Free Thyme of Death by Susan Wittig Albert Page A

tightness, her ability to sacrifice everything to a cause she cared
for—all the individual characteristics that made Jo a person were
submerged in the grand scheme of the mayor’s recollections, in which Jo, motivated
by civic pride and a burning desire to enrich the lives of her fellow citizens,
starred as the Prime Mover of Pecan Springs’ cultural and environmental
renaissance. This praise of Jo’s achievements must have proved a bit trying for
the mayor. She had to skirt the dangerous territory of Jo’s opposition to the
airport to avoid offending Arnold Seidensticker, the banker, and the
developers, and the half of the City Council that favored the airport. At the
same time, she had to recognize Jo’s commitment to the Anti-Airport Coalition
in a way that would placate the greens, the women, and the Coalition. I was
glad I wasn’t in Pauline Perkins’ shoes.
    I glanced at Meredith and wondered
whether the mayor’s epic catalog of Jo’s publicly virtuous life or my own
fragmented impressions of a friend tallied at all with the grieving daughter’s
recollection of her mother. What Meredith knew of her, I added to myself,
remembering what she had said about Jo’s deliberate efforts to separate herself
from her daughter. But what do we ever know about another person? We know only
surfaces, facets, impressions—depths elude us. Ruby, beside me, in many ways an
enigma, once an everyday housewife, now a believer in such things as the tarot
and the I Ching and reincarnation. Roz, across the aisle, another
mystery—shallow, silly, famous, and rich Roz, who had somehow been Jo’s friend.
Do we ever truly know another person, or are we eternally deceived by
appearances, posturing, role-playing? For that matter, do we ever know
ourselves?
    I was still drifting around in these
muddy metaphysical waters when Mayor Perkins, clearly glad to have her task
safely over, concluded with the triumphant announcement that from this day
henceforth the rose garden would be known as the Josephine Gilbert Memorial
Rose Garden, a designation that probably wouldn’t offend anybody. A women’s
quartet furnished by the Pecan Springs Choral Club sang all the verses
of “Amazing Grace,” Reverend Lewis blessed us, and the memorial service ended.
    Arnold Seidensticker was the first
to shake Meredith’s hand, murmur regrets, and leave, followed by his nervous,
salmon-tinted wife. The rest of the mourners milled around, admiring the roses
and discussing Jo’s death in whispers. I gave my condolences to Lucille, a
short, tearful woman as huggable as a marsh-mallow. Meredith was thin-faced and
hollow-eyed but controlled. She seemed to be bearing up well enough as Mayor
Perkins introduced her and Lucille to one after another of Jo’s dearest friends
and enemies.
    While I was waiting for Meredith to
finish meeting the town’s dignitaries. I watched Roz, who was getting as much
attention as Meredith. That wasn’t especially surprising, since a great many
people obviously recognized her and wanted to get StrawBerry Bear’s autograph
for their children. She signed with a flourish.
    After a few minutes I saw Constance
Letterman, the Craft Emporium owner, bumping her way through the crowd of
autograph seekers. Constance is small and round and perky, with a small pink
nose and pink cheeks, and she wears her brown hair permed in tight fingertip
curls.
    Constance seemed even shorter and
rounder than usual today. She was wearing a brownish-orange tent dress that
made her look like a ripe pumpkin, an effect that was heightened by the trailing leaf-green
scarf around her short neck. In addition to owning the Emporium, Constance
also writes the society column for me Enterprise, an honor conferred on
her, no doubt, because she is Arnold Seidensticker’s first cousin. Today, I
guessed, she was doing research for her column.
    Constance came up to Roz and pumped her hand eagerly. She reached
into her capacious canvas bag and pulled out a steno pad and