2 dozen toothpicks
Melt chocolate and shortening together in a microwave or the top of a double boiler. Make sure the strawberries are perfectly dry. Poke toothpicks into the strawberries and dip into the chocolate. Arrange to cool, then refrigerate.
Ruby and I exchanged glances. “Well,” I said, “Ruby was snooping in the utensil drawer, looking for unpaid bills, when she found—”
“I was not snooping!” Ruby said heatedly. “I was just doing what any self-respecting PI would have done. And it’s a good thing I did, especially since our trap failed.” She scowled. “If it hadn’t been for that stupid dog—”
“Trap?” McQuaid asked. He leaned forward. “What’s this about a trap?”
“You don’t want to know,” I said hastily.
He gave me a thoughtful look. “Well, however it happened, you two were plenty smart. The police might not have thought to look for an answering service. Without that recorded warning, they wouldn’t have questioned Dora directly. And without the threat of Dora’s testimony against her, Kaye wouldn’t have confessed. She’s a tough cookie.”
Ruby gave me a gratified glance and lifted her glass. “Here’s to sleuthing!”
I grinned. “Have a strawberry,” I said, and passed the plate.
BLOOM WHERE YOU’RE PLANTED
HAVE you ever noticed that people who live in big cities—Houston, for instance, where I came from—know very few of their neighbors? At least, that was true for me. There were probably five hundred residents in the upscale condo complex where I lived, but I couldn’t have told you the name of a single one, except for some jerk named Troy who lived two doors down and was in the habit of nosing his vintage Jag into my parking space.
It’s different here in Pecan Springs, where every Pecan Springer seems to know all there is to know about everybody else—their life histories, their successes, their failures, their foibles. There are a couple of good reasons for this. For one thing, Pecan Springers have a habit of staying in the same place for a long time, so they put down roots and develop an interest in the community. For another, there aren’t a lot of big events to discuss, since most of what happens around here is very small potatoes (the high school homecoming parade, for instance, or the Cowgirl Cloggers’ foot-stompin’ performance at the grand opening of the Senior Activities Center). Of course, there’s usually something interesting going on up at the college—that’s Central Texas State University, for those of you who don’t know—but there’s always been a strong separation between Town and Gown, so what happens on the Hill might as well be happening on Mars.
In the absence of local events of global significance, people in Pecan Springs tend to talk about what’s up close and personal, which is mostly the neighbors. Gossip, some folks call it, with a sneering curl of the lip. More positively, others think of it as keeping tabs on what’s going on in the neighborhood, like Neighborhood Watch. Watching the neighbors is everybody’s civic duty.
Which is both good and bad. It’s certainly nice when Diana Dabbs asks whether my cold is getting better, but it’s disconcerting when she wonders whether I like the Taffy Cream hair color she saw me buying at Peterson’s Pharmacy the week before (and which I was planning to keep a secret). It’s sweet of Leona Love, of the Love Family Funeral Home and Mortuary just down the street, to send me a birthday card, even if it is a bit schmaltzy for my taste. But when her husband Dennis pops into the shop to inquire jovially whether I’ve hit the halfway mark yet, I am definitely not pleased. Sometimes people cross over the line between being caring and being curious, between looking out for a neighbor’s welfare and invading her privacy. And sometimes it’s just plain difficult to know when to stop.
I bring this up because, to a certain extent, it explains what happened after Molly McGregor failed to answer her telephone one Monday morning.
Molly McGregor is the owner and proprietor of the children’s bookstore next door to Thyme and Seasons, on the east. The three-story frame house used to be owned by Vida Plunkett, who let her dog, a dedicated and devout hole-digger, run loose at night to excavate other people’s yards. This practice did not exactly lead to serene neighborly relations, particularly since I am proud of the herb gardens around my shop. In fact, Ruby and I danced an elated jig when the For Sale sign went up on Vida’s lawn. We were even more delighted when the new owner, a plump, plain-faced woman with dimpled elbows and an air of energetic and determined self-assurance, bustled into the shop and introduced herself.
“I’m Molly McGregor,” she announced firmly, “and I’ve just bought the house next door from my aunt. I intend to turn the lower two floors into a children’s bookstore and live on the third.”
“A children’s bookstore!” Ruby exclaimed, putting several of Janet’s basil-pecan biscotti on a plate. “That’s wonderful! Exactly what Pecan Springs needs.”
Well, maybe, I thought skeptically. This is a tough time for a retail start-up, and there’s a big chain bookstore in the shopping mall on I-35. However, the chain store is mostly staffed by college students whose acquaintance with books seems to be limited to the book covers, and the children’s section is mostly stocked with comics. And while Houston and Dallas are still in the economic cellar, Pecan Springs’s tourist-based economy seems to be in perennial bloom. If Molly McGregor knew what she was doing, she might make a success of her new venture.
“I’m calling it Hobbit House,” Molly said, accepting the plate Ruby offered her. “I’m planning to have story times and book fairs and visits with authors and theme parties. I’ve been studying successful children’s bookstores around the country to see what brings in the customers, and when Aunt Vida put her house up for sale, the price was right. And the location is perfect.” She paused and added, in a practical tone, “I know this might not be the best time to start an independent bookstore, given the way the chains are taking over. But I’ve looked the situation over carefully, and I think there’s a good chance of succeeding.” She bit into a biscotti and added, “Anyway, I’ve always dreamed of having my own bookstore, and it’s now or never.”
I could only applaud the woman’s determination, and it certainly sounded as if she’d done her homework. “If there’s anything we can do,” I said, “please let us know.”
“As a matter of fact, there is,” she said, munching apprecia- tively. “I was just admiring your garden. Could you help me design and plant a Peter Rabbit garden? I have a white rabbit named Peter, you see, and a cat I call Mrs. T—for Mrs. Tiggywinkle, of course. And my name is McGregor, after all. I might as well get some good out of that wretched marriage.” She grinned wryly, but there was a shrewd twinkle in her eye. “A Peter Rabbit garden would be a big attraction, don’t you think? If the kids don’t care about it, then their grandmothers will. And Granny is the one with the checkbook, after all.”
JANET’S BASIL-PECAN BISCOTTI
Biscotti is an Italian word meaning “twice-baked,” and that’s exactly what biscotti are: traditional Italian cookies, twice-baked to give them more crunch. They’re delicious in any language.
2¼ cups flour
1 cup sugar
2 tablespoons cornmeal
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon salt
1 large egg, slightly beaten
¼ cup orange juice
½ cup butter, cut into small pieces and softened
¾ cup pecans, coarsely chopped (substitute walnuts, if you
like)
1 tablespoon finely chopped fresh basil
Zest of 1 medium orange
Preheat the oven to 350°F. Lightly grease and flour a baking sheet. Blend flour, sugar, cornmeal, baking powder, and salt. Add egg and orange juice, and beat until a dough begins to form. Add the butter, beating until it is just incorporated. Gently stir in the nuts, chopped basil, and orange zest. Turn dough onto a lightly floured surface, flour your hands, and knead it several times. Divide in half. On the baking sheet, form each half into a three-inch log about
twelve inches long, arranged at least three inches apart. Bake on the middle rack of the oven for 20 to 25 minutes, or until set and just beginning to brown. Remove the logs from the oven and reduce the temperature to 250°F. Cool logs on the baking sheet for 12 to 15 minutes, until just warm. Slice logs diagonally into three-quarter-inch slices. Arrange slices on wire cooling racks and return to the oven until crisp, about 15 minutes. Cool completely and store in an airtight container.
I had to hand it to Molly McGregor. She had thought of everything. And I liked the idea of having a Peter Rabbit garden right next door. Over the years, I’ve created several theme gardens around Thyme and Seasons: a fragrance garden, a moon garden (Ruby’s idea, of course), a Shakespeare garden, and a kitchen border next to the patio. I’ve always wanted to have a children’s garden, but there just wasn’t enough room. However, if the children’s garden were in Molly’s backyard, maybe we could install a gate in the fence and share it.
“I’d be delighted to help you with a Peter Rabbit garden,” I said without hesitation. “When do we get started?”
“There’s no time like the present, I always say,” Molly replied cheerfully. “How about tomorrow?”
As Ruby and I got better acquainted with Molly McGregor, we learned that she was not a woman to let grass grow under her feet—or as we say in Texas, she moved faster than a prairie fire with a tailwind. Within the next few months, Hobbit House was painted and the lower two floors were remodeled to make room for bookshelves, display tables, reading corners, and child-sized tables and chairs. Upstairs, a round green door, with a shiny brass knob in the middle, opened into the Hobbit Hole, a large storytelling room, where children could gather for special events.
Outside, Molly had the front yard landscaped and then she and I turned the backyard into a Peter Rabbit garden. In the center, we hung a scowling hulk of a scarecrow named Mr. McGregor—“He reminds me of Max, my ex-husband,” Molly said reminiscently. “See that frown? That’s Max, to a T.”
Over the handles of a rabbit-sized wheelbarrow, we draped a rabbit-sized blue coat and shoes. We planted the garden with the herbs, vegetables, and flowers that Mr. McGregor might have grown, and we built a small goldfish pond with a waterfall against the garage. On its bank, Molly placed Jemima Puddleduck, a plaster duck that she’d dressed in a pink-flowered shawl and bonnet. Beside Jemima, she put up a wooden sign, painted with red and white roses, that said BLOOM WHERE YOU’RE PLANTED.
“It’s my philosophy,” she explained as she pounded the stake into the soft soil. “You follow your bliss to where you’re meant to be, and then you make yourself right at home.”
And then McQuaid installed the gate in the low picket fence, Molly and I propped it open with a terra-cotta figure of Benjamin Bunny, and our garden merger was complete. Ruby’s and my customers can enjoy the Peter Rabbit garden and buy books for their favorite children. Customers of the Hobbit House can simply step through the gate and follow the brick path through the herb garden to Thyme for Tea, for a refreshing plate of cucumber sandwiches, a slice of rose geranium pound cake, and a flavorful cup of English tea, after which they can shop ’til they drop at Thyme and Seasons and at Ruby’s Crystal Cave. However you look at it, this shared garden is a happy and profitable arrangement for all three of us.
While Molly and I got our hands dirty together, I found out more about her. She had moved to Pecan Springs from Dallas, where her fifteen-year marriage (“to a Very Bad Person,” as she put it, speaking in capital letters) had come crashing to a close when her husband was sent to prison for stock fraud. Shortly after the divorce was final, her mother died, leaving her a substantial sum—enough to buy her aunt’s house, finance the re-modeling and the purchase of inventory, and buy groceries and pay the bills until the Hobbit House began to turn a profit.
“And if it doesn’t,” she concluded practically, as we finished planting a row of lettuce, “then I’ll go back to being a librarian.” She stood up and brushed the dirt off the knees of her baggy green pants, giving me a sidewise look. “My daughter, Karen, thinks I’m crazy, giving up job security and health insurance and investing my nest egg in such a risky deal. But we only go around once, and life is too short to spend it doing something that shrivels the soul.”
“If you’re crazy, so am I,” I replied. “And so is Ruby. Crazy as loons, all three of us. But we’re having fun.”
And with that, we washed our hands and adjourned to Thyme for Tea, for a cup of coffee and a slice of Janet’s Lavender-Thyme Quiche, one of the most popular items on our menu.
MRS. RABBIT’S CUCUMBER SANDWICHES
Peel and slice 2 cucumbers very thin. Add 2 tablespoons grated onion and salt to taste and let drain in a colander. Trim the crusts from 6 slices of white bread, butter each slice, and cut on the diagonal. Arrange the cucumbers in an overlapping row, garnish with a sprig of parsley, and serve as open-face sandwiches.
ROSE GERANIUM POUND CAKE
1 stick unsalted rose geranium-flavored butter, softened*
1½ cups sugar
6 large egg yolks
3½ cups cake flour
1 cup milk
2 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
2 tablespoons very finely minced rose geranium leaves
Preheat oven to 350°F. Butter and lightly flour a 13×9×2‘ baking pan. With an electric mixer, cream butter and sugar until light and fluffy. Beat in egg yolks one at a time. On low speed, add cake flour alternately with milk. Beat in baking powder and vanilla. Beat in rose geranium leaves. Pour into prepared pan and bake for 50 minutes, until cake tester inserted in center comes out clean. Cool in pan for 15 minutes, then turn out onto a platter and cool completely. Drizzle with Rose Geranium Glaze and garnish with a few rosebuds or lavender sprigs.
*To make rose geranium-flavored butter, wrap 4 to 6 washed leaves of rose geranium around a stick of butter. Wrap in plastic wrap and refrigerate.
ROSE GERANIUM GLAZE
Place 3 washed rose geranium leaves in a microwave container, with 3 tablespoons water. Microwave on high for 2 minutes, let steep for 2 more minutes. Strain out leaves. Mix with ¾ cup confectioners’ sugar and ½ teaspoon vanilla.
As the months passed, it became clear that the Hobbit House was making a name for itself. Mothers and grandmothers went in empty-handed and came out with full shopping bags; children came for weekly story times, a Halloween Haunt, an Easter egg-painting workshop, a Celebrate Texas party, and book signings with four or five authors; and teens came to help out with the children and browse the shelves of young adult classics. There were picnics and Mad Hatter tea parties in the garden, and puppet shows and musical events in the big room upstairs. Molly hired a couple of part-time helpers, but she was still doing most of the work herself, which kept her so busy that Ruby and I rarely saw her. But we didn’t worry about her. She was following her dream.
We didn’t worry, that is, until the Monday morning when Molly failed to open her store or answer the telephone. We might not have noticed right away, but Ruby wanted to pick up a birthday book for her nephew. She came back wearing a puzzled look.
JANET’S LAVENDER-THYME QUICHE
9-inch unbaked pie shell
1¼ cups grated Swiss cheese
2 tablespoons butter or margarine, softened
1½ cups fresh mushrooms, sliced
4 large eggs, lightly beaten
1 cup evaporated milk
2 tablespoons fresh thyme leaves, minced, or 1 tablespoon dried
thyme
1 tablespoon fresh lavender buds
½ teaspoon salt
teaspoon grated nutmeg
Preheat oven to 350°F. Prick the pastry shell to keep it from puffing and bake until it is set, about 15 minutes. Sprinkle ¼ cup of the grated Swiss cheese over the bottom of the crust and bake for 5 minutes more, or until the cheese is melted. Remove and cool.
While the crust is baking, prepare the filling. In a large skillet, heat the butter
. Add the mushrooms and sauté, stirring. Drain and cool. In a large bowl combine the eggs, evaporated milk, thyme, and lavender, the remaining 1 cup of grated cheese, salt, and nutmeg. Stir in the mushrooms and pour the mixture into the crust. Bake for about 35 minutes, or until the top is just set. Serve warm or cold. Makes eight servings.
“The Closed sign is still on the door,” she said, looking at her watch. “But it’s almost eleven. Molly always opens promptly at nine.” She picked up the phone behind my counter. “Guess I’ll call her.”
I handed her my cordless phone. “Here—use this. My answering machine’s out of commission again.”
One after the other, Ruby punched in both of Molly’s numbers—the bookstore and the one that rings on the third floor, where she lives. But after letting the phone ring and ring, she gave it up. “If she’s there,” she said worriedly, “she’s not answering.”
At that moment, Constance Letterman stamped in. “What’s going on at the bookstore?” she demanded. “I’ve been pounding on the door and nobody answers. I even went around to the back and checked the garage. Molly’s car isn’t there. Is she on vacation?”
“If so, she didn’t tell me about it,” I replied, thinking that it was just like Constance to go poking in Molly’s garage. Next thing, she’d be telling us what Molly stashed there.
Sure enough. “You’ll never guess what she’s keeping in there,” Constance said, leaning forward.
“I don’t care what she’s keeping in there, Constance,” I said. “It’s none of our business.”
“But something is wrong, China,” Ruby chimed in. “She doesn’t answer her phones.”
“Yes,” Constance agreed. “Something is definitely the matter. I feel it in my bones.”
An Unthymely Death Page 20
