Ramona, meanwhile, was about to go cruising, on the lookout for her errant mother. She was phoning to tell me that she hadn’t had any luck reaching Ruby via her cell phone. She wanted a phone number for the place where Ruby was visiting so she could call and let her know that Doris had gone AWOL again—but that everything was under control because Ramona was in control. Ramona resembles her mother in that regard. She likes to call the shots.
“I don’t have a number because Claire Conway doesn’t have a phone,” I said. “You could try texting.”
“I don’t know how,” Ramona said. “I just got this phone, and I’m lucky to be able to turn it on. This thing is smarter than I am.” She sighed, not bothering to conceal her vexation. “Well, if Ruby calls in, tell her not to worry—I’ll find Mother. She doesn’t try to conceal her whereabouts. It’s just a matter of following the clues.”
“Go get ’em, Sherlock,” I said.
While I was talking to Ramona, a couple of customers had come in. I put the phone down, rang up The Herb Society of America’s Essential Guide to Growing and Cooking with Herbs ($29.95, but worth every penny), two bars of home-crafted lavender-oatmeal soap ($1.25 each), and a very nice eighteen-inch-tall bay plant that would more than pay back its cost ($5.95) when the leaves were harvested next fall, and every fall thereafter.
I had just thanked the customer and said good-bye when Cass Wilde, looking warm and sweaty, came in from the tearoom. Cass has a personal style that’s every bit as outrageous as Ruby’s, and until last autumn, there was quite a bit more of her, so there was quite a lot more outrageousness. Since then, though, Cass has been on a personal weight-loss campaign. She’s lost about twenty pounds with another twenty-five to go—for health reasons, she says, not because she thinks skinny looks better. “I believe in curves,” she says. “I love soft. Angles and bones just don’t do it for me.”
She’s also doing it for business reasons. Quite a few of Cass’ customers are upscale singles who commute for a couple of hours a day, don’t have time to cook, but want to improve their eating habits and keep their weight down. So she has developed a line of low-calorie, heart-healthy, home-delivered vegetarian gourmet meals, made with Texas-grown vegetables, many of which come from Mistletoe Creek Farm on Comanche Road, south of Pecan Springs. The farm’s owner, Donna Fletcher, delivers Cass’ order right to the kitchen, which ensures that the veggies are as fresh as they can be—another selling point. Unless people hang out at the Pecan Springs Farmers’ Market on Saturday mornings or subscribe to Donna’s weekly CSA baskets, they won’t find fresher vegetables.
“I figured I’d better slim down some to advertise the new line,” Cass says with a frank grin. Today she was wearing blue denim capris and tennies and a loose, blue cotton tee with pushup sleeves, her long blonde hair hanging loose under a blue denim baseball cap with a button pinned to it: Eat Healthy or Die Early. She’s a good advertisement. Customers who knew her “before” can see the “after” difference.
“All done,” she announced cheerfully, wiping her round face on her sleeve. “The kitchen is clean and tomorrow’s lunch is queued up. And Big Red Mama is loaded and ready to rock and roll.”
Big Red Mama is the beat-up red van we bought to replace our beat-up blue van a couple of years ago. Cass uses it for deliveries, Ruby uses it for the catering business, and I use it to haul plants. Mama’s former owner was a Wimberley artist named Gerald, who got himself arrested for cooking crystal meth, which doesn’t belong on anybody’s menu. The Hays County sheriff confiscated Mama and put her up for sale in the semiannual sheriff’s auction. When Ruby and I saw her, we fell in love with the wild designs that Gerald, perhaps under the influence of a certain mildly hallucinatory herb, had painted all over her squat red body. Cass says that Mama looks like a cross between a Crayola box on wheels and a Sweet Potato Queens’ parade float.
“Sounds good,” I said absently, making a note to call the nursery. The bay plant I’d just sold had been the last one. I hoped to reorder, but bay isn’t the easiest plant to propagate, and the nursery always sells out early. “Safe travels, Cass. Oh, and better check Mama’s right front tire. It looked a little low this morning.”
* * *
I waited on several more people, then helped Dawn locate Ruby’s last deck of Motherpeace tarot cards for a customer. I left her explaining the principles of the tarot to the woman, who had a great many questions, and began reshelving the herb and garden books. I try to keep them organized, more or less, to make restocking easier. I was jotting down a list of titles to reorder when the phone rang.
It was Hark Hibler, the editor of the Pecan Springs Enterprise and Ruby’s current flame. That is, Hark has a flame thing for Ruby. Her feelings for him are considerably less incandescent. He got right to the point.
“If you’re in touch with Ruby, please let her know that the little tropical wave out there in the Gulf has blown up into a full-fledged tropical storm. NOAA has just put out a warning.”
“Really?” I was surprised. This was a little unusual. “It got promoted from wave to storm without sitting around for three or four days as a depression?”
“She.”
I frowned. “She what?”
“She got promoted. Her name is Amanda, and she’s already made landfall a little north of Corpus Christi. I thought Ruby should know. Just in case, I mean.”
“I’m sure Ruby will be thrilled,” I said drily. “But really, Hark, this place where she’s gone to visit—it’s nowhere near the coast.”
“Oh.” There was a silence. “I thought Ruby said she was going to Houston.”
“No.” Hark may be in the news business, but he doesn’t always listen when you tell him something. “Halfway to Houston. Off 281, south of Round Top.”
“Round Top,” he said thoughtfully. “That’s in Fayette County, isn’t it?”
“Yup,” I said, moving Jim Long’s Making Herbal Dream Pillows back to the shelf where it belonged. It’s a popular book. On the shelf, it tends to migrate.
“The San Antonio Express-News ran a story yesterday,” Hark said. “It was about the oil companies buying up leases in Fayette County—all the land they can get their hands on. Looks like there’s a fracking boom.” Another silence. “Well, tell her anyway. Sometimes a storm like this can be pretty rainy. It can cause a lot of trouble if it happens to stall somewhere. Like Allison. Remember Allison?”
Allison was the first storm of the 2001 hurricane season. She came ashore at Freeport, then stalled over Houston, where she dumped thirty-five inches of rain overnight before she drifted back into the Gulf, then wound herself up and headed for Louisiana. Twenty-three people died in Texas; seventy thousand homes were flooded in Houston. On the Gulf, early-season storms can be nearly as bad as full-blown hurricanes. I had the feeling, though, that Hark wasn’t really worried about Amanda. He was missing Ruby, and since he couldn’t reach out and touch her, I was the next best thing. But I didn’t say that.
“Of course I remember Allison,” I replied. “Do you remember Josephine?”
“Do I ever,” Hark said with a chuckle. “She was the hurricane that hit the weekend you and Mike got married.” Pecan Springs is a couple hundred miles inland, but Central Texas occasionally gets slammed, especially when a hurricane landfalls around Victoria.
“The wedding party was marooned by high water,” I said, remembering. For a while, all of us thought we were having fun—until the bridge went out. There was no champagne left at the end of that party. No food, either.
“Yeah,” Hark said. “That was one for the record books. Well, tell Ruby anyway,” he repeated. “Amanda, landfalling around Corpus, heading inland. She should keep an eye on the weather.” He paused, then added a little shyly, “Oh, and give her my love.” He hung up.
Twenty minutes later, just at two, the phone rang again. I picked it up quickly, thinking it might be Ramona reporting on the whereabouts of the fugitive Doris. But this time, it was Amy, Ruby’s daughter, call
ing from the pediatrician’s office. Grace’s sore throat was worse, and the doctor had said that she needed to have her tonsils and adenoids out. Grace would be in the hospital overnight.
“It’s not a terribly serious thing,” Amy said, sounding like the grown-up she had become since she gave birth to Grace. “I’m sure Kate and I can manage. I don’t want Mom to think she needs to come home—she’s earned some time away from the shop. But she’ll be upset if I don’t let her know what’s happening. I’ve tried her cell with no luck. Can you reach her, China?”
“Did you try texting?”
“No,” Amy said, “I didn’t. I thought she’d like to hear my voice so she could be sure I’m okay with Grace being in the hospital.” There was a pause, and I could hear voices in the background. “Could you try, please? Oops, the doctor is looking for me. I have to go. Mega-thanks, China! I’ll get back to you when we’ve got something definite.” Click.
Now, my fingers are not as nimble as those of your average nine-year-old (although I probably spell better). I prefer to talk to my kids rather than text, so that I know they’ve gotten my message and can’t ignore me. What’s more, the smartphone that McQuaid gave me for my birthday auto corrects my fat-fingered typing, which has resulted in some funny and embarrassing messages. (I’m not the only one that grumbles about this. McQuaid told me he texted Blackie, his partner in the private investigation business, and asked him to “come here for a sec.” His smartphone knew better: “Come here for a sex.” And a friend of Ruby’s once texted her that they had “just bought a large condom.” It took a couple more messages to clarify that she meant “condo.”)
But I gave it my best shot: Ramona says Doris escaped. Hark says watch for TS Amanda. Amy says Grace needs tonsils out. Tonight. But we can handle. Stay where you are. Don’t come home.
I checked to make sure that the autocorrect genie hadn’t taken the liberty of changing something, and hit send. Then I looked at my message again and wondered if I had been too blunt, too direct. Maybe I should’ve tried to soften it a little. Or split it up so there wasn’t so much to read.
But it was what it was. Surely Ruby would understand.
Chapter Six
Garlic (Allium sativum), along with its cousins the onion, shallot, leek, and chive, is a member of the Allium family. In human use for more than six thousand years, garlic is native to central Asia. It was well known to the ancient Egyptians and has been used throughout its history for both culinary and medicinal purposes. The Greeks and Romans associated garlic with the planet Mars (the god of war) and used it to enhance stamina and as a blood cleanser and performance-enhancing male aphrodisiac (a kind of ancient Viagra). Garlic continues to be a staple of the Indian Ayurvedic healing system and an essential therapy in Chinese and Korean traditional medicine. In Europe, in plague season, it was worn around the neck and had the virtue of keeping possibly diseased people from getting too close.
Garlic has long been considered a powerful force against evil, the devil, and ghostly spirits. In the Mediterranean region, it was hung over the bed to protect from evil spirits or ghosts while sleeping. In Slavic countries, the magical powers of garlic were believed to guard against witches, vampires, and sorcerers. In India, a string of garlic, lemon, and red peppers was hung over the door to keep out evil influences, thieves, and unpleasant people. And in the familiar tale of Dracula, garlic is an effective vampire repellent.
In the language of flowers, garlic represents protection against evil. It has the additional meaning, “Go away. You’re not wanted.”
China Bayles
“Herbs and Flowers That Tell a Story”
Pecan Springs Enterprise
“What’s wrong?” Claire repeated.
Ruby shut her phone with a snap. “You name it, it’s wrong,” she replied dispiritedly. “My mother is on the lam from her nursing home—again—and my sister is trying to find her. My sweet baby granddaughter has had a miserable sore throat, and she has to get her tonsils out, right away. And somebody named TS Amanda—whoever he is—is on his way to Pecan Springs. But China says they can handle it. They don’t want me to come home. I’m supposed to stay where I am.” Feeling suddenly sorry for herself, she made a whimpering noise. “I’m not wanted.”
“I’m sorry about all that,” Claire said sympathetically. “But don’t you get it, Ruby? It’s not just a message from your friend China, it’s a warning from the powers that arrange such things. You’re not supposed to go home. You’re supposed to stay right here and help me deal with this…this whatever-it-is.”
Ruby looked up. “You think?” Suddenly China’s text message made a different kind of sense, like a message from the Ouija board. Important things were happening at home, yes, but China and Amy and Ramona could handle them. Stay where you are. Don’t come home. It was as if the universe were giving her an assignment.
“I think,” Claire said definitively.
“But I don’t know how to deal with whatever is happening here,” Ruby protested. “And to tell the truth, I’ve spent years trying to ignore my so-called gift. I can cope with it on a minimal level, as long as I don’t take it seriously, but that’s about all.”
But Claire wasn’t paying attention. She held up her hand and tilted her head, listening. Now she leaned forward. “Do you hear that, Ruby?” she whispered intently.
“Hear what?” Frowning, Ruby listened. “It’s just the wind.” Now that she actually listened to it, she realized that she had been hearing it for several minutes—an eerie sound that constantly changed in pitch, sometimes deep and hollow, like somebody blowing across the top of a bottle, sometimes high and whining, like a child crying.
“Right. The wind.” Claire nodded knowingly. “But take a look out the window.”
Ruby went to the window over the sink and looked out. The sky wore an oddly opaque sheen and the light seemed to be fading as she watched. She could hear the wind even more loudly now, rushing past the window with the sound of a gale. But the trees and grasses stood utterly as still as if they were frozen in the peculiar light. Not a leaf or a blade was stirring.
Ruby felt the goose bumps rise along her arms. “What in the—” She left the word hanging in the air.
“Yes.” Claire joined her at the window. “Exactly. What in the world is going on here?”
“The wind—does it sound like this all the time?” Ruby asked.
“Pretty much, although it’s intermittent. Sometimes I can barely hear it, other times it rattles the windows. But when I look outside, it’s always dead calm. Not a breeze. Not even a breath.” She lowered her voice. “This has got to be connected with the ghost, Ruby. Get her to leave and this will stop. As long as she’s here, and these noises, I can’t turn this place into a bed-and-breakfast. People will stay away in droves.” She went back to the table and sat down. “I have no idea what the protocol is—how you talk to ghosts, I mean. But maybe you could find out what she wants.”
What she wants? Ruby thought uneasily, following Claire back to the table. Why would a ghost want anything? Would she know what she wants? And assuming that she wants something and knows what it is, how would I go about finding out? And then what?
But Claire was going on with even more eagerness. “Yes, that’s it, Ruby. Find out what she wants, and let her know she can’t keep hanging around. The noises have to stop, too.”
“Are you sure about that?” Ruby asked tentatively. “Maybe you could advertise the place as a haunted B and B. You could tell people about this woman—that is, if you could find out who she is and something about her.” She grinned, trying to make a joke of it. “You know, like the Lizzie Borden Bed and Breakfast, in Massachusetts. I read that they have a museum and a gift shop. They even serve a breakfast that’s supposed to be the same breakfast that the Bordens ate before they were murdered—their last meal.”
“Lizzie Borden?” Claire asked, frowning.
“You know. ‘Lizzie Borden took an ax and gave her mother forty wh
acks. And when she saw what she had done, she gave her father forty-one.’”
“Good lord,” Claire said faintly. “I’d forgotten about her. But she wasn’t convicted, was she?”
“No. They never found out who did it—officially, that is. But all the evidence seemed to point to her.”
Claire’s eyes widened. “Ruby, you don’t suppose our ghost was murdered, do you—here, in this house? And that’s why she’s hanging around here?”
“I don’t have the slightest idea.” Ruby thought of the headstones in the cemetery. “I don’t think there’s any law that says that only victims get to be ghosts,” she added in a lower voice. “I suppose it’s even possible that a ghost could be the murderer.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.” Claire pulled her brows together. “You mean, she could have killed somebody? In this house?”
Ruby shrugged. “I don’t see why not.”
“Let’s not go there, okay?” Claire said nervously. “And as far as the idea of advertising the haunting— Well, maybe the Borden ghosts aren’t real. Maybe they’re just a way to attract customers. This one is for real, Ruby. I don’t think I could keep my guests if one of them happened to catch a glimpse of her up on that widow’s walk, staring out into the distance. She is just too creepy.” Claire put out a hand. “You will help, won’t you?”
“How can I help when I don’t have a clue?” Ruby asked matter-of-factly. “I don’t do séances. I’ve never tried to talk to the dead—or the undead. I don’t know why the ghost would want to communicate with me.”
“Undead.” Claire shivered. “I wish you wouldn’t put it that way.”
“What other way is there to put it? Anyway, how would we know if we were successful? Maybe she’d only pretend to go away and then come back later. It’s not like we can ask her to punch in and out on a time clock.”
“You won’t know if you don’t try,” Claire pointed out. “Anyway, there’s no penalty for failure.”
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