An Unthymely Death by Susan Wittig Albert

just bought. But I located a contractor who seems to know what he’s doing. The big stuff should be finished in another week or so, and I can do the rest as I go along.”
    “I don’t think it’s the actual work that bothers Constance,” Ruby said. “The problem is that she’s not very well organized.”
    “And she goes around looking for things that are wrong,” I added. “If Constance doesn’t have a disaster every day, she thinks she’s not living right. The trouble is, you can’t always tell whether the sky is really falling, or it’s just another bad-hair day.”
    Ivy glanced at me. “You say that one of the Emporium’s tenants is moving out?”
    I nodded. “I got the feeling that Olive’s departure was sort of the final straw. Now Constance has to find somebody else to move into the dining room, and all of a sudden it feels like the San Francisco earthquake.” I sighed. “But it’ll be a disaster for the entire street, if Terry Trout brings a gas station into the neighborhood.”
    Ivy looked thoughtful. “Maybe I should drop in and take a look at that dining room.”
    “Why?” Ruby asked curiously.
    In answer, Ivy picked up her portfolio, placed it on the counter, and opened it.
    “Oh, wow!” Ruby gasped. “Ivy, these are beautiful! ”
    I pulled in my breath. Before us lay a dozen different botanical prints, in exquisite shades of greens and pastels, all on fine ivory paper. “Ivy,” I said, “you didn’t tell us that you’re an artist.” I picked up a print and studied it carefully. “Why, this looks as if it were made from an actual sprig of yarrow!” I picked up another. “And here’s thyme!”
    “And lavender,” Ruby said. “Look, China! It’s lavender, with purple blossoms! Ivy, how gorgeous!”
    “Do you think so?” Ivy asked, looking pleased. “I really enjoy making them. And yes, they’re plant prints, made by inking the plant material and pressing it on paper. It’s a very old art—the earliest example I know of is found in one of Leonardo da Vinci’s books. He made an inked impression of a sage leaf, and within a few years, lots of people were making prints of natural materials, primarily for scientific purposes.”
    “I can see why,” I said, looking closely at the print of a sprig of sage, which clearly showed the delicate veining and the pebbly texture of the leaf. “For a scientist, the actual print of a single leaf would be worth a dozen artists’ drawings. And the plants could be collected in the field and used immediately to make the print—especially important before photography came along.”
    “Exactly,” Ivy said. “I collected some of these plant materials from my garden, but weeds are actually my favorites. And you can use lots of different things, not just plants, to make nature prints.” She picked up an imprint of a large goldfish, perfect down to the fins and scales. “This is Sushi. He jumped out of his goldfish pond, unfortunately. I tried to revive him but it was too late, so I printed him. The Japanese have been doing fish rubbing since the early nineteenth century. They call it gyotaku. ”
    I gawked at Sushi. “Amazing,” I said.
    “These are watercolor prints?” Ruby asked.
    Ivy nodded. “But you can also print with colored inks. When you’re just getting started, ink is simpler. And of course, you can make all kinds of things—notecards, giftwrap, calendars, fabrics. I’ve even used large leaves and fern fronds to print wall borders.”
    “I am definitely impressed,” I said, looking first at one print, then another. “Are any of these for sale?”
    Ivy cleared her throat. “I’ve always made them for my own pleasure. But lately, I’ve been thinking about selling them. Do you think they’re good enough?” She hesitated. “Be honest, now. If you don’t think so, say so. I can take it.”
    “They’re wonderful!” Ruby said enthusiastically. “I’m sure you’ll be able to sell them.” She frowned. “The