Death by Deep Dish Pie (21 page)

And I had wheels, at least temporarily. All I'd had to do to get them was to barter two months of free, unlimited use of my laundromat with Sally.

I was just to the edge of town, when I saw the Mason County Bookmobile, in the parking lot of Rothchild's Funeral Parlor. I pulled in alongside the bookmobile, then got out of Sally's truck, and went up the steps into the bookmobile.

Winnie was holding forth with a gaggle of little ones about Larry, Harry, and Barry's age. Their mamas—two women I knew and the other I recognized from around town—were fanning themselves with
Elles
and
National Geographics,
while perusing the mystery and romance shelves.

It was hot and stuffy on the bookmobile. The generator was doing its best to pump out air conditioning, but the bookmobile was old and it was a hot, sticky day. This did not seem to bother Winnie or the kids at all.

In her blue Keds, gypsy-sixties hot-pink and orange-flowered skirt, white T-shirt, long black-and-silver-flecked ponytail tied up in a hot-pink scarf, and her huge silver loop earrings, Winnie sat cross-legged on the floor. She looked both elegant and beautiful, her face glowing with joy in her enthusiastic reading of the hilarious picture book
Sheep in a Jeep,
which starts off, “Beep! Beep! Sheep in a jeep on a hill that's steep,” and ends up, “Jeep in a heap. Sheep weep. Sheep sweep the heap. Jeep for sale—cheap.”

I could sure sympathize with those sheep. But no one would buy my heap, and I couldn't afford another one, so sweeping up the one I had and making it go beep! beep! again was my only choice, a fact that depressed me, except. . .

Winnie's reading worked its magic on me, and I had to grin. Winnie loved that book—and the whole Sheep series—not just the funny images, but the funny and joyful rhymes that made the words sing and dance right off the page and into the readers' imaginations. Plus, this was so Winnie. No scheduled story hour? So what? Where there's a book and a few kids and a Winnie, there's an impromptu story hour.

The kids clapped and squealed with delight at the story, and at the end, Winnie pointed them toward the other books in the series—plus the
Curious Georges
and
Madelines.
Ten minutes later, three mamas and seven kids left, arms full of books, eyes full of eager anticipation of a lazy afternoon spent reading under a tree or on a shady porch, with a big glass of iced tea or lemonade . . . or maybe with a Big Fizz Diet Cola . . .

“Josie?”

I started, then focused on Winnie. No such lazy summer afternoon for me, as much as I wanted that.

“Just couldn't wait for my report on ginseng?” Winnie asked, looking amused.

“Truth be told, I have something else I need you to dig into as soon as possible,” I said.

“So we're still meeting for breakfast?”

I rolled my eyes. “We'd meet for breakfast, anyway, even if I didn't need you to do research for me.”

Winnie grinned at that, then trotted to the back of the bookmobile to the little desk that was bolted to the floor. On the side of the desk was a magazine rack. From behind a
Cosmo,
Winnie pulled out a manila folder.

She waggled her eyebrows at me. “Everything you ever wanted to know about ginseng but were afraid to ask.”

I laughed at that. We sat down on the steps to the bookmobile, sort of half in the tepid air conditioning, half in the shade of the bus's entryway, with a little breeze working its way across the funeral home parking lot. Not exactly a tree and lemonade, but then, this wasn't exactly pleasure reading.

“I was amazed at how much there is to learn about ginseng,” Winnie said. “So this is kind of an overview. Your Uncle Otis was right. Even Daniel Boone harvested American ginseng from this general region. Ginseng of all kinds has long been prized for its health properties. But it's a fragile plant. For American ginseng, harvesters are supposed to wait seven years before gathering it, and only in season. It's actually an internationally protected plant under the CITES treaty, which stands for Convention in Threatened and Endangered Species, the same treaty that protects things like ivory.

“Wild American ginseng is usually exported to Hong Kong, and then goes on from there to other Asian countries. And one pound of dried root from the wild gets $500—maybe as much as $1,800 a pound, depending on supply and demand. That's about ten times what a pound of field-cultivated American ginseng would get.”

My mouth fell open at that tidbit of information. No wonder Uncle Otis thought he was onto a get-rich-quick scheme—if he'd really found a growth of wild American ginseng in the nearby state forest.

‘And it grows around here?”

Winnie nodded. “It grows in forests in the eastern U.S., with the bigger growth being in southeastern Ohio on down through North Carolina, in the Appalachian mountain range. The largest protected area is the Great Smoky Mountains, where it's been illegal to collect ginseng since the national park was established in 1934, although it can be collected—following certain rules, of course—from the surrounding national forests. But, yes, it grows up here in southern and southeastern Ohio as well.”

“I'm a little confused,” I said. “You and Uncle Otis talk about American ginseng, but I thought ginseng is one of those Asian herbs.”

Winnie smiled, happy in her teacher's mode. “It is. You see, there are two kinds of ginseng. Here in our country what we think of as ginseng is Asian ginseng. But what actually grows here is American ginseng, which is very highly prized in Asian countries because it only grows here. There's actually a black market for American ginseng.”

“Dating back to Daniel Boone's time,” I said.

“Right.”

“Okay—Asian, American, what's the difference?”

“That's what's fascinating. There's some overlap in the effects of the two types, but there are also some significant differences. Both types are considered ‘cure-all' tonics—supporting circulation and normal blood pressure, increasing stamina and sexual potency. Ginseng has been prized in Asia for over two thousand years, but now American ginseng is more valued in Asia, whereas Asian ginseng is more valued in the West. I guess it's a case of the ginseng always being greener, so to speak, on the other side of the ocean.

“But American ginseng has ‘cooling' properties, which means it has a more calming effect on the system. It's often used for stress. Potentially, it can lower blood pressure. And Asian ginseng has ‘warming' properties, which means it's more of a stimulant and boosts energy. And it's been known to raise blood pressure. It's not recommended that folks with blood pressure or heart problems take either kind.”

“Wait a minute—let me get this straight. One can lower blood pressure, but the other can raise blood pressure.”

“Mmm-hmm. Now, from what I read, it can vary from person to person—in one person, either type might not have much of an effect on a blood pressure reading. But for another person, it could truly make a difference. That's why it's important to be careful about what you're doing with herbs. They really are medicines. You should consult an herbalist if you're going to have more than the occasional cup of, say, chamomile tea, if you want to take herbs in any large quantities at all—”

“Winnie, you sound like an advertisement.”

“Sorry, but it's true.”

I waved my fingers at her. “That's okay. Let me just think for a moment.”

Winnie, bless her soul, became very quiet as I sat there, trying to mix this new information in with everything else I'd learned.

A station wagon pulled up—this time a dad and two daughters, and I skedaddled off the steps out of their way. Winnie went into the bookmobile with them.

I paced up and down the blacktop in front of the bus, watching the heat shimmer off the parking lot, trying to think some more.

Alan had seriously high blood pressure. Alan was on medication for that—and for heart problems, and for cholesterol problems. Alan was a walking heart attack waiting to happen—and it had happened. Would it have happened anyway? Was there simply enough ginseng in that one bite of lemon ginseng pie to push him over the heart attack edge—assuming the pie held Asian ginseng, and not American ginseng? But Uncle Otis had been poaching American ginseng for someone . . . maybe for the Breitenstraters . . . and Mrs. Beavy said Cletus had brought her ginseng tea . . .

I turned and bounded up the steps. Winnie was showing the older girl the Nancy Drew books—both original and new series—while the dad was looking at picture books with the younger daughter. I caught Winnie's eye and frantically gestured her away from the wonders of
The Secret of the Old Clock.

Winnie came over to me. “Can I use your cell phone?” I whispered. The dad gave me a look. Winnie smiled at him.

“Sure,” she said, giving me a little shove toward the steps.

“I'll be back in a minute,” Winnie said to the dad and the daughters.

“What now?” she said to me after we were back outside.

“Your research has been very helpful, Winnie,” I said. “I need to follow up on something it reminded me of—that's why I needed to borrow your phone. Now, can you also see what you can find out about Good For You Foods International?” I told her about how I'd found out that it was the company Todd Raptor worked for. “Todd's been working on a deal for his company to buy the Breitenstrater Pie Company.”

“What? Oh my. Yes, I'll see what I can find out. I'll let you know tomorrow at breakfast. Just leave the cell phone in the driver's seat when you're done with it.”

“Thanks, Winnie. And just one more favor?”

She arched her left eyebrow at me.

I told her briefly about Harry, Larry, and Barry, and how they had just learned of the joys of crayons, and how I doubted my cousin Sally had had much energy to get them to the library or to Winnie's bookmobile.

“I haven't seen them,” Winnie said. And she'd have remembered them, too. She remembered everyone on her route. She glanced at her watch. “Hmm. I think I can squeeze in a quick stop by your laundromat. I'll park in Sandy's Restaurant lot if yours is full.”

I grinned as she started up the steps back into her bookmobile. I had no doubt that by tonight, my little trio of first cousins once removed would be well stocked with picture books, and that by tomorrow morning, Winnie would have for me a full report on Good For You Foods International.

She paused before entering her bookmobile. “Just one word of advice,” she said, staring at me over the top of her glasses. “Use my cell to also give Owen a call.”

I didn't respond to that. I waited until she was inside, called information, got Mrs. Beavy's number, and started pacing up and down the parking lot again.

On the fourth ring, Chip Beavy answered. I told him who was calling and that I was worried about his grandma, and he said, “Me, too. Mamaw's not feeling well—she says her heart is racing. I'm not sure what to do.”

“Chip, I think I know why, but first I need you to check something to be sure. Go to the kitchen, and look in her cabinet for me.” I described to him the cabinet she'd gotten the tea bags from and the ginseng tea bag box. “Now look on the box. Does it say if the tea is Asian or American ginseng?”

There was a silence as Chip looked, and I mentally blessed him for not questioning me, just doing as I'd asked. “It's Asian ginseng,” Chip said.

I pressed my eyes shut. Damn Cletus and his half-researched approach to things. “Listen, she's been drinking a lot of that, I know. And that could be raising her blood pressure, which could be why she's having heart problems. Get her to the doctor now. Get her blood pressure taken. And take the tea and her blood pressure medicine with her and tell the doctor she's been drinking this tea.”

Chip promised he would. I pressed the button to end the call, then stared at Winnie's cell phone in the palm of my hand. Call Owen? Maybe she was right. It was tempting. But all she knew was that we'd been testy with each other while Slinky was keeling over—not what all he'd confessed to me at Suzy Fu's Chinese Buffet. I wasn't ready yet to talk to him. I wasn't sure when—or if—I ever would be.

I went up the steps and left the cell phone in the driver's seat. Then I got in Sally's truck—which started nicely—and headed out to the woods where Trudy and her buddies had started their “utopia”—another result of Cletus's half-researched interests.

14

By the time I got to the state forest and was getting out of Sally's truck, I could smell the rain in the air. By the time I was walking through the woods—mentally cursing myself that I hadn't thought to switch to tennis shoes from flip-flops while I was back at my apartment—it was drizzling, the sweetly scented rain turning the late June mugginess to something more like a musky, wet warmth, an enjoyable scent and feeling for about three minutes. Then, suddenly, the skies opened up and the rain came down with a fury. By the time I got to the little clearing where Trudy and her buddies held camp, I was soaked.

The tents were gone from the clearing. I wondered if the kids had been caught at their Utopian games and sent home or to juvenile hall or wherever the park rangers would send them if they were found out. Then I blinked hard in the rain and saw one lone tent, on the far end of the illegal campsite. I started toward it, not with any notion that I'd go in and get dry (even
I
am not that much of an optimist) but thinking maybe I'd get a clue about why the kids left.

Even better, I hoped I'd find something in the tent that would give me a clue as to Trudy's intentions . . . like where she was planning to hitchhike.

All right, I really
am
an optimist. Even when soaking wet.

I opened up the flaps. And there he was—Charlemagne. By himself. Blissfully asleep.