Never Enough Thyme: Sage Wisdom Mysteries, #1

CHAPTER ONE

I WAS LATE. I HATED being late. It was rude and indicated that I thought my time was more important than anyone else’s time, which wasn’t true. I always tried my hardest to be early for every appointment so as not to be inconvenient, but my flame-point Ragdoll cat, Beryl, had other ideas. He’d left a dead bird in my shoe—a very thoughtful present on his part, I know—but a terrible thing to encounter just as I was running out the door.

Everything that could have gone wrong that sunny Saturday morning had gone wrong. First, my alarm didn’t go off and I overslept by thirty-six minutes. That meant I had to rush through my morning farm chores. I crushed two of the eggs I collected from my chickens, spilled a bucket of goat’s milk on the way to the dairy shed and mixed up catmint with oregano in the tea blend I made that morning. Then I discovered that there was something wrong with my water heater and was forced to take a very unpleasant cold shower before getting dressed when I noticed at the last moment that the shirt I had planned to wear that day had a huge mustard stain on the front of it. Laundry hadn’t been done in a week or more, so I was forced to wear a plain red t-shirt instead, one that wasn’t as flattering as the first. And then I found the dead bird in my shoe.

After shuddering in disgust, I tossed the poor creature into the outside trash can and raced to my car, fighting off tears as I prayed the engine in my forty-five-year-old Karmann Ghia turned over on the first try. It did. Thank Heavens. I jammed the car into first gear and tore off down the mountain, taking deep, calming breaths as I drove. I forced myself to look out the window and take in the beauty of the scenery.

Early summer in the mountains of Colorado is the closest thing to Heaven on Earth. The sun’s warmth caresses the land, awakening a bounty of fruits, vegetables, and gorgeous flowers. Serene, fluffy clouds float benignly in a pristine blue sky. And Saxon Lake, the tiny village where I lived, throws a huge week-long celebration of the Summer Solstice.

SummerFest had been started thirty-five years ago by the village’s local philanthropist, Jakob Jørgensen because he missed the yearly summer celebrations in his native Trondheim, Norway. The kick-off event was a bazaar, bake sale, and a fishing derby, the proceeds of which went to the Saxon Lake Food Pantry. The entire town turned out for it, and quite a few tourists came in from Denver, Aspen, and even Colorado Springs and Pueblo.

Fifteen minutes after leaving my house, I parked in the overflowing lot at Saxon Lake Park, on the shores of the village’s eponymous lake. The park had been transformed almost overnight into a wonderland celebrating all things summer. The deep emerald green lawn was lush, and not a single brown spot could be seen. Braids of grapevines, into which ivy, wild roses, and Queen Anne’s lace had been woven, draped over the gazebo that stood in the center of the park. A small brass quintet had set up there and was playing lively tunes, sometimes accompanied by a barbershop quartet. The flagstone walkways that wound through the park were lined with booths sponsored by local businesses and citizens alike. On offer were baked goods, cool beverages, and handmade gifts, like jewelry, wooden sculptures, crocheted and knitted scarves and shawls, and small watercolor paintings. A horse-drawn hay wagon took riders on a circuit around the lake, and a small petting zoo with miniature ponies, chickens, ducks, and rabbits had set up downwind of most of the booths. In a large tent located across the lawn from the gazebo, our local pub, the Raven and Fox, had set up a simple catered luncheon for all festival goers, and they even had samples of their wild strawberry mead on offer.

As I walked towards the pub’s tent, I saw a dozen hearty souls on the lake’s shores, sitting in lawn chairs or camp stools, their lines dangling in the water below. The angler who brought in the largest fish would win $500. The money had been donated by Mr. Jørgensen, who was also the owner of the town’s weekly newspaper, the Saxon Lake Chronicle.

Mr. Jørgensen had been the editor of the Chronicle for thirty years, only retiring after winning $900 million dollars in a Powerball drawing. After he cashed his first check, he bought the paper and the building it was housed in, retired from the editorship, and went on a year-long trip around the world. The building also happened to be the home of my shop, Sage Wisdom, an herbal boutique where I sold health and beauty products made from herbs and goat milk I grew on my three-acre small farm. The Jørgensen Building also held my mother’s bookstore, Taylor & Sons Booksellers.

Since his return from his around the world trip, Jakob had put most of his money into the town he’d fallen in love with during a skiing trip in the 1960s. He had been funding most of Saxon Lake’s charities and had even created a few scholarships to Colorado’s best universities. He had also announced his intentions to become mayor earlier in the spring. The town was covered with posters, banners, and signs sporting his smiling face and the words Jørgensen for Saxon Lake. There was even a billboard on the side of his building.

My best friend, Jennifer Baxter, stood at the tent’s entrance, waving at me. I gave her a contrite smile and received her hug with gratefulness. It’s about time, Bryony Taylor, Jen said with a stern look. Let me guess. Beryl?

I laughed. I overslept, crushed some eggs, spilled some of Daffodil’s milk, the water heater’s on the fritz, the shirt I was planning to wear had a stain on it, and Beryl left a dead bird in my shoe.

Oh, honey, Jen said and gave me a hug. What an awful morning! she said as she hooked her arm through mine.

Well, I’m here now and only—I glanced at my watch—forty-seven minutes late. Where’s Kim?

Jennifer’s daughter Kim, a cute thirteen-year-old with her mother’s long, blue-black hair and thick eyeglasses, popped out from inside the tent and smiled at me. Mom, can we go now? I’m supposed to meet up with my friends for lunch.

Yeah, kid, Jen said. Let’s go. She reached out and lovingly tucked a strand of dark hair behind Kim’s ear, and we set off, making our way through the booths and laden tables. Kim followed behind us, texting with her friends and occasionally oohing and aahing over jewelry that caught her eye.

The boys are out on the lake? I asked as we stopped to look over a table with silver jewelry.

Yep. Mark entered Stephen in the fishing derby. He plans to bag Melville this year. Or so he says. The biggest fish the lake contained was a twenty-pound monster rainbow trout some clever wit had named Melville. Many anglers had claimed to have had Melville on their hooks at one point, but so far no one had pulled him from the water. If he even existed. I had my doubts.

Jennifer and I had been friends for almost forty years, ever since the first day of kindergarten at Griffith Elementary School. We had been inseparable since, helping each other through life’s ups and downs: marriages, divorces, deaths, weight gains, and bad haircuts. Mark, Jen’s husband, often complained that I saw more of his own wife than he did.

When are you going to enter one of these contests? I asked Jennifer. Your cakes are just as good as, if not better than, Adele Vincent’s.

You know I can’t decorate them, Jennifer said with a shake of her head. Sure, mine might taste better than Adele’s, but she can make ‘em pretty. That’s why she always wins.

Well, that’s not fair.

That’s the way the cookie crumbles.

I giggled and elbowed Jennifer in the ribs. I thought we were talking about cake.

Jennifer smirked, an expression that said she was proud of her little play on words. Maybe Adele will offer some classes soon, Jennifer continued. Share her knowledge a little bit?

I doubt it. Adele isn’t about to do anything to jeopardize her standing as top cake baker. She wins every time she enters.

Yeah, you’re probably right. Still, a girl can dream, right?

Absolutely, and there’s always YouTube videos.

Stop talking about YouTube, Bryony. Just because you perfected winged eyeliner using a video doesn’t mean everyone else can.

I grinned and fluttered my eyelashes. Since divorcing Bill Allen, my lying, cheating ex-husband, two years ago, I had made it my mission to better myself. I’d taken up yoga and meditation, joined a hiking club, and devoured tutorial videos on all sorts of topics, ranging from how to draw the perfect winged eyeliner to how to dress for my body type and coloring. And although I was still single, I felt better about myself than I had since college. I was certainly in better shape.

Mom! Kim said, startling Jennifer and I. I got the feeling that she’d been trying to get our attention for some time. The girl had been so quiet that I’d nearly forgotten she was with us. I saw a flash of guilt cross Jennifer’s face and gave her a one-armed hug. Jennifer smiled and turned to face her daughter.

What is it, Kimmy?

They’re starting the judging over in the tent. We should go so we can get a good seat.

Oh, good point. Jennifer tucked her arm through both Kim’s and mine and steered us towards the pub’s tent. Wouldn’t it be nice if Adele didn’t win this year? she asked.

That’s not going to happen, Kim said. She always wins. The girl’s face took on a thoughtful cast. Do you think she and Mr. Jørgensen are sleeping together?

Jennifer’s jaw dropped, and she rounded on Kim. Kimberly Baxter! What a thing to say! You’re not watching Lifetime anymore.

I had to bite my lower lip to keep from laughing. Jennifer had apparently forgotten that she and I had been the same way at thirteen. They’re not, I said to Kim, ignoring the thunderous look on Jennifer’s face. Jakob is seeing a nice widow from Idaho Springs.

How do you know? Kim asked as we continued making our way across the lawn.

Adele told me.

Of course she did, Jennifer said. I think Adele knows everything about everyone in this town, and probably everything about everyone from Idaho Springs, Silverthorne, and Breckenridge, too.

Probably, I said with a laugh.

We reached the tent and looked around for a table. Mark, a burly ex-Marine who now served as the village’s mailman, waved us over to a table in the center of the tent. Jennifer headed in that direction with Kim hot on her heels. I lingered for a moment by the log display table at the front of the tent, eager to look over the contest entries.

The table was covered with the top three entries in the categories of best cake, best trifle, and best scones. The winner of the best cake would receive $500, while the best trifle would take home $200, and the best scones would win $100. The cakes were beautiful. Adele’s was a summer scene with green aspen trees, tiny people, and even tinier birds and a pair of deer all sculpted out of different colors of fondant and marzipan. The other two were simpler designs, but no less pretty; one was white and covered with gorgeous wild strawberries made from fondant and swirling red chiffon ribbons, and the other was decorated with sugared fruits and real flowers. Adele’s still gonna win, though, I said to myself before turning away and going to join the Baxters at their table.

How’s Stephen doing? I asked Mark once I sat down.

"He’s exhausted. We’ve been out there since before dawn this morning. He’s determined