Witches' Bane (5 page)

“I suppose somebody’s told you about her entry in the garden club contest.”

“Actually,” I said, “Sybil told me herself.”

RuthAnn is a square-faced woman with hefty arms and shoulders. She’s usually willing to wade into a fight for a good cause. But this morning she looked as if she’d met her match. “I voted to give her the Most Unique Garden award,” she said, “but Wanda Rathbottom felt like Sybil was just thumbing her nose at us. Wanda wants to make a rule that nobody can enter poisonous plants in the contest. You’re a plant expert, China. What do you think?”

Just at that moment I spotted Sybil herself, moving through the crowd. She was wearing a flowing black and gold top over skintight black pants, and her slender arm was heavy with gold bracelets. She moved with the purpose and grace of a jaguar. She was headed for Andrew and Ruby.

“I’m an herbalist, not a plant toxicologist,” I said, my eye on Sybil, “but I think Wanda’s overreacting. A lot of common garden plants will make you sick if you snack on them. Iris bulbs are poisonous, for instance. So is larkspur. So are bluebonnets.”

“Bluebonnets!” RuthAnn’s eyes got big. The bluebonnet is the state flower. Telling a Texan that bluebonnets are poisonous is like saying that Christmas trees make you sterile.

“It’s the alkaloids that cause the trouble,” I said. “I’ve never heard of a person who died, but livestock can get sick just from eating the seeds.” Sybil had reached Andrew. She spoke briefly to Ruby. Then she put her braceleted hand on Andrew’s arm, leaned close, and said something in his ear. She moved lazily, but there was an underlying tautness, like muscles rippling under a cat’s fur. My instincts jangled. Something was going on here.

“Why, China, I never imagined!” RuthAnn said. “And Wanda just donated twenty pounds of seed so the Lions Club can plant bluebonnets for their Adopt-a-Highway project.”

“The seeds won’t hurt you if you don’t eat them,” I said. “But maybe you’d better tell Wanda. Not everything is what it seems.”

“Oh, dear,” RuthAnn sighed. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. I have to tell her. She’ll be so upset.” Shaking her head, she hurried off in search of Wanda Rathbottom.

I looked back at Sybil and Andrew. They had left Ruby standing alone and were walking together toward the old kitchen, Sybil’s black shoulder familiarly brushing the gray sleeve of Andrew’s sport coat, an inscrutable smile on her face.

I got my lemonade and went to join Ruby. “Everything okay?” I asked.

“Of course,” Ruby said airily, not looking at me. “Sybil and Andrew have some sort of business arrangement. They went to discuss it.”

“Oh, I see,” I said. If Ruby was worried, she didn’t want to talk about it. But then maybe she wasn’t. The old saying “Love is blind” definitely applies to Ruby. Roxanne came up to remind me that I was due for a trim, and we got into a discussion of Ruby’s last perm, which had turned out exceptionally frizzy, making her look even more like Little Orphan Annie. Then Arlene joined us, of Arlene’s Beautiful Nails, and Ruby, Roxanne, and Arlene talked fingernails. I concealed mine, which are short, with ragged cuticles. I spend a lot of time digging in the dirt.

Andrew reappeared, without Sybil, and it was time to start the ceremony. Helen, on behalf of the Chamber, told us how wonderful it was that a new business was bringing jobs and prosperity to Pecan Springs and announced that it was time to cut the ribbon. Constance scurried for her camera, and we went out to the sidewalk in front of the Emporium and lined up behind Andrew, handsomely photogenic and a little bored. The mayor, beaming, handed him a pair of large hedge clippers. Andrew and Helen each took one of the handles. “Say cheese!” Constance cried merrily. We squinted into the sun as Andrew and Helen whacked at the red ribbon with the hedge clippers and Constance clicked the shutter.

Gretel Schumaker nudged me as Constance was taking another photo. “What’s that going on in front of your shop, China?”

I looked where Gretel was pointing. Picketers, about a dozen of them, were parading in a tight circle on the sidewalk. But it was Ruby’s shop they were picketing. They carried hand-lettered signs that said things like “Witches Do the Devil’s Work” and “Tarot Is Black Magic.” They were being encouraged by a short, plump, balding man in an immaculate white suit, white tie, white belt, and white shoes. He stood in a shiny white Jeep with white vinyl seats parked at the curb, exhorting the marchers with emphatic arm gestures, like a drum major leading a parade. The bumper sticker read “120,000 Texans Died Last Year. Are YOU Right With the Lord?”

“Who,” Ruby asked incredulously, staring at the fat man in the Jeep, “is he?”

“You don’t know?” Gretel pursed her lips. “Where’ve you been for the last year, Ruby? That’s the Reverend Billy Lee Harbuck.”

“That rat,” I said feelingly.

“Yeah,” Gretel said. “I hate to say it about a preacher, but that one’s a jerk. He was in charge of the bunch that tried to shut down the abortion clinic where my sister works. And he and his pickets closed down poor Mr. Bixby’s drugstore. He’s out to make a name for himself, I guess. Have you seen his billboard on I-35?”

The billboard featured a flattering likeness of Billy Lee, holding a white Bible against his heart. A large caption demanded “Who Is on the Lord’s Side?” Under that was the Reverend’s name and his church, the Everlasting Faith Bible Church. I’d also seen him on the Channel 24 six o’clock news, being arrested at the Austin abortion clinic and hauled off, dragging his heels and vowing to fight to the death.

But today, the Reverend Billy Lee Harbuck was very much alive. And from the look of things, Ruby had made it to the top of his hit list.

CHAPTER 4

I am not a fan of
Playboy
and
Hustler.
They reflect our culture’s attitude that bodies (and not just women’s bodies, either!) are objects to be used. But I am a very big fan of free speech. Last spring, when the pickets lined up in front of Bixby’s Drugstore, I offered Mr. Bixby my help. In my mind, the matter was complicated. Under the First Amendment, the demonstrators had a right to express their opinions about the magazines. Under the same law, Mr. Bixby’s customers had an equally compelling right to read those magazines. And Mr. Bixby had the right to sell them, especially since he kept them under the counter and didn’t peddle them to kids. But Mr. Bixby was seventy-six and getting a little shaky. The whole thing unnerved him so much that he decided to close the drugstore. A month later, his heart quit. That was one reason why, when I opened the shop at nine on Thursday morning to find a dozen of Billy Lee’s followers marching up and down the sidewalk with their signs, I was very ticked off. They were careful to leave ample room for people to pass, but that didn’t make me feel any kindlier toward them—especially when I saw the sign that read “Satan Worshippers Kill Goats,” under a crude drawing of a black goat hanging by its heels. A couple of pedestrians gazed at it apprehensively, and Vida Plunkett, mowing the little patch of grass in front of her house, gave me a dark look.

I was a member of the tarot class that was being called “Satan worshippers,” and I didn’t think it was funny. I invited the young man under the sign to tell me on what factual basis he described me as a Satan worshipper and a goat-killer. When he hemmed and hawed, I suggested that he consult with the church’s attorney on the difference between free speech and slander. If he didn’t, I would, and we’d see about getting an injunction, as fast as you could say “hell and damnation.” The sign disappeared.

But the pickets didn’t. At nine-forty the Reverend pulled up in his white Jeep. In his white suit, his head pink and shiny, he looked like a bald Colonel Sanders. He stood on the front seat to lead a chorus of “Onward Christian Soldiers,” while a woman in the backseat played a portable battery-operated keyboard. Unfortunately, they weren’t singing loudly enough to disturb the peace.

Ruby came in the back way just as the choir started the last verse. In black silk oriental pajamas with a red sash and red sandals with two-inch heels, she looked more like a geisha than a witch.

“Isn’t there anything we can do?” she asked, as they began to sing “Save us from the powers of darkness.” “Sue them or have them arrested or something?”

I gave Ruby the same answer I’d given Mr. Bixby. “Our hands are pretty much tied, as long as they don’t block the sidewalk or disturb the peace or carry slanderous signs.”

“What’s a slanderous sign?”

“A sign that says something specifically nasty and that is false or unproven. ‘Ruby Wilcox Is a Witch,’ for instance. I made them get rid of the worst one.”

Ruby gnawed at her lower lip. “Do you think they’ll keep customers away?”

“I hope not,” I said fervently. “But I guess it depends on the customer.” I glanced out the window. “It doesn’t look like they’ve stopped Helen Jenson.”

Helen was severe in a tailored navy suit with her Chamber of Commerce pin on the lapel. “Who are all those screwballs out front?” she demanded.

“It’s Billy Lee Harbuck’s bunch,” Ruby said. “They’re demonstrating against the tarot class.”

“They’ve got us confused with witches,” I said.

“Witches!” Helen gave a disgusted snort. “Don’t talk to me about witches. I was jogging in the park early this morning and I stumbled across a pile of chickens with no heads. Where’s this going to end, is what I want to know.”

“What did you do?” Ruby asked.

“Why, I called the police, of course. Somebody’s got to put a stop to this sort of thing, or the town’s going to get a bad name. Chief Harris said it was Santeros. They’d built an altar out of a cardboard box, and there were coins scattered around.”

“Brace yourself, Ruby,” I said. “They’ll probably accuse us of sacrificing chickens.”

Ruby did not smile.

Helen turned to me with a back-to-business look. “China, do you have any more rosemary-tarragon vinegar? And while you’re at it, Mother wants some of that no-salt seasoning blend you make. She sneaks it on her food when the nurses are looking the other way.” Helen’s mother lives in a nursing home in Waco. If she can’t get along without that seasoning, it must be good.

A few minutes after Helen left, Jerri Greene and her sister, Rita, came up the walk, heading for Ruby’s shop. Jerri, who runs Jerri’s Health and Fitness Spa, was wearing a red sweatsuit, her blond hair snugged into a ponytail. Jerri is dynamic and attractive, proof that a woman can have muscles
and
a great figure. She aims to make her mark on the world by getting you in shape. When you’ve had a workout in one of her classes, you know you’ve had a workout. Her younger sister Rita is shy and plain, with anxious brown eyes behind blue plastic-rimmed glasses, neat brownish-blond hair, and a strained smile. She fades into the background when Jerri’s around, but there’s something about her that suggests tight control, as if she’s clamped down on some part of herself. Maybe it’s the part that would like to copy her sister.

“Guess I’d better open up,” Ruby said, going to the connecting door. “Jerri and Rita may be the only two customers I’ll have all day, considering what’s happening out front.”

At that moment, the Reverend Billy Lee was telling his rapt flock that Halloween was anything but the harmless holiday it seemed.

“It’s a day to worship WITCHCRAFT,” he bellowed. “It’s an infamous day, the DEVIL’S day, a day the righteous must eschew!” He pointed at the broom hanging on the front door of my shop. “Looka that broom, brethren! It’s the symbol of WITCHES! What else do good Bible-fearin’ folk need to prove that this is the Devil’s very own workshop, right in the middle of our fair city?”

A chorus of fervent amens rose from the picketers. Billy Lee pulled off his white coat. His shirt was soaked. It was a cool day, but he was hot stuff. Uncharitably, I prayed for a stroke.

I turned away from the window. There was no point in wasting time watching the circus. If I didn’t have any customers, I could hang the new batch of fall wreaths my wreath lady had delivered. The silvery artemisia was particularly nice this year, and the wreaths were decorated with pink and mauve amaranth, beebalm, yarrow, and soft furry gray leaves of lamb’s ears. They filled the shop with their fragrance. I like to make wreaths, but I never have time to make enough for the entire winter season. So I depend on other people—many of them students in my herb classes— to make them for me. They’re big sellers, especially between Thanksgiving and Christmas, along with such wonderful wreath books as Carol Taylor’s
Herbal Wreaths
and her
Christmas Naturals,
both of which are beautifully illustrated.

I was climbing down the ladder when I noticed that the chanting had died away. I went to the window to see Bubba Harris talking to the Reverend. Then the crowd parted like the Red Sea, and Bubba passed through. He was carrying a plastic bag.

Bubba has been the Pecan Springs chief of police for the better part of a decade. He is a slow-talking, slow-walking, beefy good ol’ boy. It’s easy to underestimate him because he looks like a B-movie sheriff—cocked Stetson, battered cowboy boots, beer belly, unlit cigar plugged into one side of his face. But Bubba has a reputation for kicking ass and taking names. Not much happens in this town that he doesn’t know about.

Me, for instance. Thyme and Seasons had been open a week when Bubba showed up to warn me against making claims about the healing properties of herbs, which in his book amounts to practicing medicine without a license. He went away a little bent out of shape, probably because he wasn’t used to going one-on-one with a female who talks law. We tangled again a year ago, when he thought he’d found a killer and I thought he was wrong. Since then, we’ve struck an uneasy peace. We speak to one another, we even make occasional conversation, but there’s a certain armed wariness between us. As far as Bubba is concerned, I’m an uppity ex-lawyer who’s too big for her britches. As for me, it used to be my business to challenge the judgment of law enforcement officers. I haven’t shed that adversarial point of view. Maybe I never will.

Bubba rolled his soggy cigar to the other side of his jowly face. ‘That bunch out there causin’ you any trouble?” Bubba may not like me much, but he’s got a strong sense of social order. Part of his job is the defense of free trade. The pickets out front were challenging my right as a tax-paying merchant to make money. That gets his back up.

“They’re not making life any easier,” I said. “But much as I hate to admit it, they’ve got a right. The minute they step over the line, I’ll let you know.”

“Yeah, I reckon you will.” Bubba pulled his black eyebrows together in a bushy V and gave me a narrow-eyed glance. “You know what this is?” He dropped a gallon-sized plastic bag on the counter. In it was stuffed a large wilted plant, roots and all.

I took the plant out of the bag. It had a hairy stem and alternate leaves, divided into three to five coarsely toothed segments, like parsley. It was too late in the year for the characteristic chalk-yellow flowers, but the plant had a single stem of seedheads in a cluster of four erect pods about a half inch long. I opened a pod and spilled the seeds into my hand. They were brown and irregularly shaped, with deep, flangelike wrinkles.

“Aconitum vulparia,”
I said. “Wolfsbane. Where’d you get it?”

“In the park. Beside a pile of dead chickens. The chickens belonged to Miz Bragg, who ain’t too pleased that they’re dead, especially the rooster. She says that ain’t her plant, though.”

“It isn’t.” I hesitated. Mrs. Bubba was vice president of the garden club, and she’d tell him tonight when he got home. I might as well tell him first. “Check with Sybil Rand. The plant might have come from her garden.”

“How d’you figger that? I don’t see no owner’s I.D.”

“Wolfsbane isn’t exactly a common plant. People usually don’t cultivate it, and it doesn’t grow wild here. But Sybil Rand has a few plants.”

Bubba chewed his cigar. “Oh, yeah. The poison garden. Missus told me about that.” He frowned. “This plant, wolf-whatever. It’s poisonous?”

“Yes. Very.”

Bubba stared at the plant with suspicion. He glanced at me, and I saw the question coming. “Sybil Rand, she practice Santeria?”

“I doubt it. But you’d better ask her.” I could guess just how far Bubba would get with Sybil. He’d be called out before he got halfway to first base. It was odd, though. Had some Santera pulled up the wolfsbane to use it in a ritual, or was somebody trying clumsily to implicate Sybil in the slaughter of Mrs. Bragg’s chickens? Either way, I was sure that Sybil was home free. Even Bubba couldn’t believe that she was the type to hang out with Santeros and dead chickens.

Bubba scooped up the plant and stuffed it back in the bag. “Kinda dumb to grow somethin’ that can kill people, ‘specially these days, with all this Satanic crap goin’ around. ‘Less o’course you’re plannin’ to use it.” He gave a narrow-eyed glance at the jars and bottles on the shelves. “Any of this stuff poisonous?”

“Some of it.” I shrugged. “But then, so are bluebonnets.”

“Bluebonnets?” Bubba was dumbfounded. His mouth dropped open and his cigar clung tenuously to his lower lip. “You gotta be shittin’ me.”

“No shit,” I said. “Don’t eat the bluebonnets.”

The rest of the morning was uneventful—and miserably unprofitable. The gang outside went for lunch in shifts, the Reverend came back in a fresh white shirt for another round of haranguing and hymn-singing, and when Ruby and I closed up for the day, we had only a few dollars to show for it.

“I never would’ve thought a few pickets could make such a difference,” Ruby said, counting her receipts. She zipped the pittance into her bank bag. “This is peanuts, but I might as well take it to the bank. Want me to make your deposit too?”

“There’s not enough to deposit. I guess I’ll blow it on dinner. It’s my turn to treat McQuaid. Want to join us for an early one?” McQuaid had a meeting at eight. There was a big law enforcement conference at the university next week, and he was in charge. I hadn’t seen much of him in the past couple of weeks.

“Okay if I bring Andrew? He’s working tonight too, but we planned to take time out to eat together.”

“Sure.” I couldn’t help being curious about Andrew, especially after witnessing the little scene he and Sybil had played. But maybe my curiosity was more like suspicion. I care about Ruby, who is trusting and almost too susceptible, and I hate the thought of another man playing kickball with her heart. “Lillie’s Place, six thirty.”

“Sounds good,” Ruby said. She tucked the money bag into her purse and headed for the door. “See you.”

Lillie’s is less than a block from the shop, but I had an errand to run before dinner so I drove. I parked out front and went in. The crowd was the usual—some tourists, families with kids catching an early dinner, a few quarrelsome university types arguing faculty politics, and a herd of fake cowboys swigging beer at the bar. There aren’t many real ones around here because the Hill Country is too rough for cattle ranching, but there are plenty of guys who dress the part— Wranglers, yoked shirts with pearl buttons, boots, George Strait hats. You can tell they’re phonies because they wear trophy belt buckles the size of Cadillac hubcaps. (A real rodeo cowboy doesn’t wear his hard-won trophy buckles— he hangs them from the rearview mirror in his pickup.) Bob waved at me as I came in, then went to feed more coins into the jukebox, which was wailing some early Flatt and Scruggs. Lillie’s is a down-home place.

McQuaid looked up as I sat down. “What’s the excitement over at your place?”

“It’s Billy Lee Harbuck and his bunch,” I said. “From the Everlasting Faith Bible Church. He thinks Ruby and I are witches.”

McQuaid grinned. “Maybe he’s right.” He sat back with his beer and planted his boots on a chair. Lillie’s Place is like that. You can put your feet wherever you want. The wooden tables and chairs are scarred and splintered, and some of the initials carved in the tabletops go back twenty years or more. Before the place was called Lillie’s, it used to be Bean’s Bar and Grill. The owner decided to fancy it up, so she changed the name, tacked posters of Lillie Langtry to the walls, and hung ferns over the bar. When she went to live with her daughter in Del Rio, Bob bought the place. He says he’s sick of the posters and he can’t remember to water the ferns, and anyway, it’s too dark over the bar for anything to grow. He’s going to take everything down and go back to Bean’s.