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“Just give me a sec.”
I went behind the counter and pulled out my big business checkbook from the drawer where I stashed it. Since I hardly ever needed to write checks these days, this would only be the third one I’d actually used.
“Do you have a business name, or should I make this out to Joyce Lewis?” I asked, pen poised over the check.
“Joyce Lewis is fine,” she replied. “I haven’t done a DBA yet or anything like that.”
I offered her an encouraging smile, then filled out the check, tore it off, and handed it over to her. “There you go,” I said. “Come by any time with the candles — well, except Sunday, since I’m closed.”
“I can bring them by on Friday,” she offered. “I honestly didn’t think you were going to order this many, so I need a little time to make some more.”
“Take as much time as you need,” I said. It was on the tip of my tongue to tell her she needed to be a little more confident in her product, but I decided that wasn’t a very good idea. She was just starting out, after all, and finding her way. The more she got her candles out in the world, the more she’d realize how good they really were.
She offered me a hesitant smile. “Thank you.” A pause, as if she was wrestling with something in her mind, and then she added, “I’m sorry Henry is so hard on you. I’ve tried to speak with him about it, but — ”
“That’s fine,” I cut in, heartened to hear I had such an unexpected ally — but also realizing that I really didn’t want to cause any trouble between Joyce Lewis and her husband. “I understand why he doesn’t want me butting in. It’s just that sometimes, I can’t really avoid it.”
“I know,” she said. “At least, it seems obvious enough to me. But Henry really doesn’t like the idea of an outsider getting in the middle of Globe business like that.”
A sigh escaped my lips before I could hold it back. I suppose I shouldn’t have been too surprised to hear that Henry Lewis — and probably a lot of other people — still looked on me as an outsider. How long would it take before they saw me as one of them? Five years? Ten?
Maybe never.
Something of my feelings must have been reflected in my face, because Joyce said hastily, “Not everyone thinks that way, Selena. A lot of people know how much good you’ve done for this town.”
“It’s fine,” I said. “I know I’m a newcomer here. But I really have come to love this place.”
“I can tell.” She hesitated, and once again I got the distinct impression she was arguing internally with herself whether to say anything else.
When she spoke again, her words startled me.
“They got the analysis back on the spilled wine late yesterday afternoon.”
“They did?” I asked, not sure whether I was more shocked that she would tell me such a thing, or that Henry discussed police business with his wife. Then again, they’d been married a very long time. He probably had no reason to believe those conversations would go any farther than their dinner table.
Joyce nodded. “And Henry will probably kill me if he ever finds out I’ve been telling you this, but Josie said you were trying to help her, and I know you’re good at this sort of thing.”
Maybe I should have told Joyce to stop there, that I didn’t want her to get in trouble for telling me things that should have been kept within the covers of a police file…but I really couldn’t stop myself.
“So…what was in the wine?” I asked.
“A whole lot of things that didn’t make much sense, according to Henry.” Joyce’s voice lowered, as though she was afraid of being overheard even though we were the only two people in the shop at the moment. “Cinnamon, and orange oil, and…was it geranium?” She paused there, frowning a bit.
I found myself frowning as well. Brewing potions had never been a major part of my practice, but I’d done enough reading on the subject that I thought I recognized the components of a love spell in the ingredients Joyce had just listed.
“None of those things are toxic,” I pointed out, and she nodded.
“That’s what Henry said.” She paused, then went on, “No, what really killed him was the digitalis.”
11
Meet the Standingbears
I blinked at Joyce. “‘Digitalis’?”I repeated.
“Yes,” she said. “Henry said it comes from foxglove or something?”
“Yes, foxglove,” I said. My mind was working furiously. Although I hadn’t acquainted myself with all the flora that surrounded my adopted hometown, I was pretty sure foxglove wasn’t native to Arizona. That didn’t mean much, however; the gardens around town were full of flowers that hadn’t originated here but which thrived in the warm, sunny climate.
