More Than Magic (Books of the Kindling)

by Donna June Cooper

  Filling the teakettle with water, she thought about the way Nick had looked standing there in the meadow. The lighting and the expression on his face—she had almost wished for a camera. It had been rather…breathtaking, that was the word. His face was all planes and angles, honed by fever and then sculpted by the cool light of the stars. She sighed, wondering what he would look like in a few months when he’d fully recovered.

  She let Pooka back in, reminding herself that the pretty ones usually ended up being deficient in some way. Like Brian. But there was something different about Nick. And she did like that dimple of his. Of course, after she got a look at herself in the mirror last night she realized that dimple of his had likely kept showing up because she had been covered with dirt from the greenhouse, including a dark smudge next to her nose. He probably found her whole disheveled look hysterically at odds with her warnings about bears and wild boar.

  Grace laughed, then she spied the brightly decorated bushel basket next to the refrigerator and remembered: today was Halloween. Samhain. Pops’s birthday. The laughter turned into something else. And before she could control it, she was sitting on the floor next to that silly basket crying. Great, gulping, stupid sobs.

  Pooka didn’t whimper or lick her face, but simply lay down beside her and put his head on her leg. This he understood.

  After a while, she was empty and calm.

  “Happy birthday, Pops.”

  Pooka licked her hand. “Oh, Pooka, you know you’re not supposed to be in here. But I won’t tell Ouida if you don’t.” She pulled herself to her feet, wiping her face on her sleeve and pouring herself a tall mug of tea as the dog went to his usual post just outside the kitchen.

  “So, out to Pops’s cathedral for lunch today, boy.” She set Pooka’s food in front of him. “Maybe Granny Lily will show up and explain herself.”

  Little chance of that. But going out to check on the ginseng bed one last time before winter had been a ritual for Pops on his birthday and she aimed to keep it for him. Perhaps that was why she had dreamed about it.

  “And tonight the soul cakes need to go out by the gate before dusk.”

  Pooka listened attentively.

  She pulled a banana off the bunch on the counter and retrieved a loaf of bran bread from the bread bin, but as she went to get the almond butter from the fridge, a photo hanging on the reminder board next to it caught her eye—a certain dark-haired pixie grinning happily and hugging a short blonde theme park actress in a startling green costume with iridescent wings. She didn’t have to flip it over to remember the childish scrawl on the back: “I met the real Tink. Now I want to come meet your mountain.”

  The mountain that Grace was supposed to be able to fix somehow, according to Tink and Granny Lily.

  Only she had no idea what was wrong with it in the first place.

  “This is just wrong, Dr. Woodruff.” Nick lowered his binoculars and rubbed his eyes. “You don’t get up when I’m attempting to crawl into bed. Especially not looking that good.”

  The fuzzy bedroom slippers somewhat ruined the whole effect. And the night shirt that proclaimed “Scientists Do It With Reproducible Results” was a bit too long and baggy, but still, spectacular legs. And, freed of those clips, her hair was longer than he had guessed. He shook his head, amazed that he could manage such enthusiasm on zero sleep.

  Of course, he had only managed a glimpse of her heading down the stairs before she disappeared, but they were high-powered binoculars, so he was pretty certain about the legs—and the slogan on the shirt.

  A low throb behind his eyes reminded him to down some aspirin with the protein shake he had managed to concoct. It tasted even worse than usual. He washed it down with coffee, which didn’t taste much better. No doubt it was his conscience poking him for such enthusiastic, if somewhat necessary, voyeurism. Likely his hostess didn’t expect her guests to be spying on her. But it was also likely she didn’t expect anyone to stay up until the wee hours investigating her life history either.

  Grace Elizabeth Woodruff, daughter of Marshall James Woodruff, CEO of Hartford Pharmaceuticals. Her mother was Phyllis Alexandra Hartford, now Woodruff, Philadelphia blue blood and heiress to the Hartford fortune. But Marshall wasn’t CEO because he married money, and he wasn’t the hillbilly the Main Line socialites wanted to paint him as. He was a brilliant scientist and businessman in his own right, spending a great deal of his time in the rather rarefied halls and meeting rooms on either end of Pennsylvania Avenue.

  But there had been some kind of a falling-out between Grace’s grandfather Logan and his only son. Not only did Logan own the entire mountain as well as the farm and herb business, but he had invested in various eco-technology companies long before it was the popular thing to do. And when the old man had died last year, the entirety of his estate had gone to Grace. It seemed Marshall hadn’t been in contact with his father or set foot near the mountain since his mother’s death twenty-five years ago. He hadn’t even attended his father’s funeral. By all accounts he seemed unconcerned with what happened to the mountain or the estate—or his daughter.

  Nonetheless, anything to do with Grace or the mountain would undoubtedly splash back on Marshall Woodruff and, from there, possibly embarrass the White House as well. Thus the concern of his boss when Nick had done his profiling on what little Smoky Mountain Magic evidence they had. He couldn’t really say what made him dig into Woodruff Mountain specifically, but once he did, his gut had told him he was on the right track. And the Deputy Administrator and many others had long ago learned to trust Nick’s gut. Of course, they had little else to go on, thus Nick’s assignment to dig a little deeper, but not make a big fuss about it.

  And when he had, he discovered that Dr. Grace Woodruff, a newly minted physician-scientist, was a specialist in something called pharmacognosy—producing drugs from plants and other natural sources. About the time a new kind of meth called Smoky Mountain Magic had hit the streets of Atlanta, Dr. Woodruff had abandoned a research project in the Amazon and disappeared into these mountains, not even waiting to walk across the stage to receive her double diploma. She’d shut down her grandfather’s herb business and closed up the cabin rental business as well, sending her grandfather’s loyal, long-term employees on extended vacations. It seemed obvious something was up.

  The whole thing just felt off kilter somehow. His gut told him he was sitting right on top of it, but it also told him it wasn’t her. She certainly didn’t need the money, unless he had missed something. He pinched the bridge of his nose. Hopefully he could follow her around today to see if this place really was a drug operation masquerading as something benign. Because if it wasn’t, he had just wasted valuable time—time they didn’t have now that the drug cartels in Atlanta were looking for the source as well.

  But nothing fit. She didn’t look or act like any meth cooker he ever met, and with that skin and hair she certainly wasn’t a user herself. And now here she was up at an ungodly hour to start her day—the woman literally radiated good health. It wasn’t unheard of for distributors to lay off the stuff they sold, but his scum radar wasn’t pinging.

  It was possible he was just letting a leggy redhead throw him off. Or maybe it was because Grace Woodruff had awakened parts of him that he thought had been chemically cauterized.

  Perhaps the surprise of feeling halfway alive again had muddled his instincts. He generally didn’t like surprises. In his experience, they usually involved mortal danger in some form or another.

  For the first time in months, the feeling of impending doom that had shadowed Grace’s waking and sleeping hours seemed to ease a bit. The results in the greenhouse had been good. Not perfect, but good. The Goldenseal rhizomes were barely developed enough to test, which was, although not what she had hoped for, still far better than it had been. And this afternoon she could fit in some quality tests to see if her success extended to the active compounds as well.

  Hopefully, they could restart the herb business sooner th
an she had expected. That would put Eddie’s heart at ease, she knew. Although Grace would be the one to deal with the actual logistics, she was relieved to think that Woodruff Herbs would be available again and their poor marketing folks wouldn’t have to handle all the emails and phone calls. After the whole fiasco of shutting down, the work required to start back up was going to be excruciating. Getting back to full production would take a while, as well as some money, if she invested in the genetic analyses she’d been considering. But it would be worth it.

  Pooka kept running off the path into the woods that surrounded the cabins, chasing some scent only he could detect, and loping back to her. Back and forth, the leaves crackling beneath his paws.

  “Sssshhh boy,” she whispered. “Hopefully we can be well on our way before Mr. City Man is awake.”

  She had decided to deliver the fresh produce and eggs to her guest’s cabin door, rather than make him drag his tired self down to the house. There was plenty to share. More than enough to give him a half dozen eggs, a head of that new lettuce they were trying out, plus three fat ripe tomatoes, a few scallions, and a sampling of the herbs. In addition, she had thrown in a jar of Daniel’s honey. And she would still have plenty to share with Old Annie Taggart.

  A hint of dawn brushed the cloud edges with pink, and she could barely hear their rooster expressing his opinion about anyone fool enough to stay in bed. She went up the steps to the Jewelweed cabin as quietly as she could, setting the basket beside the door and retreating back to the house in the same fashion.

  It was about time she went to see the Taggarts. She hadn’t been over there since Pops’s funeral.

  Grace thought she might manage a quick visit tomorrow—especially since the forecaster had said something about a cold front with rain and possibly snow at the higher elevations for Friday and the weekend. She could spare a dozen eggs easily, plus some of the tomatoes and herbs. Old Annie always fussed that their autumn tomatoes were “hothouse-growed” and didn’t taste right compared to those that had baked in the summer sun. Nonetheless, she accepted them greedily to make tomato dumplings for her “boys”—her grandsons—two grown men who couldn’t seem to keep a job between them.

  Hoisting the backpack which she had left sitting on the top porch step, Grace reviewed the morning chores to make sure she hadn’t missed anything.

  “Greenhouses tended, eggs gathered, goats and chickens fed and watered.” She ticked off the list as she fastened the backpack. “And Jamie can do the bees and the birdfeeders after school. Is that it?”

  Pooka wagged his tail in agreement.

  “Then we’re off.” She headed down to the parking lot and then east into the trees, the dog questing ahead of her, knowing exactly where they were going.

  This was her idea of heaven: walking through these woods just as the morning sun gleamed through the trees, her breath fogging the air and the last few stubborn leaves drifting down around her. Autumn had escaped her notice this year, but she might still catch a glimpse of it today. The ginseng bed often seemed suspended in time, even outside of it, which might also explain the potency of the plants. And sometimes her favorite season lingered there.

  Nick certainly looked like he could benefit from some of their prized Woodruff Mountain Ginseng Extract. And she should also take some with her tomorrow in case Old Annie needed it, along with the tonic that Pops had formulated for her.

  Of course, she had to consider the downside of visiting the Taggarts. First, she would have to deal with Boyd and his mouth, although carrying her 12-gauge over the ridge whenever she visited seemed to shut him up. Second, she would have to give Annie a quick check-up. It was a tradition Pops had started when she first voiced her intention to go to medical school, and he had dragged her over to the Taggarts to “practice” on Old Annie. Practice mostly consisted of taking the old woman’s vital signs, which had always been good. It was about all Annie would tolerate, having the traditional mountainfolk’s distrust of doctors. But dealing with an openly skeptical and argumentative patient had helped Grace hone her bedside manner.

  It was good timing, and Annie was the perfect subject. At nearly ninety she had been pretty much confined to the house for years because of the arthritis that had robbed her of her mobility. Since Grace had managed to wrap a badly sprained ankle this summer without a twitch and arthritis was a chronic, debilitating condition and not a life-threatening one, surely she could manage to check Annie’s pulse and take her blood pressure without having some kind of waking nightmare or passing out. Couldn’t she?

  Operating on no sleep and too much caffeine made Nick a bit jumpy. Watching Grace Woodruff stuff that glorious hair of hers up into a wool cap notched it up to edgy. Only the fact that it was the most ridiculous looking rainbow-hued atrocity he had ever seen—including ear flaps and a tassel—took the edge off like a knitted cold shower.

  Whatever her taste in headgear, she certainly had a serious work ethic. From what Nick could tell, as he followed her progress from a distance, she had finished a day’s work before most folks were awake. And so far, no one on that skeleton staff of hers had shown up to help out.

  The amazing sight of the first greenhouse, glowing on the dark hillside, was enough to make him blink and lower his binoculars. Constructed of some opaque plastic over steel ribs, it looked as if one of the stars had set down quietly in the night. At some point he would have to get a better look inside, but from what he could tell it wasn’t cannabis growing in there. With three greenhouses lined up in a row, plus another shed-like structure with huge stacks of wood behind it, it looked like quite an operation.

  In addition, there was a huge area full of raised beds, mostly empty with winter approaching. There were other areas with lattice-work screens shading them, which seemed odd since he thought most plants required a lot of sun. And there was an orchard, and apparently berry bushes as well, plus a path that meandered from the cabins all the way around the main house, which had been designed to look like a natural mountain trail.

  Nick had explored the garage and the storage buildings further south of the house, half-underground and oriented to soak up as much sun as possible on the above ground side, with a high-pitched roof covered with solar panels. Besides storing farm equipment, the buildings contained a huge boiler and some complicated electrical set up with batteries and control equipment probably relating to the solar panels, and not one, but two generators. A literal garden of solar panels was planted on steel posts on the hillside below the buildings as well. And there was a diesel filling station. Quite an operation. And, as Matt had said, way off the grid. But no sign of a meth lab.

  Then there was the chicken house. The unusual variety of well-tended birdfeeders scattered around the property should’ve prepared him, but the chicken house was more like a chicken castle. There were composting bins strategically located below it on the hill. As far as he could tell from watching Grace work, the place was almost self-cleaning. There was still the usual pungent odor, generated by both the birds and the compost. That was probably why her little hidden lab was situated under a hill just beyond it.

  Backed into the hillside and covered with flowers and shrubs, the lab was completely underground and well-camouflaged, although if you were willing to negotiate past the chicken yard and all the way around the hill behind it, you could see the entrance via a pretty well-worn path. So it wasn’t completely hidden.

  He would have to take a look inside, but his explorations, once he’d spotted it and had checked to find it securely locked, had revealed how large it was. He’d found the vents, and there was nothing but a pretty normal organic lab smell coming up through them—solvents probably. Certainly not the distinctive smell of a meth lab.

  Even as well-camouflaged as it was, he wouldn’t have thought she would have set up an operation this close to the house, not with guests and staff and who knows who else wandering around. Perhaps your average herb farm needed a lab for analysis of their products, but he would have thought
that an operation of this size would use some kind of outside lab for testing. Then again, your average herb farm didn’t have a scientist running it either.

  He could ask for a tour, or find out some way to stumble in there. Or, if he had to, come back tonight and pick the lock. Even if there was an innocent explanation for this lab, she could have her meth lab just as well camouflaged further out in the woods. But the environmental devastation caused by meth production—the poisoned soil, plants, and waterways resulting from dumping the toxic byproducts, five or six pounds per pound of drug produced—stood in stark contrast to the absolute reverence for nature evidenced by this farm, and its owner. If this was a cover it was a hell of an elaborate one.

  Watching her head off into the woods with that long stride of hers, he decided that if he tailed her this morning and once again found nothing, he would go back to the cabin and sift through all the evidence until he knew why his so-called infallible instincts had finally failed him.

  But as he set off after her, at a safe enough distance and downwind so that even that hound of hers couldn’t sniff him out, something told him that everything he knew about this case—hell, everything he knew about anything—was about to change.

  Change, when it came to Woodruff Mountain, arrived with much care and deliberation. Pristine and proud, the mountain had stood since its creation, barely impacted by the ebb and flow of world events. And while Pops had seen to it that the footprint of man on this mountain would always be as small and controlled as possible, all around them mountain ridges were being ruined by developers and, not too far north, corporations were removing entire mountaintops for coal.

  The lofty and substantial ceiling of bare branches softened and scattered the mid-morning sunshine into elegant patterns on the plants filling the vast sanctuary below. Grace wondered at the hubris of anyone who would raise a hand to destroy this.

  “Happy birthday, Pops.” She raised her thermos full of hot sweet tea in salute and took a long drink. Pooka lifted his head, sniffed the air, then lay back down.