take a delivery van. From the rear, when Sybil led us into the backyard, it was a glass box with a wraparound deck, a garage big enough to house the Pecan Springs fire department, and a landscaped swimming pool shaped like the state of Texas. The grand tour began in Sybil’s poison garden, which occupied a lovely green corner north of the pool’s Panhandle.
“That’s where they pulled up the wolfsbane,” Sybil said, pointing to a hole in the ground. Behind it was a lush oleander and a spreading wild cherry tree. Since I820, U.S. Pharmacopoeia has listed wild cherry as an expectorant and mild sedative, but the bark, leaves, and pits contain a fatal cyanidelike chemical. At the foot of the tree was a thriving clump of monkshood, close cousin to wolfsbane and just as deadly. The brick path was bordered with pennyroyal, the oil of which is used in pet flea collars. One woman died after swallowing two teaspoons of it, and as little as a half teaspoon can produce convulsions.
As I looked at Sybil’s plants, I thought again of the fascinating paradox they posed. Each one was well-tended, green, and innocently lovely—but not one was what it seemed. And what of Sybil, who had brought these odd and threatening plants together? I could dismiss the question lightly— after all, some people raise piranhas, others wrestle rattlers. But standing here, up to my ankles in virulent plant poisons, the question held greater energy. Who was Sybil Rand, that she found pleasure in creating such a dangerous collection? Why did she do it?
“Whoever stole your plant must have known what they were looking for,” Ruby said.
“I understand that some traditional cultures use wolfsbane to ward off witches,” Sybil said. She looked like a witch herself in a high-necked black robe with long flowing sleeves and a heavy neckpiece of polished wood beads and carved ivory that might have belonged to an African shaman. Her hooded eyes were dramatically made up and her long nails were painted a red so dark it was almost black.
“Really?” It was a bit of herb lore I hadn’t heard, but I could see the logic.
Sybil smiled, not pleasantly. “My husband says the garden is a neighborhood nuisance. He told me not to plant it, and this week, he threatened to have it destroyed.” She paused. “He’s not entirely supportive of my esoteric interests, you see—the garden, tarot, astrology. He’s afraid of them.”
There was an uncomfortable pause. A black-masked butcher-bird chirped once from the wild cherry tree, then flew away.
“I don’t think I’ve met your husband,” Ruby said.
“I’d introduce you, but he went to Atlanta yesterday to handle some family business.” Sybil gave Ruby’s belly dancer costume a glance. “I’m sure he’d be very glad to meet you.” She turned back toward the house. “But I didn’t ask you here just to see the garden. There’s something else— not important really, but Angela insisted that I show you.”
She led the way across the wooden deck and into a kitchen that could easily have handled the Mayor’s Prayer Breakfast. A young Hispanic woman in jeans and an oversized checked apron was putting dishes away. She smiled when she saw Batwoman and a belly dancer coming through the door.
I smiled back. “Hello, Angela,” I said. Angela Sanchez is in her early twenties. She has regular features and dark hair in a heavy braid halfway to her waist. I met her when Sarita Gonzales and I helped her brother and cousin get their citizenship papers. To say thanks, she invited us to her sister Eusebia’s Quincenera, the traditional Mexican fifteenth-birthday celebration. After mass, there was a dinner and a dance at the Centro Mutualista Cuauhtemoc, with Eusebia in a white dress, surrounded by a court of honor numbering in the dozens. At midnight, everybody stopped drinking and sat down to hot, aromatic bowls of menudo, made of tripe, hominy, and chile poblano stewed with onion, garlic, and peppercorns, and
“That’s where they pulled up the wolfsbane,” Sybil said, pointing to a hole in the ground. Behind it was a lush oleander and a spreading wild cherry tree. Since I820, U.S. Pharmacopoeia has listed wild cherry as an expectorant and mild sedative, but the bark, leaves, and pits contain a fatal cyanidelike chemical. At the foot of the tree was a thriving clump of monkshood, close cousin to wolfsbane and just as deadly. The brick path was bordered with pennyroyal, the oil of which is used in pet flea collars. One woman died after swallowing two teaspoons of it, and as little as a half teaspoon can produce convulsions.
As I looked at Sybil’s plants, I thought again of the fascinating paradox they posed. Each one was well-tended, green, and innocently lovely—but not one was what it seemed. And what of Sybil, who had brought these odd and threatening plants together? I could dismiss the question lightly— after all, some people raise piranhas, others wrestle rattlers. But standing here, up to my ankles in virulent plant poisons, the question held greater energy. Who was Sybil Rand, that she found pleasure in creating such a dangerous collection? Why did she do it?
“Whoever stole your plant must have known what they were looking for,” Ruby said.
“I understand that some traditional cultures use wolfsbane to ward off witches,” Sybil said. She looked like a witch herself in a high-necked black robe with long flowing sleeves and a heavy neckpiece of polished wood beads and carved ivory that might have belonged to an African shaman. Her hooded eyes were dramatically made up and her long nails were painted a red so dark it was almost black.
“Really?” It was a bit of herb lore I hadn’t heard, but I could see the logic.
Sybil smiled, not pleasantly. “My husband says the garden is a neighborhood nuisance. He told me not to plant it, and this week, he threatened to have it destroyed.” She paused. “He’s not entirely supportive of my esoteric interests, you see—the garden, tarot, astrology. He’s afraid of them.”
There was an uncomfortable pause. A black-masked butcher-bird chirped once from the wild cherry tree, then flew away.
“I don’t think I’ve met your husband,” Ruby said.
“I’d introduce you, but he went to Atlanta yesterday to handle some family business.” Sybil gave Ruby’s belly dancer costume a glance. “I’m sure he’d be very glad to meet you.” She turned back toward the house. “But I didn’t ask you here just to see the garden. There’s something else— not important really, but Angela insisted that I show you.”
She led the way across the wooden deck and into a kitchen that could easily have handled the Mayor’s Prayer Breakfast. A young Hispanic woman in jeans and an oversized checked apron was putting dishes away. She smiled when she saw Batwoman and a belly dancer coming through the door.
I smiled back. “Hello, Angela,” I said. Angela Sanchez is in her early twenties. She has regular features and dark hair in a heavy braid halfway to her waist. I met her when Sarita Gonzales and I helped her brother and cousin get their citizenship papers. To say thanks, she invited us to her sister Eusebia’s Quincenera, the traditional Mexican fifteenth-birthday celebration. After mass, there was a dinner and a dance at the Centro Mutualista Cuauhtemoc, with Eusebia in a white dress, surrounded by a court of honor numbering in the dozens. At midnight, everybody stopped drinking and sat down to hot, aromatic bowls of menudo, made of tripe, hominy, and chile poblano stewed with onion, garlic, and peppercorns, and
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