An Unthymely Death (3 page)

The woman’s eyes flashed an enigmatic message. “I’ll take care of it,” she said roughly. “I promised Hannah I would.”

“Managing a garden this size is a big job,” I said. “It takes a lot of skill and knowledge. You really have to love it.”

“That’s why Hannah did what she did,” the woman said. She turned toward the house and a look of something like hatred crossed her face. “And no matter what they say,” she burst out passionately, “she wanted me to have it after she died.”

“Who do you suppose ‘they’ are?” Ruby whispered to me as the woman strode away, pushing her wheelbarrow. “And who is she?”

“I have no idea,” I said. I glanced toward the house. Another woman, short and plump and wearing a blue apron, was standing on the back porch, under the golden tangle of hops vines that covered the roof. At one time, Hannah had brewed her own beer, and had even given lectures on the subject.

The woman saw us and beckoned. “Let’s talk to her,” I said to Ruby. “Maybe she knows what’s going on.”

“You must be China and Ruby,” the woman said as we approached the porch. “Aunt Hannah told me you might be here.” She bit her lip. “I suppose you know that she died several days ago.”

The kitchen was almost as pretty as the garden, with a cheerful red-checked cloth on the table and windowsills filled with pots of scented geranium. The woman introduced herself as Luella Mitchell, Hannah’s niece. As we sat at the table and sipped glasses of iced tea, she told us about the circumstances of Hannah’s death.

“It was very sudden,” she said. Her round face was sad. “And quite unexpected. I’ve lived with my aunt for the past three years and even helped take care of her accounts, and I never even suspected that she had a bad heart.” She sat down at the kitchen table and pulled a tissue out of her apron pocket to wipe her eyes. “It’s so hard to accept.”

I leaned forward. “Hannah told me that she wanted to talk to me about an urgent matter. She sounded terribly troubled. Do you know what was bothering her?”

Luella’s face tightened. “I certainly do,” she said. “She was afraid.”

“Afraid?” Ruby put down her glass.

“Of that woman you were talking to, out there in the garden. Jessica Powell, her name is.” Luella shook her head sadly. “Jessica killed somebody once, you know. She spent a long time in jail.”

“She did?” Ruby breathed.

Luella nodded soberly. “Aunt Hannah realized that she’d made a dangerous mistake, giving Jessica a job and letting her live in the garage apartment. And worse, putting her into her will. The woman has a green thumb, there’s no doubt about that. But she moved in and just took over.” She shook her head. “Why, she pushed poor Aunt Hannah right out of her own garden!”

“It’s true, then, that Jessica Powell will inherit this place?” I asked, remembering what the woman had said.

Luella’s face was set. “Aunt Hannah called you, China, because she wanted some legal advice. She’d finally got up the courage to get rid of Jessica. But she died before she could change her will, so I guess—”

She was interrupted by a knock on the screen door. We turned to see two uniformed police officers standing on the porch.

“We’re looking for Miz Mitchell,” one of them said through the screen. “Hannah Bucher’s niece.”

“That’s me.” Luella stood, her face suddenly apprehensive. “Is there something the matter?”

“Afraid so, ma’am.” The officer held out a paper. “We have a warrant to search the residence of Jessica Powell.”

“My apartment?” Jessica Powell asked angrily. She had suddenly materialized beside the porch. “What are you looking for?”

“Please show us your living quarters, Miz Powell,” the officer said without answering her question. The two men followed her through the garden, in the direction of the two-story garage.

“Why have they come?” Luella asked in a bewildered voice. “What are they looking for?”

“Evidence,” I said. “They couldn’t have gotten a warrant unless they had probable cause to suspect that Jessica Powell had committed a crime.”

Ruby’s eyes were large. “Murder?” she whispered.

“No, no!” Luella exclaimed. “That’s wrong! Aunt Hannah had a heart attack!”

“We’ll just have to wait and see,” I said grimly.

Fifteen minutes later the officers were back. Jessica Powell was with them, stony-faced and silent—and handcuffed.

“But I don’t understand!” Luella exclaimed. “Why are you arresting her? What’s she done?”

One officer gave her a sympathetic look. “I’m sorry to have to be the one to tell you this, Miz Mitchell, but your aunt didn’t die of natural causes. The autopsy report you requested indicates that she was poisoned.”

“Poisoned!” Luella whispered. “But . . . but
how?
What kind of poison?”

The other deputy held up a plastic evidence bag. “Nicotine,” he said. In the bag was a can of smoking tobacco.

 

 

“Nicotine poisoning?” Ramona Pierce asked blankly. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“I have,” Barbara Thatcher said in a grim voice. “Wicked stuff. Terribly toxic.”

It was Sunday evening, and Ruby and I and our two hostesses were seated at the table in the dining room of Ramona and Barbara’s home, finishing a wonderful dinner of fresh garden vegetables and penne pasta with herbs—one of Barbara’s specialty recipes. It was a pretty room, with a pair of French doors that opened out onto a patio bordered with rosemary, and the setting sun cast a golden light over Ramona’s garden. The two women had bought the house together the previous year.
Barbara practices law in San Antonio, and Ramona has her own interior decorating business.

I nodded, agreeing with Barbara. “Tobacco is toxic, all right. It’s one of our most problematic herbs.”

Ruby looked up from her plate. “You’re saying that tobacco is an
herb
?”

“Sure,” I said. “It’s a member of the nightshade family, like peppers, tomatoes, and eggplant—and potatoes, too.” I forked up a few veggies to demonstrate. “Over the centuries, tobacco has been used to treat all kinds of ailments, including cancer. But it is most definitely toxic.”

Ramona frowned. “I know that cigarettes are bad news, but—”

“It’s not just cigarettes,” Barbara said. “When I was in the DA’s office, we prosecuted a case where the killer poisoned his victim with a nicotine-based pesticide.”

“Gardeners sometimes brew up their own pesticide by steeping cigarettes in water,” I said. “Some people have been accidentally poisoned just by getting it on their hands.”

Barbara looked at me curiously. “So the police, acting on a tip, searched Jessica Powell’s room?”

“And found the tobacco can,” Ruby said. “They think she made a nicotine concentrate and somehow administered it to Hannah. In her coffee, maybe, or in some strong-tasting food, like chili.”

“But
why
?” Ramona asked, frowning. “Everyone liked Hannah. We’ll all miss her.”

“Because Jessica was the beneficiary of her will,” I said.

“And Hannah had become afraid of her and was planning to change it,” Ruby explained. “Jessica must have realized what Hannah had in mind, and decided to take action.”

Barbara raised her eyebrows. “Hannah was planning to alter her will?”

“That’s why she called China,” Ruby explained. “According to Luella Mitchell, her aunt intended to make a new will and—”

“But Hannah just made that will,” Barbara said, “not three weeks ago! I know, because I prepared it for her. I can’t believe she’d decide to change it without consulting me.”

I stared at her. “You were Hannah Bucher’s lawyer?”

“For over two years,” Barbara replied. “And she never said a word about being afraid. Hannah and Jessica were friends long before I came into the picture. Hannah gave her a place to live and a job right after she got out of prison.”

“Jessica killed someone,” I remarked. “At least, that’s what Hannah’s niece told us.”

Barbara made a face. “Seven or eight years ago, she shot her abusive husband and spent the next six years in prison. But times have changed. If the case came to trial today, even here in Texas, she’d get a lighter sentence.”

Ramona frowned. “Maybe Hannah just didn’t want to tell you that she was afraid of Jessica.”

“Maybe,” Barbara replied slowly. She didn’t sound convinced. “But she
did
tell me that she was afraid of her brother. That was why she didn’t want her property to go to him.”

“Her brother?” I asked.

Barbara nodded. “Harold. He’s Luella’s father. When Hannah told him that the house and gardens were going to Jessica, he got so angry that she thought he was going to hit her.” She poured herself a second cup of coffee and passed around a plate of lemon madeleines that Ramona had made. “If you ask me, the case against Jessica Powell isn’t as open and shut as it might seem.”

 

 

We could have asked the police to talk to Harold Bucher, but since they had already arrested Jessica Powell, they were probably satisfied that they had the killer in custody. Ruby and I were curious about Hannah’s brother, though—and anyway, it was a beautiful Monday morning, and our day off. So we got directions to the Bucher ranch, and after breakfast with Ramona and Barbara, climbed in the car and drove north on Cedar Crossing Road for ten miles or so.

Cattle ranching isn’t as profitable as it used to be, and in this part of Texas, a great many of the large ranches have been broken up and sold. Barbara had told us that the Bucher ranch—the B-Bar-R—had been a huge spread once. Now, all that was left was the old ranch house, built of native stone and nestled into a grove of willow trees where Harold Bucher lived. Around it bloomed a wild garden, filled with wildflowers and herbs: echinacea, tansy, and Joe-Pye weed.

“Looks like Hannah and her brother shared one interest, anyway,” Ruby remarked as we got out of the car. “They were both gardeners.”