23

“What?” I said, staring at Rosa in surprise.

“It was a rose that poked her,” she repeated. “It got infected and never healed. She told me about it, and when they said it was the hurt on her wrist that had gotten the botulism, I realized it must have been the poke from the rose.”

“Did she tell you which rose caused the wound?”

Rosa shrugged and shook her head. “Could’ve been here, or it could’ve been in the city garden. She went to visit there a lot. It doesn’t matter, does it? You said the botulism probably came from the soil.”

“Yes, I did say that.”

I frowned. Maria had recently been released from the hospital, and was in no shape to be down on her knees gardening. I couldn’t picture her coming in contact with the soil. Getting poked by a rose I could picture, but how would the wound have been infected?

“Rosa, when did she tell you about being poked? Do you remember?”

Rosa frowned, thinking. “It was the same day she decided to come to the tearoom, and I know I made the reservation a week in advance, so—almost two weeks ago?”

“And when was the last time you saw her near a rosebush?”

“She comes to dinner here every week, but she hasn’t been out in the garden since she came home from the hospital.”

“You’re sure?”

Rosa nodded. “Why?”

“Just trying to narrow things down.” I glanced at my watch. “I think I’ll stop by the City Rose Garden.”

“I wish I could come with you,” Rosa said. “Nana had a favorite rosebush there. I’d like to try to figure out which one it was.”

“I think I can tell you that.”

Rosa’s eyes widened. “You can? Oh, please take me with you then! I want to see it.”

“Won’t your parents mind your leaving?”

“No, it’ll be fine. I’ll go tell Mama where I’m going.”

She ran back to the house as fast as her long dress would let her. Her urgency surprised me a little, but I wasn’t about to question it. If seeing her grandmother’s rosebush would comfort her, I was all for it. I dug in my purse for my keys, and by the time I had the car unlocked she was back, with her own small purse in her hands.

“Didn’t your grandmother ever take you to the city garden?” I asked as I started the car and fired up the air conditioning.

Rosa shook her head. “That was something she did away from the family. She had stuff like that. The Chamber of Commerce, business stuff, you know. She took Papa to the Chamber meetings sometimes, but she never took us to Rose Guild stuff. I’m not sure she really liked it.”

“She liked it enough to stay in for twenty years.”

“She was always complaining about it, though. The other ladies argued a lot, I guess. It didn’t sound like fun.”

I turned toward the City Rose Garden, which was only a few blocks away. Glancing at Rosa, I wondered how specific Maria had been about what went on in the Rose Guild.

“I think it was mostly just one or two ladies arguing,” I said. “I’ve met several who were very nice.”

Rosa shot me a skeptical glance. “She said they didn’t want to plant her rosebush.”

“Well, that’s true, but it was only a few of them.”

“I asked her to show me the rose after they planted it, but she said no. Said she didn’t want to take the chance we might run into one of the nasty ladies. She didn’t want me anywhere near the fighting.”

“That bad?”

Rosa nodded and looked out the window. The garden was ahead on our left, full of people as before. I parked in the first space I could find, and walked with Rosa toward the corner where Maria’s rosebush was planted.

“Why do you want to see this rose if your grandmother wanted you to stay away?”

A determined frown came onto Rosa’s face. “She could take care of it when she was alive. Now it’s my job.”

“The Guild will take care of it, I’m sure.”

Rosa shook her head. “Nana didn’t trust them to, and neither do I.”

We passed an elderly couple sitting on a bench and traded smiles with them. Even on this warm Monday afternoon there were several people in the garden. I found myself tallying up the Anglos and Hispanics. Looking for balance, an even mix? There were a slight majority of whites, though most of the kids were Hispanic.

Stop it, I told myself. No one’s keeping score.

We neared the corner of the park, and I started looking for Maria’s rosebush. I didn’t see the splash of pink where I expected it. For a moment I thought I’d gotten turned around, then I recognized a Brigadoon rose nearby.

I stopped in front of a gap in the cornermost bed. With Rosa beside me, I stared at the shorn-off stumps of canes that were all that was left of the Our Lady of Guadalupe rose.