Murder by Yew (An Edna Davies Mystery #1)(4)

Mary smiled. “Yeah, I know what you mean. I used to visit here a lot. When I was little, my parents used to tell me to stay away from her, but I liked her. She was nice to me.”

“What else did she tell you, besides her interest in growing plants not native to this area? I’d love to know why she planted what she did. Her books tell me how and where she planted things, but not the reason she selected what she did.”

“Well …” Mary frowned slightly as she leafed idly through the notebook in her hands. “I think she was attracted by anything that had a medicinal use. She told me more than once that even the deadliest plant can cure as long as you know what you’re doing. Take those bean plants, for example. She told me castor oil is made from the seedpods. Now, that’s medicinal, but she said it’s pretty dangerous to do it yourself, because the wrong dose and …” Mary grimaced and swiped a forefinger across her throat. Then, as if to explain, she added, “Mrs. Rabichek said I should always know the ingredients I’m using and how much is safe.”

Edna nodded soberly. “Yes, I’ve seen that caution in several of her recipes. She also wrote that you must label everything, list all ingredients, and don’t forget the date. She insists that dating is important, and not only for expiration information. Growing seasons can vary so much in amounts of sun or rain or soil nutrients that the potency of a single plant can change drastically from one year to the next. It’s what makes the dosage so tricky.”

Edna felt her face grow warm when she noticed Mary smiling at her and felt she needed to explain her enthusiasm. “I’ve been studying her books and experimenting with some of the recipes—those with safe ingredients,” she hastened to add, “which is one reason I’ve come to realize just how many things around this yard are so toxic.”

Realizing that she had told Mary enough of what her neighbor probably already knew, Edna turned her head and put up a hand to shield her eyes from the sun as she looked at the sky. “Speaking of which, I figure it’s about time for a cup of tea. Want to try my new blend? I’ve added a touch of lemon balm to some chamomile. I think it’s one of my best attempts yet,” she added with a smile.

Mary pushed herself up from the stoop. “Sure, I’ll try it. Old Mrs. Rabichek made good tea. Have you found her recipe for chocolate mint cookies? They were my favorites.”

Edna winced. “I think Albert ground my first batch up in the garbage disposal last week. He thought they were awful. Guess I overdid the mint, but it didn’t smell that strong.” As Edna picked up her tools, Mary folded the painter’s ladder. “Want this in the house?” At Edna’s nod, Mary preceded her hostess around to the back door.

Hurrying after, taking two steps for each of her neighbor’s one, Edna hoped Mary liked visiting her as much as she seemed to have enjoyed “Old Mrs. Rabichek.” She’d never heard Mary refer to the woman any differently and it made her wonder if she’d eventually become “Old Mrs. Davies.” At any rate, Mary was a better sport than Albert when it came to trying her cooking experiments.

From the patio, the two women entered the house through the mudroom, where Mary left the ladder in a small storage closet. In the kitchen, Edna put the kettle on and arranged homemade cinnamon cookies on a plate while directing Mary to the cups, napkins and a tray. Opening the refrigerator and spotting two tightly lidded canning jars, she looked over her shoulder at her guest. “It’s such a warm day, would you rather have iced tea? I’ve been experimenting with sassafras, and there’s some of my orange and clove mix left.” She held up one of the jars.

Mary shook her head as she grabbed a few paper napkins from the wooden holder on the kitchen table. “Thanks, but I like it hot.”

“You got it.” Edna herself preferred hot tea, but Albert seemed to enjoy it iced, and she also kept it on hand for company. When the kettle whistled, she poured boiling water over an herbal mixture in a white porcelain pot, and the two women carried their refreshments back out to the flagstone patio.

Set in a protected corner, the terrace felt pleasant on this almost-perfect Indian summer day as they sat at a round metal table with its frosted glass top. Edna had just reached for the teapot when Benjamin careened around the corner of the house, followed closely by a black Labrador Retriever and a small boy. The cat flew beneath the table and on toward the back of the house as the dog scampered around the furniture, losing valuable time before dashing after him. The boy skidded to a stop at the sight of the women, and his eyes grew wide. He spun around, about to run back the way he’d come, when a tall, dark-haired man rounded the corner. Tom Greene caught himself before he fell headlong over his grandson.

Recovered from their initial surprise, the women burst into laughter. Tom looked self-conscious before he, too, began to laugh. “Hello, ladies,” he finally managed to say. “Hope we’re not interrupting anything.”

Tom was a local farmer who worked for his cousin’s business as a handyman when he wasn’t planting or baling or plowing. He had been doing odd jobs around the Davies’ house ever since they’d moved in. The young boy with him was Danny, his daughter Nancy’s child.

Twice a month, Nancy Alcott drove down from Cranston with her five-year-old to spend the weekend. The routine had begun shortly before Tom’s wife Jenny died of cancer two years ago. During these weekends, Tom and Danny were inseparable while Nancy spent time with old school friends.