A Plain Vanilla Murder Read online

  Donna broke in. “Two hundred seventy-five dollars! But that means I’d have to charge seven dollars for a four-ounce bottle of extract, just to break even. And that doesn’t count my time and equipment!”

  “Or the vodka you’d have to use to make the extract,” said the woman sitting beside her.

  “Or the bottles and labels,” Edith Barlow added. “Or advertising.”

  “Makes you appreciate imitation vanilla,” the nurse remarked, and everyone laughed.

  “Hey, people,” I said. “Hold on a minute. If you’re making extract, you don’t need gourmet-grade pods. As long as the vanillin content is high, you can use short pods, misshapen pods, even split pods.”

  “Does that lower the cost?” Donna asked hopefully.

  “Sure does,” I replied. “At the current price, three dollars will buy enough Grade B pods to produce a four-ounce bottle of extract. If you can sell that bottle for seven dollars—and if you don’t spend a bundle on other supplies—you might make two or three dollars a bottle.”

  There was a murmur around the room, and Donna said, “That sounds a lot more reasonable.”

  “If we’re ready, then,” I said, “Ruby and I will show you how to make real vanilla extract and vanilla paste at home—without pawning the family jewels. And it will be cheaper than if you’d bought it at the store. Guaranteed.”

  “WELL, THAT WAS FUN,” Ruby said, as we said goodbye to the last workshopper and began folding up the chairs. “I thought the discussion about the cost of making vanilla extract was interesting. It opened a few eyes, I’ll bet.”

  “Homemade vanilla is wonderful, to keep or to give away,” I said, stacking chairs against the wall. “But at the current prices, it might be tough to make it for sale. I talked to Donna for a few minutes afterward and suggested that if she was serious about turning the craft into a business, she ought to consider producing other flavorings, too. Orange, lime, lemon, chocolate—they all cost less to produce. They’d broaden her market. And give her a cushion in case the price of vanilla goes even higher, which it could.”

  “You could carry them in the shop, couldn’t you?” Ruby got a broom and began to chase cookie crumbs.

  “I could, on consignment. I told her to give me some samples and prices.” I went into the kitchen and started putting our workshop supplies into a cardboard box. “Oh, I’ve been meaning to ask—is Grace feeling better?”

  Grace, who just turned four, is Ruby’s granddaughter. She’s been sick with tonsillitis and her mother, Amy, is thinking about having her tonsils taken out—a big event in the life of a little girl.

  “Much better, yes,” Ruby said. “Looks like Grace is keeping her tonsils, for now, anyway.” She put the broom away and came over to stand at the counter, a smile tugging at her mouth. “And there’s news. Baby news, I mean.”

  “Oh, really?” I arched my eyebrows. “Do tell, Ruby! Is Amy going to have another baby?”

  Ruby’s daughter Amy and her partner Kate have been together for several years now, and when same-sex marriage became legal, they were among the first in Pecan Springs to wed. As you might guess, this liaison hasn’t won the approval of all Amy’s relatives. Amy’s grandmother, Doris, has been heard to snort “lesbians.” And Shannon, Amy’s sister, pretends that Kate is just a roommate. But Ruby loves Amy, respects and appreciates Kate, and adores Grace, an enchanting little girl who lives up to her name in every way. She would love it if her mother gave her a baby brother or sister.

  “No, not Amy.” Ruby leaned her elbows on the counter. “This one is going to be Kate’s baby. They just told me last night. They are over the moon, both of them.”

  “Wow. Kate.” I blinked. “Well, that’s interesting.”

  Kate Rodriguez is a take-charge woman who owns her own accounting firm. She is very good at what she does and is genuinely helpful to her clients (I know, because she is our accountant), so her small business has grown. She now has a couple of junior accountants—both young women—working for her, so she has a lot of responsibility. But she’s the kind of woman who could manage all that, plus a baby, without turning a hair.

  “So Kate’s going to be a mother,” I said reflectively.

  Was there some envy in my voice? Well, maybe a little. Putting my legal career at the top of my priority list for all of my twenties and part of my thirties took me out of the motherhood queue. At least, that’s what I’d thought. But Brian (McQuaid’s son) and Caitlin, my niece, our adopted daughter, have filled any empty mother-spaces in my heart. I’m not really sorry I passed up the chance to have a baby of my own, although sometimes I’m a little wistful.

  And if I’m looking for a big dose of baby excitement, I can always drop in on my friend Sheila Dawson, who is due to have her first, a boy, in another couple of months. Sheila—Smart Cookie to her friends—is also Pecan Springs’ police chief, so there is quite a lot of local interest in her pregnancy. People are wondering how she’s going to fit a baby into her very demanding job.

  Ruby pulled me back to the conversation. “They drew straws,” she said. “Kate won.”

  “Excuse me?” I was missing something here. “They drew straws for what?”

  “For who was going to get pregnant.” Ruby gave me a look that said I should have been smart enough to figure that out for myself. “They’ve been discussing it for quite a while, but the question was always who. Amy gave birth to Grace, so Kate figured the next one ought to be hers. But Amy is younger and had a really easy time with Grace, plus her work schedule at the vet clinic is pretty flexible. Kate is older and has her hands full with her accounting business.” Ruby waggled her gingery eyebrows. “They talked and talked but they couldn’t agree.”

  I got it. “So they left it to chance.”

  “Exactly. Logical, don’t you think? Kate drew the longer straw, so she won. It took several cycles, but she’s preggie.”

  Several cycles. “Where did they—?” I stopped. “Who is the—” I shook my head. “I hardly know what to ask.”

  Ruby giggled. “It’s all pretty new to me, too. They started out with a clinic in San Antonio that works with same-sex couples. They were going to use an anonymous donor via the clinic. But they talked about it with some of the family, and Kate’s sister’s husband said he would be honored to be the father. Remember Ron? Kate’s brother-in-law?”

  I did. Ron and I met at a barbeque at Amy’s and Kate’s early in the summer. “Nice guy,” I remarked. “Lives in Houston?”

  Ruby nodded. “He’s a computer systems analyst and so smart. He’s in good health and he and Kate’s sister, Gail, have two bright, active kids, both boys. Kate and Amy agreed that he would be perfect, and Gail thought it made sense.”

  “I see.” I finished putting stuff in the box and began wiping the counter. “So did they do it?”

  “Yes.” She hesitated. “But if you’re asking, did Kate and Ron actually do it—in the old-fashioned way, I mean—the answer is no. They didn’t.”

  I was actually okay with living in the dark about the details, but Ruby was going on. “According to Amy, Ron volunteered for active duty. His wife wasn’t exactly in favor, though, and Kate said a definite no. They did it with a turkey baster. Artificial insemination,” she added, making sure I understood.

  I understood, all right. I wrinkled my nose. “I hope they got a lawyer.”

  “A lawyer?” Ruby asked blankly. “They’ve got a doctor. What do they need a lawyer for?”

  “Well, gosh, Ruby,” I said. “Think about it. An anonymous donor is one thing, and the clinic will already have worked out the legal complications. A family member is something else altogether. What are the father’s rights? Does Kate’s brother-in-law expect to be involved in his child’s life? What will Kate and Amy tell their child about him? They’ll see one another often, won’t they? Will the little one call him Daddy or Uncle Ron or what? And what about his responsibilities? Is he off the hook or will it be share-and-share-alike? Will he help pay for br
aces on his kid’s teeth? Ballet lessons? College?”

  “Wow.” Ruby’s eyes were wide. “I’m not sure they thought about any of that.”

  “Well, they should,” I replied. “As time goes on, how is Kate’s sister going to feel about her husband’s child? And what if they do some tests before the baby is born and find out that there are abnormalities? It happens, you know. Who gets to decide whether the pregnancy ought to be terminated?” There was plenty more, including an interesting Texas appellate court ruling that had come down on this very subject recently. But I was running out of breath.

  “Those are good questions,” Ruby said, pursing her lips. “Still, knowing Kate, I expect she’s already worked out most of the answers. She’s pretty good with stuff like that.” She reached across the counter and patted my hand. “It’s sweet of you to offer your legal expertise, China, but I really don’t think they need you.”

  “I wasn’t offering,” I said stiffly. “I was just pointing out some real world stuff. Having kids is complicated enough. In a situation like this, there could be a lot more complications. Legal complications. At the very least, I hope they have a contract that sets out everybody’s expectations.”

  “I think you’re exaggerating the problems,” Ruby replied. “But they’re coming over to my house for supper tonight, and I’ll tell them what you said.” She straightened up. “Why don’t you and Caitie join us, so you can tell them yourself? McQuaid’s still out of town, isn’t he?”

  I shook my head. “He’s getting back today.” My husband’s investigative work takes him on the road frequently. He and his partner Blackie Blackwell—Sheila’s husband—were working in Dallas, on an investigation of corporate fraud. “We’d better take a rain check. But thanks anyway. Caitie loves to play with Grace.”

  In fact, Caitie is now old enough to babysit Grace, so she’s added that little income stream—seven-fifty an hour—to what she earns from her egg business. At heart, Caitie is an entrepreneur.

  “Another time, then,” Ruby said. She looked up at the clock and sighed. “Oh, gosh, nearly four. If we’re done here, I need to get back to the shop. I have a couple of orders that have to go out today.” It was Monday, so our shops were closed—which doesn’t mean, of course, that we hadn’t been working all day. We were. We were workshopping, although that tends to feel more like fun than work.

  “We’re done here.” I picked up the box. “Could you bring the vanilla orchid? We can put it in my car, and I’ll take it back to Sonora before I go home.”

  Ruby picked up the plant. “That bit about Maggie Walker boarding people’s orchids—I’d never heard that before. Does she do a lot of it?”

  “She’s got a whole greenhouse filled with them,” I said as we went out, locking the door behind us. “It’s apparently a big part of her business these days. People buy orchids at the supermarket, then they discover they don’t have the right place to raise them.” Over my shoulder, I added, “Sorry to miss out on supper. Please tell Amy and Kate what I said about getting some legal advice. I’m sure Charlie Lipman can help them.” Charlie is an able Pecan Springs attorney who is known as the town fixer, everybody’s go-to guy in times of trouble. Even mine, on occasion.

  “Okay,” Ruby said. “But I still think you’re being a worry-wort.”

  I fished my car keys out of my bag. “That’s what lawyers get paid to do, Ruby. They worry. So their clients don’t have to.”

  But that isn’t always true. Sometimes the clients do have to worry.

  Chapter Two

  According to the digital clock on the desk, it is 3:40 on a Monday afternoon, but Sheila Dawson—well into her eighth month of pregnancy now—longs to pull out a drawer and put her feet up. Her normally trim ankles have swelled to the size of small tree trunks, and elevating her feet usually helps.

  She quashes the impulse, however, and leans back in her swivel chair, the enormous black leather desk chair that had belonged to Bubba Harris, the previous chief of the Pecan Springs Police Department. This chair has always been several sizes too large for her—just another of the many things about her job that don’t fit but are difficult to change. It’s the chief’s chair. It cost as much as new ballistics vests for three of her patrol officers, and replacing it is out of the question. She’s stuck with it.

  But now that she is bigger than a blue whale, the damned chair almost fits. In fact, it’s just about the only chair she can sit in comfortably these days. If she didn’t have to walk the length of a football field to use the ladies’—she has to pee a couple of times an hour, more often if she drinks coffee—she and her chair would be all set. (The men’s, of course, is right around the corner. Handy for Bubba, not so handy for her.)

  Somehow, her pregnancy—her first—has not been what Sheila thought it would be. She has read that being pregnant is a naturally happy time, or at least a time of serenity and contentment—which is good because everybody says that a mom’s emotional well-being affects her baby’s neurological and psychological development. A serene and happy mom-to-be spends the months of her pregnancy planning, dreaming, and imagining what life will be like once she’s a mom for real. Right?

  Wrong. Sheila’s pregnancy hasn’t exactly been happy or even halfway serene, and she hasn’t had much time for planning, let alone dreaming and imagining. Persistent nausea plagued her through the early months, landing her in the hospital twice. That’s past, but now she’s bothered by her ankles and her back and her bulk and having to pee so often. And especially the waiting, the uncertain feeling of being betwixt and between, neither here nor there, as if she were a non-person living in a perplexing, disorienting nowhere-ville.

  But she isn’t. She is living in Pecan Springs and dealing with the constant pressures of a tough job. Being a female police chief in a small Texas town is hard. Being a pregnant female police chief (especially now that she is so unambiguously, unmistakably pregnant) has proved harder by several orders of magnitude. She will be very glad when this neither-nor time is over and she is simply a female chief of police who happens to be a mother, too.

  And she hasn’t even started to think what that means. Oh, she and Blackie are doing what they need to do, as far as the essentials are concerned. They have bought a crib and a baby box to go in the crib, a baby carrier that doubles as a car seat, a breast pump, a half-dozen bottles with newborn nipples, and a supply of ecologically viable biodegradable newborn diapers (to save the planet). Blackie—a wonderfully supportive husband who will be a fabulous dad—is planning to work from home as much as he can for the first few months, and they have found a licensed and experienced child care provider for times when they both have to be gone. They are methodically ticking things off their mile-long to-do list. They are very well organized.

  That’s on the outside. On the inside, it’s a different story. Sheila is finding it hard to remember the yearning she felt for a child, her child, as if it were the single missing piece in the puzzle of her life. Worse, she can’t begin to imagine what her life will be like after the baby—Noah, he’s named—is born. Will she be able to breastfeed, or will that be a disaster, the way it was for her sister? Will she know what to do when Noah is colicky, or has diaper rash, or won’t go to sleep? Will she love him desperately and want nothing more than to hold him in her arms, or will she be continually imagining what is happening at the office? Will there be time in the day to do everything that has to be done?

  So, no. She doesn’t have a clue what her new life will be like. All she knows is that it will be different from the life she has been living. She will be different. Blackie will be different. The fourth of November (the day Noah is due) will mark the end of her independent, selfregulating, separate self and the beginning of another self, different, new, unknown, with a whole set of unfamiliar responsibilities. That’s the sum of what she knows, and it isn’t enough. Not nearly enough.

  She is thinking bleakly about all this when there is a quick rap at the office door. She picks up a pen,
pulls a paper toward her, and pretends to be studying it. “Come in,” she calls.

  It’s Connie Page, her civilian assistant. A competent woman, not quite middle-aged and recently divorced, Connie is perfectly capable of handling most of the department’s paperwork herself—of running the department, come to that. She’s been the chief’s right-hand woman for better than a decade and knows the community of Pecan Springs as well as she knows the inside of her kitchen. She also knows what the chief needs to see and what she doesn’t, and Sheila is grateful for every piece of paper that Connie keeps off her desk. Her assistant is one of a kind. Irreplaceable.

  This afternoon, Connie looks as efficient as always in her white blouse, dark skirt, and low-heeled shoes, her dark hair cut short and neatly curled. But she is empty-handed and there is a distinctly troubled expression on her normally calm face. She says, “I need a couple of minutes on a personal matter, Chief.”

  One look tells Sheila that whatever-it-is is something she does not want to hear. But she pushes the paper away, summons a smile, and points with the pen at the chair in front of the desk. “Sit, Con. What’s up?”

  Connie sits, settles herself in her chair, and opens in her usual straightforward way with the bad news. No prologue, no explanation, no excuses.

  “What’s up is that I need to take a leave. A couple of months. Maybe more. I can’t tell you right now how long I’ll be gone.” Her voice is taut, her hands are clasped tightly in her lap. “I’m sorry, Chief. Really sorry.”

  Oh, bloody hell, Sheila thinks. Not this. Not now. Not until after I deliver—and not then, either. I can’t get along without you, Con. I can’t!

  But she somehow manages to wipe the apprehension off her face and smooth the kinks out of her voice. “Sounds like you’re dealing with a big problem. How can I help? Besides giving you whatever time you need, I mean.”