Daisies For Innocence

by Bailey Cattrell

  I sat up. “What? How on earth did you know about that?”

  “Got a call from the cops, clear out here in the Rocky Mountains.”

  My forehead wrinkled. “They called you about Josie?”

  “They called me about you.”

  Dang it.

  “About you and Harris, specifically. How you got along, if you ever talked about wanting to get back together with him, were you the jealous type. Stuff like that.”

  “What did you tell them?” I sat up straighter, feeling the blood rising in my face.

  “I said that I thought you’d established a new life after the divorce. That you were happier without Harris than with him. That I wasn’t aware of a jealous bone in your body.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “That’s all true.”

  “I know. But why were they asking me questions like that?”

  “Apparently they—or at least Detective Lang—think I’m a prime suspect in Josie’s murder. Since she technically died on my property, and it looked as if she was trying to get in my front gate when she collapsed. Then Harris went and told them I was upset about Josie dating him.”

  There was a long silence, then, “That’s not good. Not good at all.”

  “Tell me about it,” I said. “But it turns out Josie was actually attacked in the park, not on my property. I’m hoping that means I’m off the hook.”

  “Good.” My brother’s voice held heartfelt relief. “That you’re off the hook, I mean. Well, I’m going to let you get some shut-eye. I’ll check in with you in a day or so.”

  He wished me a good night’s sleep, and we said good-bye.

  The conversation with my brother calmed me, but it still took three cups of valerian root tea before I managed to drift off. My thoughts ping-ponged among Josie’s murder, Ritter Nelson, and the scent that had recently begun to haunt the Enchanted Garden. Could it be a night-scented flower in a neighbor’s garden that Gamma hadn’t taught me about? Could it have somehow drawn the fireflies to it as it had appealed to me?

  “I need to check her journal,” I murmured to Dash, before turning over and sinking into unconsciousness.

  • • •

  I WOKE at dawn, slowly surfacing from the depths of slumber. The soft duvet enveloped me in a cocoon of comfort. Tendrils of a dream clung to my growing consciousness. My grandmother, kneeling in her garden, patting the dirt around a transplanted seedling, and talking softly to someone behind her that I couldn’t see, and then to me.

  You mustn’t forget, Elliana. You have a gift. You need to . . .

  I stretched and opened my eyes to the new light nudging in through the skylight, feeling the last vestiges of the dream evaporate. Early birds chirped loudly outside—the nasal call of chickadees, the liquid notes of a meadowlark, the piercing screech of a blue jay trying to imitate the red-tailed hawks that nested near the river. Dash sprawled on the bed beside me, upside down and oblivious.

  A deep breath then, and with it came the flood of memory.

  Josie had been murdered.

  Adrenaline shot through my veins, a flight or fight response triggered by . . . what?

  After all, Detective Garcia had said they were releasing the area in front of my shop, so I could open Scents & Nonsense and go back to doing what I loved best. Other than Harris being a dolt and trying to pin his girlfriend’s death on me, they had no evidence against me—because there wasn’t any.

  All I had to do was ride this whole thing out. Time had healed things before. It would now, too. Right?

  As long as whoever had killed Josie was caught and convicted. Really, that was what it came down to more than anything.

  Justice for Josie, and freedom for me.

  “Come on, Dash. Let’s get to work.”

  He rolled over, instantly awake. Downstairs, he tucked into his kibble while I gnawed unenthusiastically on an apple and swigged my first cup of coffee. Twenty minutes later, I’d showered and dressed in a flowing knee-length skirt the color of flax flowers and a sleeveless ivory blouse, and Dash and I made the short trip to the day job.

  At the spigot, I filled the water can and carried it to the fused-glass birdbath. After topping it off, I looked down. A swath of violet light painted the ground below: sun shining through the colored glass of the bowl. The lush carpet of verdant moss at the base of the pedestal sparkled with moisture, a result of Thea’s carefully thought out drip irrigation.

  Then I saw the tiny sprout that had been pushing through the soil the previous day was now seven inches tall, and its winding, corkscrew stem supported blue-green leaves that looked as if they’d been dipped in wax. Seven fat buds roosted on top, their dark sepals still furled around the promised blooms.

  Definitely not bindweed.

  Slowly, I reached down and touched one with my fingertip. What the heck is that? I’d never seen anything like it, had never heard of such a plant in any of my horticulture classes. Anything that grew that fast had to be invasive. Still, my curiosity wouldn’t let me pull it out until I knew what it was—and what those flowers looked—and smelled—like.

  I returned the watering can and quickly rinsed my hands. Throwing a glance at the unusual plant, I called Dash and strode across the patio to the door. I deliberately turned away from the police tape still looped around the garden gate.

  Soon it will be over. Or at least that stupid yellow plastic will be gone.

  Astrid was letting herself in the front door as we came in the back. Today she wore flowy Thai fisherman pants in brown cotton and a black T-shirt. Her burnished copper hair was in a loose braid over one shoulder, and she carried a covered plate that broadcast ginger and molasses to my nose.

  “Hey!” she greeted me.

  I smiled. “Hey. What’s on the menu?”

  “Ginger softies. I didn’t know if you’d even want cookies today, but I’m so much in the habit of starting my day whipping them up that I went ahead.”

  “Thanks. I’m planning to open up later today, and I’m sure that plate will be empty in no time.” As she walked by I snagged one and took a bite. “Yum! These are delicious! Way better than the apple I had for breakfast.”

  She grinned. “I combined two recipes to make them, and I have to say I’m pretty pleased.” She walked over to where Nabby hunkered on the counter next to Leonard’s bowl and set the cookies down. “Well, lookie here. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Nabokov up here. He’s usually more of a window cat.”

  “Me neither,” I said. “But now there’s extra entertainment on offer.”

  She leaned down to the cat, who raised his chin for a scritch. “At least you didn’t eat him. Good boy, Nabby.”

  He blinked at her, looking bored, and sat up to his full height. Astrid reached for the tank, rotating it on the counter for a better view of the betta fish.

  Nabby growled.

  Her mouth fell open, and I felt my own jaw slacken.

  “Nabokov!” I said.

  “He’s guarding the fish,” Astrid said in wonder. “Well, I never.”

  I laughed. “I think you’re right. Nabby, do you like your new pet?”

  He squinted at me, and a purr rumbled from his chest.

  Mrow.

  “How about if I put him down here on the end.” I lifted the bowl, watching Nabby. He followed me to the end of the counter, away from the register, and settled in next to the newly relocated fish tank.

  “Weirdo,” I muttered to the cat and moved across to the coffeemaker.

  Movement outside caught my eye, and I went to the front window. Detective Garcia, wearing another white shirt, only with a brown blazer this time, was unfastening one end of the tape from the back fence. Hope bloomed in my chest. Surely this was a step in the right direction.

  Then Detective Lang moved into the frame.

  Garcia’s phone message hadn’t s
aid anything about her partner coming over this morning. The hope withered a little as he pointed to the ground where I’d found Josie, then toward the park. Garcia said something, and he shook his head. He jerked his chin toward the shop. She replied and pointed straight at me, standing there in the window. I hadn’t realized that she’d seen me.

  Lang’s head rose, and his eyes met mine. He marched over and pushed open the unlocked door and stood in the entrance. “Ms. Allbright. You’re up early.” Sarcasm laced his tone.

  “I usually am.”

  “Then how is it you didn’t report Josie Overland’s body until nearly nine o’clock yesterday morning?”

  “It was closer to eight thirty, actually. I told you I overslept.”

  His lips thinned into a skeptical line. “Are you sure you weren’t trying to come up with a good story?”

  I snorted. I couldn’t help it. “Detective Lang, don’t you think I could come up with something better than waking up and stumbling onto my dead employee outside my gate?”

  Behind him, a ghost of a smile crossed Garcia’s lips as she turned away and began rolling the tape into a messy ball.

  He rolled his eyes and pushed into Scents & Nonsense.

  “Detective,” Astrid stepped toward him. “Can I offer you a cookie?”

  But he was staring over her shoulder at the counter. At Leonard the betta fish. He shouldered Astrid aside, took a few steps, then whirled back to me.

  “You stole the victim’s fish?”

  “No! Of course not.” I scrambled for what to say. I couldn’t deny that we’d been to Josie’s. The creepy apartment manager would be happy to tell the cops he’d seen us there if they asked. “We . . . I just wanted to make sure Leonard was okay. Take care of him, since Josie—” I felt my throat tighten and swallowed against it. “Since she can’t anymore.”

  Detective Lang regarded me for a long moment. His partner had come to stand in the doorway and watched us all, her gaze speculative.

  “Where did you get the key?” Lang asked.

  CHAPTER 10

  ASTRID had a key,” I said.

  The expression on his face made my stomach cramp. I racked my brain for a scent that would ease the sensation and came up empty. Was there a flower essence to assuage intimidation?

  “Because here’s a funny coincidence, Ellie,” Lang said. “I talked to Harris last night, and he told me his key to Josie Overland’s apartment went missing.” His eyes grew wide, and his mouth formed an O of exaggerated surprise. “And guess what else? He also said you visited him at the restaurant yesterday for the first time in months. Right before he noticed the key was gone! I find that timing pretty interesting, don’t you?”

  “But . . . but . . .” I stammered.

  Garcia’s expression had sharpened, though her tone remained mild. “I hadn’t realized you’d spoken with Mr. Madigan last evening, Detective Lang. You’ll have to fill me in.”

  He shrugged. “Meh. We just had a beer.”

  She stared at him for few beats, her face a mask of neutrality.

  Then I remembered something Tom Steinhart had said. “When we were there, the manager of Josie’s apartment building said someone else had been in her apartment—before you, even.”

  “Gee, he didn’t mention that to us.”

  “He didn’t strike me as someone with a particular affection for the police,” Astrid said. “I bet he has a sheet.”

  Lang lifted an eyebrow at that. “A ‘sheet’? Ms. Moneypenny, I think you might want to cut back on the television crime dramas.”

  Garcia didn’t comment, instead turning to me. “You say you already had a key to Ms. Overland’s home?”

  I gave a little nod.

  Astrid stepped forward. “I had the key. Josie gave it to me a while back.”

  Lang shook his head.

  “You were good friends with the victim, then, Ms. Moneypenny?” Garcia asked. “Because that wasn’t the impression I got from our conversation at your workplace yesterday.”

  “She gave it to me so I could feed Leonard while she was out of town,” Astrid said. “It’s what I do.”

  The detectives appeared confused. She walked over to where she’d dumped her backpack behind the counter and retrieved a business card. Handing it to them, she said, “Moneypenny Pet Care. Specializing in difficult or chronically ill animals.”

  They looked at each other and then back at Astrid.

  “I’m a petrepreneur,” she said.

  Garcia laughed. “A pet . . . I see. So you knew about the fish and told your friend here.”

  Astrid grinned and held her palms up in a gesture of innocence. “Exactly.”

  Relief whooshed through me. “So it’s okay if I keep Leonard here?” I asked. “Or is there someone in Josie’s family who might want him?”

  Lang went over to the fish to take a look. “Yeah. You can keep it for now.”

  Garcia said, “The only family we’ve been able to track down is Ms. Overland’s older brother. I doubt he’d want the fish, but we’ll let him know it’s here.”

  I blinked. “Where does he live?”

  “Silver Wells. He’s a lawyer there.”

  “You talked to him on the phone?” I asked.

  “Of course,” Lang replied in a gruff tone. “We had to notify next of kin.”

  “Well, did he have any ideas about who Josie’s enemies might have been?”

  Lang glared at me.

  “Vance Overland and his sister were estranged,” Garcia said, more forthcoming than her partner. “He refused to speak about her after we informed him she’d been killed.” She looked sad, and I felt a pang of something coming from her.

  Melancholy. Nostalgia and melancholy. She misses her family.

  Lang reached out and tapped the glass of the fish tank with his fingernail. Nabby’s paw flashed out, and the detective jerked his hand back. “Ouch! Why you—” He swiped at Nabby, who scooted out of reach. “Is that thing licensed?” he demanded, pointing at the cat who was now glaring at him from his perch by the window.

  “Of course,” Astrid said before I could respond. She held out her palm to the detective. “Let me see.”

  He extended his hand. She took it and leaned closer to examine the injury, while I scurried into the office to retrieve the first-aid kit. In less than two minutes, Astrid had cleaned and bandaged the tiny scratch as if it were a war wound.

  “Thanks,” Detective Lang said grudgingly.

  While Astrid had been playing nurse, Detective Garcia had been strolling among the displays, picking up items here and there, and then setting them down again. I’d been keeping casual track of her from the corner of my eye, a skill that anyone who works in retail for any amount of time automatically develops. Now I saw her pause with something in her hand. A stillness settled around her, and the nostalgia I’d tuned into earlier increased. I turned my full attention to her. Astrid’s gaze followed mine.

  “What’s this scent?” Detective Garcia asked. Her voice was hushed.

  “Excuse me,” I said to Lang, and joined her.

  As soon as I was within a few feet of Lupe Garcia, the sharpness of her bittersweet emotion surprised me. Not because nostalgia was an unusual reaction from customers in the shop—it was perhaps the most common feeling that people broadcast. After all, it was no secret that smell was the most primitive of the senses, and also the one most linked to memory.

  Whatever she held in her hand had sparked a very strong memory for Detective Garcia. I tilted my head to see what it was.

  “That’s a sachet,” I said. It was a simple muslin bag filled with spices. “To scent closets and drawers. The strongest smell in that one is cinnamon. It contains pieces of the bark from true cinnamon trees, unlike most cinnamon that you use in the kitchen, which is actually from the bark of the cassia tree.”
r />   “I’ve sure never smelled cinnamon like this in my kitchen,” she breathed, holding the sachet to her face.

  “Let’s see.” I leaned over, and she held the bundle out to me. Inhaling deeply, I nodded. “There are also cocoa beans in that bundle, as well as cracked cardamom.”

  A grin split her face. “That’s it! Cardamom. That’s what’s been missing.” My puzzlement must have shown, because she went on. “I’ve been trying to recreate the drink my great aunt used to make when I was a child in Albuquerque. Champurrado. It was a thick hot drink, with plenty of cinnamon like most Mexican hot chocolate. But there was a secret ingredient, and I could never quite get it right. This is very close.”

  “Hang on,” I said, and hurried back to my storeroom.

  Astrid stepped out of the way as Lang boomed, “Are you about done over there, Garcia? Maybe you could shop on your own time.”

  “I’ll only be a moment, Max,” she answered, her words measured. “And I’ll make you some of the hot chocolate I’m talking about. You’ll like it.”

  He harrumphed.

  I returned with a chunk of cocoa butter in a small plastic bag. Its ecru creaminess filled the air with a strong scent of chocolate, head-swimmingly pungent and redolent of decadence.

  “Yum,” Astrid murmured under her breath as I passed. “You are so getting chocolate cookies tomorrow.”

  “That’s it!” Garcia said when I handed it to her and she’d taken a deep sniff of the cocoa with the scented sachet. “What is this?”

  I felt the nostalgia sharpen, but the sad, melancholic element dissolved, leaving behind a lovely strong memory.

  “Nondeodorized cocoa butter,” I said. “It’s not food grade, but it is from the same source as really good chocolate. I use it in some of my lotion bars, but it’s nice on your skin by itself, too. Plus, it makes you smell like a chocolate kiss.” I smiled. “Of course, it’s also available with the scent removed.”

  “Now who would want that?” she asked. “I’d like to buy this. How much?”

  I waved my hand. “It’s yours.”

  She frowned, and her friendly expression vanished. “It doesn’t work that way. I can’t take a gift from a murder suspect.”