Daisies for Innocence (12 page)

Hidden memory,

Unbound

Only when ready,

When needed.

And however heady,

Best heeded.

And below that, a block of less cryptic information.

Aids in the access of memory. Rare convolvulus. Cannot be cultivated; seeds germinate only in the perfect medium of time and readiness.

The perfect medium of time and readiness? Okay, that bit wasn’t less cryptic. I kept reading.

Fast growing and extremely short-lived. Single harvest. Distill flowers only. Use with caution; powerful and sometimes dangerous in essential form. Always dilute with carrier oil.

As I read each word, I grew more excited. This was something new. Something I’d never encountered before, heard of before, and . . . my breath caught as I read the last line.

Anticipated by potent unique fragrance, intoxicating to those of us with the gift.

The scent that had teased and plagued me for the last two days suddenly enveloped me. It was coming from the plant! I looked back at the journal.

Mnemosyne.
Squeezing my eyes shut and inhaling deeply, I reached back to a Greek mythology class I’d taken in college years before. Mnemosyne was a goddess. Like Narcissus, also the name of a plant, apparently. What had she been the goddess of? I opened my eyes, and shook my head. I couldn’t remember. I whipped out my phone and did a quick search. The name did not bring up any reference to a flower, even when I added “convolvulus” to the keywords. However, I did discover that Mnemosyne was the Greek goddess of memory.

Which made perfect sense, given Gamma’s notes.

But what had her reference to a gift been about? Was she just talking about having a sense of smell that was so fine-tuned that I could use it to sense emotion? Or something else? A feather of memory tickled at the periphery of my mind. When I reached for it, though, it wisped away like vapor.

I looked down at Dash, who had rolled onto his back beneath the plant and stared up at the sky with half-closed eyes, totally blissed out. For a split second, I actually thought about joining him, but I pushed the feeling away.

“Mnemosyne,” I muttered, and took one last look at the picture before closing the journal. The scent of the plant was just as strong, and I still reveled in it, but now it didn’t affect me as intensely as it had the first few times I’d smelled it. Perhaps simply knowing where it came from helped take the edge off. Again, a swirl of memories teased from some back room in my mind as I inhaled the heady fragrance, but try as I might that door wasn’t ready to open yet.

I must distill the essence of this flower. Soon, but not yet.

I didn’t know what I’d find, but I felt sure the mnemosyne had germinated in the Enchanted Garden for good reason. I felt obligated to preserve it. Gamma would have expected me to.

The senescence—the natural life span—of anything that grew so quickly would likely be quite short. However, I also wanted to be able to use as many of the full blooms as possible. Using my copper steam distiller, I would be able to extract at least a few precious drops of essential oil, as well as the concentrated liquid hydrosol.

If this emits such a heady perfume now, I wonder what it will be like concentrated a hundred times?

I was counting the buds that had yet to bloom when Dash bounded to his feet, barked, and took off after a squirrel. It ran up the apple tree, and he stopped at the bottom. Not for the first time, I marveled that he never dug in the dirt and seemed to understand how delicate the miniature tableaus were. Even on the hunt, as he was now, he skirted the tiny gazebo next to the trunk.

“Come on, tough guy,” I said, and headed to the house at the back of the lot. He lost interest in the squirrel, which was chattering his displeasure at both of us.

On the front step, I opened Gamma’s journal to take one last look at the mnemosyne flower. As I gazed at the purple blossoms on the page, a light wind blew through the oak leaves, and I could have sworn it carried the faintest of
giggles.

L
EAVING
Nabokov dozing in the garden, Dash and I retraced the path down Corona Street to the Roux Grill.

The foot traffic was brisk, but not nearly as crowded as it sometimes became when Poppyville hosted a festival or event. I loved to see the varied mix of people our little town attracted. Bermuda shorts–clad retirees mixed with entire families on vacation and moony-eyed couples on romantic getaways.

In between wishing people good morning and sidestepping the occasional stroller, I pondered what I knew—and didn’t know—about Josie Overland. There seemed to be a lot more of the latter. What had her life been like growing up? Had her mother died when she was as young as I’d been when mine had passed? What was
her father like? If she had only a brother now, some tragedy must have marked her life.

At least I had my half siblings and my dad. He and my stepmom had moved to Pompano Beach, Florida, years before. After my mother was gone, he’d mourned her for over four years before remarrying. My stepmom was a dynamo, volunteering for so many good causes it was like a full-time job. I was closest to Colby, and even though I didn’t see him very often, we were good about keeping in regular touch by phone. Still, he was due for a visit, soon, and the next time I talked to him I was going to remind him of that.

My half sister, Darcy, was ten years younger than me and a serious type-A go-getter who sold high-end real estate in Los Angeles. She was a huge success, and I wished her the best. She was a bit skeptical of the mundane—and not terribly lucrative—career choices Colby and I had made.

I might have been a fifth-generation Poppyvillian, but it was on my mother’s side. None of my living family shared that history, or my deep love of the town and its environs. But Mama and Gamma had. I mused for a few minutes on the journal, on the mnemosyne flower, and on Gamma’s cryptic verse.

Hidden memory,

Unbound

Only when ready,

When needed.

And however heady,

Best heeded.

What had she meant by that? To me it sounded as if the appearance of the plant was some kind of sign. I didn’t know if that was crazy or if it made perfect sense, but the idea was intriguing.

The perfect medium of time and readiness.

It was true that the soil of my life felt rich and ready after the last year. I never would have thought that would engender an actual plant, though. I’d been thinking more in terms of eventual romance.

And that made me think of Ritter—who was seeing Cynthia Beck, but was also taking me to Silver Wells that afternoon. Not that it was a date, but still. Astrid would approve.

And thinking of going to Silver Wells brought me full circle back to who could have killed Josie.

Could it have been someone at the Roux Grill? I couldn’t believe it—at least not any of the people that I’d worked with. But there were new people there now. The redheaded cook for one. The sharp-looking waitress in Josie’s photographs for another. I’d ask Maggie more about them if I got the chance. She was as bad—or good—of a gossip as one could hope to find in a small town.

Then there was Josie’s brother. I could only hope he might know who held a grudge against his sister. Or maybe he’d made the trip over from Silver Wells and attacked her himself. I hated to think such a thing, but it sure hadn’t sounded like either of the detectives had spent
much time talking with him. I crossed my fingers that I’d have better luck in person.

Dash jogging by my side, I strode by the ice-cream shop, inhaled the yeasty goodness of fresh bread outside Kneadful Things, and waved to Maria, who was deadheading geraniums in front of the library. She saw me and waved back with a smile. She was one of my regular customers. At least I wasn’t persona non grata in Poppyville . . . yet.

As I neared the restaurant, I recalled Inga’s fearful reaction to the news of the murder. Of course, I didn’t want to be arrested for something I hadn’t done, and the idea that Detective Lang’s shortsighted investigation might also let the real killer go free in my little town made my blood boil.

A group of tourists ambled by holding dripping chili dogs from the Pie in the Sky Snack Shop. The boardwalk was full of people enjoying the sunshine. I sighed. All I really wanted to do was tend to my garden and run Scents & Nonsense.

At the Roux Grill, I led Dash around to the tie-up area for dogs. He lapped up some of the complimentary water from the communal dish and settled into the shade with a friendly labradoodle.

I braced myself for the second time in two days, and stiff-armed the door open.

Inside, the atmosphere felt lighter than it had when Astrid and I had visited the previous afternoon. Maggie waved to me from behind the bar. “Harris isn’t here, hon. He’s at the bank.”

I felt my shoulders relax at her words.
Nice to be right about something.

The place was busy even though it was the middle of the week. In addition to the meaty dinner entrees, the Roux was known for its amazing brunch menu. Harris had developed it, and the head chef, Raleigh Stone, implemented it to perfection. Right now, Raleigh would be buzzing around the kitchen, keeping things moving smoothly and quickly. He was not only an experienced chef, but a superb manager.

On the weekends there was a Bloody Mary bar by the fireplace, stocked with flavored vodkas and all manner of mixers and spices, vegetables, pickles, olives, slabs of crispy bacon, and skewers of jalapeño peppers and savory cheese. During the week, Maggie made customers’ drinks to order, but the full menu was still available. It consisted mostly of diner breakfast fare with an upscale flair.

Waxy potatoes from a local farm were diced and tossed with onions, peppers, sweet potatoes, and fresh herbs, then roasted until brown and chewy with caramelization. Another farmer supplied fresh eggs daily, their deep orange yolks and rich flavor the result of hens living on pasture. Those gems went into fluffy omelets and four types of Eggs Benedict: lox and cream cheese with capers and béarnaise; caprese with tomatoes and fresh mozzarella dosed with nutty pesto; roasted green chilies and chorizo with homemade salsa; and the standard Canadian bacon and lemony hollandaise.

I loved the fluffy buttermilk biscuits under a blanket of gravy spiked with chunks of spicy Italian sausage. The
cinnamon-roll French toast was to die for, too, but my all-time favorite was the croque monsieur—a grilled ham and cheese sandwich typically smothered in béchamel sauce, but at the Roux Grill it was served drowning in a rich poblano cream that made my mouth water just thinking about it.

Despite everything I loved about my new life, I had to admit I didn’t eat nearly as well now. I needed to do something about that.

A tall man vacated a seat at the end of the bar, and I slid onto it. “That’s okay,” I said to Maggie. “I’m not here to see Harris.”

“Who are you here to see, then, Ellie?” Maggie put her elbows on the bar and propped her chin on her hands. Her light hair was frizzy, and her round face shone with a light glow of perspiration. She looked overheated in her black T-shirt with the flame logo on it. “You want something to drink?”

“You,” I said. “And I’ll take a ginger ale. How’s business been?”

She frowned and reached for a glass from under the bar. “Good. It’s always good.”

I tilted my head. “So why do you have that look on your face?”

Her lips pressed together as she considered me. But Maggie wasn’t one to keep things to herself. “Business is good, but Harris cut back hours. For everyone.”

“That doesn’t make sense. How can you handle the traffic?”

Her eyes flared, but her voice lowered. Not that the couple sitting next to me had any attention to spare from
each other. “By working like dogs—and making less money than ever. We’re so busy that our service isn’t as good as usual, so tips are down, too.”

“Josie never told me that. I’m sorry to hear it.”

“He cut my hours
again
on Monday. Josie was furious. Sweet thing that she was, she went to bat for me with Harris.”

“You did mention they got in a big fight Monday night.” I took a swallow of ginger ale, savoring the sweet fizziness on my tongue.

Her head inclined. “That was it. She said she had other income, so she could walk away from this job anytime and still make ends meet. Not all of the staff have the same luxury, especially those with families. She, um . . .” Maggie paused, then seemed to make a decision. “Well, they were in the office with the door closed. But, you know”—she waved her hand—“a few of us were in the kitchen and overheard.”

She meant they had all been eavesdropping, but I wasn’t about to call her on it.

“Anyway, Josie said maybe you were right when you told her to be careful with Harris.”

My lips parted in surprise. “Uh-oh.” I ran my hand over my face. “I imagine Harris didn’t take too kindly to hearing that from his girlfriend.”

She barked a laugh, then clamped her hand over her mouth. “Oops.” Her eyes cut left and right but no one was paying attention. “No,” she said. “He didn’t appreciate Josie bringing you up at all.” She tsked. “Lordy, that man does love to yell.”

No kidding.
But it was hardly a motive for murder.

A sharp-featured woman with hair the color of peanut butter elbowed in next to me. With a start, I recognized one of the waitresses from Josie’s photos. I shifted away from her, feeling as though my personal space had been invaded.

She didn’t seem to notice.

“Bloody Mary, spicy, no celery, extra pickle. Mimosa—number three for the lush in the corner over there. And a glass of iced tea.” She rattled off the order without bothering to even look at Maggie, instead checking her lipstick in the mirror behind the bar.

“You know where the tea is,” Maggie said mildly.

“Can’t you just get it with the rest of the drinks?” the waitress said.

“That’s not how it works.”

The woman sighed, then turned to see me watching her.

“Something wrong?” she asked.

“Not at all,” I said.

She held my gaze for a few more seconds, then moved behind the bar to fill up a glass from the iced tea pitcher. Maggie had the rest of the drinks ready by then, and the waitress hefted the tray and carried it out to the dining room without a word.

I looked around the room again. The tables were almost full, but there were only two waitresses working them. “I know Rhonda, of course,” I said to Maggie as I watched the mousy woman bus a table. “But who was that?” I gestured with my chin toward the rude woman with the bony elbows.

“That’s Shyla,” Maggie said. Something in her voice sharpened my focus on the waitress. She cast a furtive look down at one of Rhonda’s tables as she passed. The party was getting ready to leave, and I got the distinct feeling she was scoping the tip. An elderly woman called to her, and she sauntered over, shrugged at whatever the customer said, and turned toward the kitchen. As she did so, I saw her roll her eyes.

“I’m not sure about that one,” I said.

Maggie snorted her agreement. “She’s dating the cook. The other day I couldn’t find either of them, and stumbled on them necking in the alley.”

“Oh, brother.” I rolled my own eyes. “Wait—not Raleigh. He’s still happily married, isn’t he?”

She laughed. “He is. I’m talking about Karl.”

“The cook I met yesterday,” I said.

Putting a coaster under my drink, she nodded. “Karl Evers. He’s pretty new. Been here six months or so. Clumsy, as you’ve seen, but still pretty good at his job. But he’s a horrible flirt. Shyla doesn’t like it one bit, either.”

“Did he flirt with Josie?”

Maggie gave an exaggerated nod and bent toward me. “He sure did. More than any of the others.” She tipped her head to the side. “One time he said something that made me think they might have dated before he started working here.”

“Did Harris know that?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. But Shyla might have known. She absolutely despised Josie.” She glanced over
at the waitress, who was now gazing off into space and snapping her gum while a nearby table tried to get her attention. “And that girl can be mean, I tell you.”

Hmm. “Where did Karl work before he came to Roux Grill?” I asked.

“Over at the Sapphire,” Maggie said. “Before that, I don’t know. He’s a pretty good cook, though. Says he wants to go to culinary school and become a real chef someday. The guy’s got ambition; I have to give him that.”

“And a tendency to drop things.”

She laughed. “That, too. But he’s talented.” She shifted position and changed the subject. “I don’t suppose you need any help at Scents and Nonsense. I could sure use the money.” Her face fell. “Not that I’m trying to take advantage . . . I mean, I know Josie worked for you . . . God, I feel like a jerk.”

“No, no. Don’t feel like that.” I hesitated. Harris would just love it if I hired another employee from the Roux to work at my shop. Still, he was cutting everyone’s hours, and I could really use the help. Plus, I already knew Maggie would be a great addition to the shop. I made the decision and put my hand on her wrist. “I’d love to have you work for me. I can pay you a bit more per hour than here, but there won’t be any tips.”