An Unthymely Death

by ALBERT, SUSAN WITTIG

  But Hannah never got a chance to tell us what was bothering her. On Friday, I learned that she was dead.

  “A heart attack?” Ruby asked, her eyes widening when I told her.

  “That’s what the newspaper says.” I handed her the obituary that Ramona Pierce had clipped out of the Cedar Crossing Tattler and faxed to me. “Apparently, she died the day after we talked. She’s being buried tomorrow.”

  “What a shame,” Ruby said sadly. “Hannah was such a lovely, vibrant woman. I had no idea she had heart trouble.”

  “Neither had I.” I frowned, thinking about the tone of Hannah’s voice when she had said that she needed to talk to us, urgently. “What would you think about going to Cedar Crossing anyway? I really would like to have those plants Hannah was saving for me.”

  “And I’d like to see Ramona and Barbara,” Ruby said in a decided tone. “Let’s do it.”

  Cedar Crossing is a pretty village, built on the bank of the Guadalupe River. Its chief claim to fame is a simple white-painted church with a delicate steeple, built by the German settlers who established the town 150 years ago. Hannah’s house and gardens were just down the road from the church. On Sunday afternoon, Ruby and I drove slowly past, admiring the sprays of bright foliage that spilled over the stone wall. The sunny yellow blooms of St. John’s wort were brilliant against the feathery purple leaves of a tall bronze fennel, and golden-leaved feverfew splashed at the foot of a sprawling gray-blue Russian sage.

  When I saw a woman pushing a wheelbarrow down the path, I pulled over and stopped. I studied her for a moment, then turned to Ruby. “I’d like to talk to her,” I said. “But let’s pretend we don’t know anything about Hannah’s death.”

  Ruby gave me a curious look. “Why would we do that?”

  “I don’t know.” I shrugged. “Just a hunch, I guess.”

  Ruby grinned. She is the kind of person who always trusts a hunch. “Go for it,” she said. “Get that right brain in gear.”

  A Splash of Colorful Herbs

  If you think of herbs as green or gray plants, uninteresting and nondescript, think again! You can use their blooms and their foliage to fill your garden with color—and reap the special benefits that each provides.

  • St. John’s wort (Hypericum perforatum) was traditionally gathered at the summer solstice to ward off evil spirits. This perennial herb has gained attention in recent years for its use as an effective antidepressant. Grow it for its beautiful yellow flowers, and steep its leaves and blossoms in vegetable oil (in a cool place) to make a soothing, anti-inflammatory massage oil that can speed the healing of wounds and bruises.

  • With its striking, feather-plumed leaves, bronze fennel (Foeniculum vulgare) is a striking relative of dill, carrot, and Queen Anne’s lace. Use fennel’s anise-flavored seeds in salads and soups and, for a unique taste, in sausage dishes. As an endearing bonus, fennel will attract the colorful swallowtail butterfly to your garden.

  • Feverfew (Chrysanthemum parthenium) is primarily grown as a medicinal herb, but its white daisylike flowers are also quite pretty—and healing, too. If you suffer from migraines, try chewing a few leaves every day. Recent research suggests that the herb is an effective treatment for some types of migraine.

  • Russian sage (Perovskia atriplicifolia) is a wonderfully aromatic perennial, with long downy stems and finely cut gray leaves. It produces an airy cloud of blue-gray blossoms and will attract throngs of nectar-hungry bees.

  The woman behind the wheelbarrow was tanned and athletic-looking, with dark brown hair twisted into a loose, thick braid down her back. She wore a red bandana headband, a sweatshirt and jeans, and heavy garden gloves. Her face was stern and unsmiling.

  “Hi,” I said cheerfully. “I’m China Bayles, and this is Ruby Wilcox.”

  The woman frowned. “China Bayles. Aren’t you the person who wanted some of Hannah’s lemon thyme?”

  “That’s me. Hannah said we could pick up the plants anytime.” I shaded my eyes with my hands and looked around. “Is she here?”

  “Hannah’s dead.” The woman pressed her lips tightly together. “She died early Wednesday morning.”

  Ruby’s hand went to her mouth. “Oh, dear!” she exclaimed, as if this were the first she’d heard of it. “An accident?”

  “They say it was a heart attack.” The woman’s voice was taut, and she wasn’t looking at us. “The funeral was yesterday.” She nodded in the direction of the church. “She’s buried in the churchyard.”

  “I am so sorry,” I said quietly. “Hannah was a lovely person.” I looked around the garden, which must have covered at least two acres. The fragrance of honeysuckle and roses surrounded us. “It’s so sad to think that she won’t be here to take care of this beautiful garden. I hope the next person who owns it will love it as much as she did.”

  The woman’s eyes flashed an enigmatic message. “I’ll take care of it,” she said roughly. “I promised Hannah I would.”

  “Managing a garden this size is a big job,” I said. “It takes a lot of skill and knowledge. You really have to love it.”

  “That’s why Hannah did what she did,” the woman said. She turned toward the house and a look of something like hatred crossed her face. “And no matter what they say,” she burst out passionately, “she wanted me to have it after she died.”

  “Who do you suppose ‘they’ are?” Ruby whispered to me as the woman strode away, pushing her wheelbarrow. “And who is she?”

  “I have no idea,” I said. I glanced toward the house. Another woman, short and plump and wearing a blue apron, was standing on the back porch, under the golden tangle of hops vines that covered the roof. At one time, Hannah had brewed her own beer, and had even given lectures on the subject.

  The woman saw us and beckoned. “Let’s talk to her,” I said to Ruby. “Maybe she knows what’s going on.”

  “You must be China and Ruby,” the woman said as we approached the porch. “Aunt Hannah told me you might be here.” She bit her lip. “I suppose you know that she died several days ago.”Hops

  Before the advent of commercial brewing, beers were regularly brewed at home, from wild or cultivated herbs. Over the centuries, literally hundreds of plants have been used to make beer. Among the more familiar are dandelions, nettles, sarsaparilla, ginger, sassafras, borage, yellow dock, pennyroyal, and even mustard. Hops (Humulus lupulus) began to be added when it was learned that this herb could keep the beer from spoiling. For more on this fascinating subject, read Sacred and Herbal Healing Beers: The Secrets of Ancient Fermentation, by Stephen Harrod Buhner.

  The kitchen was almost as pretty as the garden, with a cheerful red-checked cloth on the table and windowsills filled with pots of scented geranium. The woman introduced herself as Luella Mitchell, Hannah’s niece. As we sat at the table and sipped glasses of iced tea, she told us about the circumstances of Hannah’s death.

  “It was very sudden,” she said. Her round face was sad. “And quite unexpected. I’ve lived with my aunt for the past three years and even helped take care of her accounts, and I never even suspected that she had a bad heart.” She sat down at the kitchen table and pulled a tissue out of her apron pocket to wipe her eyes. “It’s so hard to accept.”

  I leaned forward. “Hannah told me that she wanted to talk to me about an urgent matter. She sounded terribly troubled. Do you know what was bothering her?”

  Luella’s face tightened. “I certainly do,” she said. “She was afraid.”

  “Afraid?” Ruby put down her glass.

  “Of that woman you were talking to, out there in the garden. Jessica Powell, her name is.” Luella shook her head sadly. “Jessica killed somebody once, you know. She spent a long time in jail.”

  “She did?” Ruby breathed.

  Luella nodded soberly. “Aunt Hannah realized that she’d made a dangerous mistake, giving Jessica a job and letting her live in the garage apartment. And worse, putting her into her will. The woman has a green thumb, there’
s no doubt about that. But she moved in and just took over.” She shook her head. “Why, she pushed poor Aunt Hannah right out of her own garden!”

  “It’s true, then, that Jessica Powell will inherit this place?” I asked, remembering what the woman had said.

  Luella’s face was set. “Aunt Hannah called you, China, because she wanted some legal advice. She’d finally got up the courage to get rid of Jessica. But she died before she could change her will, so I guess—”

  She was interrupted by a knock on the screen door. We turned to see two uniformed police officers standing on the porch.

  “We’re looking for Miz Mitchell,” one of them said through the screen. “Hannah Bucher’s niece.”

  “That’s me.” Luella stood, her face suddenly apprehensive. “Is there something the matter?”

  “Afraid so, ma’am.” The officer held out a paper. “We have a warrant to search the residence of Jessica Powell.”

  “My apartment?” Jessica Powell asked angrily. She had suddenly materialized beside the porch. “What are you looking for?”

  “Please show us your living quarters, Miz Powell,” the officer said without answering her question. The two men followed her through the garden, in the direction of the two-story garage.

  “Why have they come?” Luella asked in a bewildered voice. “What are they looking for?”

  “Evidence,” I said. “They couldn’t have gotten a warrant unless they had probable cause to suspect that Jessica Powell had committed a crime.”

  Ruby’s eyes were large. “Murder?” she whispered.

  “No, no!” Luella exclaimed. “That’s wrong! Aunt Hannah had a heart attack!”

  “We’ll just have to wait and see,” I said grimly.

  Fifteen minutes later the officers were back. Jessica Powell was with them, stony-faced and silent—and handcuffed.

  “But I don’t understand!” Luella exclaimed. “Why are you arresting her? What’s she done?”

  One officer gave her a sympathetic look. “I’m sorry to have to be the one to tell you this, Miz Mitchell, but your aunt didn’t die of natural causes. The autopsy report you requested indicates that she was poisoned.”

  “Poisoned!” Luella whispered. “But . . . but how? What kind of poison?”

  The other deputy held up a plastic evidence bag. “Nicotine,” he said. In the bag was a can of smoking tobacco.

  “Nicotine poisoning?” Ramona Pierce asked blankly. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

  “I have,” Barbara Thatcher said in a grim voice. “Wicked stuff. Terribly toxic.”

  It was Sunday evening, and Ruby and I and our two hostesses were seated at the table in the dining room of Ramona and Barbara’s home, finishing a wonderful dinner of fresh garden vegetables and penne pasta with herbs—one of Barbara’s specialty recipes. It was a pretty room, with a pair of French doors that opened out onto a patio bordered with rosemary, and the setting sun cast a golden light over Ramona’s garden. The two women had bought the house together the previous year.PENNE PASTA WITH ROASTED GARDEN VEGETABLES AND HERBS, À LA BARBARA

  2 Roma tomatoes, seeded and coarsely chopped

  2 zucchini, sliced in half-inch rounds

  1 cup diced eggplant

  1 small yellow bell pepper, seeded and sliced in thin rings

  1 small green bell pepper, seeded and sliced in thin rings

  1 cup fresh green beans, cut into half-inch pieces

  1 cup sweet red onions, sliced in thin rings

  ½ cup fresh basil, chopped

  ¼ cup fresh parsley, chopped

  2 tablespoons fresh lemon thyme, minced

  3-4 cloves garlic, minced

  ¼ cup extra virgin olive oil

  8 ounces penne or other tubular pasta

  Freshly grated Parmesan or Asiago cheese

  Toss tomatoes, zucchini, eggplant, bell peppers, green beans, and onions with basil, parsley, lemon thyme, garlic, and olive oil. Arrange in a single layer in a large baking pan. Roast in a 350° oven, stirring occasionally, for 20 to 30 minutes, or until vegetables are slightly softened. When vegetables are nearly done, cook pasta according to package directions, or until al dente. Drain. If you like, place roasted veggies under the broiler until they just begin to char. (Don’t overdo it!) Toss roasted vegetables with pasta. Top with a generous grating of Parmesan or Asiago cheese. Serves four generously.

  Because of its traditional medicinal and ritual uses, tobacco (Nicotiana tabacum) has long been considered an herb. Columbus found tobacco in the New World, where (as he wrote in his journal) he saw “native peoples carrying some sort of cylinder in which sweetly smelling herbs were glowing. The people sucked the other end of the cylinder and, as it were, drank in the smoke.” The natives used the plant medicinally and in ritual celebrations, with care. Nicotine is addictive. Taken internally or applied to the skin in high concentrations, it is a virulent poison that can cause fatal cardiac irregularities.

  Barbara practices law in San Antonio, and Ramona has her own interior decorating business.

  I nodded, agreeing with Barbara. “Tobacco is toxic, all right. It’s one of our most problematic herbs.”

  Ruby looked up from her plate. “You’re saying that tobacco is an herb?”

  “Sure,” I said. “It’s a member of the nightshade family, like peppers, tomatoes, and eggplant—and potatoes, too.” I forked up a few veggies to demonstrate. “Over the centuries, tobacco has been used to treat all kinds of ailments, including cancer. But it is most definitely toxic.”

  Ramona frowned. “I know that cigarettes are bad news, but—”

  “It’s not just cigarettes,” Barbara said. “When I was in the DA’s office, we prosecuted a case where the killer poisoned his victim with a nicotine-based pesticide.”

  “Gardeners sometimes brew up their own pesticide by steeping cigarettes in water,” I said. “Some people have been accidentally poisoned just by getting it on their hands.”

  Barbara looked at me curiously. “So the police, acting on a tip, searched Jessica Powell’s room?”

  “And found the tobacco can,” Ruby said. “They think she made a nicotine concentrate and somehow administered it to Hannah. In her coffee, maybe, or in some strong-tasting food, like chili.”

  “But why?” Ramona asked, frowning. “Everyone liked Hannah. We’ll all miss her.”

  “Because Jessica was the beneficiary of her will,” I said.

  “And Hannah had become afraid of her and was planning to change it,” Ruby explained. “Jessica must have realized what Hannah had in mind, and decided to take action.”

  Barbara raised her eyebrows. “Hannah was planning to alter her will?”

  “That’s why she called China,” Ruby explained. “According to Luella Mitchell, her aunt intended to make a new will and—”

  “But Hannah just made that will,” Barbara said, “not three weeks ago! I know, because I prepared it for her. I can’t believe she’d decide to change it without consulting me.”

  I stared at her. “You were Hannah Bucher’s lawyer?”

  “For over two years,” Barbara replied. “And she never said a word about being afraid. Hannah and Jessica were friends long before I came into the picture. Hannah gave her a place to live and a job right after she got out of prison.”

  “Jessica killed someone,” I remarked. “At least, that’s what Hannah’s niece told us.”

  Barbara made a face. “Seven or eight years ago, she shot her abusive husband and spent the next six years in prison. But times have changed. If the case came to trial today, even here in Texas, she’d get a lighter sentence.”

  RAMONA’S LEMON MADELEINES

  ½ cup margarine or butter

  2 large eggs

  ¾ cup sugar

  ¼ cup plain low-fat yogurt

  1 teaspoon lemon extract

  ½ teaspoon vanilla extract

  1 cup all-purpose flour

  1 teaspoon lemon zest

  3 tablespoon
s fresh lemon thyme leaves, minced

  ¼ teaspoon salt

  Confectioners’ sugar

  Preheat oven to 400°F. Grease a madeleine pan (twelve shells). In a small saucepan over low heat, melt the margarine or butter; set aside to cool. In a large bowl, beat together eggs, sugar, yogurt, and extracts until blended, occasionally scraping the bowl. Continue beating until light and lemon-colored, about 5 minutes. Blend in melted margarine or butter, flour, grated lemon peel, minced lemon thyme, and salt. Spoon 1 tablespoon batter into each madeleine shell. Bake 10 to 15 minutes until madeleines are golden brown. Immediately remove from pan and place on wire racks to cool. Repeat until all batter is used, greasing pan each time. Sprinkle madeleines lightly with confectioners’ sugar. If there are any left (there probably won’t be), store them in a tightly covered container to prevent them from softening. Makes about two dozen.

  Ramona frowned. “Maybe Hannah just didn’t want to tell you that she was afraid of Jessica.”

  “Maybe,” Barbara replied slowly. She didn’t sound convinced. “But she did tell me that she was afraid of her brother. That was why she didn’t want her property to go to him.”

  “Her brother?” I asked.

  Barbara nodded. “Harold. He’s Luella’s father. When Hannah told him that the house and gardens were going to Jessica, he got so angry that she thought he was going to hit her.” She poured herself a second cup of coffee and passed around a plate of lemon madeleines that Ramona had made. “If you ask me, the case against Jessica Powell isn’t as open and shut as it might seem.”

  We could have asked the police to talk to Harold Bucher, but since they had already arrested Jessica Powell, they were probably satisfied that they had the killer in custody. Ruby and I were curious about Hannah’s brother, though—and anyway, it was a beautiful Monday morning, and our day off. So we got directions to the Bucher ranch, and after breakfast with Ramona and Barbara, climbed in the car and drove north on Cedar Crossing Road for ten miles or so.