An Unthymely Death (28 page)

I bring this up because, to a certain extent, it explains what happened after Molly McGregor failed to answer her telephone one Monday morning.

 

 

Molly McGregor is the owner and proprietor of the children’s bookstore next door to Thyme and Seasons, on the east. The three-story frame house used to be owned by Vida Plunkett, who let her dog, a dedicated and devout hole-digger, run loose at night to excavate other people’s yards. This practice did not exactly lead to serene neighborly relations, particularly since I am proud of the herb gardens around my shop. In fact, Ruby and I danced an elated jig when the For Sale sign went up on Vida’s lawn. We were even more delighted when the new owner, a plump, plain-faced woman with dimpled elbows and an air of energetic and determined self-assurance, bustled into the shop and introduced herself.

“I’m Molly McGregor,” she announced firmly, “and I’ve just bought the house next door from my aunt. I intend to turn the lower two floors into a children’s bookstore and live on the third.”

“A children’s bookstore!” Ruby exclaimed, putting several of Janet’s basil-pecan biscotti on a plate. “That’s wonderful! Exactly what Pecan Springs needs.”

Well, maybe, I thought skeptically. This is a tough time for a retail start-up, and there’s a big chain bookstore in the shopping mall on I-35. However, the chain store is mostly staffed by college students whose acquaintance with books seems to be limited to the book covers, and the children’s section is mostly stocked with comics. And while Houston and Dallas are still in the economic cellar, Pecan Springs’s tourist-based economy seems to be in perennial bloom. If Molly McGregor knew what she was doing, she might make a success of her new venture.

“I’m calling it Hobbit House,” Molly said, accepting the plate Ruby offered her. “I’m planning to have story times and book fairs and visits with authors and theme parties. I’ve been studying successful children’s bookstores around the country to see what brings in the customers, and when Aunt Vida put her house up for sale, the price was right. And the location is perfect.” She paused and added, in a practical tone, “I know this might not be the best time to start an independent bookstore, given the way the chains are taking over. But I’ve looked the situation over carefully, and I think there’s a good chance of succeeding.” She bit into a biscotti and added, “Anyway, I’ve always dreamed of having my own bookstore, and it’s now or never.”

I could only applaud the woman’s determination, and it certainly sounded as if she’d done her homework. “If there’s anything we can do,” I said, “please let us know.”

“As a matter of fact, there is,” she said, munching apprecia- tively. “I was just admiring your garden. Could you help me design and plant a Peter Rabbit garden? I have a white rabbit named Peter, you see, and a cat I call Mrs. T—for Mrs. Tiggywinkle, of course. And my name
is
McGregor, after all. I might as well get some good out of that wretched marriage.” She grinned wryly, but there was a shrewd twinkle in her eye. “A Peter Rabbit garden would be a big attraction, don’t you think? If the kids don’t care about it, then their grandmothers will. And Granny is the one with the checkbook, after all.”

I had to hand it to Molly McGregor. She had thought of everything. And I liked the idea of having a Peter Rabbit garden right next door. Over the years, I’ve created several theme gardens around Thyme and Seasons: a fragrance garden, a moon garden (Ruby’s idea, of course), a Shakespeare garden, and a kitchen border next to the patio. I’ve always wanted to have a children’s garden, but there just wasn’t enough room. However, if the children’s garden were in Molly’s backyard, maybe we could install a gate in the fence and share it.

“I’d be delighted to help you with a Peter Rabbit garden,” I said without hesitation. “When do we get started?”

“There’s no time like the present, I always say,” Molly replied cheerfully. “How about tomorrow?”

As Ruby and I got better acquainted with Molly McGregor, we learned that she was not a woman to let grass grow under her feet—or as we say in Texas, she moved faster than a prairie fire with a tailwind. Within the next few months, Hobbit House was painted and the lower two floors were remodeled to make room for bookshelves, display tables, reading corners, and child-sized tables and chairs. Upstairs, a round green door, with a shiny brass knob in the middle, opened into the Hobbit Hole, a large storytelling room, where children could gather for special events.

Outside, Molly had the front yard landscaped and then she and I turned the backyard into a Peter Rabbit garden. In the center, we hung a scowling hulk of a scarecrow named Mr. McGregor—“He reminds me of Max, my ex-husband,” Molly said reminiscently. “See that frown? That’s Max, to a T.”

Over the handles of a rabbit-sized wheelbarrow, we draped a rabbit-sized blue coat and shoes. We planted the garden with the herbs, vegetables, and flowers that Mr. McGregor might have grown, and we built a small goldfish pond with a waterfall against the garage. On its bank, Molly placed Jemima Puddleduck, a plaster duck that she’d dressed in a pink-flowered shawl and bonnet. Beside Jemima, she put up a wooden sign, painted with red and white roses, that said BLOOM WHERE YOU’RE PLANTED.

“It’s my philosophy,” she explained as she pounded the stake into the soft soil. “You follow your bliss to where you’re meant to be, and then you make yourself right at home.”

And then McQuaid installed the gate in the low picket fence, Molly and I propped it open with a terra-cotta figure of Benjamin Bunny, and our garden merger was complete. Ruby’s and my customers can enjoy the Peter Rabbit garden and buy books for their favorite children. Customers of the Hobbit House can simply step through the gate and follow the brick path through the herb garden to Thyme for Tea, for a refreshing plate of cucumber sandwiches, a slice of rose geranium pound cake, and a flavorful cup of English tea, after which they can shop ’til they drop at Thyme and Seasons and at Ruby’s Crystal Cave. However you look at it, this shared garden is a happy and profitable arrangement for all three of us.

While Molly and I got our hands dirty together, I found out more about her. She had moved to Pecan Springs from Dallas, where her fifteen-year marriage (“to a Very Bad Person,” as she put it, speaking in capital letters) had come crashing to a close when her husband was sent to prison for stock fraud. Shortly after the divorce was final, her mother died, leaving her a substantial sum—enough to buy her aunt’s house, finance the re-modeling and the purchase of inventory, and buy groceries and pay the bills until the Hobbit House began to turn a profit.

“And if it doesn’t,” she concluded practically, as we finished planting a row of lettuce, “then I’ll go back to being a librarian.” She stood up and brushed the dirt off the knees of her baggy green pants, giving me a sidewise look. “My daughter, Karen, thinks I’m crazy, giving up job security and health insurance and investing my nest egg in such a risky deal. But we only go around once, and life is too short to spend it doing something that shrivels the soul.”

“If you’re crazy, so am I,” I replied. “And so is Ruby. Crazy as loons, all three of us. But we’re having fun.”

And with that, we washed our hands and adjourned to Thyme for Tea, for a cup of coffee and a slice of Janet’s Lavender-Thyme Quiche, one of the most popular items on our menu.

 

 

 

As the months passed, it became clear that the Hobbit House was making a name for itself. Mothers and grandmothers went in empty-handed and came out with full shopping bags; children came for weekly story times, a Halloween Haunt, an Easter egg-painting workshop, a Celebrate Texas party, and book signings with four or five authors; and teens came to help out with the children and browse the shelves of young adult classics. There were picnics and Mad Hatter tea parties in the garden, and puppet shows and musical events in the big room upstairs. Molly hired a couple of part-time helpers, but she was still doing most of the work herself, which kept her so busy that Ruby and I rarely saw her. But we didn’t worry about her. She was following her dream.

We didn’t worry, that is, until the Monday morning when Molly failed to open her store or answer the telephone. We might not have noticed right away, but Ruby wanted to pick up a birthday book for her nephew. She came back wearing a puzzled look.