A Plain Vanilla Murder Read online

  “I suppose it is a check point,” Aguado replies, as several men in camouflage gear and armed with assault rifles step out of the jungle in front of the coleccionista’s truck. “As you know, during harvest, the police inspect the papers of anybody who is carrying vanilla.” He pauses, frowning. “But these fellows do not look like—”

  “It’s an ambush,” the professor says abruptly. “Let’s get the hell out of here!”

  “No!” Aguado puts a hand on his arm. “No, it is better to wait. The thieves will take the beans they want or the bribe they are looking for. Then we will be free to—”

  But the professor is wrestling the van into a tight U-turn on the narrow road, twisting the steering wheel hard to the left and accelerating with a spray of gravel. The vehicle is pulling away fast when the vanilla thieves see what is happening. One raises his rifle and fires a sharp burst through the rear window. The van lurches off the road, careens down a steep embankment, and smashes hard against a tree.

  For seven people, the nightmare has just begun.

  For one, it has just ended.

  Chapter One

  The vanilla vine grew out of a murder—two murders, in fact. That’s the story, anyway.

  The Totonacs, the first people to cultivate vanilla, lived on the eastern coast of Mexico in what is now the state of Veracruz. Their king had a daughter who (naturally) was so beautiful that she was consecrated to the goddess of fertility. The royal princess made the unfortunate and very human mistake of falling in love with a handsome commoner. Forbidden to marry (naturally), the lovers fled to the forest, where the priests caught up with them and killed them.

  From the blood of the murdered lovers grew a tall, strong tree, embraced by a beautiful orchid vine. When the orchid flowered, the air was filled with an intoxicating aroma. Nine months later, the fruit was ripe. Observant Totonacs drew the natural conclusion.

  China Bayles

  “Vanilla: The Ice Cream Orchid”

  Pecan Springs Enterprise

  Novelist Mary McCarthy once wrote, “We all live in suspense, from day to day, from hour to hour; in other words, we are the hero of our own story.” I’ve given a lot of thought to this, and I think it’s true. The trouble is that we never really know when a new chapter of our story begins. Most of the time, in fact, we don’t even know it’s a story—that is, with a cast of characters, in a setting, with a plot and several subplots—until we’re in it up to our necks.

  For example, does this story (the one I’m about to tell you) begin with the mythic murder of a princess and her handsome commoner, somewhere in the jungles of Central America? Does it start with a passionate desire for an exotic flower and its delectable fruit? Or perhaps it begins in unspeakable loss, unbearable pain, and a corrosive desire for revenge. The roots of some stories go deep into the past, and I can’t be sure what sort of seed was the genesis of this one. I only know how and when I came into it and what happened after that.

  So, since I’m not sure where to begin, I’ll start with the workshop that Ruby and I taught that fateful Monday in September, which was a kind of beginning.

  For me, anyway.

  I WAS STANDING IN FRONT of a group of women in the Gathering Room of Thyme Cottage, about to begin a PowerPoint presentation on vanilla, the world’s most popular flavoring. I would be talking about how the plant is grown, harvested, cured, and marketed, illustrating my narrative with photographs from a recent field trip I’d taken to Veracruz, Mexico. But I began the workshop by telling the mythic tale of the beautiful Totonac princess who was murdered, with her lover, because of their forbidden love affair.

  “And that,” I added, “explains why the vanilla orchid likes to wrap itself around a tree—although it might take a little imagination to see the vine as a beautiful princess.”

  I turned the pot on the table in front of me, so everyone could have a good look at the two-foot vine, which was fastened to a cedar post that I’d wrapped with sphagnum moss. “As you can see, this one is clinging to the cedar support. When it’s mature, it will produce a lovely yellow orchid-like flower. If it’s successfully pollinated, there’ll be a ripe vanilla pod nine months later.” A titter fluttered around the room when I added, “No wonder the myth is told as a ‘birds-and-bees’ story.”

  I picked up the pot and stepped in front of the table so that the people in our “Not Just Plain Vanilla” workshop could see the plant more easily. “Like other members of the orchid family,” I said, “the vanilla orchid has aerial roots that cling to its support, help it grow upward, and take in water and nutrients. It also sends roots down into the soil. In its native tropical habitat, this vine can grow to two hundred feet. In a greenhouse, it’ll probably top out at fifteen or twenty.” I paused. “Questions?”

  Mrs. Birkett—the oldest member of our local herb guild and a longtime Crockett Street neighbor—put up her hand. “I’ve heard vanilla called a spice, but I’ve never understood that. At the grocery store, it comes as a liquid in that little brown bottle. So why is it a spice?”

  “That puzzles a lot of people,” I said. “But the answer is pretty simple, really. Herbs and spices come from different parts of a useful plant. Herb refers to the leaves, flowers, or stems. Spice refers to the seed, fruit, root, or bark. Vanilla extract is made from the fruit of the vanilla orchid—its pod, or bean—so we call vanilla a spice.”

  Mrs. Birkett nodded, satisfied. “Thank you. Now I know.”

  The woman sitting beside her spoke up. “I’m an ER nurse. I’ve read that vanilla is used medicinally. Is that right?”

  I squinted to see her name tag. Karen Taylor—someone I didn’t know. She looked like a nurse, though. Brown hair cut sensibly short, no makeup, simple skirt and blouse, a brisk, no-nonsense manner. I replied, “There’s been some laboratory research on vanillin—the active plant chemical in vanilla. It’s been shown to reduce free radicals, slow cell mutations, and restrict the blood supply to tumors. So it may be useful in treating some cancers.”

  “And the scent has a calming effect,” my partner Ruby Wilcox added. “Researchers doing mood mapping say that just a whiff of vanilla can make people feel relaxed and happy.” There was a general whisper of yesses around the room, and somebody said, “To me, vanilla smells like home. Like my mother. Whenever I smell it, I think of her.”

  Another hand went up. “How much sun does a vanilla plant need?” The questioner, Edith Barlow, wore her auburn hair in a loose cloud around her shoulders. “Can I grow it in my living room?”

  “Good questions, Edith,” I said. “You may see vanilla advertised as a house plant, but growing it is tricky. It needs warm temperatures—nothing lower than fifty-five—bright light, and a super-sticky humidity level, around eighty-five percent. Vanilla planifolia—planifolia just means ‘flat-leaved’—is a tropical vine that grows best in a greenhouse.” I smiled at the auburn-haired woman. “But don’t give up hope. If you don’t have your very own personal greenhouse, check with Sonora Garden Center. Maggie Walker, the owner, offers an orchid boarding service. She’ll be glad to board your vanilla plant, keep it healthy, and give it everything it needs. When it’s ready to bloom—when it’s three years old and about ten feet tall—you can take it home and enjoy the blossoms. You can even try your hand at pollinating it.”

  “A boarding service for orchids?” the nurse asked disbelievingly. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “Nope.” I hoisted the pot I was holding. “This little lady is still a baby, just eighteen months old. She lives at Sonora, where Maggie takes good care of her.” Conveniently, Maggie and I have arranged a little quid pro quo. She keeps my vanilla plant in exchange for a free ad for Sonora in my email newsletter.

  “Maggie really knows her stuff when it comes to orchids,” another woman said. Her salt-and-pepper hair was clipped close to her head, and her expression was alert and sprightly. “Boarding is cheaper than having your own greenhouse. A lot less trouble, too, if you’re into orchids. They aren’t very pretty when they’re not blooming, so Maggie takes care of mine until they’re ready to bloom again.”

  “Do you have visiting privileges?” someone asked in a snarky tone, and laughter rippled through the group.

  “Absolutely.” The gray-haired woman took the question seriously. “I drop in every few weeks to see how my babies are doing. I don’t want them to forget me, you know.” More laughter.

  “Is Maggie boarding a vanilla orchid for you?” I asked.

  The woman nodded eagerly. “It’s four years old and already about fifteen feet tall. It should bloom in the next few months, and Maggie says she’ll show me how to pollinate it.”

  “Good luck,” I said. “If you get any pods, maybe you’d be willing to share.” Everybody laughed, and I looked around. “Any more questions?”

  When I didn’t see any hands in the air, I put the vanilla plant on the table and picked up my laptop’s remote. “If you’ll turn out the lights, Ruby, we’ll be on our way. I took these photos on a trip I made last year with a college botany class that was studying vanilla. We’ll be visiting the Mexican town of Papantla, which clings to its history as the vanilla capital of the world. Then it’s on to a commercial vanilla plantation and a traditional vanilla farm in the jungle, to see how vanilla is grown, harvested, and cured. At the end, we’ll visit a small manufacturer in Veracruz, to see how vanilla extract is produced.”

  When my talk was finished, Ruby and I would demonstrate some uses for vanilla powder and paste, compare real vanilla extract to the less-expensive artificial vanilla flavoring, and share bowls of vanilla custard and several vanilla-flavored treats. The following week, the group would meet again for some hands-on work with vanilla pods. I would focus on the culinary side of things, while Ruby would demonstrate how to make vanilla-infused body oils, a vanilla sugar facial scrub, and a fragrant incense made from vanilla powder. At the end, we would hand out recipes and tips for storing and using vanilla pods. Everybody loves recipes.

  But before I start my PowerPoint photos, a quick introduction may be in order for those who haven’t visited us before. My name is China Bayles. Some years ago, I left the practice of criminal law in Houston and opened an herb shop—Thyme and Seasons—in Pecan Springs, Texas, a small, friendly Hill Country community halfway between Austin and San Antonio. A few years later, I married Mike McQuaid, a former homicide detective, currently a private investigator and part-time faculty member in the Criminal Justice department at Central Texas State University. McQuaid and I are parents to two great kids: his son Brian, who is majoring in environmental sciences at the University of Texas at Austin; and my thirteen-year-old niece Caitlin, who plays the violin and runs a small chicken-and-egg business in our backyard.

  Ruby Wilcox (the tall redhead standing at the back of the room) owns the Crystal Cave, the only New Age shop in Pecan Springs. The Cave is located in the same building as my herb shop, and Ruby is my partner and best friend. She sells incense and rune stones and tarot cards and books; teaches classes in astrology and meditation and the tarot; and offers birth chart readings and Ouija board sessions. She’s also psychic, which occasionally manifests itself in some pretty interesting ways. You might ask her about our recent ghost, who taught us a few things about the century-old building where our shops are located.

  Some people may think Ruby is a bit of a flake, but in all the years we’ve worked together, I have rarely known her to have a bad idea. In fact, I will admit that while I have the stamina and dogged persistence it takes to run a small business, Ruby is the one with the creativity, originality, and imagination it takes to run an innovative small business. You might say that her right brain makes up for what my left brain lacks and vice versa. Which makes us excellent business partners and the very, very, very best of besties.

  To look at us, though, you’d have to say that we’re an odd couple. Ruby is slender and tall—six feet in her flats—with fair skin, freckles, and remarkable carrot-colored hair that tends to frizz no matter what she does to it. She loves clothes that will make you blink, like the bright purple tunic top and purple-and-blue paisley yoga leggings she was wearing today.

  I, on the other hand, am short and stocky, with a widening gray streak in my unremarkable brown hair. My work uniform is invariably jeans, tennies, and a forest green Thyme and Seasons T-shirt. Call me unglamorous, but not having to figure out what to wear every morning gives me time to figure out a few really important things, like how to get a decent breakfast into my husband and daughter, get the dog and cat fed, and get to the shop before the customers do.

  But while Ruby and I are admittedly an odd couple, there is nothing odd or offbeat about our partnership. Together, we own and manage Thyme for Tea (a tea room, in the same building as our shops) and Party Thyme (a catering service). With Cass Wilde, we have the Thymely Gourmet, a meals-to-go food delivery service. Cass also manages the tea room kitchen and helps with the catering. In this always-hectic three-ring circus of ours, the three of us consider ourselves lucky if we can keep from dropping too many balls or missing a trapeze or getting bitten by an irritated tiger. Do not for a single moment think that running your own business is a piece of cake.

  And there’s Thyme Cottage, once a stone stable, now a lovely remodeled cottage on the alley at the back of the gardens that surround the shops. I rent it by the week as a bed-and-breakfast for tourists who visit Pecan Springs. (If you’re in the neighborhood and looking for a place to stay, let me know.) When it’s not rented, Ruby and I use it for workshops and classes. We like it because it has a kitchen and adjacent large living room that we call the Gathering Room.

  And that’s where we were holding our September “Not Just Plain Vanilla” workshop, one of the most popular events on our entire class schedule. It never fails to fill, with a waiting list, on the very same day we post it. Everybody loves vanilla.

  IT TOOK ABOUT THIRTY MINUTES for me to show the photographs and answer questions about vanilla farming in Mexico. I had taken the photos on a field trip for a class I audited the previous year. It was taught at CTSU—Central Texas State University—by Professor Carl Fairlee, who is known for his studies of Vanilla planifolia. During the winter break, Dr. Fairlee always leads a field trip to the Mexican state of Veracruz so his class can see how vanilla is grown, harvested, and processed. I didn’t tell the group that he is also Maggie Walker’s ex-husband—my friend Maggie, who owns the garden center we were talking about earlier—but we’ll get into that later.

  And I didn’t mention the most disturbing part of the story. A couple of years before I took the trip, the van Dr. Fairlee was driving had gone off a steep cliff on a narrow mountain road. One of the girls, Shelley, was killed, and two other students were seriously injured. Details were hard to come by, and there was a great deal of confusion about the facts. In one version, Dr. Fairlee swerved off the road to avoid hitting a monkey. In a more dramatic version, the van was fired on by a gang of men intent on robbery and rape. The more times the story got told, the darker and uglier it became. If the Mexican police investigated the crash and determined what actually occurred, their version of the story didn’t make it back to campus.

  But whatever the murky truth of what happened on that mountain, it was especially sad for Ruby and me. Shelley Harmon, the student who was killed, had worked in our tea room the previous summer, and (with her friend Beth Craig) had rented a little house from Mrs. Birkett, just down the block. Shelley Harmon was lively, energetic, and always cheerful. Our customers missed her. We missed her.

  Because the trip had been university-sponsored, CTSU authorities launched what they called a “thorough investigation.” Some people wanted to pin the blame on Dr. Fairlee, if only for putting his students into a dangerous situation. But if he was held to be at fault, we never knew, for the results of the investigation were not released. They were kept secret.

  A few people questioned this, and there was a persistent rumor that Shelley’s mother, who lived out in West Texas somewhere, had hired a lawyer and intended to sue both Dr. Fairlee and CTSU for wrongful death. But the two-year statute of limitations came and went and the talk eventually died down. By the time the next academic year began, the tragedy was all but forgotten, and it was back to business as usual. Except in the tea room, of course, where Ruby and I often spoke about Shelley and wished we could turn the clock back.

  When I went on the vanilla class field trip, there were no accidents, bad or otherwise. The weather was wonderful, the Mexican food exceptional, the vanilla farms interesting. The vanilla bandits (if there were any) left us in peace. Everything went as planned, and I came back with a much better understanding of the where, who, and why of vanilla—and more photos than I knew what to do with. I was using quite a few of them in today’s workshop.

  “And that’s what goes into that little brown bottle you buy at the grocery,” I said to the group as I turned off the computer and signaled to Ruby to turn on the lights. “As you can see, growing and processing the stuff takes a lot of time and labor. As Señor Aguado says, ‘Vanilla is an obsession. To raise it, you must love it.’ I think that’s true—and it may be more true of vanilla than any other spice or herb.” I paused and looked around. “Okay, who has a question?”

  A woman—heavyset, with dark curly hair and apple-red cheeks—put up her hand. In an aggrieved voice, she said, “I’m Donna Gibbons. I’ve been planning to start a small artisanal business making vanilla extract. But the price of vanilla pods has gone through the roof. Is it ever going to level off?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” I said with a shrug. “As long as the supply is limited and the demand is high, the price will stay high. Every time the vanilla plantations are hit by a destructive cyclone or a vine-killing drought, the price will go higher. The last time I looked, a pound of Grade A pods was selling for about two hundred seventy-five dollars. A pound of pods will make about a gallon of liquid extract. However, you don’t need—”