An Unthymely Death (10 page)

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.

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.”

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.

IVY’S WILD, WONDERFUL WEEDS

 

 

 

 

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.