Scent to Her Grave

by Ink, India

  From the Pages of Persia’s Journal

  Juniper Girl Bath Salts

  It occurred to me not long ago that women need all the extra energy they can get. Everybody’s looking for something to recharge and reenergize her. Work, family life, home and hearth, social life, all these factors seem to pile one on top of the other to send the modern woman screaming in frustration. So I developed Juniper Girl Bath Salts—“For the woman on the go, who has too much to do.” Health and beauty hints Auntie and I thought might be nice to add to the salts:• Get enough sleep. This should be your number one priority in maintaining your energy and strength.

  • Eat healthy foods as often as you can. Get plenty of fruits, vegetables, and muscle-sustaining protein.

  • Drink plenty of toxin-flushing water.

  • Limit your caffeine intake—after awhile, too much will slow you down rather than build you up.

  • Try to do something nice for yourself every day, even if it’s very small—take a bubble bath, take a five-minute meditation break, talk with a supportive friend for a few minutes.

  • Exercise—even with our hectic lives, regular physical exercise will help maintain and build your ability to fight stress and illness.

  Remind customers that homemade bath salts can clump, so keep them in a wide mouth jar, tightly covered so moisture doesn’t get in. If the salts do harden, simply break off the amount to be used and immerse them in one quart boiling water to dissolve, then add directly to bath water. There’s no change in their effectiveness or fragrance if they harden.

  1 cup Epsom salts

  2/3 cup table salt (plain)

  1/3 cup baking soda

  10 drops cedar oil

  5 drops dark musk oil

  5 drops violet oil

  3 drops lemon oil

  Green food coloring (if desired)

  In a metal or ceramic bowl, mix the salts and soda together thoroughly. Add the oils, one drop at a time, and blend the mixture with hands after adding each oil, breaking up any clumps that may form. During this time, focus on the concepts of rejuvenation, recharging energy, and waking up the senses.

  After adding all the oils, add 1/4 teaspoon green food coloring if desired and again, blend with hands (note to self: wear thin latex gloves for this last step to avoid staining hands. While the bath salts will not stain skin during use, this part of the process can get messy).

  Once the bath salts are an even color and scent, store as directed above, and keep out of direct sunlight, which can deteriorate fragrance. Add 1/2 cup of the bath salts to hot bath water and they will dissolve.

  Chapter Six

  As I crossed the road to Moss Rose Cottage, my aunt’s estate, the dogs padded ahead of me, worn out from their run. I stopped by the trash, hesitating for a moment as I debated whether to dump Elliot’s letter in the bin. A little voice inside whispered, Don’t do it, you may need it later if he tries something stupid, and so, reluctantly, I tucked it back in my pocket, squared my shoulders, and headed toward the house.

  Three stories high, Moss Rose Cottage was spectacular, or at least, a spectacle. The front yard was overflowing with flowers, bushes, and trees, and the house itself looked like something out of a fairy tale. Captain Bentley had designed it himself, basing it on pictures of quaint English cottages with thatched roofs and kitchen gardens; however, it was anything but quaint. Built from gray stone and mortar, the house emerged from the tangle of vegetation, a miniature castle in the middle of a forested glen. Tendrils of ivy tenaciously curled across the mossy roof to coil around the chimneys.

  Mullioned windows graced the walls. Their trim had recently received an eye-opening coat of white. Below the windows, crimson boxes were cluttered with pansies and primroses. Every time I pulled into the driveway, I felt like I’d entered Faerie Land. The strings of Christmas lights that Auntie used to illuminate the porch and yard during the night went a long ways in furthering that vision, their twinkling lights sparkling like glowing flutter-bugs. Fireflies couldn’t burn any brighter.

  Around back, a small lawn with a patio and barbecue buttressed up against a picket fence that divided the yard from the gardens where, among the rose bushes and lilac trees and lavender patches, wildflower glades and bluebell thickets abounded, as well as a sprawling maze created out of hedgerows. Moss roses covered the trellis arching over the path that led to the gardens.

  The house was huge, over a hundred years old. Captain Bentley had owned it until his death, at which point it had passed down from one heir to another until Aunt Florence took it off the family’s hands. To them it was a white elephant. To Auntie, it was home. And it was also home to me.

  She’d been good to her word. The entire third floor was mine. Five rooms with ceilings that towered upwards of fourteen feet. The walls of my rooms ranged from a tasteful green paisley paper to a rich, golden coppery color that spread across the walls in smooth strokes. Now and then, I heard the Cap’n’s footsteps in the hallway, and once I’d seen the doorknob to my study jiggle, but other than that, he left me alone and we existed in solitary contentment in the top of the old mansion.

  Cold from my walk, I decided to take a hot bath and hightailed it up the stairs, taking them two at a time. I stripped off my clothes and stretched, luxuriating in the space. I’d felt claustrophobic when I lived with Elliot. His penthouse was cramped and he had a fit if I walked around the condominium naked; he was always worried that somebody would see me. I once asked him just who was going to be flying by the forty-eighth floor besides a few crows, seagulls, and the occasional butterfly, but all he did was mutter something under his breath about my lack of shame.

  As I padded across the braided rug into my bathroom, I closed my eyes, listening to the silence. Beneath the veneer of stillness, there lurked the sounds of bird song, and of the cats and dogs running around the house, but gone was Seattle’s incessant drone of traffic and the some three million people who lived in the greater metropolitan area. While the city was only a ferry ride across the inlet, it might as well have been a world away.

  I turned on the water and poured in a capful of lavender bath gel, filling the old-fashioned claw-footed tub with bubbles. The tub was long enough that I could sink up to my chin, even at my height, and it was separate from the glass-enclosed stand-alone shower.

  Auntie had made sure my bedroom was fully furnished, including a sleigh bed, a matching vanity with beveled mirror and bench, and an eight-drawer dresser. The set gleamed, polished lovingly with a rich oil, and was probably worth more than my entire life earnings.

  The other three rooms had odd bits of furniture in them, and were slowly evolving into a comfortable home of my own. The one with the coppery paper I had turned into a study; the largest had become my workout room with exercise bike, rowing machine, home gym, yoga mat, and various other goodies to play with; and the coziest, I’d transformed into my own private perfumery.

  I slid into the bubble-filled tub and leaned back, not wanting to think about death of any kind, be it murder or natural, until I was clean, relaxed, and warmed through to the bone.

  Aunt Florence was making dinner as I emerged from the stairwell. I’d spent the rest of the afternoon experimenting with different fragrances and finally came up with a blend that I thought would sell well. My thoughts turned to food as my stomach rumbled. Auntie was frying up a couple of steaks along with a skillet full of mushrooms and onions. The steamer hummed, filled with broccoli and carrots. I leaned over her shoulder and took a good sniff.

  “Oh, that smells good. I think that I found a new line for the shop. I’ve decided on ‘Juniper Girl’ instead of ‘Mountain Maiden.’ ”

  She gave me an astute look. “I like the name. Who’s your market?”

  “Hikers, bikers . . . women on the go. The scent’s woodsy with an undertone of rose. Strong yet feminine . . . not overtly sexy, but rain-washed and fresh.” Along with my talents as a sensory expert, I was now learning how to be an effective marketer. Aunt Florenc
e could turn dog poop into gold if she put her mind to it, and I was determined to learn everything I could from her.

  She winked at me and touched her nose. “Sounds good. Start mixing up some samples tomorrow and we’ll see how she flies. Although with Trevor out of commission, you’re going to have to put more time into the gardens until we find a temporary replacement. Let’s aim for an introductory sale in three weeks.”

  “Speaking of Trevor, have you heard anything more about him this afternoon?” I pulled out the plates and began setting the table.

  She flipped the searing meat and sprinkled on Worcestershire sauce and added a dash of port to the pan. A rush of flavor-filled smoke washed through the kitchen. My stomach rumbled.

  “I talked to my lawyer and he’s going to see me tomorrow, then go talk to Trevor. But there’s a hitch in the works. I just got a call from Kyle.” She paused to remove the broccoli from the steamer.

  “What’s up?” I added French bread, butter, and a bottle of steak sauce to the table, then filled two goblets with a rich Merlot that was one of my favorites.

  Florence handed me the platter of steaks and mushrooms. “Trevor seems to have disappeared.”

  Disappeared? Uh oh. That wasn’t going to sit well with the police. Even if Trevor was just scared, it would make him look guilty. And if he was guilty, then he was dangerous and on the loose.

  “Where’d he go?”

  She snorted. “If they knew where he went, I wouldn’t be telling you that he’s disappeared, now would I? They’ve set up roadblocks at the ferry and at the bridge. There’s no other way off the island. Kyle doesn’t think Trevor skipped town yet, because his truck is still parked in his driveway. Persia, I know that I said he’s innocent, but my dear, be careful. Even if he didn’t kill Lydia, fear has reduced many a man to desperate acts. I don’t want anything happening to you.”

  Carrying the broccoli, she joined me at the table and we ate in silence, amid the tinkle of forks and knives on good china.

  After we finished dinner, I let the dogs out to take care of their after-supper business. Dusk had fallen early, with the incoming storm, and I was huddling on the porch, waiting for Beauty, Beast, and Pete to return, when a rustle in the bushes alerted me. I grabbed one of the walking sticks that was leaning against the wall, and cautiously edged over to the south end of the porch, where a set of side stairs led down into the hydrangea garden. As I slowly descended the steps, the rustling stopped and for a moment I thought about going back inside, but then a scent spiraled past me in the wind—the smell of sweat and fear.

  I took a deep breath and froze as an unwelcome thought crossed my mind. What if Lydia’s killer had been targeting my aunt or me, instead of her? Had she been in the wrong place at the wrong time? What if one of Elliot’s friends had tracked me down, deciding to get revenge on him by hurting me? And what if I had just walked into a trap? I turned to race back up the steps but someone leapt out from behind the bushes, slapped a hand over my mouth, and dragged me back against the side of the house.

  Leaning into my attacker’s weight, I unbalanced him just long enough for me to grab hold of his arm and flip him over my shoulder. I raised my foot, ready to stomp him a good one in the neck, but the satisfying thud as my assailant hit the ground brought him into the light and I jerked sideways, much to the surprise of some smaller muscles in my upper thigh which protested mightily.

  “Jeezus!” Leaning over the prostrate figure, I launched into a tirade that would have made Aunt Florence proud.

  “Trevor Wilson! What the hell do you think you’re doing? I ought to smack you upside the head. You know that I’ve got years of experience with both Tai Chi and Aikido! I could have killed you.”

  He winced, pushing himself into a sitting position. “Well, I realize that now,” he said, rubbing his head. “Damn, you’re good!”

  “You got that right,” I said, kneeling beside him to make certain that he hadn’t broken any bones in his fall. “What are you doing here? I heard you disappeared.” I kept my voice low to avoid the attention of any snoops wandering through the neighborhood. Though the houses on this road were spaced quite a ways apart, each having substantial acreage, I didn’t want to take a chance. I wouldn’t put it past some gossipmonger like Heddy to come craning her neck in hopes of seeing something interesting.

  He groaned as I helped him up. Once we were sitting on the side steps, relatively protected from view by a large huckleberry bush in the front yard, I turned to him. “Okay, spill it. What’s going on? Why were you hiding in the bushes?”

  “I had to talk to you. I didn’t kill Lydia. On my word, it wasn’t me. I heard they were looking for me and panicked and ran but by then it was too late—the roadblocks were up and the cops were watching the ferry. I don’t know what to do.” With a mournful shrug, he fell silent again.

  I bit my lip, regarding him silently. Trevor was a handsome young man, about twenty-three, with his whole life in front of him. From what I’d gotten to know of him, he was a good-hearted soul and, even if he wasn’t the brightest bulb in the socket, he had qualities that more than made up for it. When he said he hadn’t killed Lydia, I believed him. Well, ninety-five percent. I never trusted anybody unconditionally, another useful lesson taught to me by my absentee father.

  “Here’s the thing. You’re lucky it was too late to run.” When he jerked his head to stare at me, I held up one hand. “No, hear me out. Trev, you have to turn yourself in. If you run, if you make them hunt you down, everybody will assume you’re guilty and the cops won’t even bother trying to find any other suspects.” I paused, debating whether to tell him that the cops found his hammer covered with blood. On one hand, it would be interesting to see his reaction. On the other, if he was guilty, I didn’t want to be his next target.

  He pushed himself to his feet and leaned against the wall, hands jammed in his pockets. “Do you think I’m stupid? I know that! Logically, I know that. But it’s so damned scary. Persia, I was angry at Lydia, but I didn’t hate her enough to kill her. You believe me, don’t you?”

  Maybe not enough to kill her, I thought, but you wanted to hurt her . . . at least that’s what you told me. I kept my mouth shut, though.

  “Come on, sit down,” I said, feeling trapped between two equally frightening choices. If Trevor refused to turn himself in, and the police found out that I’d talked to him and didn’t tell them, I’d be in for a whole lot of grief. On the other hand, Trevor was frightened and relying on me to help him out and if I betrayed him, he’d blame me forever. My gut said he was innocent. My head said, be a friend, but be careful.

  I tried again. “Listen to me. Aunt Florence called her lawyer. He’s the best there is in Gull Harbor and he said he’d take your case. However, if you don’t turn yourself in, the court’s going to brand you Guilty with a big red G and you know you won’t get a fair shake then. Let me call Kyle. If you turn yourself in voluntarily, they’ll see it as show of good faith. That can go a long way with a judge.”

  He scuffed the ground with his foot and I knew he was mulling it over.

  “Trev, think how hard it’s going to be if you head out on the road. Life as a fugitive won’t be easy and murder has no statute of limitations. You’d always be a wanted man.” I paused, then shrugged. “There aren’t a lot of hiding places on this island. You aren’t going to escape.”

  His voice trembled. “I could end up in the electric chair for this, if they decide I’m guilty.” He scuffed his foot on the step and finally said, “If I turn myself in, will you help me? I know that Florence’s lawyer is probably the best there is, but I’d feel better knowing that he wasn’t the only one on my side. A lot of people hated Lydia, and somebody set me up to take the blame for her death. I’m not taking the fall for anybody.”

  I held out my hand and he helped me to my feet. “Come on, let’s go call Kyle.” As we headed toward the door, I added, “I’ll do whatever I can to help. I believe you didn’t kill her.” I just hoped i
t was the truth.

  Wrapped in a thick terrycloth robe, Aunt Florence was coming out of the downstairs bath when Trevor and I walked through the door. Her long silver hair, unbound from the braid in which she usually kept it, hung flowing and wet to the small of her back. She looked at me, then at Trevor, then back at me.

  “Good Lord, you two about gave me a heart attack.” Her eyes narrowed as she scanned Trevor’s face. “Trevor, you are in a heap of trouble. What were you thinking, running off like that? You can’t afford any more stupid stunts.” She glanced down at her robe. “Persia, call Winthrop and tell him to get his butt in gear. Once he’s here, he can notify the police and help Trevor turn himself in. I’ll go get dressed.”

  Before either of us could say a word, she turned and disappeared up the stairs. Trevor slung himself into the rocking chair, a pained look on his face. He knew better than to cross Aunt Florence—we all did. I thumbed through her address book and punched in Winthrop Winchester’s number, keeping an eye on Trev so that he didn’t bolt. The lawyer’s housekeeper answered, and I gave her my name and told her that Florence Vanderbilt needed to speak to him. Within less than five minutes, he was on his way.