Queen Anne's Lace

by Susan Wittig Albert

  His guilty reflections were interrupted by a knock at the front door, and he opened it to Dr. Grogan.

  “Good afternoon, Adam,” the doctor said. “If you have a moment . . .”

  “By all means,” Adam replied. “Come in, Grogan. There’s coffee in the kitchen.” He and the doctor had a friendly acquaintance that went back to Adam’s mother’s last illness some ten years before, when the doctor had come to see her almost every day for a month.

  The old man followed Adam to the kitchen, where he sat down at the oilcloth-covered kitchen table and hung his brown derby hat on the back of his chair. He was silent while Adam filled their cups and took the chair across the table from him. Finally, he spoke.

  “I finished your wife’s autopsy a little while ago, Adam.” There was a deep sympathy in his faded blue eyes. “Given the physical evidence and the seeds I found in the drawer beside her bed, I’ve listed the cause of death as hemlock poisoning.” He paused and added, “In my opinion, the poisoning was accidental. That’s what I put on the death certificate.”

  Adam tried to hide the flood of relief he felt at the word accidental. “Hemlock,” he muttered. “Of all the crazy things in this world . . .”

  “I understand,” the doctor said. “It’s a rather unusual situation. But I found something else, too, and I thought you’d want to know about it—if you don’t already.” He cocked his head, studying Adam. “Your wife was pregnant.”

  “Pregnant!” Adam stared at him. “But that’s impossible! We hadn’t . . . I mean, she—” He stopped. Of course it was possible.

  “I take it you didn’t know, then,” the doctor said softly, pityingly. “Well, I’m sorry to be the one to tell you. It’s a sad thing to lose a wife and a child, both at the same time. But it happens, you know. Your neighbor, Mrs. Duncan, lost her husband and baby son on a single day and has managed to cope. You must be as brave as she.”

  “How far—” Adam cleared his throat and tried again. “How far along was she?”

  “It’s a little hard to be sure, but I’d say, oh, about nine or ten weeks.”

  Adam pulled in his breath. “Nine or ten weeks?”

  “Ten at the outside.” The old man picked up his coffee cup and took a drink, then set it down. His voice was measured. “According to Mrs. Crow, Mrs. Hunt wasn’t eager to have another child and was in the regular habit of taking wild carrot seeds. They’re a fairly reliable contraceptive, and many women depend on them. But nothing is a hundred percent. Mistakes happen all the time. I know,” he added wryly. “I deliver the results.”

  Nine or ten weeks. Adam scarcely heard what the doctor was saying. He was flipping rapidly through a mental calendar. He and Delia hadn’t slept together for a couple of weeks before she left for Galveston. That was the middle of July, and she had been gone for seven weeks—no, eight, wasn’t it? It was now early October, which made it . . . thirteen weeks, he thought. Well, that made it certain, although he didn’t intend to let Dr. Grogan in on the secret. He wasn’t the father of Delia’s baby.

  But the calendar in his mind raised another question. “Ten weeks,” he said. “I’m certainly no expert on women, Dr. Grogan. Delia and I . . . we didn’t talk much about such things. But in ten weeks, she would have missed two of her monthlies, wouldn’t she? Shouldn’t she have known—or at least suspected—that she was pregnant?” He paused, then spit out the rest of his question. “And if she knew, why in the hell was she bothering with a contraceptive?”

  The doctor looked troubled. “That was my thought, too, Adam. In my experience, a married woman—especially a woman who doesn’t want another child—keeps her eye on the calendar. She might not notice when she misses one monthly, but missing the second gets her attention.” He pulled a cigar out of his breast pocket and studied the end of it critically. “I’ve given some thought to this in the past hour or two. I’m sorry to say that it’s my opinion that Mrs. Hunt took those seeds, not as a contraceptive, but as an abortifacient.”

  Adam blinked. “Abort—”

  “Yes. Abortifacient, or abortivant, if you prefer. An agent used to intentionally cause an abortion.” Grogan lit his cigar. “It appears that your wife realized she was pregnant and felt the need to end it. For the purpose, she used what she thought was wild carrot, but she could have used other herbs, as well. Tansy, rue, thyme, pennyroyal, cotton root, epazote. In these modern days, there are also quite a few so-called patent medicines that may serve the purpose, if a woman doesn’t have access to herbs. Lydia Pinkham’s, for instance. But also Portuguese Female Pills, Hardy’s Woman’s Friend, Pennyroyal Pills, and a dozen others.”

  “Lydia Pinkham’s.” Adam tapped a finger on the table, remembering. “I’ve seen bottles of this in Delia’s medicine cupboard, but I thought it was just a sort of general tonic. You’re telling me that it’s . . . it’s used to cause abortions?” He shook his head, wondering. How many times had his wife conceived—and managed to end it—over the years since Caroline’s birth? And he’d been completely in the dark.

  “Yes,” Grogan replied, a cloud of blue smoke wreathing his gray hair. “And the others, too. I’m sure you’ve seen the advertisements. They’re in every newspaper, and the medicines are remarkably popular. Some are more effective than others, of course. And some—like the Cherokee Pills for Females—include the specific direction that, for greater effectiveness, the pills should be taken together with an herbal tea, such as tansy, rue, or thyme. They seldom say explicitly that these are abortifacients—although I recently saw one that warned pregnant women against taking it, for a ‘miscarriage will certainly ensue.’” He smiled. “The message is clear, isn’t it? If you want to miscarry, take this pill.”

  Adam stared at him, thinking that women shared a whole world of information from which—as a man—he was excluded. “These . . . medicines actually work? And the plants?”

  “They can, when they’re taken early. That’s why they are so popular. Women talk among themselves, you know. They share information about what’s effective and what isn’t.” The doctor paused and looked at Adam, one eyebrow raised. When Adam did not reply, he went on. “In this case, I believe your wife intended to use wild carrot to abort her pregnancy, so she took quite a large dose. It would most likely have been effective, too. Unfortunately . . .” He pulled on his cigar. “She got hold of the wrong plant.”

  Adam thought of Simpson. While the letter made it clear that he and Delia had been lovers, Simpson hadn’t mentioned the pregnancy in his letter, so he must not have known about it. Delia probably had no more wish to bear her lover’s child than her husband’s, so she had decided to abort it. Or maybe— He swallowed. Maybe Simpson had told her to get rid of the baby. Either way, it was unconscionable. Under his breath, he said, “How she thought she could live with herself—”

  “Don’t take it that way, my boy.” The old man gave him a deeply sympathetic look. “Don’t blame her, please. We have it easy, we men. We take our pleasure, but we don’t have to endure the consequences. Giving birth is called ‘labor’ for a reason, you know. You might find it easier to forgive your wife if you could see what I see every day—women having babies, one after another, and having the worst hard time you can imagine.” He scratched his head. “I’ve heard it said that if men had babies, there wouldn’t be any babies. I can’t quarrel with that. It’s not an experience I would voluntarily undergo. Nor would you, I wager.”

  Adam let the silence lengthen. At last he said, “So we know why Delia took the seeds that killed her. Has anybody figured out where she got them? Mrs. Duncan, next door, said she didn’t believe they came from Mrs. Crow.” He got up to get a saucer for Grogan’s cigar ash, hoping the doctor hadn’t noticed the softening in his voice when he spoke Annie’s name.

  If Grogan heard, he gave no evidence. He tapped his ash into the saucer Adam set in front of him. “Your neighbor is correct, as I understand it,” he said. �
�I believe I should let the sheriff fill you in on that, though. I’m not sure—”

  “Don’t make me wait, Grogan,” Adam said gruffly. “You said it was an accident. So tell me the rest of it.”

  For a moment, he thought the old man wasn’t going to answer. Then he let out a long breath and said, “It appears that your hired girl was the one who made the mistake. The girl told Sheriff Atkins that your wife sent her to the empty lot behind Purley’s, where she would find a stand of wild carrot, with seeds ready to gather. Unfortunately, there was also some poison hemlock growing nearby. I know, for I’ve just come from there. I saw the plants myself. To the unskilled eye, the two species look very much alike, as do the dry seeds. And once they’ve been gathered, it’s hard to see the difference without a magnifying glass.” In a different tone, he added, “I’ve told the sheriff to send someone out there to destroy the hemlock. I don’t want to see any more such accidental deaths.”

  But Adam persisted. “Greta, as she was gathering the seeds, did she know what to look for? Was she aware that this other plant, this poison hemlock, was growing there, too?”

  The doctor puffed on his cigar in silence for a moment. “She says not, Adam. She told the sheriff that Mrs. Hunt said nothing about there being any ‘bad’ plants there. Your wife told Greta to buy two yards of pink ribbon for her at Purley’s, then go to the vacant lot behind the store and gather some seeds from the plants there. She showed the girl the few seeds she had, as an example, and gave her a paper bag to put them in. Greta simply followed instructions, she says. She gave the seeds to Mrs. Hunt. And that’s all she knows—or will say. She’s distraught, of course.”

  Suddenly aware that he was holding his breath, Adam let it out. “And you believe her?”

  The doctor met his eyes. “I don’t know. I don’t profess to understand all that goes on in the human heart. But whether I believe her or not is irrelevant. The girl may not have liked her mistress very much. She may even have resented her and wished to do her harm. But to arrest and charge her, Sheriff Atkins must have evidence that she deliberately gathered the wrong seeds and gave them to your wife with the intention of poisoning her. There simply is no such evidence.”

  “So she’s not going to be charged,” Adam said, trying to hide the new surge of relief he felt. And it appeared that there was no indication that he was suspected of having something to do with his wife’s death.

  “As I understand it, no,” the doctor said. He reached into his waistcoat pocket and took out his watch. “It’s late,” he said. “Mrs. Harrison is expected to deliver this evening. I must be on my way.” He finished his coffee and stood up, holding out his hand. “I’m sorry to have been the bearer of such terrible news, Adam.”

  Adam shook his hand, managing a crooked smile. “I suppose it’s part of your job, isn’t it, Grogan?”

  “Too often, I’m afraid,” the doctor said ruefully. He put on his hat. “Far too often.”

  Adam walked with the doctor to the front door and stood on the porch, his hands in his pockets, watching the old man trudge out to his buggy. When he had driven off down Crockett Street, Adam turned toward the house next door. Across the garden and through the workroom window, he could see Annie moving around, see his daughter, seated, with a piece of needlework in her lap. Annie was bending over her chair, one hand on the child’s shoulder, showing her how to do something. Caroline looked up at her and smiled, and Annie smoothed her hair.

  Adam watched silently. Caroline would miss her mother. Yes, that was natural and right. But time would dull that loss, and Annie would love the little girl and care for her as if she were her very own. He, too, would miss Delia—or rather, would miss the Delia he had imagined was true and faithful to him, and try to forget that she had ever been anything other. He could never forget that he had betrayed her, and never forgive himself. But he had to carry on, for Caroline’s sake. And there was something to hope for.

  After a respectable period of mourning, he would ask Annie to marry him, and they would have a new life together. Given all that had happened, it couldn’t be as simple as that, could it?

  Could it?

  Chapter Fifteen

  Botanists tell us that the tiny red flower in the center of the blossom of Queen Anne’s lace (Daucus carota, aka wild carrot) is there to attract pollinators. But storytellers have other explanations. Some say it is a drop of blood from the royal finger, pricked when the queen was making lace. Others say it represents a sapphire from Queen Anne’s crown, lost when she was walking in her garden.

  But still others (and more ominously) say that this tiny red floret is the devil’s spit and that the blossom carries a curse. If you pick it and take it indoors, your mother will die. This dire warning explains two of the plant’s folk names: Mother-May-Die and Stepmother’s Blessing. These names may also be the remnants of an oral tradition that cautioned women against the careless use of seeds thought to be wild carrot and taken as a contraceptive or an abortifacient, because they could be confused with the deadly seeds of poison hemlock.

  “Anne’s Flower”

  China Bayles

  Pecan Springs Enterprise

  “Omigod,” Ruby breathed, when I called her from the hospital to tell her that I wouldn’t be able to get to the shop until later in the day. “You really shot somebody, China? Over a couple of chickens?” She sucked in her breath and rattled on. “You’re okay? You’re not hurt?” Another breath, then, anxious: “They’re not going to throw you in jail, are they?”

  “Yes, I’m okay,” I said, omitting the bloody details. “Yes, I shot somebody, but I didn’t kill him. No, it wasn’t over chickens. And no, they’re not going to throw me in jail—at least, not if I’ve got anything to say about it. But I have to meet with the sheriff’s officer-involved-shooting team. And that may take a while.”

  A twelve-gauge shotgun packs a wallop, even at fifteen yards, so my victim’s wounds were not inconsequential. After the surgeon finished digging nine double-ought buckshot pellets out of his belly and patching the holes, Gibbons would be charged with aggravated assault of a police officer, assault with a deadly weapon, possession and cultivation of marijuana, and the felony theft of two roosters. There would probably be more charges after the deputies finished searching the premises. A man who steals chickens probably has a few other violations under his belt. They would throw the book at him.

  Thankfully, the officer involved in the shooting—Tom Banner—was alive to back up my account of what had happened. The bullet had torn through his upper arm, shredding the muscle and just missing an artery. In fact, he was in the curtained ER cubicle next to me, where the doctors were working on him while I (less seriously injured) waited in the adjoining cubicle. Somebody had given me a couple of thick gauze pads and I was holding them to my head, trying to stop the bleeding—without much success. My blood-soaked T-shirt was already ruined, of course.

  Finally, a young doctor came in. “Looks like you’ve got a gusher,” he said, sounding mildly interested.

  “Glass splinter,” I said.

  The doctor parted my hair and took a look. “Glass spike,” he said. “How do you feel about brain surgery?”

  “Just take it out, Hawkeye,” I gritted.

  “You need to work on your sense of humor,” the doctor said cheerfully, and patted my arm.

  My scalp didn’t hurt as much after the local went to work, but it took a while to pull out the shard (about the size of a shark’s tooth), disinfect the wound, and sew it shut. The whole operation cost me twelve stitches and an earmuff-sized patch of hair on the side of my head, covered by an earmuff-sized bandage, held on by wraparound gauze. I didn’t ask for a mirror.

  When the doctor was finished, two sheriff’s deputies from the officer-involved team escorted me to a small conference room where somebody fetched me a cup of cafeteria coffee and the three of us sat around a table. The Adams County sherif
f, Curt Chambers, is one of McQuaid’s fishing buddies—law enforcement types tend to stick together—but these two were men I didn’t know.

  The situation required some explaining, because this particular officer-involved shooting involved a civilian: me. Tom hadn’t had time to get a shot off. The deputies were carefully polite and coolly professional, one asking questions and recording the interview, the other taking notes. I mentally lawyered up and walked them through the somewhat bizarre steps that had led to the exchange of gunfire: discovering the chicken theft at the fairgrounds and identifying the thief by the dropped badge and the images on the thumb drive from Caitie’s camera; getting the address from the fairground office and the warrant from JP Maude Porterfield; finding and repossessing the roosters and discovering the marijuana; and being fired on. The interview felt rather déjà vu, although when I had sat in on similar interrogations, I had been the shooter’s counsel, not the shooter. I knew it was routine, of course—it had to be done, even though I had a pounding headache, the local was beginning to wear off, and I might not be entirely coherent.

  But I also knew that I had to make the case that I had fired on Dana Gibbons in order to protect the officer Gibbons had fired on—and that my action had been necessary and unavoidable. The team would interview Tom, then compare our stories and weigh both against the forensic and ballistic reports and the accounts of the other officers on the scene. The full report would go to the Adams County district attorney for review and possibly—since I was a civilian ride-along with a reserve deputy on a criminal investigation—to a grand jury. I expected that, in the end, the shooting would be ruled justified and I could get on with my life. Until then . . . well, I was just a little nervous. Understandably nervous.