Thyme of Death (17 page)

The drizzle had stopped, the gray
had given way to blue, and the sun was shining. Lounging comfortably in a white
wicker chair on the small patio outside the cottage, Roz was the picture of
late-morning leisure. She was wearing a silky pink robe, velvet-sashed, with a
pink satin rose in one velvet lapel and matching pink satin mules with pink net
rosettes. She had already put on makeup and her dusty blond hair was softly arranged.
There was a glass of tomato juice, no doubt spiced with her morning’s ration of
garlic, on the wicker table at her elbow, and she was reading Thursday’s
New
York Times,
which is always two days late getting to Pecan Springs.

Roz put down the paper when she saw
me coming through the herb garden. “Good morning, China,” she said, smiling. “How
nice
to see you.” She gestured at the pink rose gracing the stone wall
over her head. “I’m enjoying your lovely place.” I sat down, returning her
smile. “I haven’t been a very good hostess, I’m afraid. I meant to ask if you
wanted to do something together yesterday evening. I hope you weren’t too bored
all by yourself.”

“I wasn’t by myself,” Roz replied
comfortably, sipping her juice. “I visited an old friend in Austin, somebody
who goes back to the days when I was doing commercials and children’s theater
there. We had a great evening talking about old times.”

I looked at Roz. Was she lying? I
could probably find out with a few pointed questions, but I didn’t want to
alert her. I’d thought of a better way to make her show her hand.

“I’m glad you enjoyed yourself,” I
replied casually.

“Unfortunately, Meredith didn’t have
such a pleasant evening. Somebody broke into Jo’s house.”

Roz’s blue eyes widened. “Why,
China—how awful! Did they take anything valuable?”

“Some antique silver,” I said. “But
there was quite a mess—books and papers all over the floor, drawers pulled out,
that sort of thing. Meredith was very upset, of course.”

“Do the police have any idea who did
it?”

I shook my head. “The chief of
police feels it was probably kids, looking for drug money. There were no
prints.” I hesitated. “Actually, I’m telling you because I don’t want you to
worry.”

“Worry? About what?”

“About your letters. I was afraid
you might hear about the break-in and think that they’d been taken. But that
isn’t the case. They’re safe at my house, under my bed.”

Roz’s gasp was authentic.
“You
have
the letters?”

“Isn’t that just the way?” I said,
spreading my hands. “There you were, asking Meredith, and I was the one who had
them. I wish I’d known.”

“You didn’t know?”

“I’m afraid not,” I said ruefully. “Sometime
in the last few weeks, apparently, Jo put her journals and letters into a
couple of boxes and stuck a note on them, asking me to dispose of them as I—”

Roz looked at me, her face carefully
composed. “Journals?” There was a pause. “I didn’t know Jo kept journals.”

“Apparently she did,” I replied. “There’s
a box full of them. She seems to have documented her life very fully, at least
back through the 1970s. I guess that was before you knew her.”

Roz picked up her juice glass, then
put it back down again. “How ... interesting.”

“Anyway,” I went on, “Meredith found
the boxes and gave them to me, with Jo’s note. At her mother’s request, she
didn’t open them. That’s why she didn’t know what’s in them. I didn’t open the
boxes, either, until this morning. That’s why I didn’t know. Sorry. It’s rather
a mess.”

“Oh, that’s all right, as long as
the letters are safe.” Roz swallowed, her jaw working. “You haven’t... read
them?”

I rolled my eyes. “Roz, you wouldn’t
believe
how busy I’ve been. I kept meaning to get to those boxes, but
somehow the time got away from me. I opened them for the first time just a
little while ago. That’s what I wanted to tell you. Ruby’s coming over for
dinner this evening, and we’re going to an art show at the university. I won’t
get back until late. So I’ve put everything back in the boxes. They’ll be safe
enough under my bed until I can get them sorted. Tomorrow’s Sunday, and I’ll
have some time to get the stuff organized.”

Roz leaned forward eagerly. “I’ve
got a better idea, China. Why don’t I just come with you now and get my
letters? That’ll be one less batch of stuff you’ll have to sort.”

“Gosh, thanks, Roz,” I said. “It’s a
generous offer, and it
would
make my job easier. But I’m afraid there’s
a problem.”

“What is it?” Roz asked faintly.

I straightened up. “You see, since
Jo left instructions to me to dispose of her papers as I see fit, the court
views me as her literary executor.” That statement would stand up in court, but
what was coming definitely
wouldn’t.
“I have the impression that she
thought her papers would be of public interest. As you know, she was a
prominent person here in Pecan Springs, and she made a great many contributions
to the community. I just contacted Dr. Alice Dale, the director of the CTSU
library. She’s enthusiastic about our designating the university library as the
repository for Jo’s letters and journals—in fact,
all
her personal
papers.”

Roz’s face turned ashen. “The
library?”

I put on a pleased look. “Yes, isn’t
it wonderful? Alice says the papers will go to the Notable Women of Texas
Collection, where they’ll be available to the public. Meredith is thrilled with
the idea, and when I called Mayor Perkins—” I clucked my tongue, laying it on
thicker just for the hell of it. “Well, of course, you understand what an honor
this is for Pecan Springs. The mayor hopes that Jo’s friends will create an
endowment to see that the papers are properly cataloged and displayed. She’s
asked me to approach
you
for the first contribution to—”

Roz’s knuckles were white as she
clutched the arm of the wicker chair. “But my letters! What about my letters?”

I leaned back, relaxed, very much
the lawyer. In fact, I’d had to do some research on a topic rather similar to
this for one of the legal education seminars that lawyers have to attend every
year. “You know, the law is a funny thing. It splits hairs. With regard to
letters, courts hold that they are copyrightable, and that the author of a
letter has exclusive rights in it.”

“There you are. Exclusive rights.”

I held up my hand. “The recipient,
however, owns the physical document—the paper and ink with which the letter was
written. The courts have held that the recipient may show the letter to others
or deposit it in a library or archive and set the terms of access.”

Roz uncrossed her legs nervously and
then recrossed them, showing a bit of well-cared-for thigh. One pink satin mule
fell off a shapely foot, but she made no move to retrieve it. ‘Terms of access?
What does that mean?”

“Jo, or in this case, her
representative, can decide who the library permits to see the letters. You, as
the owner of the copyright, can copy the letters for your collection. And of
course you have first right of publication—”

“Publication? But what if I don’t
intend
to publish them? What if I’d rather burn them?”

“I’m afraid you can’t burn them,” I
said regretfully. “They are the property of Jo’s estate. But you can prohibit
their publication. Their verbatim publication, that is.”

“What do you mean?”

“The copyright holder can deny
anyone the right to quote from the letters. But scholars or writers who have
access to Jo’s material can use the information in it. The factual content is
not copyrightable, you see—only the expressive content.” I smiled, showing all
my teeth. “That’s what belongs to you, Roz. The expressive content.”

Roz pulled herself together. “I don’t
want anybody using that personal information,” she said. “I’ll sue.”

I shook my head. “Then you’ll lose.
You might consult Salinger v. Random House Inc.,” I added helpfully. “Court of
Appeals, Second Circuit, early 1987,
I
think it
was. I can dig up the citation if you’re interested. In that case, the Court
held that Ian Hamilton, the biographer of novelist J. D. Salinger, was
entitled to use the facts he learned in certain personal letters written by
Salinger and donated by their recipients to Harvard, Princeton, and—”

“But... but what about privacy?’ Roz
asked. Her desperation was so thinly veiled that I might have felt sorry for
her if I weren’t convinced that she was our burglar. And if it weren’t for the
suspicion that she’d had something to do with Jo’s death. “Don’t I— doesn’t Jo
have a right to
privacy!”

I dismissed her question with a
wave. “Meredith and I discussed it this morning, and we both agree. There might
be a skeleton or two in Jo’s closet, but we think it’s important for the lives
of public figures—especially women—to be made totally available, without reservation.
Don’t you agree?”

Roz was twisting her fingers in her
lap. “Even if someone else gets hurt?” Her question was almost a whimper.

I paused. “Of course, that’s a
consideration. But scholars are objective. The facts, whatever they are, will
be presented with great impartiality. I’m sure no one who knew Jo or loved her
has
anything
to fear. Anyway, neither Meredith nor I can think of anyone
who would be particularly hurt. Can you?”

Roz evaded my question. “It sounds
as if you’ve already made up your mind.”

‘To donate the papers to the
library? Well, yes, actually I have. But it’s not just my decision,” I added
cheerfully. “Meredith is certainly in favor of it, and the mayor, and Alice
Dale.” I gave her a comforting smile. “Your letters will be in very safe hands.
They are a valuable resource for scholars to study and—”

Roz gave a weak nod.

“I can see how pleased you are,” I
said. I stood up. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to the shop. As
I said, I’ll be out until rather late this evening. But I’ll be home all day
tomorrow, if you’d like to look at the letters and decide which ones the
library should copy for you.”

Roz stood up too. “Thank you,” she
said. She seemed to be holding herself together with a great effort.

I went back to the shop. Ruby was
signing the delivery ticket for the herb order that had just come in. I checked
the register total to see what the sales had been like while I’d been gone. “It
looks like we didn’t have a thundering herd of customers.”

Ruby ticked off the sales on her
fingers. “Two books, some rose-scented soap, and the last of that basil vinegar,
over there on the corner shelf.” She pointed.

I took note of the empty spot. “Guess
it’s time to make some more vinegar.” Making and bottling herb vinegars is one
of my favorite evening tasks, and I love looking at the rows of sparkling
bottles on the shelves. It must be the same satisfaction that country women
have when they look at the rows of canned green beans on the cellar shelves. “Thanks
for minding the shop, Ruby.”

“My turn this afternoon,” she
reminded me. “I’d like to leave at three.”

I hesitated. “Would it be okay if I
phoned Laurel and asked her to come over? I’ve got something to do, too.”

“Sure. It’s not like we’ve got
customers coming out of our ears.”

I pulled my brows together. “Listen,
Ruby, about the show tonight—”

Ruby looked annoyed. “You’re not
folding on me, are you?”

“No, but the plans have changed a
little. I’m afraid I have to skip Mary’s show, and I need your help.”

“Help with what?”

“For after-dinner entertainment, we’re
doing a stakeout.”

“A stakeout?” Ruby asked warily. “Who
are we staking out?”

“You’ll see,” I said. “Come at
seven. Wear jeans, huh? And a dark shirt.” If I’d had my druthers, I might have
wished for McQuaid as a stakeout partner. He’s had a lot of experience with
this sort of thing, and he’s got about sixty pounds more brawn man Ruby. But
McQuaid was camping with Brian. Ruby and I would have to handle it together.

Ruby was looking dubious. “What are
we going to
do?”

“I’ve baited a little trap,” I said
cheerfully. “We’re going to wait for a rat to break and enter.”

But before tonight’s stakeout, I had
to take care of something else. Laurel came at three to watch both stores for
the last couple of hours before closing. I opened the herb order and took out
the valerian that Violett had asked for.

Valerian smells like a locker room.
It should be stored in a tightly lidded container, away from anything that
absorbs odor. Away from cats, too. Most cats think it’s even sexier than
catnip, and go moderately bananas over it. But valerian is a strong natural
sedative, loaded with something called valepotriates that relax muscles, calm
nervous energy, and release tension. Unfortunately, there’s a misleading
similarity between the name of the herb and Valium, which is a potent and
addictive synthetic drug made from petrochemicals. It’s surprising how many
people still believe that the two are related. I knew first-hand about the
dangers of Valium, because it was one of Leatha’s drugs of choice.
Valeriana
officinalis
is entirely different. If insomnia was Violett’s problem, she
was right to ask for it.

I sacked a couple of ounces of the
herb and stuck the sack in my purse. Then I said good-bye to Laurel and headed
next door, to the Craft Emporium. When I got there, I found a
closed
sign hung on Violett’s Doll
House. I went in search of Constance, whom I located in her broom-closet office
under the grand staircase. There are brooms still in it, hanging on the back
wall, and there’s a mop bucket under the plywood shelf that serves as her desk.
The shelf is always littered with curls of adding machine tape and mounds of
bills that seem to grow higher every day.

Constance was never cut out to be a
businesswoman, and her relationship to the Craft Emporium is one of harried
struggle. When I think of her and the Emporium, I imagine a frazzled chipmunk
trying to push a large, balky white elephant. Constance has spunk, but she’s
met her match in the Emporium’s leaky roof, sagging floors, and unreliable
plumbing. Not to mention its itinerant tenants whose cash flow is like a West
Texas creek—intermittent in good times, dried up in a drought.

As Constance moved her pudgy elbows,
a drift of papers and pink phone slips fluttered to the floor. There was a
chocolate stain on her blue denim jumper, and her red turtleneck was wet under
the arms. The broom closet isn’t air-conditioned, and it was hot and stuffy.
Her perm had frizzed out all over her head, and she’d taken her shoes off and
propped her fat, red-stockinged feet on the mop bucket.

“Have you seen Violett?” I asked.

“She looked like death warmed over.
I sent her home.” Constance fixed me with brightly avid eyes. “You know she had
a nervous breakdown once?”

I raised my eyebrows. “Violett? No,
I didn’t. When?’

“Just after old Mrs. Hall died.
Violett took care of her mother for, oh, nine-ten years maybe, not gettin’ out
of the house except to go to church and the grocery store. The only other thang
she did was make dolls. When the old lady died, she went all to pieces. Real
basket case.”

I made a sympathetic noise. It
sounded as if Violett had been thoroughly victimized by life’s circumstances.

Constance picked up a stray piece of
adding machine tape that had just snaked from the pile, then she wrenched her
attention back to the conversation. “She was totally out of it for a few days,
hysterical, throwing thangs, carryin’ on—mostly about sex.”

“Violett?” I was surprised. Meek,
mild Violett was one of the least violent people I’d ever met. It was hard to
imagine her getting up the energy to sneeze, much less throw something.

“Really, you wouldn’t have known the
poor thang. Out of her gourd. Even the minister was embarrassed, and of course
he hears
ever’thang,
people’s sins, lust, shopliftin’, all that.
Finally, a couple of deacons hauled her off to the state hospital in Austin.
She was a whole lot quieter when she got back, didn’t talk about sex, didn’t
talk much at all, actually.” She pursed her mouth. “She didn’t even want to do
her dolls. But after I told her she ought to open a shop and fixed up the
nursery for her, she got better. Those dolls are her life. The dolls, and those
cats and birds of hers. They’re like her children.” With an exasperated glance
at the offending adding machine tape, Constance impaled it on a wicked-looking
spindle.

I frowned. “What’s this about sex?”

“Well, like I started to tell you
this mornin’, Violett’s got this obsession.”

“How do you know?”

“Well, back when she was havin’ her
nervous breakdown, I was the only one who offered to sit with her.” She gave a
short, scornful laugh. “And me a Presbyterian. Wouldn’t you think those
deacons’ wives would’ve been Christian enough to at least give an afternoon to
the poor soul? But no, it was me, so I got treated to her ravin’s for the
better part of a week, before they hauled her off to Austin. Mostly what she
carried on about was sex. Growin’ up, she was her father’s little girl. After
he died, she was stuck at home with the old lady, with nothin’ but the Bible
and her dolls for company. Mrs. Hall wouldn’t let her look sidewise at a man.
Wouldn’t even let her have a tee-vee.” I could have said that not having a TV
might be a healthy thing for one’s sex drive, but I didn’t. “Her ravin’s were
mostly about Miss Ima’s boyfriend,” she added with relish.

I raised both eyebrows. This was
getting juicier by the minute. “Miss Ima had a
boyfriend?”
I asked. Ima
and Erma Mason, twin sisters, both in their eighties, are Violett’s closest
neighbors. Miss Ima is vivacious and sprightly enough, but I hadn’t heard
anything about a boyfriend.

Constance moved her elbows and a few
more pieces of paper drifted into her blue-denim lap. “Course, it was only old
Sam Peavy. He comes over every couple of weeks to mow the grass and help Miss
Ima and Miss Erma keep up the roses. But Violett took it into her head that Ima
and old Sam were committin’ sins of the flesh. I doubt Miss Ima gave a hoot
what Violett said. She’s had quite a checkered past. But it was
very
embarrassin’
for poor Erma, because it was spring and the windows were open and she could
hear every last word of Violett’s carryings-on. You know Erma, so proper and
genteel. It worried her no end that the neighbors might think there actually
was somethin’ between Ima and Sam Peavy. Especially her neighbor on the west,
who’s a Jehovah’s Witness.”

I reflected. If it weren’t for the
letters, Violett’s story about Roz and Jo could be a figment of her hysterical
imagination, like the story about Ima and her lawn-mowing lover. However, there
were
the letters.

Constance combed through the papers
on her lap and found another adding machine tape. She glared at it balefully. “What
I’m tellin’ you is that Violett looked ever’ bit as bad today as she did when
she was havin’ her nervous breakdown. That’s why I sent her home.”

“I guess I’d better stop by and see
her,” I said. “I’ve got some valerian she ordered. It might help.”

But the herbs were only an excuse. I
had to persuade Violett not to talk to anyone else about Roz and Jo— which was
exactly what she might do, if she was as unstable as Constance thought.
Meredith had enough to handle without having to deal with gossip about her
mother’s love life. But more importantly, there was Roz. If she was capable of
slipping Jo a deadly combination of sleeping pills and booze to keep her
quiet, what would she do if she found out that Violett was wholesaling her sex
life to the public?

Constance hoisted herself out of her
chair, and the papers drifted from her lap to the floor. “If you’re goin’ to
Violett’s, will you tell her something for me?”

“Sure. What is it?”

She pointed at a calendar on the
wall. The first of the month had been circled in red. “You don’t need to make a
big fuss about it, but would you remind her about the rent? She brought it in
this mornin’, but when she heard about Roz and the Senator, she forgot to give
it to me. I never like to let my tenants get behind on their rent.”

I was tempted to tell her I didn’t
collect rents, but I wasn’t sure she’d know I was joking.

I biked over to Violett’s. Her house
is in an older part of town, a tract of one-and two-story frame homes dating
from before the First World War. The houses are shabby now, patched roofs green
with moss, guttering gone, porches sagging, iris borders overgrown with yellow
dock and quack grass. They’re lived in either by their elderly and feeble
owners, as decrepit as their property, or by renters who don’t give a damn. The
streets are poorly paved and full of potholes, or aren’t paved at all. Either
way, it’s potential disaster for bike riders, so I had to pay attention to
where I was going.

I knew where Violett lived, but I
still had trouble finding the house. It was hidden behind a scrubby oak clump
at the end of Juniper Street, a narrow lane with red cedar thick on either
side. There was another house on Juniper once, but it burned down and now there’s
nothing left but a limestone chimney inhabited by bats and quarrelsome
sparrows. Violett’s only neighbors, Ima and Erma Mason, live on the next street
over. Their backyard abuts Violett’s backyard. I’m familiar with this part of
the town’s geography because the Mason sisters invite the garden club to meet
in their yard once a year when their roses are in bloom. Two years ago, I was
invited to teach the ladies to make rose potpourri. Ever since, when the roses
bloom, Erma and Ima invite me to take all I want.

I parked my bike on the gravel lane
and walked down a narrow brick path, laid in an ancient herringbone pattern
and matted with grass. Violett’s house was a two-story frame structure
crouching behind an impenetrable tangle of agarita, fire thorn, and old rose
canes. The white paint had long ago scaled from the weathered gray siding, the
porch steps were splintered, and a gray shutter hung loose at one corner. A
half dozen cats were lounging comfortably on the front porch—several plump
orange tabbies, a couple of fluffy gray Persians, a shabby Manx, and one quite
large, arrogant-looking Siamese. They all scattered except for the Siamese,
who sniffed my jeans inquiringly and put a front paw firmly on my foot as I
knocked at the door.

“Watch it, cat,” I muttered. Some
people are great cat fanciers. Me, I’m usually neutral. But this one seemed
altogether too sure of himself. He blinked his blue eyes at me and put the
other front paw on my foot.

On the third knock, the front door
opened a crack and I heard Violett’s voice, thin and reedy. ‘Thank you, no,”
she said. “I don’t need any.”

“It’s China Bayles, Violett. I’ve
brought your herbs.”

“Oh,” she said. Then, reluctantly, “Well,
come in.”

The door opened and I followed the
cat into the semi-darkened living room, which smelled of furniture polish,
dusty drapes, and stale cooking odors. Violett stood clutching a navy cardigan
around her. I could see why Constance had sent her home. She had the look of
someone teetering on the edge. Her hair was in strings, her eyes deeply
shadowed; lines etched her mouth. There was a tic at the corner of her right
eye.