An Unthymely Death (23 page)

“I see,” I said thoughtfully. “Do you remember who bought them from you?”

“Of course,” Sandra said. “It’s not like Pecan Springs is a big city, you know. Alice Olsen bought most of them. Joe Keiffer bought what was left.” She grinned. “Joe said he was buying them for someone he secretly admired, which I thought was cute. Joe must be sixty-five, if he’s a day. His wife died last year, and I know he’s been lonesome. I wonder who he’s sweet on.”

“Only those two? You’re sure about that?”

“I’ve got the receipts back at the shop,” Sandra said. “Why?” She shifted uncomfortably. “This doesn’t have anything to do with Mavina, does it? I heard she was holding a bouquet of violets when she was found.”

“It might,” I said. Casually, I added, “Did you know her?” A look of something—alarm, apprehension, I couldn’t be sure what—crossed Sandra’s face, and she half-turned away. When she spoke, her tone was guarded. “Mavina? Of course I knew her. Didn’t everybody? I checked out books from her at the library, and she came into the shop a couple of times a month.”

“Did she ever buy violets?”

“Not that I recall.” Her mouth tightened. “The last thing she bought was a single white rose.”

It occurred to me that there might be something more to the relationship than Sandra was letting on. I filed the suspicion away and lowered my voice. “When you get back to your shop,” I said, “it would be a good idea to put those receipts in a safe place. The police might want to have a look at them.”

“Okay,” Sandra said. She turned back to me. Whatever the look on her face had been, it was gone and she was smiling. “Hey, if carnations aren’t your thing, how about a few nasturtiums?”

When I got back to the booth, I told Ruby what Sandra had said about selling violets to Alice Olsen and Joe Keiffer, and reported my suspicion that there was more to Sandra’s relationship with Mavina than she was letting on.

Ruby took all this in, then asked, “Why would anybody bother to
buy
violets? Can’t they just go out in the woods and pick them for free?”

“Not around Pecan Springs,” I said. “It’s too hot and dry here for wild violets. Anyway, the violets in Mavina’s tussie mussie were cultivated violets, with large, dark blossoms. Wild violets are usually small and lighter in color.” We didn’t have time to discuss it further. Customer traffic picked up and we were busy until five, when the Fairy Festival closed and all the vendors began packing up.

Fortunately, we didn’t have much to pack. Ruby had sold every single one of the dream pillows she had brought and most of the books, crystals, and magic wands. In addition to the potted herbs, my best-selling item turned out to be a spicy Kitchen Simmer Potpourri that makes the kitchen smell like cinnamon and orange spice. By five o’clock, our booth was almost bare, we had counted our money, and we were ready to pack the tables and our signs into the van.

When we’d finished loading everything, Ruby turned to me. “As it happens, Alice Olsen borrowed one of my astrology books when she was taking a class last month. Why don’t we drop in on her? I can get my book back, and you might just casually ask her about those violets.”

I slammed the van door. “Sounds like a plan worthy of Nancy Drew,” I said. I was sure Sheila wouldn’t object, since she’s always complaining about not having enough trained investigators. And anyway, there was nothing to go on but my hunch about those violets—which wasn’t enough to prompt Sheila to spend valuable police time investigating. Like all cop shops, hers is on a tight budget.

“Super,” Ruby said happily. “Let’s go.”

So we climbed into the van and drove to an upscale part of town, where Alice had recently rented a new apartment. She was a cool, poised-looking woman, her hair swirled on top of her head in an ash-blond pouf. Her makeup was flawless, and she was dressed for a dinner date in a sleek, close-fitting white sheath. In my grubby jeans and Fairy Fest T-shirt, stained with some child’s grape Kool-Aid and a smear of chocolate marshmallow ice cream, I couldn’t blame Alice for looking at me like something that had blown in on a West Texas wind.

Ruby introduced me and explained about the book, and as Alice went to get it, I glanced around. The all-white living room was elegantly furnished with a sofa and stuffed chairs that looked brand-new. I didn’t dare sit down, so I wandered around, looking at things. There was so much white that it made me want to squint, the way you do on a white-sand beach at noon on a summer day. The only relief in the entire room was a crystal bowl filled with a dozen deep-blue violets, sitting on a glass table.

“Those are beautiful flowers,” I said when Alice returned with the book—something called
Read Your Romance in the Stars
—and handed it to Ruby.

Alice touched a petal reminiscently. “Violets are my favorite flower. They grew all around our house in Vermont. My mother used to make violet syrup for pancakes when we were children. It was a lovely springtime treat.”

“But you haven’t made syrup with those,” I remarked idly.

“No,” she replied. “I read somewhere that you shouldn’t cook with flowers that come from a florist, because they may have been sprayed with something poisonous.” She didn’t look
up, and her voice had taken on a brittle edge. “I wanted them just to . . . remind me.”

“At least I got my book back,” Ruby said, as we climbed into the van. “Other than that, I’d say the visit was a loss. Wouldn’t you?”

“I guess,” I replied. I thought of Alice’s poised coolness and the chilly white of her apartment, and shivered. “McQuaid’s cooking Tex-Mex tonight. Let’s take this stuff back to the shop and then go to my house and warm up over a plate of his enchilada casserole.”

“Sounds like a plan to me,” Ruby said happily.

As it happens, Joe Keiffer’s house is a stone’s throw from Thyme and Seasons Herbs, and as Ruby and I drove back to our shops, we saw Joe out in his yard, wearing dirty overalls and pushing an old-style rotary lawn mower. We left our van parked in the alley behind the shops, then casually walked over to talk to him.

Joe stopped pushing his mower and greeted us with his customary frown. “Careful where you put your feet,” he said, pointing to a patch of freshly turned soil beside the fence. “I just planted me some epazote seeds and I sure don’t need nobody trackin’ in my fresh dirt.”

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing, Joe?” I teased. “That epazote spreads like a prairie fire in August.” Epazote is used to flavor Mexican bean dishes and reduce the you-know-what that comes with beans. If it likes your garden (most epazote has never met a garden it didn’t like), it will grow three or four feet high, then start eyeing your neighbor’s garden.

“Won’t matter none to me if it does,” Joe said with a twinkle. “Ever’body needs a little epazote in the bean pot.” He wiped his sweaty face with a red bandana. “What’s on yer mind, China?” He pretended not to see Ruby. Joe’s got a strong conservative streak, and she’s too New Age for his taste.

“I was talking to Sandra Green this morning,” I said. “She happened to mention that you bought some violets for a friend of yours.”

“Yep,” Joe said proudly. “Bought a whole half dozen. Set me back a good bit, too. Vi’lets ain’t cheap, y’know.”

I nodded. “It happens that I’ve got some violet bubble bath on special this week, and I thought your friend might like to have some of that, to go along with her flowers.”

Joe raised both eyebrows. “Violet bubble bath,” he mused. “Now, that’s a thought.” He leaned forward. “How much?”

“Just a dollar, for you,” I said. “Who’s your friend?”

He straightened up, frowning furiously. “None o’ yer beeswax,” he snapped.

I turned to go. “See you around.”

“Hey!” he said. “What about that bubble bath? I reckon Charlene would like some. She did like them vi’lets I got her.” He looked down bashfully. “Charlene Clark is her name. She works at the Quik-Wash Laundry. I bet you know her.”

I do know Charlene, who is as sweet and kind as they come. I couldn’t imagine her being involved with Mavina’s death. And since Joe had given his violets to Charlene, we could scratch him off the suspect list. Now that I’d talked to him, I was ready to scratch him off anyway. I couldn’t imagine Mavina unbending enough to give Joe the time of day. “I’ll get that bubble bath for you, Joe,” I said. “I’m sure Charlene will love it.”

When Ruby and I went back to our unloading, I thought about Mavina’s tussie mussie. Violets had been the central flower, but there had been others as well. Maybe they held a clue. Trouble was, I couldn’t recall what they were.

But the answer to this mystery was as close as the Pecan Springs police station, where the tussie mussie was being kept under lock and key in the evidence room. With Sheila’s permission, Ruby and I sat down and made a list of all the herbs and flowers in the bouquet. As we worked, I realized that these were unusual herbs, not the sort you’re likely to find in a pretty bouquet. There was a sprig of rue, for instance, a leaf of sweet bay, a blossom of butterfly weed, a couple of leaves of garlic chives, and a tiny white rosebud. Oh, yes—there was a cypress twig.

Ruby looked down at the list, her forehead creased in a frown. “But what does all this
mean,
China?”

“I’ve got some ideas,” I said. “But I have a couple of books that might help to confirm my suspicions. Let’s go to my house.” I looked at my watch. “And we’d better hurry. If McQuaid and Brian sit down to eat without us, there won’t be a single tortilla chip left when we get there.”

But the guys had waited. Along with the guacamole, chips, a green salad, and his enchilada casserole, McQuaid put a dish of
frijoles refritos
on the table, and the four of us pitched in. When dinner was over, McQuaid and Brian generously volunteered to wash the dishes. Well, McQuaid volunteered—Brian, who will soon turn fourteen, required a little persuading.

Ruby and I took our coffee and our list of tussie mussie flowers and headed for my studio, where I work on herbal prod- ucts and keep all my reference books. I pulled three books off the shelf and we sat down with them, turning the pages.