An Unthymely Death

by ALBERT, SUSAN WITTIG

  And that was all we got out of Esther. Sheila walked with me back to the booth, where she bought a couple of herbal bath scrubbies. When I handed the bag to her, she said, “What do you think, China? About Esther, I mean.” She paused. “San Antonio real estate makes a pretty substantial motive.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I suppose you’ll check out her alibi.”

  “Right—although if the party was a big one, it’s not much of an alibi. I’ll let you know if we turn anything up. In the meantime, keep your ear to the ground, will you?”

  “Glad to,” I said. “Enjoy your scrubbies.”

  “Sure.” She grinned. “Even a cop deserves a nice bath every now and then.”

  China’s Herbal Bath Scrubbies

  Mix ¼ cup regular oatmeal with ¼ cup dried herbs and ¼ cup grated bar soap (unscented). Place ¼ cup of this mixture in a cotton bag and fold it inside a washcloth. You can use a single herb or mix several together; if you like, you can also add a few drops of essential oil. For a relaxing bath, use lavender, thyme, comfrey, or lemon verbena. For an invigorating bath, use rosemary, yarrow, jasmine, or lemon balm. When you’re finished bathing, discard the contents of the bag, rinse, and turn it inside out to dry, then refill. (This recipe makes enough for three scrubbies.)

  The next couple of hours were pretty hectic, with lots of customers stopping by the booth to talk about herbs and check out what I had for sale. By midmorning, I had sold every pot of basil I’d brought. I was also completely out of rosemary, which is not only a fragrant herb but a deer-proof landscaping plant, as well. The resinous taste makes it unpleasant to the deer, while its fragrant blue blossoms attract every bee within commuting distance. Rosemary is a hands-down favorite around Pecan Springs, where it’s a challenge to find a plant that you love but the deer don’t.

  PINK LAVENDER LEMONADE

  Lavender-hibiscus syrup:

  2½ cups water

  1½ cups sugar

  ¼ cup red hibiscus flowers, dried

  1 tablespoon lavender flowers, dried

  Lemonade:

  3 cups cold water

  1½ cups fresh-squeezed lemon juice (8 large lemons)

  ½ cup sugar (optional)

  Thin lemon slices, for garnish

  In a medium saucepan, combine the 2½ cups water and the sugar. Bring to a boil, stirring to dissolve sugar. Add hibiscus flowers, reduce heat, and simmer for 2 to 3 minutes. Remove from heat. Stir in lavender flowers. Cover and let steep until cool. Strain hibiscus-lavender syrup into a jar and chill. Make lemonade in your prettiest clear glass pitcher, and stir in the chilled syrup. If you like it tart, this will be fine. If you have a sweet tooth, add another ½ cup sugar and stir briskly to dissolve. Garnish with lemon slices.

  Finally, sales slacked off a little and Ruby and I had time to pour a couple of paper cups of the pink lavender lemonade that she had brought. We sat down in our folding chairs, relaxing in the sunshine and listening to the music coming from a nearby booth. But the minute I sat down, my thoughts flew straight back to last night and the sight of Mavina Miles, clutching that tussie mussie. I thought for a few minutes, then put down my cup and stood up.

  “That was a short break,” Ruby said, surprised. “Where are you going?”

  “To talk to a lady about violets,” I said. “Hold the fort, Ruby. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  Sandra Green owns Blooms and Blossoms, the only florist shop in town. Today, she was selling bouquets and individual flowers at her booth, only a few paces away. When I came up, a couple of young girls were buying a bunch of daisies. They walked away, giggling as they pulled off individual petals and whispering, “He loves me, he loves me not.”

  “If you’re looking for daisies, you’re out of luck,” Sandra said, pushing her brown hair out of her eyes. “I’ve just sold the last one. Can I interest you in a bunch of carnations?”

  Like many other herbs, daisies have been used in various forms of divination, like the “he loves me” chant you learned as a child, where the last petal is supposed to give you the correct answer. In another divination, close your eyes and pick a handful of grass and daisy stems. When you count them, you’ll know how many years you have to wait for Mr. or Ms. Right to come along. If you want to get a glimpse of the person you’re waiting for, put a piece of daisy root under your pillow and he or she will appear in a dream. And be sure to step on the first daisy you see in the spring. If you don’t, it is said that the daisies will grow over your grave before the year is out! In another tradition, daisies growing on a grave were said to be a symbol of rebirth. Medicinally, the daisy was used to ease coughs; in lotion form, it was used to treat wounds and bruises.

  One sixteenth-century name for the carnation was the inelegant “sops-in-wine,” which reflects its use as a spicy flavoring for drinks. It was also used in soups, sauces, syrups, and vinegar, and the flowers were candied and preserved. To make your own carnation vinegar, use freshly picked, unsprayed flowers from your own garden (not from a florist!). Place 1 cup of loosely packed flowers in a quart jar and cover with 2 cups of roomtemperature white wine vinegar. Add a cinnamon stick and a teaspoon of whole cloves. Cover and store in a dark place. Check the flavor after a week; and continue steeping until the desired strength is obtained. Strain into a pretty bottle. Use on a luncheon salad of crisp greens.

  “I’m more interested in violets,” I said. “Do you have any?”

  Sandra shook her head. “I had two dozen last week, but they’re all gone now.”

  “I see,” I said thoughtfully. “Do you remember who bought them from you?”

  “Of course,” Sandra said. “It’s not like Pecan Springs is a big city, you know. Alice Olsen bought most of them. Joe Keiffer bought what was left.” She grinned. “Joe said he was buying them for someone he secretly admired, which I thought was cute. Joe must be sixty-five, if he’s a day. His wife died last year, and I know he’s been lonesome. I wonder who he’s sweet on.”

  “Only those two? You’re sure about that?”

  “I’ve got the receipts back at the shop,” Sandra said. “Why?” She shifted uncomfortably. “This doesn’t have anything to do with Mavina, does it? I heard she was holding a bouquet of violets when she was found.”

  “It might,” I said. Casually, I added, “Did you know her?” A look of something—alarm, apprehension, I couldn’t be sure what—crossed Sandra’s face, and she half-turned away. When she spoke, her tone was guarded. “Mavina? Of course I knew her. Didn’t everybody? I checked out books from her at the library, and she came into the shop a couple of times a month.”

  “Did she ever buy violets?”

  “Not that I recall.” Her mouth tightened. “The last thing she bought was a single white rose.”

  It occurred to me that there might be something more to the relationship than Sandra was letting on. I filed the suspicion away and lowered my voice. “When you get back to your shop,” I said, “it would be a good idea to put those receipts in a safe place. The police might want to have a look at them.”

  “Okay,” Sandra said. She turned back to me. Whatever the look on her face had been, it was gone and she was smiling. “Hey, if carnations aren’t your thing, how about a few nasturtiums?”

  When I got back to the booth, I told Ruby what Sandra had said about selling violets to Alice Olsen and Joe Keiffer, and reported my suspicion that there was more to Sandra’s relationship with Mavina than she was letting on.

  Ruby took all this in, then asked, “Why would anybody bother to buy violets? Can’t they just go out in the woods and pick them for free?”

  Roses are among the favorite herbs of many cultures. Medicinally, roses have been used to enhance digestion, treat diarrhea, soothe headaches and earaches, and treat many other ailments. In the kitchen, roses appear in jams, jellies, and syrups, sweets of all kinds, and salads. They are prized for their scent in perfumes, soaps, lotions, and potpourris. In the Victorian language of flowers, the red rose represented love,
and the white rose represented silence and secrecy.

  “Not around Pecan Springs,” I said. “It’s too hot and dry here for wild violets. Anyway, the violets in Mavina’s tussie mussie were cultivated violets, with large, dark blossoms. Wild violets are usually small and lighter in color.” We didn’t have time to discuss it further. Customer traffic picked up and we were busy until five, when the Fairy Festival closed and all the vendors began packing up.

  Fortunately, we didn’t have much to pack. Ruby had sold every single one of the dream pillows she had brought and most of the books, crystals, and magic wands. In addition to the potted herbs, my best-selling item turned out to be a spicy Kitchen Simmer Potpourri that makes the kitchen smell like cinnamon and orange spice. By five o’clock, our booth was almost bare, we had counted our money, and we were ready to pack the tables and our signs into the van.

  When we’d finished loading everything, Ruby turned to me. “As it happens, Alice Olsen borrowed one of my astrology books when she was taking a class last month. Why don’t we drop in on her? I can get my book back, and you might just casually ask her about those violets.”

  I slammed the van door. “Sounds like a plan worthy of Nancy Drew,” I said. I was sure Sheila wouldn’t object, since she’s always complaining about not having enough trained investigators. And anyway, there was nothing to go on but my hunch about those violets—which wasn’t enough to prompt Sheila to spend valuable police time investigating. Like all cop shops, hers is on a tight budget.

  “Super,” Ruby said happily. “Let’s go.”

  So we climbed into the van and drove to an upscale part of town, where Alice had recently rented a new apartment. She was a cool, poised-looking woman, her hair swirled on top of her head in an ash-blond pouf. Her makeup was flawless, and she was dressed for a dinner date in a sleek, close-fitting white sheath. In my grubby jeans and Fairy Fest T-shirt, stained with some child’s grape Kool-Aid and a smear of chocolate marshmallow ice cream, I couldn’t blame Alice for looking at me like something that had blown in on a West Texas wind.

  You don’t have to go all the way to Pecan Springs to enjoy the fragrance of China’s Kitchen Simmer Potpourri—you can make your own.

  CHINA’S KITCHEN SIMMER POTPOURRI

  Mix 2 tablespoons orris root (the dried root of the common blue flag, used to absorb and fix fragrance) with 6 drops orange oil, 4 drops cinnamon oil, and 3 drops clove oil. Then add the following herbs and spices and mix well:

  ½ cup broken cinnamon sticks

  ½ cup dried mint

  ½ cup bay leaves

  ¼ cup orange peel

  ¼ cup cloves

  3 tablespoons star anise

  2 tablespoons ground allspice

  1 teaspoon ground nutmeg

  Store in a tightly lidded can or jar. To use, shake the container, then put 2 to 3 tablespoons of the mixture into a pint of water and bring to a slow simmer in a stainless or glass saucepan. Be sure to include bits of all the different herbs, including the ground spices in the bottom of the container. If you’d like more fragrance, add more potpourri. Check the water often and add more as it evaporates.

  Ruby introduced me and explained about the book, and as Alice went to get it, I glanced around. The all-white living room was elegantly furnished with a sofa and stuffed chairs that looked brand-new. I didn’t dare sit down, so I wandered around, looking at things. There was so much white that it made me want to squint, the way you do on a white-sand beach at noon on a summer day. The only relief in the entire room was a crystal bowl filled with a dozen deep-blue violets, sitting on a glass table.

  “Those are beautiful flowers,” I said when Alice returned with the book—something called Read Your Romance in the Stars—and handed it to Ruby.

  Alice touched a petal reminiscently. “Violets are my favorite flower. They grew all around our house in Vermont. My mother used to make violet syrup for pancakes when we were children. It was a lovely springtime treat.”

  “But you haven’t made syrup with those,” I remarked idly.

  “No,” she replied. “I read somewhere that you shouldn’t cook with flowers that come from a florist, because they may have been sprayed with something poisonous.” She didn’t look

  up, and her voice had taken on a brittle edge. “I wanted them just to . . . remind me.”

  To make violet syrup the way your grandmother used to do it, pour 2 cups of boiling water over 6 cups of washed violet blossoms (unsprayed), then place a saucer on top to submerge the flowers. Let stand for 24 hours. Strain out the plant material. Add 2 cups of sugar and 2 tablespoons of lemon juice to the liquid and simmer until the mixture is the consistency of syrup. Cover and refrigerate. Use within a week.

  Violet conserve was a favorite confection. Flower petals were beaten to a smooth paste with twice their weight in sugar, then put into a jar and sealed.

  To make violet vinegar, fill a sterilized jar half full of washed flowers, cover with white wine vinegar, and allow to steep for a week. Strain and pour into a pretty bottle. A lovely cosmetic vinegar, but also good on a spring salad garnished with fresh violet petals.

  Violet honey was both a sweet treat and medicinal, as well. A cup of fresh, washed petals was added to 2 cups of honey and heated until the honey took on the scent of violets. A favorite on biscuits, or to soothe a sore throat.

  “At least I got my book back,” Ruby said, as we climbed into the van. “Other than that, I’d say the visit was a loss. Wouldn’t you?”

  “I guess,” I replied. I thought of Alice’s poised coolness and the chilly white of her apartment, and shivered. “McQuaid’s cooking Tex-Mex tonight. Let’s take this stuff back to the shop and then go to my house and warm up over a plate of his enchilada casserole.”

  “Sounds like a plan to me,” Ruby said happily.

  As it happens, Joe Keiffer’s house is a stone’s throw from Thyme and Seasons Herbs, and as Ruby and I drove back to our shops, we saw Joe out in his yard, wearing dirty overalls and pushing an old-style rotary lawn mower. We left our van parked in the alley behind the shops, then casually walked over to talk to him.

  Joe stopped pushing his mower and greeted us with his customary frown. “Careful where you put your feet,” he said, pointing to a patch of freshly turned soil beside the fence. “I just planted me some epazote seeds and I sure don’t need nobody trackin’ in my fresh dirt.”

  “Are you sure you know what you’re doing, Joe?” I teased. “That epazote spreads like a prairie fire in August.” Epazote is used to flavor Mexican bean dishes and reduce the you-know-what that comes with beans. If it likes your garden (most epazote has never met a garden it didn’t like), it will grow three or four feet high, then start eyeing your neighbor’s garden.

  “Won’t matter none to me if it does,” Joe said with a twinkle. “Ever’body needs a little epazote in the bean pot.” He wiped his sweaty face with a red bandana. “What’s on yer mind, China?” He pretended not to see Ruby. Joe’s got a strong conservative streak, and she’s too New Age for his taste.

  “I was talking to Sandra Green this morning,” I said. “She happened to mention that you bought some violets for a friend of yours.”

  “Yep,” Joe said proudly. “Bought a whole half dozen. Set me back a good bit, too. Vi’lets ain’t cheap, y’know.”

  I nodded. “It happens that I’ve got some violet bubble bath on special this week, and I thought your friend might like to have some of that, to go along with her flowers.”

  Joe raised both eyebrows. “Violet bubble bath,” he mused. “Now, that’s a thought.” He leaned forward. “How much?”

  “Just a dollar, for you,” I said. “Who’s your friend?”

  He straightened up, frowning furiously. “None o’ yer beeswax,” he snapped.

  I turned to go. “See you around.”

  “Hey!” he said. “What about that bubble bath? I reckon Charlene would like some. She did like them vi’lets I got her.” He looked down bashfully. “C
harlene Clark is her name. She works at the Quik-Wash Laundry. I bet you know her.”

  I do know Charlene, who is as sweet and kind as they come. I couldn’t imagine her being involved with Mavina’s death. And since Joe had given his violets to Charlene, we could scratch him off the suspect list. Now that I’d talked to him, I was ready to scratch him off anyway. I couldn’t imagine Mavina unbending enough to give Joe the time of day. “I’ll get that bubble bath for you, Joe,” I said. “I’m sure Charlene will love it.”

  Children love to help you make bubble bath. Grate a bar of castile soap into a quart of warm water. Mix with a whisk until you have a liquid soap solution (don’t shake, or you’ll end up with a jar of bubbly). Add 2 ounces of coconut oil and 1 ounce of glycerine (both are known for their skin-softening properties), then stir in 2 to 3 drops of essential oil of violets, or your favorite sweet scent. Pour into a pretty jar.

  When Ruby and I went back to our unloading, I thought about Mavina’s tussie mussie. Violets had been the central flower, but there had been others as well. Maybe they held a clue. Trouble was, I couldn’t recall what they were.

  But the answer to this mystery was as close as the Pecan Springs police station, where the tussie mussie was being kept under lock and key in the evidence room. With Sheila’s permission, Ruby and I sat down and made a list of all the herbs and flowers in the bouquet. As we worked, I realized that these were unusual herbs, not the sort you’re likely to find in a pretty bouquet. There was a sprig of rue, for instance, a leaf of sweet bay, a blossom of butterfly weed, a couple of leaves of garlic chives, and a tiny white rosebud. Oh, yes—there was a cypress twig.