, I felt only a little better. Timms’ death had been violent and ugly, but it was a clean kill: a strong, skilled predatorobeying an urgent instinct, taking the opportunity that presented itself, killing its prey without anger or malice or greed. But Timms himself had been a predator, and his victims would suffer for much longer than he had. After what I had seen on the wall of that bedroom, it was going to be a while before I felt entirely clean again. I was only glad that I could escape here, to a place that looks pretty and