Pushing Up Daisies

CHAPTER 22

“Is this what you Americans call breaking and entering?” Neil asked.

“We’re not going to break anything,” I whispered, “and this is more like… trespassing.” Still, unflattering images of people holding cardboard numbers under their chins flashed in my head. (Winona Ryder? Robert Downey, Jr.? Frank Sinatra?)

Neil and I had first checked out the herb cottage, a safe distance from Guido and his men. No such luck. Since Neil knew what the journal looked like, and I didn’t, I thought we’d have a better shot at finding it together in the rambling old house. Otherwise I might spend days and still come up empty. I dialed Richard’s number at SHS to see if it was okay for us to go in the house. Inez answered.

“Richard’s in Hartford for the next few days,” she said. “Some big doings about a painting for the Wadsworth Atheneum.” She started to elaborate, but I cut her ramblings short, telling her I needed to get into the house to look at Dorothy’s garden books. She hesitated.

“Well, I suppose it’ll be all right.” She paused again. “There was one door that never had a lock; it probably still doesn’t.”

“That’s hard to believe. I wonder why.”

“Things were different in the old days,” she said softly. “Safer. Springfield was a small town; everyone knew each other. I’d be very surprised if Dorothy ever bothered to put a lock on that door.” Her voice trailed off, and I had to lead her back.

“Which door was it?”

“To the left of the French doors on the back terrace. Well, let’s see, that would be if you were in the house. To the right, near the statue of the woman holding the basket.” I looked across the terrace and saw a narrow door practically obscured by a climbing hydrangea. If you didn’t know, it would have looked another tall window.

Hugo had scrubbed the moss and dirt from all the statues at Halcyon: the stone dogs, a respectable copy of Diana the huntress, and the little peasant woman I’d barely noticed before. She wore a full skirt and petticoats, and a scarf held back long curly hair. On her shoulder was a basket filled with wheat, and she stood guard outside the door I hoped was still unlocked.

The door handle squeaked from disuse but clicked open. Neil and I bent down under the hydrangea and entered a small mudroom with an old Formica table, a sink, and floor- to- ceiling shelves. The shelves were empty, except for a few mildewed needlepoints. An inner door led to the main house. It, too, was unlocked.

My first impression was of a hodgepodge of stuff. Different styles, different eras, giving it the appearance of an upscale flea market. The Peacock house was furnished in an idiosyncratic style not unlike its garden: mostly New En gland, some Italy, a touch of France.

We tiptoed around, as if there were someone there to disturb. In the main entrance, at the top of the stairs, a stained glass window featured an ornate vase overflowing with pink cabbage roses. To the left were various bedrooms and sitting rooms. To the right was the room we were looking for.

The library had a large bay window, with a window seat overlooking the entire garden. A great wooden table in the middle of the room was covered by a patterned dark green velvet throw, moth- eaten in spots. A dusty floor globe stood in one corner.

More framed needlepoints shared the shelves with Dorothy’s books, which were in no order I could instantly recognize. Most were gardening books ranging from 1840’s Mrs. Loudon’s Gardening for Ladies to Martha Stewart‘s Gardening. They even had a copy of The Temple of Flora, a very rare nineteenth- century book of flower illustrations. I wondered if Richard knew about this small gem.

“‘What shall we do for our sister? Come into my garden, my sister.’ Sounds familiar,” Neil said, reading two of a series of needlepoints.

“Not to me.”

In the same way one’s eyes eventually adjust to low light, my eyes adjusted to the unique arrangement of the books-some by author, some by subject, some by country of origin. After a while, it made sense.

Then I found them: two bays devoted to herbs and herbal remedies. One entire shelf held books with the words Materia Medica in the title. There was a hardcover copy of the ginseng book I’d read about and a personally inscribed first edition of Jethro Kloss’s classic Back to Eden. Alongside King’s American Dispensatory, I saw the Culpeper’s. Unlike my cheap paperback edition, Dorothy’s was a well- thumbed, leather- bound copy printed in 1906, and stuffed with bookmarks and crumbling sprigs.

We searched every inch of the library for Dorothy’s journal, but found nothing.

“I’ve got to get back. I have a client at five,” Neil said, checking his watch.

“I’m leaving, too. And I’m borrowing this,” I said, shoving the Culpeper’s in my pack. “I don’t think Dorothy will mind.”