An Unthymely Death

by ALBERT, SUSAN WITTIG

  “There are some things I’ll want to do before I open for business,” Ivy said, as we stood on the front porch, saying good-bye. “A new carpet, green, I think. The walls will need painting, and I might try printing some leafy borders, in different shades of green. I’ll want new blinds for the large window, maybe those very thin bamboo blinds that diffuse the light. And a few wicker chairs and a couple of large plants.” She smiled happily. “I want it to look just like a real gallery.”

  “It will be a real gallery,” Ruby said.

  “Well, then,” Constance said with a gleam in her eye, “we’ll have to plan a grand opening, won’t we? After all, we want to give the new business the right send-off.” She gave a critical look around. “I’ve been meaning to get these steps fixed. And I’ll need to do something about the landscaping. All those weeds—”

  “China and I were just thinking about that,” Ruby put in quickly. “We were saying that it wouldn’t be very much work to extend China’s herb garden all the way across the front of the Emporium.” She gave me a meaningful look. “Weren’t we, China?”

  “Oh, absolutely,” I lied happily, as the gas station began to fade into the realm of remote possibilities. “How about a butterfly garden, with salvia and echinacea and fennel and yarrow and—”

  “A butterfly garden!” Constance exclaimed, her brown curls quivering. “I swear, y’all are so full of ideas and energy, you’re getting me excited, too! This is gonna be fun!”

  Constance managed to maintain her excitement long enough to get the porch steps fixed and the sidewalk patched. Ruby and I worked evenings and a weekend, putting in the new butterfly garden. And when Olive moved out, we all pitched in to fix up Ivy’s new gallery, which she was calling Wild, Wonderful Weeds. By the second week of the month, the grass-green carpet was laid and the walls were painted white and printed with fern-frond borders. Ivy hung her prints, arranged tasteful displays of her cards, fabrics, and giftwraps, and was ready for her grand opening.

  “I’m so nervous, China!” she whispered as we stood near the door. She was wearing a sweeping green and white dress made of fabric she’d printed herself, and her pale hair was pulled back in a chic bun at the back of her neck. “What if they don’t like my work? What if nobody comes?”

  Butterflies are nature’s loveliest pollinators. You can lure them to your yard by offering their favorite plants. Here are some butterfly plants, listed with their hardiness zones. (Visit the USDA hardiness map on the Internet at http://www.usna.usda.gov/Hardzone/ ushzmap.html or ask your librarian to help you locate a hardiness map.) Those that attract the greatest variety are starred.

  Anise hyssop, Zones 3-9

  New England aster, 3-9

  Black-eyed Susan, 3-10

  *Butterfly bush, 5-10

  *Butterfly weed (larval host to

  Monarch), 3-10

  *Button bush, 5-10

  Chaste tree (Vitex), 7-10

  Purple coneflower (Echinacea),

  3-9

  Coreopsis, 3-9

  Fennel (larval host to Black

  Swallowtail), 3-9

  Gayfeather, 4-9

  Globe thistle (larval host to

  Painted Lady), 3-8

  Hollyhock (larval host to

  Painted Lady), 3-9

  *Joe-Pye weed, 4-9

  Lantana, 9-10

  Parsley (larval host to Black

  Swallowtail), 3-9

  Sedum (especially varieties

  “Meteor” and “Carmen”), 3-9

  Yarrow, 3-9

  But there wasn’t much chance of that. New businesses in Pecan Springs are always a big deal, and people come out of curiosity, if nothing else. Hark Hibler had interviewed Ivy and run a long article in Saturday’s Enterprise, complete with photographs of her and her artwork. Helen Jenson, the president of the Chamber of Commerce, had strung a red ribbon across the newly repaired porch steps, and the entire Chamber wore their matching blue blazers for the ribbon-cutting and obligatory photograph. Within a half hour, the room was crowded with people who had come to get a look at Pecan Springs’s first botanical art gallery and to chow down on a selection of Janet’s tasty herbal hors d’oeuvres, courtesy of Thyme for Tea. The mayor was there, of course, and Madeleine Jordan, from the city council, doing their duty to encourage the local economy. Mrs. Love, of Love’s Family Funeral Home and Mortuary, had dropped in, as had Molly McGregor, the owner of the Hobbit House, on the other side of Thyme and Seasons. As people began to wander in off the street, it looked as if we were going to have a full house, which would certainly bode well for Ivy’s success. Something else might bode well, too.

  I nudged Ruby. “Look at that,” I said in a low voice. “Hark is turning on the charm.” Over in the corner, he was talking intently to Ivy, who was smiling back at him with what looked like genuine interest. When he feels like it, Hark can manage a certain low-wattage charm. He’s no Don Juan, but he’s certainly not bad-looking, now that he’s lost about forty pounds and cultivated a distinguished-looking salt-and-pepper mustache to go with his dark hair.

  “Well, my goodness.” Ruby giggled. “Looks like Pecan Springs’s most eligible bachelor is seriously interested.”

  I glanced at Ruby, who, once upon a time, had dated Hark. But if she was jealous of Hark’s attention to Ivy, she wasn’t showing it. “Looks to me like he’s seriously smitten,” I remarked wryly. “And if you ask me, Ivy’s enjoying every minute of it.”

  “Couldn’t happen to a nicer pair,” Ruby said with a shrug, and turned away to show Mrs. Love some of Ivy’s work. Then Pansy Pride came over, making ooh-ing and ahh-ing noises over Ivy’s botanical art, and bought three dozen hand-printed cards to give to her friends. And when the Garden Club showed up en masse, sales got even brisker. By the time everyone had left, the walls and shelves were all but empty.

  Herbal hors d’oeuvres are easy, tasty, and attractive. Make a tray for your next party!

  HERBED CHEESE IN A POT

  Combine cheeses, garlic, and herbs and mix well. Spoon mixture into a small crock and press down firmly with the back of a spoon. Refrigerate for at least a day to blend flavors. Serve with crackers and a small knife. Makes 1 cup.

  DILLED SALMON AND CREAM CHEESE SANDWICHES

  8 ounces light cream cheese, softened

  1 tablespoon chopped fresh dill weed

  1 tablespoon minced parsley

  1 tablespoon chopped chives

  10 slices white bread

  3 ounces thinly sliced smoked salmon

  In a small bowl, stir together the cream cheese, dill weed, parsley, and chives. With a serrated knife, trim the crusts from the slices of bread. Using a rolling pin, flatten each slice slightly. Spread about 1½ tablespoons of the cream cheese mixture over the entire surface of each slice of bread. Top with the salmon. Cut into squares, diamonds, or rectangles. Repeat with the remaining slices of bread. Arrange sandwiches on a serving plate, cover the top with plastic wrap, and refrigerate until ready to serve. Makes forty.

  “It’s a good thing I’ve got more items at home,” Ivy said, looking around at the empty spots on the walls and shelves. “But I’m going to have to get to work—which means that I’ll have to find somebody to mind the shop for a few hours every day.” She laughed. “There’s nothing like a few good sales to stimulate your creativity.”

  “I’ll be glad to help out,” Constance offered quickly. “It’d be fun. Give me something to do besides sit around and worry.”

  And that’s what happened. With a new business breathing some life and energy into the old Emporium, Constance stopped imagining herself on the deck of the Titanic and began to fix things up. Ivy gave her the name of the contractor who had done the work on her house. He gave Constance a fair price on the repairs that needed to be made, including the plumbing and electrical, and he even fixed up the old garage at the back of the property, which Constance promptly rented out to a new shop specializing in antique garden furniture.

  Things r
eally seemed to be looking up as far as the Emporium was concerned, and I forgot all about Terry Trout and the gas station, until one day when I went over to the Emporium to buy some of Ivy’s notecards. And there was Terry Trout, standing in the doorway of Constance’s broom-closet office.

  “Jes’ thought Ah’d drop by,” he was saying to her in that booming Texas voice of his, “and let you know my buyer’s get-tin’ real antsy. Says he’s figgerin’ on lookin’ somewheres else, if we cain’t make a deal with you.”

  “Well, maybe he’d better do that,” Constance said briskly, “because I’ve decided that I’m not ready to sell. I’ve got a few things I want to do around here.”

  “But Ah thought you wanted t’ buy yerself an RV and move to the desert,” Terry Trout said, in a tone of shocked surprise. “That’s what you tol’ me.”

  “Maybe someday,” Constance said, “but not just yet.”

  Terry Trout didn’t exactly gnash his teeth, but he jammed his white cowboy hat on his head and slammed the front door on his way out. I suppressed a grin, thinking that it was maybe just a little ironic that Ivy’s wild, wonderful weeds had given Constance a new lease on life and saved the Emporium from being turned into a gas station.

  DEATH OF A ROSE RUSTLER

  Hope is like a harebell, trembling from its birth,

  Love is like a rose, the joy of all the earth,

  Faith is like a lily, lifted high and white,

  Love is like a lovely rose, the world’s delight.

  Harebells and sweet lilies show a thornless growth,

  But the rose with all its thorns excels them both.

  —Christina Rossetti (1830-94)

  IT all began with a trip to the cemetery.

  I’m usually too busy at my herb shop to spend much time hanging out in cemeteries. But my partner and best friend, Ruby Wilcox, goes once a year to take flowers to the grave of her favorite grandmother, and this year I went with her, taking a lush green wreath of rosemary to place on the grave.

  “This is so pretty,” Ruby said, looking around at the spring flowers. “When I die, you can bury me right here.” At the Pecan Springs cemetery, families can plant whatever they want without getting permission, so it’s filled with fascinating cottage-garden herbs and flowers. Ruby pointed to a patch of spreading pink verbena. “And you can plant some of that on my grave, if you don’t mind.”

  “Good choice,” I said approvingly. “Verbena was one of the Druids’ nine sacred herbs. They used it to exorcise devils and protect themselves from evil. They called it vervain.”

  “That’s for me,” Ruby declared with a grin. “Get all my friends together and throw a blanket of vervain over me. That should keep the ghoulies away.”

  “If you’re really worried about being disturbed, we could plant some basil, too,” I went on. “In India, in the days when families buried their dead under the floors of their houses, they kept pots of basil on the windowsills to make sure that everybody slept without being disturbed. There’s a variety that is still called holy basil.”

  “I’ll have basil, too, then,” Ruby said. “There’s nothing like a nice long nap.”

  Our laughter sounded uneasy. Giggles in a graveyard always seem a little—well, disrespectful. And cemeteries, however beautiful they might be, are spooky places. It’s easy to imagine all sorts of things going on, some of them not very restful.

  Ruby had already stopped laughing. “China,” she said quietly, “what’s that over there? It looks like . . . somebody’s feet.” She pointed toward the life-size statue of a moss-covered angel that guarded the Hausner family plot. Protruding from behind the angel was what looked like a pair of women’s shoes, with ankles attached.

  Herbs That Honor the Dead

  Rosemary has been used for centuries as a funeral herb. Its evergreen needles symbolize our undying recollections of those we have loved and lost. Shakespeare called it the “herb of remembrance,” and in the sixteenth century, Thomas More wrote: “As for rosemary, I let it runne all over my garden walls, not only because my bees love it but because it is the herb sacred to remembrance.” Interestingly, researchers have begun to think that rosemary might actually help us to remember. Experiments suggest that a chemical in the herb may improve the memory of people suffering from early-stage Alzheimer’s.

  Verbena is a trailing plant, about twelve inches high, with clusters of pink, red, or white flowers. In the south, you can grow it as a tender perennial. In cooler climates, treat it as an annual. The Celts knew it as vervain, which means “to drive away.” The herb, revered for its ability to drive away the evil spirits, was often planted around sacred sites and burial places.

  Holy basil (Ocimum sanctum) is also known as tulsi. In India, where basil is considered sacred, some areas around the holy city of Pandharpur are restricted to the cultivation of tulsi. The fragrance of basil is a reminder of the purifying incense burned in memory of the dead.

  Wild thyme (Thymus vulgaris) was used in ancient Greece, where it was burned as a funeral incense, as well as being laid on the dead body. The playwright Aristophanes wrote: “Bury my body and pile a great heap of earth on it, and let the wild thyme cover the mound with its sweet scent.”

  “Definitely feet.” I frowned. “Maybe she’s taking a nap.”

  “On the wet ground?” Ruby asked nervously. “Maybe she’s . . . dead.”

  “Ruby,” I said reprovingly, “you always let your imagination get the better of you. But she might be sick. Let’s see if she needs help.”

  The woman, dressed in a tweed skirt and heavy sweater, lay flat on her back, her head pillowed in a tangle of wild thyme. Her gray hair was unruffled, her hands were neatly arranged on her breast, and her face was peaceful. She looked like someone catching a quick nap.

  I bent over and shook her. “Wake up,” I said. But the woman’s head turned limply to one side, and Ruby drew in a gasp.

  “She is dead, China!”

  We called 911, of course, and the EMS crew was on the scene in a few minutes, followed by a squad car driven by our friend, Chief of Police Sheila Dawson. Sheila took statements from Ruby and me. Then, since both of us had work to do, we went back to our shops, leaving the investigation in her capable hands.

  The next morning, I dropped in at Ruby’s house for breakfast. She poured me a cup of tea and handed me a plate with a

  fruity slice of some applesauce-mint bread she had baked the night before. “Have you seen this morning’s Enterprise?” she asked.

  RUBY’S APPLESAUCE-MINT BREAD

  2 cups flour

  3 teaspoons baking powder

  ½ teaspoon baking soda

  ½ teaspoon nutmeg

  ½ teaspoon cinnamon

  1 cup slivered almonds, chopped

  1 egg, beaten

  1 cup applesauce

  ¾ cup firmly packed brown sugar

  ¼ cup vegetable oil

  ¼ cup chopped fresh mint (best with fresh, but if you must

  substitute, use 1 tablespoon dried)

  Preheat oven to 350°F. Sift the first five dry ingredients together, add almonds, and blend well. In a separate bowl, combine egg, applesauce, brown sugar, and oil and stir to mix. Add mint. Add wet ingredients to dry, and stir just until blended. (Do not overmix.) Pour batter into two small greased loaf pans and bake for about 45 minutes. Cool on rack.

  I shook my head. “What does it say about the woman we found in the cemetery?”

  “Not much,” Ruby replied, giving me the newspaper. “The police know who she is, but they don’t have any leads yet.”

  Quickly, I scanned the story. The dead woman was Rose Barton, a widow who had recently moved to Pecan Springs from Dallas and lived alone in a small house on Maple Street. She was survived by one sister, Sybil Sanders, of Bangor, Maine. There was no clear motive for the attack. It hadn’t been robbery, because Mrs. Barton’s wallet containing fifty dollars and several credit cards was found in her unlocked car a short distance away. According to
the paper, Chief Dawson was confident that she and her investigators would turn up some new leads. “We’ll have the case solved shortly,” she declared.

  But three weeks later, Rose Barton’s death was still a mystery, and the police were no longer quite so optimistic. I was working in the garden outside the shop early one morning, when an elderly gray-haired lady came toward me. She introduced herself as Sybil Sanders, Mrs. Barton’s sister. She said she had come to Pecan Springs to take care of her sister’s affairs, and she’d been here ever since, hoping to see the police identify her sister’s murderer.

  “I must go back to Bangor,” she said sadly, “but I hate to leave with so many questions unresolved. I understand that you’ve helped the police in the past, Ms. Bayles. I’ve come to ask if you’ll see what you can find out about my sister’s death.”

  I firmed the soil around the roots of the rosebush I had just planted—an antique rose named Ducher. I straightened up, frowning. Spring is a busy time at the shop, and I wasn’t at all sure that Sheila would want me to get involved with the investigation. But at the same time, I knew how terrible Miss Sanders must feel—and I had to admit to a deep sense of unsettledness. Ruby and I had discovered Rose Barton’s body, but her killer was still a mystery. Reluctantly, I said, “I’ll talk to Chief Dawson. If she says it’s okay, I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Oh, thank you,” Miss Sanders said gratefully. “I’m staying at Rose’s house for the next few days. If there’s anything I can do to help, please let me know.” She looked wistfully at the rose I had just planted. “My sister loved roses, you know. She had lived in her house for only a couple of years, but she already had quite a collection of favorites, and a small library of books about roses. She wrote me that she wanted to find plants that hadn’t been named or identified yet. She seemed quite excited about making some of her own discoveries.”