“Holy crow,” Astrid breathed from beside me. “That’s got to be worth a boatload of money.”
The sun broke through the sketchy clouds, and in its light the metal shone a dazzling yellow even though parts of it were still smeared with dirt.
They could have at least cleaned it off.
“Hoo boy! This thing is a lot heavier than it looks!” He hefted it a few times, looking at it in wonder before transferring his gaze to us. “Well, everyone, that was the last item in the time capsule, and what a find! I’ll put it with the rest of the bonanza over here, so you all can take a look.” He nodded to the policeman who had wielded the hammer and chisel. “No touching, though. Officer Danielson will be right there to keep everyone honest. And there are some other members of our illustrious police force here to help him.” He winked at Chief Gibbon and Lupe and stepped down from the podium.
They exchanged glances and then moved wordlessly toward the display table.
“Well, good Lord,” Eureka said. “That chunk of gold needs to go straight to the bank, not sit on a table waiting for some ambitious looky-loo to grab it and run.”
“No kidding.” I stood.
“Don’t you think it’s a little strange that the citizens of Poppyville would go to all the trouble of making a time capsule, but not include some kind of note to the folks who would open it in the future?” Astrid asked as she unfolded from her chair.
“Come to think of it, you’re right,” I said, already walking away.
People crowded forward to see the chunk of gold, but I elbowed my way to the other end of the table, where Mayor Ward had placed the marigold-scented picture of the woman and the manuscript.
The woman in the picture looked up at me. She had a bow mouth and wide eyes. Even though the photo wasn’t in color, I knew they were cornflower blue.
Because my eyes were cornflower blue, and the mayor had been right. The woman in the photograph looked exactly like me. Furthermore, I caught something besides the scent of marigolds wafting from the photo: a faint whiff of melancholy drifting from the past to the present.
However, next to the photo sat the manuscript, and my reaction to it was more intense. I could hear it singing to me, a song without words or sound, but one that reached a sense I didn’t even know I had—beckoning, inviting, beseeching. I estimated there were about ten pages. The rough book had fallen open to reveal two interior pages filled with a language that was strange indeed and drawings that felt eerily familiar. Then I realized why. My gamma’s garden journal looked very similar—a free-form compilation of lore and botanical sketches, verse and decoration, information and artwork.
An unmistakable drawing of a marigold was centered on the left page, with words that swirled out from it in a spiral like that of a conch shell.
Cruelty. Grief. Jealousy. Malice.
Words that weren’t in any language I recognized, yet I knew what they said. And on the right page, some kind of symbol. A tree with roots that perfectly mirrored the shape of the branches above. The whole thing was encircled within a series of linked spirals. Next to it were more words in script. I made out the letters “X,” “V,” and “R” that Eureka had mentioned, and my mind filled in the rest:
Xavier.
The author? The subject?
The police had their hands full preventing the enthusiastic gawkers from touching the gold nugget. No one saw me reaching toward the pages. When the pad of my fingertip touched the rough paper, a hot jolt shot into my hand for a split second before fading to a subtle vibration that made my blood thrum beneath my skin. Light-headed, I swayed and had to take a step backward.
Hands reached out to steady me on either side.
“You okay there?” the slender man who’d snagged Astrid’s attention earlier asked from my left elbow at the same time Odell Radcliffe said, “Whoa!” on my right. I hadn’t realized they were standing so close.
“Ellie!” Astrid bustled in before I could say a word, flashing a flirtatious smile at the man on my left. “Come on, honey. Let’s sit down.”
“No, I—”
“You didn’t touch it, did you?” Eureka demanded from behind us.
I clasped my hands, my fingertip still tingling, and turned. “Sorry.”
“Dang it, Ellie!” She sounded truly angry. “I told you, the oils from your fingers . . .” She clamped her mouth shut and glared at me.
“Come on,” Astrid insisted, and pulled me away.
Right into Detective Max Lang.
“Doesn’t sound like Professor Sanford cared for you getting so grabby there, Ellie,” he said with an unpleasant smile. “Might want to keep your hands to yourself.”
Tugging my arm out of Astrid’s grasp, I said, “Thanks for the advice, Max.” No longer light-headed, I was irritated that I hadn’t been able to examine the manuscript further.
And it didn’t look like I would anytime soon. At least two dozen people were gathered around the table by now, and a glance at my watch reminded me I had to get back to open Scents & Nonsense.
“Listen,” I said to Astrid. “Are you sure it’s okay to leave you ladies with the cleanup?”
She waved her hand. “No worries. But I’m a bit concerned about you.”
“Oh, I’m fine. Really. Come on, Dash.” He and Ruthie had remained by our front row seats, and now he trotted over to me.
“But—”
I pointed over her shoulder to where the man who had caught my left elbow was approaching. “Better go introduce yourself to Mr. Right.”
Or at least Mr. Right Now.
I wasn’t proud of distracting her like that, but it worked. I glanced one more time toward the manuscript that had bewitched me, but my view was blocked.
Tomorrow. I’ll look at it tomorrow. That’ll be soon enough.
As I was leaving, I saw Astrid approaching her quarry. He was on his cell phone, a hundred feet away and partly facing away from her. I paused to watch. His expression was almost angry as he scanned the milling crowd in the park. When he finally saw Astrid marching in his direction, he said a few last words into the phone and abruptly hung up. As he turned, the intense look on his face morphed into a relaxed, welcoming smile.
He’s hiding something.
Dash and I walked back to my shop, and I stopped worrying about Astrid’s soon-to-be conquest and instead scrambled to make sense of the contents of the time capsule. First my doppelgänger and the dried marigold. Then the marigold and the tree symbol on the manuscript pages. But what was the most troubling was that even though I didn’t know the language in which the words around the marigold were written, I’d nevertheless understood them. How was that possible?
Cruelty. Grief. Jealousy. Malice.
Furthermore, I’d understood part of what had been written near the symbolized tree in a circle.
After violence
Keep the balance.
That was all I’d gleaned from what I was already thinking of as the Xavier manuscript, but I recalled something very similar my grandmother had said to my mother when I was too young to reasonably be able to remember such things.
We all help keep the balance, whatever our gifts. This daughter of yours will bring solace, but also right wrongs . . . and that will be triggered by violence.
I shivered. There had been plenty of violence in the last year. I liked to think I brought solace to my customers, and in my own bumbling way I’d righted a few wrongs, too. But why this reminder, and why now? And why did it feel like a threat?
CHAPTER 4
AFTER I closed the shop at five o’clock, I cooked some linguini and tossed it with leftover bacon, lemon zest, the last two farm fresh eggs, and Parmesan. I took my carbonara out to my back porch, which looked out on the expanse of a meadow and Kestrel Peak beyond. It was chilly, and I sat on the porch swing with an afghan draped across my lap as I ate
. Dash sat at my feet, watching a rabbit play near the copse of evergreens on the left side of the meadow.
When I was finished, I washed the dishes, tidied up, and turned off the kitchen light. In the postage-stamp living room, I paused by the bookcase. After a moment’s hesitation, I grabbed Gamma’s journal off the shelf, ready for it to be hot to the touch after the events of the afternoon.
It was warm, but not overly so. I sat down and flipped through the pages. A kaleidoscope of blue butterflies like the ones that tended to follow Nabokov around the garden in the summer months filled one page. Another page showed meticulously rendered cross-sections of Datura stramonium, which demonstrated my grandmother’s scientific knowledge as well as her artistry. I had one of the purple variety overwintering in the small greenhouse I’d added to the back of the property the previous fall, along with potted jasmine and gardenias and dozens of herb starts for the Enchanted Garden.
I turned the page. There: a drawing of a marigold, the ink outlines filled in with orange colored pencil. Gamma’s voice echoed from the past.
They look so sweet, don’t they? But do not be fooled. If someone sent a floral message that contained marigolds in Victorian times, it was a sign of danger and ill will toward the receiver, for those sweet orange blooms represent cruelty and malice.
Danger, cruelty, and malice.
Great.
I felt antsy as I put the journal back on the shelf. I knew I’d never get to sleep feeling so anxious, so I dug out a book of Gladys Taber essays that never failed to relax me and read for an hour or so. Reveling in her descriptions of cocker spaniels and life in an old Connecticut farmhouse, I went back into the kitchen and made a cup of strong passionflower and chamomile tea. It steeped while I took a hot shower and dressed in my softest pajamas.
* * *
• • •
I DRANK the tea and turned off the light a bit after eleven thirty. I stared up at the stars that shone beyond the skylight. Cassiopeia sat upon her celestial throne, perpetually circling the North Star, which was beyond view from the angle of my pillowed head. I closed my eyes and waited.
And waited.
My eyes popped open, and I felt Dash come to his feet beside me on the down comforter. Watching me.
“Hey, guy. Sorry. You can relax. I’m sure I’ll be able to sleep soon.”
He lay back down, still watching.
Two minutes later, I sat up. “Okay, okay. You’re right. I’m not going to be able to sleep until I get a closer look at that manuscript.”
Woof.
It came from deep in his chest, soft and low and replete with understanding.
“Let’s go,” I said, and swung my feet to the floor.
* * *
• • •
THE smell of evening primroses greeted us on the front step. Above, the budding branches of the ancient oak tree rubbed against one another in dusty whispers. A mockingbird called from the meadow, echoed by its mate farther away. The bright moon streamed through the panes of the greenhouse, outlining silhouettes of leaves reaching up from terra-cotta pots inside. The path to the shop stretched in front of us like a blue-gray ribbon through the shadowy garden beds. Humidity filled the night air, promising ample dew by morning.
Dash and I went down the path and out to the boardwalk, and I closed the gate to the Enchanted Garden behind us. We crossed the street. Headlights swept the empty asphalt as a car turned onto Corona from Gilpin Avenue, then quickly faded as it continued toward the state highway north of town. The streetlights added a paltry yellow glow to the silver cast of the moon, giving an eerie aspect to the deserted downtown.
In front of the library, I hesitated, suddenly doubting my midnight mission. What was wrong with me? Still, if I went back home without further examining that manuscript, I’d end up staring out the skylight until dawn. The smell of the wallflowers wafting from the direction of Heritage House urged me forward.
We followed the sidewalk around to the side door of the library and then started across the lawn to the museum. Another scent joined the floral one—something with a metallic tang, like rust, but with an electric undercurrent that made the hair on the back of my neck rise like a dog’s.
Without warning, Dash stopped right in front of me. I stumbled and nearly fell over him.
“What—” I began.
A quiet growl rumbled in the back of his throat. I froze, my heart beating double time.
Listening.
“What is it, boy?” I breathed, so low I could hardly hear myself. My gaze flicked from shadow to shadow, and my nose twitched as I sniffed the air. I knew that smell. What was it?
My dog looked up at me, brown eyes flashing, then back toward Heritage House. Another warning issued from deep in his chest, this time a little louder.
I took a deep breath and called in a loud voice, “Who’s there?”
A rustle sounded near the cabin as a thick cloud scudded in front of the moon, and the entire scene was plunged into inky darkness. Cursing myself for relying on the moon instead of bringing a flashlight, I turned to go back home.
Wait. There’s a flashlight on my phone. I took it out of my pocket, turned it on, and flashed the tiny beam around me. The shadows at the edge of Library Park were too far away to illuminate, but there was nothing in my vicinity except manicured lawn and a concerned corgi.
Still, light or no light, the damage was done. I felt jumpy. The next morning would be soon enough to look at the manuscript, right? I could get up super early and come over before opening the shop . . .
Dash woofed and took off for Heritage House at a run.
I whirled and ran a couple of steps after him. Paused. “Dash!” I hissed in a loud whisper-call.
A tall streak of vertical yellow light split the squat building. Confused, I took a few more steps. Then I realized it was simply the door, open nearly a foot now. My corgi stood in the gap, peering into the cabin.
Slowly, I advanced. The wrought iron gate was ajar. Why? Why was the light on inside? And why was the door unlatched? It must have been if Dash was able to push it open. Fear crawled down my spine like a spider.
Call the police.
I fumbled with my phone. Dash looked over his shoulder at me, and I got the distinct idea he was urging me to join him. Then he looked back and went inside.
Great.
Glancing around, I quickly entered 911. Thumb hovering over the CALL button, I sidled toward the door. Standing with my back to the cabin wall on one side like some cop on television, I pushed it the rest of the way open with the flat of my palm.
The lamp on the information desk was on. Dash stood beside the desk. The fur on his back was smooth, and his head was cocked to one side, small details that calmed my alarm. Swinging around, I stepped onto the threshold and scanned the interior of the museum.
A yellow legal pad sat on the desk beneath the lamp. It was at an odd angle, as if it had been knocked askew. A ballpoint pen lay on the floor near my feet.
Another rustle hissed behind me, and I looked over my shoulder. The cloud had moved along, revealing the bright moon again. In its light, I saw nothing amiss. A strong breeze pushed at the azaleas at the edge of the yard, and they made a rasping sound against the metal fence. Was that what I’d been hearing?
I took a deep breath.
One of the Greenstockings is probably here. God knows Thea and Felicity are both night owls. And we all have keys to the museum. No big deal.
My shoulders relaxed a bit more. I turned back, scanning the shadows. “Hello? Thea? Felicity?”
There was no response. Turning the light on my cell off, I flipped on the overhead. The cabin appeared empty.
Dash moved behind the desk, sniffing at something behind it. I realized the metallic smell was a lot stronger inside the cabin. And I knew what it was, too.
Blood.
&
nbsp; My stomach clenched in denial. Phone still in hand, I made myself walk over to where my dog stood and look down.
The chair was lying on its side. Next to it, Eureka Sanford was sprawled on her back between the desk and the wall. A short-handled mining shovel, streaked with rust, rested on the floor beside her. Her eyes were closed as if she were sleeping, and her red newsboy cap lay a foot away. Her hair was dark and matted on the left side of her head.
Closer examination revealed the red on the shovel wasn’t all rust.
I set my phone on the desk, dropped to my knees, and started to reach for her wrist. Then I saw she was wearing white cotton gloves that came halfway up her forearms, so instead I gently probed her neck with my fingertips to feel for a pulse. As I did so, my mind flashed back to the last time I’d had to do the same thing, less than a year before.
Eureka was just as dead now as Josie Overland had been then.
My hand fell away, and my eyes closed against the sight in front of me.
After several deep breaths, I opened my eyes and hoisted myself to a standing position. I felt like I’d aged twenty years. My gaze slid away from Eureka’s body and settled on the shovel. She was the one who’d suggested hanging it on the wall behind the reception desk.
And tonight, someone had killed her with it.
Instinctively, I reached for my phone on the desk, but then stopped with my hand hovering over it. The specter of Detective Max Lang rose on my mental movie screen, in full scowl and with his eyes narrowed in disbelief. He’d tried to pin one murder on me, and another on my brother’s girlfriend. I’d proved him wrong both times. That he was Harris’ best friend meant the dislike we held for each other was even more personal.
Well, I couldn’t help it if I kept finding bodies. It wasn’t as if I went looking for them, for heaven’s sake. I was just . . .
My head jerked up. The vibrational zing! I’d felt when I was near the Xavier manuscript was absent. Panicked, I left the phone where it was and moved to the glass case where Eureka had planned to display the items in the time capsule.
Marigolds for Malice Page 4
