Never Enough Thyme

by Juliet MacLeod

  “What?” I was stunned. “Viki’s the blackmailer?”

  “Yeah. We found a payment notebook as well as file folders on a bunch of people around town. She’s got photos, handwritten notes, other people’s credit card receipts. The works. It’s a very organized scheme.”

  “I can’t believe it! Who else was she blackmailing? I mean, besides Barry.”

  “Bryony, you know I can’t tell you everyone we found in her files.” He took another sip of his coffee and shrugged. “I’m sorry, but I just can’t.”

  “Can I guess?” Suddenly, the specter of having good gossip to pass on raised its blackened head, and I found myself craving information before my conscience chirped and reminded me that a woman had died. Now was not the time to one-up Adele Vincent.

  “Bryony,” Dean said, a sandy brow arched.

  I scowled at him. “Fine. Don’t tell me. But remember how I always kept your secrets in high school? I never, ever told a single soul how you cheated on Mr. Wilhelm’s history tests, or that you snuck a hip flask filled with tequila into the winter formal during our senior year, or that you were the one who gave Principal Sherman the names of the people who put all those goldfish into the swimming pool for senior prank, or...”

  “Okay, okay. I get it. You’re trustworthy.” He sighed heavily and scrubbed a hand down his face. “Fine. This does not leave this room.” I used my forefinger to make an X over my heart. He gave me a level look, but a smile lurked around the corners of his mouth. He said, “Most, if not all, of the pieces in McMurray’s Fine Antiques are cheap Chinese knock-offs. Viki had a bill of lading from Beijing for that tea table and the four matching chairs Ed has in the front window of the shop.”

  “What? The Louis the Sun King pieces he just got in?” Dean nodded, the smile surfacing at last. “But he’s so proud of his provenances.”

  Dean smirked. “Fake. Just like the rest of the stuff in his shop.”

  “Ooh,” I said, tapping my finger against my chin. I looked at Dean. “Are you going to charge him with fraud or something?” I really wanted to report Ed McMurray’s indiscretions to Mom and most especially to Adele, who was Ed’s biggest competition in town.

  Dean shrugged. “I’ll forward it on to someone. I’m not sure my deputies or I are the right people to investigate this sort of thing.” He paused and then leaned forward. “Also, Tiffany Bright wasn’t hired for her clerical skills,” Dean said. Tiffany Bright was a blonde, twenty-something, junior real estate agent, working for Paul Holmes. Paul was married to Alicia, who had won third place in the best cake competition at the SummerFest.

  “Paul’s having an affair?” I was astounded. Alicia was so beautiful and a great mother. I didn’t understand how Paul could be cheating on her.

  Dean nodded.

  “With Tiffany?”

  Dean nodded again.

  “Ew,” I said, wrinkling my nose in disgust. “How cliché. Viki was blackmailing him?”

  “And Tiffany, too. Viki was making close to $5,000 a month, if her records are correct.”

  “Wow,” I said in a low voice. “That much?”

  “Yes. We’ll be getting subpoenas for her bank records this week. We’ll know exactly how much she’s taken by then.”

  I frowned in thought. “I still don’t understand why Viki reacted the way she did when Barry died. She seemed truly surprised by it. More than she should have been if it was a random accident. Maybe she had a partner and the partner killed Barry?”

  “I suppose that makes sense. But who?”

  “One of her friends?” I guessed. “Her boyfriend maybe?”

  “Gordon Oakes, right? He’s her boyfriend?”

  “Yeah,” I answered, nodding. Then I sat up straight as a memory hit me. “I saw them together on Saturday. When Barry was killed. They were standing right next to him.”

  “I’ll have McGill call him in for questioning. Know any of her other friends?”

  “Bekah Gilmore, for certain. They often met up for lunch during work hours, and Bekah mentioned hanging out on their off days, too. But that’s all I know. Mom might know more. They might have come into the shop while Viki was working.”

  “I’ll give Glynis a call soon then. And I’ll need to talk with Bekah, too.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” I glanced at the digital clock on the stove and gasped. “It’s so much later than I thought it was! I’ve got to get to work.”

  Dean stood and helped clean up the trash from breakfast. I walked him to the front door. “Tonight’s the big barbecue at Civic Center Park,” I said as we crossed through the living room. “I’ll be there helping Jennifer. Shoomaker’s is catering dinner tonight.”

  Dean paused in front of the door. “Oh? Well... Maybe you’d like to have dinner with me tonight? If you get a break, that is.”

  “I’d love to. I’ll make Jennifer give me a break at 8:30. Does that sound okay?”

  “Sounds perfect. I’ll see you tonight.” He turned and opened the door. “Bye, Bryony.”

  “Bye, Dean.” I almost followed him outside but remembered at the last moment that I was late for work. I watched as he drove down my dirt road and disappeared down the hill. I closed the door and hurried through the house to find my cell phone. I needed to call Jennifer and Mom to tell them that I had a date with the sheriff tonight.

  Once I’d spoken to both Jennifer and Mom, I put on shoes, grabbed my purse and a light jacket, plus some white sage leaves that had finished drying and a pint of fresh goat’s milk. I had it in mind to work on some citrus-sage-scented hand cream in between seeing patients and helping Bekah out in the shop.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The perfect summer weather was holding steady, and I grew excited about July being only a week away. I’d finally be able to put the top down on my Ghia without being too chilly while I drove through town. I parked in the private lot in the rear of the Jørgensen Building and went in through the shop’s back entrance, which opened up directly into my office. I wanted to check my dangerous plants inventory to see if anything had been stolen.

  Inside the locked cabinet across from my desk were shelves filled with herbs that would kill anyone who hadn’t been trained and educated about their proper dosages and uses. There were several small, airtight glass jars filled with plants like nightshade, monk’s hood, foxglove, and hemlock. Nothing had been stolen; the amounts in the jars matched up with the amounts in my computerized inventory program. Whoever had killed Barry hadn’t used me as their supplier. I felt my burden lighten a little.

  But that didn’t mean the killer hadn’t gotten their hemlock from someone else I knew. While I was sitting at my desk, I made a list of other herbalists in the area. I’d call them during a lull and ask if they’d prescribed or sold any hemlock in the past few months. If anyone had, I’d call Dean and pass on the information.

  “Hi, Bekah,” I said after entering the front part of the store. “I’m so sorry I’m late. This morning has been crazy.”

  Bekah, a pretty, petite brunette with blue-green eyes and funky fashion sense—today she was wearing an aquamarine short-sleeved t-shirt, a denim mini-skirt, black tights, argyle crew socks in black, lavender, and aquamarine, and black Converse low tops—was standing on the small dais where our cash register was located. She glanced up at me and smiled. “It’s not a problem,” she said with a shake that sent her braided pigtails bouncing. “It’s been really slow. So, is it true? About Viki and Barry, I mean?”

  “What have you heard?” I didn’t want to break my word to Dean. I’d promised not to tell anyone about Barry’s murder by poison, and I assumed he didn’t want me to say anything about Viki being murdered, either.

  “Just that Barry died at the bake sale on Saturday, and Viki was found at her house last night. Why? What do you know?”

  I paused for a split second before answering. Bekah wasn’t a gossip; she could be trusted to be discreet, plus Dean had said that he wanted to talk to her. It wouldn’t hurt to give her a hea
d’s up. “Doc Hutchins sent Barry’s body to the CBI lab in Golden for an autopsy. He got the results this morning, and Dean came by to ask me about them. Barry had coniine and conhydrine in his system.”

  Bekah’s face became thoughtful as she tried to remember what those compounds were. We’d discussed them a few months ago when I started teaching her how to use the dangerous plants. “That’s hemlock, right?” she asked.

  “Yep. Hemlock.” I experienced a proud teacher moment.

  “Does he think we’re involved?”

  “No, not anymore. I showed him the last time I prescribed it, and just now, I checked the supplies in the back. None has been stolen since we did inventory last week.”

  “Well, that’s a relief.” The bell above the shop’s front door rang out, and my first patient of the day came in. Bekah smiled and said, “Hello, Your Honor. How’re you today?”

  Judge Harry Bartlett, the mayor’s husband, looked like a stereotypical grandfather when he wasn’t wearing his severe black judicial robes. He was of medium height and just a touch overweight. A halo of white hair floated in a fringe around his head, and his rheumy blue eyes peered out from behind round spectacles. Today he was dressed in tan dress slacks, a red-blue-and-tan plaid shirt, and dark brown suspenders. He smiled at Bekah. “Good morning, young lady,” he said, his stentorian baritone filling the space. “I’m doing just fine.” He turned to me. “Are you ready for me, Bryony?”

  “You bet,” I said, holding out my arm to the judge. He slipped it through his, and we walked back to the patient exam room across the hall from my stillroom. “How’re you feeling?” I asked as he sat down on the exam table and I took a seat on a rolling stool that I’d rescued from an estate sale in Aspen. “Still feeling good? Taking your pills every day?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ll tell ya, they’re a real lifesaver.”

  I smiled and began my examination. Harry had come to me in October, complaining of constant constipation, stomach cramps, and horrible flatulence. He’d tried everything from cup after cup of peppermint tea to prescription drugs, and finally, his wife had sent him to me in desperation. I’d prescribed a diet that included lots of leafy greens, yogurt with live cultures, and thrice daily pills that contained a mixture of dried and powdered dandelion root, St. John’s wort, lemon balm, calendula, and fennel. Within a week, he was feeling better. Within a month, he was back at full health.

  “I’m glad to hear that,” I told him, sitting back on my stool after peering into his mouth and listening to his belly. “Let’s cut back to two pills a day, okay? Once with breakfast and one with dinner. Are you still enjoying your yogurt and salads?”

  “Yes. Doris and I have been trying out different kinds of yogurt. We found something called skyr. It’s Icelandic. Even more sour than Greek yogurt.”

  “Oh? That sounds like it’s right up your alley.”

  “It’s perfect. We found a brand that has a rhubarb-strawberry flavor. That’s my new favorite.”

  I smiled at Harry’s enthusiasm but inwardly grimaced. His favorite sounded absolutely revolting to me, but if it kept him happy and healthy, he had my blessings. “We’re all done here,” I said. “Why don’t you go up front and pick out something for Doris? I’ve got to make up another batch of your pills.”

  “Got any recommendations?” He slid off the exam table and pulled his shoes and shirt back on.

  “There’s some fresh rosewater at the counter, and I think Bekah put out some new lavender-balsam sachets as well.”

  “Perfect. Thanks, Bryony.”

  I smiled and patted his shoulder as we left the exam room. I went across the hall and spent a few minutes pounding dried herbs into fine powders and then pouring the powder into cellulose pill capsules. When I returned to the front of the shop, I found Harry paying for his exam, pills, a small bottle of rosewater, and three of Bekah’s sachets.

  “I’ll see you in three months,” I said. “Tell Doris hello for me?”

  “You bet. Bye, Bekah.” Harry waved and left the shop.

  After that, we were busy in fits and spurts. Retail customers bought hand creams, lip balms, candles, soaps, pre-blended teas, and bulk herbs, while I saw patients with a variety of complaints from dry, hacking coughs to one case of conjunctivitis. When there were lulls in the day, Bekah and I pounded, mixed, sifted, strained, and measured while I taught her more of what I knew.

  We worked hard until six o’clock when we closed up shop. I headed home after that to change for the town barbecue. Since I was helping Jen with dinner by acting as one of her servers, I dressed in black pants, a white button-up shirt under a black vest, and added a black bow tie. I felt pretty snazzy.

  Beryl and Lily were curled up on the foot of my bed, some six inches apart, watching as I dressed and did my hair and makeup. When I was ready to go, I scratched them behind their ears and said, “I’ve got a date tonight. Don’t wait up for me!” I winked and then headed out to the car.

  Once at Civic Center Park, I helped Jennifer, Mark, and Stephen set up the portable kitchen Jennifer had cobbled together throughout her many years working as a caterer before she’d bought Shoomaker's. After Jennifer had begun cooking, I helped set up tables and chairs, the server’s station, as well as the cash bar and the various decorations that were scattered throughout the tent.

  People soon began gathering around the enormous Colorado blue spruce that grew in the middle of the park. Glittering fairy lights hung from almost every branch, sending out shards of golden light that danced on faces, playground equipment, and parked cars alike. The air was filled with the mouth-watering scents of roasting meat, corn on the cob, fresh strawberries and cream, and more than a little hint of the Raven and Fox’s wild strawberry mead.

  As soon as twilight fell, a small group of three men clustered in a semi-circle around a large bare patch of dirt that was surrounded by a ring of large rocks. In the center of the rocks was a huge conical pile of wood that had been left outside to dry for a week. The Mayor and Mr. Bartlett, each with a black leather folder held in their hands, stood next to the group of men. As soon as the sun set and the lights on the tree winked on, Mayor Bartlett called out, “On this, the shortest night of the year, we come together as a community to celebrate the coming rainy season. May it bless us with bounty!”

  Harry called out, “We gather as one family, to enjoy food and friendship, and to mourn the tragic losses of two of our own, who were taken from us violently this week. Please observe a moment of silence for the memories of Barry Shubitz and Viki Childress.”

  Everyone in the crowd lowered their heads. A deep silence settled over the park, broken only by the sound of a lone owl hooting in the darkness. I felt eyes on me again and glanced around. I didn’t see anyone obviously staring at me, but I shifted closer to Mark anyway. I trusted him to keep me safe if it came to it.

  “Thank you,” Harry’s voice boomed after a few moments.

  I looked up as the mayor nodded to the men next to her. The men took pitch-soaked rags and wound them around hefty branches before setting them alight. They threw the lit torches into the center of the woodpile, and a hush fell over the gathered people. All eyes were on the bonfire as we waited with breath held to see if flames would spring up or if fire starters would have to be employed. Village legend said that whenever the SummerFest fire didn’t start immediately, the rains would be meager that year.

  A tiny spark caught in the center of the bonfire, soon spreading to engulf the entire structure. A cheer rose from the crowd, and seemingly as one, we exhaled with relief. If the legend were true, this year’s rains would be abundant, and our next celebration in late September would honor a bumper crop of vegetables and fruits.

  “This is why we came back after Mark left the Marines,” Jennifer whispered from beside me. “The community. The people. The way everyone celebrates the holidays.”

  I nodded. “Same here. No matter where I lived—Berkeley, Seattle, or Denver—I missed summer in Saxon Lake.”
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  Jennifer gave me a quick, one-armed hug then spun and clapped her hands together. “Okay, folks. Let’s get this show on the road.” She bustled off to the serving line and took her place in the center of things.

  I watched the line to be seated forming then tied on a white apron before going to my first table of the night. For the next two hours, I took orders, bused tables, ferried drinks and food, and chatted with diners. At one point, I noticed Gordon Oakes, Viki’s boyfriend, in the crowd. He was hanging all over a pretty blonde girl in a disgusting display of public affection. I stared, open-mouthed, as they made out in a corner of the tent.

  “Well,” Adele Vincent said. I had been taking her order, but we were both distracted by the display. “He sure didn’t waste any time, did he? Viki’s not even in the ground yet, and he’s carrying on with someone else. Shameful.”

  “I agree,” I said. “Do you know who she is?”

  “I sure don’t. But you can bet I will before the night’s over.”

  I nodded. I knew Adele would figure out the girl’s identity, along with who her parents were, where she’d grown up, gone to school, where she worked, and possibly even her credit score and social security number before the night was over.

  After taking Adele’s order and seeing Mom slide into a chair next to her, I went back to the kitchen area to get drinks for them. I chatted a bit with them after bringing back a sidecar for Adele and a vodka martini for my mother but was soon too busy to follow up with either of them about the girl’s identity. I was busy for the rest of the evening and lost track of time until Jennifer pulled me aside.