Dead Man's Bones (6 page)

“Yeah.” I cinched my white terry robe tighter and began to brush my teeth. “Definitely a shame.”

McQuaid stepped into the shower and closed the glass door. We were talking about Sheila and Blackie. The sheriff hadn’t told McQuaid, of course—as I said, he doesn’t talk easily about emotional matters. I had been the one to break the news.

“I don’t want to take sides,” I said, raising my voice, “but I can understand Sheila’s situation.”

“Sure you can,” McQuaid said, turning up the volume on the shower. The steam began to rise toward the ceiling, and I could see his shadow through the opaque glass. “You can understand Sheila because you had the same problem. On again, off again.” His voice grew muffled and burbly as he stuck his head under the running water. “I don’t blame Blackie for calling it quits.” He shut off the shower, conserving water, and began to shampoo his hair. “What
is
it with you women? Why can’t you make up your minds?”

We had arrived at the edge of a difficult terrain, full of booby traps and land mines, and I wasn’t eager to go there. McQuaid had asked me to marry him a couple of years before I actually agreed—and when I did, I couldn’t quite bring myself to believe that I was doing the right thing. It took a lot of anguished soul-searching before I felt even halfway ready.

Ruby, of course, had made the whole thing into a joke. “Most of my friends have been married and divorced twice in the time it’s taken you to make up your mind, China,” she’d say with a laugh.

But it wasn’t very funny, after all. When McQuaid was shot, I realized that I cared more for him than for my independence, my self-determination, or even my privacy and personal space. I still sometimes long for the old days, when I was my own boss, when I could close up the shop and go home and have only myself and my own needs to cope with—like those female private eyes in detective novels. Kinsey Millhone, for instance. Kinsey doesn’t have a husband and son to cook for, and when her place gets cluttered, she can pick up her stuff and it stays picked up.
Her
stuff, not his. She doesn’t rub up against anyone else in her personal space, and all her time is
her
time.

But those old longings are usually displaced by the rich, real pleasures of my life with McQuaid and Brian. I suspected that Smart Cookie would discover the same satisfactions, if she gave herself half a chance. Work, however exciting, is not the only wonderful thing in the world.

All that did not make me want to criticize her, though, and especially not to McQuaid. I rinsed my mouth. “Maybe she just doesn’t think it’s the right thing to do.”

The shower came back on, and McQuaid ran his hands through his hair, vigorously. I could see the shape of his lean body through the translucent glass of the shower door, and the sight of it made me shiver. We’ve been lovers for a long time, but that hasn’t diminished the pleasure I take from his touch or staled the excitement of his body against mine. I can never get enough of him.

“If that’s it,” he went on, beginning to soap himself, “Sheila oughta tell him so, and stop all this mealymouthed monkey business. How the hell is Blackie supposed to make plans for the future if she keeps stringing him along?”

McQuaid was speaking out of his own needs. He’s the kind of person who likes to look for answers, likes to make plans, likes to organize the future, likes to leave nothing to chance. He’s good-looking, in a craggy sort of way: dark hair, dark brows, steely blue eyes, a broken nose earned when he threw for extra yardage against Texas A & M on Turkey Day, a zigzag scar across his forehead, relic of a fight with a doper in a parking lot at the Astrodome. But it isn’t just McQuaid’s looks that you notice when you meet him. It’s his commanding presence, his self-confidence, his boldness, his personal authority. He always knows what he wants, what it will cost, and how to go for it. And he has a nice tight butt.

I could smell the erotic fragrance of ylang-ylang and sandalwood, rising in the steam. I had already taken my shower, but I let my robe slide off my shoulders and slid back the glass door.

“I can see Blackie’s side of it, too,” I said, stepping into the shower. “You’re right. It isn’t fair. Maybe calling it off is the best thing to do. For both of them.”

McQuaid looked down at me, smiling. “Hey,” he said. His eyes lightened with pleasure in a way that gives me goose bumps. “You’re naked. Naked wife.”

“Naked husband.” I put my arms around him. He was slippery with soap, and I moved my hands over his back, his shoulders. The warm water ran over both of us.

“Mmmm,” I murmured, licking a trail of scented suds from his shoulder. “You taste good. Smell good, too.”

His voice was husky. “You know where this leads, don’t you?”

I feigned innocence, about as successfully as Jack the Ripper. “No, where?”

He chuckled. “Wild, unruly, uncontrollable
sex
.” He brought his head down and kissed me, hard, his fingers kneading my neck, my shoulders. I arched against him, loving the feel of his hands, his chest, his narrow hips, his thighs, feeling our hearts beginning to pound together.

“Show me,” I said.

“You don’t have to ask twice,” he said, reaching over to shut off the water.

 
LATER, when we were lying together among the damp, tumbled sheets, he went back to the previous subject.

“About Blackie and Sheila,” he said. He kissed the tip of my nose. “I guess I just wish they had some of what we’ve got. Remember that Kenny Rogers’ song? ‘I feel sorry for anyone who isn’t me tonight.’”

“I remember,” I said, and ran the tip of my finger across his dark eyebrow. “Me, too.”

At the shops, Tuesday got off to a slow start, which gave me time to put out some Halloween decorations. I piled a half-dozen pumpkins beside the front door, making a mental note to ask Brian to carve them into jack-o’-lanterns, hung a few spiderwebs, and put up some autumn wreaths. Before long, it would be time to start thinking about Thanksgiving, and then Christmas. I don’t know what it is about the autumn months, but they seem to fly past faster than I can chase them.

Business picked up later in the morning, since we were hosting a lunch for the Friends of the Library. Thirty people showed up to feast on green pea soup with mint (served cold, always delightful), wild rice chicken salad with avocado, focaccia with herb butter, and lavender tea cakes. After their gourmet lunch—without a doubt, the very best that can be had in Pecan Springs—the guests wandered through the shops and the gardens, so we had a better-than-usual afternoon at the cash registers. Not only that, but Ruby handed out Party Thyme cards and snared two more catering jobs. Things were looking up.

Tuesday evening was free for me, since McQuaid and Brian were going to a Dad’s Night event at school. Thinking about what Blackie had told me and feeling regretful, I called Sheila to see if we could get together for dinner, but she didn’t return my call. Ruby had to leave early to meet Cassandra Wilde, the volunteer costume director for
A Man for All Reasons
, so I closed up both shops at the usual hour, then drove over to the theater to add a few last-minute plants to the landscaping: more rosemary, some lemon-grass, and several santolina, and another dozen chrysanthemums. In my opinion, it is theoretically possible to have too many chrysanthemums, but I have personally never reached that point. When they’re in bloom, they’re bronze and red and gold and pretty; when they’re not, they’re green and pretty. Such a deal.

The evening was warm and clear, the sun dropping into the western sky, the wind a dry whisper in the trees. It was nearly six-thirty, and I was watering the new plantings when Ruby, a bundle of costumes over her arm, came out of the theater with Cassandra.
A Man for All Reasons
was set in Pecan Springs during four distinct eras: the First World War, the Roaring Twenties, the Depressed Thirties, and the Post-War Forties. The period costumes were a challenge, obviously, but from what I had already seen, Cassandra and her crew of costumers—the Wilde Elves, they call themselves—had been equal to it.

I turned off the hose. “Hey, how’s it going, guys?”

Cassandra grinned. “It’d be a whole lot easier if Ruby would just put a lid on her bright ideas.”

“But I’m playing Mrs. Obermann,” Ruby said, with a playful pout. “I’m the leading lady. My ideas ought to count for something.”

“Oh, they do, they do,” Cassandra replied, rolling her eyes. Cass is in her mid-thirties, maybe five-feet-three-inches tall, round and bountifully shaped, with curly blonde hair, creamy skin, and a cheerful, oversized smile. Ruby’s friend and sometime astrology student, she’s a regular at the shops and the tearoom. “I just absolutely adore the way you redesigned the costume for the second part of Act One,” she added dryly. “And only a week before opening night. Good planning, Ruby.”

“But I did all the sewing, Cass,” Ruby protested.

“And I was happy to let you,” Cassandra replied. “I like your new look, really, I do—it’s very Twenties, and that slinky fabric and fringe looks wonderful on you.” She threw up her hands. “I just don’t know how Miss Jane’s going to feel about it, that’s all. She had already approved the first designs, and you know how hard it is to please her.”

“I doubt that she’ll notice,” Ruby said. She grinned, adding cryptically, “And if Miss Jane wants to find fault with the production, she’ll have plenty to hold her attention.”

“I’ll agree with that,” Cassandra said. She glanced around at the landscaping. “Looks good, China. Wish my thumbs were as green as yours. I can cook and sew and cast an astrological chart, but when it comes to gardening, I’m at a loss.”

“Thanks, Cass.” I picked up a rake and made a few adjustments. “A little mulch covers a multitude of sins.” My mantra.

“Can I quote you on that?” Cassandra smiled brightly, showing off very white teeth. “Gotta go, guys. I’m volunteering at the women’s clinic tonight.” She waved good night and headed toward the new parking lot behind the theater. Cass’s queen-size energy matches her queenly amplitude.

“Don’t you just loathe women who don’t have to get their teeth whitened?” Ruby muttered enviously, watching her go. “And when she says she can cook, believe her. She brought some lemon bars for the crew this evening. They were gone in a twinkle. But I hate her teeth.”

I chuckled. Ruby has been debating the merits of whitening her teeth for the past six months. Not that whiter teeth would attract any more attention than her outfits. This evening, she was wearing skintight black leggings, black leather flats, and a bronzy silk tunic with a flowing scarf, exactly the right complement to her flaming hair. The tunic looked like it cost more than a new set of tires for Big Red Mama, but I knew that the material had come from the sale bin at Menzy’s Fine Fabrics and had taken Ruby all of an hour to whip up. It was easy to see why Cassandra had been pleased to let Ruby design and make her own costume.

“How does Cass like her new job?” I asked. Cassandra works at the CTSU campus food service, where she’s recently been promoted to a management position.

“I don’t think she likes doing paperwork,” Ruby said. “She says she misses hands-on cooking. She’s been talking about quitting and setting up her own business as a personal chef. You know, somebody who comes into your kitchen and cooks up a batch of tasty meals for your freezer.”

“A personal chef,” I said with a laugh. “Now, that’s what I need. Tell Cass to get cookin’.”

She nodded. “Actually, I was hoping she might be willing to give Party Thyme a hand on weekends and evenings. Janet is complaining about her knees again. And yesterday, her elbow was bothering her.”

This is becoming a difficult situation. Janet, who has been with us for nearly two years, suffers from osteoarthritis, degenerative disease of the joints. The cartilege breaks down and the ends of the bones begin to rub painfully against each other. She’s been taking some of the herbs that have traditionally been used to treat arthritis—devil’s claw and boswellia—and using capsaicin cream (made from red peppers), and her condition seems to have improved. But she wants time off, and she’s been dropping broad hints that she would like to start working part-time in the kitchen. And as far as the catering is concerned, sometimes she will and sometimes she won’t. Lately, she won’t. We’re obviously going to have to find somebody else to help out with Party Thyme, and probably in the kitchen, as well. But locating a replacement for Janet won’t be easy. She’s a good cook.