Deadly Thyme by R.L. Nolen Page A

Getting her up was usually quite a chore, as she liked to stay up long hours reading by flashlight. Annie was unaware that her mother knew, and that her mother used to do the same thing.
    In the corner of the dining room, the computer ’s new-mail icon flashed. Ruth sat up, smelling bacon. Another knock-knock, and she was at the front door.
    Even in the drizzling rain, the local magistrate stood immaculate and stiffly upright. His sloping nose hooked over smiling lips. A poised fedora held his gray hair firmly in place.
    “Excuse me, Mrs. Butler. I heard at the post office your daughter has gotten herself lost. I hope I might have misunderstood. Perhaps I misunderstood.” Mr. Malone ’s umbrella dripped water in a neat circle all around him, turning the gray slate of the porch black. He stepped forward. Bushy gray eyebrows hung over his black-rimmed glasses, eyes hidden in shadow behind thick lenses. Mr. Malone gave talks on the local history to visiting groups of tourists. He volunteered at the library. He let it be known that he knew everybody.
    “Thank you for coming,” Ruth murmured.
    “Of course,” Mr. Malone said. “I’ve heard that your daughter is a polite young lady. Polite.”
    Ruth reached out and touched his sleeve. “Come in.”
    “Oh!” Mr. Malone stepped away from her. “Don’t mean to intrude. The wife instructed me to bring you this soup she made you. Good soup.” He held out a large canning jar. “I like it, anyway. She says it’s an old family recipe. Yes. Mustn’t stay. Mustn’t.”
    “Thank you.”
    “Your Annie will come back to you, I’m sure. Take heart.” Mr. Malone paused a moment, as if he was about to say something else. Then he touched his hand to his hat in a haphazard salute. “The wife and I will be thinking of you. Our prayers ’re with you. With you.” He made a stiff, miniscule bow, turned, and went gingerly down the two steps to his car.
    Ruth called out to him , “Tell Liz thank you.”
    “She ’ll say you’re quite welcome, I’m sure.” He waved and squeezed gracefully into his Bentley. The grand silver car moved smoothly down the one-way road toward High Street, which was the main road in and out of the village.
    Ruth leaned against the closed door. Mr. Malone was not a comfortable man. She took the jar of soup into the kitchen, where Sally was wiping the counter. A plate of congealed fried eggs sat on the tiny table where she and Annie usually sat to eat. The eggs were from the night before when hunger drove her to stuff food into her mouth. Rubber. Salty rubber. A few bites had been enough. She must have forgotten to clean up after herself. How had that happened?
    Sally put her arms around her and pulled her into a motherly hug. “Hungry?” she asked.
    Ruth’s stomach rebelled. “No.”
    Sally, an expert at argument who had a temperament to match her fiery red curls, gave Ruth a look.
    “I wouldn’t mind tea.” The British panacea had become just as much her own. As she turned to leave the kitchen and its heavy smells of food, she heard Sally say softly, “Bless yer heart.”
    Ruth went to the computer. She had an email from someone named Charles. The subject line said : Tell me you love me!
    That was what the man on Annie ’s phone had said. She sat heavily as her knees gave way. It was her fault, hiding as she had all these years. She was missing her parents, and the thought tore into her heart. Her parents—she needed them now.
    Tell me you love me. He had said it on Annie ’s cell phone. How had he gotten her email address so quickly?
    “Sally,” she called out , “could you phone the police?”
    Ruth stared at the computer screen. A tap at the front door made her jump. She got up and swung the door open to find no one there. Looking down, she found a nosegay of wildflowers on the wet doorstep. She glanced up and down the street. A few cars swished by.
    A card tied around the flowers with brown string read “ Fel neidr yn y ddaear.