There’s hemlock—and then there is hemlock. The word refers to two very different plant genera, one so aggressively poisonous that you don’t want to mess with it, the other harmless, helpful, and hospitable.
The bad guy first. Poison hemlock (Conium maculatum) and its cousin water hemlock or spotted hemlock (Cicuta spp.) are flowering plants in the carrot family. Infamous as the instrument of Socrates’ death, poison hemlock is native to Europe and North Africa; humans carried it with them to the Americas and Australia, where it has made itself at home. Water hemlock—which looks enough like Queen Anne’s lace to fool you—is native to North America. People have died when they mistook hemlock leaves for parsley, its root for wild carrot, or its seeds for Queen Anne’s lace. In spite of its dangers, hemlock has traditionally been used to treat lung ailments, pain, and cramps. (Not recommended unless you know what you’re doing and your insurance is up-to-date.)
Now the good guy, the hemlock tree, Tsuga spp. A majestic conifer native to the Americas and Asia, this tree is said to have earned the common name “hemlock” from the Cicuta-like odor of its crushed leaves. Rich in tannins, the bark has been used to tan leather, while a medicinal tea brewed of the needles treated kidney ailments, colds, coughs, and scurvy. Hemlocks can live up to six hundred years and are important forest trees. But in the Appalachian and East Coast regions of North America, they are threatened with destruction by the hemlock woolly adelgid, an aphid-like sap-sucking insect that is devastating whole forests.
China Bayles
“Hemlock”
Pecan Springs Enterprise
It was a Monday afternoon on a mild spring day in Texas. I was taking advantage of the fine weather to pull a few early weeds out of the Zodiac Garden, one of the dozen or so theme gardens that surround my herb shop, Thyme and Seasons.
The shop is closed on Mondays, making it a good day for chores—checking inventory or ordering or repainting a shelf or gardening. If you have a garden, you know there is always something to do. And when it’s done, it will need doing again. Sooner, rather than later.
The Zodiac Garden is a large, brick-bordered circle that my astrologer partner, Ruby Wilcox, helped me divide into twelve sections, corresponding to the twelve astrological houses. Each is ruled by a planet—for instance, Venus rules Taurus, Saturn rules Capricorn—and contains herbs that have been assigned (for many reasons, some obvious, some completely obscure) to that planet. This morning, I was on my hands and knees in the first house, Mars-ruled Aries, where I’m growing a variety of spicy and thorny herbs traditionally associated with the martial planet. Thistle and nettle, both of which are medicinal. And some tongue-searing culinary herbs: horseradish, hot peppers, garlic, and several kinds of mustard, including my favorite curled-leaf brown mustard, Brassica juncea.
Mustard reseeds itself with passionate abandon. Usually, I don’t let these plants go to seed so I won’t have many to thin out. But last fall, I deliberately allowed several plants to mature so I could demonstrate how to collect and use the seed in a let’s-make-mustard workshop. Nature did its usual fertile thing, and now, dozens of young plants were crowding their bedfellows. The fresh leaves would make a spicy dish of Southern-style greens for tonight’s supper, with plenty of lemon and garlic—tasty alongside the pork roast I’d put in the slow cooker that morning.
I was enjoying this Monday garden chore, humming to myself and thinking of nothing more significant than tonight’s supper menu and what I might do that evening. Work on my cross-stitch project? More likely: settle down with the mystery I’d picked up at the library on Saturday. I certainly wasn’t planning anything out of the ordinary, anything like . . . well, like getting involved in a perilous situation in a faraway place with people I don’t know.
Which is why I nearly turned down the invitation.
I was still pulling baby mustard plants when I heard footsteps crunching on the gravel and a light and bubbly voice.
“Hey, China. How are you?”
It was Penelope Paxton, the newly elected president of the Merryweather Herb Guild and one of my favorite people. Fortyish and energetic, Penny has long blond hair that frames her face and curls on her shoulders. She was wearing tan slacks and a green T-shirt that declared “Thyme in a garden is never wasted.”
I tossed a plant in the bucket. “Hey, yourself, Penny.” I lifted my trowel suggestively. “Happy to have you join me. The mustard got a little rowdy this spring. It wants Aries all to itself.”
One eyebrow cocked, she glanced at my dirt-stained jeans, then stuck her hands in the pockets of her slacks. “Actually, I was hoping you might be about ready to take a break.” She wore a serious look. “I have a question for you—and maybe a project, if you’re interested. But it’s a little complicated. Is there somewhere we can sit and talk?”
If I had known what was on the other side of this conversation, I might have said something like, “Oh, gosh, I don’t think so, Penny. Not right now, anyway. I promised to—” And then make up some excuse to get out of whatever it was that Penny had in mind for me.
If I had known, I could’ve. But I didn’t.
“We can sit on the deck.” I pulled off my garden gloves and picked up the bucket of greens. “How about some tea?” Iced tea, the Texas state drink, which we serve even when there’s a blue norther blowing and icicles hanging from the gutters.
“Sounds terrific.” Penny grinned, probably relieved that I hadn’t invited her to my solo weeding party.
A few minutes later, we were seated at a table on the deck outside Thyme for Tea, the tea room that Ruby Wilcox and I launched several years ago. I had filled two tall glasses with iced hibiscus tea and put a half-dozen of Cass Wilde’s cookies on a plate. Cass cooks for the tea room, helps out with Party Thyme, our catering service, and manages The Thymely Gourmet, a meal-delivery service for people who don’t have time to shop and cook. All this is adjunct to my Thyme and Seasons and Ruby’s Crystal Cave. We keep busy.
“Oh, lovely,” Penny said, reaching for a cookie. She nibbled. “Chocolate chips and mint. Delicious. From your garden?”
“Right over there,” I said, nodding at the patch of mint next to Thyme Cottage. That’s the old stone stable-turned-cottage that I rent as a B&B. When it’s not spoken for, Ruby and I teach our workshops there.
I added sweetener to my iced tea and leaned back in my chair, lifting my face to the sun. In another month, I wouldn’t be able to sit out here for more than a few minutes without sunglasses, a wide-brimmed hat, and sunblock. But today the sun was just right. There were early roses at the edge of the deck, mixing and mingling with late daffodils. A mockingbird poured a generous helping of song into the air, and an easy breeze teased the Texas mountain laurel blossoms, spilling their grape Kool-Aid fragrance into the air. It had been an unusually hard winter, with a pair of damaging back-to-back ice storms. Spring was especially welcome.
“So what’s this about a project?” I asked. I contribute a lot of time to the Herb Guild, both because it’s good business (I am, after all, in the business of herbs) and because I genuinely like the Merryweathers and believe in what we do together.
Elbows on the table, Penny leaned forward. She has blue eyes in a friendly face and she’s normally all cheerful smiles. Just now, though, she looked troubled, like somebody who needs a favor and is afraid that it’s too big an ask. She spoke slowly.
“I had a phone call this morning. A friend of mine has a problem—a rather hefty problem, actually. She wanted me to talk to you about it.”
Uh-oh. I frowned. “What kind of problem?”
Penny hesitated, as if she were searching for the right word. She found it, and didn’t look entirely pleased. “I guess you might call it a criminal problem. I mean, that seems to be what she’s worried about.”
“Ah.” Every so often, somebody brings up my former career as a criminal defense attorney. This usually happens when the person (or a family member or a friend) gets into some kind of legal hot water and would like to hop out of it in a hurry. “Who’s your friend?”
Penny reached for another cookie. “Actually, she’s someone you know—Dorothea Harper.”
Dorothea Harper. Of course. Over the years we have met a dozen times at various conferences and workshops around the country. Our acquaintance began when she gave an interesting presentation on English herbals from the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries—books that describe herbs and list their medicinal and culinary uses. We sat down to chat for a few minutes and wound up talking for a couple of hours. Dorothea taught courses in library and information sciences at the University of Wisconsin-Madison, where she specialized in the conservation of old books. Herbs were a hobby for her, and she knew a lot about medicinal herbs in England during the Elizabethan era and through the eighteenth century, when almost all medicines came from plants and apothecaries had to know their herbs.
“I always enjoy talking to Dorothea,” I said. “She’s a treasure trove of historical information.” I paused. “So what’s up?”
“She has a new job. She’s the director of the Hemlock House Foundation in North Carolina, northwest of Asheville. She moved there last September, after the previous director left.” Penny hesitated. “Maybe you didn’t know—Dorothea lost her husband a while back. Pancreatic cancer.”
“Oh, gosh.” I frowned. “That’s terrible, Penny. I’m so sorry to hear that.”
“It upended her life. She had to sell her house to pay some of the bills. Things were difficult for a while, and she felt that she needed to reinvent herself—although I’m not sure the Hemlock move was right for her.”
“Oh, really? Why?”
“The house is in the mountains and quite isolated.” With a thoughtful look, Penny sipped her tea. “The foundation manages a large estate that belonged to an eccentric old woman who collected rare garden books. There’s a residence, a rather odd old house with a garden that’s occasionally open to the public, as well as an extensive library. It was the library that enticed Dorothea, of course. It includes a valuable collection of botanical manuscripts and books, all of them old and some of them quite rare.” Penny gave me a sidelong glance. “For instance, there’s a copy of Elizabeth Blackwell’s book, A Curious Herbal. A unique copy. And very valuable.”
“Oh, really?” I said, sitting forward in my chair, suddenly attentive. “That’s interesting.”
Penny nodded. “Dorothea remembered that you once mentioned that book to her. She said you were fascinated by it.”
Yes, fascinated—and for good reason. A Curious Herbal is recognized as simply the best of the eighteenth-century English herbals: books that contain drawings and descriptions of medicinal plants. But while her work is much admired and coveted by collectors of botanical art, Blackwell herself is curiously unknown to most modern herbalists.
In fact, I learned about her only by accident—on (of all places) the PBS television program Antiques Roadshow. Someone brought in a copy of a later edition of the book, in such wretched condition that it was literally falling apart in the appraiser’s hands. Even so, he put an auction price tag on it of nearly $15,000, and for good reason. Besides the beauty of its illustrations, A Curious Herbal has the distinction of being the only English herbal, in any era, that was compiled, illustrated, and engraved and hand-colored by a woman. Little is known about its multitalented author, not even the date of her birth. More is known about her husband, Alexander, who seems to have been a first-class rascal with rather flexible moral scruples and a genius for causing trouble.
“I’m afraid it’s the Herbal that’s the problem. One of them, anyway.” Penny waved off a yellow butterfly that wanted to perch on the rim of her glass. “The foundation’s copy is unique. It seems to have been a gift from Elizabeth Blackwell to Sir Hans Sloane, the man whose collections were the foundation of the British Museum. It’s signed. And valuable.”
“How valuable?”
“Somewhere north of a hundred thousand dollars.” She pursed her lips, looked straight at me, and said, “Unfortunately, it’s turned up missing.”
“Uh-oh.” My skin prickled. “How?”
“That’s what Dorothea would like to know. In fact, she’s frantic about it, since whatever happened to it happened on her watch.”
“Recently?”
“Ten days or so ago.” Penny leaned forward. In a lower, more intent voice, she said, “She’s afraid that she’s about to be accused of stealing it, China.”
“She is?” I was surprised. Dorothea is the kind of person who likes to follow the rules. If she can’t find a rule to follow, she will make one—and expect you to follow it.
“Which is of course absurd,” Penny said indignantly. “There appear to be other items missing from the collection, as well. The old lady died some months ago and her library is a mess. Dorothea can’t be sure what they have. Or more to the point, what might be missing.”
I asked the obvious. “The police have been notified, I suppose. Are they investigating?”
“Yes to both, but as I said, the house is isolated. It’s in a rural county, and Dorothea says that the sheriff doesn’t have much enthusiasm for an investigation.” Penny pulled her blond brows together. “That’s why Dorothea’s afraid he may start focusing on her, for lack of other strong suspects—and for other reasons. She wasn’t very specific. I got the impression that she didn’t want to go into it on the phone.”
“Sounds like a difficult situation,” I said.
“There’s more, apparently. From time to time, Dorothea has mentioned odd goings-on at the house. And there’s a board of directors that sounds like something out of a bad dream.” Penny wrinkled her nose. “I don’t want to be overly dramatic about this, China. But she’s hoping you might be willing to . . . well, investigate.”
“Me?” I asked, making sure the skepticism in my voice was clear. “Investigate? Really, Penny, I—”
Penny plowed on. “Dorothea says it needs to be somebody who can do it without attracting a lot of unnecessary attention. Sort of an undercover job. Under the sheriff’s radar, at least. She says she doesn’t want him to know. Or anybody else, for that matter. Including her board of directors.”
I frowned. Including the board? Why would Dorothea not want the board to know? “There must be other people she could ask to help,” I said. “People who know about rare books, for instance. I’m sure there’s somebody who—”
“Maybe. But Dorothea is asking for you, China.” As if in explanation, Penny added, “Her sister worked at Mount Zion. Dorothea heard what happened there a few years ago.”
Ah. Mount Zion Shaker village, in Kentucky. I had been visiting with a friend at a time when the historic village was facing a little problem of embezzlement—and murder. Dorothea’s sister must have told her of my involvement in that sticky situation.*
But Penny wasn’t finished. “She also knows that you used to work as a criminal defense attorney. And that you know and appreciate those early herbals.”
I had to chuckle. “So you and Dorothea thought I could go to Hemlock House, take a quick look around, wave my magic wand, and come up with Elizabeth Blackwell’s missing book. Is that it?”
“If you could,” Penny said wistfully, “that would be wonderful.” She cocked her head to one side. “I have the impression that investigating is something you especially like to do. That you are pretty good at it, in fact. If I’m wrong . . .” She let her voice trail off.
I considered. “No,” I said slowly. “You’re not wrong.”
It’s true. When I worked as a criminal attorney, my favorite part of every case was the investigation. It was . . . well, I suppose you could call it fun. Or intellectually rewarding. It is certainly satisfying to go behind the reported events and find out what really happened. People forget things, accidentally and on purpose. Witnesses perjure themselves. Evidence gets misplaced or lost. A newspaper misreports. As a criminal attorney, I learned how important it is to build a legal team that conducts its own investigation into the alleged crime and ensures that all the facts are put in front of the jury, not just those that the prosecution chooses to bring into the courtroom. Digging up the details nobody else has bothered to find, interviewing people who aren’t eager to tell what they know, asking questions that haven’t occurred to anybody else, and then putting all these bits and pieces together to tell a believable, fact-based story—that’s what I liked to do. That’s what I was good at.
“So?” Penny asked hopefully. “What do you think? Want to find out what happened to that missing herbal? Spend a few days in a beautiful part of the country at a beautiful time of year? Dorothea says the foundation has an account she can tap for plane fare, if that would help persuade you to come. And you’re welcome to stay at Hemlock House. There’s plenty of room.”
A blue jay hopped onto the deck, snatched up a crumb, and made off with it. I frowned. It sounded like Dorothea needed some help, but still . . .
“I can’t just pack up and leave,” I said. I waved my hand at the gardens and shop. “I’m a working girl, you know, and there’s never enough time around here to do what needs to be done. Plus, I’m also a mom, and Caitie has a concert coming up.” Caitie, my niece and our adopted daughter—my husband McQuaid’s and mine—is in junior high. She is also first-chair violin in the school orchestra, and keeping track of her doings is almost a full-time job.
“Hang on a sec.” Penny raised her hand. “I happen to know that Caitie’s concert isn’t until next month. My Cindy has the seat next to her in the violins.”
Caught. “But she needs encouragement now,” I said defensively. “And anyway, I can’t leave the shop. Spring is our busy time and—”
“Next week is spring break.”
Caught again. “Oh. Yes, you’re right. Spring break.”
Spring break. Lots of people are out of town during spring break, and there’d be much less traffic in the shops and the tea room. I didn’t think we had any catering events scheduled, and there were no classes or workshops. If I wanted to go to North Carolina, I suppose it would be as good a time as any, especially because Caitie was scheduled to spend the week with my mother and her husband Sam on their ranch near Utopia. My husband McQuaid (who teaches part time in the Criminal Justice Department at Central Texas State University and invests the rest of his working hours in his PI firm) was conducting a complicated investigation in San Antonio. But he would be home in the evenings and available to take care of Caitie’s chickens, her cat, and her parrot. And Winchester, our basset, who hates it when his dinner is late.
Reading my expression, Penny gave me a crafty smile. “Besides,” she said, “you owe me.”
I sighed. I’d been waiting for her to bring that up. The previous fall, Penny and I had teamed up to manage the Herb Guild’s table at Pecan Springs’ Fall Fling. But I came down with a bad case of flu and was home in bed that weekend, leaving Penny to manage all by herself. I told her then that I owed her, big time, which made it difficult to say no to her now.
“I wouldn’t ask if I weren’t so worried about Dorothea,” Penny added quietly. “I’ve known her for a long time, China. I’ve never heard her sound so . . . troubled.” She put out her hand. “If you can make the time to do this, I would appreciate it. Very much.”
“I’d have to ask Ruby,” I said cautiously. “Just to make sure that there’s not something on the calendar I’ve forgotten about.” Ruby’s Crystal Cave and my Thyme and Seasons are in the same building, side by side, with an open door between them. We like the arrangement because one of us can keep an eye on both shops if the other has to be away. Every now and then, it pays off.
Penny seemed to relax. “Thank you,” she said with a smile. “I’m so glad you’re willing to consider this, China. And I know Dorothea will be relieved to see you. I have the sense that she feels terribly beleaguered. She doesn’t know quite what to do. She needs somebody on her side.”
Somebody on her side. Don’t we all?
But I couldn’t promise anything without checking with McQuaid and Ruby. And even if I went, what could I do? The cops probably had the investigation well in hand and would likely resent anybody tromping on their turf. And the missing herbal could be anywhere by now—in some collector’s European library, for instance. Getting it back might take a miracle.
I was intrigued, though. Was the Curious Herbal stolen simply because it was the most valuable book in the library—or was there another reason for making off with it? Who knew it was there? Who had access to it, besides Dorothea?
Penny’s smile wavered just a bit. “Well, while we’re talking about it, there’s something I suppose I should tell you, just so it won’t come as a surprise.” She squared her shoulders. “I don’t think it will daunt you, though. In fact, it might even entice you.”
Entice me? I raised both eyebrows. “What is it?”
“It’s . . . well, it’s the house. The gardens are really spectacular—I’ve seen photos. But Dorothea says Hemlock House is supposed to be haunted. By the eccentric old lady whose family built it. She spent her life there. And died there.”
“Dorothea doesn’t strike me as the kind of person who sees ghosts,” I said. “That’s probably just the foundation’s hype to lure tourists.”
“Tourists can’t visit. As I said, the gardens are open to the public only occasionally. The library has been open to a few researchers, while the house itself is private.” She waved her hand dismissively. “But every old house in North Carolina has inspired some sort of ghostly legend—it only adds to the charm. And spring is the very best time of year there, with the dogwoods and redbuds and all the spring flowers in bloom. A great time for a little vacation.”
I was silent for a moment. Finally, I said, “All right, then. I’ll talk to my family. I’ll call Dorothea and try to find out what’s going on. Maybe she’ll decide she doesn’t need me.” I paused. “I’m sure I have an email address for her somewhere, but she may have changed it. Do you have her phone number handy?”
“I do,” Penny said promptly, digging into her shoulder bag. She took out a little notebook and tore out a page. “Here you go—both her new email and her phone number.” She paused and looked me squarely in the eye. “She said you could call any time. She’s anxious to hear from you.”
Now was my chance to say no—and save myself from what turned out to be a dangerous and even deadly trip. If I had known where the journey was going to take me, I might not have agreed to go. I might have stayed home, gotten on with my work, and enjoyed spring break in Pecan Springs.
But I didn’t say no.
• • •
Dorothea Harper had seemed relieved and very glad to hear my voice on the phone. I asked a few questions and learned a bit more about the strange disappearance of A Curious Herbal. The book—a unique presentation copy, beautifully bound and signed by Elizabeth Blackwell herself—had vanished from a locked display case in the library at the Hemlock House Foundation. Disturbingly, an inventory (begun some weeks before but nowhere near completion) had identified a number of pages missing from other rare books of botanical prints.
My first thought: This looked like the classic inside job, especially since there had been only a limited number of visitors over the past few months. At the risk of sounding like an officious Miss Marple, I suggested to Dorothea that she make a list of everyone who had been in the library since she assumed her position as director.
“But you’ve probably already done that,” I added, “for the police.”
No, she said. She hadn’t. The sheriff hadn’t asked.
Which told me something. And I learned something else, indirectly, from the tone of her voice. The Dorothea Harper I had known had been strong, self-assured, and poised. The woman on the phone sounded fragile, unsure of herself, apprehensive. And she made sure to tell me that, if I came, the real reason for my visit had to be kept secret.
“I can tell people that you’re an old friend,” she said, and then laughed a little. “Which is true, of course. although we’ve never been able to spend much time together. I will be very glad to know you better.” She added “I really hope you’ll come, China,” in such a plaintive voice that I knew I had no choice. I couldn’t back out now.
And then, after I agreed, Dorothea told me that one of her graduate students—a young woman named Jenna—was working as a library intern at Hemlock House. Jenna had done quite a bit of research into the life of Elizabeth Blackwell. She was writing a novel about her and would like to send me the first chapter.
“A novel!” I said, genuinely excited by this news. “I’ve often wondered just who Elizabeth was and how in the world she managed to carry out that mammoth project all by herself. I would love to read it, Dorothea.”
“Excellent,” Dorothea said. “I’ll give her your email address and she can send it. Jenna is a good writer, and she’s sticking to the facts as closely as she can. Her take on the Blackwell story is intriguing.”
Ah, technology. Fifteen minutes later, the chapter flew into my computer’s inbox. I couldn’t wait to settle down for the evening, open the file, and read it.
When I did, I found that it was every bit as good as Dorothea had said. When I finished, I was eager for more and seriously looking forward to digging into the disappearance of the Hemlock House’s copy of Elizabeth Blackwell’s famous book.
And thereby hangs a tale.
Two of them, actually.
Elizabeth’s curious tale—and my own tale of the theft of A Curious Herbal.
* The story is told in Wormwood.