Pushing Up Daisies

'Well, you haven't been gardening in this weather. What else have you been up to?' Babe pressed. She poured me some coffee and brought a menu.

'Taking a crash course in this.' I reached into my backpack and held up Culpeper's, my new bible.

'You be careful with that stuff,' she warned. Not the response I'd expected from a former flower child.

'People have killed themselves not knowing what they were doing with that shit. That stiff I told you about? The backup singer? Stupid kid drank something she was supposed to make tea with. What was the name of it? Neil would know. What the hell was it? It was like a woman's name. Kurt Cobain wrote a song about it—not about her, about the herb.'

I was not a huge Nirvana fan, so nothing instantly leaped to mind. I held the menu, but my mind was running through the list of Nirvana songs I actually knew until the jingle of the cash register snapped me out of it. Babe took a five-dollar bill from a customer and waited while he fished around in a small cardboard box on the counter— Leave a penny, take a penny. And the penny dropped.

'Pennyroyal?' I asked.

'Bingo,' she said, slamming the drawer shut.

CHAPTER 21

'Decoctions, concoctions, infusions, extracts . . . It all sounds a little eye of newt, tail of frog to me.'

'You wouldn't be the first to feel that way. People used to be burned at the stake for practicing that stuff. It's not that mysterious. It just has to do with how much water you soak the plant material in and for how long,' Neil said.

He handed me a cup of tea. 'It's toe of frog, by the way. Good Scottish recipe.'

'Any toe of frog in here?'

He shook his head, smiling. 'Straight from the Food Emporium. It's honeybush tea from South Africa.

'After my first visit to Dorothy's,' he said, sitting at his desk in a swivel chair, 'she let me do some harvesting on my own. She was very knowledgeable, and I quite enjoyed her company. I went over a few times, early in the morning, after the dew had dried and before the morning sun wilted the plants. Dorothy was careful about that sort of thing.'

He leafed through some papers on his desk and handed me one. 'I made a list for you. Things I remembered seeing there. My memory's pretty good, but her notebook probably has all of these in it.'

My blank stare told him I didn't know about any notebook.

'It was an old black bookkeeper's ledger, with sketches and notes. She even pressed specimens in it. I don't think it was for the whole garden, just the herb garden.'

'I haven't found anything remotely like a journal or notebook. I've been relying on ancient news clippings and anecdotes from octogenarians.' I groaned.

'C'mon, let's go,' he said, taking my cup and putting it in the sink. 'I haven't been there for over a year. Maybe going back to the scene of the crime will help me remember.'

On the way, he told me more: how Dorothy believed in working by the phases of the moon, how she'd harvest only during certain signs of the zodiac, and pick only certain parts of the plants during certain quarters of the moon.

'I guess that's why she needed the journal,' he said, 'to keep track of all that stuff.'

When we arrived at Halcyon, we could see Guido Chiaramonte and his men next door at the Fifields'. It was impossible to avoid him. He waved and, uninvited, walked toward us through the spotty line of trees that separated the houses.

'Something wicked this way comes?' Neil whispered.

'No planting today. Too wet,' Guido pronounced, dusting the non ex is tent dirt from his hands as if he'd actually been working.

'No, just a little planning. Neil knows a lot about Dorothy's herb garden.'

'Is that so? You don't look like a gardener,' Guido said in his usual dismissive tone.

'Too bad we don't have her notebook,' Neil said, inspecting the beds and doing his best to ignore Guido.

'A notebook?' Guido asked. 'For what?'

'Apparently she kept a record of her herb garden. I didn't even know there was one until about an hour ago,' I said.

'A record. What a good idea.' Guido tapped his forehead. 'But the old lady, she was a little funny at the end, stunad. Who knows what nonsense she may have scribbled?' he said, shrugging. Then he returned to his favorite subject. 'So many years in the same house with only her sister. It's no good for the woman to be without the man. That's what I keep telling my little friend here,' he said, looking back and forth between us, trying to figure out if Neil was his rival for my affections.

I motioned to the Fifield property. 'What are your men working on?' I asked, hoping he'd get back to it soon.

'We are turning on the signora's fountain. It is my crowning achievement in Springfield. Eight tons of Carrara marble,' he said proudly. 'I commissioned two of the statues myself. We blow out the pipes in the fall and restart the system in the spring. We're late this season. Signora Dina has been away for a month, and she likes to be here when we do it,' he cackled, pleased with his clumsy innuendo.

'It's chilly today. Can I take you for an anisette to warm you up?' he asked, trying again.

I'd never be that cold. I begged off politely, blaming Neil and the work we still had in the herb garden.

'Eh,' Guido said, not believing me. He returned his attention to his workers at the Fifield house. 'I must go back. Otherwise those lazy boys will be standing around sunning themselves.'

I said nothing about the fact that they all looked busy and the sky was overcast. I was too anxious for him to leave so that Neil and I could look for that journal.

CHAPTER 22

'Is this what you Americans call breaking and entering?' Neil asked.

'We're not going to break anything,' I whispered, 'and this is more like . . . trespassing.' Still, unflattering images of people holding cardboard numbers under their chins flashed in my head. (Winona Ryder? Robert Downey, Jr.? Frank Sinatra?)

Neil and I had first checked out the herb cottage, a safe distance from Guido and his men. No such luck. Since Neil knew what the journal looked like, and I didn't, I thought we'd have a better shot at finding it together in the rambling old house. Otherwise I might spend days and still come up empty. I dialed Richard's number at SHS to see if it was okay for us to go in the house. Inez answered.

'Richard's in Hartford for the next few days,' she said. 'Some big doings about a painting for the Wadsworth Atheneum.' She started to elaborate, but I cut her ramblings short, telling her I needed to get into the house to look at Dorothy's garden books. She hesitated.

'Well, I suppose it'll be all right.' She paused again. 'There was one door that never had a lock; it probably still doesn't.'

'That's hard to believe. I wonder why.'

'Things were different in the old days,' she said softly. 'Safer. Springfield was a small town; everyone knew each other. I'd be very surprised if Dorothy ever bothered to put a lock on that door.' Her voice trailed off, and I had to lead her back.

'Which door was it?'

'To the left of the French doors on the back terrace. Well, let's see, that would be if you were in the house. To the right, near the statue of the woman holding the basket.' I looked across the terrace and saw a narrow door practically obscured by a climbing hydrangea. If you didn't know, it would have looked another tall window.

Hugo had scrubbed the moss and dirt from all the statues at Halcyon: the stone dogs, a respectable copy of