Never Enough Thyme

by Juliet MacLeod

  Never Enough Thyme

  The First Sage Wisdom Mystery

  by

  Juliet MacLeod

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  NEVER ENOUGH THYME

  First edition. June 19, 2018.

  Copyright © 2018 Juliet MacLeod.

  ISBN: 978-1386700050

  Written by Juliet MacLeod.

  Also by Juliet MacLeod

  Sage Wisdom Mysteries

  Never Enough Thyme

  Mint To Be

  Rue The Day

  Stories from the Bean There Cafe

  The Roman Affair

  Standalone

  The Jezebel's Daughter

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Also By Juliet MacLeod

  Dedication

  Never Enough Thyme (Sage Wisdom Mysteries, #1)

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  About the Author

  For my mother, without whom I'd never have discovered my love of mystery.

  CHAPTER ONE

  I WAS LATE. I HATED being late. It was rude and indicated that I thought my time was more important than anyone else’s time, which wasn’t true. I always tried my hardest to be early for every appointment so as not to be inconvenient, but my flame-point Ragdoll cat, Beryl, had other ideas. He’d left a dead bird in my shoe—a very thoughtful present on his part, I know—but a terrible thing to encounter just as I was running out the door.

  Everything that could have gone wrong that sunny Saturday morning had gone wrong. First, my alarm didn’t go off and I overslept by thirty-six minutes. That meant I had to rush through my morning farm chores. I crushed two of the eggs I collected from my chickens, spilled a bucket of goat’s milk on the way to the dairy shed and mixed up catmint with oregano in the tea blend I made that morning. Then I discovered that there was something wrong with my water heater and was forced to take a very unpleasant cold shower before getting dressed when I noticed at the last moment that the shirt I had planned to wear that day had a huge mustard stain on the front of it. Laundry hadn’t been done in a week or more, so I was forced to wear a plain red t-shirt instead, one that wasn’t as flattering as the first. And then I found the dead bird in my shoe.

  After shuddering in disgust, I tossed the poor creature into the outside trash can and raced to my car, fighting off tears as I prayed the engine in my forty-five-year-old Karmann Ghia turned over on the first try. It did. Thank Heavens. I jammed the car into first gear and tore off down the mountain, taking deep, calming breaths as I drove. I forced myself to look out the window and take in the beauty of the scenery.

  Early summer in the mountains of Colorado is the closest thing to Heaven on Earth. The sun’s warmth caresses the land, awakening a bounty of fruits, vegetables, and gorgeous flowers. Serene, fluffy clouds float benignly in a pristine blue sky. And Saxon Lake, the tiny village where I lived, throws a huge week-long celebration of the Summer Solstice.

  SummerFest had been started thirty-five years ago by the village’s local philanthropist, Jakob Jørgensen because he missed the yearly summer celebrations in his native Trondheim, Norway. The kick-off event was a bazaar, bake sale, and a fishing derby, the proceeds of which went to the Saxon Lake Food Pantry. The entire town turned out for it, and quite a few tourists came in from Denver, Aspen, and even Colorado Springs and Pueblo.

  Fifteen minutes after leaving my house, I parked in the overflowing lot at Saxon Lake Park, on the shores of the village’s eponymous lake. The park had been transformed almost overnight into a wonderland celebrating all things summer. The deep emerald green lawn was lush, and not a single brown spot could be seen. Braids of grapevines, into which ivy, wild roses, and Queen Anne’s lace had been woven, draped over the gazebo that stood in the center of the park. A small brass quintet had set up there and was playing lively tunes, sometimes accompanied by a barbershop quartet. The flagstone walkways that wound through the park were lined with booths sponsored by local businesses and citizens alike. On offer were baked goods, cool beverages, and handmade gifts, like jewelry, wooden sculptures, crocheted and knitted scarves and shawls, and small watercolor paintings. A horse-drawn hay wagon took riders on a circuit around the lake, and a small petting zoo with miniature ponies, chickens, ducks, and rabbits had set up downwind of most of the booths. In a large tent located across the lawn from the gazebo, our local pub, the Raven and Fox, had set up a simple catered luncheon for all festival goers, and they even had samples of their wild strawberry mead on offer.

  As I walked towards the pub’s tent, I saw a dozen hearty souls on the lake’s shores, sitting in lawn chairs or camp stools, their lines dangling in the water below. The angler who brought in the largest fish would win $500. The money had been donated by Mr. Jørgensen, who was also the owner of the town’s weekly newspaper, the Saxon Lake Chronicle.

  Mr. Jørgensen had been the editor of the Chronicle for thirty years, only retiring after winning $900 million dollars in a Powerball drawing. After he cashed his first check, he bought the paper and the building it was housed in, retired from the editorship, and went on a year-long trip around the world. The building also happened to be the home of my shop, Sage Wisdom, an herbal boutique where I sold health and beauty products made from herbs and goat milk I grew on my three-acre small farm. The Jørgensen Building also held my mother’s bookstore, Taylor & Sons Booksellers.

  Since his return from his around the world trip, Jakob had put most of his money into the town he’d fallen in love with during a skiing trip in the 1960s. He had been funding most of Saxon Lake’s charities and had even created a few scholarships to Colorado’s best universities. He had also announced his intentions to become mayor earlier in the spring. The town was covered with posters, banners, and signs sporting his smiling face and the words “Jørgensen for Saxon Lake.” There was even a billboard on the side of his building.

  My best friend, Jennifer Baxter, stood at the tent’s entrance, waving at me. I gave her a contrite smile and received her hug with gratefulness. “It’s about time, Bryony Taylor,” Jen said with a stern look. “Let me guess. Beryl?”

  I laughed. “I overslept, crushed some eggs, spilled some of Daffodil’s milk, the water heater’s on the fritz, the shirt I was planning to wear had a stain on it, and Beryl left a dead bird in my shoe.”

  “Oh, honey,” Jen said and gave me a hug. “What an awful morning!” she said as she hooked her arm through mine.

  “Well, I’m here now and only”—I glanced at my watch—“forty-seven minutes late. Where’s Kim?”

  Jennifer’s daughter Kim, a cute thirteen-year-old with her mother’s long, blue-black hair and thick eyeglasses, popped out from inside the tent and smiled at me. “Mom, can we go now? I’m supposed to meet up with my friends for lunch.”

  “Yeah, kid,” Jen said. “Let’s go.” She reached out and lovingly tucked a strand of dark hair behind Kim’s ear, and we set off, making our way through the booths and laden tables. Kim followed behind us, texting with her friends and occasionally oohing and aahing over jewelry that caught her eye.

  “The boys are out on the lake?” I asked as we stopped to look over a table with silver jewelry.

  “Yep. Mark entered Stephen in the fishing derby. He plans to bag Melville this year. Or so he says.” The biggest fish the lake contained was a twenty-pound monster rainbow trout some cl
ever wit had named Melville. Many anglers had claimed to have had Melville on their hooks at one point, but so far no one had pulled him from the water. If he even existed. I had my doubts.

  Jennifer and I had been friends for almost forty years, ever since the first day of kindergarten at Griffith Elementary School. We had been inseparable since, helping each other through life’s ups and downs: marriages, divorces, deaths, weight gains, and bad haircuts. Mark, Jen’s husband, often complained that I saw more of his own wife than he did.

  “When are you going to enter one of these contests?” I asked Jennifer. “Your cakes are just as good as, if not better than, Adele Vincent’s.”

  “You know I can’t decorate them,” Jennifer said with a shake of her head. “Sure, mine might taste better than Adele’s, but she can make ‘em pretty. That’s why she always wins.”

  “Well, that’s not fair.”

  “That’s the way the cookie crumbles.”

  I giggled and elbowed Jennifer in the ribs. “I thought we were talking about cake.”

  Jennifer smirked, an expression that said she was proud of her little play on words. “Maybe Adele will offer some classes soon,” Jennifer continued. “Share her knowledge a little bit?”

  “I doubt it. Adele isn’t about to do anything to jeopardize her standing as top cake baker. She wins every time she enters.”

  “Yeah, you’re probably right. Still, a girl can dream, right?”

  “Absolutely, and there’s always YouTube videos.”

  “Stop talking about YouTube, Bryony. Just because you perfected winged eyeliner using a video doesn’t mean everyone else can.”

  I grinned and fluttered my eyelashes. Since divorcing Bill Allen, my lying, cheating ex-husband, two years ago, I had made it my mission to better myself. I’d taken up yoga and meditation, joined a hiking club, and devoured tutorial videos on all sorts of topics, ranging from how to draw the perfect winged eyeliner to how to dress for my body type and coloring. And although I was still single, I felt better about myself than I had since college. I was certainly in better shape.

  “Mom!” Kim said, startling Jennifer and I. I got the feeling that she’d been trying to get our attention for some time. The girl had been so quiet that I’d nearly forgotten she was with us. I saw a flash of guilt cross Jennifer’s face and gave her a one-armed hug. Jennifer smiled and turned to face her daughter.

  “What is it, Kimmy?”

  “They’re starting the judging over in the tent. We should go so we can get a good seat.”

  “Oh, good point.” Jennifer tucked her arm through both Kim’s and mine and steered us towards the pub’s tent. “Wouldn’t it be nice if Adele didn’t win this year?” she asked.

  “That’s not going to happen,” Kim said. “She always wins.” The girl’s face took on a thoughtful cast. “Do you think she and Mr. Jørgensen are sleeping together?”

  Jennifer’s jaw dropped, and she rounded on Kim. “Kimberly Baxter! What a thing to say! You’re not watching Lifetime anymore.”

  I had to bite my lower lip to keep from laughing. Jennifer had apparently forgotten that she and I had been the same way at thirteen. “They’re not,” I said to Kim, ignoring the thunderous look on Jennifer’s face. “Jakob is seeing a nice widow from Idaho Springs.”

  “How do you know?” Kim asked as we continued making our way across the lawn.

  “Adele told me.”

  “Of course she did,” Jennifer said. “I think Adele knows everything about everyone in this town, and probably everything about everyone from Idaho Springs, Silverthorne, and Breckenridge, too.”

  “Probably,” I said with a laugh.

  We reached the tent and looked around for a table. Mark, a burly ex-Marine who now served as the village’s mailman, waved us over to a table in the center of the tent. Jennifer headed in that direction with Kim hot on her heels. I lingered for a moment by the log display table at the front of the tent, eager to look over the contest entries.

  The table was covered with the top three entries in the categories of best cake, best trifle, and best scones. The winner of the best cake would receive $500, while the best trifle would take home $200, and the best scones would win $100. The cakes were beautiful. Adele’s was a summer scene with green aspen trees, tiny people, and even tinier birds and a pair of deer all sculpted out of different colors of fondant and marzipan. The other two were simpler designs, but no less pretty; one was white and covered with gorgeous wild strawberries made from fondant and swirling red chiffon ribbons, and the other was decorated with sugared fruits and real flowers. “Adele’s still gonna win, though,” I said to myself before turning away and going to join the Baxters at their table.

  “How’s Stephen doing?” I asked Mark once I sat down.

  “He’s exhausted. We’ve been out there since before dawn this morning. He’s determined to hook Melville, though.” He turned to Jennifer. “As soon as they’re done here, the mayor and the other judges are going to head over to the lake. Are you coming?”

  “Of course,” Jennifer replied. “Bryony, Kim? Join us?”

  “I was going to meet up with Claire and Katie now, remember? We’re going to watch the judging and then go shopping.”

  “Will there be boys involved?” Mark asked.

  “Daaaaad,” Kim responded in a tone that said there would be boys—or at least, talk of boys—involved, but it wasn’t something she was prepared to discuss with her father until she was maybe thirty.

  “Fine, go,” Mark said with a little wave of his hand. Kim squealed with happiness and hugged her father. “Meet us at the car at one o’clock,” he said. “And make good choices!” As Kim moved to another table at the edge of the tent that was populated by a gaggle of giggling young teenaged girls, Mark sighed heavily. “So, Bryony. Coming with us to watch our boy triumph?”

  “Of course. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  “Shush,” Jennifer said, an excited glow in her eyes. “There’s the judges.”

  Mark and I quieted down and turned toward the front of the tent, where Jakob stood with two others: Doris Bartlett, a vivacious brunette who was the village’s current mayor, and Samuel Cohen, the public library’s head librarian, who was no less energetic than Madame Mayor. Jakob held a microphone and tapped it before speaking into it.

  “Good morning, Saxon Lake!” His melodic, Norwegian-accented voice boomed over speakers set up throughout the tent and surrounding areas. “Are you all ready to award some prizes and have some sweets?”

  A chorus of agreement followed his question, and he beamed, his teeth shining brightly in the gray-streaked coal black of his beard. “Wonderful! We’ll get started in just a few minutes. In the meantime, could we have the top three bakers in each category join us up front?”

  The judges disappeared outside the tent, and a murmur of voices filled the silence left when Jakob turned off his mic. “Adele’s gonna win,” I said. “Did you see her cake?”

  Mark nodded. “Yeah. It’s really pretty, but I liked Patty Wilson’s better. It was simpler, more elegant.”

  “Which one was that?” Jennifer asked, craning her neck to see the table at the front through the crowd.

  “The one with the strawberries and ribbons. Go up and look at it.”

  Jennifer shook her head and sat back. “Too crowded. With my luck, someone would bump into me, and I’d take out the entire table.”

  I smiled. “You are notoriously clumsy, my friend.” Mark nodded his agreement and Jennifer feigned disgust with both of us.

  “Okay,” said Jakob’s booming voice once more after he and the judges and contestants returned inside. “We’re ready to start.” I glanced up to see a group of twelve people clustered around the table, expectant looks on most of their faces. On Adele Vincent’s, however, I only saw smugness on the woman’s patrician features.

  “How does she know already?” I whispered.

  “Know what?” Jennifer whispered back. Mark hushed us.
<
br />   “That she’s won,” I whispered back. This time, people at nearby tables hushed me. “Sorry,” I said, feeling chastised. I sat back, confused by the expression on Adele’s face. Did she know that she was going to win already, or was she just that confident? And why did I care so much? It’s not as if Adele was a horrible person. She was one of my mother’s best friends and had been so wonderful to her after my dad died seven years ago. But Adele had won every cake competition she had entered for as long as I could remember. It was time for her reign to end.

  “We’ll start with third prize for best scones,” Jakob said. “That goes to Hannah Kessler.” There was a little squeal of delight from a tiny blonde girl who had been sitting with Kim and her friends. She started bouncing up and down on her feet and clapping her hands with glee. The crowd chuckled at her reaction, no doubt finding it as endearing as I, but the girl’s cheeks went red with embarrassment.

  The crowd listened with anticipation as Jakob announced the winners, runners-up, and third places for the best scones and trifle. Doc Hutchins, the county coroner and owner of Hutchins Family Funeral Home, won best trifle, and Lorelei Williams, the owner of Sunny Side Up Café, won for best scones.

  “And now, the moment you’ve all been waiting for,” said Doris after taking the mic from Jacob. “Third prize for best cake goes to...” The mayor paused for a moment before continuing with a twinkle in her eye. “Alicia Holmes! Congratulations, Alicia!”

  Alicia, a beautiful redheaded woman who was married to a real estate broker, smiled, but I could tell that the expression was forced. I felt a little twinge of sadness for her. I could only imagine the amount of work that had gone into sugaring all those fruits and flowers without crushing them. I leaned in close to Jennifer and whispered, “Adele must be stopped.”

  “Agreed.” Jennifer nodded and gave me a serious expression.

  “Second place goes to...” Again, the mayor paused to allow the dramatic tension build until the crowd fidgeted and I thought I might scream. “Patty Wilson!”