An Unthymely Death

by ALBERT, SUSAN WITTIG

  LAVENDER-MINT TEA

  4 teaspoons fresh lavender flowers or 2 teaspoons dried

  lavender flowers

  3 to 4 tablespoons fresh mint leaves or 4 teaspoons dried

  mint

  4 cups boiling water

  In a one-quart teapot, combine the lavender flowers and mint. Pour boiling water over the mixture; steep 5 minutes.

  “Well, then, maybe somebody borrowed it.”

  “I’m afraid not,” Pansy replied miserably. “It was in a locked glass display case. The book is gone and there’s broken glass all over the floor.”

  “Then it’s a job for the cops,” I replied, reaching for the phone.

  Pansy clutched at my arm. “But we can’t call the police, China! The Guild has just been offered a pair of valuable floral paintings—but only if we have adequate security. If the donor finds out there’s been a theft, we can kiss those paintings good-bye. That’s why I’ve come to you. You have to help me get that book back—without letting any of the members know that it’s gone!”

  What could I say? I hung up my OUT TO LUNCH sign and took Pansy next door to the Crystal Cave, to talk to Ruby Wilcox. In her vivid imagination, my best friend is Nancy Drew and Kinsey Milhone mixed together, with a dash of Stephanie Plum tossed in to spice up the blend. If I went looking for clues without her, she’d never forgive me. Over six feet tall, with red hair and gingery freckles, Ruby is utterly unforgettable, especially when she’s wearing one of her weird outfits. Today, she had on a slim ankle-length dress, slit to the knee and tie-dyed in various shades of indigo blue, with a tie-dyed scarf wound around her hennaed curls. She looked like a carrot in blue shrink-wrap.

  “Omigosh!” Ruby gasped, when Pansy and I told her that the famous Cookery Book had been stolen. “Who would do a thing like that? Let’s go have a look!”

  The library is at the end of the second-floor hall of Myra Merryweather’s old Victorian house, overlooking the Guild’s famous knot garden, which is planted and maintained by all the Guild members. Pansy unlocked the library door and we followed her in. Sure enough, the display case was broken. There was glass on the floor, and the book was gone.

  “How long has the cookbook been on display in this room?” I asked.

  “We took it out of the safety-deposit box just a few days ago,” Pansy said. “We never dreamed anybody would steal it!”

  “How many people knew the book was here?” Ruby asked.Indigo

  Many herbs, such as madder, yarrow, goldenrod, woad, and weld, produce dyes and have been cultivated specifically for that purpose. Until the invention of synthetic dyes, indigo (Indigofera species) was perhaps the world’s most valuable dye plant. Its beautiful deep blue color—the color of royalty—was laboriously produced from the fermented leaves, processed with lye, urine, and other agents, then dried and pressed into cakes. Medicinally, Chinese herbalists used indigo to reduce fever and alleviate pain, while in South Africa, it was used to treat tooth-ache. In the islands of the East Indies, only postmenopausal women (the wisewomen of the village) were permitted to work with indigo.

  “Only the members of the Library Committee. We’re planning to have a public showing of the paintings, and we wanted to have Myra’s book here, as well.”

  “How did the thief get into the house?” I asked. “I checked the front door as we came in. It didn’t look as if it had been jimmied.”

  Pansy shook her head. “It wasn’t. It was locked when I arrived this morning. And the downstairs windows don’t show any signs of forced entry.”

  “How many people have keys?” Ruby asked.

  “I do, and so does Cora Demming, our secretary-treasurer. And our handyman, of course. Jerry Weber.” She frowned. “I suppose Delia Murphy still has a key, too. She was president last year.”

  “And the library?” I asked. “Was it locked?”

  “Yes. But everybody knows that the key is kept behind the pantry door.” Pansy clenched her hands. “We’ve got to find out who took the book!”

  It was time to start making a suspect list. “We’ll start with the people on the Library Committee,” I said, “since they’re the only ones who knew that the book was here and not in the bank.” I took a notebook and pencil out of my purse. “Names?”

  “Well, there’s Cora Demming—I mentioned her a minute ago. And Jane Clark and Delia Murphy. And me, too, of course.” Pansy gave us a sideways glance. “But if I were going to take the book, I wouldn’t have broken the glass, would I? I have the only key to the case. I keep it on my personal key ring.” She held it up.

  Ruby and I traded glances. Personally, I doubted that Pansy had stolen the book, but we couldn’t rule her out. Sure, she might have a key. But if she had taken the book, breaking the glass would be a smart move. It would cover her tracks.

  Pansy caught our glances. “You can’t imagine that I did it!” she exclaimed in a horrified tone. “Why . . . why, that’s absurd!”

  “Please don’t take it personally, Pansy,” Ruby said. “We have to consider all the angles.”

  “I’ll try,” Pansy replied grimly. “But I’ll also expect an apology when you find the real thief!”

  Cora Demming’s yard has been chosen Pecan Springs’s Yard of the Week three times already this year, which makes a great many people envious. But Cora has two green thumbs and certainly deserves the honor. We found her in her garden, snipping herbs into a basket. She had already collected sprigs of lemon balm and lemon verbena, and was reaching for a lemon-scented geranium. She looked up when Ruby and I said hello, but she didn’t smile. Cora Demming—a tight-lipped, suspicious woman—hasn’t smiled since her husband disappeared last year, leaving her with a stack of credit card debts as tall as the Texas Tower.

  Cora looked even more sour when I told her about the stolen cookbook. “I warned Pansy not to take that valuable book out of the bank vault,” she said. “The locks at the Guild House are a joke.” She gave a short, hard laugh. “Pansy promised to ask Jerry Weber to install new ones, but that’s like asking the fox to guard the hen house.”

  “What makes you say that?” Ruby asked curiously.

  “Don’t be naive,” Cora replied, with a scornful toss of her head. “Jerry’s always hard up for cash, and since I’m the Guild’s treasurer, he’s continually pestering me to give him an advance on what we owe him for his maintenance work. But Pansy gets upset when I tell her that he’s more trouble than he’s worth to us.” She gave us a tight smile. “In fact, she’s so protective that I wouldn’t be in the least surprised to hear that there’s some- thing going on between the two of them. And I certainly wouldn’t put it past Jerry to take that book.”

  Lemon-flavored and lemon-scented herbs are easy to grow, fun to cook with, and add a cooling touch to summer. Here are China’s favorites.

  • Lemon balm (Melissa officinalis). With its crinkled yellow-green leaves, lemon balm even looks cool. It’s a hardy perennial and needs frequent clipping to keep it tidy. But that’s just fine, because the trimmings are a tasty addition to herbal teas, as well as fish and chicken dishes.

  • Lemon verbena (Aloysia triphylla), a tender, shrubby perennial, is pure lemon delight. Planted where it can get some afternoon shade and mulched or moved indoors during the winter, the plant will reward you with lots of lemony leaves for teas and desserts.

  • Lemon-scented geraniums (Pelargonium species), such as “Lemon Crispum,” “Mabel Grey,” and “Frensham,” lend their fresh scent to desserts, teas, and potpourris. In patio pots or in the garden, scented geraniums need sun and plenty of water. In late fall, take cuttings for next year’s plants.

  • Lemongrass (Cymbopogon citratus), a native of India and Sri Lanka, is a must for Asian cooks. Dried, the leaves are wonderful in soups and teas. And as a bonus, the pale green, slender leaves of this three-foot-high bunch-grass make a striking garden accent.

  I raised my eyebrows. Somehow, I didn’t think Pansy would compromise herself with Jerry Weber. Still, despite his many
shortcomings, he’s a charming man—and Pansy seems to be always on the lookout for male companionship. Unfortunately, Cora’s suspicion was something to consider.

  “It looks like the thief got in through the Guild House’s front door,” I said. I paused and added tactfully, “Has anyone asked to borrow your key?”

  Cora leaned over and snipped a leaf of lemongrass. “Of course not. Anyway, you don’t need a key to get into that place. If you know how to jiggle the knob on the kitchen door, you can walk right in. Anybody could have stolen that book.”

  “If you knew it was there,” I said. And only the members of the Library Committee had known that.

  “A rare book is a strange thing to steal,” Ruby remarked. “I mean, once you have it, what would you do with it?”

  Cora picked up her basket. “Jane Clark can tell you about that. Her brother is a rare-book dealer. Of course, I’m not making any accusations,” she added with a tight, meaningful smile. She glanced at her watch. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m expecting a delivery any minute now.”

  We thanked Cora and said good-bye. “So Jane Clark’s brother is a rare book dealer,” Ruby said excitedly as we got in the car. “And Jane is on the Library Committee! Maybe she took the book and gave it to her brother to sell.”

  “That’s certainly what Cora wants us to think,” I replied.

  “And she’d also like us to consider Jerry as a suspect, too.” I glanced up. “Hey, look at that!”

  A truck from Blanchard’s Furniture Store in San Antonio was pulling up in front of Cora’s house. As we watched, a couple of brawny guys unloaded an elegant living room suite—several thousand dollars’ worth of furniture.

  “I thought Cora was supposed to be broke and in debt,” Ruby said, wide-eyed. “Where’d she get the money for all that new stuff?”

  “That,” I said thoughtfully, “is a very good question.”

  “Cora Demming has a lot of nerve accusing me of stealing that book!” Jane Clark said angrily. She bent over to add the last bit of parsley garnish to a tray of stuffed mushrooms. Jane, a handsome woman of indefinite age, has a successful catering business and is always in demand for dinner parties. If you want to book her, you have to call her weeks in advance.

  “Cora didn’t accuse you,” I said quietly. “She just mentioned that your brother deals in rare books.”

  “We thought he might be able to give us some ideas about how the thief might attempt to dispose of the book,” Ruby added.

  Jane ran a hand through her blond, Martha Stewart-style hair. “Sorry,” she muttered. “I suppose Cora has a reason to distrust people. If my husband ran off and left me dead broke, I might be suspicious of everybody, too.”

  I thought of Cora’s new furniture and wondered once again JANE CLARK’S STUFFED MUSHROOMS

  1 pound fresh mushrooms

  6 tablespoons butter, divided

  2 tablespoons fresh chives, chopped

  1 egg, beaten

  ½ cup dry bread crumbs

  ½ teaspoon Worcestershire sauce

  ½ teaspoon dried thyme

  ¼ teaspoon garlic powder

  Salt and pepper to taste

  Wash mushrooms. Remove and chop the stems. Heat half the butter in a small skillet and sauté the chopped stems and chives. With a slotted spoon, remove to a bowl. Add egg, crumbs, Worcestershire sauce, thyme, garlic powder, and salt and pepper and mix. In the skillet in which you sautéed the stems, heat the remaining butter and sauté the mushroom caps. Place caps stem sides up in a baking pan and fill each cap with crumb mixture. Broil until golden. Serve hot. (You can prepare and refrigerate these, and broil them just before serving.) Serves four.

  where the money came from. But I didn’t mention this to Jane. Instead, I said, “How can we get in touch with your brother?”

  “You can’t. Eric is in Europe on a buying trip. He left two weeks ago and won’t be back for another month.” Jane picked up the tray and put it in the refrigerator. “Somehow I don’t believe that anybody would steal the Cookery Book for the money. If you ask me, the thief wanted it for its own sake.”

  “Do you have any guesses?” I asked.

  Jane pursed her lips. “You might talk to Delia Murphy. Her mother was Myra Merryweather’s niece. Delia has always claimed that the cookbook belongs to her. Nobody believes her, of course, but I wouldn’t put it past her to—” She shrugged, leaving the sentence dangling tantalizingly in the air. It was obvious that Delia was not one of Jane’s friends.

  “Cora says Jerry Weber might be involved,” Ruby said. “What’s your take on that?”

  “Jerry?” Jane laughed scornfully. “He’d steal anything if he thought he could turn it into a dollar. But he wouldn’t know how to sell that book for enough to make it worth stealing. And Cora herself is a possibility. She told me that she’s thinking of running for Guild president in the next election. She might have taken the book just to make Pansy look bad.”

  After we left, Ruby and I compared notes. Jane had been very ready to accuse other people. But even though her brother was in Europe, she certainly could have taken the book and sent it to him. Pansy was still on the list. Jerry, too, in spite of what Jane had said. And Cora, who suddenly had extra money to spend—and a reason to put Pansy in a bad light. I’m always astonished at the ease with which even the most petty motive can become irresistibly compelling.

  It was time to talk to Delia Murphy. Maybe she could throw some light on this mystery.

  Delia, a heavyset woman with gray hair and snappy blue eyes, has a bead shop in the Emporium, the craft and boutique mall that occupies the big Victorian house next door to Thyme and Seasons. She shook her head sadly when Ruby said that we’d come to talk about the cookbook.

  “I really don’t have anything to tell you,” she said. “There’s already been enough unhappiness about that dreadful old book. Frankly, I’m glad it’s gone.”

  “What sort of unhappiness?” Ruby asked.

  Delia opened a box, took out a plastic bag, and opened it. “Have you ever smelled anything so sweet?” she asked with a smile, taking out a string of large black beads. “They’re rose beads. They’d make a lovely family heirloom.”

  Normally, I’d be interested in those beads, since I make my own to sell in my shop. But not today. “What kind of unhappiness, Delia?”

  She put the beads back in the bag and tucked the bag into the box. “It’s an old story. It doesn’t mean anything to anybody but me.”

  “I understand that your mother was Myra Merryweather’s niece,” Ruby remarked. “How did that valuable book get out of the family? You’d think it would be the kind of thing that Myra would want her relatives to have.”

  Delia turned away to put the box on a shelf. “Well, I hate to disillusion you, but Aunt Myra just wasn’t a very nice person. She and Mother didn’t get along. Mother tried very hard to satisfy her, but—” She turned with a shrug. “Aunt Myra always insisted on having her own way. She fancied herself a matriarch, as her mother had been.” Her smile was slightly askew. “To tell the truth, she was something of a bully, at least in the family.”

  “Still,” I said, “it must have been a disappointment when she gave the cookbook to the Herb Guild.”

  In our grandmothers’ time, everyone wore rose beads, beautiful black beads made from fresh rose petals. They took a long time to make—two weeks or more—and involved a great deal of work. China has found an easier way to make this old-fashioned herbal treasure. All you need is a cast-iron pot or large skillet and a few rusty nails. (Honest. The iron in the pot and the nails help to blacken the beads.)

  ROSE BEADS

  In a cast-iron cooking container, place a quart of fresh, finely minced rose petals, a cup of water, a few drops of rose oil to enhance the scent, and a handful of rusty nails. Simmer, covered, for 1 hour. Remove from heat, stir well with a wooden spoon, and let it stand overnight. Repeat the next day, and the next, adding water if necessary, until the doughy mixture has darke
ned. Then set aside until it dries to a claylike consistency that can be easily molded. Wet your hands and roll into balls a little larger than a marble. (They will shrink about 50 percent as they dry.) Place on paper towels. When they are partly dry, thread a large needle with dental floss, string the beads, and hang them to dry. Turn them regularly so that they don’t stick to the floss. In a week, your rose beads are ready for their final stringing, alternated with small, pretty beads used as spacers. Add a clasp and store in an airtight container to preserve the scent. For more about the way roses were used in earlier centuries, read Rose Recipes from Olden Times, by Eleanour Sinclair Rohde.

  Delia’s chin was quivering and she looked as if she might be about to cry. “I don’t mean to be rude, China, but I don’t see that my family’s history is any of your business. Anyway, all that unpleasantness is over and done with. I don’t want to think about it.”

  “Do you have any idea who might have taken the book from the Guild library?” I persisted. I felt sorry for Delia and didn’t want to cause her more pain, but the question needed an answer.

  “Of course not,” she said. Another customer came in at that moment, and she turned away with a bright “How may I help you?”

  “Well, we certainly didn’t learn anything from Delia,” Ruby said as we walked back to our shops. “Except that Myra Merryweather’s family thought she was a bully. That’s interesting, although it doesn’t take us any closer to finding out what happened to the cookbook.”

  “When you come right down to it, we haven’t learned anything from anybody,” I replied. “All our suspects just point their fingers at one another. Cora accuses Pansy and Jane. Jane accuses Delia and Cora. And everybody denies knowing anything.”