Daisies For Innocence

by Bailey Cattrell

  “Elliana,” I said. “And this is Ritter Nelson. We aren’t part of any suit.”

  He blinked. “I don’t understand. You asked for me, specifically, right?”

  Ritter and I exchanged a look. “We’re here about your sister.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Josie? She’s dead.”

  Now I was the one who blinked. “Yes, I know. I . . . she used to work for me.”

  “Bully for her.” His tone was bitter as he dropped into a chair across the table from us. “What do you want from me?”

  “Well, I was wondering if you needed any help with her, um, affairs?”

  Vance snorted. “Affairs? She had plenty of those—that’s for sure.”

  Really? “I meant the funeral,” I said. “And her things.”

  He waved his hand. The disturbance in the air alerted me that the oils were heating up on the lightbulb. “I don’t want her crap. Let her boyfriend figure out the rest.”

  I leaned forward as Ritter asked, “Did you know her boyfriend?”

  Josie’s brother transferred his attention to him. “No. I haven’t talked to her for over two years.”

  “Why is that?” I asked.

  He glared at me, and I had the feeling we were about to be unceremoniously thrown out of the offices of Clary, Bittel and Sorgenson. Instead, he grated out, “Because she ruined my life.”

  CHAPTER 15

  RITTER opened his mouth to speak, then closed it when Vance rose and walked to the window. He drew up the blind a few more inches, gazing out at the street. He spoke without turning around.

  “I’m not supposed to be working in this, this hole.” His jaw worked. “I’m supposed to be on a partner track at Anderson and Moffet on the other side of town and eventually move to their offices in Sacramento. But my dear sister ruined my chances of working there, ruined my reputation in this town, and ruined my life. Now”—his arm shot out and he turned toward us with a sweeping gesture—“now I work here, researching for a class action suit against a vitamin company. Big thrills. But at least the hours are insane, and the pay still manages to suck.” Resentment flared behind his eyes with every word.

  I breathed in the subtle perfume of bittersweet from the lightbulb and asked, in the most sympathetic voice I could muster, “What did she do?”

  “Started blabbing about me to the wrong person one night in that dive club she worked at. The Calla Club.” He turned to look out the window again. “I’d worked my behind off, all the way through law school, passed the bar, while she dropped out of community college to take pretty pictures and work in that disgusting place. It’s not fair.” He whirled back. “Do you know how tough the competition is for law grads to get good jobs anymore? Do you know how many of us there are?”

  I shook my head.

  “A lot. So Anderson and Moffet are very careful about who they hire. They even bring in investigators before making an offer. I was so close to working there.”

  “The Calla Club . . .” Ritter said. I caught his eye. He knew the place.

  “Strip joint.”

  My jaw went slack. I sure hadn’t expected that.

  “She was always hanging out with losers,” he went on. “I’m not surprised one of them killed her.” The last words were choked. His head came up, and I saw tears in his eyes. And alarm. He hadn’t meant to share all this with us.

  Without another word, he stalked out, leaving the door open behind him.

  Slowly, Ritter and I stood. We looked at each other and then at the door.

  “I don’t think he’s coming back,” Ritter said.

  I nodded. “Let’s go.”

  The receptionist barely looked up from her magazine when we left.

  Out on the sidewalk, I took a deep breath to try to clear my mind. “That was weird,” I said. “A strip club?”

  “Elliana? How about you keep that little blue bottle of yours corked up tight on the way home,” Ritter said.

  I reached into to my purse and took it out. “Do you suppose . . . ?”

  He put his hand on my shoulder, guiding me toward the truck. “I don’t know. But that guy just spilled his guts to us, and he doesn’t even know us.” He opened the door. Dash jumped to the ground and hurried to a bush at the edge of the lot.

  I climbed in, and Ritter closed the door. Then he boosted the corgi back in and got in himself.

  “You know, aromatherapy blends don’t usually have that dramatic an effect,” I said slowly. “Unless someone is already primed. Scents aren’t forceful—you know what I mean?”

  He put the key in the ignition and sat back. Nodded.

  “They’re more like invitations, if that makes any sense. You know what I think?”

  The engine rumbled to life and Ritter asked, “What?”

  “Vance Overland is a lot more upset about his sister than he’s willing to let on.”

  “Conflicted,” Ritter said, putting the Chevy into gear.

  “Exactly! Sorry that Josie’s gone—but still really, really angry at her.”

  Ritter turned to me, foot on the brake. “Angry enough to kill her?”

  I bit my lip. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  • • •

  WE analyzed and picked apart our brief time with Vance Overland on the way back to Poppyville. It felt comfortable, as if I’d known Ritter forever. Which, in a way, I had. But not like this.

  Josie had revealed something about her brother to someone investigating him for a potential employer, but it also sounded as though she hadn’t realized she was causing damage. Also, Vance hadn’t implied that whatever information she’d “blabbed” about him wasn’t true. What had she revealed, though? We bandied around ideas encompassing everything from underage drinking to murder, but in the end we couldn’t know without Vance himself telling us. Or the private investigator for Anderson and Moffet.

  It had happened over two years before, though, just before Josie had moved to Poppyville. Even if Vance had actively wanted her dead, biding his time for that long seemed unlikely. Still, I wanted to pass on the information to Detective Garcia. Maybe she’d be willing to check on Vance Overland’s shady background, and while she was at it, see if he could establish an alibi. In the meantime, I had at least expanded the field of possible suspects by one more.

  “Have you ever been in the Calla Club?” I asked Ritter.

  His cheeks reddened. “Just once. Bachelor party.”

  “I don’t suppose you saw Josie there?”

  “Can’t say that I did. How old was she?”

  “Twenty-nine,” I said.

  “I think she would have been way too young to work in anyplace that served alcohol back when I was there.” He narrowed his eyes, thinking. “Do you think she was actually a stripper?”

  I held up my palms. “I wouldn’t have thought it. She always seemed so . . . not innocent. Just not worldly, you know? Trusting and open. But that doesn’t mean she wasn’t—and it doesn’t mean I was right about her, either.” I imagined what staid, uptight Harris would say if he found out his girlfriend had been a stripper. And then I thought about what Raleigh had said about secrets and everyone having them. “Maybe there was a lot more to Josie than the citizens of Poppyville knew.”

  Ritter looked thoughtful. “Did she have a best friend in town?”

  “You know, I’ve wondered about that, but it seems as if she socialized mostly with the people she worked with. And if I count as one of them, she wasn’t exactly forthcoming about herself—or her past.” My hand drifted over to Dash’s head. I began kneading the thick ruff around his neck, and he closed his eyes with pleasure. “Is the Calla Club a dive like Vance said?”

  He laughed. “Definitely. In fact, it was so bad that they’ve gone out of business.”

  “Aha! And you know this how?” I grinned.

  “Heard
it through the grapevine.” He winked.

  The trip had taken longer than I’d thought. It was nearly closing time for the shop when Ritter pulled into a parking space in front.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked. “We could go grab a bite.”

  My heart tripped. After that over-the-top grilled cheese Raleigh had whipped up for me, I wondered if I’d ever need to eat again, but I would have made the effort to prolong our time together.

  However, Astrid had texted to let me know we were on for a drive to the software moguls’ house as soon as I closed Scents & Nonsense for the evening.

  “I can’t. I have plans with Astrid.” I was pleased that he looked disappointed. “Maybe another time?” I got out of the truck. “Thanks for going to Silver Wells with me. It was . . . interesting.”

  He smiled through the window at me. “And yet it was fun, kind of. No?” He put the truck into gear. “See ya,” he called, and drove away.

  Dash waddled over and sat next to my foot. “Yes,” I said to him. “It was kind of fun.”

  • • •

  MAGGIE looked tired but happy when Ritter dropped me off at the store. She reported that sales had been decent that afternoon, some tourists but also a few locals who had stopped in to find out more about Josie’s murder. I thanked her profusely and sent her home after asking if she could work the next afternoon, figuring that I might need the time to pursue my inquiries about who might have had a motive to kill Josie.

  So far I sure hadn’t had much luck. I was ready for a break.

  Luckily, I had a few minutes of downtime. I made a cup of peppermint tea and took it out to a bench in the garden near the fence that abutted Flyrite Kites. I sat down sideways and put my feet up. Dash settled in to doze nearby.

  Nabby saw an opportunity for some extended petting, and, leaving his usual perch, jumped up on my lap. A few head butts later, he curled up and lifted his chin for a scratch. I happily complied, savoring the velvet of his fur, the purr rumbling from his chest, and the fragrant steam wafting from my cup.

  I hadn’t had much of a chance to work in the Enchanted Garden over the last few days, but it didn’t look the worse for wear. Bachelor’s buttons waved their cheerful blue heads from beside the bench. Beyond, corkscrew rush twisted skyward, interspersed with the pom-pom heads of purple allium, starting to fade. I noted that the climbing rose clinging to the fence needed a bit of deadheading, and the red-hot poker plants needed thinning. Soon the iris rhizomes could be separated, and . . .

  I looked down at Nabby, who had rolled onto his side so I could reach his soft tummy. I loved the work of gardening, but sometimes I forgot to simply enjoy the results it produced.

  So that’s what I did until Astrid showed.

  • • •

  ASTRID pulled up in her Peugeot at six thirty. A big German shepherd filled the entire backseat, her big head hanging out the window, tongue lolling. I grabbed my jacket and hurried outside, eager to see the Prairie School architecture of the Trace’s home—and to see if they could shed any light on Josie’s life in Poppyville.

  My friend waited until I fastened my seat belt, then took off like a shot toward Raven Road. Gripping the door with one hand and the edge of the seat with my other, I thanked my lucky stars I was not her frequent passenger. Astrid drove like a horde of angry bees was chasing her car at all times, jamming her Birkenstock sandal down on the accelerator and brake with equal fervor. I grinned at her through gritted teeth and braced myself against the back of the seat. Behind me, the dog seemed unfazed.

  We wound southeast out of town, turning right and then left and then right again until we were on a narrow asphalt road. I was pretty sure I hadn’t been on it since looking for a place to make out with a date in high school.

  As she drove, I filled her in on the trip to Silver Wells. It took six tries before she stopped interrupting me with questions about Ritter.

  “You should have told me he asked you out. I would have understood. God, Ellie!”

  I shook my head. “I don’t think he was asking me out on a date. I like Ritter. I really do. But I’m not going to start anything, even just a friendship—with him or anyone else—by standing you up. Besides, I want to see that house.”

  She was silent for several seconds, and I thought she might be so frustrated with me that she couldn’t think what to say. Then she looked over at me, and I saw her eyes were a little glossy.

  “Thanks, Ellie. I want you to be as happy as you can be. But I really missed you when you were married to Harris.”

  “I feel terrible about that. I don’t think I ever told you how sorry I am. I never should have let him become a wedge between us.”

  “Oh, pooh,” she said brightly. “All’s well. Ritter is no Harris—that’s for sure.”

  We both laughed. It felt great.

  “Okay, now tell me more about Josie’s brother.”

  She nodded her understanding when I tried to explain Vance Overland’s mixed-up feelings about his sister’s death. “I hope he’ll be able to reconcile his feelings in the long run,” she said.

  “Me, too.” If he didn’t kill his sister, that is.

  The terrain undulated, then flattened again, then rose again. Ten minutes later, we rounded a cliff to find a solitary house that looked as though it had risen directly from the earth.

  It sat on a ridge, and while I’d seen it many times from far below, the house was remarkable up close. The colors reflected the landscape: browns and creams, grays and muted greens. It was a solid building made up of so many horizontal lines I had to search for the verticals that held it up. Two bands of windows delineated the ground and top floors, and broad eves reached out from the flat roof.

  She parked in the circular drive and let Alexandra out. I struggled out of the seat and thankfully caught my breath on solid ground.

  Arms folded, Astrid leaned her tush against the side of her car and took in the view.

  I joined her, breathing in the cooling air with appreciation. “Nice place.”

  “Sure is.” She pushed away from the car. “Come on.”

  There was no garden, not even near the foundation. Or at least that’s what I thought at first, but when we got closer, I saw the plantings were indeed deliberate. It was subtle landscaping, indeed, made up entirely of native species. Goldenrod and monkey flower brushed the edge of the steps, and pineapple weed, a tiny version of chamomile, padded the cracks between the stones in the pathway leading to the door. As we walked, our steps released the gentle, fruity spice to whirl around us in an olfactory haze. The only nonnative plants I saw were the three varieties of flowering thyme in an urn by the door.

  The wooden slats of the narrow porch creaked as Alexandra bounded to the door, her brushy tail waving like a sentinel’s flag. The screen opened, and a white-haired man stepped out.

  “Hey, baby,” he said to the dog, kneeling to ruff her neck. “Who’s a good girl? Did you miss me?”

  She answered with a slurp of her big tongue on his chin, and he laughed. Standing, he waved us forward. Smiling brown eyes greeted us from behind silver-framed glasses. He had a square jaw and weathered skin, and wore jeans with a crisp collared shirt.

  “Astrid! It’s so good to see you.” He stepped forward and they hugged.

  The shepherd ran off the porch and began an examination of the property, no doubt to make sure nothing untoward had happened in her territory during her absence.

  “Ellie, this is John Trace,” Astrid said. “John, my friend Elliana Allbright.”

  He stuck out his hand. “Welcome to the homestead, Elliana.”

  I shook it. “Thanks. You have a beautiful house here, kind of a hidden secret.”

  John looked pleased.

  “I’ve seen you around Poppyville,” I said. “At the library. And the community theater. They were putting on Winesburg, Ohio, I think.�
�

  John looked to the sky and then back at me. “Boy, that was a fiasco. Talk about drama, and I don’t mean on the stage. Still, I enjoy working on the sets. You own that perfume shop at the end of Corona Street, don’t you?”

  I nodded. “Scents and Nonsense. Have you been in?”

  “Not yet. I’m planning on it. Heard you know your business when it comes to aromatherapy, young lady. And Gene desperately needs something to help him sleep. He won’t take pills.”

  “Oh, it’s not that bad,” said another man, joining us on the porch. He was taller, thin as a rail, with a hooked nose and a mop of graying blond hair. He wore a polo shirt with jeans and sneakers. The dark circles under his eyes contradicted his protests. My guess was that this man hardly slept more than a few hours a night, and it was wearing him down. I had the feeling it wasn’t normal insomnia, either. Something was bothering him enough to keep him up at night.

  Maybe Gamma’s cowslip cordial would help.

  “I’m Gene.” He stuck out his hand. I handled my own introduction, while Astrid returned their house key to John. I heard her updating him on Alexandra, including the jogging schedule and a slight change that she’d made in the glucosamine supplement for the dog’s arthritis. Gene invited me inside as John arranged for Astrid to take care of the shepherd again in a couple of weeks. As I crossed the threshold, I heard him say he was slated to give a talk at UCLA on practical ways to help the homeless.

  The interior of the house reflected the simple lines of the outside, and the furniture had a practical Shaker appeal. The verticals in the windows were more obvious from the inside, though they were cut sideways with slatted shutters. I took it all in with a sweeping glance, but my attention was immediately drawn to the cluster of photos on one wall. The composition reminded me of the ones on Josie’s walls. I walked over to them. The subject matter was also similar. I was about to ask if they were hers when I saw one that made the question moot.

  It was an arty shot, different from anything I’d seen of hers so far. Less sophisticated, but also full of a wild energy. But the thing that gave it away as one of Josie’s was that she was one of the subjects. She and the other woman were both scantily clad in identical off-the-shoulder cleavage-emphasizing shirts that made me appreciate the androgynous uniforms at the Roux Grill. Josie’s hair was much shorter, with chunky blond streaks, and she had on more eyeliner than Cleopatra, yet looked much younger than the twenty-nine-year-old I’d known. The other woman had her eyes closed, her head back, and had been caught in an open-mouthed laugh, her bright red lipstick contrasting with her white teeth and glossy black pageboy haircut.