Queen Anne's Lace

by Susan Wittig Albert

  In the cage next to Extra Crispy was the strangest rooster I had ever seen. He was totally black—black as coal, black as night, pitch-black, black as the inside of a black cat. From his black comb, wattles, and beak to his black legs, feet, and toenails, this rooster was amazingly, extraordinarily, exclusively black. Well, perhaps not quite. Among his high-arching black tail feathers and the plumy drape of feathers across his back, the blackness was highlighted with shimmers of iridescent purple and metallic green, like a sheen of oil on black water.

  I was still staring at this incredible creature when Caitie and Tom got back. “What in the world is that?” I asked Tom, pointing. “He’s spectacular! In a class by himself.”

  “I have no idea,” he said, shaking his head. “I thought I knew chickens, but that one’s a mystery.”

  But Caitie had an answer. “He’s an Ayam Cemani rooster,” she said. “I saw one on Animal Planet just last week.” She went up to the chicken’s cage and put her finger through the wire. The rooster came over and pecked it politely, saying hello. “And he’s not just black on the outside, either,” she added. “Under those black feathers, his skin is black. And under his skin, his muscles and bones are black. Even his heart and gizzard are black. It’s called hyperpigmentation.” She said it again, slowly, emphasizing the syllables. “Hy-per-pig-men-ta-tion. In Indonesia, where he comes from, he’s considered magical. He’s supposed to bring good fortune.”

  “Black heart and gizzard, too?” Tom asked, with interest. “So that accounts for his name.” He pointed to the entry card pinned to the cage. It read Blackheart.

  “Amazing,” I said, still transfixed by his incredible blackness. “He must be very rare.”

  “Oh, he is,” Caitie said authoritatively. “At least, he’s rare here in America. And expensive. I’ve heard that roosters can cost twenty-five hundred dollars or more. And eight eggs were sold on eBay for fourteen hundred dollars. Not for eating,” she added, “but for hatching. They were guaranteed to be fertile.”

  “Twenty-five hundred bucks for a chicken?” Tom whistled.

  “And a hundred seventy-five dollars for an egg,” I said incredulously.

  Tom chuckled. “A little beyond my homestead budget, I’m afraid.”

  “Mine, too.” Caitie made a wry face. “I’d love to have a breeding pair, but I can’t even afford an egg.” She paused, tilting her head. “But if you had a hen and a rooster, and the hen laid twenty eggs a month, you’d have—”

  “A lucrative business,” Tom said.

  “Hi, guys,” a woman called. She crossed the tent toward us, striding fast. She had a notebook in one hand and a camera around her neck.

  “Hey, it’s Slugger Nelson,” Tom said. “Are you going to make us famous?”

  “Sure thing,” Jessica said cheerfully, raising her voice over the clamor. “What do you want to be famous for?”

  Tom chuckled. “Not for being kidnapped, that’s for sure.”

  I met Jessica Nelson a couple of years ago when she was a CTSU grad student, doing a journalism internship at the Enterprise. Now in her mid-twenties, she’s a lively young woman with boy-cut blond hair and a generous sprinkle of freckles across her nose. A seasoned reporter with an observant eye and a curiosity that just won’t quit, Jess proved herself by surviving a potentially deadly encounter with a kidnapper—which explains Tom’s quip. I had a hand in her brave escape from the storage unit where she’d been held captive, and watched with pleasure when she was all over the news, telling her story. Anderson Cooper loved hearing her relate how she felt as she lay terrified in a parking garage storage unit, gagged and bound hand and foot. But he loved it even more when she told how she slipped out of her bonds, picked up a seven iron, and slugged her captor. Immediately, Anderson dubbed her the Seven-Iron Slugger. People who know the story still call her Slugger.

  “I forgot to tell you,” I said to Caitie. “Ms. Nelson would like to interview you and take a few pictures for the newspaper. Is that okay?”

  “Oh, sure,” Caitie said. She gestured proudly toward her chickens. “Meet Extra Crispy and Dixie Chick. They would love it if you made them famous.” She turned to me. “Thirty-five hundred dollars,” she said.

  I blinked. “For what?”

  “For twenty eggs, at a hundred seventy-five dollars an egg.” She traced some numbers with one finger on the palm of her hand. “Thirty-five thousand dollars a year, assuming that she doesn’t lay in the winter.”

  “Wow,” I said, and regarded the rooster with a new admiration.

  “And if you had two hens,” Caitie began.

  Tom held up his hand. “Excuse me, ladies, but I have to go. My security team is meeting this morning.”

  “You’re in charge of security?” Jessica asked, scribbling in her notebook.

  “Right,” Tom replied. “I’m a reserve deputy sheriff. I help the sheriff’s office with event security. The county fair, the rodeo, Fourth of July fireworks, that sort of thing.”

  “Tom served two deployments as a Delta Force officer in Iraq and Afghanistan,” I put in. “He’s not likely to tell you, but it’s an important part of who he is. The sheriff’s office is lucky to have him.”

  “Delta Force,” Jessica repeated. She gave him an up-and-down glance. “Maybe I could interview you on the topic of terrorist threats here at the fair.”

  She was being snarky, but Tom didn’t laugh. “It’s something we take seriously, you know. Anywhere there are crowds, there’s a certain risk. Open carry complicates the situation, too, which is why so many cops hate it. Could be a guy making a political point, or it could be—” He shrugged. “Sure. I’ll be glad to talk to you.” He gave her his cell number, said good-bye, and left.

  “Sorry,” Jessica said ruefully. “I ought to watch my tongue.”

  “That’ll be the day.” I chuckled. “Tom is one of the good guys. I’m glad to have him as a neighbor.”

  Jessica got busy with her interview and took a few photos of Caitie with her chickens. Then she noticed the black rooster.

  “Jeez,” she said breathlessly. “What is that? Is he yours, Caitie? He doesn’t look real.”

  While Caitie explained and I contemplated the economics of rare chicken breeding, Jessica took several photos of the rooster. She had just finished when Caitie’s best friend, Sharon Lincoln, came into the tent and joined us. Sharon is a freckled, feisty, red-haired tomboy. The girls were going to spend the rest of the morning at the fair. Sharon’s mom, Sonia, who was working in the food tent, would be available if they needed a grown-up. After lunch, Sonia was driving them to the Depot to rehearse Little Women, and I would pick Caitie up there after work. Since McQuaid wasn’t home, we were planning to treat ourselves. Girls’ night out at Gino’s Pizza.

  I glanced at my watch. It was time I headed for the shop, but I hadn’t forgotten the photo I wanted to show to Jessica. First, though, I gave Caitie a quick hug and told her to have fun at the fair.

  “You can call me if you run into any problems,” I told her. “The shop is only fifteen minutes away. You’ve got your phone? Leave it on. I’ll check on you in a couple of hours. Oh, and don’t eat too much junk food. Lay off the soda pop.”

  She gave me that long-suffering look that teenage girls bestow on fussy mothers. “I won’t, Mom. We’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”

  The girls ran off, and I turned to Jessica. “If you’ve got a minute or two, would you take a look at this?” I opened my shoulder bag and pulled out the photo I’d taken from the bulletin board the day before—the one of the family sitting on the veranda of my building. “The date on the back of this says it was snapped in June 1890, but there are no names.” I thought it might sound a little weird if I told her that I was trying to discover the name of the woman whose ghost was haunting my shop. So I just said, “Do you happen to know if these people are the original owners of my building? Mr.
and Mrs. Duncan, I believe.”

  Jessica took the photo and studied it, her forehead wrinkling. “I remember seeing a picture of Mrs. Duncan, and I’m pretty sure this is her. She has that Gibson-girl look. The blouse with the big sleeves and all that hair pinned up on top of her head. But Mr. Duncan—Douglas Duncan, I think his name was—was a big guy with dark hair and a beard and mustache. It’s hard to tell from the photo, but this man’s hair looks sort of light colored, and he’s clean shaven. I don’t think he’s the same guy.” She held up the photo. “If you’ll let me keep it, I could check on it for you. I have to go over to the Historical Society on another story. I could have a look through their archives if I don’t find anything at the Enterprise.” She gave me an inquiring look. “Why this sudden interest in ancient history?”

  “Oh, just curious,” I said vaguely. “Yes, you can keep it. I’d like to have it back, though.” I glanced at my watch. “Ruby opened up for me this morning, but I’ve got some garden helpers coming in. I’d better get over to the shop.”

  “I’ll let you know if I find anything,” Jessica said, tucking the photo into her notebook. “I think I’ll head over to the security office and talk to Tom. Maybe he can point me toward an exciting story or two here at the fair.”

  “He’s seen quite a few adventures in his military career,” I said. “But I’m afraid nothing very exciting is likely to happen here.”

  “I’m looking for another crime story.” Jessica made a face. “I’m getting a little bored writing articles about historical buildings and covering the poultry tent at the fair.”

  “A crime story?” I laughed. “I think we can do without that kind of excitement, Slugger.”

  I was right. Oh, I was so right.

  * * *

  • • •

  IT was the first Thursday of the month, which meant that my team of volunteer helpers was already at work in the gardens around the shop. To beat the Texas heat, they start early on summer mornings. When I got to the shop, I would have preferred to go in and start digging through that box of photos. But I feel awkward if I let the volunteers work alone, so I ducked quickly inside, found my garden gloves, and went out to join them, leaving Ruby to monitor the shop.

  It takes a lot of work to keep the herb gardens from looking raggedy, and I appreciate the women who are willing to lend a hand for a few hours every month. In return for their work, they receive free enrollment in one of our classes and are invited to take cuttings and snippets from the established stock plants. Usually, there are five or six volunteers, but summer is vacation time and this morning the crew was down to three. One was working in the apothecary garden, and the other two in the culinary garden outside the kitchen door. Cass uses herbs heavily in her dishes, and I try to ensure that there are always enough to meet her needs.

  When I bought 304 Crockett Street, there were signs that somebody, decades ago, had had a large garden in the empty lot to the east, between my building and the yellow-painted frame house that is home to the Hobbit House Children’s Bookstore. But by the time I moved in, the empty lot was covered with thirsty Bermuda grass that required frequent watering and mowing—in my opinion, a waste of space, water, and work. Why spend all that effort to grow grass when you can raise something that’s both pretty and useful?

  So, little by little, I took out the lawn and replaced it with small theme gardens, irregularly shaped and bordered by paths made of stepping-stones and bark mulch. The culinary garden has the usual mix of parsley, sage, thyme, mint, rosemary, bay, and as many different species of basil as I can fit into the space. The fragrance garden has a lovely stone fountain in the center, surrounded by heirloom roses prized for their scent and by nicotiana, lavender, rosemary, and scented geraniums—lemon, rose, orange, chocolate. Beside the tearoom deck, there’s a dyer’s garden, with coreopsis, yarrow, tansy, Turks’ cap (which also makes a pretty ruby-red jelly), and a prickly pear cactus that is currently home to an industrious colony of cochineal bugs, the source of the famous red dye created by the Aztecs and Mayas of Central and North America. On the other side of the deck, there’s an apothecary garden, with echinacea, St. John’s wort, plantain, feverfew, sage, comfrey, lavender, garlic, and Queen Anne’s lace.

  And at the back of the lot, there’s a zodiac garden, a large round space divided into twelve pie-shaped sections, representing the twelve astrological houses. Each of the house-sections is planted with herbs that are said to “belong,” traditionally, to the sign that rules that house: Aries, the first house, with garlic, mustard, and horseradish; Taurus, the second, with thyme, mint, and catnip; Gemini, the third, with dill, parsley, and caraway. And so on around the circle. A large rosemary (Leo) rules the middle of the circle.

  Ethel Barnett, one of my most regular volunteers, was on her knees beside the apothecary garden, pulling weeds. I set to work across from her, yanking out the surplus chickweed. Herbalists use chickweed in salves, lotions, teas, and tinctures to treat all manner of diseases, but the plant has bullying tendencies. It needs to be discouraged from taking over space that belongs to its neighbors. Lecturing doesn’t work. You have to yank.

  After a few moments, Ethel straightened her back and pulled off her gardening gloves. “I was noticing that plant,” she said, pointing at the Queen Anne’s lace. “I’ve been seeing it everywhere this summer, but I didn’t expect to find it in your apothecary garden.” She brushed a stray strand of gray hair from her sweaty forehead. “How is it used?”

  I stood up, broke off a couple of leaves, and took them to her to sniff. “What do they smell like?”

  “Why, carrots,” she said in surprise.

  I nodded. “Queen Anne’s lace is wild carrot. The whole plant is edible—roots, leaves, stem, and all. We could just as easily have planted it in the culinary garden. But until modern medicine came along, this was one of the preferred treatments for stomach and digestive disorders, as well as kidney and bladder diseases. Nowadays, an essential oil made from the seeds is added to commercial antiaging skin creams. A very useful plant.”

  “Oh, really?” Ethel asked, interested. She put a hand up to her face. “Does it work? I spend a lot of time in the garden, and I certainly have my share of wrinkles.”

  “I’ve never tried to use it that way,” I replied. “But some of my customers swear by it. There’s some on the essential oil shelf in the shop. Help yourself to a bottle. Try adding a drop or two to your favorite moisturizer. Let me know if you like the way it works.”

  “I’ll do it,” she said. “Thanks.”

  “The seeds were used another way, too.” I gave her a quick smile. “As a morning-after contraceptive. An herbal Plan B.”

  She looked surprised. “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope.” I shook my head. “I’m writing an article about the plant for my garden page in the Enterprise, so I’ve been doing some research.” The plant in front of us had been blooming for several weeks, and one of the flowering umbrels had dried, pulling itself into the concave shape of a small bird’s nest. I broke it off and shook some of the seeds into the palm of my hand. “It turns out that women used to chew a spoonful of these seeds after sex. They were considered the most reliable thing available.” I had to laugh a little. “That’s probably why this plant spread so fast after the founding mothers brought it to this continent. They needed it, so they took it with them wherever they settled.”

  “Well, my goodness,” Ethel said. “There’s something new to learn every day. Wild carrot seeds.” She frowned. “And just think of the money we spend for birth control meds, when we could go out to the country and gather them.” She pulled her gloves on again. “But I suppose the pill is more convenient,” she added thoughtfully. “And the medication is standardized and labeled.”

  “That’s all true,” I said. I bent over and dropped the seeds onto the ground around the plant. “Wild plants don’t wear labels. Which is another drawback wh
ere this plant is concerned.” I straightened up. “Not long ago, a group of foragers out on a hunt for wild foods found what they thought was a patch of wild carrots. They harvested a big bag of leaves and put them in a salad, along with some other wild-gathered plants. They all got very sick. One person died.”

  “Uh-oh,” Ethel said softly.

  I nodded. “The killer was hemlock, the poisonous plant that is said to have killed Socrates. Its dominant chemical, coniine, is similar to nicotine, which is also a killer. Poison hemlock and wild carrot—Queen Anne’s lace—are lookalikes. I’ve read that it only takes a handful of fresh poison hemlock leaves to kill somebody, and even less of the root or the seeds, where the plant chemical is more concentrated.”

  Ethel fingered the leaves of Queen Anne’s lace. “Is it hard to tell the difference?” she asked. “Do they look much alike?”

  “They’re enough alike to confuse somebody who isn’t careful,” I replied. “The flower stalks are different, for one thing—poison hemlock is smooth, with dark spots or streaks. The wild carrot stalk is green and covered with little hairs. But there’s another, more certain giveaway. Wild carrot smells like fresh carrot. Poison hemlock smells rank. It’s really yucky.”

  “Good to know.” Ethel laughed a little. “But I don’t think I’ll tempt fate. Better to be safe than sorry.”

  “I understand,” I said, and went back to my weeding. In another twenty minutes, I had vanquished the rampant chickweed and Ethel had cleaned out the garlic chives that had sneaked over from the culinary garden. And the morning, already hot to begin with, hadn’t gotten any cooler.

  “I need to get back to the shop.” I stood up and pulled off my gloves, wiping the sweat off my forehead with the back of my hand. “I think we’ve accomplished quite a bit, don’t you?”

  “We have,” Ethel replied. She straightened up and gave me a hesitant smile. “I wanted to mention something odd that happened this morning, China.”