An Unthymely Death (15 page)

“That’s right,” Mary said. “Emily’s rose is just a legend—or maybe the plant was lost. But there are plenty of rose fanciers who would like to discover an antique yellow rose. It might even be valuable.”

“Mmm,” I said, thinking of what the cemetery caretaker had told us. “Did Rose ever mention that she wanted to go collecting at the Pecan Springs cemetery? Did she say anything about looking for a yellow rose that might be growing there?”

“No, she didn’t,” Mary said. She picked up another blossom. “Why are you asking?”

“Because,” I said regretfully, “it’s beginning to look like that yellow rose might have played a role in her death.”

“I’d be sorry to hear that,” Mary said. She looked at the flower in her hand. “Roses are wonderful, but they’re not to die for.”

Ruby had to go back to the shop, so I dropped her off, then drove on. I had an idea, and now was as good a time as any to check it out, so I went to the office of the Pecan Springs
Enterprise
. I wanted a few words with Ethel Fritz, who knows everything there is to know about the history of Pecan Springs and its founding families.

“The Hausners?” Ethel asked, smiling. “Now, there’s a family for you. Old Mr. Hausner’s daddy’s daddy was a mover and shaker in the old Republic of Texas, around the time of the Alamo. But there’s only one family member left—Charlotte Hausner Thomas. She gives talks at the library on the early days of Pecan Springs.” Ethel gave me Charlotte Thomas’s address. I made a quick phone call, and a few minutes later, I was on my way again.

Mrs. Thomas lived in a comfortable frame house in an older section of town. As I walked up the porch steps, I noticed that several rosebushes had been newly planted beside the porch. They’d all been pruned back and were just beginning to put out some sturdy new growth. Behind them, leaning against the house, was a spade.

The woman who answered the bell was in her fifties, tanned and athletic-looking with short-cropped gray hair. I introduced myself, and she gave me a welcoming smile.

“Please come in,” she said, opening the door. “I was so excited when you called, Ms. Bayles. It’s nice to know that the
Enterprise
would like to do an article about my family.”

I felt guilty for making up a story, but I couldn’t have told Mrs. Thomas about my real reason for coming to see her. So I followed her into the living room and took the chair she indicated. A teapot waited on a small table, together with two slices of pie.

Mrs. Thomas handed me a plate, and when I had taken a bite and exclaimed at the unusual taste, she said proudly, “It’s vinegar pie—an old family recipe.”

“Vinegar pie?” I asked, surprised. The pie was almost like custard, with a delicate rose flavor.

Mrs. Thomas nodded. “During the Depression, lemons were expensive and hard to get. So instead of lemon pie, people made vinegar pie. My mother made lots of herbal vinegars, and she often used them in her vinegar pie. I made this one with rose vinegar, just the way she used to do.”

“It’s delicious,” I said. I listened for the next half hour or so, pretending to take notes, while she told me about her family’s early days in Pecan Springs. She was obviously proud of being a descendent of one of the founding families and anxious to talk about this important connection. I was more interested, however, in the photograph album she brought out to show me. One of the pictures showed the stone angel standing guard over the Hausner plot. At its feet was a large shrub rose, smothered with yellow blossoms.

 

 

 

 

After a time, I put away my notebook and thanked Mrs. Thomas for her hospitality. Then, as she was showing me out, I said casually, “I see that you’ve just planted a rosebush beside the porch. I love roses. What kind is it?”

An uneasy look crossed her face. “It came from the cemetery,” she said. She bit her lip and dropped her eyes. “I brought it home because the poor thing never bloomed.”

And that was that. But after Mrs. Thomas had gone inside and closed the door, I stepped quickly off the porch and peered at the spade that was leaning against the house. What I saw sent me to my car in a hurry, where I picked up my cell phone and called Sheila Dawson.

“You want me to question a Hausner descendant about Mrs. Barton’s death?” Sheila asked, surprised. “Why? Have you turned up some evidence to suggest that this woman had something to do with it?”

“I’m afraid I have,” I said sadly. It was a shame. I liked Mrs. Thomas.

“Oh, yeah?” She was skeptical. “Like what?”

“A rosebush,” I said. “And a spade.”

There was a long silence. “Is that all?” Sheila asked finally.

“When you see the blood on the spade,” I said, “you’ll think it’s enough.”

It took Sheila a little while to round up a judge and obtain a search warrant. When the squad car pulled up in front of Mrs. Thomas’s house, I left. I wasn’t exactly anxious to hang around while the chief questioned this particular murder suspect. Anyway, I knew I’d hear all about it before long.

 

 

I was right. The next morning, as Ruby and I were opening our shops, Sheila stopped in.

“Well?” I asked somberly. “Did Charlotte Thomas tell you how she came to kill Mrs. Barton?”

“Yes,” Sheila said. “When she was confronted with the victim’s blood on the spade, she made a full confession. By the time she’s arraigned, we’ll have the DNA evidence.”

“How did it happen?” Ruby asked, coming in with a plate of cookies and a pitcher of iced tea. She set them on the shelf where we put treats for our customers. There was a little sign on the plate that read CAUTION: HOT LIPS COOKIE CRISPS. “Did she
really
kill Mrs. Barton over a yellow rose?”

“Well, yes and no,” Sheila said. “The way Mrs. Thomas tells it, she went to visit her mother’s grave and surprised Rose Barton, who was digging up the rosebush. She told Mrs. Barton to stop, but the woman paid no attention. She took the bush out of the ground and put it into a tub she had brought. Then Mrs. Thomas lost her head—or at least that’s what she says. She grabbed the spade and hit her.”

“So she didn’t intend to kill her,” Ruby said quietly.

Sheila nodded. “She dragged the body behind the monument, put the tub and the spade in her car, and drove away.” She sighed. “I think she was actually glad to get it off her chest.”

“I hope she’s got a good defense attorney,” I said. “Sounds like manslaughter to me.” And in Texas, where people take their family burial sites seriously, a jury might find it difficult to send her to prison for very long.

“Are you going to tell me what led you to Charlotte Thomas?” Sheila reached for a cookie. “Was it the Hausner connection?”

“Be careful of those cookies,” Ruby warned. “They’re a little spicy.”

“Yes, it was the Hausner connection.” I picked up the pitcher and poured a plastic cup of iced tea. “That, and the fact that the cemetery caretaker had mentioned that the rosebush that had been removed from the Hausner plot was a
yellow
rose.”

“And Mary Lewis told us,” Ruby chimed in, “that Rose Barton had been looking for a yellow rose. She intended to collect some cuttings.”

 

 

 

“She was taking more than a few cuttings,” Sheila said, and popped the cookie into her mouth. “She was digging up the entire—” Her eyes opened wide and filled with sudden tears. She grabbed the cup out of my hand and gulped it down. I poured another and handed it to her.

“You should have been careful,” Ruby said, in an I-told-you-so tone.

“I was just caught off guard,” Sheila replied. After a minute, she wiped her eyes and reached for another cookie. “What in the world did you put in them, Ruby? They’re wonderful!”

“Thank you,” Ruby said modestly. “They’re made with habanero powder. I’m glad you like them. And I’m glad the case is solved.”

“Yes,” I said. “There’s only one more thing to be decided.”

“What’s that?” Sheila asked.

“Who gets custody of that yellow rose?”

MUSTARD MADNESS