In the end, though, we’ve agreed that our son’s choice of someone to love is his choice. All he needs to hear from us is that his family loves and trusts him and is firmly in his corner. He can work out the rest—whatever that might be—on his own.
McQuaid changed the subject. “We wrapped up the last interview on the fraud case this afternoon. Got the background work done last week, so all we have to do is write the report and we’re done.”
He and Blackie Blackwell, his partner in their private investigations firm, had been hired by a large Austin law firm to do background checks on two dozen witnesses, conduct interviews, and prepare questions for depositions in a criminal fraud case the firm is preparing for trial. It’s the kind of job McQuaid enjoys, for it requires him to use all his investigative and interrogative skills. It’s the kind of job I approve of, too, because investigating and interrogating aren’t usually hazardous to my husband’s health. The other kind involves guns and dangerous people.
“Got another client lined up?” I asked, reaching into the cupboard for dessert dishes. I’d baked a peach-and-carrot cobbler the day before. There was plenty left, so we’d have that for dessert, with peach ice cream.
“Nope.” McQuaid put his empty beer bottle in the recycle bin. “But Blackie’s been tagged by Foremost to investigate an insurance scam in Lubbock. He left for there this morning and plans to be gone a week or so. He said to tell you that Sheila’s feeling a little bit better. She’s supposed to go back to work tomorrow, but he’d be grateful if you’d keep an eye on her.”
“I’ll be glad to.” I chuckled. “But she won’t like it.”
Sheila is Blackie’s wife, Pecan Springs’ first female police chief, and now the first pregnant female chief. She and Blackie are expecting a baby in November. Just last week, Smart Cookie (as her friends call her) put on a maternity uniform and broke the news to the city council and the police department. Her announcement, as you can imagine, caused a stir. This is, after all, good-old-boy country, and when it comes to running their cop shop, good old boys quite naturally prefer that other good old boys do it. Sheila’s job has held its challenges from Day One, and her pregnancy is making it several orders of magnitude more difficult. There are those in the department and on the council who would like to treat her as if she has a disability that disqualifies her as chief—or maybe it’s a communicable disease and she should be quarantined (in case pregnancy is contagious).
Smart Cookie’s comeback: “Hey. I’m not disabled. I’m not sick. I’m pregnant. If you don’t know the difference, ask your wife. Or your mother.” Of course, all of this opposition makes her stubbornly want to appear as “normal” as possible. So even though she’s had a problem with persistent morning sickness—hyperemesis, the doctor calls it—she hates to miss work. And she won’t like the idea that her absent husband has asked a friend to keep an eye on her.
But at least she knows that she’s working under a departmental policy that is friendly toward pregnant officers. She and other members of the department developed the policy last year, and the council approved it a few months ago. Sheila says she’s a test case—a “trial balloon.” I tell her she’s not that big yet. Just wait another couple of months.
• • •
SUPPER was on the table when Brian and Casey arrived. Brian is almost as tall as his dad, with the same dark hair and pale blue eyes, the same firm jaw and broad shoulders. Together, they make the kitchen seem crowded. Casey filled the glasses with ice and poured the iced tea, McQuaid summoned Caitie from her chicken grooming session, and we all sat down to supper. The Moroccan lemon chicken with rice was a hit, everybody enjoyed the salad, and the peach-and-carrot cobbler provided a colorful conclusion.
As always at our house, supper was a time for everyone to share what was going on in their lives. McQuaid related a sanitized version of a recent missing-person investigation, and I told about finding the chest of lace in the storeroom (but omitted the spooky bit about hearing a woman humming, which would no doubt evoke hoots of laughter). Casey reported on her recent tennis match, and Brian recounted a funny story about a guy who came into the garden supply where he works part time, wanting to buy “real cow poop,” not that “dried-up crap in a plastic bag.” And Caitie described our tussle with Extra Crispy and invited everyone to her play. “It’s a week from Friday,” she said importantly. “Please come and watch me die.”
As our guests left, Brian gave me an extra hug. “Thanks, Mom,” he whispered in my ear. “You guys are great. I really appreciate you.”
“You and Casey are the ones who are great,” I said, meaning it. “Come back as often as you can.”
Lori Lowry phoned just as McQuaid and I started the kitchen cleanup, so I left him to it and went into the dining room to talk to her. “Just calling to let you know that Professor Vickery got the photos of that lace,” she said. “She says she’d love to have a look at them. She’s free tomorrow afternoon—okay if she drops by the shops, around four? I’ll be between classes and we can meet upstairs.”
“Super,” I said. “It’ll be good to talk to somebody who knows about this stuff.”
“Christine Vickery is the right person,” Lori said. “She did her thesis on lacemaking as a women’s craft in Ireland and America.”
