Murder by Yew (An Edna Davies Mystery #1)(8)

Dee was staring at Tom as if waiting for him to say something, but he seemed tongue-tied. Edna broke the silence.

“What can I do for you, Dee?” Watching the other two, she felt like a third wheel. Can’t the woman see he’s wearing a wedding ring?

Slowly pulling her hand from Tom’s grasp, Dee said, “I thought maybe I could get some of that rue we talked about.”

“Rue?” Edna’s mind went into overdrive, spinning back to the previous Thursday and a conversation about the acrid herb that grew beneath an old oak tree on the far side of the compost heap in what she and Albert referred to as the “back forty.” It was their joking name for the half-acre of untamed land at the west end of their property.

The two women had met the previous week at the September meeting of Greenthumbs, a local garden club. Both of them were guests of current members, and each was applying for the club’s one vacant spot. The club was as much a social group as it was a gardening association, and initiation into the club also insured one’s acceptance into the community. Membership lasted for as long as the woman—for this was strictly a woman’s organization—lived in the community.

In the by-laws, enrollment was limited to fifty. Whoever wasn’t selected would have to wait for an opening in the rolls and go through the application process again. Generally, opportunities to join the coveted club occurred only at the demise of a member, for very few of the women ever moved away. Edna and Dee had each been asked to give a presentation at next month’s meeting. Nothing was stated specifically, but the women knew the quality of her talk would determine the winner.

Edna and Dee had both participated in a group discussion about rare herbs, several of which, Edna mentioned, grew in her yard. The talk had begun with the mention of rue and how effective it was in relieving arthritis pain. She recalled it was Dee who mentioned the versatile herb had also been used in the old days to scrub floors and, as it was, deterred plague-carrying fleas and ticks from entering one’s house. Delighted at this new piece of knowledge, Edna had exclaimed that they must get together sometime and share herb lore.

After the meeting, on the ride home, Edna had asked her friend and sponsor, “Tuck, why would such a young woman want to join a club in which the average age must be sixty-something?”

Helen Tucker had laughed. “Edna, dear, how old would you guess Mrs. Tolkheim to be?”

“Thirtyish.”

“Try fiftyish … mid fiftyish, to be more precise.”

“You’re joking.”

“No, I’m not.” Tuck’s voice lowered to her gossip tone. “She was married to Joel Tolkheim—senior, not junior. He was seventy-five, you know. Died this past spring. Heart attack. No wonder, marrying someone his son’s age.” She’d tut-tutted, shaking her head.

“Is that the Tolkheim estate over in Watch Hill?” Edna and Albert had gone to a dinner party in the area last month. On the drive home, they had passed the huge white house built at the edge of the sea. A shiver had prickled Edna’s spine at the sight of the widow’s walk standing out against the night sky in the light of a full moon.

“The family’s summer cottage.” Tuck snorted a laugh. “It’s always tickled me that a house that size is referred to as a cottage. Junior’s contesting the will, of course.”

Edna was used to Tuck switching tracks without warning. “Why ‘of course’?”

“Well, wouldn’t you? I mean, look … Joel left the summer house to Dee, including all of its contents. Even though Junior got the New York apartment and the house on Long Island and the family business in the city, he doesn’t want his stepmother to inherit the summer place. She was married to his father less than a year, you know, and that house is loaded with family heirlooms and valuable paintings and … well, who knows what all.”

“Edna?” Tom’s voice cut into her thoughts.

“Sorry. I must have been off gathering wool. What was it you were saying?”

“I was telling Ms. Tolkheim here about your tea. I think what you gave me today was the best yet.”

Edna smiled at the compliment, but before she could speak she saw Dee place a hand on Tom’s forearm. “I believe Edna said that you’re a handyman.” She raised her eyebrows and flashed her dimples. “Are you?”

“What’s that, ma’am?” He smiled back.

“Handy?” Her laugh was low, rumbling.

He glanced at Edna, and she saw the blush creep up the back of his neck and color his cheeks. He seemed to have met his match in the flirting department. If he figured he could best Mrs. Dee Tolkheim, he’d better think again.

Returning his gaze, but saying nothing, Edna waited to see how Tom would handle himself. She was impressed when he turned to Dee and said coolly, “Do you have work around your place that needs doing?”

“Of course,” Dee said, her laughter in check, but her dimples deepening. “Are you available anytime soon? There are a number of things I need fixed before the winter weather arrives.”

“It’s really my cousin you’ll need to talk to, but I keep an appointment book in the glove compartment. I can check to see what I have open.”

As he started to turn toward his pickup, Edna said, “Wait a minute, please.” Then, turning to Dee, she said. “Tom’s right. You should contact Norm Wilkins at Honeydew Home Repairs.”