Free Rosemary Remembered by Susan Wittig Albert Page B

us."
    "Yeah, sure," Sheila said with a laugh. "The same frail, helpless woman who walked across the Great Plains with a kid on each hip and her kitchen on her back. Right?" She shook her head. "If you ask me, men don't learn it from John Wayne. It's genetic. They can't help themselves. I remember my daddy trying to teach me to float. He wouldn't let go. How was I going to learn to float when he had his hand under my butt?"
    "It's a power thing, in my book," I said. "They're strong, we're weak. We need them to look out for us because we're not strong enough and smart enough to do it ourselves."
    "I'm not sure that's always true," Ruby objected. "A person can be responsible because he cared. Like Sheila's daddy teaching her to float. He was doing it because he loved her."
    Sheila snorted. "Sure he loves me. He loves me so much that he'll never let me go. You should've heard him squawk when I moved into my first apartment. And when I became a cop? He wanted to ride in the squad car with me. Would you believe?" She turned to me. "Do you have any lavender soap? The last stuff I got was wonderful."
    "I think so." I turned off the hose. "Ruby can show you where it is. I've got to get out to The Springs — registration for the herb conference starts in a couple of hours." I turned to Ruby. "Keep an ear out for that air conditioner, will you? If it dies, call Harold's Air-Conditioning and Refrigeration. The number's next to the phone."
    "Laurel and I will take care of everything," Ruby said. "You just have a good time at the conference."
    "Stay out of trucks," Sheila said, "and watch for Jacoby."
    I laughed shortly. "I thought protectiveness was a guy thing."
    "Not when we do it," Ruby said. "Go on to your conference, and don't worry."
    "Yes, go." Sheila waved me away. "Have fun with your herby friends. Don't give a second thought to ex-cons or murderers."
    At the conference that day, everything went beautifully. I ran around getting things organized while the other members of the planning committee conducted registration for the early-comers, convened the preconference seminars, and got all the vendors sorted out. The hotel staff did everything right, too: the meeting rooms were set up the way we'd asked, room registration went without a hitch, and even the herb garden was completed — all except for the big rosemary bush, which was still balled and ready for planting, sitting next to the trench that had been dug for the new fountain, which wasn't hooked up yet either. The newly transplated herbs were looking droopy, though, and the rosemary definitely ought to be in the ground, keeping its feet cool.
    But herbalists don't wilt. We did what herb lovers always do when they get together. We talked nonstop herbs: planting and cultivating and harvesting them, buying them, marketing them, crafting with them, cooking with them. We talked about medicinal herbs, culinary herbs, decorative herbs, fragrance herbs, speciality herbs, landscape herbs. We traded recipes, merchandising tricks, names of reliable wholesalers, and horror stories about the Food and Drug Administration. It was a great day for herbs, and it went on being a great day into the late evening. At ten o'clock, I left the night owls to their late-night drinks and headed for home, bone weary but cheerful. It had cooled off slightly, and there was a breeze from the south. We'd be able to sleep tonight with the windows open.
    My cheerfulness faded when I walked into the kitchen.
    "I didn't think you'd be so late," McQuaid said crossly. He was in jeans, barefooted and barechested, his dark hair wet from the shower. McQuaid is remarkably sexy in bare feet and no shirt, but the appeal was spoiled by his scowl.
    "It's only ten-twenty," I said. "I had a lot of people to talk to. I hung around after dinner to catch up on the gossip." The real business at herb conferences, like anywhere else, goes on in the hallways and elevators and over coffee — or herb tea, if you're a