Death Come Quickly (4 page)

“Hey, I know!” Ruby snapped her fingers. “You've decided to buy the house!”

Sheila and Blackie live in an older two-bedroom, two-bath rental home on Hickory Street, on the other side of the alley and just a couple doors down from Ruby's house on Pecan Street. Everyone in the neighborhood likes them and Ruby is hoping that they'll buy the house and stay put.

“Or you're moving out to the country?” I guessed.

Blackie owns a big house with a barn and thirty-five acres not far from where McQuaid and I live. That would be ideal for them. But it's a half-hour drive from town and Sheila's job means that she's on call twenty-four/seven. So Blackie is renting the country house to a friend and keeping the barn and pastures for his horses. He and Sheila drive out there whenever they can get away from their jobs. Sheila has learned to ride, and Rambo—Smart Cookie's Rottweiler, a sworn K-9 officer with his own police badge and bulletproof vest—loves having plenty of open space to run.

“It's not the house,” Sheila said. “We're still thinking about buying it, but we think we might need a little more room.” Her eyes twinkled. “That's a hint.”

“More room, more room.” Casting her eyes toward the ceiling, Ruby tapped an orange-painted fingernail against her teeth. “It's not the job; it's not the house. How about a new hobby? Something that takes up a lot of space. Photography, maybe? Or quilting? But when would you have time for—” She stopped. “Help me out here, China.”

Now, this was more than a little funny, because Ruby is a highly intuitive person who—when she puts her mind to it—can read other people's minds. In fact, she could go into the fortune-telling business and very likely make a fortune for herself. She inherited this gift from her grandmother, but she has learned how to dial it down, and she leaves it in the off position whenever possible. I admire her restraint. It's one thing to do birth chart readings and teach classes in the I Ching and runes and other methods of looking into the future. It's quite another to invade a friend's privacy by reading her thoughts, as if she were an open book. I'm glad Ruby keeps that gift of hers under wraps most of the time—like right now.

“I hate guessing games,” I grumbled, getting my shoulder bag out from under the counter. “If somebody thinks I need to know something, she should just come straight out and tell me.” I reached for the wildest, wackiest thing I could think of. “But okay, I'll bite. How about you're pregnant? Is that it?”

Sheila stared at me. “How did you guess, China? Do I . . .” She looked down at her trim waist. “I can't be showing yet.” Her usually calm voice rose—and broke.

“Don't tell me I'm . . .
showing
!”

Purslane (
Portulaca oleracea
) is a small annual succulent with smooth, flat leaves and yellow flowers. In the United States, it's considered a weed, but elsewhere in the world, it is eaten as a salad or leafy vegetable. Purslane is high in omega-3 fatty acids and rich in vitamins and minerals. It may be stir-fried, braised, steamed, or served raw. In Mexico, it is called
verdalagos
and is often used as an ingredient in salsas and taco fillings.

In ancient Greece, purslane was thought to attract good fortune. If you found a patch of it, you would be happy. As a medicinal, it was taken internally to treat colds, stomachaches, and fevers, and used topically to treat hemorrhoids and wounds. It can cause uterine contractions, however, and was once used as an early-term abortifacient. Pregnant women should avoid it.

China Bayles
“Herbs of Good and Ill Omen”
Pecan Springs Enterprise

“Pregnant?” Ruby gasped. “Sheila, you're . . .
pregnant
?” And then, arms windmilling, she rushed to engulf Sheila in a huge hug.

“Hey, careful!” I cried as Sheila took a step backward, falling against a rack of handmade cards and other paper items. “Watch it!”

But it was too late. Papers were flying everywhere. The rack went over. As it fell, it knocked down a wooden shelf that held a display of dried herb and flower arrangements, sending them in all directions. Behind the shelf, on the wall, a dried-flower wreath swung from side to side, then slid down to the floor with a thump.

There was a silence, then a long, angry yowl. Khat crawled out of the rubble, streaked across the floor, and disappeared into Ruby's shop.

“Oh, dear,” Ruby said, aghast. “Did . . . did I do all that?”

“Yes,” I said.

“No.” Sheila was sitting on the floor, a half-dozen dried sunflowers in her lap. She picked a leaf out of her mouth. “I did.”

“Oh, Sheila!” Ruby cried. “I'm sorry! I'm such a klutz!” She bent over, brushing bits of dried stems and flowers off of Sheila's shoulders. “I didn't . . . I didn't
hurt
you, did I? Oh, Sheila, forgive me! Please forgive me! The baby—”

“No, you didn't hurt me,” Sheila said, scrambling to her feet. “Or the baby. But we've made a mess of China's beautiful displays.” She bent over and started to pick up cards. “We're going to need a broom. There are dried twigs all over the floor.”

“You are
pregnant
!” I cried. “Stop that, Smart Cookie! Ruby, take those cards away from her.” I pushed the stool around from behind the counter. “Sit down, Sheila.
Now!
”

Ruby took the cards out of Sheila's hands. “Is there anything I can say besides I'm sorry?” she asked plaintively. “I am really, really, really sorry.”

“You can say you won't do it again,” I said. “Sheila, sit
down
.”

“I don't need to sit down,” Sheila protested, laughing. “Stop fussing, China. I am not some little Victorian lady. Rambo and I ran three miles this morning, and then I did fifty push-ups.”

“Fifty push-ups.” I rolled my eyes. “
Fifty
push-ups. Your kid is going to be an Olympic champion.”

“Wouldn't hurt my feelings,” Sheila said. “Blackie's, either.” She set the card rack on its feet again. “Anyway, you can stop trying to baby me. I am perfectly healthy. I'm just a little pregnant, that's all. Happens to lots of women.”

“There is no such thing as a
little
pregnant,” Ruby said severely. “You either are or you're not.”

“Ruby's right,” I said. “It's all or nothing. No in-between.”

“How would
you
know, China?” Sheila asked, and I subsided. Yes, I am a mother. And yes, I have two kids, two wonderful kids. But no, I've never been pregnant.

“Well,
I
know,” Ruby said. “Been there, done that. Twice. And you are not ‘lots' of women, Smart Cookie. You are a female police chief.” She frowned down at Sheila's belted trousers, trim as always. “How far along are you, anyway? Three weeks? Four?”

“Eight or nine,” Sheila replied. She picked up the wreath and hung it back on the wall.

“Eight or nine? Why, that's two months!” Ruby cried. “It's July now. Two months means that we'll have a baby by—” She began counting on her fingers. “By February! By Valentine's Day!”

“Sounds about right,” Sheila agreed. She eyed me. “But I do have a question for you, China.”

“Ask
me
,” Ruby said. “China's never been pregnant. What does she know?”

“She knows about herbs,” Sheila retorted. She turned to me. “What can I use for morning sickness?”

“Oh, poor you!” Ruby exclaimed. “That's misery.”

“Bad, huh?” I asked sympathetically.

“It's not good. But the really bad thing is that it's a giveaway.” Sheila made a face. “I don't want the boys at the PSPD figuring out that I'm pregnant. Not until I've broken the news to the mayor and the city council. I really want to keep my job, you know.”

“You do?” Ruby asked doubtfully. “You mean, you still intend to—”

“Of course I do,” Sheila said, frowning. “Why wouldn't I?” She turned back to me. “Do you have any suggestions?”

“Ginger,” I said promptly. “Go over to Cavette's Market and ask Mr. Cavette for three or four pieces—hands, they're called—of fresh gingerroot. They're in the produce section. Slice off five or six thin slices, and boil them in a couple of cups of water for about ten minutes. You can add some lime, if you like, and honey. And for emergencies—” I stepped to a nearby shelf and took down a couple of small bottles. “Here are some capsules. Keep these in your purse.” From another shelf, I took a box of tea bags. “Peppermint tea is good, too. You can brew it in your regular mug and sip it at your desk and nobody will be the wiser.” I put the bottles and the box in a paper bag and handed it to her. “On the house. Just for our favorite preggie police chief. Run out of these and I'll fix you up with more.”

“Thanks, China,” Sheila said gratefully. “I knew I could count on you.” She glanced at both of us. “And you promised, remember? You're not going to tell a soul.”

“Did we promise?” I gave Ruby an innocent look. “I remember something being said about a promise, but I don't actually remember uttering that word myself. I—”

“Shut up, China,” Ruby said firmly. “Yes, we promise. Of course we promise. Every woman has a right to keep her pregnancy to herself. If something goes wrong, then she doesn't have to make explanations. But nothing is going to go wrong,” she added hastily. She paused, frowning. “Blackie knows, doesn't he?”

“I told him last week,” Sheila said.

“He must be thrilled,” Ruby said. “When will we know whether it's a boy or a girl?”

“In another few weeks,” Sheila said. “And of course Blackie's thrilled. We both are. But . . .” Her voice trailed off and she bit her lip.

“Yes,” I said, understanding.
“But.”

Ruby frowned, puzzled. “But what?”

“Just . . . but.” I looked at Sheila. “It wasn't planned?”

“Well . . .” Sheila gave a little shrug. “Not exactly. Of course we've talked about it. Both of us have always said we wanted kids someday.” She hesitated. “It's just that . . . right now, well, it's tricky.”

“So what are you going to do?” I asked.

“Do?” Ruby repeated indignantly. “Why, she's going to have a baby. That's what makes the world go 'round, you know. People fall in love and have sex and then they get pregnant and then they—”

“And then they have to fit the baby into their lives,” I said. “How's that going to work for you, Smart Cookie?”

Of course, both Sheila and I know that there's no law that says you can't be a cop and a mom-to-be at the same time. In fact, under the federal Pregnancy Discrimination Act (Title VII of the 1964 Civil Rights Act), employers are required to treat pregnancy in the same way that they treat other health conditions that affect employees' ability to work. The PDA was designed to ensure that women can participate equally in the workforce, without denying them the right to a full family life. It requires employers to treat pregnant women as well—or as poorly—as it treats other employees with health-related issues. But being Top Cop in Pecan Springs and being a mom might be a whole lot harder than Sheila thinks.

“We'll figure it out,” Sheila replied, raising her chin with a determined look. “Blackie's telling McQuaid this afternoon. It may have an impact on their situation, too.”

May have
an impact? Of course it would have an impact. I had to smile at the thought of Blackie doing surveillance with a year-old child buckled into the car seat, or researching online while he gave his baby a bottle. We could give him a new title. Mr. Mom, Private Detective.

Ruby stamped one orange-suede clog. “I do
not
understand this, girls. We are going to have a baby, and all you can talk about are details, details,
details.
”

“Ruby,” I said patiently, “Sheila is the chief of a small-town police department in the middle of Texas. If there have been other pregnant police chiefs in this state, I haven't met them. Or heard of them. Or read about them. We are sailing in uncharted waters here.”

“Exactly.” Sheila picked her cop hat up off the floor. “There's my pregnancy and my job. After the baby is born, there'll be our baby, my job, and Blackie's job, which sometimes requires him to be out of town for a week or more at a time. I'm sure we'll work it out.” She sighed. “But first, I've got to review the police department's policy on pregnancy. And the municipal policy, as well.”

“Which—I'm guessing—is not too liberal,” I said. Pecan Springs is a nice little town and I love living here. But this is Texas, after all, and the city council has never been celebrated for its progressive leadership.

“You got it.” Sheila made a face. “I meant to do it earlier—before this happened to one of my female officers. Now that I'm the one who is having a baby, it's awkward. And it's not like there are a couple dozen pregnant female police chiefs I can call up and
ask for advice
.
”

“Oh. Oh, yes, I see.” Ruby cleared her throat. “Well,” she ventured, “there's Frances McDormand. In
Fargo.
”

“Yeah, right, Ruby,” I said ironically. “A pregnant chief of police—in the
movies
. Somehow I don't think a fictional character could offer Smart Cookie a lot of advice.”

Sheila nodded. “I'm very happy about it, actually, when I'm not throwing up. We didn't plan this baby, but now that it's on the way, I'm glad. Most of the time.” Her smile was crooked. “Not when I think about the chief's job, though. And not when I remember that Blackie left his job so I could keep mine.”

That was the deal they'd made. Given the high divorce rate among police officers, not to mention the double risk of disability and death, they had decided to be a one-cop couple. Blackie gave up the job that had been in his family for decades, while Sheila kept hers. Now, confronted with the impending reality of motherhood, Sheila might be forgiven for wishing the decision had gone the other way.

I felt a twinge—envy, was it? Or even, just possibly, jealousy. Or (if I was being honest) just plain wistfulness. One of my two best friends in the world was having a baby. I wasn't. I had decided long ago that I was not cut out for motherhood, but that was before McQuaid came into my life, bringing his son, Brian, as well. And then Caitlin, my brother's daughter. I now had two of the best children in the world, and I was a mother—but not really.

Sheila's pager began to chirp. She took it off her belt, looked at it, and put it back, suddenly all cop, all business. “I really
have
to get back to the office.” She glanced around at the wreckage. “I'm sorry about this mess. You won't mind if I leave you with it?”

“Not in the slightest,” Ruby said. “We'll take care of it.” She raised her voice as Sheila put on her hat and went out the door, carrying the bag of emergency anti–morning sickness supplies I had given her. “See you tomorrow for lunch.”

“Got it,” Sheila said without turning around. “But tell Cass that she can forget the roses, as far as I'm concerned.”

• • •

“
C
AITLIN,”
I called. I put the big yellow Fiesta ware serving dish in the middle of the kitchen table.

Thursday nights, we usually have a skillet supper. Tonight we were having zucchini out of the garden (where there is much too much of it), with chicken, rotini, and roasted garlic, mozzarella, and Parmesan cheese. “Time to set the table for supper.”