Chile Death Page 3

  "That’s what the research seems to be saying. Ginkgo biloba, it’s called. Chinese doctors have used it for over five thousand years and the Germans have been experimenting with it since the 1960s. But American medicine is just getting acquainted with it.”

  "Them Chinese, they’re plenty smart,” Mae Belle said admiringly. “Invented fireworks, I heard.” She pulled her brows together. "Do you think that ginky-billy stuff would help Aunt Velma?”

  "It’s been shown to slow memory loss in some patients,” I said. "I’ve got a couple of articles about it on file in the shop. But you’d need to try it for several months before you could decide whether it’s having any effect.” It’s been my experience with herbs like ginkgo and St. John’s wort, a popular herb used to treat depression, that people don’t always stay with it long enough to see whether it works for them.

  “Save me a coupla bottles,” MaeBelle said, making up her mind. "Might do me some good too. I bin forgettin' things a lot lately. Like I forgot to git the inspection sticker on my car, and I got a ticket.” She lifted her chin proudly. "And if you think they’d cut me a little slack, workin’ in the department and all, you can think agin. I got to pay my ticket same as everybody else.”

  I nodded, then changed the subject. “I understand that there have been a few complaints about the Manor. How’s the staff treating your aunt?"

  MaeBelle’s brief shrug might have been acknowledgment or dismissal. "They do the best they can with whut they got. Hard to find good girls to work these days, whut with all the liftin’ an’ stuff an’ havin’ to put up with nasty old folks. And there’s a lot of turnover. Now that the new Walmart’s come in, paying good benefits and all, the Manor’s lucky to git any warm bodies.” She broke off as she glimpsed Ines Watson stopping her car in front of Pratt’s Drugstore. "Am I seein’ whut I’m seein?” she demanded incredulously. "Is that Ines Watson goin' to actually double park, in front of my very face?”

  "That’s what it looks like,” I said. "Boy, has she got a nerve.”

  "Boy, has she ever," MaeBelle said, and galloped off, blowing a blast on her whistle that might have wakened Sophie Briggs.

  The tourists hate it when it rains, and the Chamber of Commerce pretends it never happens except between midnight and four A.M. The natives, however, will tell you they love it. And did it rain, all through April, for days on end—a great blessing, because the. last three years had been the driest in decades. The Highland Lakes in the Hill County to the west of Pecan Springs rose to their highest levels ever, fattening the purse of the Lower Colorado River Authority, which sells the water to rice farmers downstream. And the spring wildflowers—bluebonnets, paintbrush, poppies, pinks—were absolutely miraculous, filling the meadows and roadsides with brilliant swaths of color and attracting hordes of tourists, who booked every bed and breakfast in Pecan Springs.

  Thankfully, the rain let up on weekends and business at the shop was brisk, especially in potted plants. We sold hundreds of two-inch pots of thyme, and almost as much rosemary and marjoram, basil and sage. Even the lesser- known-herbs moved well—rue, Texas mint marigold, lemongrass, feverfew, fennel, and St. John’s wort. And Laurel Wiley, my helper and a red-blooded, asbestos- tongued chilehead, had rounded up four-inch pots of the best and most fiery chile plants: poblano, jalapeno, orange habanero, Thai Dragon, even Red Savina habanero, which has recently been accepted into the Guinness Book of Records as the hottest pepper in the universe. (At a soul searing 500,000 units, the Red Savina blows the lid off the Scoville heat scale, the standard measure of a pepper’s incendiary temperament. Jalapenos, at a measly 55,000 units, are meek in comparison.) Thanks .to Laurel’s efforts, to our spring advertising promotion, and to a growing interest in herbs in general, the shop was doing well enough to give me a raise—which I badly needed, under the present circumstances.

  Centuries ago, I was a criminal attorney in a large Houston law firm. I argued a lot of cases, made a bundle of money, had few friends and no other life to speak of, except for tending the tiny garden on my patio. In fact, the only healthy passion in my life was probably my passion for plants, who responded to my loving care and never once argued back.

  Then one weekend, on a drive through the Texas Hill Country, I chanced on the town of Pecan Springs, and on a hundred-year-old stone building with a For Sale sign out in front. The building had two shops in front and a four-room apartment in the back, and was surrounded by patches of hard-packed earth that I imagined as gardens. One of the stores was an herb shop—a going concern called Thyme and Seasons, with real, live customers and an exceedingly modest cash flow. I fell in love with it, came back the next week for a closer look, and that was that. I handed in my letter of resignation, packed my power suits off to Goodwill, and traded my flashy red Fiat for a Datsun hatchback. I didn’t totally bum my bridges, however. I kept up my bar membership and stayed in touch with a few law-school friends, just in case business soured or small-town life felt too claustrophobic, neither of which has happened. Herbs certainly won’t make me a millionaire, but I’m still charmed by the lifestyle they support.

  For five or six years, while I was learning the business, I went slow. I kept the shop pretty much the way I found it, making the most of the hand-cut limestone walls, the scarred pine floor, the cypress beams across the high ceiling. But last year, after I moved out of the apartment behind the shop and into the big Victorian house on Limekiln Road with McQuaid and Brian, I tore down several walls and added a couple of hundred square feet of retail space. Now, the shop is almost exactly the way I want it. Unpainted wood shelves and antique hutches and pine cupboards stocked with herbal jellies, mustards, teas, vinegars, soaps, shampoos, massage oils, bath herbs, incense, tinctures. Books, of course, and stationery and cards and gift baskets. Wreaths on every wall, and red- pepper r 'ultras and garlic swags hang from the beams overhead. Baskets of yarrow, sweet Annie, larkspur, statice, tansy. Bunches of globe amaranth and strawflowers, raffia-wrapped bundles of lavender, buckets of fragrant potpourri. And outside, there are racks of potted plants, barrels of green herbs and antique roses, and the gardens all around the shop, with meandering stone paths and a fountain McQuaid built for me, as well as a stone cottage (formerly a stable), which I use for craft demonstrations and herb workshops—and occasionally for guests. The only thing left to make it perfect would be the addition of a tearoom, something I’ve been wanting to do for a long time.

  As the cash flow has permitted, I have hired a couple of helpers. Willow—a sturdy twenty-five-year-old with dark hair and deeply tanned arms and the high cheekbones that testify to her Cherokee heritage—works in the gardens with me, as I need her. Her older sister, Laurel, who wears her long brown hair in braids, has gone from part-time to full-time counter person in the last few months, minding the cash register while I stayed with McQuaid and taking my place in the herb classes I usually teach. And if I get in a jam, I can always count on Ruby Wilcox, bless her, my tenant and the best friend any woman ever had.

  Ruby’s shop—the Crystal Cave, the only New Age shop in Pecan Springs—occupies the other space at the front of my building. This proved a handy arrangement, particularly in the early days, when neither of us could afford to hire extra help and had to rely on one another to keep the shops open during lunch hours and when one of us had to run an errand.

  Ruby is a truly memorable person, six feet tall in her sandals and stylishly thin, with a galaxy of freckles across her nose and crimped hair that is chile-pepper red. Her eyes vary from green to blue (depending on the color of her contacts), and her outfits are even more varied. They are always strange, bordering on the weird, and so is she, which is why I like her. It is the attraction of opposites.

  Most of the time, you see, I tend to be structured, linear, and rational. These tendencies are partly due to my late lawyer-father’s influence, partly to my own law school training, and mostly (according to Ruby) to the unfortunate dominance of an overdeveloped left brain that specializes in logical equ
ations. For me, it is an unquestionable fact that two and two equal four. Ruby, on the other hand, is bewitchingly right-brained, and in her canny kind of knowing, two and two might add up to just about anything, and often do. You can see her singular weirdness in the Crystal Cave, with its stock of incense, astrology books, magic wands, celestial music, spirit rattles, sun catchers, unicorns, and fantasy dragons. You can also see it in her hobbies—tarot, chanting, massage, yoga, and meditation—not to mention her eccentric costumes. You’d be mistaken, however, if you took Ruby’s New Age follies lightly, or allowed yourself to be deceived by her unruly exterior. Her nonsense has saved my hide a time or two, and although her off-the-wall ideas often take me by surprise, I’ve learned to shut up and pay attention.

  I certainly paid attention that evening in late April, when Ruby danced into the shop to tell me her sensational news. She was wearing a long-sleeved rose-print dress and a silk shawl, fastened with a cameo brooch, white stockings, and black ballet-style slippers. She’s been letting her hair grow longer, and the soft red tendrils hung loose around her face. She pulled up a stool and sank down on it, as if her legs wouldn’t hold her anymore.

  "What’s up?” I asked. "Have you got a date with John Travolta or something?”

  "Better than that,” she said. She clasped her knee and rolled her eyes heavenward. "Oh, China, you’ll never

  I ”

  guess!

  "Probably not,” I said. “Why don’t you tell me, and save us both the trouble?”

  She did. It took only four words. But even though I heard them, I wasn’t sure I’d heard right. I stopped counting the bank deposit and stared at her. “You’ve won the what?"

  “The lottery,” Ruby said. She shook her head, half- dazed. "It’s okay if you don’t believe it, China,” she added unsteadily. "I don’t believe it myself. But I just got the ticket validated. They say it’s worth a ton of dollars.”

  I like specifics. "How many dollars are in a ton?” "Two million dollars.” Ruby took a deep breath. Her chest heaved and her nostrils flared. "Fifty thousand a year, after taxes. More or less.”

  I was dumbfounded. "Two million dollars!” I cried, when I could speak. "Fifty thousand a year!” I flung the cash register tape in the air, dashed around the counter, and pulled Ruby off the stool, dancing her around in an ecstatic circle. "You’re rich, Ruby! You are absolutely, unquestionably, unimaginably rich"

  "It must be a dream,” she said in a whisper. "I’m asleep. You’re in my dream, China.”

  "Well, if I’m in your dream, you’re in mine,” I retorted. "And we’d better arrange to wake up together or one of us is in deep trouble.” I paused, and frowned. "How did you happen to play the lottery? It isn’t something you usually do, is it?”

  She shook her head. "It was the only time, and I only bought one ticket. I was filling up my car at the Texaco down the street from my house, and I kept hearing this little voice, telling me that if I bought a ticket, I'd win. It was entirely intuitive. I just knew." She opened her eyes wide and gave me an earnest look. "And I know what I’m going to do with the money—this year’s installment, anyway."

  I thought of Ruby taking a trip to Nepal to meditate, investing in dozens of outrageous new outfits, or importing a couple of hundred of her wacky Southern California friends for a wild-woman retreat. Whatever she did, it would be fun to watch—almost as good as winning the lottery myself.

  "So what are you going to do?” I asked.

  "We are going to open the tearoom.”

  "We? As in you and me?” I leaned against the counter, staring at her. "Don’t be an idiot, Ruby. You could take that fifty thousand and pay off. your mortgage, or you could blow it on a new car or a trip to—”

  "Or I could invest in a business,” Ruby said, studying her nails.

  "Of course. Now, that would be a sensible idea. You could put your money into a—” I stopped.

  "There!" Ruby exclaimed triumphantly. "You see? Why should I squander my hard-earned winnings on a cruise or a car, when I can put it to work to earn more money? For us."

  I stepped back behind the counter again, picked the register tape up off the floor, and began to sort the cash. "Investing in a business doesn’t guarantee that you’ll make money,” I said darkly. “You could lose every dollar.”

  “So what? There’ll be fifty thousand more of them next year.” She did a quick two-step, clapping her hands in delight. “Isn’t it incredible, China? Fifty thousand a year!” She stopped dancing and whirled around. When she stopped, she added breathlessly, “Anyway, the tearoom is a money-making idea, and you know it as as well as I do. You’ve been talking about it for years. What I’m suggesting is a partnership. And if that doesn't make sense, I don’t know what does.”

  I put down the twenties and started counting the tens, not looking at her. "I don’t have fifty thousand dollars to match your fifty.”

  “But you have the space, and the experience, and the reputation. People already come here from San Antonio, Dallas, Houston—why, from as far away as Oklahoma City and New Orleans!”

  “That isn’t very far. I haven’t seen anybody coming from Paris or London.”

  “They will, as soon as they hear about China’s Texas tearoom.” She waved her arms energetically, as if she were conjuring up a room full of dreams. Her eyes, blue today, were sparkling with excitement. “It will be rustic, but elegantly eclectic, a blend of French Provincial, English Cottage, and American folk.”

  I groaned, but that did not deter her.

  “Chintz curtains, cloth-topped tables and painted wood chMrs., ferns in hanging baskets, some lovely pieces of antique furniture here and there, and artwork by our friends. Oh, yes, lots of artwork, wherever the eye comes to rest. There’ll be an entrance from each of our shops, and of course, a dozen tables in a patio garden. The renovations surely couldn’t cost all that much.”

  I finished counting the tens, riffled through the ones, and put the currency, such as it was, into the bank bag.

  “OK, yes, they could.” I zipped the bag so hard that I pulled off the zipper tab.

  She regarded me thoughtfully. "How much?”

  “Eight grand,” I said. I wrote the amount of the currency on the deposit slip, and reached for the thin stack of checks. "Not counting the furnishings, which would probably amount to another couple of thousand if you’re content with American flea-market. Double that if you’re serious about French Provincial and English Cottage.” She frowned. "What’s the eight thousand for?”

  I ticked off the required items. "The Texas Department of Public Health insists on two new sinks, a new stove, new floor in the kitchen, laundry facilities, another storage closet for brooms, mops, buckets, etcetera. Plus electrical work, not to mention sealing the stone walls and the ceiling beams so that flakes of history do not land in the fruit soup.”

  She looked determined. "Well, I’m sure if we did all that, we would have a wonderful space.”

  "But that’s not all,” I said. "Don’t forget the old rule— when you start a business, you need six months’ operating expenses in the bank. That could come to twelve or fourteen thousand, maybe more, if you want a lot of fancy stuff, or if you’re serious about advertising.” I turned on the calculator and punched in the numbers. "Call it twenty-five thousand, minimum.”

  "For Pete’s sake, where’s the problem?” Ruby cried. "I have twice that much!”

  "Good,” I said. "Pay off your mortgage. Go to Nepal and meditate. Not that I don’t appreciate the offer,” I added, uneasily aware that my words might sound ungrateful. "Thank you, by the way. It’s a generous offer." She frowned. "China—”

  "It’s like this. Ruby. You may have the money for this wonderful project, but I don't. If it would cost China and Ruby twenty-five grand to open the tearoom and run it for six months, that means it would cost China twelve-fifty, and her pockets are unfortunately empty. She doesn’t have a fraction of that amount, and she’s not likely to get it anytime soon.”
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  On that score, my argument was irrefutable. McQuaid’s medical costs were covered by insurance, his disability insurance had kicked in, and CTSU had promised to give him the remainder of his sabbatical leave when the disability checks stopped coming. But while his department head had assured us that his teaching job would be there when McQuaid was on his feet again, nobody could predict when that might be. Maybe never. Meanwhile, the checking account balance was sinking rapidly, a situation that was already calling for creative financing. The raise I had given myself was not nearly enough. It was time to put pressure on Brian’s mother to get current on her child support payments, or take on a little moonlight lawyering. This was definitely not the time for me to go out on a long, skinny financial limb.

  Irrefutable as it might have been, my argument didn’t carry any weight with Ruby. She straightened her shoulders. “Well, if a little bit of money is all that’s holding you back,” she said airily, "forget it. I’ll put in the cash. You can contribute the space, the expertise, the—”

  “No,” I said.

  "You’re being obstinate.”

  "Yes. I’m sorry, but no.”

  She thrust out her lower lip in a childlike pout. "You don’t trust me.”

  "Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I trust you. But I couldn’t let you bear the entire financial risk of this venture—that wouldn’t be fair. Plus, I don’t think that friends ought to go into business together. It might spoil the friendship.”

  "Good grief." Ruby threw up her hands. "How long have I been your tenant? Five years? Six? We’re already in business together, and I haven’t noticed that our friendship has been spoiled.”