An Unthymely Death (2 page)

 

Mike McQuaid,
China’s husband, is a former Houston homicide detective, now a part-time professor in the Criminal Justice Department at Central Texas State University and a part-time private detective. He’s six feet tall, broad-shouldered, and dark-haired, with a twice-broken nose and a been-there-done-that face that just misses being handsome. A shoot-out with a drug gang (in
Love Lies Bleeding
) left him walking with a limp. He collects guns, plays poker with his buddies, and is usually around when China needs him.

 

Ruby Wilcox
is China’s best friend and confidante. She owns the Crystal Cave, Pecan Springs’s only New Age shop, where she sells such items as tarot cards, rune stones, crystals, and books on astrology, the occult, and the Inner Journey. Not long ago, she and China converted the apartment that adjoined their shops (where China lived until she and McQuaid moved in together in
Rosemary Remembered
) into a tearoom called Thyme for Tea. Ruby is a six-foot-something redhead with gingery freckles who loves weird, way-out clothes, although on her, weird looks wonderful. (And anyway, what’s totally weird in Pecan Springs is probably your ordinary streetwear in New York or Los Angeles.) Ruby also loves to imagine herself as a private detective on the trail of a criminal—Kinsey Milhone, Stephanie Plum, and V. I. Warshawski, all rolled up together.

 

Sheila Dawson
is Pecan Springs’s first female police chief and one of China’s and Ruby’s best friends. She is a willowy, well-dressed blonde who looks like she’d be right at home at the Junior League. But Sheila, a former security chief at CTSU and a fifteen-year veteran of law enforcement, is more at home with a gun on her hip and a badge on her shirt.

AN UNTHYMELY DEATH

 

 

 

 

HEY, China, what’s that you’re planting?” Ruby Wilcox asked.

I patted the dirt firmly around the base of the plant and straightened up. “It’s ginkgo,” I said.

Ruby Wilcox is my best friend and partner. Her Crystal Cave, the only New Age shop in Pecan Springs, Texas, is in the same century-old stone building that houses my herb shop, Thyme and Seasons, and our jointly owned tearoom, Thyme for Tea. The building is surrounded with herb gardens, and at this moment, I was working in the garden out front.

Thyme and Seasons and its herb gardens are a far cry from the Houston law office where I used to work as a criminal defense attorney. Leaving the law, moving to a small town, and opening my own business—these are the best things I’ve ever done for myself (second only to marrying Mike McQuaid, that is). And while some people might find small-town life limited or low on thrills and excitement, that hasn’t been a problem for me. Between the shop, my family, and my friends, I have just about all the excitement I can handle. And if I want to kick up my heels in the big city, it takes less than an hour to drive from Pecan Springs to either Austin or San Antonio. Altogether, it’s a nice arrangement.

Ruby bent over to peer doubtfully at the plant. “That dinky little twig is ginkgo? It’s got a heck of a lot of growing to do. The last ginkgo I saw was a tree. A
big
tree.” She looked up. “Taller than this building.”

“Give it time,” I said with a grin, and picked up my shovel. “Like about five hundred years. I started this little guy from a cutting, and it’s got some growing to do.” The oldest surviving tree on earth, ginkgo was once described by Charles Darwin as a “living fossil,” because so many of its primitive botanical features are still intact. Extracts made from its leaves have been used for over five thousand years to improve blood circulation, treat asthma and bronchitis, and enhance memory. And even if it were entirely useless, I would still enjoy the dappled shade created by its fan-shaped green leaves. While this little fellow begins stretching up to his full height, I’m going to put up a sign letting people know that his ancestors were already ancient when humans were just beginning to rub sticks together.

From the back door of the shop, my helper, Laurel Riley, waved at me. “You’re wanted on the phone, China,” she called. “It’s Hannah Bucher.”

“Oh, good,” I said, shouldering my shovel and heading for the shop, Ruby tagging along behind. Hannah is a seventy-something herb gardener who lives in Cedar Crossing, not far away. She specializes in thyme, growing and selling dozens of different varieties of this beautiful herb. She had promised to give me some plants of a new cultivar of lemon thyme, so I could try it in my garden. I’d been waiting impatiently for her call.

But Hannah hadn’t phoned to talk about herbs. Instead, she’d called to ask me to come to Cedar Crossing to see her, and something in her voice prompted me to ask why.

“It’s an urgent personal matter,” she said. She lowered her voice, as if she were afraid she might be overheard. “I hate to say it, China, but I’m afraid someone is—” She stopped, and then in a lighter, brighter voice, went on: “I
do
hope you’ll be able to come and get those lemon thyme plants soon. I’ve been saving them for you. When can you come?”

I glanced at the calendar. McQuaid and Brian—my husband and our thirteen-year-old—were going to Houston the next weekend to catch an Astros game. “How about Sunday?” I asked. Ruby and I had been meaning to visit our friends Barbara Thatcher and Ramona Pierce, who also live in Cedar Crossing.

“Sunday would be fine.” Hannah’s voice became low and urgent again. “Unless you can come sooner. And please bring Ruby. I need to talk to both of you.”

Frowning, I hung up and went to the door of the Crystal Cave. As usual, Ruby was burning her own handcrafted herbal incense, which creates a perfect backdrop for the tarot cards, rune stones, crystals, and books on astrology and the occult that she sells.

“Want to drive over to Cedar Crossing on Sunday?” I asked.

Ruby pushed a curl of henna-red hair out of her eyes and looked up from the stack of books she was shelving. “Your plants are ready?”

“Yes, but that isn’t why Hannah called. She wants to talk to us. It sounds like something’s wrong.”

Ruby gave me a curious look. “What do you suppose is going on?”

“I don’t know,” I said, feeling troubled. “I guess we’ll find out on Sunday.”

 

 

 

But Hannah never got a chance to tell us what was bothering her. On Friday, I learned that she was dead.

“A heart attack?” Ruby asked, her eyes widening when I told her.

“That’s what the newspaper says.” I handed her the obituary that Ramona Pierce had clipped out of the Cedar Crossing
Tattler
and faxed to me. “Apparently, she died the day after we talked. She’s being buried tomorrow.”

“What a shame,” Ruby said sadly. “Hannah was such a lovely, vibrant woman. I had no idea she had heart trouble.”

“Neither had I.” I frowned, thinking about the tone of Hannah’s voice when she had said that she needed to talk to us, urgently. “What would you think about going to Cedar Crossing anyway? I really would like to have those plants Hannah was saving for me.”

“And I’d like to see Ramona and Barbara,” Ruby said in a decided tone. “Let’s do it.”

 

 

Cedar Crossing is a pretty village, built on the bank of the Guadalupe River. Its chief claim to fame is a simple white-painted church with a delicate steeple, built by the German settlers who established the town 150 years ago. Hannah’s house and gardens were just down the road from the church. On Sunday afternoon, Ruby and I drove slowly past, admiring the sprays of bright foliage that spilled over the stone wall. The sunny yellow blooms of St. John’s wort were brilliant against the feathery purple leaves of a tall bronze fennel, and golden-leaved feverfew splashed at the foot of a sprawling gray-blue Russian sage.

When I saw a woman pushing a wheelbarrow down the path, I pulled over and stopped. I studied her for a moment, then turned to Ruby. “I’d like to talk to her,” I said. “But let’s pretend we don’t know anything about Hannah’s death.”

Ruby gave me a curious look. “Why would we do that?”

“I don’t know.” I shrugged. “Just a hunch, I guess.”

Ruby grinned. She is the kind of person who always trusts a hunch. “Go for it,” she said. “Get that right brain in gear.”

The woman behind the wheelbarrow was tanned and athletic-looking, with dark brown hair twisted into a loose, thick braid down her back. She wore a red bandana headband, a sweatshirt and jeans, and heavy garden gloves. Her face was stern and unsmiling.

“Hi,” I said cheerfully. “I’m China Bayles, and this is Ruby Wilcox.”

The woman frowned. “China Bayles. Aren’t you the person who wanted some of Hannah’s lemon thyme?”

“That’s me. Hannah said we could pick up the plants anytime.” I shaded my eyes with my hands and looked around. “Is she here?”

“Hannah’s dead.” The woman pressed her lips tightly together. “She died early Wednesday morning.”

Ruby’s hand went to her mouth. “Oh, dear!” she exclaimed, as if this were the first she’d heard of it. “An accident?”

“They say it was a heart attack.” The woman’s voice was taut, and she wasn’t looking at us. “The funeral was yesterday.” She nodded in the direction of the church. “She’s buried in the churchyard.”

“I am
so
sorry,” I said quietly. “Hannah was a lovely person.” I looked around the garden, which must have covered at least two acres. The fragrance of honeysuckle and roses surrounded us. “It’s so sad to think that she won’t be here to take care of this beautiful garden. I hope the next person who owns it will love it as much as she did.”