Holly Blues (2 page)

It wasn’t the first time. Sally had been down before, way down: detox, divorce, and some really bad credit card debt, not to mention those quirky episodes with Juanita, who took enormous delight in showing up at the worst possible times. But Sally was a survivor, like those roly-poly dolls she and Leslie had when they were kids, the ones you couldn’t knock down. After Artie left, she’d sold her condo and the fancy furniture, given away Juanita’s stuff (her therapist’s idea), and moved to Kansas City, not far from the little town where she’d grown up. She knew her way around the city, which was a definite plus. She’d found an apartment right away and a job selling advertising at the KC
Star
. She’d hoped to get a position as a reporter. She’d been a journalism major in college, even had a part-time job in Features at the
New Orleans Times
-
Picayune
some time back. But she had to pay rent, and the advertising salary had been okay, for starters. What’s more, News and Editorial were on the same floor. She could make a few friends among the reporters and editors. And when the time was right, she could pitch a story idea that would win her a spot on the news staff.

But that—the story, her big idea for a really great, knock-your-socks-off true-crime story—was what had gotten her into this latest trouble. Deep trouble. Bad trouble. Worse than detox or divorce. Worse than any of Juanita’s escapades, even. Which is why she was here in Pecan Springs. She was hiding out. She was looking for help. Help from Mike McQuaid, Brian’s father. Her ex.

A couple of college girls had gotten off the bus. Sally shouldered her duffle and fell in behind them as they walked up the hill in the direction of the campus, chattering. A couple of blocks later, she took the first right, onto Crockett Street. She wasn’t happy about what she was about to do, but she had run out of options. She didn’t have much choice.

What was it somebody had said about home and family? When you have to go there, they have to take you in? Well, now was the time, and this was the place.

She had to go there. And they had to take her in.

They
had
to.

“Well, what do you think, China?” Ruby took another turn. She was wearing silky green skintight pants and a gauzy, butterfly-sleeve knee-length tunic in red and green, studded with tiny gold stars that twinkled as she twirled. “I found it at Margo’s Second Verse when I went out to lunch yesterday. I didn’t mean to buy anything, but I saw it in the window and couldn’t resist.”

“It’s pure Ruby,” I said, adding another package of handcrafted rosemary-mint soap to the tiered display I was building on the shelf in my shop. “Makes you look just like a Christmas tree.” I reached over and turned down the volume on the CD player, which was treating us to an old-fashioned rendition of “White Christmas.” I gave her outfit a critical glance. “You know, what you need is one of those battery-powered strings of fairy lights. You could wear them as a necklace. Or in your hair. You could even get the kind that blink on and off. Green and red would be nice. Seasonal.”

Ruby frowned. “You can stop teasing now, China.” She sounded put out.

I was instantly repentant. Ruby is my best friend and business partner. I like to tease her, but I’d never do anything to hurt her feelings.

“I apologize,” I said, putting down the soap and giving her a hug. “I love your outfit, Ruby. It’s gorgeous. Really and truly. You should wear it to the party on Saturday night. People won’t be able to keep their eyes off you.”

She smiled, mollified. “You think?” She looked down at her strappy green high heels. “These go, don’t they?”

“Perfectly,” I said. The heels boosted her to six foot three, at least. But when you’re already six feet something in flats, another couple of inches don’t much matter. Especially when the guy you’re dating is right up there in the stratosphere with you. I stood back, holding her at arm’s length, and looked her up and down. “It’s terrific, twinkle stars and all. Hark will love you.” Ruby has been seeing Hark Hibler, the editor of the
Pecan Springs Enterprise.
I have to admit that I’m rooting for Hark. He’s one of the good guys, about as steady as they come, which is a relief to Ruby’s friends, given the recent crashes in her love life.

Ruby pursed her lips. “Well—”

“Don’t tell me,” I groaned. “You haven’t broken up with Hark again, have you?”

“I’m considering it. He’s just . . . he’s so . . . I mean—” She sank down on the stool beside the counter, her gauzy sleeves fluttering like the wings of a wounded red and green moth. “He’s so
serious.
”

“That could be because he cares about you,” I said drily. “Seriously. And anyway, what’s wrong with serious? Serious is steady. You can depend on serious.” Which is more than could be said for—

“I just wish he were more exciting, that’s all,” Ruby said petulantly. “Is that wrong? I mean, isn’t it okay for a girl to like a little excitement?”

“Maybe you could do with a little less excitement in your life,” I said. I love Ruby dearly, but it’s my considered opinion that somebody who has her head in the clouds, the way she usually does, needs somebody with both feet on the ground, like Hark. He’s devoted. He adores her.

Ruby’s shoulders slumped and she sighed. “I just keep thinking of Colin and wishing—”

“I know,” I said sympathetically. Colin had been one of those truly dangerous men, the kind you love, lose, and long for until your very last breath. “But Colin has been dead since April, Ruby. Christmas is only two weeks away. The old year is almost gone. It’s time to look to the future, don’t you think?”

While Ruby is pondering my question, let’s take time out for introductions. Some of you already know me and have visited my shop a dozen times or more. Others—well, maybe this is your first visit, and you haven’t a clue to who we are or what we’re talking about.

So. My name is China Bayles. I am the proprietor of Thyme and Seasons Herbs here in Pecan Springs, just off I-35, halfway between Austin and San Antonio, at the eastern edge of the Texas Hill Country. I am a no-nonsense, wash-and-wear kind of person whose wardrobe is mostly made up of jeans, tees, and sneakers. I usually have garden dirt under my nails, and my hair is a nondescript brown, with a gray streak at my left temple. I am shortish and fairly stocky, although I can brag about losing a few extra pounds since I began keeping my bike at the shop and riding it to do errands around town, rather than driving the car—part of a personal effort to reduce the size of my carbon footprint.

In my former incarnation, before I bought the herb shop and began spending a lot of time in the garden, I was a criminal defense lawyer in Houston, employed by a big firm that mostly represented big bad guys, the ones with enough bucks to buy a free pass out of the justice system. It was a fast life, full of thrills and chills, and it paid well, but as Ruby might say, it did nothing to satisfy my soul. I have never regretted leaving. Now, I am happily married to Mike McQuaid, an independent private investigator and part-time faculty member in the Criminal Justice Department at Central Texas State University. McQuaid has a son, Brian, who is a high-school junior. And I have . . .
we
have legal custody of my brother’s daughter, Caitlin, who is just eleven. But that’s a long story, and very sad, and there’s not time for it just now. We’ll get back to it later.

The tall, slim gal dressed in her holiday finery is Ruby Wilcox, my business partner. Ruby is a hoot, that’s all anybody can say—and we certainly say it often enough. Her tipped-up nose is liberally dusted with sandy freckles, and her mouth is as generous as Hot Lips Houlihan’s. Her hair is finely frizzed, the color of fresh carrots, and her eyes are variously brown, blue, or green, depending on which contacts she’s wearing. Admittedly something of a flake, Ruby is a free soul with a habit of leapfrogging to the creative solution while I am rationally and systematically plodding through a list of alternatives. She owns the Crystal Cave, Pecan Springs’ only New Age shop, next door to Thyme and Seasons, where she offers books on astrology, tools for divination, and classes on getting in touch with your innermost self, channeling spirits, and using the Ouija board. If you have a question for the Universe, Ruby can help you find the answer.

Now, I’m a skeptic by nature, and communing with the Universe is not exactly my cup of tea. But Ruby has a strong sense of empathy and an intuitive streak that manifests itself every now and then, usually at the most unexpected moments. Like the time she received a horribly true message about a murder from a perfectly innocent Honda Civic, left in a parking lot in Indigo, Texas, with its lights on. A few minutes later, we found the owner’s body in the basement of an abandoned school. Laugh if you will, but when Ruby pulls one of those psychic rabbits out of her hat, she can make a believer out of you. Out of me, anyway.

But there’s another side to Ruby, the practical side. She is the co-owner of Thyme for Tea, our tea shop, which is conveniently located behind our shops, and my partner in Party Thyme, a catering service. And both of us are partnered with our good friend Cass Wilde in a personal chef business called the Thymely Gourmet.

Ah. You’re wondering how in the world we manage to stay on top of this three-ring circus. Well, it’s true that these enterprises keep us busy and that sometimes I have the feeling that I’m in a car with no brakes that’s about to dive over a cliff. But Ruby, Cass, and I aren’t in business just for the fun of it—although it
is
fun, since we enjoy working together. It’s our theory that businesswomen who aren’t busy are broke, especially when the economy is singing the blues, the way it is right now.

Across Pecan Springs, this holiday season hadn’t been as profitable as previous years, and on top of our money worries, each of us is coping with her own personal challenges. Ruby has recently moved Doris, her mother, to a nearby senior care facility. From this vantage point, Doris (who has Alzheimer’s) is slowly driving her daughter crazy. Cass took a tumble at the gym a week ago and is learning how much fun it is to cook with a broken right wrist. And I—in addition to dealing with the shop, the garden, and the holiday shop traffic (such as it is)—am getting on-the-job training as mom to my eleven-year-old niece, Caitlin.

So, yes. Ruby, Cass, and I are staying busy. And on this Tuesday morning in December, a little more than a week before Christmas, we are
not
singing the blues. We are staying optimistic. We love what we do, we’re doing what we love, and we are confident that there are better times ahead. That’s our story and we’re sticking to it.

The bell tinkled and I turned to see a walking stack of cardboard wreath boxes pushing through the door. “Hello, hello,” said a woman’s voice behind the boxes. “Anybody here?”

I hurried to help with the door. “Good thing you got here, Donna. I sold your last wreath about an hour ago.” I took half the boxes off the top of the stack. Donna Fletcher set the rest down with a thump.

“I was late getting away this morning,” she said. “My help didn’t show up and I had to pick the spinach by myself and drop off an order at Cavette’s Market. But here are the wreaths I promised, along with your mistletoe. I’ve also brought the stuff for Cass. Spinach and bok choy. And a couple of pounds of fresh snow peas. Tell her that this is the last of the season. She’s on her own until next spring.”

Donna owns Mistletoe Creek Farm, on Comanche Road, south of Pecan Springs. She and her sister Terry used to operate the place as a flower farm, but Terry got into some trouble and hasn’t been around for a while. Donna has recruited several local helpers and expanded into market gardening as a CSA—community supported agriculture. The climate in our part of Texas makes it possible to garden for a big part of the year, and cool-weather crops do well during our mild winters (even milder, now that global warming is here). Donna supplies Cass with fresh produce and eggs, and her holiday wreaths and packages of fresh mistletoe are always big sellers at Thyme and Seasons. Plus, she sells memberships in her farm. Her subscribers get a basket of fresh produce every week during the growing season, as well as fresh eggs from her chickens, and jams and jellies and breads from her kitchen—her state-inspected kitchen, of course.