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.”
• • •
AS 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.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“Checking in on Maggie. And, er, you seemed pretty upset on the phone—” I began.
“How dare you tell the cops Ellie killed Josie Overland?” Astrid demanded.
Maggie’s fingers crept to her mouth, and her eyes widened. The group of women in the nearby booth turned their heads to look at us. Ritter’s head came up, and Cynthia twisted in her seat.
“Astrid,” I hissed. I hadn’t brought her along so she could confront him for me.
Harris’ face flushed a dangerous crimson, and his eyes narrowed. “Ellie? Now we can’t even have a conversation without you blowing it all out of proportion to your friends?”
My heart was pounding. God, I hated conflict, and I especially hated conflict with Harris because it seemed as though I could never win.
Not this time.
“Maybe we could talk in your office?” I asked.
He gave a curt nod and stalked toward the back of the restaurant.
We followed—and every eye in the place followed us. As we went by the bar, Astrid reached over and picked up the bourbon Maggie had poured for her and offered it to me. I shook my head. Astrid slugged the shot back with a grimace and thumped the empty glass on the bar.
As I passed by, Ritter quirked an eyebrow and gave me a smile and a subtle nod. Ignoring Cynthia’s scowl, I felt my lips flutter up in a tentative smile in return.
The smells of garlic and butter increased once we were through the kitchen door, along with roasting chicken and the heady aromas of dried rosemary, thyme, and sage that a man I didn’t know was crushing with a mortar and pestle. He was all freckles and ginger hair, gangly arms and knobby joints, which gave him an air of youth. When he grinned down at me, that pang of almost homesickness for the restaurant shot through me again, followed immediately by knee-wobbling relief that I didn’t have to work twelve-hour days in this place anymore.
The office was much as I remembered it: too-big desk facing the door, antique brass lamp in need of a good buffing, and a low file cabinet with piles of paper waiting to find a home inside. The blind over the window was gray with dust. He’d added a new guest chair, and the computer monitor had been upgraded. Somehow, he’d managed to almost kill the lonely philodendron that hung in the corner. It smelled like dust and . . . I caught a smell that was familiar, but I couldn’t quite . . .
No, wait. It was the cheap aftershave I’d smelled on Josie when I’d discovered her body. Well, that made sense, I guessed. After all, she and Harris were close. I was just glad he hadn’t started using that stuff when we’d been together. It would have driven me away faster than Wanda Simmons had.
“Who do you think you are, coming in here and embarrassing me in front of my staff and my customers?” Harris asked as he closed the door. Those pretty lips curled in a grimace as he waited for me to answer.
Beside me, Astrid rose to her full height. “Listen, you can’t bully—”
“I asked Ellie!” He glowered down at me.
“Stop it, Harris,” I said, keeping my tone firm. I had to stand up to him sometime. “You did a bang-up job of humiliating me last year. The whole town knew what you did, but apparently now you’re the one who needs to let go of the past. I’m over our failed marriage, and I’m over you.”
He let out a long, wounded sigh. “Oh, Ellie. So that’s it? You’re trying to get back at me?”
“Not at all. I’m telling you to stop spreading lies about me. I know you don’t seriously think I killed Josie.”
He shrugged
.
“But you know what? Out of pure pettiness, you’ve complicated the murder investigation,” I said, my voice rising. “You said Josie was the love of your life. What if the police waste time investigating me, and, as a result, don’t find the real killer before he gets away?”
Harris blinked.
Astrid put her hand on my shoulder and squeezed her encouragement.
A sudden crash in the kitchen drew all our attention. Swearing under his breath, Harris jerked the door open and ran out to see what the commotion was. I went to stand in the doorway.
The redhead who had been grinding the herbs stood next to an overturned pan of steaming macaroni and cheese. Gooey sauce flowed slowly from beneath it like yellow lava. He cringed as Harris approached, pointing his finger and streaming curses. I felt sorry for the poor guy; I’d done much the same thing with a vat of gravy once, and had heard about it for a week. And back then I’d supposedly worked with Harris, not for him.
“Come on,” Astrid said from behind me.
“What?” I craned my neck to look up at her.
“You’ve said your piece. You think more will help?”
“Probably not.” I wasn’t convinced anything I’d said would make a difference. For all I knew, I’d only made Harris angry enough to spread more lies and get me into even more trouble.
Skirting the edge of the kitchen, we made our way to the dining room door and slipped out. I didn’t think Harris even noticed, involved in his vitriolic tirade at his employee, but the redheaded cook caught my eye as we left.
He looked utterly miserable, and I felt like a heel for taking off and leaving him there. Part of the reason my ex was reacting so badly to his simple mistake was because of me. Then the cook’s eyes flashed, and he turned back to Harris, who was still hurling insults like a monkey hurling food in its cage. Something in the set of the man’s shoulders set my mind at ease. He was a tough cookie. He’d be fine.
Daisies For Innocence Page 6
