Deadly Thyme

by R. L. Nolen

  Jon decided to thwart Mr. Malone’s plans by bypassing his wife on the interview list for the moment. The next person to be interviewed entered the cubicle with shoulders slumped and face averted. The tall woman’s mouse-colored hair was pulled back severely into a knot, though some strands had escaped, feathering out from the sides of her head to frame thick-rimmed glasses. The silky, smooth skin on her face covered a delicate bone structure most women could only hope for. If she took the time, she could be a classic beauty. Jon wondered why she chose to hide behind herself. He pulled out a chair.

  “Miss Karen Gower?”

  She nodded.

  “You’re the Perrin’s Point librarian? We’ve met. You helped me with some research.”

  She nodded again.

  Jon noted her clothing was a good quality but not the latest style, by any means. Her hands lay calmly on the table in front of her. Well preserved for a woman of forty.

  “Could you tell us what you knew of Mr. Tavish?” Jon wondered if she would nod her way through the interview. She leaned forward. He was surprised at the tears running down her face. She made no attempt to brush them away.

  “I would not be alive right now,” she said, her voice deep and softly melodic, “if not for Mr. Tavish.”

  Jon took this in. As far as he knew, this was the first person to reveal Tavy might not have been entirely consistent in keeping himself to himself. “What do you mean, Miss Gower?”

  She stared straight ahead. What he could see of her eyes revealed irises of deep Wedgwood blue. Her expression was hard to read. Strength? Hardness? Unbearable sorrow?

  “When I moved here it was to … bury myself away. Tavy came to the library often. It started out … We talked about books mainly. Gradually, we became friends. He told me about his daughter, how much he missed her. Told me I reminded him of what she might have been like if she had lived.” The tears started again. “I loved him for that. He didn’t have to say it. He talked about forgiveness … at my lowest point … He sensed my despair. He talked me out of it.”

  “It?”

  “Killing myself.”

  Jon waited for more. Her posture suggested she expected a challenge.

  Very softly Perstow said, “The past is behind you, Karen.”

  She sat up at that. She turned to Perstow as if seeing him for the first time. She had a dazzling smile. “That’s what Tavy would have said.” She pushed back a thick strand of hair that draped across her forehead.

  Jon held in an audible gasp. A thin red scar cut across her forehead from side to side, as if someone had tried to scalp her.

  She caught his eye. “I see my past every day.”

  Jon found his voice. “Can you think of anyone who would want to do Tavy harm?”

  “That’s just it. He was the kindest man.” Miss Gower stared down at her hands. “I can only think he must have frightened someone. His way of talking, saving his words for important things, I imagine he knew something, or he knew … the child’s murderer.”

  “Did he mention living family members, how he felt about them?”

  More hair fell forward into her face when she dropped her eyes. She pushed it back. “Yes! A great-nephew. He was very fond of him, I recall.”

  “Did Tavy ever indicate to you there was trouble with the great-nephew?” Jon asked. “Think hard, Miss Gower. This is important.”

  “He spoke warmly of him, said he enjoyed his company whenever he came to visit.”

  Perstow leaned back. “Thank you, Karen. You’ve been a great help. You will miss him. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  She signed papers and left.

  Jon looked over at Perstow. “I wonder why Mr. Malone would’ve lied about the shouting great-nephew. Or did someone else wear a floppy, beat-up hat like Tavy’s?”

  Next was Mrs. Malone. Jon walked out into the large room and motioned for her to come. Mr. Malone sat glowering in a corner.

  Mrs. Malone stood. She was a woman of understated elegance from the style of her hair to the tips of her shoes.

  After they were settled in the interview room, Mrs. Malone leaned forward and touched Jon’s arm. “I am so sorry for Mrs. Butler. This latest tragedy has me losing sleep.”

  “Why’s that?” Jon asked.

  “The village has always been so … so quiet.”

  He watched her slender hands move gracefully up to finger a gold chain around her neck. She said, “In the few months of tourist season we get noise. As for me, I love the quiet. Now … I don’t feel comfortable here, or free, the way I have in the past.”

  “Did you know Tavy well?”

  “Not really. At the pub, we would talk sometimes—about gardening. He knew the names of the plants and trees. I tried his herbal remedy for colds. It worked.”

  “What was it?” Jon asked.

  “Tea made from the wild thyme. Stopped a cough.” She smiled and played with the end of a strand of hair.

  Warmth flushed from deep within. Here was something important. “Did Tavy ever discuss other uses for thyme or its meaning?”

  “Yes. He said it meant courage. It’s good for the digestion. If, every day, you take a teaspoon of honey the bees have made from the thyme flowers, you won’t have allergies. He was brilliant.”

  “Seems he had a good student in you,” Perstow offered.

  “Did he never mention its local connection with death or rituals?” Jon studied the way she fidgeted with her hair and pulled on her fingers, practically wringing her hands. She seemed to have lost weight from a week ago.

  She looked horrified. “No!”

  “Does your husband share your enthusiasm for gardening?”

  “He says he hates gardening. Black thumbs. But he knows a lot about it. He says he studies it to aide in his guided garden tours.”

  “Did your husband use any of the remedies you made with the local herbs?” Jon asked.

  “My dear husband insisted he would never take anything made with local herbs.”

  “Why’s that, Mrs. Malone?”

  “Said I was trying to poison him.” Mrs. Malone sat at the edge of her chair.

  “Why would he say that?”

  “I used thyme one evening in the pork. Something upset his stomach that night and he said it was the supper. Forbade my using anything freshly green to cook with again. It’s all very frustrating.”

  “Does your husband have stomach problems?” Jon asked.

  “Not usually.”

  “You had a nice friendship with Tavy?”

  “Oh yes.”

  Jon went on to ask more questions. She hadn’t talked to Tavy in weeks and hadn’t seen him in all that time. Interview terminated.

  By the time Jon made his way back from the men’s toilet, Mr. and Mrs. Malone were gone. He glanced over the notes from some telephone interviews and looked over the china board, adding a detail here and there.

  Perstow and the tall constable Stark stood in a corner of the incident room talking quietly. Whenever Jon saw Stark he thought instantly of a stork, so remembered his name. Stark dabbed at his red nose with a handkerchief.

  Jon called out, “Constable, weren’t you in charge of tea and crumpets?”

  Stark held up both hands as if he was giving up.

  Perstow bantered back, “Something wrong with the electric kettle.”

  The officers grumbled about no tea as they signed out of computers, gathered papers and joined Jon in the main common area. Several mobiles were trilling sporadically with officers answering or turning off the volume. Some were mashing at their mobiles, sending hurried texts.

  Jon sent one of the men out for some sort of machine that would provide reliable hot water. In the break area there were plenty of biscuits and tea bags—useless without hot water.

  Perstow piped up, “Just heard from the DCI. He’s coming in tomorrow.”

  “Good,” Jon said. “Well, Stark, anything on your end?”

  The tall constable cleared his throat. “The only thin�
� stands out is the one statement by the postmistress.”

  “How so?” Jon asked.

  “I’ve talked to her many a time about the murder. She’d give me bits and bobs.” He swiped at his long nose. “Tavy came into her shop Thursday week and wanted to know if any farm animals had been poisoned or lamed, and that’s not all.” Stark peered at his notes. “He wished to know who received the most mail-order catalogues—in particular, from plant centers—and if those same people received pharmaceutical supplies from mail-order chemists.”

  “And the postmistress would remember that?” Perstow sounded amazed.

  “She said she never paid any attention to that sort of thing.”

  “I bet. Well, it is interesting,” Jon said, wondering.

  “The postmistress seemed so adamant about not remembering,” Stark said and sneezed.

  “You think she was lying?” Jon asked. Of course she was lying, he thought, but wanted Stark’s impression.

  “I’m certain of it.”

  “I would like to interview her again.” Jon nodded at Perstow. “It might be good to get the answers to those questions.”

  Stark looked hopeful. “Getting on for dinner time, innit?”

  Jon glanced at the time on his mobile. Just because he and Perstow had had a late lunch didn’t mean others weren’t going hungry. “It is. You may go.”

  Stark grabbed up his jacket.

  As Perstow prepared to follow, Jon stopped him. “Do you mind waiting back a bit?”

  “No, sar.”

  “What’s the story on Miss Gower?”

  “Ah!” Perstow said. “Noticed the scar, did you? Happened in the village where she’s from. A girl jealous of Miss Gower’s looks had her boyfriend attack her. He took it to levels not planned. Raped her and cut her. Almost didn’t survive. Poor, poor lady.”

  “So she hides out in the Perrin’s Point library. Sad story.”

  “Aye! Sad indeed, but she’s better for being here. Good place to live—before now.” Perstow shook his head and made a sucking sound through his teeth. “Before this.”

  43

  Early Monday morning

  Day sixteen

  Jon looked up from his reports when the Perrin’s Point police station’s door opened. Trewe walked in. He held his back straight, but an unhealthy pallor still marked the area of skin around his eyes and lips. Jon was surprised. “Well, you’re back then?”

  “Aye, part of the day if the doctors get their say, which they won’t. Bollocks. I’m too close to retirement, I told them, I’m not putting in for sick leave now.”

  “But you really should listen—”

  “I said bollocks!”

  Jon wondered how Trewe would react to his initiative to rekindle the search for Annie Butler. How much time did they have before he called off the search? Would there be any progress made at all? The clock was ticking. He wondered how Annie Butler was doing. He didn’t want to think about what might be happening to her. He checked his mobile for messages. There was nothing he had to respond to immediately.

  He stared at the typed sheet in his hands. This would not make Trewe’s day much better, but it certainly had his. He ventured to ask, “What did the doctors say?”

  “IBS. Irritable Bowel Syndrome or some such unlikely name. Could have knocked me over with a feather—thought it was the heart—it is that painful.”

  “So I’ve heard, poor—”

  “Do not say it. I’m well enough to walk, I’m well enough to be here. Tell me the latest.” Trewe’s relief that there was nothing deadly eating away at his insides was obvious.

  “Well, it may not be on the top of your list of happy news …”

  “Tell me,” Trewe growled, sounding his old self again.

  “Right.” He handed over the urgent fax that had just arrived from the crime lab.

  Ruth had not slept well. Her hand still hurt. She sat on her step outside her front door, drinking a mug of hot sweet tea, staring blankly at the trees across the road, her bandaged hand cradled in her lap. She was waiting like a fly caught in a web. The spider hadn’t shown itself yet. To complicate matters, Sam confessed to being too in love with her to be thinking clearly, asked would she please forgive him, and said he would leave her alone. She felt like a complete lout for throwing him out on his ear. Maybe she should consider asking him to represent her with her imminent deportation problem.

  The American IRS had already phoned her about back taxes. The American Bureau of Vital Statistics had sent her a letter about her name and Annie’s name. The American FBI had emailed her informing her that they needed to schedule a meeting. She wasn’t in much trouble—she was in loads of trouble. She had heard that she could possibly face prison time for using an alias to exit the United States and enter Britain.

  It was too much, all of this bureaucratic mess combined with losing her daughter. It was too much. She had even snapped at her mother like she was a teenager all over again. This crazy anger wasn’t rational, but she couldn’t help but be a little bitter towards her mother. Why couldn’t her mother have come when Annie was alive? Annie needed her grandmother, too. Things might have been different if she’d had another pair of eyes—an older, wiser person who loved Annie, too. Things might have been different, and Annie wouldn’t have been abducted.

  When Annie first went missing she couldn’t function, couldn’t feel anything. Every reminder of Annie brought tears, from Mandy staring at Ruth with her wise cat-eyes, to walking anywhere around the village. She felt like she was falling apart in bits every day. Losing Annie had been her fault. It was her fault. Overwhelming sadness had become resentment towards her mother for not being there, even if that was an unreasonable thought, added to fury at Sam for being a dolt, added to rage at herself for being stupid-angry at everybody.

  She forced her thoughts to anything else—like travel, someplace she’d already been. An overnight in Nice? Paris? London? London was charismatic and claustrophobic all in one thought. She enjoyed London for short bursts, but it was too car-exhaust smelling and the traffic noise at night kept her awake. But she couldn’t go anywhere without Annie. Annie was out there somewhere under the same sun, the same sky. If only she knew where. She often thought of this when she thought of her mother and her loved ones in Texas. They were over there, west, under the same sky.

  It is funny how a place can settle a restless soul. Most people sought out their roots. She, however, had been glad to see Texas behind her. She had taken her child and searched for she knew not what until she came to Cornwall. She realized now that she had been searching for what she found in Cornwall all along. Attracted as one can be with an old friend, Cornwall, with its wild open-places and ever-changing weather, touched in her soul a familiarity with the Texas coast. Here, she developed a new sense of the delicate balance in nature that she could not remember from her past. The only color that she could really remember from Texas was the many variables of brown. Here, she had the many hues of the sea and the greens of the fields to keep her bursting with creative joy.

  Absorbed in thought, she didn’t hear the white Mini until its tires scraped against the pavement edge in front of her walkway. A white Mini … seemed like she knew whose car it was. Oh yes. She heard the handbrake being set. Detective Inspector Jon Graham exited first, then Constable Craig and Sergeant Perstow. Mr. Graham rounded the car’s hood. He looked eager. She wondered what he wanted as he walked toward her. He had a neat, compact way about him. “Mrs. Butler, we have some news.”

  Ruth swallowed, her heart did a backflip. She jumped up. “What is it?”

  “Wouldn’t you rather we talked inside?”

  “Tell me now.”

  Jon looked at the windows of neighboring cottages, clearly uncomfortable. “You don’t want us standing on your front step.”

  “Of course.” She opened the door. “Take a seat.”

  Jon looked as if he needed more sleep. Ruth wanted to touch his face, let him know he didn’t need to be un
comfortable around her.

  “Didn’t you sleep well last night?” she asked and then thought, What a ridiculous question, don’t embarrass him.

  “I haven’t slept. The news came through early enough to catch me at the station, and I knew I could not sleep then. So I finished a lot of paperwork.”

  “Can I get you tea?” Ruth offered. She tried to figure out what Jon’s expression meant. “I’m not so sure I want to hear what you have to say. Just tell me.”

  “Mrs. Butler,” Perstow stood to one side of her. His voice struck a note of calm despite what his words said. “Ye might want to have your mom here with you, actually.”

  Constable Craig laid a hand on Ruth’s arm and positioned herself near Ruth’s other shoulder.

  “What?” Breathing hard, Ruth pivoted toward Jon. They must have horrible news. “You better tell me now, Mr. Graham.”

  “We did get the DNA back. The body of the girl in the surf was not Annie.”

  44

  The quiet swallowed up Ruth Butler’s cottage. Jon wanted to rejoice with her, but there would be no rejoicing until they found Annie alive. Sunlight streamed through the cottage doorway, caught each painting of Annie, and pooled on the floor where the white cat took up a curled position. The light brought to Jon’s attention the awards and school honors that were taped to the wall between each of the paintings.

  Jon stood near Ruth. Her face was too white. He stepped closer to her and took her arm. “Perhaps you’d like to take a seat?”

  A whistle rose from the kitchen.

  “The kettle …” Ruth mumbled.

  “How about that tea now?” Jon offered. Stop being so stupidly cheerful, no one has given her anything she didn’t know.

  Constable Craig said, “I’ll get the tea.”

  Jon turned toward Ruth. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. It broke his heart.