An Unthymely Death (13 page)

“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 really 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

 

 

 

 

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.

“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.

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.”

“Found roses can be fascinating,” I agreed. I picked up my trowel. “I’m curious about one thing,” I said. “Do you know why your sister went to the cemetery?”

Miss Sanders shook her head. “I have no idea,” she said. “Our parents are buried in Maine, and Rose’s husband—he’s been dead for several years—had no relatives in this area.” She shook her head again, sadly. “It’s all a mystery,” she said. “A very great mystery.”

Sheila looked serious when I told her about Miss Sanders’s request. “I have to confess,” she said soberly, “that we haven’t made much progress on the case. If you want to get involved—unofficially, of course—I certainly wouldn’t have any objections.” Sheila had come over for Sunday lunch, and she and I were in my kitchen, where I was cooking up a quick chicken and veggie stir-fry, using some of my homemade five-spice seasoning.

“How many suspects have you questioned?” I asked, stirring the sizzling chicken in the wok.

“None,” Sheila said ruefully. She pushed her fingers through her blond hair. “We’ve canvassed the neighbors, questioned the sister, and searched the victim’s house. But we haven’t turned up a single substantial lead. The woman certainly doesn’t seem to have had any enemies.”