Free Death Come Quickly by Susan Wittig Albert

them to select customers—people we can trust to tell us what they think. Today it was Sheila’s turn. She’d be trying out Cass’ new capellini with shrimp and rose petals.
    The tearoom is an exceptionally attractive place, with hunter green wainscoting partway up the old square-cut limestone walls, green-painted tables and chairs with floral chintz napkins, and deep-set windows that look out onto the gardens. There are hanging pots of ferns and a small crystal vase of fresh flowers and herbs at each table. We also have several tables on the outside deck, in the expansive shade of a large live oak tree.
    Sheila was on time, which was unusual. “Let’s eat on the deck,” she said when she finally arrived. “Okay?”
    â€œIt’s a little warm,” I cautioned. I knew this, having already spent a couple of hours in the garden that morning. “You sure? It’s much cooler inside.”
    â€œBut there’s less chance of being interrupted or overheard,” Sheila said. “I have some questions to ask, and I’d just as soon not share them with the rest of your customers.”
    I got it. Pecan Springs is a small town, and people aren’t above listening in on other people’s table conversations, then retailing the news to the next friend they happen to meet. What’s more, the good old boys in town may be a little slow in lining up behind our first female chief of police, but the women admire Sheila and always want to chat with her. They’d be less likely to keep interrupting us if we sat outdoors.
    The thermometer was nudging 90, but a haze of high cirrus clouds filtered the July sun and a breeze rustled the live oak leaves. I led Sheila out to a table on the corner of the deck and we sat down.
    â€œYou feeling okay, Smart Cookie?” I asked. “Not still throwing up, I hope.”
    â€œI bought some fresh ginger on the way home yesterday,” Sheila said. “I made some tea this morning and felt a lot better after I drank it.” She patted her shoulder bag. “I have an emergency supply of your ginger capsules and peppermint tea, just in case.”
    â€œThat’s great,” I said. “If those don’t work, let me know and we’ll try something else.” Chamomile, slippery elm, and red raspberry leaf tea were other options. We would find something that helped.
    â€œOh,
here
you are,” Ruby said, coming out on the deck and closing the door behind her. “Why don’t we sit inside? It’s a lot cooler.”
    â€œWe can get used to it,” I said. “Smart Cookie doesn’t want people listening in on our cop talk.”
    â€œOh,” Ruby said. “Well, okay. I just got off the phone with Felicity,” she added, brushing the leaves off a chair before she sat down. “Her mother is in emergency surgery. There’s some new bleeding in her brain, and the doctors aren’t very optimistic.” She tried to smile. “Of course, where there’s life . . .”
    Her voice trailed off as Becky Conway brought glasses of iced hibiscus tea, plates of garden salad, and a basket of rosemary and garlic bread-sticks. Becky is a sprightly college student with short blond hair who helps out in the tearoom and the shops.
    â€œYes, I heard,” Sheila said gravely. “The update came into the office just before I left. I’m afraid it doesn’t sound good.”
    Emergency surgery.
Thinking of Karen, lively, intelligent, committed, I felt a twisting pain inside—and a rising anger at the person, a man, presumably, who had put her there. Not quite trusting my voice, I said to Sheila, “Anything on the assailant’s vehicle?”
    â€œNada.” Sheila shook her head. “We’re looking, of course. But no. Nothing yet.”
    We sat for a moment in silence, each of us dealing with this unhappy news in her own way. At last Ruby sighed and