Mistletoe Man - China Bayles 09 (23 page)

I forced an answering
grin and said, flippantly, "Well, they do wonders with reconstruction
these days. Implants, I mean—saline, not silicone. And I saw on TV that they
can take a flap of tissue from your own body to create a new breast. The Bionic
Boob. You probably won't even miss the old one."

Ruby dropped her arm
and sat silent for a moment, as if she wanted to tell me something but couldn't
quite make up her mind to say it—not for her sake, but for mine, because she
wasn't sure how I'd take it. Finally, she said: "To tell the truth, China,
I'm feeling pretty negative about reconstruction. I don't think I want
somebody to stick a foreign object into my body, even if it is filled with
saltwater instead of Silly Putty. And I don't like the idea of slicing off a
piece of me to patch another piece, especially when I can't be sure how it will
turn out. What if they don't get it right? What if one side is bigger than the
other, or harder, or higher, or lower?" She shrugged. "I'm not saying
reconstruction is wrong. I'm sure it's right for lots of other women. But not
for me."

"But won't
you—" I put my hand on my breast, trying to imagine going through life
without it. It suddenly felt very precious. "I mean, won't it seem a
little—"

"Weird? Yeah, maybe. It's a double-breasted
world, and there are plenty of Barbie dolls around to remind me, if I forget.
But if I feel the need to be symmetrical, I can always wear a prosthesis."
There was that grin again. "A falsie. You buy a bra with a pocket where
you slip it in. Some falsies even have nipples. They're made out of silicone
and they jiggle, like the real thing. Isn't that a hoot?"

I was abashed by Ruby's bravery. If I had to give
up a breast, what would I do? Would I endure the pain and uncertainty of the
additional surgery to get a new one, or would I learn to live without it?
"I'm sorry," I said, past the painful lump in my throat. "You're
right."

Her face darkened.
"I don't know about being right. I just have to get through this, one step
at a time. First the surgery, then—" She frowned. "No,
first
I
have to tell Shannon and Amy and Mom—and it's Christmas. The timing sucks,
doesn't it?"

"We can all chip
in and buy you a nightie for the hospital," I said, and then bit my Up.
We didn't have to buy her a nightie. She already had one, a negligee that made
her feel like Garbo. And that doctor Hark had mentioned— probably one of the
oncologists she had consulted. Our suspicions, our theories, all wrong. Dead
wrong.

I forced myself to smile. "What about Hark?
Are you going to tell him? He's convinced himself that you've fallen in love
with a doctor."

"Oh, God,"
Ruby sighed. "Why does life have to be so damn complicated?"

"He
says he loves you. He wants to marry you."

She closed her eyes,
opened them again. "Poor Hark. He's a really sweet guy. He deserves some
gal who'll put him at the center of her world. Before this happened, I thought
that might be me, if I worked at it. Your getting married reminded me how nice
it is to have somebody you can count on when things get rough."

"You
don't think you can count on Hark?"

Ruby sighed heavily.
"I'm sure he'd jump at the chance to be a hero. But I've got enough to do
just to take care of myself. I don't want to be responsible for him. That may
not be fair, but who said any of this is fair?"

I nodded. I could
understand her worry about being responsible. It was almost as if Ruby and I
had traded places. "When is your surgery?"

'Two
days after Christmas, in San Antonio."

I was aghast. "But that's almost three weeks!
Why do you have to wait so long? Why can't you just have it done—like,
tomorrow?"

"It's the
holidays, I guess—although this kind of surgery isn't considered to be an
emergency. But it's still a bitch. It's like there's this giant surgical knife
poised over my head and I have to wait three weeks for it to fall."

I
grinned. "We'll have to make sure you keep busy."

"Right." She sat up
straighter. "I'm not going to sit around and let myself get depressed.
I've decided to start weightlifting. And maybe I'll borrow Amy's in-line
skates."

I blinked. That
wasn't exactly what I had in mind. "But shouldn't you get some rest? I
mean—"

Ruby slammed her fist on the table.
"I'm not
sick,
damn it! I don't need rest. Rest is depressing.
And I don't need to read any more books about cancer, either. What I need is
distraction."

Ruby was right. She
is a person of spirit and energy, but she has an unfortunate tendency to
obsess. Ruby needed something to think about besides her cancer.

"Well,
then," I said, "before you get involved with lifting weights and
zipping around on Amy's skates, maybe you could try a little mental exercise.
Put your mind to a case of hit-and-run."

She
frowned. "Hit-and-run?"

"Yeah. Somebody
ran over Carl Swenson yesterday afternoon."

"Carl
Swenson?" She stared at me, suddenly sober. "The mistletoe man?"

"Right. He was cutting mistletoe
on Comanche Road, not very far from his house. Somebody hit him and kept right
on going." I sighed. "Unfortunately, that somebody might have been
the Fletcher sisters' aunt. You met her when you and Betsy Williams and I went
out there to pick flowers for my wedding. Remember?"

"Who could forget?" Ruby shook her head.
"She's the one who's convinced that the Klingons are parked overhead with
their warp drive engines on idle, waiting to take her to a galaxy far, far
away."

"That's
her," I said. "Only now she says they've taken Carl Swenson instead,
to wash dishes and clean latrines." Then I told Ruby the whole long
tale—from the discovery of Swenson's body early that morning down to my discovery
of the Brazilian real estate brochure in Carl Swenson's mailbox just before
dinner.

"Rio!" Ruby
stared at me, her eyes big. "That's where all the drug dealers go to hide
out, isn't it?"

I nodded. "Of
course, that doesn't mean that Carl Swenson is a drug dealer. Anyway, it might
have been a mistake. The brochure wasn't even addressed to the right
person."

"Maybe, maybe not," Ruby replied.
"But assuming it was sent to him, it certainly is suspicious. Where would
a guy like Swenson get the money for a plane ticket to South

America, let alone a condo on the
beach in one of the most expensive cities in the world?" She wrinkled her
nose. "He didn't make it raising goats or cutting mistletoe. He must have
been growing something else. Or selling it."

"It's certainly
a mystery," I said, eyeing her. She was animated now, and interested, and
the weariness had disappeared from her face. I thought of something else—
something I'd forgotten to mention to either McQuaid or Blackie. "Corinne
Tuttle told me that Swenson built a greenhouse. She overheard her nephew
telling somebody about it on the phone." I
frowned,
wondering
for the first time why that particular piece of information had been important
enough for Marvin to pass along—and to whom.

"A
greenhouse!" Ruby sounded awed, and even a little bit scared. "China,
I'll bet that guy was growing marijuana. And Corinne Tuttle's nephew Marvin was
helping him. Or maybe Marvin was selling it for Swenson. Or something. I'll bet
they were in cahoots." She scooted forward to the edge of her chair.
"And didn't you say that Marvin's red Camaro was wearing one of those
leather whatchacallits? Maybe Marvin put it on to hide the fact that the front
end was damaged. Maybe the two guys had a fight over money or dope or something
and Marvin ran him down."

In the past, I've had
to warn Ruby about jumping to imaginative conclusions on little or no evidence.
But I was so glad to see that this cloak-and-dagger stuff was distracting her
from her problems that I was willing to go along with anything she might come
up with, no matter how weird or off-the-wall.

"You might have
something there, Ruby," I said encouragingly. "Anyway, it's an
interesting speculation."

"That's the understatement of the
year, China." Ruby was almost breathless with excitement. "Who knows
where Swenson's pot has ended up, or how many kids have been hooked on it? And
maybe it's more than pot. Why, he and Marvin could've been manufacturing all
kinds of illegal stuff out there, and nobody would ever be the wiser." She
pursed her lips, concentrating. "Do you know if Blackie searched Swenson's
place?"

"I don't think so," I said. "He'd
probably have mentioned it if he had. As a matter of fact," I added,
"the sheriff doesn't seem to be paying any attention to Swenson. He's
fixated on finding the vehicle and the driver—which is probably the right
approach, given his assumption that this was an accident."

"Yeah, well, he's still thinking inside the
box," Ruby
said
critically. She
frowned.
"Maybe
it wasn
't Marvin after all. Maybe Swenson got crosswise
of the drug lords." She caught the quizzical look on my face and added,
"Don't be so negative, China. And don't say it can't happen here. Remember
that big shootout in Brownsville last spring? And just a couple of weeks ago
there was a bust near Kerr-ville. The guys who were growing it got away, as
usual, but the narcotics people confiscated some money and a hundred pounds of
marijuana."

"I am not
negative," I replied defensively. "I'm thinking."

Until this minute, I
hadn't seriously considered the possibility that Swenson's death might be
anything other than what it looked like: a tragic accident that had been criminalized
by the driver's failure to accept responsibility. I'd been focused on a
scenario involving crazy old Aunt Velda and her two nieces—which was just about
as far-fetched, now that I thought about it, as Ruby's idea about drugs.

I hesitated. The sensible, responsible
thing would be for me to call Blackie and suggest that when he went out to

talk to Corinne Tuttle the next
morning, he should drive up Swenson's lane and take a quick look in that
greenhouse, just to make sure that the guy hadn't been in the pot business.
But sitting across the table from me was Ruby, who needed a distraction to keep
her mind off her problem. And here was the perfect distraction. I rose to the
occasion.

"What would you think about going out to
Swenson's place?" I asked. "We could take a look at that greenhouse.
If there's anything suspicious about it, we can report it to Blackie." As
far as I was concerned, this was a low-risk venture. Chances were that we
wouldn't find anything more suspicious out there than a few resentful goats.

Ruby stood up, went to the door, and opened it.
"It's pouring rain," she said, coming back to the table, "and
it's pitch-dark. We'll need ponchos and flashlights. And I'll have to borrow a
pair of boots." She held out one sneakered foot. "It's too wet to go
hiking around in these."

Now,
this
was
the old Ruby. "I didn't mean right this minute. Let's get some sleep and
head out there when it's light. With an early start, we can be back by the time
we have to open the shops. Anyway, Laurel will be there, if we're a few minutes
late. And Mrs. K has the tearoom under control. She can manage without us until
noon."

"That's a good
plan, China," Ruby said. She frowned. "But I think we ought to be
prepared. If Swenson's been running a major drug operation out there, he hasn't
been doing it single-handed. We might run into some of his friends—or enemies.
The situation could get dicey. I know how you feel about your gun, but I think
we ought to be armed."

I frowned. I do have a gun, a 9mm
Beretta. I am trained to use it and I am licensed for concealed carry, now that
the Texas voters have decided that it's kosher to hide a gun in your boot as
long as you have the blessings of the Department of Public Safety. But I have
always maintained that unless I am fully committed to using a weapon for its
designated purpose—to kill or maim someone who menaces my person or the
persons of those I love—I am better off leaving it in a locked drawer. On the
other hand, it looked as if Ruby was getting into this in a big way. I could
always leave the bullets at home. That way, there'd be no chance of an
accident.

"Ruby," I
said with feigned enthusiasm, "you're right. I'll bring my gun. We'll feel
better knowing we can defend ourselves if we have to."