Hemlock

by Susan Wittig Albert

  “Well, it’s Elizabeth’s story but it’s yours, too,” I said. “You have a right to tell it your way.” I sighed. “I’m just so sorry that I haven’t been able to put a happy ending to the search for her Herbal.” I pointed to her computer. “Have you been able to match any of the items Conway has listed on his website with things you know to be missing from this library?”

  “Actually, yes,” Jenna said, brightening. “I’ve identified five definites and two possibles. I’ll know for sure when I get a look at the items themselves. And I just looked at a few webpages. There’s lots more.”

  “That’s a good start,” I said. “The chief will be delighted to get your list, I’m sure.” I sighed. “Jed is going to have to come clean about the whereabouts of the Herbal. He must know something.”

  “Well, you’ve given it your best shot,” Jenna said in a comforting tone. “And if you didn’t find the herbal, you’ve uncovered so much else. If you hadn’t been in the bookstore when Jed Conway was shot, he would probably have died. And if he had died, Amelia might never have revealed the real story of Sunny’s murder.” She stretched her arms over her head. “When are you going back to Texas?”

  “Day after tomorrow.” I glanced out the window, where the snowfall seemed to have stopped. “I’m glad it isn’t tomorrow. I’m not sure I’d want to drive those switchbacks until the road is plowed.”

  “I heard the snowplow go past a little while ago.” Jenna got up and went back to her computer. “But it’s good that you’ll be here one more day. If you like books about plants, there’s lots to look at in the library.” She turned to give me a sober glance. “And we were talking about a sleepover tonight—playing ghostbusters. Remember?”

  “How could I forget?” I asked. “We’ll have a party.”

  I wasn’t being snarky. As I said earlier, my attitude toward ghosts was changed when I was introduced to Annie, a benign spirit who likes to ring the bell over my shop door and—when she has something to say—communicates via the magnetic letters on the announcement board behind the counter. So who am I to question the existence of a ghost at Hemlock House?

  And while Dorothea had described her as a “bit of a drama queen,” Jenna struck me as a highly imaginative but commonsensical young woman. I didn’t question her claim that she had been deeply frightened by what she had heard the night before. And that she genuinely believed it was Sunny’s ghost.

  Was it? The ghost of Sunny, I mean.

  Well, there was Claudia Roth’s testimony that Sunny believed that Hemlock House was haunted with the ghosts of her father and grandfather, both of whom had died in this place. Claudia claimed to see the ghost too, so something spooky had apparently been going on here long before Jenna arrived. And there was plenty of room for another spirit—especially that of a woman who had been robbed of her life by someone she liked and trusted.

  On the other hand, the place was old and not very well maintained. There could be any one of a number of explanations for the noises Jenna had heard and the ghost that Claudia and Sunny had seen.

  As Ruby says, the Universe asks us questions. It doesn’t give us answers.

  • • •

  The snow stopped in late afternoon, leaving the house surrounded by white-draped hemlocks in a sculpted winter wonderland landscape. Jenna was right. The snowplow had cleared the road. The switchbacks might be scary, but I was sure I could manage them on my way back to the airport, even in my small car.

  As if to apologize for the late-season snowfall, the sun came out and smiled contritely across the mountain, so Jenna and I decided to go for a walk. Dorothea loaned me her parka and I wore Jenna’s mittens and the snow boots I had borrowed from Margaret. The snow was a special delight for this Texas girl—someone who doesn’t have to live with it all winter long. It crunched deliciously underfoot, the air was crisp and fresh, and the valley below stretched out like a scene from an Alpine postcard. I had wanted to look for ginseng and Mayapple, but they were buried under inches of snow. The view was spectacular, though. I took photos on my phone and emailed them to McQuaid and Ruby. Ruby replied with two words and a string of exclamation points:

  SNOW BOOTS!!!!!

  We followed the road uphill in the direction of Claudia’s parrot sanctuary, and when we got tired, we turned around. Back at Hemlock, I called Chief Curtis to ask about the outcome of his searches. He said that his officers had come up empty-handed. They hadn’t found the Herbal. He was satisfied that Margaret Anderson didn’t know anything about the theft, but they hadn’t closed the book on her and he was going to continue to question Conway.

  “It’s possible he’s still concealing that information,” he said. I shrugged. The investigation was in his hands now. I had done all I could.

  Our walk had made us hungry, which was a good thing. For supper, Rose had left us a big pot of Hoppin’ John soup—black-eyed peas, ham, and rice—served with warm chunks of skillet cornbread.

  The soup, Dorothea said, was one of those Appalachian New Year’s traditions that’s good all year round. It’s said to have taken its name from Hoppin’ John, a street soup-peddler in Charleston, South Carolina, who walked with a cane. The black-eyed peas are supposed to bring luck, especially if you leave three of them on your plate for financial fortune, good health, and romance. Served the next day—a sign of the household’s frugality—Hoppin’ John leftovers are known as Skippin’ Jenny. For dessert, we had something called stack cake with an old-fashioned homemade apple butter filling. It was scrumptious. I was going home with a couple of extra pounds, I was sure.

  Over our soup and cornbread, we talked about the day’s events. Dorothea was trying to think of the best way to break the news about Sunny’s murder to the Hemlock Foundation’s board and to anticipate the questions they would ask. They had been Miss Carswell’s friends. They were bound to want answers.

  “I just don’t understand why Sheriff Rogers couldn’t see that it was murder and not suicide,” she said, shaking her head. “He must have done a really sloppy investigation.”

  “I wondered that too,” Jenna said. “You’d think a trained law enforcement officer could tell the difference—especially because Amelia was in the house when it happened.”

  “It’s not always that simple,” I said. “If somebody phones 9-1-1 and says, ‘I’m reporting a suicide,’ the responding officers may arrive on the scene with that mindset. They’d tend to treat the situation from the first as a suicide, rather than look for clues to a possible homicide.” I paused, remembering. “The sheriff did say that the coroner had some questions, apparently about fingerprints on the gun. But even he was eventually satisfied. Yes, it’s a mistake, and one that the cops are supposed to be alert to. But it’s still an easy mistake to make.”

  “Rose told me that she was the one who called,” Jenna said. “She heard the gunshot, then Amelia yelled from somewhere upstairs that she should phone 9-1-1 and tell them that Sunny had just shot herself. Rose said that she didn’t even go up to Sunny’s room until her body was gone and she had to clean up the blood.” She shuddered. “That’s something I could never do. Even a few drops of blood make me feel faint.”

  “So Amelia would have had plenty of time alone with the body before the deputies got here,” I said. “She could have moved it or wiped her prints off the gun and imposed Sunny’s. And there were other factors that made suicide seem plausible. For one thing, everybody knew that Sunny didn’t have much longer to live.”

  “Lots of people knew about her interest in the Hemlock Guild, too,” Dorothea said.

  “And the gun,” I added. “It had killed her father and her grandfather. Maybe it reinforced the idea that this was some sort of ritual suicide. All of that could have outweighed the absence of a suicide note.”

  In fact, I thought, it was probably all too easy for the sheriff’s deputies to assume that Sunny had killed herself. Now, though, the case would
be reopened. Amelia’s suicide note would be entered into evidence. Jed Conway would be called to testify—and maybe even charged as an accessory after the fact. The coroner’s ruling would be changed from suicide to homicide. The case would be big news in Hemlock County.

  “Amelia must have figured she was home free,” I said, “until Jed Conway threatened to tell what he knew.”

  “So she shot him to keep him from spilling the beans,” Jenna said thoughtfully. “About Sunny’s murder. And the thefts as well.”

  “But her suicide note said that she didn’t take the Herbal,” Dorothea pointed out.

  “And that Margaret did,” Jenna said.

  “Which apparently isn’t true,” I reminded them. “At least the cops couldn’t find it when they searched the house where Margaret had been staying. Her mother’s house.” I didn’t think it was necessary to tell them about Chief Curtis’ romantic involvement with his suspect. That was his own particular can of worms.

  Dorothea turned to me. “Honestly, China, do you think we’ll ever get our book back?”

  “Honestly? I don’t know. I hate to confess to failure, but I know I’m not going to get it back for you. I guess it depends on whether you can persuade the board to announce that it’s been stolen so that dealers and collectors and museums can at least be on the lookout for it.”

  From their glum faces, I guessed that they didn’t think there was much of a chance of that.

  * * *

  *The subtitle of the German translation: The Masterful Book of Plants by the Extraordinary Elizabeth Blackwell

  Chapter Sixteen

  For centuries, ritual smudging has been used to banish ghosts and other negative energies. In churches, priests burned myrrh and frankincense, for instance, to produce a purifying and protective smoke. Shamans often burned tightly wrapped and bound bundles of herbs, such as lavender, rosemary, white sage, yarrow, and rue. Twigs and leaves of certain trees can be used, as well, such as juniper, cedar, eucalyptus, and hemlock. If you feel the need of a little special protection, these may work for you.

  Ruby Wilcox

  “Using Herbs in Your Personal Rituals”

  As it turned out, our sleepover wasn’t much of a party, either.

  We gave it the old college try. I made hot chocolate and popped some popcorn in the microwave. Jenna—who laughingly called us “ghostbusters” and said that we needed some special protection against intruders from the spirit world—had made a couple of smudge bundles with rosemary, yarrow, and lavender from Sunny’s garden and juniper and hemlock from the nearby trees. She lit the bundles in a copper bowl, let them burn for fifteen or twenty seconds, and then gently blew out the flame, allowing the orange embers to produce a fragrant smoke.

  We settled on Jenna’s bed with the popcorn and hot chocolate—Jenna in flannel PJs, I in McQuaid’s old black T-shirt—and talked about ourselves. I told her about Thyme and Seasons and Ruby and our tea room and catering service, and about McQuaid and the kids. She told me about her plan to finish her master’s degree by the end of the fall term and look for a library job with an emphasis on book conservation.

  “I’d rather spend my time writing but I know I’ll need a day job,” she added.

  “You don’t want to stay here?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “I love working with Dorothea and I’m learning a lot about organizing a library and cataloging and conserving old books. And of course, living and working here is giving me time to finish the novel and complete my thesis. But this place is too isolated. I need people.”

  “I can understand that,” I said. “Do you think Dorothea will stay?”

  “I think she might, but only if the board becomes more supportive. She thinks Sunny’s library has great potential. And I’m sure she’s right.”

  I scooped out the last handful of popcorn. “Well, whatever happens, I hope you’ll let me know when your novel is published. I want to see how you’ve answered our questions about Elizabeth. Did she kick Alexander out? Did she become a midwife? What did she do with the rest of her life?”

  Jenna laughed. “You’ll get one of the very first copies, I promise.” She rubbed her eyes. “The Hemlock ghost made sure I didn’t get much sleep last night and I’m about pooped out. I’ll get your sheet and some blankets and a pillow and we can make up your bed.”

  “Speaking of the ghost,” I said as we pulled out the sofa bed, “what’s our plan? If it shows up, I mean?”

  “Maybe we won’t need a plan,” Jenna said. “Maybe, since the truth about Sunny’s death is out in the open, her ghost can rest in peace.”

  I tucked in the sheet. “But what if the ghost isn’t Sunny’s ghost? I mean, not Sunny’s spirit. What if it’s somebody—something—else?”

  “Not Sunny’s ghost?” She spread out a blanket.

  “Claudia Roth told me that the ghost was here before Sunny died. In fact, Sunny herself seems to have been on good terms with it. According to Claudia, she enjoyed using it to scare visitors—to keep them from coming back.” I eyed Jenna. “It sounded sort of like a . . . well, like Sunny having a pet ghost.”

  “Pet ghost?” Liking the sound of that, Jenna pursed her lips. “Actually, that makes me feel a little better. The idea that it was the ghost of Sunny really spooked me.” She shuddered. “Rose said that after they took Sunny’s body away, there were gallons of blood on the floor upstairs.”

  “Gallons?” I frowned. “But there are only five or six quarts in the average human body.”

  “Well, okay, not gallons.” Jenna plumped up the pillow and handed it to me. “But she said they had to rip up the carpet, and when they did, they found it had already soaked into the floorboards. If this was Sunny’s ghost banging around upstairs, I couldn’t help imagining it dripping with blood.” She shuddered. “And I’m the sort of person who passes out cold when she has to get blood drawn.”

  I put the pillow on the bed. “And if it isn’t Sunny?”

  She straightened up, thought for a moment, and added, “If it’s only a dusty old Carswell ghost who’s been hanging around this place for a century or so, I suppose I might learn to live with it.” She put her hand on my arm. “But I’m glad you’re here just the same, China. You give me courage.”

  “For the sake of argument, let’s say it’s a dusty old Hemlock House ghost who likes to move things around and make a little noise,” I said. “What’s the game plan?”

  Jenna produced a couple of flashlights and a broom. “I guess if we hear anything upstairs, we’ll go up by the back staircase and . . . well, take a look. See what’s happening. Chase a ghost.”

  She gave a deprecating little laugh. “Just listen to me. When I heard those noises in the dark last night, I got so scared I started hyperventilating and I . . . I couldn’t stop. I had to put my head down and hold my breath to keep from fainting. Now you’re here, and the lights are on and I’m sooo brave.”

  “I understand the flashlights. Good idea.” I frowned at the broom in her hand. “But this?”

  “I wouldn’t know what to do with a gun. A knife seemed awfully . . . well, primitive, not to mention bloody.” Another shudder. “I thought of holy water, but I didn’t know where to get it.”

  “A broom isn’t primitive?”

  “It was handy. I saw it in the kitchen when I went to get the flashlights, and I just grabbed it.” She laughed, then sobered. “Really, China, I hope you don’t think I was hallucinating last night. Or just being silly.”

  I patted her hand. “My friend Ruby thinks that houses can soak up some of the strong human emotions that are spilled in them. That they’re like . . . well, like batteries. They take a charge and hold it. Then a certain kind of personality comes along and plugs into that charge and brings it to life. Not to physical life, necessarily, but to . . . well, to psychic life. If that makes any sense,” I added. “Ruby tells i
t better than I do.”

  Jenna was watching me closely. “What kind of personality?”

  “Intuitive people, like Ruby. Empathic people. People who relate to other people easily—who get in touch with the way others are feeling, especially if the feelings are strong.” As I spoke, I thought that Jenna was a lot like Ruby—intuitive, empathic, relatable. Elizabeth Blackwell had been dead for two-and-a-half centuries, but Jenna understood her deeply and intuitively, as if she could slip into Elizabeth’s skin.

  “I . . . see,” Jenna said, into the pause. “So I’m sort of like an . . . an energizer? An activator? An agent? I come along and plug into Hemlock’s psychic circuits and bring them to life?”

  “Something like that, maybe. Ruby really does explain it better.”

  “Well, it describes a lot of what I’ve been through in my life,” Jenna said. “Someday I’ll come to Texas and ask Ruby to explain it to me.” She yawned. “But for now, I’m dead on my feet. I think it’s time for bed.”

  My eyelids were drooping too, so we crawled into bed. Jenna left a nightlight burning and there was a clock with a bright digital face on the table beside her bed. But the room was mostly dark and comfortably warm and I fell asleep as soon as I pulled the blankets over me.

  I didn’t get to sleep for more than a couple of hours, though. I was awakened from an especially nice dream of McQuaid by Jenna, crouching beside the sofa, grasping my arm in the dark. She was wearing a fluffy red shawl over her purple flannel PJs, and pink bunny slippers with floppy ears on her feet. Over her shoulder, the digital clock showed that it was 2:45.