An Unthymely Death (12 page)

“Exactly,” Ivy said. “I collected some of these plant materials from my garden, but weeds are actually my favorites. And you can use lots of different things, not just plants, to make nature prints.” She picked up an imprint of a large goldfish, perfect down to the fins and scales. “This is Sushi. He jumped out of his goldfish pond, unfortunately. I tried to revive him but it was too late, so I printed him. The Japanese have been doing fish rubbing since the early nineteenth century. They call it
gyotaku.
”

I gawked at Sushi. “Amazing,” I said.

“These are watercolor prints?” Ruby asked.

Ivy nodded. “But you can also print with colored inks. When you’re just getting started, ink is simpler. And of course, you can make all kinds of things—notecards, giftwrap, calendars, fabrics. I’ve even used large leaves and fern fronds to print wall borders.”

“I am definitely impressed,” I said, looking first at one print, then another. “Are any of these for sale?”

Ivy cleared her throat. “I’ve always made them for my own pleasure. But lately, I’ve been thinking about selling them. Do you think they’re good enough?” She hesitated. “Be honest, now. If you don’t think so, say so. I can take it.”

“They’re wonderful!” Ruby said enthusiastically. “I’m sure you’ll be able to sell them.” She frowned. “The question is where.”

I looked around. “I certainly want some cards,” I said. “And I’d like to hang some of the prints here. But I don’t have enough room to do your work justice. What you need is some gallery space, where the framed prints can be hung at eye level. And where you can display some of your other things—cards, fabric, giftwrap.”

“Do you think,” Ivy asked hesitantly, “that the Emporium might work for me?”

“It would be perfect!” Ruby said. “The walls are white, the floor is polished wood, and there’s lots of natural light. It’s ex- actly what you need to display your prints.” She paused and cast a questioning look at Ivy. “But I don’t know how much the rent might be,” she added.

“Money isn’t really an issue,” Ivy replied. “My husband died two years ago and left me pretty well off. I can do just about anything I want to do, except bring him back, of course.” Her smile was just the slightest bit crooked. “If I want to hang out my shingle as an artist—well, that seems pretty reasonable to me, if maybe a little brazen. I’m not sure I’m that good.”

“Not brazen,” Ruby amended. “Brave. Anyway, you’ll never know whether you’re good until you put your work out where other people can see it.” She began to put the prints back into Ivy’s portfolio. “Come on—we’ll introduce you to Constance, and you can take a look at the Emporium.” She gave a little laugh. “If you promise not to turn up your nose at the peeling paint.”

“And watch those porch steps,” I cautioned.

The Emporium’s cosmetic problems didn’t seem to bother Ivy, and within the hour, the arrangements were made. To my surprise, Ivy and Constance hit it off amazingly well. Ivy chuck-led at Constance’s jokes, and Constance was visibly awed by Ivy’s botanical artistry. By the time the deal was consummated, the two seemed well on their way to becoming friends. Ivy signed a six-month lease and gave Constance a check for the first and last months’ rent.

“There are some things I’ll want to do before I open for business,” Ivy said, as we stood on the front porch, saying good-bye. “A new carpet, green, I think. The walls will need painting, and I might try printing some leafy borders, in different shades of green. I’ll want new blinds for the large window, maybe those very thin bamboo blinds that diffuse the light. And a few wicker chairs and a couple of large plants.” She smiled happily. “I want it to look just like a real gallery.”

“It will
be
a real gallery,” Ruby said.

“Well, then,” Constance said with a gleam in her eye, “we’ll have to plan a grand opening, won’t we? After all, we want to give the new business the right send-off.” She gave a critical look around. “I’ve been meaning to get these steps fixed. And I’ll need to do something about the landscaping. All those weeds—”

“China and I were just thinking about that,” Ruby put in quickly. “We were saying that it wouldn’t be very much work to extend China’s herb garden all the way across the front of the Emporium.” She gave me a meaningful look. “Weren’t we, China?”

“Oh, absolutely,” I lied happily, as the gas station began to fade into the realm of remote possibilities. “How about a butterfly garden, with salvia and echinacea and fennel and yarrow and—”

“A butterfly garden!” Constance exclaimed, her brown curls quivering. “I swear, y’all are so full of ideas and energy, you’re getting me excited, too! This is gonna be
fun!
”

Constance managed to maintain her excitement long enough to get the porch steps fixed and the sidewalk patched. Ruby and I worked evenings and a weekend, putting in the new butterfly garden. And when Olive moved out, we all pitched in to fix up Ivy’s new gallery, which she was calling Wild, Wonderful Weeds. By the second week of the month, the grass-green carpet was laid and the walls were painted white and printed with fern-frond borders. Ivy hung her prints, arranged tasteful displays of her cards, fabrics, and giftwraps, and was ready for her grand opening.

“I’m so nervous, China!” she whispered as we stood near the door. She was wearing a sweeping green and white dress made of fabric she’d printed herself, and her pale hair was pulled back in a chic bun at the back of her neck. “What if they don’t like my work? What if nobody comes?”

But there wasn’t much chance of that. New businesses in Pecan Springs are always a big deal, and people come out of curiosity, if nothing else. Hark Hibler had interviewed Ivy and run a long article in Saturday’s
Enterprise
, complete with photographs of her and her artwork. Helen Jenson, the president of the Chamber of Commerce, had strung a red ribbon across the newly repaired porch steps, and the entire Chamber wore their matching blue blazers for the ribbon-cutting and obligatory photograph. Within a half hour, the room was crowded with people who had come to get a look at Pecan Springs’s first botanical art gallery and to chow down on a selection of Janet’s tasty herbal hors d’oeuvres, courtesy of Thyme for Tea. The mayor was there, of course, and Madeleine Jordan, from the city council, doing their duty to encourage the local economy. Mrs. Love, of Love’s Family Funeral Home and Mortuary, had dropped in, as had Molly McGregor, the owner of the Hobbit House, on the other side of Thyme and Seasons. As people began to wander in off the street, it looked as if we were going to have a full house, which would certainly bode well for Ivy’s success. Something else might bode well, too.

I nudged Ruby. “Look at that,” I said in a low voice. “Hark is turning on the charm.” Over in the corner, he was talking intently to Ivy, who was smiling back at him with what looked like genuine interest. When he feels like it, Hark can manage a certain low-wattage charm. He’s no Don Juan, but he’s certainly not bad-looking, now that he’s lost about forty pounds and cultivated a distinguished-looking salt-and-pepper mustache to go with his dark hair.

“Well, my goodness.” Ruby giggled. “Looks like Pecan Springs’s most eligible bachelor is seriously interested.”

I glanced at Ruby, who, once upon a time, had dated Hark. But if she was jealous of Hark’s attention to Ivy, she wasn’t showing it. “Looks to me like he’s seriously smitten,” I remarked wryly. “And if you ask me, Ivy’s enjoying every minute of it.”

“Couldn’t happen to a nicer pair,” Ruby said with a shrug, and turned away to show Mrs. Love some of Ivy’s work. Then Pansy Pride came over, making
ooh
-ing and
ahh
-ing noises over Ivy’s botanical art, and bought three dozen hand-printed cards to give to her friends. And when the Garden Club showed up en masse, sales got even brisker. By the time everyone had left, the walls and shelves were all but empty.

“It’s a good thing I’ve got more items at home,” Ivy said, looking around at the empty spots on the walls and shelves. “But I’m going to have to get to work—which means that I’ll have to find somebody to mind the shop for a few hours every day.” She laughed. “There’s nothing like a few good sales to stimulate your creativity.”