Daisies For Innocence

by Bailey Cattrell

  I wish you’d lived longer, Gamma. Mama, too.

  I’d had that thought so many times it was like a prayer. But surely there was someone, somewhere, who could help me.

  Astrid came out with the shortbread cookies. I didn’t mention sleeping outside, and she let it drop. Instead, I filled her in on the scene in the Enchanted Garden the evening before, including Harris’ descent into violence.

  “I’m not surprised by the first bit,” she said, dunking a cookie into her coffee. “As for Harris being a possible murder suspect? How would you feel about an I-told-you-so?”

  CHAPTER 23

  ASTRID offered to vacuum before the shop opened. It was a job I happened to dislike, so I happily took her up on it.

  In the office, I forced myself to plow through some business things that had been piling up. I opened my e-mail and sent information to the bride-to-be about her lotion bar wedding favors, along with an offer to ship them if needed, and an invoice. Dealing with e-mail reminded me of Bob Farsen.

  The more I played my conversation with Josie’s former boyfriend—if that part had been true—over in my mind, the more convinced I became that, while he was definitely icky and a little scary, he probably hadn’t driven to Poppyville and killed her. He’d really sounded as if he didn’t know where she’d been living.

  On the other hand, tracking someone on the Internet just wasn’t that hard. I wondered why he hadn’t done that.

  Unless he had. Maybe Bob was a really good liar.

  Get back to work, Ellie.

  I’d been paying Maggie with cash the last few days, and needed to make her employment at Scents & Nonsense all legal and official. As I went to my payroll screen, I paused.

  I owed Josie for four days of work.

  Her absence hit me all over again. I considered the amount I owed her. What would she have wanted me to do with it? Send it to her brother? Not hardly.

  Then I remembered the Trace Foundation. They had been going to help Josie. Now I’d donate double the pay I’d owed her to them. They had a convenient form online, and in no time it was done.

  I sat back, distracted by thoughts of Josie. All my options for additional suspects seemed to be fading away.

  Except for Harris. He was looking more and more as if he might have done it. Could I have actually married a murderer? If I had, then I had worse taste in men than I’d even dreamed.

  Still, I couldn’t bring myself to believe he’d killed Josie. He hadn’t had a motive, not a real one. Of course, neither did I, but that didn’t seem to matter to Harris or Max.

  Josie and her photography. The difference between her early work and the streamlined—and stunning—depictions of the natural world.

  Those early glamour shots.

  With the daisy tattoo. Tattoos. Could it have been Inga with Josie in the photo at the Trace’s? That made my brain hurt. Or maybe it had been another employee of the Calla Club—but then why would Inga have the daisy on her shoulder?

  I needed to see that photo again.

  I made a decision and marched out of the office as Astrid was turning the sign in the front window from CLOSED to OPEN.

  “Turn it back around,” I said. “And come with me.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “To visit the Traces again. Can you call them and let them know we’re on our way?”

  She tipped her head to the side, eyes narrowed. Then she gave a nod, flipped the sign back, and went to dig her phone out of her backpack.

  • • •

  I’M driving,” I insisted.

  Astrid shrugged. “Good thing, because I’m on my bike.”

  “Dash, you stay here and take care of things, okay?”

  If a dog could frown, he did.

  “Please,” I said as I plucked a late bloom from the lily of the valley in one of the patio pots.

  He made a sound of disgust and trotted out, sparing me a look over his shoulder before joining Nabby by the mosaic wall. From there, he glared at me as I locked the back door.

  Astrid followed me across the street to where the Wrangler was parked and climbed in. She smoothed her cotton knit camping dress over her knees.

  “Put on your seat belt.”

  Giving me a sidelong look, she complied.

  “Are they home?”

  She nodded. “And expecting us. But they don’t know why we’re coming—and neither do I.”

  I drove nearly as fast as she had in the Peugeot, and on the way I explained about the daisy tattoos.

  “Really? I don’t think I ever noticed it—on either of them.”

  “It was on their shoulders, identical spots, where it would usually be covered up. And I never would have given Inga’s a second thought if I hadn’t seen it on someone who worked at the Calla Club with Josie.”

  “So we’re going back to the Trace’s because you want to see that photo again?”

  “Bingo.”

  The morning view from the angled house on the ridge was even more spectacular than it had been in the evening. Alexandra greeted us on the porch, tail whooshing back and forth. John answered Astrid’s knock with a puzzled smile.

  “Astrid. Ellie. What can I do for you?”

  I stepped forward. “I’d like to see one of the photos you have on your wall. One that Josie took.”

  He nodded. “All right. If it’s important. But please be quiet. Gene followed your advice about the bundle of thyme, and it really seemed to work. I’m loath to wake him.”

  “Quiet as church mice,” Astrid said.

  Slipping off our shoes in the foyer, we tiptoed into the living room. I went straight to the picture taken in the Calla Club. Astrid came to stand beside me.

  “What do you think?” I asked in a low voice.

  “Gosh. It’s awful hard to tell. Her eyes are closed. Her makeup is almost stylized, like a costume.”

  I nodded, disappointed. I really had thought another look would reveal whether or not the picture was of Inga.

  “Do you want to see the other ones?” John asked from behind us.

  I whirled to face him. “You have more of these?”

  “About a half dozen that were going to be part of the gallery show.”

  Astrid and I exchanged a look.

  “Would you mind showing them to us?” I asked, feeling excited.

  “Sure,” he said. “Follow me.”

  He opened a door and led us down wooden slat stairs to a cool, finished basement. I detected old mildew and laundry soap.

  “Over here,” he said, and pulled back a sheet from several white-matted photos on a table and pointed. “These are the ones I think you’re interested in.”

  Sure enough, they were more shots inside the Calla Club. Eagerly, I flipped through them. One showed a woman in the same outfit Josie had worn serving drinks at a table. I could tell from one glance at her nose that it wasn’t Inga. There was no one on the stage. I moved to the next one.

  “There,” Astrid said, and lightly touched one with her finger.

  I leaned down. This one was just of the woman who appeared in the picture with Josie upstairs. Full face.

  Hang on.

  Her hair was short and dark, not long and perfectly blond as I’d seen it just the day before. She’d lost a lot of weight in the years since this photo had been taken, but if you ignored that, it was Inga Fowler’s face.

  What did all of this have to do with Josie’s murder? Anything? Everything?

  Astrid said, “Thanks, John. This might be useful in investigating Josie’s murder.”

  He blinked. “Oh, gosh.”

  “Can I take this photo?” I asked. “I’ll be very careful with it.”

  He waved his hand. “By all means.”

  Lifting it, I saw the one below it. It was another of Inga, but my li
ps parted in disbelief as I saw who the bartender standing behind her was. Apparently Karl Evers, the redheaded cook at the Roux Grill, hadn’t always been a cook. And, like Josie, he must have moved to Poppyville from Silver Wells. Maggie had mentioned that he acted as though they’d dated before—and maybe they had. At any rate, they knew each other as coworkers in the defunct Calla Club.

  And they both knew Inga.

  I pointed it out to Astrid. She looked surprised, and then confused.

  Pretty much the way I felt, too.

  “Can I take this one, too?” I asked John.

  “Of course. I want to help any way I can.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Astrid, we need to get going.”

  Outside I hurried to the Wrangler, stashed the pictures safely behind the seat, and retrieved the sprig of lily of the valley I’d plucked in the Enchanted Garden. I went back and handed it to John, who was standing on the porch.

  “Here,” I said, thrusting at him. “When Gene wakes up, have him take a sniff of this.”

  Looking bewildered, he nodded. “Okay.”

  If it worked for Mr. Finder all those years ago, maybe it will work for him, I thought.

  On the way back down to Poppyville, Astrid asked, “So what do photos of Inga and the cook and Josie have to do with anything?”

  Somehow, adding new information to the mix had only muddied the waters.

  Think, Ellie.

  “After all, they were all taken so long ago,” she said.

  I guided the Wrangler around a curve. “She looked happy. At ease. Nothing like the Inga I know now.” What had happened?

  Brock Fowler, mover and shaker extraordinaire had happened.

  Stripper or waitress back then, Inga now had a different life with a rich husband and two adorable kids.

  “You’ve heard the rumor that Brock Fowler wants to run for office, right?” I asked.

  Astrid nodded.

  “How do you think it would go over with his future constituents if they found out his wife worked in a strip club?” I asked.

  Her mouth dropped open. “Blackmail.”

  I nodded.

  “Josie?” Astrid shook her head. “You think Josie was blackmailing Inga? And Inga killed her? Holy cow!”

  I frowned. “I don’t know. Not only would it be hard for Inga to physically overpower Josie, but she was out of town with family at the time Josie was murdered. The detectives confirmed it.”

  My friend blew a raspberry. “Detectives.”

  “Admittedly, I don’t trust Max Lang to get it right, at least not in this case, but I do trust Lupe Garcia.”

  I continued driving and thinking out loud. “Brock Fowler must not know Inga had worked at the Calla Club. With his political aspirations, I could see how that might be a problem. But did Inga really think something like that would stay hidden if her husband entered public life? She’s uptight, but she’s not stupid. On the other hand, maybe Brock had already found out, and he thought he could hide his wife’s past. In that case, he might have wanted to shut Josie’s mouth.”

  “Except he had the same alibi as his wife,” Astrid pointed out. “Or . . . he might have left his family in Sacramento, using some business thing as an excuse, come back to Poppyville and killed Josie, then rejoined them.”

  “You have a devious mind,” I said.

  She smiled.

  “That seems pretty complicated. Still, it’s possible.” I swerved to avoid a pothole. “Remember when I commented that John and Gene were rich enough to have someone kill Josie for them? Brock Fowler certainly has that kind of money, and then some.”

  “Inga sure is a jumpy one,” Astrid said, utterly complacent about my unusually fast driving.

  I nodded. “And it was really bad when she found out about the murder. She was really upset by the news.”

  “Maybe because she knew her husband was somehow responsible,” Astrid said.

  Only Inga could tell us that. I pulled over in a cloud of dust and reached for my phone, then stopped. I didn’t want to alarm her if she knew something about Josie’s death. Who knew what she’d do then? Would she run? Tell her husband?

  Instead, I rooted around and found the card Detective Garcia had given me the first time we’d met. I entered the number, and after four rings it went to voice mail.

  “Detective Garcia, it’s Ellie Allbright.”

  Astrid gave me a look.

  “Listen, I just discovered something else. It turns out that Inga Fowler knew Josie from when they both lived in Silver Wells.” I debated. It seemed wrong to disclose Inga’s past as a stripper when she’d been trying so hard to keep it secret. “They, um, share a past.” Let Garcia figure it out. “And Karl Evers, one of the cooks over at the Roux Grill, knew Josie in Silver Wells, too. I don’t know if that means anything. He’s the one who’s dating the waitress I told you about, Shyla. The one who hated Josie.”

  Ugh. What a mess.

  “Anyway, I’m going to go pop over to see Inga now. Astrid Moneypenny is with me. I just wanted to let you know. ’Bye.”

  “Now?” Astrid asked.

  “This feels . . . urgent, you know?”

  She nodded once. “I agree.”

  “I don’t want to try to catch her in the gym again. That’s no place to talk about something like this. And I don’t want to give her a heads-up that we might be suspicious about her past.”

  “Right,” my friend said. “Because if her husband is a murderer, then he might come after us.”

  I blanched. She wasn’t wrong.

  Brock Fowler had a lot of money from a lot of ventures and investments, but I knew he worked out of his realty office in Poppyville for the most part. Still sitting on the side of the road, I looked up the number, and as a precaution, set my phone to “private” before I dialed it.

  “Gold Rush Realty,” a male receptionist answered in a bored tone. “How may I direct your call?”

  “Is Brock Fowler in the office?”

  “One moment.”

  A Muzak version of the Rolling Stones’ “Sympathy for the Devil” entertained me for one of the longest minutes of my life before the phone was picked up with a rattle.

  “Brock Fowler.”

  I hung up.

  He was in his office, so if we wanted to talk to Inga without him around, this was our chance. Still, the Fowlers lived in the old Miller house, which was in a fairly secluded area. That had made it a terrific place to have parties as teenagers, but perhaps not so great if her husband happened to come home while I was there.

  I looked over at Astrid. “Are you game?”

  “Consider me your trustworthy sidekick.”

  Grinning, I put the Jeep in gear. “I just want to make one quick stop at my place on the way.”

  CHAPTER 24

  DO you know where we’re going, or do you want me to navigate?” Astrid asked as we climbed back into the Wrangler.

  In my pocket, a variation on the blend of essential oils I’d taken when Ritter and I went to see Josie’s brother felt oddly heavy. This time I’d left out the white poppy and added a different ingredient.

  Chestnut for justice.

  “I know the way.” Twisting the key in the ignition, I added, “Haven’t been there since I was in college, though. Wonder what they’ve done to the inside of the place.”

  My friend pointedly drew her seat belt across her lap and fastened it.

  The Fowlers lived in a big log home nestled into the pines. It looked like a mountain lodge, with a deep wraparound porch, thick railings, and two smaller decks, accessible from the upper floor. The cedar shake roof looked like the layered scales of a pinecone, and the peaked dormers had been set back to fit with the rest of the architecture. The foundation was of rough mismatched rock, giving the overall impression of a wooden houseboat beached
on the shoals of a mountain river.

  I parked the Wrangler at the edge of the circular drive on the west side near a copse of trees. Thinking to myself that the Fowlers needed to mitigate the flammable plant material around their home in case one of the state’s ubiquitous wildfires raced through this area, I got out. I grabbed the two pictures I’d borrowed from John Trace and closed the door. It was a bit after noon, and I had to admit the trees provided nice shade.

  There were no bikes or toys or evidence of Inga’s perfect children anywhere in the driveway. Then I spied a swing set and large play area at the end of the house, where toys had been scattered with wild abandon, and smiled.

  I knocked on the door. No response. Astrid reached over and pushed the doorbell. That elicited rapid footsteps inside, and Inga flung open the door.

  Her hair hung in smooth waves over both shoulders, and she was dressed in a loose men’s-style shirt worn over beige Capri pants. She was barefoot, barefaced, and wide-eyed. She didn’t look surprised to see us; she looked shocked.

  Her gaze ping-ponged between us. “Ellie? Astrid?” Then she saw the photos I held, and her shocked expression soured to disgust and anger. “You, too? How many people has she dragged into this mess?” She stepped back to let us in. “You’re early.”

  Astrid and I exchanged puzzled looks and went inside. My mind raced, fitting pieces together, making connections.

  When the latch had clicked behind us, I turned to Inga. “I think there’s a misunderstanding—”

  “Let’s just get to business,” she interrupted. “And then you can be on your way.”

  I stared at her.

  “What are you standing there for? Sit down, and I’ll get it. But if you think I’m going to serve you tea and crumpets while you wait, you’re sorely mistaken.” She turned and strode across the room, going through an arched doorway to the dining room.

  Astrid looked bewildered.

  “Let’s just sit down,” I said.

  We perched together on the sofa and waited for Inga to return.

  The interior of the house was quite different from the last time I’d been inside. The Millers had decorated with lodge-style everything, from deer heads on the walls to Hudson Bay blankets on the leather sofas and a faux butter churn by the fireplace. The Fowlers had spruced up the log interior with bigger windows and light wood furniture upholstered in white. The wooden plank floor was padded with two enormous sheepskin rugs, and the antler chandelier hanging from the vaulted ceiling had been replaced with a pewter affair. A wide staircase led to the second floor, and they’d kept the original rough-hewn railing. I could see white-fabric-covered dining chairs through the door Inga had gone through. They had replaced the benches that used to surround the Miller’s huge barn-door table.