A Corpse for Yew (36 page)

“How’d it go?” Steve asked her.

“Great! We had a packed house. All those nice ladies from the Shamrock Historical Society brought their friends and neighbors. They listened to what I had to say, then bought everything I had that related to plants and dry weather. Sam sold five new water reclamation units.”

“Excellent!” Steve took her hand. “Are we ready for this?”

“Yes. I’ve thought of almost nothing else the last few days. I’m ready.”

“I’m amazed you could squeeze me in between drought perennials and catching killers. You must really care about me.”

She kissed him right there in the parking lot. “I care a lot, sir.”

“Then let’s face the music.” He smiled as they began walking toward the restaurant.

A sizable crowd had gathered by the time they walked through the front door. Peggy’s father jumped to his feet and raised his glass of Guinness to the couple when he saw them. “To Margaret and Steve!”

The rest of the group joined him in the toast that brought tears to Peggy’s eyes. Everyone who mattered had managed to be there. Paul had his arm around Mai. Jonathon raised his glass with his left hand, his right hand captured by a pretty brunette.

The Shamrock Historical Society was trying to teach Al and his wife, Mary, how to dance the way they had a hundred years ago. There was even a bagpiper whose music contrasted sharply with the background sounds.

“We thought you’d decided to elope,” Peggy’s mother said. “Where were you?”

“Don’t answer that,” her father advised. “No more personal questions. You two go off and do whatever you feel like doing. You’re adults. You’ve earned it.”

Steve’s friend Skipper introduced his wife, Barbara, to Peggy. “Don’t pay any attention to whatever she tells you I do wrong,” he said. “Steve will back me up that I’m nearly perfect.”

Barbara shook Peggy’s hand and kissed Steve’s cheek. “You’re not, but Steve is. Congratulations, Peggy. I know the two of you will be very happy together.”

A few of the women coaxed their male escorts out on the dance floor and convinced the bagpiper to play something romantic. Steve took Peggy’s hand and drew her to the dance floor, not needing to be coaxed. “This looks pretty good, huh? Is there some old Southern folklore about a good engagement party leading to a good marriage?”

“I think there is. Especially for us.” She smiled up at him and closed her eyes. It was going to be all right, she realized, accepting the wishes for future happiness. She had turned the page.

Peggy
’
s Garden Journal

All of North Carolina has been stuck in a drought for more than a year. Historically, it was too soon for another drought for us, since we just had one in 2002. The weather patterns seem to be changing, not just here but in other places across the world. Water is becoming a much more valuable resource than any of us had ever thought. The days of taking it for granted are over.

As gardeners, we’re aware that planting in our yards may not be as important as farmers’ food crops and drinking water. But that doesn’t mean we want to give up what we love. We have to be smarter, and choose vegetables, fruits, and ornamentals that will weather drier conditions. Many times, this is only a matter of planting natives that are used to changes our areas have seen for many years. These plants are tough and have seen droughts before.

We can help them by using better soils and mulching to protect them from the sun and help them to better use the water we give them.

I hope you’ll find the information in this journal useful for your own gardens.

Happy gardening!

Perennials are a favorite in any garden. They are hardier than annuals in most cases, and they come back year after year.

Some drought-resistant perennials that sip water and still keep going are yucca, asters, geraniums, daylilies, and Shasta daisies. Most herbs don’t require much moisture so long as they are mulched well. Liatris, black-eyed Susan, sunflowers, and poppies are all drought-hardy plants.

To increase your chances of a successful summer garden, despite a lack of rain, try these suggestions:

Catch water in a barrel or trash can when it rains. Save water that runs while you’re waiting for hot water from the tap. Save water from showers that would otherwise go down the drain. Check to see if your area allows “gray water” from baths and dishwater to be used on plants during droughts.

The Creative Little Garden is a great place to visit if you’re in New York City and looking for a nice green spot in the midst of all that concrete. It’s located on East Sixth Street, between Avenues A and B. The garden has been here in the East Village for twenty-five years. It is a community garden tended by volunteers who collaborate on the landscaping. Take a peek at
www.creativelittlegarden.org
.

 

 

“HEAR YE! HEAR YE! DEATH stalks the streets of Renaissance Village. Run for your lives.”

“Would it hurt him to add some inflection?” A fairy, waiting in the costume line ahead of me, rolled her eyes and watched the Village crier go by on the cobblestone street.

“I’ll add some inflection, Dearie,” the little man in the dwarf costume responded as he walked by, “when
you
take some acting lessons.”

Standing between them was making me nervous. The Black Dwarf, alias Marcus Fleck, was holding a long pole with a swinging lantern on one end. It was pointed at me instead of the fairy.

“Acting lessons?” the fairy shot back, her translucent wings quivering. “I’ve been in dinner theaters across the South.”

He snorted. “So has roast beef. What’s your point?”

The fairy (I’m not sure if I know her. Fairies all look the same to me) made a noise somewhere between a screech and a howl. “I’ll show you my point, little man!” She threatened the dwarf, long, red fingernails poised in his direction.

I was still standing between them. “Could you take this somewhere else?” I was hoping for a quick resolution to the problem since it looked like rain and I was still a good twenty minutes from the inside of the costume shop.

This was the first year that Renaissance Village in Myrtle Beach was decking itself out for Halloween. I’d wrangled and made promises to everyone but the devil to be here for an eight-week sabbatical to continue my research on Renaissance crafts. Of course, I could’ve done it next summer, and probably still will, but I
really
wanted to be there for Halloween. I’d heard terrible tales of all the fantastic stuff the Village theme makers had lined up for the season. I couldn’t wait!

“Jessie!” A former student of mine at the University of South Carolina at Columbia, where I was teaching and working on my PhD, hailed me. Debby had dropped out during the last semester to work here full-time. Some people came to the Village and couldn’t go home again. “I was wondering when you were going to get here. We’re roomies!”

She hugged me, and I absently patted her shoulder. I looked around at the crowds of actors and students ready to trade in their traditional Renaissance Village garb of knaves, varlets, wenches, and ladies for their special Halloween costumes.

I’d hoped to see Chase here. Actually, I’d hoped he’d be waiting at the gate with breathless anticipation for my arrival. He was the Village bailiff but also my main man since July. I hadn’t seen him in a few weeks. Those promises and commitments to be here for the next two months had really dragged me down for awhile. But I was firm in my determination that he was probably,
hopefully
, still my man. You never know for sure. A few weeks can be a lifetime.

I was hoping not to need a roomie or Village housing because I’d be staying with Chase. But maybe not. I wouldn’t know for sure until I saw him, hopefully not wrapped around some smug little fairy or one of the storybook characters that inhabited this full-time Renaissance Village.

“I’m glad to see you, too.” I smiled at Debby. The line for costumes had moved closer to the shop and the Black Dwarf had moved on with his cheery message.

But in fact, the Village crier was right about Death stalking the Village. I was looking right at him. He seemed to be following the Black Dwarf, complete with black robe and huge scythe. He was Death incarnate. He was tall, too. Or on stilts.

Debby laughed at me as I couldn’t take my eyes from the character. “You just got here, right? Let me introduce Ross, or as we like to call him, Mr. Big.” She turned to the spectacularly frightening figure of Death. “Ross DeMilo, meet my good friend, Jessie Morton, of late apprenticed to Mary Shift at Wicked Weaves. Jessie, this is Ross. And he’s gonna get you if you don’t watch out.”

Ross pulled back his black hood, frowning at me. His brown hair was greased back from his narrow, skull-shaped face. He wasn’t on stilts. He was just tall and thin, his ribs showing beneath his black Renaissance Village T-shirt.

“Welcome to Renaissance Village, a horrible place to live but a worse place to die. I am Death, the original dark stalker. My scythe will separate your body from your soul.”

As terrifying speeches went, it was pretty good. He had a deep, John Carradine voice that added a certain monster charm that worked even in the bright September sunshine. I didn’t want to think what it would do after dark.

“Hi. That’s a great costume.” I smiled at him. He scowled at me. Then he moved away, mingling with the crowd. I turned to Debby, who was in a red wench’s costume. “Where’s your scary outfit? I thought everyone was dressing up.”

“Today’s the last day to turn in your non-Halloween costume for the scary one.” She shrugged. “I figure why do anything right away when you can wait until the last minute? There are plenty of people who say they aren’t dressing up for Halloween. Robin Hood and the Merry Men aren’t into it, and some of the Craft Guild. They want the dancing girls at the Caravan Stage to dress up like witches. Kind of corny, huh?”

I should mention that a lot of people here take their roles at Renaissance Village very seriously. They live and work here full-time, and sometimes get a little weird. Robin and his Merry Men tend to be that way more than most, since they hang out in Sherwood Forest together, dispatching brigands and stealing toaster ovens from the rich to give to the poor.

“How do the people from Adventure Land feel about people
not
dressing up?” I looked around at the milling crowd of residents and visitors. Adventure Land is the owner of the Village, and supposedly dictates the rules and regulations. “Has Robin told Livy and Harry about this?”

“You are behind the times, I fear, Good Lady. Queen Olivia and King Harold are on the royal outs. Neither one is taking visitors or problems. It looks as though they’re leaving that to our good bailiff, Chase Manhattan. Methinks you know of him. Tall fellow who has shoulders like a Viking and tends to be good at most sporting events?”