Daisies for Innocence (6 page)

As I’d told the detectives, Josie had worked another twelve hours at my shop, split between Mondays and Tuesdays. She’d also cleaned houses for a few regular clients who had opted to live in low-key Poppyville rather than a larger city, but still had big houses and the bank accounts to match. I wasn’t sure who her current clients were.

Once, when we’d been chatting in the Roux Grill, Josie had told me her real dream was to make a living as a professional photographer. I’d encouraged her to hang a few pieces in the restaurant, and if they were any
indication of her overall talent, she might have really made a go of it.

Now she’d never have the chance.

“Who would do such a thing?” I asked Dash as I pulled into a parking space.

He cocked his head at me and made a noise low in his throat.

I sighed and rubbed my eyes with my fingertips.

•   •   •

I
FOUND
Astrid staring out the back window at the garden and nibbling on one of the otherwise untouched oatmeal cookies she’d brought that morning. Nabby, who had made himself scarce at the first sign of flashing lights earlier, now stretched languidly across his poufy bed. The red plush of the fabric accented the gray of his fur. A heavy purr rumbled from his chest, and he
mrow
ed when he saw me.

Astrid had turned when she heard the door open. Her eyes widened, and she quickly crossed to give me a big hug. She smelled of sugar and sandalwood, and I instantly felt better. After a few seconds, she held me at arm’s length and examined my face.

“Are you all right?”

My chin bobbed.

“Truly?”

“Truly.”

The crease in her forehead eased a bit. “The police
asked a bunch of questions, but didn’t tell me much about what happened to Josie.”

“She was stabbed.”

Her throat worked. “Oh, good heavens. That’s awful. Do they know who did it?”

“Not unless they figured it out in the last few hours. I’m apparently a suspect, however.”

Astrid looked surprised, then frowned. “So that’s why they were asking me all those questions about you and Harris.”

I blinked. “Detective Lang said I was automatically a suspect because she was killed on my property. I imagine they asked about Harris and me simply because Josie worked for both of us.” At least, I hoped so.

The phone in the office rang. The noise made me jump, and I realized I was as jittery as an aspen in the wind.

“You want me to get that?” Astrid asked.

I shook my head. “I changed the message to let people know the shop is closed today.”

The ringing stopped, followed by the trilling of my cell phone in my pocket. I fished it out, inexplicably hoping it was Ritter.

Of course, it wasn’t.

My finger hovered over the
IGNORE
button, but with a sigh I shifted it to
ANSWER
. Suppressing a sigh, I said, “Harris.”

Astrid frowned and crossed her arms over her chest.

“Josie’s gone,” my ex-husband choked out.

“I know.” What to say to him? I felt sick about Josie, but also disconcerted that hearing Harris’ voice brought back how it had felt when I’d learned the truth about their
relationship, an unpleasant mixture of distaste and humiliation. “I’m sorry.”

“The cops said she died there, at your house.”

“In front of the shop,” I said. “I . . . I discovered her this morning.”

Harris sniffled. I tried to connect the sound with the man I knew. Had I ever seen him cry? Maybe he really had loved her. I felt my heart soften.

“She told me you two were dating,” I said. “Are you okay?”

“Of course not!”

I tried again, slowly. “I’m sorry for your loss, Harris. This is pretty shocking, I know.”

Boy, do I know.

Astrid’s frown deepened as she listened.

“Shocking? Ellie, that’s a bit of an understatement, don’t you think?”

I couldn’t help but feel bad for the guy. “Oh, Harris—”

“What am I going to do?” he wailed, shocking me into silence. “She was my love, my life. I don’t know how I can go on now. Why did this have to happen to me?”

Ah, there it was.

Trust him to make Josie’s death about him.

With an effort, I kept my voice even. “It’ll be all right.” Would it? How could it be? “You’ll get through this. Really, you will. Do you have any idea who”—my voice broke; I swallowed in an attempt to moisten my dry mouth—“who might have killed her?”

“The police came by. Talked to the staff and especially to me.”

“Detectives Lang and Garcia?” I asked.

“Is that her name? Mostly I talked with Max. She kept interrupting with a bunch of questions.”

I suppressed a sigh. “They’re doing their jobs. They questioned Astrid at work, too.”

He snorted, and Astrid rolled her eyes. They had always disliked each other.

“I talked with them this morning,” I said. “I’m sure they’ll find whoever did this to Josie.” I believed it. I had to. Thanks to his friendship with Harris, Detective Lang might not care for me personally, but I had to hope he knew how to detect. Lupe Garcia had certainly struck me as a capable, experienced professional.

“Oh, I bet they did talk to you, Ellie,” Harris said. “But don’t think that’s the end of it. I told them, you know.”

Brow wrinkling, I asked, “Told them what?”

“Erm.” His version of backpedaling.

My stomach tightened. “Harris.” My voice held warning.

“Well, they were asking a lot of questions about how you and Josie got along. You being my ex-wife and all. And her being my girlfriend.”

“You know I liked her, for heaven’s sake. What did you tell them?”

“There’s no call to be mean, Ellie. Especially at a time like this. After all—”

“What did you tell them?”

“Nothing much. But last night Josie said that she’d finally come clean with you about our feelings for each other. She said you stomped out of Scents and Nonsense right after that.”

“I had errands to run!” And I was pretty sure Josie hadn’t said any such thing.

“Sure. Whatever. But I know you must have been jealous. It’s the way women are—especially you.”

“That’s not true!”

“Look at how upset you got about Wanda.”

“That was different,” I grated out. “We were actually married when you and Wanda—”

“Yeah, okay,” he said. “But I mentioned your jealous streak to the cops when they were here. They seemed
very
interested.”

“Heaven help me, Harris—” I stopped myself and grabbed a bottle of rose essential oil off the shelf. I inhaled deeply. It helped a little. “It’s bad enough that she’s dead,” I said. “Thanks a lot for telling the cops I did it.”

“Well, I didn’t say that. Not in so many words.”

I stopped myself from saying more. When was I going to learn? Arguing with him like this was futile.

“I have to go,” I said.

“Ellie, what am I going to do?” Harris repeated, his voice starting to rise.

“Well, for one thing, stop telling people I killed your girlfriend.” I hung
up.

A
STRID
’
S
fists were on her hips, and her expression was livid. “Harris can’t go around spreading lies about you, Ellie. Your ex is classically passive-aggressive.”

I sighed. She was right, of course. He was an expert manipulator. He’d even turned around the fact that I’d walked in on him boffing Wanda, somehow making it my problem.

Thinking about that day brought anger I’d thought I’d let go of to the surface again. Today had been a long terrible day already, and the last thing I needed was Harris fueling Detective Lang’s suspicions against me.

I looked at my watch. “It’s almost five o’clock. And I don’t know about you, but after today, I’m ready for a drink.”

“Well, then, let’s go to the Sapphire. We’ll hit happy
hour, and I’ll even buy you some of those bacon jalapeño bites you like so much.”

I shook my head. “Nope. We’re going to the Roux. Josie was close to Maggie—the head bartender? And I want to stop by and see how she’s doing. And while we’re there, maybe I’ll just have a little talk with Harris.”

One of Astrid’s eyebrows slowly lifted. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

A grin lit her face, but quickly dropped away. “Do you think he could have had anything to do with Josie . . . you know?”

I blanched. “You don’t think Harris killed . . . ? No. He is, as you have so often put it, a jerk. But he’s not a murderer.”

“Maybe. But neither are you. And now the police think you had a reason to kill her. That’s on him. I’m with you, Ellie. You have to let him know what he did is
not
okay.” She marched toward the door and opened it. Pausing on the threshold, she looked at me over her shoulder.

“I’m coming,” I said. “Let me put Dash inside the house and grab my wallet.”

•   •   •

A
S
Astrid and I walked down Corona Street, our footfalls on the wooden boardwalk reflected the sounds from more than a century and a half earlier, when Poppyville had erupted near the foothills of the Sierra Nevada Mountains to support the herds of gold miners. The closer we got to the Roux Grill, the more my stomach roiled.

Two years older than me, Astrid had become my great friend in college, where I’d studied horticulture. She’d
been there when I arrived, and still there when I left, a perpetual student and late-blooming flower child who changed her major from anthropology to women’s studies before transferring to veterinary medicine. We’d stayed in touch, and on a visit to see me in Poppyville, she’d fallen in love with the place. I still remembered the phone conversation when she told me she was moving to my hometown.

I’d known from the day I met her that Astrid Moneypenny would rush to my defense in any situation or support me in any endeavor—which was exactly what she was doing now.

Poppyville’s Corona Street was only six blocks long. Scents & Nonsense was on one end, and the Roux Grill was very near the other. We sauntered past Flyrite Kites, the Kneadful Things Bakery, and the quaint Poppyville Library where Maria Canto had an unnerving ability to know what people needed to read as well as the ability to track down the answer to any obscure question a patron might ask.

There was Tessa’s Tea Room and Cynthia’s Foxy Locksies Hair Studio and the Juke Diner, all interspersed with shops selling T-shirts, tchotchkes, and gold-panning kits. The sporting goods store shared a wall with Rexall Drugs, and Rosen’s New York Deli was on the other side. Flaubert’s Department Store had been a staple of Poppyville since the 1950s, and they still used an old pneumatic tube, much like the one at the bank’s drive-through, to get checks approved in the upstairs office overlooking the main floor.

One block was devoted to the courthouse, police
headquarters, and the city jail. There was an antique mall, and a craft brewery that the tourists especially loved. Farther down, beyond the Roux Grill, the old stables where I’d stopped with Dash just the day before had been renovated, and Gessie King ran a trail rides and taught dressage on the side.

We passed the Hotel California, originally Poppyville’s saloon and brothel. Most people thought Poppyville was named for the state flower, but in truth it was named for the local madam, whose girls catered to the miners in the late 1800s. Her name was Pauline Thierry, but everyone called her Miss Poppy. She’d displayed a deft hand in guiding the development of what was then called Springtown, and after her passing, the town fathers had changed the name to Poppyville. One of those town fathers had been my maternal great-great-great-grandfather. I was one of few born-and-bred Poppyvillians.

I loved this town from stem to stern, and even after the divorce, when more than one person had suggested a fresh start somewhere else, I couldn’t imagine ever leaving. The place was in my blood.

As we walked by Deely’s Garage, I asked Astrid about her date the night before.

“Meh. You’re right. He’s not big on conversation.”

“Mmm. Sorry.” Then I asked as casually as I could manage, “So, guess who’s back in town?”

Astrid glanced over at me. “Who?”

“Thea’s big brother.”

“I didn’t even know she had a brother,” she said.

“Yup. Ritter. He’s been in Alaska. Some kind of environmental plant study in the tundra.”

“Plants, huh. That sounds right up your alley.”

“I guess.” I kept my voice noncommittal.

It didn’t work.

“Why, Ellie Allbright. You’re interested in him.”

“Nah, I just . . .”

“Tell me about him,” she urged as we neared our destination.

“I already have, at least what I know. I haven’t seen him for years. He’s back in Poppyville, helping Thea out at Terra Green while he waits for some grant money to come through.”

A skeptical expression settled on her face. “I’m sure there’s more you can tell me,” she said. “But I can wait.”

We’d reached the Roux Grill and stopped. The cedar siding was stained a warm reddish brown, and a hitching post ran alongside the covered boardwalk. The dozen tables arranged out in front and along the wraparound porch on the side were empty except for two couples taking advantage of happy hour. Big half-barrel planters stood at each corner, filled with sad pink petunias that looked as though they needed a dose of fish fertilizer to perk them up. When I’d been in charge of their care, the barrels had overflowed with a variety of vibrant blooms and sprays of fountain grass.

I put my hand on the wooden railing, trying for casual but actually feeling a little wobbly. “A martini would be nice.”

“Ellie,” Astrid said. “When was the last time you were in the Roux?”

I took a deep breath. “It’s been awhile.”

“When?”

“When I found Harris and Wanda Simmons doing it in the walk-in freezer.” I felt my nostrils flare. “I left and never came back.”

She stared at me. “Seriously? You managed to avoid coming in here all this time?”

“It’s only been a year,” I said.

“But this was your life. These were your friends.”

“I like my new life just fine,” I said. “And it’s not like this town is so big I never see any of them.” I lifted my chin. “But if we’re going to do this, let’s do it now.”

Astrid put her hand on the railing and grinned. “The walk-in freezer.” She shook her head. “I’d almost forgotten that part.”

I snorted out a giggle. It really was pretty funny.

Especially since I’d learned later that the lovebirds had waited half an hour to venture out. Probably afraid I’d be waiting for them with a cast iron frying pan or a butcher knife. According to a gossipy physician’s assistant at the Poppyville Clinic, Harris had suffered from a bit of frostbite. She hadn’t revealed the details regarding which part of his anatomy had been affected.

I had my hopes, though.

Clenching my jaw, I pushed the door open, and we went inside.

The smells of braising beef, vinegary barbecue sauce, fresh bread, and garlic filled my sinuses. I envisioned the
baking sheets filled with rows of bite-sized dinner rolls back in the kitchen. Soon they would be dropped into bowls of warm butter in which garlic had been steeping for hours. Those bowls of garlic rolls were a Roux Grill signature that waitstaff brought to every customer’s table along with menus and a practiced recitation of the nightly specials.

One thing about my ex: He was a great cook and had excellent instincts for running a restaurant. However, those pungent, savory rolls had been my contribution. Harris had fought the idea, saying we should just offer the standard bread and butter. Cheaper, he said. Better business. But I’d convinced him to offer them for a couple of nights, and that was all it took for the garlicky nuggets to become insanely popular. Smelling them now, I almost swooned with a feeling akin to homesickness.

The hostess station was empty except for a sign inviting people to seat themselves. A gleaming mahogany bar ran the length of the wall to the right, the mirror behind it reflecting brightly lit liquor bottles like jewels. Booths ran along the left wall, and in between tables ranged back to the stone fireplace at the rear of the dining room. Two doors in the back corners led to the kitchen.

A low murmur of conversation came from the smattering of customers, who, like the folks outside, were taking advantage of the low-priced well drinks from four to six. Linda, a waitress who had been with the Roux since it opened, came out of the kitchen carrying a platter of appetizers. She saw me, smiled, and nodded a greeting.
I gave her a brief wave in return. Behind the bar, Maggie Clement sliced limes with lightning speed.

I absently looked over the patrons as I thought about what to say to Maggie—and to Harris. Suddenly, my attention snagged on one couple in particular. My breath hitched in my chest.

“You know, I should come in here more often . . . Ellie?” Astrid interrupted herself. “What’s the matter?”

Her gaze followed mine to the booth where Cynthia Beck, wearing more bling than I would ever own and a low-cut blouse I would never own, sat across from Ritter Nelson. He’d put on a sports coat over his chambray shirt, and the overhead light glinted off the lighter strands in his wavy hair. Her elbows were on the table, and her chin rested on her laced fingers as she stared at her date as if she wanted to eat him.

“Uh-oh,” Astrid said. “Do not, just do
not
, tell me that gorgeous hunk of man flesh is Thea’s brother.”

Jaw clenched, I nodded. “He’s only been in town a day or so.”

“Well, honey, you’d better do something soon if you want to land that one, because Cynthia works fast. As you can see.”

Unaware she was being watched, Cynthia bit her vermilion—and artificially plump—lower lip between her teeth and reached out to stroke Ritter’s arm with a manicured nail.

“Oh, good heavens,” I said.

He looked surprised for a moment, but continued with whatever he was saying. She nodded enthusiastically. I couldn’t help wondering what they were talking about.

Not that it mattered. No way could I compete with Cynthia on a good day, and I was seriously out of practice on the dating front.

I sighed.

To my right, Maggie Clement looked up from her citrus prep. “Ellie! Oh, my God! Ellie, you come here right now!” She was well padded and pushing sixty, a woman who mothered everyone she came into contact with. Now she enveloped me in a hug and a cloud of White Shoulders perfume before pushing me back to arm’s length. “Honey, you look so much better than the last time I saw you!”

“Um, thanks.” I racked my brain as to when that might have been. Probably when I’d been putting in the garden behind Scents & Nonsense, so I would have been covered with dirt and sweat.

She shook her head, and her bleached blond hair swung back and forth. “This whole thing with Josie is so terrible. I just can’t believe it.”

I nodded, finding it hard to speak. But this was why I was here, not Ritter. I patted her shoulder, feeling awkward. “How are you holding up?”

Maggie made a face. “You know those stages of grief? Well, I’m in the anger one right now. I feel like I could break someone in two—if it was the right someone. Have you heard anything else about what happened? Do they have a suspect?”

Astrid and I exchanged a glance. “Not that I know of,” I said, glad to know Maggie was okay. For now, at least.

She turned and hugged Astrid, too. “And you haven’t been in here for almost as long as Ellie here. How’s the pet-sitting biz?” She tsked without waiting for an answer.
“Oh, that poor girl. I just can’t believe anyone would kill her.” Then she seemed to remember where she was. “What can I get you?”

“Buffalo Trace,” Astrid answered without hesitation. “Neat.”

“Coming right up! Ellie?”

“Um,” I said. “How about—”

“Ellie?”

I turned to find Harris weaving through the tables. He didn’t look terribly happy to see me.

He stopped in front of me. Even now I had to admit Harris Madigan was a handsome man. Dark hair flipped down over his forehead, his tanned complexion complemented eyes the color of pine straw, and his Elvis Presley lips curved over a solid square chin. Unfortunately, those lips often curved down in a frown rather than up in a smile.