An Unthymely Death (14 page)

I added a cup of fresh green beans to the chicken. “Any friends?”

“None that we’ve found.” Sheila sighed. “According to the calender on her desk, Mrs. Barton attended a club meeting on the first Wednesday of the month, but she just put down the word
club
and the time—seven-thirty. We thought we might be on to some- thing there, but when we checked with the clubs that meet on the first Wednesday, we drew a blank. Nobody had ever heard of her.”

“And you haven’t found out what she was doing in the cemetery?”

“Not a clue there, either, I’m afraid.”

“Maybe she was bird watching,” I suggested, adding sliced peppers—green, red, and yellow—to the wok, along with sliced red onions. I put on the lid and let it steam for a few moments. “Was she carrying binoculars?”

Sheila shook her head. “When we searched the car, all we found was a canvas tote bag, a pair of clippers, and a bunch of zipper-top plastic bags with wet paper towels in them.”

“Clippers, bags, and wet paper towels?” I asked, startled. I stared at her. “Sheila, I think I know what Mrs. Barton was doing in that cemetery! She was a rose rustler!”

Now it was Sheila’s turn to stare. “A rose rustler? What in the world is
that
?”

“Rose rustlers are people who want to propagate old roses,” I said, taking off the wok lid and adding a cup of sliced fresh mushrooms. “Mrs. Barton brought the clippers in order to take cuttings, and the wet paper towels to wrap around the stems before she put them into the plastic bags.”

“So she came to the cemetery to collect roses,” Sheila said in a wondering tone. “I never would have thought of that.”

“And what’s more,” I said, “I’ll bet I know exactly what club meeting she went to on the first Wednesday of each month.” I reached for the phone, and by the time the stir-fry was finished, I had an answer. For the past year, Mrs. Rose Barton had been a faithful member of the Hill Country Rose Rustlers Club.

Sheila frowned. “So how come we didn’t find out about that?”

“Because her sister didn’t happen to tell you that Rose Barton was an avid rose collector,” I replied. “And because the Rose Rustlers meet in San Marcos, not Pecan Springs.” San Marcos, a much larger town, is about a half hour drive from Pecan Springs.

“Bully for you, Sherlock,” Sheila said with a grin. “So where do you go from here?” She lifted the wok lid and sniffed appreciatively. “And when’s lunch?”

“Anytime you’re ready, Watson,” I said, handing her a bowl and a pair of chopsticks.

 

 

The shop is closed on Mondays, so I drove over to San Marcos to talk to George Webb, the president of the Hill Country Rose Rustlers. He was a thickset man in his sixties with brown hair. His gold-rimmed glasses gave him a studious look, but he had an elfish smile. We had met at an herb conference a couple of years before, and he had told me all about the Rose Rustlers.

 

 

I found George in his large garden, putting a thick layer of mulch around the roots of several spectacular Bourbon roses, all of them in bloom. We chatted a few minutes, as he pointed out his favorites.

“What I like best about the Bourbons,” he said, “is that they’re not only beautiful, but they’re exceptionally hardy. That one over there, for instance. It’s probably the most famous Bourbon of all—Souvenir de la Malmaison. I love it because it has such a beautiful blossom and fragrance. It propagates so easily, too. Every year, I have a dozen new plants to give to friends. That’s one of the advantages of these old roses, you know.” He grinned. “They haven’t been patented.”

After a few minutes, I brought up the subject I had come to discuss. “I wonder if you’ve heard that one of your members was killed a few weeks ago,” I said.

“Oh, dear.” He pulled his eyebrows together and his smile disappeared. “I’ve been visiting my daughter in New Orleans and haven’t been reading the newspapers. Who was killed? An accident, was it?”

“Rose Barton,” I said. “She was murdered.”

“Murdered!” he exclaimed, shocked. “Why, that’s terrible! Mrs. Barton seemed like such a nice person, even if she was a bit opinionated. She was very enthusiastic about collecting roses. If I remember right, she was especially interested in finding a new yellow rose.” He smiled. “An old yellow rose, I mean. True yellow. The yellow rose of Texas.”

We were getting off the subject, so I told him about discovering the body, and the difficulties the police had run into with their investigation, and my theory about what Rose Barton might have been doing in the cemetery.

“Sounds reasonable to me,” George Webb said reflectively. He picked up a pair of clippers and began to cut a few blossoms. “Spring isn’t the very best time to go rose rustling—here in Texas, fall is better. But when we find a rose we want to collect, most of us take cuttings whether it’s the ‘right’ time of year or not.”

“I wonder if you know of any friends Mrs. Barton might have had,” I said, nudging him back to the topic.

“Friends?” He scratched his head. “Well, like I said, Mrs. Barton had her opinions. Which might’ve been the reason she didn’t seem to have many friends—among the club members, I mean,” he added. “But you might talk to Mary Lewis. The two of them went rustling together a time or two.”

I got Mary’s address from Mr. Webb, accepted the large bunch of roses he thrust into my hands, and drove back to Pecan Springs. On an impulse, I stopped at Ruby’s house, rang the doorbell, and gave her the roses.

“How lovely!” she exclaimed, sniffing them. “And how fragrant! Thank you.” Then she frowned. “Is this a bribe? What are you up to now?”

“How’d you guess?” I grinned. “I want you to go to a crime scene with me.”

“Who needs a bribe for that?” Ruby asked. “Wait until I put these fabulous roses in water.” A few minutes later, we were heading for the cemetery.

The Pecan Springs cemetery was even lovelier than it had been a few weeks before. And now that I knew why Rose Barton had gone there, I could appreciate her interest. This particular cemetery was established when the town was founded, over 150 years ago. It’s full of imposing granite monuments, like the massive stone angel that stands guard over the Hausner plot, where Ruby had spotted Mrs. Barton’s body. It’s also full of hundreds of very old rosebushes.

“Antique roses,” Ruby said thoughtfully, when I had explained the concept to her. “Well, I guess it makes sense. Old things are often better than new.”

“It makes sense because the old roses have survived for so long without special care,” I said. I waved my hand. “Just look at all these bushes. They rarely get pruned or sprayed and nobody worries about black spot or other plant diseases. They just
grow
, without any coddling.”

“So if Rose Barton was rose rustling,” Ruby mused, “which rose was she rustling? And what makes you think that her interest in roses has anything to do with her murder?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “But everything else has turned into a blind alley. At least this alley has lots of pretty flowers in it.”

We began walking around, looking at the plants. After a minute Ruby asked, “Mrs. Barton was just going to take cuttings, right?”

“That’s right,” I said. “A true rose rustler always leaves the plant intact. Why do you ask?”

“Because,” Ruby said, “somebody has dug a hole beside the stone angel where we found the body.” She pointed. “See?”

What we were looking at was a large spot of disturbed earth beside the Hausner granite monument. A clump of daisies had been planted and the dirt scraped back around their stems, but that didn’t hide the evidence. Until fairly recently, a plant had grown there—a large, stiff bush, judging from the marks left by the branches as they had scraped against the monument. But the plant was gone. Someone had dug it up and put the daisies in its place.

A few minutes later, a conversation with the cemetery’s caretaker confirmed this guess. He remembered the plant very well.

“Sure, I recall that rosebush,” the old man said. “It was right purty. Had big yeller flowers. Smelled real sweet. I was surprised when I come along one day and saw somebody diggin’ it up.”

“You actually saw the person?” Ruby asked in surprise. “A man or a woman?”

“A woman,” the caretaker said. “That there bush was good-sized, so she had her work cut out for her. O’course, she’d already pruned most of the branches way back, but it prob’ly had sixty, seventy years’ worth of roots. I was gonna ask if she needed help, but the grave-diggin’ crew showed up about that time, and when I come back, she was gone, and them puny little daisies was stuck in the hole.”

“When did this happen?” I asked.

“When?” The caretaker looked vague. “About the time that woman was found dead, mebbe,” he said, scratching his head. “Reckon I cain’t be more exact than that.”

Ruby looked at me. “Do you suppose it was Rose Barton who dug up that rose?”

“If she didn’t,” I said, “who did? And why?” I tugged at her arm. “Come on. We’re going to see Mary Lewis.”

“Mary who?” Ruby asked as we walked away.

“A woman who went rose rustling with Mrs. Barton,” I said. “Maybe she knows something about that rose, and whether it’s connected to the murder.”

 

 

Mary Lewis, a pretty, brown-haired woman with a delicate face, lived in the nearby town of New Braunfels, where we found her in the little craft studio behind her house. The walls were covered with herb wreaths and braids of chile peppers and garlic. Mary stood at a table, preparing roses to dry in silica gel. We introduced ourselves and told her why we had come.

“I was sorry to learn about Rose’s death,” Mary said. She selected a perfect half-open blossom from the basket beside her and cut off the stem about a half inch below the calyx. “It’s too bad the police haven’t been able to come up with any answers.”

I agreed. “Mr. Webb says that you and she occasionally went rose rustling together,” I remarked.

“We did, for a while,” Mary replied, pouring an inch of silica gel into a plastic margarine tub. The gel, a drying agent, looked like sugar, with little blue flecks in it. “In fact, one day we found a really beautiful Prairie Rose, growing beside an old log cabin. The cuttings I took from it have already rooted, and every time I look at them, I remember the afternoon we found that plant.” She settled the blossom in the gel and began to spoon gel around it, covering it completely. “But Rose was getting into collecting in a big way, and she began going off on her own. I think she was looking for a particular plant, and didn’t want anybody around when she found it.”

“Really?” I asked curiously. “What was she looking for?”

Mary smiled. “A lot of people think it would be fun to find the original Yellow Rose of Texas.” She put a lid on the container and wrote the date on it with a marker. “I think that’s what Rose had in mind.”

“But the Yellow Rose of Texas wasn’t a rose at all!” Ruby exclaimed. “She was a slave girl named Emily Morgan who helped Sam Houston and his men defeat the Mexican army by stealing Santa Anna’s battle plan. And then she—”

“And then somebody wrote a song about her,” Mary took up the story. “But according to legend, there really
was
a yellow rose of Texas. Emily wore it in her hair.”

“But there aren’t any antique yellow roses,” I said. “At least, no yellow shrub roses,” I amended.