Daisies for Innocence (15 page)

The wooden slats of the narrow porch creaked as Alexandra bounded to the door, her brushy tail waving like a sentinel’s flag. The screen opened, and a white-haired man stepped out.

“Hey, baby,” he said to the dog, kneeling to ruff her neck. “Who’s a good girl? Did you miss me?”

She answered with a slurp of her big tongue on his chin, and he laughed. Standing, he waved us forward. Smiling brown eyes greeted us from behind silver-framed glasses. He had a square jaw and weathered skin, and wore jeans with a crisp collared shirt.

“Astrid! It’s so good to see you.” He stepped forward and they hugged.

The shepherd ran off the porch and began an examination of the property, no doubt to make sure nothing untoward had happened in her territory during her absence.

“Ellie, this is John Trace,” Astrid said. “John, my friend Elliana Allbright.”

He stuck out his hand. “Welcome to the homestead, Elliana.”

I shook it. “Thanks. You have a beautiful house here, kind of a hidden secret.”

John looked pleased.

“I’ve seen you around Poppyville,” I said. “At the library. And the community theater. They were putting on
Winesburg, Ohio
, I think.”

John looked to the sky and then back at me. “Boy, that was a fiasco. Talk about drama, and I don’t mean on the stage. Still, I enjoy working on the sets. You own that perfume shop at the end of Corona Street, don’t you?”

I nodded. “Scents and Nonsense. Have you been in?”

“Not yet. I’m planning on it. Heard you know your business when it comes to aromatherapy, young lady. And Gene desperately needs something to help him sleep. He won’t take pills.”

“Oh, it’s not that bad,” said another man, joining us on the porch. He was taller, thin as a rail, with a hooked nose and a mop of graying blond hair. He wore a polo shirt with jeans and sneakers. The dark circles under his eyes contradicted his protests. My guess was that this man hardly slept more than a few hours a night, and it was wearing him down. I had the feeling it wasn’t normal
insomnia, either. Something was bothering him enough to keep him up at night.

Maybe Gamma’s cowslip cordial would help.

“I’m Gene.” He stuck out his hand. I handled my own introduction, while Astrid returned their house key to John. I heard her updating him on Alexandra, including the jogging schedule and a slight change that she’d made in the glucosamine supplement for the dog’s arthritis. Gene invited me inside as John arranged for Astrid to take care of the shepherd again in a couple of weeks. As I crossed the threshold, I heard him say he was slated to give a talk at UCLA on practical ways to help the homeless.

The interior of the house reflected the simple lines of the outside, and the furniture had a practical Shaker appeal. The verticals in the windows were more obvious from the inside, though they were cut sideways with slatted shutters. I took it all in with a sweeping glance, but my attention was immediately drawn to the cluster of photos on one wall. The composition reminded me of the ones on Josie’s walls. I walked over to them. The subject matter was also similar. I was about to ask if they were hers when I saw one that made the question moot.

It was an arty shot, different from anything I’d seen of hers so far. Less sophisticated, but also full of a wild energy. But the thing that gave it away as one of Josie’s was that she was one of the subjects. She and the other woman were both scantily clad in identical off-the-shoulder cleavage-emphasizing shirts that made me appreciate the androgynous uniforms at the Roux Grill.
Josie’s hair was much shorter, with chunky blond streaks, and she had on more eyeliner than Cleopatra, yet looked much younger than the twenty-nine-year-old I’d known. The other woman had her eyes closed, her head back, and had been caught in an open-mouthed laugh, her bright red lipstick contrasting with her white teeth and glossy black pageboy haircut.

After talking with Josie’s brother, my guess was that the brightly lit area behind them was a stage. It was empty, but surely this picture had been taken in the Calla Club. However, Josie had cropped the shot and changed the shading and color quality so that it looked like a classy vintage shot à la Marilyn Monroe. I noticed something on Josie’s shoulder then. It was a small tattoo, right about where a bra strap might fall. I leaned in closer.

It was a daisy.

For innocence.
In the Calla Club.
Calla lilies for beauty.

Then I saw the other woman had one, too. They must have visited the tattoo parlor together.

“Aren’t these lovely?” Gene said, coming to stand next to me. He pointed to a stream running beneath a low cliff, the shine of the moving water caught in time but still appearing to dance on the paper it was printed on. A series of mare’s tails floated above the cliff as if streaking to the far horizon. “That one is my favorite.”

“Stunning,” I said. “Josie had a lot of talent.”

“You knew her?” Gene’s expression saddened. “It’s a small town. Of course. You know what happened, then.”

“She worked for me,” I said. Then, after a moment’s
hesitation, I added, “Actually, I found her body,” watching his face to see if there was any reaction.

“Oh!” He put his hand on my shoulder in a gesture that at one time I would have found intrusive but now felt comforting. “I’m so sorry, my dear. What a horrible thing.”

I nodded in silence, setting my jaw and focusing on the pictures to keep away the tears.

“I bought these pictures from her, and we were trying to get her a show in a gallery in Sacramento,” he said, politely looking at the photos again so I could collect myself. “We almost had the owner convinced. Now I suppose we’ll have to scrap the idea. It’s too bad. We have all the photos she was going to show in the basement, matted and ready to hang.”

A little surprised, I turned to him. Compassion filled his basset hound gaze. Behind us, Astrid and John came inside.

“Didn’t Josie clean your house for you?” I asked.

“Sure,” Gene said, looking back at the photos on the wall. “But she was our friend, too.” He turned to John. “We truly believed that with a little funding and support, Josie could have gone far. We planned to provide some of that funding through our foundation.”

I sighed. “She was a good photographer. And determined. She worked hard. I’m glad to hear she had you guys on her side. What is your foundation?”

John smiled. “It’s the Trace Foundation. Original name, huh? It funds a number of things, but primarily it supports advocacy groups for the homeless.”

“Ah. The university lecture I heard you mention to Astrid.”

Gene nodded. “We’ve had some difficult times. Now we want to give back.”

My head cocked to the side, I asked, “Are you familiar with the homeless who camp behind the stables in Poppyville?”

Together, they nodded. “Sure,” Gene said. “We’ve gone out and talked with them several times. And we work with Gessie King to make sure that the half dozen people or so who more or less live on her property get regular medical care at the Poppyville Clinic.”

Astrid, who had been examining Josie’s photographs as we talked, turned around with a sour expression. “You know Bongo Pete, then?”

“God, yes.” Gene’s face lit up, and for a second I saw the energy he would have if he got a good night’s sleep. “What a character! And not a bad bongo player, it turns out.” He chuckled.

“Do you think he would make a credible witness in court?” I asked.

Gene looked puzzled, glanced at John, and then back at me. “I don’t understand. What court?”

I shook my head. “Never mind. Listen, I have a suggestion for you.”

Still frowning, Gene asked, “What’s that?”

“Tonight, take a sprig of each of the thyme plants you have growing on the porch there—woolly, mother of thyme, and the variegated lemon thyme—and crush them enough to smell their fragrance. Then put them
under
your pillow. It might help you sleep until you can get to Scents and Nonsense for one of my custom blends.”

He stared at me. “Well, I guess you do know your business.” He glanced at his partner, who was nodding at him. “I’ll give it a
try.”

W
E
bid our farewells. Outside, John, Gene, and Alexandra the German shepherd watched us screech out of the driveway toward the winding road back to town.

“So Bongo Pete really plays the bongos,” I mused, absently holding on for dear life. “Who knew?”

My friend shook her head and tromped on the gas pedal. “I can’t believe he’s going to testify against you.” Her eyes cut my way. “If it comes to that, I mean. It’s not going to, is it?”

Stomach twisting, I closed my eyes against the thought. “If Lang has his way, it just might. There are a few other suspects, but those two guys I just met don’t go on the list.”

I held up my hand, ticking off my fingers as I had in the garden with Ritter and Thea earlier in the day. “So far that list includes me—at least if you’re asking Max Lang—plus Josie’s creepy apartment manager, her brother who thinks she ruined his life but still seems to miss her, and a waitress she worked with who didn’t like how the cook flirted with Josie.” My hands dropped. “Weak, weak, weak.”

“And Harris,” Astrid added. “It’s usually the husband or boyfriend, you know.”

“Whatever the statistics might say, he’s just not a violent guy,” I insisted.

“He’s fooled you before,” she said, yanking on the steering wheel and nearly sending the car into a skid as we entered Poppyville.

Hard to argue with that,
I thought as I grabbed for the oh-my-God handle above the door.

•   •   •

I
T
was past eight when we got back. I fed Nabokov some fancy wet food and sprinkled a few granules into Leonard’s tank before heading out to the garden. The mnemosyne had another bloom open, but there were five more buds to go. The first bloom still looked fresh, so I decided I could risk another day before I distilled the bewitching fragrance. All the other plants in the Enchanted Garden looked healthy and happy, even though I’d had little time to attend to them over the last few days. I felt the frustration of my fruitless investigations fall away as I locked the back door and slowly walked down to my tiny house.

Dash padded down the path behind me, toenails
clicking on the stepping stones. Once inside, my stomach growled, surprising me. I’d been sure Raleigh’s enormous grilled cheese would carry me through a couple of meals. For a moment I considered calling Ritter to see if he was still interested in dinner.

“Nah,” I said.

Dash peered up at me expectantly.

“Yeah?”

He woofed.

“I guess it can’t hurt to try.” Leaning my hip against the counter, I dug out my cell phone and called Thea.

She answered on the third ring, sounding worried. “Ellie? Everything okay?”

“Sure,” I said. “I was just trying to get ahold of Ritter.”

“He’s out with someone. Not sure who. Do you want his number?”

My shoulders slumped. Was he out with Cynthia again? “That’s okay.”

“No, really. In fact I’ll text it to you.”

“All right.” My voice was flat. I’d really thought Ritter and I had hit it off that afternoon. Maybe I’d missed my chance.

Oh, well.

“Honey,” Thea said, “why don’t you just get it over with and ask my brother out?”

“I was going to,” I said, sounding grumpy.

“Though, you know,” she went on without noticing, “he’s going to be leaving again pretty soon. Still, it might be good practice.”

“Practice?”

“For getting back in the dating scene.”

“Dating scene. Lord, Thea. That sounds like something I can do without.”

“Yeah. We’ll see. Pretty soon you’ll be out on the town every night.”

I gave a little laugh. “Thea, I can’t even imagine being out on the town in Poppyville every night.”

She laughed, too, and we said good-bye. Seconds later my phone buzzed to let me know I had a text. Sure enough, it was Ritter’s number.

Which I was not about to call.

I straightened my shoulders and considered my options. It had been too long since I’d been to the grocery store, but I had fresh eggs from the weekend farmers’ market, along with some artisanal cheese and the loaf of heavy peasant bread that had hosted my sandwiches for the last few days. Returning to the garden, I cut sprigs of tarragon, parsley, and chives, all of which combined nicely with the sharp flavor of the cheese for a simple omelet. I took my plate and a tall glass of chamomile iced tea outside to the back porch and settled on the porch swing.

Two actual meals in one day. That’s progress.
My sporadic eating habits were a symptom of my life being out of balance. Adding a murder investigation to the mix hadn’t helped.

And I was neglecting my business. That was unacceptable. After dinner, I dragged out my laptop to try to check a few more things off my list as the sun set over Kestrel Peak, and the mule deer began to sift out of the stand of trees at the edge of the meadow.

My in-box contained a request for perfume from a local woman I’d supplied since Scents & Nonsense opened. In fact, hers was one of the first blends I’d distilled with my special method. All the scents in it originated in the Enchanted Garden, the flowers and leaves picked mere moments before processing.

See, most essential oils are distilled from mass quantities of the same kind of plant material. The way I did it was considerably more targeted, and therefore done on a very small scale. I used a three-liter copper alembic still which, other than her garden journal, was the only thing my gamma had passed on to me. It was tiny in comparison to any type of commercial equipment, but perfect for what I used it for: customized, one-of-a-kind scents. In addition to creating the essential oils on demand, I didn’t distill one species at a time; I combined all the types of flowers and herbs I’d selected for any given perfume and distilled them
together
. The result was an interlacing of scents that created fragrances that couldn’t be achieved any other way.

I put the perfume request on my task list and checked the next e-mail. It was a request for wedding favors. I’d hired out the garden to a couple of small wedding parties in the last year with success, but I was leery of having too many people around the delicate miniature gardens at once. Wedding favors were a different matter. The bride didn’t have anything particular in mind, just something that smelled nice. I suggested a few things that might appeal to her guests, including the men: peppermint travel candles, fir-scented soaps, and the chocolate-scented lotion bars in which I used the raw cocoa butter
I’d sold to Detective Garcia. I quoted pricing on each and logged out of my e-mail.

I’d forgotten to answer the e-mail about the custom perfume, and switched the e-mail screen back on. The program had saved my password, so it was easy to . . .

Hang on.

The week before, Josie had checked her e-mail on my laptop in the office of Scents & Nonsense. On a hunch, I entered “jos” in the username field. Sure enough, the rest of her username filled in, and her password appeared as a series of asterisks.

I clicked
ENTER
.

There were loads of newsletters and blog subscriptions having to do with photography and stock photo sites waiting in her in-box. I noted there was an e-mail from her brother that hadn’t been opened even though she’d responded to e-mails more recent than that one. One e-mail that had been delivered in the last day was from someone named Bob Farsen. I hesitated, my finger over the mouse button, but didn’t open it. I already felt too creepy about snooping into her private life.

Still, I needed more information if I was going to clear my name and see her killer punished, so I soldiered on. There was a folder called
HOUSEFAIRY
. I opened it and found correspondence with her different clients. From what I could tell, there were only the four I already knew about.

I returned to the in-box, hesitated, and went ahead and opened the e-mail from Bob Farsen. When I saw how it started, I cringed all over again.

Josie, I’m so, so sorry. I know you say you’re done with me, but I have to keep trying. Back then, I just misunderstood about the Calla Club. And you were right—I never should have accused you of doing anything wrong, and I shouldn’t have asked you to quit. I won’t apologize for asking you to marry me, though, and I’m going to try again. And again and again and again. Things didn’t work out with Cindi, and I know now that you are the only one for me. Please, please come back to Silver Wells. Or let me know where you are now, and I’ll move there, no matter where it is.

Bob.

p.s. Where ARE you?

Ugh. So not my business!
But did this intense-to-the-point-of-creepy guy even know Josie was dead? My guess was that he didn’t. The police wouldn’t have known to tell him unless they’d taken Josie’s address book . . .
Oh, heavens. They have Josie’s laptop.

Quickly, I marked the e-mail as unread. Suddenly afraid that they might know I was looking at Josie’s e-mail that very moment, I logged out and slammed my computer shut.

The sun had gone down, leaving behind a few pink-lit clouds above the foothills. I could see the silhouettes of the deer, which had fanned out to nibble at the tender greens and yummy wildflowers in the meadow.

“What do you think, Dash? Should I call this Bob Farsen guy and tell him the bad news?”

He made a sound in the back of his throat and thumped down at my feet.

“Well, just to let him know. I mean, he deserves that, even if it’s awful news—don’t you think?”

Dash sighed.

“And maybe I can ask him about what Josie did at the Calla Club.”

A breath of air seemed to laugh through the oak leaves. I gazed skyward, but it was only the breeze.

Still, as long as I’m taking the appearance of Gamma’s mnemosyne flower as a sign, I might as well take that as one, too.

I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket. Information had a number for Bob Farsen in Silver Wells and offered to connect me. In seconds he was picking up the phone, and I was scrambling for what to say.

I explained who I was and fumbled through the bad news.

After a shocked silence, he said, “I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it.”

“I know,” I said. “It’s terrible.” I wanted to give him a dose of eucalyptus to help release his attachment to Josie and a swig of the chamomile tea in my hand to help with acceptance.

A pause. “Killed? How was she killed?” he asked.

“Someone, um, stabbed her.” I grimaced to myself.

“Really? Do they know who did it?”

I was getting a bad vibe. Bob Farsen sounded way too
excited and not nearly upset enough about Josie’s murder.

“Not yet,” I said carefully.

“What kind of knife? Do they know?”

Ew.
What was wrong with this guy?

“Not sure,” I answered shortly. “When was the last time you saw her?”

“Oh, gosh. It’s been a long time. Since she moved.”

So a few years, at least. And he was still sending her fervent electronic love notes?

“Where did you say she lived?” he asked eagerly. “And what’s your name?”

“I’m very sorry for your loss,” I said, instead of answering his questions. “I’m just letting people know what happened.”

“How did you know about me? Did she talk about me? I bet she talked about me.”

“Um, no. Sorry. Your name was in . . . her effects,” I said. “I just thought you should know.”

I was about to hang up when a possibility flickered in my mind. Maybe Bob Farsen could help me after all.

“Do you know any of her friends from the Calla Club that I should contact?” I asked as casually as I could.

“That place is closed,” he said. “Has been for a while.”

I waited.

“She bartended there.” A pause and then, “Nothing else, you hear? No dancing. Just bartending. I told her she had to quit the place, though, if we were going to get married. Did you know we were going to get married? Well, not right away, but she would have come around.” Bitterness infused his next words. “But she still broke up with me, and then she quit the Calla anyway. I tried to get her back. I did. Over and over. But she left town and wouldn’t tell me where she moved.” He sounded angry.

I moved the phone away from my ear.
Time to end this.

“She said she was tired of men telling her what to do—” he began.

“I’m sorry,” I interrupted. “I have to call a few more people. I’m very sorry for your loss. Good night, Mr. Farsen.”

I hung up and found my hands were shaking. Well, at least I’d found out that Josie was a bartender at the Calla Club, and nothing else.

Tired of men telling her what to do.
That sure didn’t fit with her dating Harris—though to be honest, I’d learned that I could just ignore his bossiness most of the time. I wondered whether Josie was the kind of woman who was just attracted to the wrong kind of guy.

Which, unfortunately, made me wonder the same thing about myself.