Rueful Death Read Online Free PDF Page A

fuel to the fire.
    Nicholas Culpeper
The Complete Herbal & English Physician
     
    Carr, Texas, is not a bustling metropolis. You might drive through it before you could say, "Where are the Golden Arches?" But it's a very pretty town, with pecans and live oaks arching over narrow, brick-paved streets, lined by frame cottages trimmed with turn-of-the-century gingerbread and set in neat gardens. It looked like Pecan Springs a couple of decades ago, before tourism brought the developers into town. I wondered fleetingly what it would be like to live here, maybe even move my shop here. Life would certainly be more peaceful. But it was too far for McQuaid to commute, except on weekends. Which might not be a bad idea, I thought. It would give us a little breathing space.
    "We'll get to St T's too late for lunch," Maggie said. "Make a left turn at that light, Ruby. We'll stop at Bern-ice's and get something to eat."
    We were on the square. The hardware store was on one corner, its window full of saws, coiled rope, water heaters, and a gleaming white commode. The Carr State Bank was on another, fronted by a concrete planter containing a leafless tree still draped with Christmas lights and a sign that said, Be Good, for Goodness' Sake. A Carnegie library was on the third comer, next to a five-and-dime. Our Lady of Sorrows Catholic Church, with a letterboard announcing that Father Steven Shaw celebrated Mass at eleven on Sundays, stood on the fourth. A stone courthouse commanded the center. It might not have qualified as Most Picturesque Town Square in Texas, but the church was painted, the bank looked prosperous, and the hardware store had three or four pickups parked out front. Next to the bank was Bernice's Cafe.
    "St. T's is mostly vegetarian and low-fat, so this is your last chance for chicken-fried steak," Maggie said as Ruby swung diagonally into the curb. "And you haven't had fried onion rings until you've eaten Bernice's."
    I blinked. "Chicken-fried and onion rings? I thought you were into gourmet cooking."
    Maggie grinned and slipped into a West Texas drawl. "Yes, ma'am, honey. Out here, Bernice's chicken-fried
is
gourmet cookin'. But don't believe everything she says," Maggie added in her usual voice. "She's the switchboard operator on the local grapevine. If you encourage her, you'll get an earful of gossip."
    Inside the cafe, we were greeted by a weathered, gritty-voiced woman in jeans and a plaid Western shirt, standing behind a green Formica-covered counter. "Well, Margaret Mary," she said, grinning at Maggie. "I'll be durned. Been a couple years, ain't it? How are you?" The woman, whose apricot-colored hair turned up in an Andrews Sisters puff, wiped her hands on a white apron and lowered the volume on a pink plastic radio that was playing an old Johnny Cash ballad called "Ring of Fire." Over the radio hung a fly-specked cheesecake poster girl with a Budweiser in her hand. We had just stepped into a time warp.
    "Hello, Bernice," Maggie said. "It's nice to see you." She pulled out a scarred wooden chair and sat down at a table covered with a red-and-white-checked oilcloth. Ruby and I joined her.
    Bernice took in Ruby's hooded caftan and came to the obvious conclusion. "Don't tell me, let me guess. Y'all are headin' out to St T's." She didn't wait for confirmation. '* 'F that's the case, you'll need somethin' fillin'." She went behind the counter and pushed mugs under the old-fashioned coffee urn. "From what I hear, the cookin' out there has went straight to hell since you left, Margaret Mary. And that's not the only tiling that's went to hell, either," she added, carrying the mugs to our table. She glanced at Ruby. "Pardon my French, Sister."
    Ruby looked taken aback, then inclined her head gently as she took the coffee.
    Maggie ignored Bernice's invitation to gossip. "I'll have the chicken-fried," she said, "French fries and an order of onion rings."
    "I will too," Ruby said. She looked up with a beneficent, nunlike smile.