“I’m looking for another crime story.” Jessica made a face. “I’m getting a little bored writing articles about historical buildings and covering the poultry tent at the fair.”
“A crime story?” I laughed. “I think we can do without that kind of excitement, Slugger.”
I was right. Oh, I was so right.
• • •
IT was the first Thursday of the month, which meant that my team of volunteer helpers was already at work in the gardens around the shop. To beat the Texas heat, they start early on summer mornings. When I got to the shop, I would have preferred to go in and start digging through that box of photos. But I feel awkward if I let the volunteers work alone, so I ducked quickly inside, found my garden gloves, and went out to join them, leaving Ruby to monitor the shop.
It takes a lot of work to keep the herb gardens from looking raggedy, and I appreciate the women who are willing to lend a hand for a few hours every month. In return for their work, they receive free enrollment in one of our classes and are invited to take cuttings and snippets from the established stock plants. Usually, there are five or six volunteers, but summer is vacation time and this morning the crew was down to three. One was working in the apothecary garden, and the other two in the culinary garden outside the kitchen door. Cass uses herbs heavily in her dishes, and I try to ensure that there are always enough to meet her needs.
When I bought 304 Crockett Street, there were signs that somebody, decades ago, had had a large garden in the empty lot to the east, between my building and the yellow-painted frame house that is home to the Hobbit House Children’s Bookstore. But by the time I moved in, the empty lot was covered with thirsty Bermuda grass that required frequent watering and mowing—in my opinion, a waste of space, water, and work. Why spend all that effort to grow grass when you can raise something that’s both pretty and useful?
So, little by little, I took out the lawn and replaced it with small theme gardens, irregularly shaped and bordered by paths made of stepping-stones and bark mulch. The culinary garden has the usual mix of parsley, sage, thyme, mint, rosemary, bay, and as many different species of basil as I can fit into the space. The fragrance garden has a lovely stone fountain in the center, surrounded by heirloom roses prized for their scent and by nicotiana, lavender, rosemary, and scented geraniums—lemon, rose, orange, chocolate. Beside the tearoom deck, there’s a dyer’s garden, with coreopsis, yarrow, tansy, Turks’ cap (which also makes a pretty ruby-red jelly), and a prickly pear cactus that is currently home to an industrious colony of cochineal bugs, the source of the famous red dye created by the Aztecs and Mayas of Central and North America. On the other side of the deck, there’s an apothecary garden, with echinacea, St. John’s wort, plantain, feverfew, sage, comfrey, lavender, garlic, and Queen Anne’s lace.
And at the back of the lot, there’s a zodiac garden, a large round space divided into twelve pie-shaped sections, representing the twelve astrological houses. Each of the house-sections is planted with herbs that are said to “belong,” traditionally, to the sign that rules that house: Aries, the first house, with garlic, mustard, and horseradish; Taurus, the second, with thyme, mint, and catnip; Gemini, the third, with dill, parsley, and caraway. And so on around the circle. A large rosemary (Leo) rules the middle of the circle.
Ethel Barnett, one of my most regular volunteers, was on her knees beside the apothecary garden, pulling weeds. I set to work across from her, yanking out the surplus chickweed. Herbalists use chickweed in salves, lotions, teas, and tinctures to treat all manner of diseases, but the plant has bullying tendencies. It needs to be discouraged from taking over space that belongs to its neighbors. Lecturing doesn’t work. You have to yank.
After a few moments, Ethel straightened her back and pulled off her gardening gloves. “I was noticing that plant,” she said, pointing at the Queen Anne’s lace. “I’ve been seeing it everywhere this summer, but I didn’t expect to find it in your apothecary garden.” She brushed a stray strand of gray hair from her sweaty forehead. “How is it used?”
I stood up, broke off a couple of leaves, and took them to her to sniff. “What do they smell like?”
“Why, carrots,” she said in surprise.
I nodded. “Queen Anne’s lace is wild carrot. The whole plant is edible—roots, leaves, stem, and all. We could just as easily have planted it in the culinary garden. But until modern medicine came along, this was one of the preferred treatments for stomach and digestive disorders, as well as kidney and bladder diseases. Nowadays, an essential oil made from the seeds is added to commercial antiaging skin creams. A very useful plant.”
“Oh, really?” Ethel asked, interested. She put a hand up to her face. “Does it work? I spend a lot of time in the garden, and I certainly have my share of wrinkles.”
“I’ve never tried to use it that way,” I replied. “But some of my customers swear by it. There’s some on the essential oil shelf in the shop. Help yourself to a bottle. Try adding a drop or two to your favorite moisturizer. Let me know if you like the way it works.”
“I’ll do it,” she said. “Thanks.”
“The seeds were used another way, too.” I gave her a quick smile. “As a morning-after contraceptive. An herbal Plan B.”
She looked surprised. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope.” I shook my head. “I’m writing an article about the plant for my garden page in the Enterprise, so I’ve been doing some research.” The plant in front of us had been blooming for several
