“Wild carrot?” Annie whispered. And then, suddenly, she understood. She had heard the tales: poison hemlock was sometimes mistaken for wild carrot, with fatal results. But it was usually the leaves and the roots that people ate. In fact, she had read of it not long before, in the Austin Weekly Statesman. A lady in East Texas had found wild hemlock growing in her yard and served up the frilly green leaves as a salad. Her error had killed her, and her husband had barely survived.
“Yes, wild carrot.” Dr. Grogan lifted the reins. “I need to fetch Sheriff Atkins. And then we’ll go see Mrs. Crow.” He frowned darkly. “I really would not have thought that the old lady could be so careless. Perhaps she needs new spectacles.”
“Please wait!” Annie cried breathlessly. “It wasn’t Mrs. Crow’s mistake, Dr. Grogan! She didn’t give Delia those seeds. She didn’t have any! Delia sent—”
But her words were lost in a sharp crack of lightning, followed by a sudden loud thunderclap. Startled, Gracie jerked and began to move forward. The doctor raised his voice. “You be sure and get that little girl, Mrs. Duncan. I don’t think her father is in any shape to handle the child tonight.”
As the wind whipped her hair and her skirts, Annie stood watching the old man drive away, her heart thudding hard in her chest. She was thinking that she knew two things with certainty. First, that Mrs. Crow had not given Delia the seeds that killed her. And second, that Delia had sent her hired girl on an errand to Purley’s, where the wild carrots—and the wild hemlock—were growing in the same empty lot.
And there was a third thing, although Annie shuddered when she thought of it. Mr. Simpson had been in Pecan Springs for several days. Men often boasted about their conquests, especially when they had too much to drink. What if he had inadvertently let it slip in one of the many saloons in Pecan Springs that he had come to town to see Delia Hunt? What if he had bragged that they were engaged in a dalliance? Hearing that, would people think that Adam—
The wind was suddenly cold and the rain began to pelt down. As Annie ran for the shelter of the house, a swirl of questions whirled like dry leaves through her mind.
What if word got around that Simpson and Adam’s wife had been having an affair? Wouldn’t they believe that Adam was jealous? Would they whisper that jealousy was a powerful motive for murder?
And that those fatal seeds were the perfect murder weapon?
• • •
WHEN the doctor and Sheriff Atkins drove up in front of Mrs. Crow’s a half hour later, Annie was standing beneath her umbrella, waiting for them. The rain had diminished to a fine drizzle, and by this time, she had recovered her breath and was filled with a steely determination. She was going to tell them what she knew. And they were going to listen—before they accused Mrs. Crow, or Adam, of poisoning Delia Hunt.
And listen they did, perhaps persuaded by the look on Annie’s face and the combative set to her shoulders. Doctor Grogan and the sheriff, a man in his late forties, with a badge pinned to his vest and a gun on his hip, stepped down from the doctor’s buggy and heard her out. It took Annie only a few minutes to relate what Greta had told her about finding the pecan tree behind Purley’s, where the wild carrot and the poison hemlock were said to grow in the same vacant lot.
At the end, she said, “I think this was a terrible accident. I believe Mrs. Hunt sent Greta to get those seeds. And I doubt if she cautioned Greta about those plants—or that if she did, Greta could tell them apart. Apparently even experienced people can be fooled.”
The sheriff considered this for a moment. “Thank you, Mrs. Duncan. That casts a somewhat different light on the matter.” He turned to the doctor, who was tying up his horse. “Agree, Grogan?”
“It’s entirely possible,” the doctor said. “I would be frankly relieved to discover that Mrs. Crow isn’t responsible for Mrs. Hunt’s death. But let’s hear what she has to say before we talk to the hired girl.”
“Yes, the girl.” The sheriff tipped up the brim of his Stetson. “What did you say her name was, Mrs. Duncan?”
“Greta is the only name I know,” Annie said.
“Greta Higgens,” the doctor said. “Tom Higgens’ oldest daughter. Lives with her mother on the other side of the tracks.” He drew his brows together. “I did think it was a bit odd that she didn’t send for me right away when Mrs. Hunt began having convulsions. Not that I could have done the poor lady much good,” he added thoughtfully. “But I wondered why she delayed. The girl, I mean.”
Annie took a deep breath. Yes, Greta could have accidentally confused the two plants. But what if it wasn’t an accident? What if she had done it deliberately? She hated the thought, but Delia was dead and a little girl was left without a mother. Out of fairness, the whole story had to be told, no matter how unpleasant it was.
“There’s something else,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “I think Greta found Mrs. Hunt to be a demanding mistress. I sometimes heard her—Mrs. Hunt, that is—voicing her displeasure with the girl’s work. Other neighbors might have heard it, too,” she said, not wanting to be the only one raising the issue.
“I see.” The sheriff gave her a searching look. “Were
