Daisies for Innocence (16 page)

T
HE
chamomile iced tea hadn’t calmed me at all. Though I was dog tired, my thoughts were in a flurry, circling around the day’s revelations about Josie, not to mention the talk of secrets and hidden memories. Besides, I had a perfume to make. My clients paid me well for custom blends, and it wasn’t even ten o’clock yet.

Might as well do it now.

I went inside and up to my bedroom. With ritual reverence, I lifted out the three-liter copper distiller from its special cabinet, my hands cupping the spherical water pot at the bottom. The reddish metal was shiny and bright, carefully polished over the years, first by Gamma, and then by me. I carried it down the spiral stairs and outside to an open graveled area at the back of the garden that I’d set aside for just this purpose. Then I retrieved a small camping stove from a cubby on the back porch, and
a gallon jug of spring water. Back in the distilling area, I readied the camping stove. Gamma would have used a grate over an open fire, but I wasn’t that much of a traditionalist, and the stove was faster and safer.

Out in the Enchanted Garden, I gathered fragrant rose petals from the scarlet Don Juan climbing the fence, three sweet-scented gardenia flowers from a pot on the patio, and a handful of apple mint from one of the tiered herb beds. Finally, I added a sprinkling of soft yew needles—they didn’t have a discernible scent for most people, but I knew they’d add an indefinable touch to the finished perfume.

Yew for sorrow.

Yes, sometimes a balanced scent required sorrow as well as joy.

I didn’t measure, simply sniffed and adjusted the combination until the ratio felt right. Then I placed some of the plant material in the round pot, or
retort
, along with spring water. I added more flowers and leaves to the onion-shaped vessel that served as the lid of the retort and acted as a condenser. I attached the tube, delightfully known as the bird’s beak, to the condenser and filled the lid with cool water.

The steam from the boiling liquid, laden with volatile plant oils, would recondense after traveling through the serpentine copper pipe, and separate the precious drops of essential oil from the floral water. The oil I would capture from the extended tip of the bird’s beak tube, and the intensely fragrant liquid, or hydrosol, would stay in the pot. I preserved the hydrosol with a dash of vodka
and sold it separately. It was ideal to use in laundry rinses, irons, or to spray onto clothes to freshen them.

As the water came to a boil, the moon rose high into the sky, and the garden took on a charmed atmosphere. The moonflower tumbling over the wooden obelisk in the center of one of the herb beds glowed as bright as its namesake. Night birds called and cheeped. A sound of flapping and the faint scent of guano made me look up in time to see a wave of bats swooping and diving on their nightly quest for a dinner of tasty insects.

Nature had always felt magical to me. So much so that I’d stopped noticing after a while. Only after being stuck in the restaurant day in and day out had I realized how it was part of my lifeblood. Without exposure to plants, the air, the very thrum of the earth, I was only an anemic version of myself. I’d started getting headaches and had no energy.

All that had disappeared as I’d planted and hoed and weeded and coaxed new life into this space behind my shop. Now, that I was back among growing things, I wasn’t ever going to take them for granted again.

Perhaps that was why so many strange things had happened in the Enchanted Garden lately. And maybe it wasn’t just lately. I could remember feeling
enchanted
in the garden, playing with Mama and then working with Gamma. That was the reason I’d called the area behind Scents & Nonsense the Enchanted Garden. The reason I’d infused it with whimsy—the doors, the miniatures, the fairy figurines—to try to capture that feeling I’d had as a child.

As I watched, a glimmer of light traveled through the air above the boiling copper pot.

I smiled to myself.

Perhaps I didn’t have to try so hard. Perhaps the enchantment was already here.

The copper pot hissed as the concoction came to a boil and the steam separated into oil and water. I brought a bottle to the tip of the ornate bird’s beak tubing and watched as the oil slowly, slowly dripped into the opening. Some of the fragrance danced out into the air, and I inhaled it with appreciation.

One last drop of oil quivered at the end of the tubing. I captured it and was corking the perfume for my customer when I heard footsteps. Whirling in alarm, I searched the moonlit path. Beside me, Dash didn’t make a sound.

“Ms. Allbright? What on earth are you doing?”

I bolted to my feet, heart pounding, a gasp in my throat.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.” Lupe Garcia stood at the edge of the gravel. She wore dark pants and a long-sleeved T-shirt. Her sneakers glowed neon orange in the lunar light.

Palm on my chest, I said, “Well, you did scare me.” The adrenaline was still winding through my veins. “What are you doing back here? Good heavens, it’s after ten.”

She approached and squatted by the cook stove. Delicately, she touched the copper alembic with the tip of her finger.

“Careful,” I warned. “That’s hot.”

“There’s no other access to your house without circling back through the meadow. I wanted to talk to you,” she said, looking up at me from under her brow.

“You could try the telephone.” I bent to turn off the stove. The slight hissing faded into silence.

She nodded, her attention back on the distiller. “I could have. I wanted to talk to you in person. That thing you did this morning, combining the cinnamon and cardamom and chocolate in just the right amounts to smell like my great aunt’s
champurrado
—did you already know the recipe? Or was it something else?”

I shrugged. “I’m good with scents.”

She stood. With a wave of her arm that included the stove and the elaborate old-fashioned still. “And this?”

Was that suspicion in her voice? Or curiosity? I couldn’t tell. “You know I make perfumes, right?” I asked.

“Right.”

“This is how I do it. This one is for a longtime client, a woman I developed this particular blend for. I distill the essences from plants here in the garden—or sometimes I get them from other sources—and sell them to my customers.”

She looked at me, then at the copper pot, then back at me. “Distill? Like with booze?”

I laughed. “Exactly like with booze. Only I don’t distill alcohol, just essential oils and liquid hydrosols.”

“That’s fascinating,” Garcia said.

“I think so. My grandmother showed me how when I was very young. Is the hot chocolate really why you came to talk to me?”

I felt her assessing gaze. “That, and I wanted to see the inside of your tiny house. It’s—” She looked away as if embarrassed. “I’ve thought of downsizing to something like it, but I’ve never seen inside one.”

“Do you have a warrant?” I asked.

“Nope.”

“Well, I’m a murder suspect. It doesn’t seem very smart to let you in without a warrant.”

“Do you have anything to hide?” she asked.

“Nope. Should you really be here?”

A beat, then, “Probably not.” She knelt by the distiller, her eyes roving over the sensuous contours of the copper.

The silence filled with the sound of nearby Raven Creek and the leaves of the oak tree rubbing together. I wrestled internally with whether or not to tell her what I’d learned about Josie. Glancing down, I saw one of the engraved river rocks reflecting the lunar shine. It read
HONESTY
.

At least I’d actually ordered a rock from the engraver that said that. Still, it was good advice. I knelt down by her. “Can I ask you something?”

She glanced over at me. “Like what?”

“Do you think I killed Josie Overland?”

“There was a witness.”

“Not to the attack,” I said. “And that witness is not the most reliable timekeeper in town. I’m sure you know that. Plus, Max Lang and my ex-husband are old friends. Lang doesn’t like me.”

“I’d figured that out.”

“So?”

She stood. “So I’m open to other ideas if you have them.”

Honesty.

I hesitated. “Has anything about a strip club come up in your investigation?”

She nodded. “The Calla Club. The victim used to work there. Bartender.”

I whooshed out a breath. “You
have
been investigating.”

Garcia laughed. “As have you, apparently. Do you have any more of those cookies from this morning?”

“I think there are a few left in the shop. Follow me.”

Automatically, Dash moved to my heel. As we walked, the detective asked, “What else have you been up to?”

I inhaled, debating.
In for a penny, in for a pound.
“I went to Silver Wells.”

She looked surprised.

“I know I wasn’t supposed to leave town, but I just had to talk to Josie’s brother.”

“And?” she asked with mild interest.

“He thinks that Josie ruined his chance to be hired at a highfalutin law firm. At the same time, he’s more upset about her death than he wants to let on.”

“And he has an alibi,” Garcia said, her hand on the back of one of the rocking chairs on the patio while she waited for me to unlock the door to Scents & Nonsense. “His boss confirms that he was working with a paralegal on an emergency motion or brief or whatever until nearly three in the morning on Monday. Time of death for Josie Overland was around two a.m., so she had to have been attacked in the park before then.”

Three in the morning? Jeez. No wonder Vance Overland hated his job.

I twisted the key in the lock. “What about Josie’s laptop?” I looked over to see Garcia watching me. “You did take it from her apartment, right?”

“Of course. It’s in the state lab.” She made a face. “It’ll probably take another couple of weeks before the techs get to it, though. I don’t think Poppyville ranks high on their list of priorities.”

Taking a deep breath and sliding the door open, I said, “I looked at her e-mail.”

Garcia’s gaze sharpened. And there was something else in it. Was it—could it be—admiration?

“And?” she asked.

“I think you might want to check into a guy named Bob Farsen. In Silver Wells.”

“Because . . . ?”

“Let’s just say he seemed way too interested in Josie—both dead and alive.”

“I see. Okay, I’ll look into it.”

We stepped into the shop, and I flipped on the light. Nabokov had returned to his bed, and apparently didn’t see either of us as any threat to Leonard because he stood, stretched, and lay back down.

“Did you talk to anyone else?” Garcia asked.

“Some people at the Roux Grill.” I couldn’t keep the frustration out of my voice. “What about the guy who manages Josie’s apartment complex? He’s totally creepy.”

Garcia held out her hand. “You have good instincts. He’s a registered sex offender.”

Eyes wide, I took the plastic wrap off the last two ginger softies and offered the plate.

“He exposed himself to a tourist on Corona Street a while back,” Garcia said, taking a cookie and nibbling on the edge.

I winced. “That’s terrible.”

“It is,” she said.

“Josie complained about him to the owner of the building,” I said.

“He’s unpleasant, but from what we can tell, not violent. Yet.”

Yet.
As far as anyone knew.

“What about the people Josie cleaned for?” I asked.

“We found four clients,” she said.

I nodded. “Me, too.”

“Lang doesn’t see them as suspects. Two were out of town, and he hasn’t been in a hurry to talk to the others.”

“Lang,”
I muttered.

She didn’t say anything.

“And you know that Harris and Josie had a big fight, right?” I asked.

Her eyebrow lifted. “You mentioned that when we released the crime scene, so I checked back with a couple of people at the Roux Grill this afternoon. They
confirmed it.” Watching me with a speculative expression, she asked, “Do you think he killed her?”

After a moment’s hesitation, I shook my head. “I really don’t. He’s not the type.” I held up my hand. “I know, I know. I should be happy if he’s considered a suspect, but I just can’t see it.” My hand dropped and a rueful expression crept onto my face. “I sure hope it wasn’t him, because I’d really be in trouble then. Your partner would never go after Harris.”

Garcia frowned.

“There is someone at the Roux who seemed to hate Josie, though. One of the waitresses. Her first name is Shyla, but I don’t know her last name. Did you talk to her?”

Slowly, she shook her head. “She must not have been on shift. So: Shyla something and Bob Farsen. I’ll look into them both.”

For the first time in days I felt as though I could take a full breath. “Thank you.”

“Let me know if you think of anything else, okay?” Garcia said as I led her to the front door and let her out. She stopped and snagged my gaze. “If you did kill Josie Overland, Ms. Allbright, we will nail you to the wall.” Her head cocked to the side. “But if you didn’t, I want to get this right. Just so you know.”