Holly Blues

Table of Contents

 

 

 

THYME OF DEATH
WITCHES’ BANE
HANGMAN’S ROOT
ROSEMARY REMEMBERED
RUEFUL DEATH
LOVE LIES BLEEDING
CHILE DEATH
LAVENDER LIES
MISTLETOE MAN
BLOODROOT
INDIGO DYING
A DILLY OF A DEATH
DEAD MAN’S BONES
BLEEDING HEARTS
SPANISH DAGGER
NIGHTSHADE
WORMWOOD
HOLLY BLUES

AN UNTHYMELY DEATH CHINA BAYLES’ BOOK OF DAYS

 

 

DEATH AT BISHOP’S KEEP
DEATH AT GALLOWS GREEN
DEATH AT DAISY’S FOLLY
DEATH AT DEVIL’S BRIDGE
DEATH AT ROTTINGDEAN
DEATH AT WHITECHAPEL
DEATH AT EPSOM DOWNS
DEATH AT DARTMOOR
DEATH AT GLAMIS CASTLE
DEATH IN HYDE PARK
DEATH AT BLENHEIM PALACE
DEATH ON THE LIZARD

 

 

 

THE TALE OF HILL TOP FARM
THE TALE OF HOLLY HOW
THE TALE OF CUCKOO BROW WOOD
THE TALE OF HAWTHORN HOUSE
THE TALE OF BRIAR BANK
THE TALE OF APPLEBECK ORCHARD
THE TALE OF OAT CAKE CRAG

 

 

 

WRITING FROM LIFE
WORK OF HER OWN

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This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.

 

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

 

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Albert, Susan Wittig.

p. cm.

eISBN : 978-1-101-18669-5

1. Bayles, China (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Women detectives—Fiction. 3. Herbalists—Fiction. 4. Texas—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3551.L2637H65 2010

813’.54—dc22

2009050296

 

 

Like many other novelists, I enjoy working with settings. I go to great lengths to create a fictional world that seems as real to you as the streets, shops, and backyards of your own community—and I’m always pleased to learn that readers have set out across Texas in search of the locations that appear in this series. That’s a compliment. Thank you.

But for those of you who don’t already know this, I have to confess that Pecan Springs is not a real town. It is modeled after the little city of San Marcos, not as it is now, but as it was in the early 1970s, before it was irrevocably changed by commercial and residential growth and the morphing of Southwest Texas State (where I was once a professor/ administrator) into Texas State University. The town of Lake City and the Little Blue River are also fictional, although the description of Lyndon Johnson’s support of efforts to dam the Little Blue are typical of the fifties push to build dams on flood-prone Texas creeks and rivers—like the dam on the San Gabriel River that forms Lake Georgetown. For those of you who are familiar with the area, Lake City is located in the neighborhood of the village of Salado, on Salado Creek. In fact, it might even look quite a bit like Salado, which boasts more shops per capita (sixty shops for nine hundred residents, at latest count) than almost any other village in Texas. Sanders, Kansas, isn’t real, either. But if you have a map handy, you might place it west of Troy, on Route 36.

These towns and villages are fictional, and so are their residents. But the plants that appear in this series are the real thing. China Bayles and I hope that you will seek appropriate, informed advice before you use any medicinal herbs. Plants are “natural,” yes, but they can have potent effects, especially when used with other medicinal herbs and/or with over-the-counter and prescription drugs, and these combinations are often not fully understood. Do your own careful homework and use all medicines with attention. China and I would not like to lose any of our readers—especially
you
.

Susan Wittig Albert

Bertram, Texas

The Greyhound bus rolled to a stop in front of the Pecan Springs bus depot. Sally clambered out of her seat, slung her leather purse over her shoulder, and climbed down to wait while the driver pulled the bags out of the luggage carrier. The trip had taken longer than scheduled. They’d been stuck in traffic on I-35 just north of Austin—an eighteen-wheeler carrying live chickens had jackknifed across two lanes of traffic, taking out an SUV and a pickup truck. The carnage hadn’t been a pretty sight, and Sally, who was more than a little superstitious, had crossed her fingers, hoping that the spilled blood wasn’t an omen. She already had enough problems. Big ones. Problems she couldn’t see her way out of.

While she was waiting for her bag, she bent over and did a couple of ankle stretches, pulling the kinks out of her back. This was the first time she’d ridden on a bus since she was in college, and how long ago was that? Twenty years? The bus wasn’t what she would have picked if she’d had her druthers, but she didn’t, and that was that. Life had its kinks. She needed to get her act together and find a way out of this mess.

The battered canvas duffle bag—her sister Leslie’s—landed at her feet with a thud, and she straightened, looking around. Pecan Springs hadn’t changed much since she’d been here to visit her son Brian—how long ago was it? A couple of years? She’d lost track. But it was still the same small Texas town with the same cozy courthouse-on-the-square look, although the place was gussied up for Christmas, with green garlands, red and white candy canes, pots of poinsettias, and decorated trees in the shop windows. Like Lake City, where Leslie lived. Small-town Texas Christmas. Okay if you were cool with that sort of thing, which she wasn’t, not so much. She and Juanita preferred city streets, skyscrapers, bright lights, and action. If you had to have Christmas trees, they ought to be silver ones, big, really big, and the ornaments ought to be all the same shape and color. Blue was nice. Blue, with white lights, the kind that blinked, and glittery blue garlands. And instead of “Hark the Herald Angels Sing” caroling out of the loudspeaker, she’d rather hear something upbeat. “Holly Jolly Christmas,” maybe.

Except that Christmas might not be so holly-jolly under the circumstances, as Juanita would no doubt remind her if she were here. She would chuckle in that sour, cynical way she had and say,
What we need is a party, Sally Jean. Come on, girl, let’s go shopping. Let’s get lively!
But Juanita hadn’t been around much recently, and Sally was glad. Juanita made messes—awkward, ugly, dangerous messes—that Sally had to clean up, which was not a very pleasant way to live.

She gave another wary look around. She was pretty sure she’d managed to sneak out of Lake City without being spotted. She hoped so, anyway. That was the idea behind taking the bus and putting her hair into a ponytail and wearing ragged jeans and a purple Central Texas State sweatshirt under Leslie’s scruffy old denim jacket. She caught a glimpse of herself in the bus depot window. Not exactly
Elle
. The sight of her would make Juanita break out in a rash of hysterical giggles. But this wasn’t your usual holiday getaway, and Sally wasn’t out to impress anybody with the way she looked. This was serious business. She had to be careful. She shuddered. Very.

She picked up her duffle bag. Maybe Pecan Springs hadn’t changed in the last few years, but she had. The last time she’d been here to see Brian, she’d thought she was set for life. She’d still had some of that nice pot of money she had gotten (finally!) from her parents’ insurance, a great condo in San Antonio, a top-dollar job as a sales rep with a multinational, a fab fiancé—although, as Juanita pointed out, Artie may have been fab to look at, but down deep, he was a total jerk. He had cleaned out her bank account and left her on her own, to start over again