At three thirty, eighteen people gathered at the entrance to the Nature Trail, not counting Bill, Fresca, and me.
“Welcome. I’m delighted to see so much interest in gathering and cooking with native foods. I’m Erin Murphy, manager of the Glacier Mercantile. Many of you know my mother, Fresca.” She smiled and waved, crisp and summery in tan crops and a coral tank with a white visor. Only my mother would go for a walk in the woods in white Keds, though they were scrubbable leather.
“Bill Schmidt is our fearless leader today. Bill’s been a working herbalist for I don’t know long.”
“For so long,” he said, “that I was in the first class to graduate from Hogwarts.” Laughter rippled the aspen leaves above us.
We hadn’t expected so many people, but I’d learned at SavClub to never cringe at a good turnout. Just make sure people get what they came for. “With the size of the group and the roar of the river, it may be a little hard to hear at times. But don’t worry.” I held up my pocket recorder. “I’ll record Bill’s comments and your questions, and upload the audio to the Merc’s website.”
Bill gave a short introduction on the value of knowing our edible and medicinal neighbors. Recorder in hand, I watched the rapt audience. Funny to see the relentlessly stylish Heidi wearing hiking sandals with her black jungle print dress, scribbling notes. I recognized two women who’d come in the shop this morning and seen the poster.
“A few principles of wild crafting,” Bill said, scanning the crowd and projecting his voice, “then we’ll take a walk.”
I turned my attention from Bill back to the gathering in time to see three stragglers join us. What on earth were Jeff, Ian, and Cassie doing here? Jeff joined the group, clearly listening, but Ian held back a few steps. Cassie glanced from one to the other, uncertain what to do. She spotted me and gave me a shy wave.
“Never eat or use anything you’re not sure of. You’ve heard that about mushrooms and berries, but be aware that many safe plants have toxic look-alikes. A hybrid in your herbaceous border may be perfectly safe for you and your children to touch, and even for a canine nibble or two, while its wild counterpart may be quite dangerous.”
The “record” light seemed to flash like strobes on top of a speeding sheriff’s car. I couldn’t pull Bill over and pelt him with questions. Was I right in thinking that whatever the poison was, and whoever had put it there, Claudette had grown it herself? At the edge of the circle, Fresca gave Jeff a hug and kissed Ian’s cheek.
We retraced the route Bill and I had taken the day before. I handed out paper bags, and we plucked rose petals and picked dandelion greens. “Before you curse the dandelions in your yard, remember your pioneer grandmothers saved the seeds and carried them out here,” Bill said. “In drought years, they may have been the only greens some homesteaders had, and they’re a rich source of vitamins. Too many medicinal uses to mention. And the roots make an excellent coffee substitute.”
Could we create our own? Something earthy and unexpected, with a bit of spice. What about a traditional roasted barley drink—gluten-free? I envisioned The Glacier Mercantile’s line of locally prepared beverages: a dandelion root mix, herbal teas, and of course, a signature coffee, blended and roasted to our specifications.
“It’s not the seeds’ fault that the plant is so well suited for every kind of soil, or that it’s fallen out of favor,” he said lightly.
“Dandelion wine is always in favor, and we’ve got an easy recipe for you,” Fresca added.
About halfway, Ian and Cassie stopped to rest on a rock ledge. Jeff left the group as well, wandering down a deer-and-dog trail toward the water. I handed my mother the recorder and followed. “Good to see you,” I said. “Ian’s looking much better.”
“He’s on the mend. I thought he could use a little fresh air—we didn’t know about the herb walk, but it’s always good to see Bill.”
“How do you know him?”
“He helped Claudette lay out her herb garden, and gave her advice on medicinal plants.” Bill, that sly fox, hadn’t said a thing. “She treated all of Ian’s childhood illnesses herself.”
Which made it even more likely that something she grew had both beneficial and harmful properties. “Surprised to see Cassie. She told me this morning that Ian broke up with her last night.”
Jeff tossed a small river rock from hand to hand. “He’s pretty mixed up right now. She brought him lemon custard from the Inn, his favorite. They’re good kids, and good together, but they’re so young.”
That they were. “I’m sure you tried to keep your nose out of Claudette’s romantic life, but any idea why she got involved with Dean?”
He scratched his head. “That puzzled me, too. It wasn’t like her to break up a friend’s marriage, so I’m guessing he made the first move. She could be gullible. If he said he and Linda were kaput, she’d have believed him.” Consistent with my mother’s theory that she’d succumbed to his flattery.
We caught up with the group a few hundred yards down the trail. Bill pointed out the wild asparagus and fiddlehead patches, past their prime. Those of us with waterproof shoes dug wild onions.
Bags and notebooks full, we worked our way back to the trailhead, pausing as Bill pointed out other useful plants and answered questions.
Cassie, Ian, and Jeff lagged, the two kids a few steps behind, deep in conversation. I waited for Jeff. “You’re all welcome to come to the Merc and watch weeds turn into food and wine.”
“Thanks,” Jeff said with a shake of his head. “The Merc meant a lot to Claudette. But I think we need to get Ian home for a rest.”
“You bet.” I gave him a quick hug, waved at the kids, and zipped down the hill.
Back at the Merc, Tracy and Fresca served iced wild mint sun tea we’d made earlier. A student trimmed wild onions at Bill’s direction, while two others rinsed the greens and rose petals. Love those deep sinks. Love our commercial kitchen. Love watching other people cook while I sit back and salivate.
Fresca set the rose petals to steep for ten minutes. “I like to freeze a few in ice cube trays, then add them to lemonade. Or use them to garnish a fruit salad or vanilla ice cream.”
“The petals and hips are both excellent sources of Vitamin C,” Bill added.
“I get my vitamins at SavClub,” a student said.
“Better to get them from food,” the woman next to her said, “than from synthetic chemicals. And it’s prettier.”
“Color is a good guide,” Bill said. “The more colors on your plate, the more vitamins and minerals you’ll get.”
The first woman picked up a pottery plate showing a long-eared red rabbit romping through green grasses dotted with pink, yellow, and orange flowers, a rainbow in the background. “So if I eat chocolate cake off this plate, it will be good for me?”
So nice to hear laughter fill the Merc, after all the tears.
The front door chimed and I turned to greet the customer. My smile stiffened. Impossible to tell, from Kim Caldwell’s dress or demeanor, whether this was a personal or professional call. Betting on the latter, I met her at the front counter.
“For a woman who never eats, you have an amazing talent for showing up when we’re cooking,” I said in a teasing tone.
“You’re always cooking up something, Erin.”
I ignored that. “Any developments?” Meaning, don’t arrest my mother in the middle of a demonstration.
“I have some questions for your mother.”
No phalanx of deputies outside, no passel of patrol cars. She’d come alone, so no arrest. Not yet anyway.
I gestured at the crowd gathered around the kitchen counters. “Can they wait? She and Bill Schmidt are in medias demo.”
Kim nodded and followed me to the kitchen. I poured iced tea for her, and we watched Fresca strain the rose petal tea and start it to boil, adding lemon juice, pectin, and sugar. Two students sterilized jelly jars and lids. Bill prepared the morels, discoursing about mushroom hunting, safety, respect for the land, and vitamins as he chopped. He managed to make it all sound so appealing that I half convinced myself I’d get up early in the morning and traipse up to a swampy area up behind the orchard and search out—
No way. I love the woods, but I also love snuggling with Mr. Sandburg, and coming to work clean.
Bill sautéed the morels and set them aside, then sautéed the boiled dandelion greens, wild onions, and seasoning. The mouthwatering aromas did their trick, and when Tracy and Fresca handed out small plates of wild veggies, sprinkled with a touch of grated Parmesan, we all fell on them. “Mmm,” they said, or “I never imagined,” and “if I don’t tell my kids what it is, they’ll love it.”
Even Kim ate up. Whether that foretold good news or bad, I couldn’t guess.
Finally, the jelly was in its jars and the herbs in their bags. Tracy distributed the bounty, along with packs of recipe cards. The Food Underfoot wild food and herb walk and demo was an official success. Unlike most demos, we weren’t promoting our own products, so we didn’t sell much—although the women who’d razzed each other about vitamins each bought a rainbow rabbit plate. But immediate sales aren’t the main measure of success. The event brought in several newcomers, and I was sure they’d all be back for more Montana-made food and drink. And the things that go with it.
If seeing Kim bothered Fresca, she’d done a good job hiding it. When I locked the door behind the last customer and Kim hadn’t left, we had to face the music. Fresca retreated momentarily into her own personal yoga class, releasing a long breath, relaxing her shoulders, and standing tall. Even I couldn’t tell whether she really felt steady, or was just acting “as if.”
“Bill, you’ll stay a moment?” Kim asked. He wiped his hands on the Merc’s apron and nodded. “Tracy, you can go.” Tracy’s head—and her beaded earrings—bobbed in relief.
Once she left, I refilled our iced teas. Bill and Fresca stood in the kitchen, and I took a stool at the counter, facing Kim. I sipped my tea and tried to absorb my mother’s calm by osmosis.
“Fresca, you harvest herbs and vegetables from Claudette’s garden for your cooking, don’t you?” Fresca nodded slowly. “Have you ever harvested foxglove?”
“No. It’s toxic. I take cut flowers home occasionally, but that’s it.” Her knuckles were white as she gripped the iced tea glass.
“Have you been out there in the last week?”
“To the house, yes. I told you I dropped off a basket. But not in the garden, not since she left.” She tilted her head, chin lowered. “I’ll admit, after the way she left, I wasn’t sure we were still friends.”
“So that’s when you started buying herbs and flowers from Jo and Phyl instead?” I asked.
“I’ve confirmed that. Ms. Eriksen and Ms. Williams are great fans of yours. Both of you.” Kim included me in her gaze. “We got the lab tests back on the artichoke pesto. It was contaminated with digitalis.”
“Purpurea, then,” Bill said. “Because it didn’t kill him.”
Kim nodded.
“What does that mean?” I asked, but their expressions made clear they were not going to tell me. “Okay. So, we know Fresca put a jar in her sympathy basket. If she didn’t poison it—”
“I didn’t,” Fresca said.
“She was upset with Claudette,” I continued, “but she had no reason to harm Jeff or Ian. Which means someone else must have poisoned a jar and left it open in the refrigerator for someone—anyone—to find.”
“Why?” Fresca asked. “What would anyone hope to gain from that?”
“I think,” I said, “someone planted that jar to divert suspicion from someone else by casting suspicion on you. Maybe Linda did it, to protect Dean. Or one of the girls—Cassie’s in and out of that house regularly.”
“Using a plant from Claudette’s own garden. Oh, that’s vile.” My mother’s face darkened. “To make it look like I did it.”
“Who knew you picked Claudette’s herbs and flowers?”
“Lots of people,” Fresca said. “I never hid it.”
Kim turned to Bill. “Have you talked with anyone recently about digitalis?”
A frown creased Bill’s forehead. “I treat all consultations as confidential.”
“You’re not a doctor. The privilege doesn’t apply.”
“And if you get a court order requiring me to testify, I will. But until then, I owe it to my patients to preserve their trust.” His tone was firm and clear.
“Bill, are you saying you know who might have poisoned that jar, but you won’t tell us who?” I didn’t understand his logic.
“I’m saying I treat all consultations as confidential, until a court tells me otherwise.”
“But if you know something that will help us—help Kim—find the poisoner, or the killer—”
“The killer? What does the poisoning have to do with Claudette’s murder?” Fresca asked.
“It’s a double frame, Mom. Someone wants us to think you killed Claudette, then poisoned Ian.” Kim’s poker face irked me. Was she betting on an ace in the hole? “The killer tried to shift Kim’s attention to you, but when she didn’t make an arrest, he or she had to act again. To force her to focus on you.”
Fresca blanched. Bill didn’t move, but something unspoken passed between them.
“And if we don’t find the person soon, he could strike again. Please, Bill,” I said.
“Darling, if Bill says he has a good reason, we need to trust him.”
Was he protecting her? From what?
It was looking more and more like the killer had gone after Claudette to set up my mother. The rumors in town assured that Fresca would be blamed. Then, when she wasn’t arrested, the killer had to up the stakes. First, scare her by smashing the Merc’s front window. Then, leave the poison for Ian or Jeff to find.
The only thing that didn’t fit was the spaghetti sauce on my car. The note made that personal.
Who harbored so much hatred or resentment of my mother? Even if my theory was wrong, there was a killer in town, who might not be finished with us.