Cat's Claw (A Pecan Springs Mystery)

on the corner had seen a stranger loitering in the alley. And these sweet little old ladies had compiled all these rumors and bits of gossip into a story they were dying to share.
    “Anyway,” Ruby went on, “they don’t want to tell the police. They’re here because they want to tell
you
.”
    “Me?” I asked, surprised. “Why me?”
    “Because you’re famous,” Ramona replied, with a chuckle that just missed being sarcastic.
    “That’s ridiculous,” I scoffed. “I’m not famous. I—”
    “Yes, you are,” Ruby said. “Last summer, you helped to locate Jessica Nelson when that guy kidnapped her. And before that, there was the burglar you squirted with pepper spray right here in the shop—remember? And before
that
, it was the drugs that somebody was trying to smuggle in those pots of yucca. If it hadn’t been for you, the smugglers would have succeeded.”
    She paused, and I knew she was thinking of Colin Fowler. He’d been investigating that drug smuggling ring when he was killed. She touched her devil’s claw necklace again, swallowed, and went on.
    “The Stars have heard all these stories, China, and they’ve decided that you’re a regular Miss Jane Marple.”
    Ramona smothered a giggle.
    “Miss who?” I asked blankly.
    “Miss Marple. You know—in Agatha Christie’s mysteries. So they want you to listen to what they have to say.” She patted my arm. “And anyway, it’ll be a chance to sit down and have a nice cup of hot tea and a couple of cookies. You look like you could use a break.”
    I couldn’t argue with that. With a sigh, I followed Ruby into the tearoom.
    Thyme for Tea occupies the back half of the building that Ruby and I share. Like our shops, the dining room has limestone walls, well-worn wide-board floors, and an embossed tin ceiling. With its green-painted wainscoting, chintz chair seats and place mats, and pots of ivy andbundles of dried herbs hanging everywhere, it’s a friendly and attractive space, appealing to the local clubs and groups that like to meet there for lunch.
    But the lunch crowd wasn’t here yet. The dining room was empty except for four little old ladies sitting around a table. They were wearing dresses, hats, and gloves, as if they had come for high tea. But one of them had apparently brought a deck of cards, for they were playing bridge while they waited. They were totally engrossed.
    “One spade,” Ethel Wauer said.
    “Pass,” said Mildred Ewell.
    “One heart,” said Jane Jessup.
    “Pass,” said Hazel Schulz.
    They all looked at Ethel, who hesitated. “Four hearts,” she said tentatively. “Or maybe—”
    “Ladies,” Ruby said, “China Bayles is here. Do you still want to talk to her?”
    “You bet your boobies we do,” Ethel said brightly, folding her cards. Ethel is a spry eighty-something, with very white hair that she wears in a boy’s cut, as short as possible. “Girls, put away your cards.”
    “But Ethel,” Mildred said, looking at her hand, “I was about to—”
    “Never mind, Mildred,” Jane said. “We’re here to talk. We can play cards later.”
    Feeling resigned, I pulled up a chair. “What was it you wanted to talk about?”
    “I’ll bring another pot of tea,” Ruby offered, and went off.
    I waited as the ladies handed their cards to Ethel, who put them carefully into their box and the box into her handbag. Then I repeated my question. “What did you want to talk about?”
    The ladies looked from one to the other. “You tell her, Jane,” Hazel urged. “You’re the one who looked out the window.”
    “No,” Jane said, shaking her head. “That was Ethel. Ethel, you tell her.”
    “All right, I will,” Ethel said, and straightened in her chair. “Mr. Kirk was a very nice man and we all liked him. We don’t think he killed himself.”
    “Why?” I asked.
    “Because that wasn’t the kind of person he was,” Jane said indignantly. “He disinfected my grandson’s computer. And anyway, we saw—”
    “Ethel
saw her,” Mildred corrected her. “Two different times.”
    “
After
Mr. Kirk had gone to the shop,” Hazel said.
    “But I also saw—” Jane began huffily.
    “Wait,” I said, holding up my hand. I turned to Ethel. “Mrs. Wauer, are you going to tell me what you saw, or am I going to have to guess?”
    Mrs. Wauer leaned forward, blue eyes sparkling in her lined face. “Well, it’s like this, China. I wash my dishes at the kitchen sink, once or twice every day. I was