An Unthymely Death

by ALBERT, SUSAN WITTIG

  “It’s about Mr. Pennyroyal’s will,” Juliet replied. “The one you witnessed recently.” She turned to me. “Tell her what’s happened, China.”

  “The will is missing,” I said loudly. “Both signed originals were taken from the desk in Mr. Pennyroyal’s library.”

  “And without that will,” Ruby put in, “the Teen Center won’t get the house.”

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t hear,” Mrs. Jordan said. She stood up. “You might just as well leave.”

  “Sit down, Elvira,” Juliet said. “You can hear us perfectly well. And if you can’t, just turn up your hearing aid.”

  Mrs. Jordan sat down. “This is a good neighborhood, full of decent people. We don’t want gangs of teenagers hanging around. It’s bad for property values.”

  “I knew you were unhappy about the idea of the Teen Center moving in next door,” Juliet said sorrowfully. “But I had no idea you were so upset that you would steal Mr. Pennyroyal’s will.”

  “I!” Behind her glasses, Mrs. Jordan’s eyes widened. One hand went to her throat. “How can you say that, Pastor Giles? Why, I had nothing to do with it.”

  “Please don’t compound your theft with a lie, Elvira,” Juliet said quietly. “When you took the will, I was standing in the hall outside the library. I saw you open the desk drawer, take something out, and put it in your purse. Until China and Ruby told me where the originals were kept, I had no idea of the significance of what I’d seen. But now—” She held out her hand and said, in a clear, firm voice, “Give us the will. Both copies, please.”

  It took a few months for the Pennyroyal Teen Center to open, because the will had to be probated and then Jackie, the board president, had to go before the city council and request a zoning variance. To everyone’s surprise, Mrs. Jordan—who had been the most vocal opponent of the idea—didn’t put in an appearance, and all of the people who came spoke on behalf of the Center. With no opposition, the variance was approved.

  “I just don’t understand why Mrs. Jordan didn’t show up,” Jackie said in a mystified tone, as we walked out of the council chambers. “Without her, the whole thing was easy!”

  Ruby and I traded glances. When Mrs. Jordan surrendered the wills, Ruby, Juliet, and I had agreed that it would be best to keep the whole thing quiet. After all, we’d found what we were looking for, and that was the most important thing.

  “It’s a long story,” I said.

  “With a happy ending,” Ruby added.

  Jackie looked from one of us to the other. “I get the feeling that the two of you uncovered some sort of plot when you began looking for that will.”

  “I suppose you could call it that,” Ruby said, tossing her head nonchalantly in an imitation of Kinsey Milhone, the alphabetic private eye. “Let’s file this one under P.”

  Jackie frowned. “I’m not sure I see—”

  “P is for Pennyroyal,” Ruby said, with a dramatic flourish. “That’s a catchy title, don’t you think?”

  I sighed. “If you’ve got to call it something, why don’t you just call it ‘The Pennyroyal Plot’?”

  Ruby snapped her fingers. “That’s it, China! The Pennyroyal Plot.”

  “Enough of this nonsense,” Jackie said firmly. “I’m starving. Let’s go get something to eat.”

  “Are you buying?” Ruby asked.

  “Of course,” Jackie replied expansively. “In fact, this one is on the Teen Center. We’ll go anywhere you like.”

  “Wonderful!” Ruby said. “In that case, let’s go to Thyme for Tea and see what’s left from lunch.” At my questioning glance, she shrugged. “Well, if Jackie’s going to spend the money on us anyway, she might as well put it into our cash register, don’t you think?”

  “I guess I can’t disagree with you there,” I said.

  A VIOLET DEATH

  HEY, fairies!” Energetically, Ruby Wilcox waved both arms. “Come on, fairies, show your stuff! And don’t drag those wings, you’ll tear them!”

  A dozen six-year-old fairies in pastel tulle with gold crowns and gauzy, gold-flecked wings pranced across the grass behind Ruby and up onto the stage. Ruby herself was dressed as Peter Pan, with her ginger-red hair frizzed all over her head. She and Mavina Miles, a plump, fussy Wendy in blue dress, white pinafore, and white stockings, were in charge of the fairies.

  It was May Eve, that magical evening when all the fairies in the world come out to celebrate the return of the flowers. As Ruby had just told our own wide-eyed group: “The Little People dance all night long on May Eve, and if you’re very lucky you may catch a glimpse of one. You should never, never try to kidnap him, though, or steal his shadow, or you’ll regret it the rest of your life.” And then, as their eyes got bigger and bigger, she added, “The best thing to do is to leave a gift—a pretty seashell, something sweet to eat, or something glittery—under the oldest tree you can find, or beside a stream. But don’t leave anything that’s made of metal, for it might rob the Little People of their magical powers.”

  I’m sure that all this sounds pretty weird to you. You’ll probably think we looked weird, too, since most of the grown-ups doing this gig were dressed up like various fictional characters—Peter Pan and Wendy, Alice, Peter Rabbit. I wasn’t exactly in costume, but I was wearing a Fairy Festival T-shirt and a circlet of rosemary on my head.

  Weird or not, it’s all part of the annual May Fairy Festival, organized by the Myra Merryweather Herb Guild and held in the Pecan Springs Park on the weekend closest to May Day. On Friday night, the littlest fairies dance and the older children perform fairy-tale skits on the outdoor stage. On Saturday, there’s a Maypole, free art projects for kids, and booths where local craftspeople and vendors sell their wares. The Herb Guild sells refreshments and puts the money into its scholarship fund. The kids and their parents all have a great time playing make-believe.

  By nine-thirty that Friday night, the party was over. The frazzled moms and dads had taken their sleepy fairies home, leaving Ruby and me and a half dozen other members of the Herb Guild to police our section of the park, picking up lost crowns and torn fairy wings and litter. Now that the lights were on and the magic had worn off, we all looked a little ridiculous in our costumes. Tired, too—and the festival wouldn’t be over until tomorrow.

  “I need your expert opinion, China,” Mary Driscoll said, coming up with a plate of cookies. She was dressed as the Roman goddess Flora, with silk flowers sewn over a flowing gauzy tunic, and a honeysuckle circlet. “Tell me what you think of these,” she said, offering me one.

  I munched. “Yum,” I said. “What’s this?”

  “The recipe calls them Lemony Basil Cookies,” Mary replied, “but we’re calling them Faerie Blossom Cookies. Do you like them?”

  “They’re great,” I said, filching another one. “Be sure and leave one under a big tree. The Little People will love you for it.”

  Honeysuckle has been used medicinally for centuries. The Romans used it to treat many ailments, while Renaissance herbalists used it as a sore-throat gargle, expectorant, and laxative. Contemporary herbalists use the herb chiefly in topical creams, as an anti-inflammatory. Braided into the hair or worn as an amulet, honeysuckle was believed to ward off the powers of darkness, and farmers in northern Europe wound it around the horns of their cows to protect them from evil fairies who might want to turn the milk sour.

  Pansy Pride, the Herb Guild president, trotted up, carrying a plastic bag full of trash. Pansy’s Cinderella outfit was rumpled, her makeup was smeared, and she looked tired and cross. I couldn’t blame her. Herding an unruly flock of fairies all evening is enough to wear anybody out. “Okay,” she snapped, peering nearsightedly at Mary. “Whose idea was it?”

  FAERIE BLOSSOM COOKIES

  Enlist the children to help you to pick the herbs and wash them. They’ll love to flatten the cookies, too.

  cup sugar

  ¼ cup fresh lemon-basil leaves, packed down

  ¼ cup fresh lemon balm leaves, packed down<
br />
  ¾ cup sugar

  ½ cup butter or margarine, softened

  1 egg

  3 tablespoons lemon juice

  3 cups flour

  Preheat oven to 350°F and lightly grease two baking sheets. In a blender or food processor, process the fresh herbs with the cup sugar and set aside. Using your electric mixer, beat butter or margarine until creamy, gradually adding the ¾ cup sugar. Add egg and lemon juice and blend. Add herb-sugar mixture, then flour, 1 cup at a time, beating to blend thoroughly. Shape into one-inch balls and place two inches apart on greased baking sheet. Dip the bottom of a glass in sugar and flatten each ball. Bake until golden brown, about 8 to 10 minutes. Remove to wire racks to cool. Makes about three dozen.

  “Whose idea was what?” Ruby asked, joining us. She looked tired, too. Every year, those fairies seem to get a little harder to corral.

  “Who decided to stage the make-believe murder beside the Maypole?” Pansy scowled. “Mavina and whoever else dreamed it up ought to be ashamed of themselves, considering that this is a children’s festival. The kids see enough violence on TV, without—”

  “Make-believe murder?” I asked, surprised. “What are you talking about, Pansy?”

  “I’m talking about Mavina Miles,” Pansy said. When we only stared at her blankly, she added, “Come on. I’ll show you.” We followed her to the grassy area of the park where, earlier that afternoon, we had erected the Maypole. A woman in a blue dress and white pinafore was lying facedown, a rusty stain between her shoulders.

  Ruby gasped. “Pansy,” she whispered, “put your glasses on. That’s real blood!”

  I knelt down and gently turned Mavina over, feeling for a pulse in her neck, hoping that she was still alive. But we had come too late. Her eyes were closed, her plump, round face was pale. In her hand, she was holding a crushed tussie mussie centered with a cluster of fragrant, dark-blue violets.

  She was quite, quite dead.

  It was midnight before I got home. McQuaid was sitting at the kitchen table with a book, a Lone Star longneck, and a grilled cheese sandwich. He glanced up at the clock when I walked in.

  A tussie mussie is a small bouquet of herbs and flowers in a decorative holder. These nose-gays were popular personal gifts in Victorian times, and every lady understood the special, secret meaning of each of the flowers. To make one, start with a single rose or a daisy, or a cluster of violets. Surround this center with a circlet of small green leaves, such as rosemary, thyme, fern, or laurel. Tuck in a few forget-me-nots, lilies of the valley, violets, and silvery lambs ears. Other silver-gray sprigs, such as artemisia, add a nice accent, while scented geraniums lend their sweet scent. Secure the stems with a rubber band and push them through a slit cut in the center of a lacy paper doily. For an elegant touch, use a silvery tussie mussie holder.

  “A midnight revel with the Little People?” he asked, his dark eyes teasing.

  “You might put it that way,” I replied wearily. I went to the cupboard, got out some of my favorite DreamyThyme tea, and turned on the fire under the kettle. “On the other hand, you might say that it was a late-night date with murder.”

  He stared at me. “You’re kidding.”

  “I wish.” I put a teaspoon of tea leaves into a tea ball and dropped it into a cup. “Somebody shot Mavina Miles beside the Maypole. We found her about nine-thirty, but it took a while for the cops to get there and tape off the crime scene. They finally took the body away and allowed us to move the Maypole to a different location. The scene is still off-limits, of course.”

  “Mavina Miles? Do I know her?”

  “Probably. She works at the Pecan Springs Library. The short, plump, middle-aged one who frowns a lot.” The kettle, already hot, began to steam, and I poured the boiling water into my cup.

  “Oh, yeah, that one. When she checks out my books, she looks at me like I’m stealing them.” McQuaid leaned back in his chair. As he’s a former homicide detective, crime isn’t news to him. “Any leads? How about clues?”

  “No leads,” I said. “There might be a clue, if I could figure it out.” I jiggled the tea ball in my cup, inhaling the lemony fragrance. “She was holding a tussie mussie. With violets.”

  McQuaid stared at me. “A what?”

  “A little bouquet made up of herbs and flowers that have secret meanings,” I replied. “Violets represent love and loyalty.” I dipped a spoon into the honey, and then into my tea. “I wonder if the tussie mussie was a gift from a friend.”

  McQuaid raised one eyebrow.

  “Or maybe it was designed to decoy her to her death,” he said alliteratively. He finished his sandwich and beer and I sipped my tea. We were both silent.You might not think of the violet as an herb, but the plant has a long and interesting history of culinary and medicinal use. And while violets have come to be symbolic of steadfast devotion, they have also been associated with death. One ancient legend claims that violets sprang from the blood of the dying Attis, a Phrygian vegetation god who was slain beside a pine tree. In an annual ritual, the Phrygians hung an effigy of the god on a pine tree decked with violets. According to Sir James Frazer, in The Golden Bough, what we now know as the Maypole probably evolved from ancient pagan rituals celebrating the rebirth of plant life in the spring. Medicinally, violets were used to treat sore throats and respiratory ailments, and appear as the main ingredient in Hildegard of Bin-gen’s famous remedy for external cancers.

  Finally, I got up and rinsed off our dishes. “I’m sure the tussie mussie must mean something,” I muttered, frowning. “I just have to figure out what.”

  McQuaid put his arm around me. “You will,” he said, and kissed my neck softly. “I’m sorry about Mavina, China. She always made me feel like a criminal, but I’m sure she was a perfectly nice lady.”

  And with that, we called it a night.

  The next morning was bright and cheerful, and when Ruby and I got to the park, a few people were beginning to filter in. We quickly set up our booth—herbal items from Thyme and Seasons and New Age-y things from Ruby’s Crystal Cave—and settled down to the business of making sales and talking to people.

  But not for long. We’d only been open for a half hour when Sheila Dawson, Pecan Springs’s chief of police, put in an appearance at the booth. Actually, wherever Sheila goes, she puts in an appearance. She’s tall, blond, and willowy, with the classy look of a Dallas deb. But don’t let the look fool you. There’s plenty of muscle power packed into that slender frame. Today, she was wearing plain clothes (if that’s what you could call her silky pink slacks and embroidered tunic) and her badge wasn’t visible. I gathered that she wanted to blend into the crowd, as much as she could, anyway. In Pecan Springs, where everybody knows almost everybody else, that’s a challenge for anybody, especially somebody like Sheila.

  “I need your help, China,” she said, without preamble. “I want you to go with me to talk to Mavina Miles’s niece. I thought she’d be more comfortable if you were there. You know her, don’t you?”

  “Esther?” I said. “Sure. She’s over there, at the Children’s Art Tent.” I turned the booth over to Ruby, and Sheila and I went off together.

  “I understand that Esther and her aunt didn’t get along very well,” Sheila remarked.

  “They’ve been estranged for years,” I said. I added, thinking of inheritance, “But she’s still Mavina’s closest relative.” The estate probably didn’t amount to much—a house, a car, a bank account. But in my former career as a criminal defense attorney, I had learned that most motives for murder can be spelled g-r-e-e-d.

  Esther was helping three little girls make lavender hearts. She looked up as Sheila and I approached her. I introduced Sheila, who said, “I’m sorry about your aunt. Would you mind taking a break? I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  Esther’s pretty face darkened, but she only shrugged. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you anything you don’t already know,” she said. “But I’ll try.”

  We walked away
from the booth and stood in the shade of a large live oak tree. “Were you here at the festival last night?” Sheila asked.

  “I was at a friend’s party all evening,” Esther replied, “on Hawthorne Street. Lots of people saw me there.” Her voice was a little sarcastic. “I guess that’s what you cops call an alibi. Will it do?”

  “It’ll do for now,” Sheila replied quietly, “if you’ll give me your friend’s name and address.” She paused. “Did your aunt have any enemies that you know of?”

  “Or admirers?” I added, thinking about the violets in that tussie mussie. “Someone who might have given her flowers?”

  Lavender hearts are easy enough for children to construct. Here’s what you need to make a pretty pair.

  2-inch heart pattern, drawn on cardboard and cut out

  4×6“ sheet of foam, ¼ to ½ inch thick

  White glue

  1 cup dried lavender buds

  Lavender essential oil

  2 dried rosebuds

  Small dried flowers and herbs

  Scrap of lace

  1 yard narrow satin ribbon, lavender

  2 straight pins

  Using the pattern, draw two hearts on the foam. Cut out (an adult may need to help with this). Coat the hearts with glue and cover with dried lavender buds, pressing for better contact. Add a few drops of lavender oil to the heart. Glue a rosebud to the center of each heart and surround with a miniature arrangement of dried flowers and herbs, glued on. Glue on the scrap of lace for a final decorative touch. Fasten the ribbons in the cleft of each heart with a dab of glue, and secure with a pin. Tie a pretty bow in the center.

  Esther’s smile was thin. “Aunt Mavina made it her business to know everybody else’s business, and most people resented it when she poked her nose into their private affairs. She probably had dozens of enemies. And I can’t think of a single admirer.” She paused and added, coolly, “You probably already know that I’ll inherit her estate, so I might as well tell you that it’s substantial. Her father left her some real estate in San Antonio when he died twenty years ago, and it’s worth quite a bit now.” The smile got thinner. “It’s a good thing I have that alibi, huh?”