THE HERBALIST (Books 1-5)

by Leslie Leigh

  Flora called later in the evening. “Clay has set Jack’s memorial service for Friday at eleven at the cemetery in Bismuth.”

  “All right,” Melissa said. “I’ll ask Vivian and Kim to mind the store. Are we leaving at ten?”

  “Actually, I won’t be in at all that day. I promised Clay I would set up a little luncheon for their family and friends afterward.”

  “Are you going to cater it?”

  “Mmhmm.”

  “I’ll be glad to help you,” Melissa said.

  “Oh, Melissa, I couldn’t ask—”

  “Sure, you can and you should ask. I’d be more than happy. What were you thinking of doing?”

  “I’d like to make it as simple but as sumptuous as possible. I’m thinking veggie trays, antipasto trays, and then I’ll make several baguettes that morning before the girls comes in. Perhaps a salad or two, and then something for dessert.”

  “That sounds like way too much to do on your own. I’m betting we can get Carl and Dale to help with all the veggies. I still have some pickled vegetables from last year that we can make an antipasto plate with. Salads are easy; I even have some vegan marshmallows coming in, believe it or not. I can make ambrosia.”

  “Oh, that’s always a hit. But, seriously, vegan marshmallows?”

  “Yeah, they’re made with tapioca and tapioca syrup.”

  “Wonders never cease, but it still doesn’t sound like something you’d order for the store, Melissa.”

  “A lady asked for them the other day; she wants to try to make a vegan fondant icing, so I ordered a case of them. I thought if she was successful, maybe we’d try it ourselves.”

  “Or maybe we can even find out a way to make the marshmallows ourselves.”

  “That’s an idea,” Melissa said. “I guess when she asked, I was just too wrapped up in other things to think about experimenting right now.”

  “I understand.”

  “Flora? I want you to know that I told Brian this afternoon that I want to marry him.”

  “Want to?”

  “One step at a time, Flora.”

  “You’re right. I’ll stop dogging you now.”

  “Sure you will,” Melissa answered, laughing as she said it. “Sure you will.”

  # # #

  “Melissa? Detective Muller here. I only found one remotely interesting thing on George Walsh. He was a pharmacy tech before he moved to Bismuth.”

  “Oh, really?” she said, interested. “That doesn’t necessarily mean anything, but I wouldn’t rule out possibilities, either.”

  “That’s what I thought, too,” Muller said.

  “I’ll think on that for a while. I didn’t know whether you were aware that Jack Burroughs’ memorial service is going to be held at the Bismuth Cemetery tomorrow at eleven. It’s up to you whether or not you want to come, but somehow, I’m betting the killer shows up. You know, that old thing about returning to the scene of the crime? I’m pretty sure whoever it was is familiar with the scene of the crime—because it’s likely a hotel employee. We’ll just see if the curiosity goes even further.”

  “I’ll be there,” he said.

  Chapter 11

  As they arranged all the veggies that Dale and Kim had cut up the day before and kept on ice, Melissa brought Flora up to date on her phone call from Muller.

  “Who is George Walsh, now?” she asked.

  “Remember, he was the one who was promoting the whole John Dawes theory.”

  “Oh, that little pipsqueak?”

  Melissa laughed. “I just wonder why someone with a good job as a pharmacy tech would have moved to Bismuth to be a bellhop or waiter, or whatever you want to call him.”

  “Romantic interest, perhaps?”

  “I suppose with a young man that’s a big possibility.”

  “You do know that Bismuth has a large LGBT population—well, large in proportion to its size.”

  “I never thought about it,” Melissa said, “but I know they have that big gay pride event every year. Have you ever been to that?”

  “I went down one year with some friends. We just rented a room and spent the night so we could drink as much as we wanted.”

  “Flora! I’m so surprised.”

  “Oh, why, dear? I’m not nearly as pristine as you. Besides, I was once pretty counter-culture myself. Hippies, bikers, anarchists, LGBTQ, they all get together and have a good time.”

  “Which group do you fall under, Flora?”

  Flora grinned. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” she said. “Oh, and I forgot to include witches and pagans.”

  Melissa nodded. “Makes sense.”

  “Back to George Walsh,” Flora said, “he could have met someone and moved to Bismuth, or just move down to check out the scenery.”

  “The scenery?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Oh.”

  They made three large platters of veggies and antipasto, two of meat and cheese, and made, sliced, and toasted several baguettes. Melissa made two huge fruit salads, some hummus and tabouli, and two commercial containers of tea.

  Flora had rented the fellowship of a small non-sectarian chapel for the luncheon. She and Melissa and a couple of friends of Jack and Clay’s helped set up. By the time they finished, people were proceeding toward the striped pavilion set up for the memorial. Jack had already been cremated and the urn containing his ashes was set on a raised altar used for such occasions.

  Arrangements of purple hydrangeas and peacock feathers adorned either side of the table, and a photo of Jack and Clay was on one side with a studio photo of Jack on the other, both in frames. Memorabilia and memorial offerings that mourners had already brought, and which others would add after the service, was also on the table and on the ground in front of the table. Because of a long season this year, the growing season was prolonged and the grass in the cemetery was still green. In contrast, the stand of cottonwoods along the road was just turning gold at the tips.

  Two guitarists from a local folk and blues band played quiet tunes as everyone gathered. The music ceased, and a young man who Flora identified as Steven, a long-time friend of Clay’s got up and adjusted the microphone to speak. Movement caught the corner of Melissa’s eye, and she turned just in time to see Eli Varner and George Walsh hurrying down from the cottonwoods and across the cemetery toward the tent.

  “Most of you are here today because you are a friend, either of Jack’s or of Clay’s or, like me, of both. We are here to celebrate, not the sad passing of a friend, but the life of one who walked among us and brought us light. Jack Burroughs was…”

  Melissa turned partially in her seat and could see Varner and Walsh standing awkwardly at the back of the tent. The tent was packed, and there were no seats. Ironic, Melissa thought. Melissa had already picked out the female bartender who had told her about Eli and Jack’s relationship and a couple of other employees from the hotel.

  Several of Jack’s friends got up to talk about him, and by the end of their narratives, Melissa felt she had known him for a long time. Despite Clay’s talk about Jack’s moroseness, it obviously hadn’t put people off—they all spoke of Jack as someone warm and full of life, one who contemplated the tough questions and created poetry from his contemplations.

  Clay was last. He was sitting in the front row, flanked by several men who had their arms around him or were touching him in comforting gestures. Melissa had seen Clay weep more than once during some of the narratives, so she was surprised when he decided to speak.

  “I have few words of my own,” Clay said. “Jack Burroughs was the greatest friend and companion I could have ever hoped to have. The pain of his absence is like an arrow piercing my heart as the clock ticks each second away. My feelings for and understanding of Jack are best summed up by one of his own poems, as well as an elegy of Walt Whitman’s.”

  Clay proceeded to read Jack’s poem, which made him tear up once or twice, but his voice was stronger as he read Whitman’s elegiac w
ords:

  O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won, The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;

  But O heart! heart! heart! O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.

  Just as the service concluded, Flora and Melissa slipped quietly out of the tent to put the finishing touch on the luncheon. Melissa was glad that they had prepared as much food as they had; there would barely be enough to go around, but she was sure everyone would be satisfied. Flora had a huge tray of her meringues, light colors on the bottom and then the grape-colored ones on top. They were definitely a hit.

  When everything was finished and cleaned up, Flora didn’t see Clay anywhere. She and Melissa went back outside and saw him in the pavilion with the young man who had spoken first during the service.

  Clay was looking at some of the things that people had brought for Jack’s memorial table. “What’s this, Aunt Flora?” Clay asked, picking up a brown dropper bottle by its rubber top.

  She walked over to Clay, but before Flora could touch the bottle, Melissa called out, “No! Don’t anyone else touch it. Just set it down, Clay.”

  He looked startled but did as Melissa asked. Detective Muller had been waiting to speak to Melissa, but he stepped forward now at the commotion. Melissa looked at him. “Detective, do you have any latex gloves on you?”

  “Of course; a good detective always carries them,” he said.

  “Where have I heard that before?” Melissa said out loud to no one in particular. Muller dug a glove out of his pocket and handed it to her.

  “I’d like two, if you don’t mind,” she said, grinning at him.

  “Oh! No problem,” he said and handed her yet another.

  Melissa donned both gloves and picked up the bottle, holding it as daintily as possible and twisting off the lid. She got a good whiff before she even sniffed it and turned her head, quickly replacing the cap.

  “Your turn for gloves, Detective. I’m quite sure if we test this bottle we will find that it’s cyanide.”

  His jaw dropped, and he pulled out a pair of gloves as Melissa had requested and took the bottle from her. He didn’t bother to sniff it himself, he simply held the bottle in one hand and dropped the bottle into the second glove, tying it into a knot.

  “What? Why?” Clay asked.

  “I can think of several reasons—none of them pretty,” Melissa said. “First, just to be rid of the murder weapon. Second, hoping that you would take it home with you without knowing what it was, and then someone would make an anonymous tip to the sheriff’s department, and they would find it in your house. Or, at the very least, hoping that it might be buried alongside Jack so that it’s gone forever. I guess they just didn’t expect you to get curious.”

  Melissa saw Clay’s friend take him into his arms and give him comforting little kisses.

  Clay took the urn from the table.

  “I’ll box up the rest of these things and bring them out to the ranch,” Flora said. Then, looking at his friend, she continued, “It might be really nice if you would take the hydrangea arrangements, at least. They’re too gorgeous to be tossed, and they actually might help progress the grieving process.”

  “Leave it to Aunt Flora to always look out for me,” Clay said, smiling through his tears.

  “If you let me get him to the car,” the friend said, “I can come back and help you box this up. That will save you the long drive to the ranch.”

  Flora nodded, a bit hesitatingly. After he returned with the car, Flora helped him to pack up the things he felt Clay wanted to keep.

  “Nice to meet you, Aunt Flora. My name’s Steven. I look forward to seeing you again some time.”

  # # #

  There was silence for a little while on the drive back to Catalonia.

  “So what do you think about the cyanide, Melissa?” Flora said, finally breaking the quiet.

  “I feel like the killer is two steps ahead of us. Muller and I were planning an all-staff canvass for information which, of course, we hoped there would be enough to get us a search warrant for Eli Varner’s home and George Walsh’s room. Finding the bottle with no one attached to it is pretty pointless. I’m sure if they were clever enough to keep their fingerprints from the wine bottle and glass, they would have done the same to this bottle, but we can always hope they weren’t.”

  Flora nodded.

  “So, what do you think of Steven?” asked Melissa.

  “What do you mean?” asked Flora.

  “Do you know him at all?”

  “I don’t. Clay introduced him to me for the first time today. He mentioned only that he was an old friend and that he was going to begin the memorial service.”

  “So, no connection to the Grand Bismuth.”

  “Not that he mentioned.”

  “What’s his last name?”

  “Vander-something. Why?”

  “I just noticed they seemed close. Just wondering if we had another possible suspect, but I don’t recall a Vander-anything being on the staff list for the hotel.”

  Flora looked askance at Melissa. “If something were to happen to Brian, and I were showing you a lot of attention, affection, and care, would anybody think anything about it?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Well, then you needn’t think anything about the attention, affection, and care between Steven and Clay, either. So much of society looks at gay men and assumes that, since most men aren’t attentive and affectionate like that, that one who shows it to another man must be his lover. Now, I’m not saying that all gay men are like that—there have been some that gave no hint whatsoever that they were gay by their outward affections or mannerisms. But most gay men that I’ve made acquaintance with are just like Steven and Clay. They just seem to have more nurture and more tender sensibilities than the average male.”

  “I hate to think I’m so naïve about the world,” Melissa said, “or maybe I should say so suspicious. I suppose living in Catalonia limits my associations. But what about you? You live in Catalonia.”

  “But I haven’t always. I’ve traveled a great deal. What about you? Didn’t you know any gay men in college?”

  “I did. But knew them only in the sense of seeing them around and knowing who they were.”

  “I hope Brian talks you into doing some major traveling. A lot of people don’t realize that travel not only expands your knowledge, but also your thinking.”

  “I’m grateful for your guidance and wisdom, Flora—most of the time,” Melissa winked at her.

  Chapter 12

  Detective Muller called her Monday afternoon. “It is cyanide,” Melissa. “So, we do know it’s the murder weapon.”

  “Then, it’s a good bet the murderer was at the memorial. The person could have sent it with someone else, but somehow I doubt it—that would risk exposing the scheme.”

  “There were forty people there, Melissa. How are we going to narrow that down? And are you sure it wasn’t placed there before the service?”

  “I’m almost positive—given where it was on the table when Clay picked it up. I had looked over the memorial items before the service myself, wondering if I could find any clues. The bottle was not there then. I saw five hotel employees there today—Varner, Walsh, that female bartender that I talked to, and two of the maids. All of them, except the female bartender, were on duty the night of and the morning after Jack’s death.”

  “Do you think that eliminates the woman bartender?” asked Muller

  “Not necessarily, but I think it makes it less likely.”

  “What if there were employees there that we don’t know yet?”

  “We can still do an all-staff canvass, but let’s start with the five known first.”

  “That sounds like a plan. Do you want to wait until Friday morning when it’s more likely they’ll all be there a
gain since that’s the same day of the week we saw them the first time?”

  Melissa sighed. “I guess we could. I’m afraid that the longer we put this off the colder the trail will get.”

  “What trail? I think the best we can hope for is to put the pressure on the right person so that someone will either rat somebody out or confess.”

  “Tomorrow’s Tuesday. It was Tuesday that I first talked to that bartender who was at the funeral. I’ll try to get a hold of her sometime tomorrow.”

  “Sounds good. We still need to lean on Varner and Barnett a little more about their alibis.”

  “Give Clay another day or two and I’ll have his Aunt Flora talk to him again. Then, once we hear his story again, we can press Varner.”

  “All right, then. I’ll at least do some background checks on the rest of the staff while I wait to hear from you.”

  That evening, Melissa was sitting reading when her phone buzzed, indicated that someone was texting her. When she looked at her texts, the message said, “I saw who left the bottle.”

  Melissa texted back, “The wine bottle or…?”

  “The bottle at the memorial,” came the response.

  “Who is this?” Melissa asked.

  “Don’t worry about who I am.”

  “I have to know who you are so that I know you’re trustworthy,” Melissa said.

  There was no response.

  Melissa thought about calling the person texting, but when she looked, there was no phone number associated with the text—just a hyphenated, generic, six-digit number.

  “You can trust me. I work with these guys. I see a lot.”

  “These guys? There was more than one?”

  “Only one had the bottle, but he was with someone else.”

  That didn’t necessarily mean anything. One could leave something on the table without the other one knowing what it was.

  “Are you going to tell me who it was?” Melissa asked.