“What about Jerry Weber? We haven’t talked to him yet.”
“We can try,” I said.
Jerry is a charming man, a retired widower in his early sixties, trim and athletic. But our talk with him produced nothing more than a firm denial, a few shakes of the head, and the tart remark that if the Guild paid him a little more money, he’d be glad to fix that dang kitchen door so nobody would have to worry about folks walking in off the street and stealing valuable books. Jerry did, however, point out that he had been in Houston visiting his daughter when the theft occurred. According to him, he couldn’t have stolen the book.
“Anyways,” he said with a frown, “what would I want with a cookbook? If I get to hankerin’ for serious home cookin’, I go over to the Diner. Otherwise, I open me a can o’ beans and cut up a weenie in it. Some onions and catsup, too, maybe a little chile powder.” He grinned. “You can’t get much better than that, no matter how many cookbooks you got.”
Ruby and I had gone through the complete suspect list and had gotten exactly nowhere. It was time for a different strategy. If we couldn’t pry the information out of somebody, maybe we could buy it.
“A reward?” Pansy asked dubiously. “You want the Herb Guild to offer a five-hundred-dollar reward?”
Ruby and I were sitting in the swing on Pansy’s front porch when I made my suggestion. Pansy has planted a lovely silver garden beside the steps. The sharp, clean scent of lavender filled the soft evening air, with the spicy undertone of clove pinks. Bees were gorging themselves with happy abandon among the blue catmint flower spikes.
“For information leading to the identification of the thief or the return of the book,” Ruby explained. “No questions asked.”
“But the book is worth a lot more than five hundred dollars,” Pansy objected. “If somebody intends to sell it, that’s not much of an incentive.”
“That’s true,” I replied, pushing the swing with my toe. “However, the thief has probably found out how hard it is to sell. He—or she—may be happy to get five hundred out of it. It’s worth a shot, isn’t it?”
Pansy shook her head. “But the book may have been sold already. You said that Cora just bought some expensive furniture. If she’s the thief—”
I threw up my hands. Why was Pansy being so stubborn? Didn’t she want Myra’s book to be found? “We have to try something, Pansy,” I persisted. “We’ve interviewed every one of the suspects and we still don’t have a clue.”
A fragrance garden, planted near a window or beside a porch, is a long-lasting source of sweet pleasure. Here are a few especially fragrant herbs you’ll want to include :
Catmint
Chamomile
Clove pink
Lavender
Lemon balm
Lemon verbena
Mignonette
Pennyroyal
Rosemary
Roses
Scented basil
Scented geraniums
Thyme
Violets
“The problem,” Pansy said quietly, “is that we can’t have any publicity, for the same reason that we couldn’t involve the police in the first place. Since we don’t want anybody but the Library Committee to know that the book has been stolen, I don’t see how we can offer a reward without letting on that there’s been a theft.”
“Rats,” Ruby said, and I echoed her. Both of us had forgotten about that. I sat for a moment, swinging back and forth, feeling frustrated.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen that book,” I said after a while. “What kind of recipes are in it?”
Pansy got up from her chair. “I’ll show you,” she replied. She was back in a few minutes, with a manila folder. “This is a photocopy of the book.” She laid a few pages on the table so we could see them. “I copied it so I could study Myra’s revisions and see if the Herb Guild might publish a second edition.”
“That’s a good idea,” Ruby said approvingly. She turned a few pages. “These are interesting recipes, China. Here’s one for lavender butter—I don’t think I’ve ever heard of that before.”
“For her day, Myra was an amazingly inventive cook,” Pansy said. “She particularly loved rosemary. She grew lots of it—in fact, a few of her original plants still survive, in the herb garden behind the Guild House. She had all sorts of novel ideas for using it in foods.”
Myra Merryweather’s unusual lavender butter is easy to make. Just mix 1 tablespoon of lavender flowers (fresh, unsprayed) with a cup of softened butter or margarine. Cover tightly and refrigerate for a day before using. Serve on crackers with smoked turkey or cold chicken, or use in your favorite butter-cookie recipe.
I picked up a few pages, thinking with relief that we could scratch Pansy off our suspect list. I doubted that she would have bothered to photocopy a book that she intended to steal. I began to study Myra’s handwritten notes in the margins of the pages. Many were changes in existing recipes—an ingredient added here, another subtracted there. Others were entirely new recipes, written in a tiny but legible script. A couple of unusual ones caught my eye, and I blinked. If the stolen book hadn’t been valuable because of Myra’s handwritten notes, it should be valuable because of these new recipes. Some were quite unique. I looked up. “Do you know if anybody else copied Myra’s notes?”
“I don’t think so,” Pansy said. “The book has been in the vault since her death, so no one has had access to it. Why?”
“Because,” I said, “I have an idea.” I grinned. “A brilliant idea, if I do say so myself.”
“An idea for publishing a second edition from Myra’s notes?” Pansy asked.
“An idea about how to offer a reward without letting anybody know?” Ruby guessed.
“You’re both wrong,” I replied. “I have an idea about how to trap a thief—in a trap baited with rosemary.”
Pansy looked confused. Ruby looked dubious. “What are you thinking?” she asked.
“I’m thinking that it’s time for a cooking contest,” I said. “The prize goes to the person who comes up with the most creative use of rosemary.” When they still looked puzzled, I added, a little impatiently, “Don’t you see? The person who took the book won’t be able to resist submitting one of Myra’s unique rosemary recipes. She’ll give herself away!”
“Well, maybe,” Pansy said slowly.
“What if she’s too smart to fall for the trick?” Ruby asked.
I shrugged. “Then we’ve gone to a lot of trouble for nothing. But let’s face it. We’ve come to a dead end. We have no eye-witnesses, no clues, and nothing but accusations from the suspects. Do you guys have any other suggestions?”
“You’re right,” Pansy said. “I’ll get the word out. People can bring their entries to the next meeting.”
“They need to bring their recipes, too,” I said. “If we find one that exactly matches one of Myra’s handwritten entries, we’ll know we’ve got our thief.”
“And then what?” Ruby wanted to know.
“We try to get it back,” I said with a shrug.
It was a suspenseful week. I thought back over the conversations we’d had with the suspects, wondering if we had overlooked a clue. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t think of anything we’d missed. If our trap didn’t work, Myra Merryweather’s original Cookery Book was probably gone forever.
Judgment day finally arrived. Everybody was excited about the contest, and the downstairs meeting room at the Guild House was full. The contest entries were arranged on a long table, each dish accompanied by the recipe written on a white index card, the contestant’s name on the back. While Mrs. Gates gave a talk on herbal liqueurs and everybody got to taste her famous Rosemary Orange Honey Liqueur, Ruby and I snooped among the entries, checking the recipes against the list I had made of the handwritten rosemary recipes in the margins of Myra’s Cookery Book.
“Mabel Gordon has entered something called Kidney-and-Leek Pie with Rosemary Radishes,” Ruby said, shuddering. “What was
she thinking?”
With a grin, I checked my list. “Myra had better taste. That’s not one of her recipes, so Mabel is in the clear.” I picked
up a card labeled ROSEMARY AND RHUBARB PIE—an interesting recipe, but not on the list either. And neither were the next four we picked up. I was beginning to get discouraged. Maybe Pansy and Ruby had been right. Maybe our thief was too smart to take the bait.
Herbal liqueurs make wonderful gifts for yourself or for friends, but you do have to plan ahead. Allow this liqueur to mellow for at least 6 months before you serve it.
ROSEMARY ORANGE HONEY LIQUEUR
4 large navel oranges
1 small lemon
6 sprigs rosemary
2 cups vodka
1 cup brandy
1 cups honey
Rinse and dry the oranges and the lemon. Use a sharp knife or grater to scrape the skin (the zest) from the oranges and lemon, being careful not to scrape off the bitter white pith. Put the rosemary sprigs and the orange and lemon zest in a glass jar and add the vodka and brandy. Seal tightly and let steep for 3 days in a cool, dark place, shaking the jar once a day. Strain into a clean bowl and whisk in the honey until it dissolves and the mixture clears. Pour into a clean glass bottle or bottles, seal tightly, and allow to mature at room temperature before using.
On the other side of the table, Ruby picked up a card. “Now, here’s a rosemary dish I’ve never heard of,” she remarked. “It’s called Rosemary and Ripe Olive Pesto. Weird. Very weird.”
I ran my finger down the list. “Rosemary and Ripe Olive Pesto!” I exclaimed. “That’s it, Ruby! That’s Myra’s recipe. Who entered it?”
Without a word, Ruby handed me the card. When I saw the name, I shook my head sadly, thinking that I understood. But at least we’d caught our thief. Now the trick was to make her confess.
Back in the meeting room, Pansy held up her hands for silence. “If we’re not quiet,” she scolded, “we won’t be able to hear China announce the grand prize winner of our Creative Cooking with Rosemary Contest.”
I stood up. “After due deliberation,” I said, “the judges have decided to award the prize to the creator of an original recipe that Myra Merryweather would be proud of. Rosemary and Ripe Olive Pesto, by Delia Murphy!”
There was a round of applause punctuated by a few disappointed sighs as Delia proudly stood and came forward. I presented her with a sealed envelope and shook her hand. Pansy hurried through the rest of the announcements and the meeting was over. Immediately afterward, I whispered to Pansy that Ruby and I would be in the library. A few minutes later, Pansy came into the room, followed by Delia. Delia was holding the envelope I had given her.
“I thought there was supposed to be a check in this envelope,” she said, sitting down at the library table. “It’s empty. How do I get my prize money?”
“You don’t,” I said regretfully. “What’s more, we must ask you to return the Myra Merryweather Cookery Book that you took from this room.”
MYRA MERRYWEATHER’S ROSEMARY AND RIPE OLIVE PESTO
1 cup large ripe olives, pitted
½ cup fresh basil
½ cup fresh parsley
¼ cup onion, chopped
¼ cup grated Romano cheese
¼ cup walnuts or pine nuts
1 tablespoon fresh rosemary, finely minced
3 cloves garlic, mashed
1 tablespoon extra virgin olive oil
3 teaspoons lemon juice
Process all ingredients in a food processor or blender until smooth, stopping occasionally to scrape down the sides. Refrigerate for at least 2 hours before serving; if it seems too thick, stir in a little more oil. Makes about 1 cup. Serve with your favorite cooked pasta.
Delia’s eyes widened. “But I . . . I didn’t!” she sputtered. “I had nothing to do with it!”
Ruby sighed. “Show her the proof, China.”
I opened the folder containing the photocopies and put a page on the table. In the left margin, in Myra Merryweather’s careful script, was written the recipe for Rosemary and Ripe Olive Pesto. “This is your great-aunt’s original recipe,” I said quietly. “It’s the same recipe that won the prize.”
There was a long silence. Delia bit her lip and swallowed. In a low voice, she said at last, “Great-aunt Myra promised that cookbook to Mother years ago. It was just plain spiteful of her to give it to somebody else.” There were tears in her eyes as she glanced at Pansy. “Now I suppose you’ll call the police.”
Pansy shook her head. “All you have to do is return the book, Delia. We’ll never reveal that you took it.”
Delia’s face fell. “Return the book? But it’s mine! It belongs in my family!”
“Would you rather be charged with a felony?” Pansy asked.
Another long silence, as Delia wrestled with her options. “Oh, I suppose,” she muttered at last. She took out a handkerchief and blew her nose.
“I’ll go with you to get the book,” Ruby offered.
“Well, come on, then.” Delia sighed heavily. “Let’s get it over with.”
Two days later, Pansy was back in my shop, all smiles. “We’ve repaired the display case and put the book in it, China. I’m very grateful to you for solving the mystery!”
“I wish there could have been a happier ending,” I replied, putting a tray of crackers and a pot of appetizer on the hospitality shelf. “It was wrong of Delia to take the book, but I could understand how she felt about it.”
“I know,” Pansy said. “But we have the book back, and Delia will get something out of it. We’ve decided to make the Creative Cookery Contest an annual affair, with a plaque that goes from one winner to the next. Delia’s name will be first. And when we publish a second edition of Myra’s cookbook, we’ll put in a thank-you to her—and a special one to you.”
“That’s very generous,” I said.
Pansy turned to leave. “Oh, by the way,” she said. “Remember that new furniture of Cora’s? It turns out that her ex-husband made good on his promise to repay her for taking some of his debts.” She paused. “And Jerry put a lock on the kitchen door this morning.”
“That’s good,” I said. I dabbed some appetizer spread on a cracker and handed it to her. “I’ve been experimenting with another one of Myra’s recipes. Have a taste.”
Pansy popped the cracker into her mouth. “Delicious!” she exclaimed, her eyes lighting up. “And very different. What is it?”
“Traditionally, it’s called tapenade,” I said. “It’s a Provençal specialty. I’ve added rosemary to the dish and given it a different name, in honor of our recent experience.”
“What’s that?” Pansy asked.
“China’s Rosemary Caper,” I replied.
Tapenade is an Old World appetizer that looks something like caviar but tastes like anchovies, olives, and capers—a zesty combination spread on toasted French bread or sturdy whole-wheat crackers, or served as a dip for raw veggies. Add a spoonful of olive oil, some chopped fresh tomatoes, and toss it with hot cooked pasta. Versatile and different!
CHINA’S ROSEMARY CAPER
2 small (6- or 8-ounce) jars of oil-cured black olives
cup olive oil
cup tiny capers (nonpareil), drained
2 (2-ounce) tins flat anchovy fillets, undrained
1 tablespoon lemon juice
3 cloves garlic, minced fine
2 teaspoons finely minced fresh rosemary leaves or 1
teaspoon dried
Pepper to taste
Pit the olives and place in a blender or food processor. Add olive oil and blend. Add capers, anchovies, lemon juice, garlic, and rosemary. Blend until smooth (or, if you prefer, until it’s slightly grainy). Taste, and add pepper if you like. If the spread is too thick, add additional olive oil. Refrigerate for several days for best flavor. Serve at room temperature. (To store, pack in a large-mouthed jar and cover with olive oil. Cover jar tightly.)
IVY’S WILD, WONDERFUL WEEDS
One person’s weed is another person’s wildflower.
—Anonymous
WHEN I bought the old stone building on Crockett Street and opened Thyme and Seasons Herbs, the neighborhood looked quite a bit different. The trendy, upscale restaurant across Crockett Street was still just an ordinary house with a friendly front porch and a big green side yard. The two-story house beside it was occupied by a family with eight children, sixteen bicycles, and five dogs; now, it’s the Love Family Funeral Home and Mortuary. And the big, seedy-looking house next door on the east has been fixed up and turned into a children’s bookstore called the Hobbit House, owned by Molly McGregor. Neighborhoods are just like people—they grow up, get new jobs, get facelifts and tummy tucks. Or they grow old, get tired, and let themselves go to the dogs. The neighborhood around Thyme and Seasons is changing from mostly residential to partly commercial, which has not been an entirely bad thing. In the process, it’s been facelifts and tummy tucks all around.
Except for the Craft Emporium, which is desperately in need of a facelift. The Emporium, at the corner of Crockett and Guadalupe, occupies a sagging three-story Victorian mansion built before the turn of the century and, in its heyday, one of the grandest residences in Pecan Springs. Now, it stands like a sadly weary and time-worn grande dame, not quite ready to throw in the towel but lacking the energy for anything else. Through time and misfortune, the old place has come down in the world, losing all of its dignity and most of its opulence to a haphazard succession of owners who failed to give it a facelift, or even a good coat of paint. Eight or nine years ago, Constance Letterman bought it and turned the large, high-ceilinged rooms into a warren of antique booths, boutiques, and tiny craft shops, providing a livelihood to about a dozen crafters, artists, and collectors.
An Unthymely Death Page 7