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potpourri and sachets. The evening was warm, the soft hum of satisfied honeybees vibrated in the air, and the lavender fragrance wrapped itself around me like a perfumed shawl. The scent of lavender is known to relieve stress, calm anxieties, and promote sleep, and in the evenings, when I’m working among the lavenders, I always feel languid and lazy and loose, as if the sweetened air has softened my bones. Tonight, I moved through the garden slowly, forgetting my worries about the business, about McQuaid’s new enterprise and Brian’s caveman, just breathing in the therapeutic scent of lavender.
    I had finished filling my basket and was on my way back to the house, still feeling mellow and calm, when Blackie came down the path toward me.
    “I’m heading home,” he said. “Thanks for the dinner, China.”
    “Oh, you’re welcome,” I replied. He fell into step with me and we went up the path together. “Thanks for giving Brian a hand with the dishes.”
    “He’s a super kid,” Blackie said. “Got a good head on his shoulders.”
    I agreed, and added, “We don’t see enough of you these days, Blackie. Why don’t you and Sheila go out to dinner with us next weekend?” I grinned. “We could do some country dancing. McQuaid and I haven’t been to Pistol Pete’s yet.” Pistol Pete’s is a new dance hall north of town, on the Old San Marcos Road.
    Blackie slowed, stopped, his hands in his pockets. His face was serious and his gray eyes were steady, sober. “You haven’t talked to Sheila in the last couple of weeks?”
    I shook my head. “Nope.” I’d phoned her office to see if she’d be available for lunch, but she’d said she was busy. “Is something wrong?”
    “Well, you might say so,” Blackie replied. His voice grew taut and bitter. “We’ve called it off. The engagement, I mean.”
    “Again?” I chuckled. “Is this the third time, or the fourth?” I stopped laughing when I saw the way his mouth had tightened at the corners, and my mellow, lavender-flavored mood began to evaporate. “Serious, huh?”
    “Yeah, serious. It’s just not going to happen, China. And the problem isn’t our jobs, either. That’s just an excuse that Sheila finds convenient.”
    Sheila Dawson, Blackie’s fiancée—Smart Cookie, to her friends—has served for the past two years as Pecan Springs’s chief of police, and a darn good one, too, although she has her share of enemies. Their law enforcement work gives Blackie and Sheila a great deal in common, but it’s also been a continual source of friction. For one thing, the sheriff is elected, and Sheila has been concerned that some of her unpopular moves—such as insisting on early retirement for certain older officers who had gotten lazy and complacent—might cause him to lose votes. For another, Blackie worries about Sheila’s safety and is apt to go out looking for her if she doesn’t show up when she’s expected. And both have a tendency to poke their noses into the other’s cases, giving advice where it isn’t necessarily welcome. Altogether, a difficult set of issues to handle.
    But Blackie had said that work wasn’t the problem. “If it isn’t your jobs, what is it?” I stopped. “Sorry. I don’t mean to pry. It’s none of my business.”
    Blackie turned, looking out over the garden, so I couldn’t see his face. His shoulders were slumped. “I’m just tired of her shilly-shallying, that’s all.” He sighed heavily. “We’ve been engaged—if that’s what you want to call it—for nearly two years. Two years of nothing but on-again, off-again, will-she, won’t-she.” His voice became rough. “Damn it, if she hasn’t made up her mind by now, she’s not going to. I’m the marrying kind. I’m tired of hanging around, waiting.”
    For Blackie, this was an unusually long speech. The sheriff is not a talkative man, especially when it comes to matters of the heart, and he had taken me by surprise. I said the only thing I could