Scent to Kill: A Natural Remedies Mystery (Natural Remedies Mysteries)

by Chrystle Fiedler

  “Sales have been good, but I still wonder if I’ll be able to make a go of it and carry on Aunt Claire’s legacy,” I said.

  “What about the Fresh Face formula? You’ll be getting proceeds from the sales, won’t you? That should help.”

  Fresh Face was a unique anti-aging cream that Claire had created. The car I was driving, a mint-green Prius, was a thank-you gift from the parent company, Green Focus, for finding the formula when it was stolen after Claire was killed in June.

  I spotted a small, discreet sign with BIXBY on it and turned onto a dirt road that had surprisingly seen better days. I concentrated on not hitting any of the huge potholes as we traveled toward the water. Now the lavender smell mixed with the salty tang from the bay.

  I answered Jackson. “Fresh Face goes on sale next week, but sales will take time to build. We ought to be getting the finished product any day now. I can’t wait to see it.”

  I followed the road past a stand of beautiful white birch trees. A squirrel with a big, bushy tail skittered into the woods. We reached the end of the road and followed the signs to a parking area. I squeezed the Prius into an end spot next to a maple tree.

  I got out of the car and checked my reflection in my compact mirror. Not for the first time, I realized how much I looked like my aunt Claire when she was younger, tall and blond, with angular features, good skin, and high cheekbones. I put on a touch of organic lip gloss and decided I was ready for the party, but Jackson had other ideas. He pulled me into his arms and gave me a good long kiss.

  “What’s that all about?” I asked.

  “We’re going to be here awhile, so I needed to do that now.”

  “Good thinking.” I kissed him back and took his hand, and we followed the signs to the Bixby mansion. Walking along a narrow path, we came to a small hill. When we reached the top, we could see the house. It was all Gothic spires, pointed arches, steep gables, and towers. It looked mysterious, foreboding, and unwelcoming. Suddenly, I had the same feeling that I’d had this morning when I’d looked at the photo of it in the paper, only this time it was much stronger. I sucked in a breath.

  “What’s wrong?” Jackson said.

  I tried to shake off the feeling, not wanting to ruin our day out. “Nothing. Let’s find Simon.”

  “Do we have to?”

  “Yes, we have to.” I smiled. We walked down the hill and I spotted three huge, white production trailers parked behind the mansion. Moments later we walked past the front door of the house. Suddenly I spotted movement in one of the downstairs windows. “Jackson,” I said in a low voice. “Someone is watching us.”

  Jackson turned to look, but whoever it was had disappeared. “I think that’s your imagination, McQuade.”

  “You’re probably right.” I tried to ignore the negative feelings and focus on the day ahead. “Let’s go and enjoy ourselves.”

  chapter two

  Dr. Willow McQuade’s Healthy Living Tips

  The aroma of jasmine (Jasminum officinale v. grandiflorum) is intoxicatingly sweet, exotic, and floral. It is incredibly therapeutic for a variety of conditions. Jasmine essential oil eases mild depression, anxiety, and tension. It also balances energy and helps you feel more optimistic. It calms coughs and laryngitis, soothes sore muscles, stiffness, and sprains. You can apply it topically, use it on a warm or cool compress, put it in the bath, inhale it from your palm, or put it in your diffuser. It will make any room an oasis.

  Yours Naturally,

  Dr. McQuade

  Jackson and I walked across the freshly mown grass to an impressive yellow-and-white-striped tent about two hundred yards north of the front door of the mansion. A hundred yards beyond the tent was a ten-foot retaining wall that separated the Bixby property from an inlet and, across the water, a public beach with white sand and sparkling blue water.

  Simon spotted us, waved, and walked over. He wasn’t conventionally handsome, but he had a broody demeanor, deep chocolate-brown eyes, and a slim, athletic build. When we were living together in L.A., he would take a daily run around the reservoir where you could see the HOLLYWOOD sign. Today, dressed in an expensive suit and wearing chic new sunglasses, he looked every inch the successful TV writer.

  His show, Parallel Lives, had started shooting in August on the Warner Bros. lot, and he’d visited there twice, but he wasn’t planning to leave the East Coast again until after Labor Day. I couldn’t blame him. It was paradise here—beautiful sandy beaches, crystal-clear blue-green water, and the bustling, picturesque town of Greenport, recently named one of the prettiest villages in America by Forbes magazine.

  “You made it!” Simon said as he reached us. “I’m so glad you both could come.” He kissed me on the cheek and shook Jackson’s hand.

  “It’s a beautiful day for a party,” I said, looking up at the clear blue, cloudless sky.

  “Sure is,” Simon said, and waved at a petite blonde with a pixie haircut, who was coming toward us at a fast, determined clip. She wore designer sunglasses, a little black dress, and five-inch-high, red platform heels.

  This had to be Carly Bixby, I thought, the mistress of the mansion, Roger Bixby’s soon-to-be-ex and Simon’s new girlfriend. Simon had told me that they met at Comic-Con in July in San Diego, and they were both “instantly infatuated.” But Simon had also told me that he and Roger did not get along. Mr. Bixby was not at all pleased that his wife had already moved on and was living with her new boyfriend, in his house, for the week of production.

  Simon put his arm around her as she came up to us. “This is Carly. She’s the line producer on the show. Carly, this is Willow McQuade and Jackson Spade.”

  “Willow,” Carly said in a slightly frosty tone as she sized me up. “Simon has told me a lot about you.”

  From the way she said it, I gathered that she didn’t like that Simon talked about me at all. “It’s nice to meet you, too,” I said. “Looks like a great party.”

  “Oh, it is.” Carly sounded self-assured. “We wanted something special to kick off our East End shoot.”

  Simon beamed at her. “Carly is a whiz at organization.”

  “It was easier than producing a TV show, that’s for sure. Would you two like something to eat? The seafood is superfresh, most of the food is organic, and the cake is gluten free and even decorated with natural food coloring.”

  That sounded good to me, especially the organic offerings. I had been busy in the store and had missed lunch, a rarity. I was still running on my muffin, a healthy choice but certainly not enough to sustain me until dinner. “Lead the way,” I said.

  Simon and Carly held hands and walked in front of us. Carly whispered something to Simon, laughed, and glanced back at me. I wondered what she was saying. I got the feeling that she wasn’t going to be my new best friend.

  “I don’t think she likes me,” I told Jackson.

  “She’s probably threatened by you, since you and Simon are close. Not everyone can be as incredibly well-adjusted as I am.” Jackson took my hand and smiled at me.

  “Obviously not.”

  “Simon is acting surprisingly normal. Not like a jerk at all.”

  “Perhaps Carly is a good influence on him,” I said, not quite believing it. Then again, he and Carly hadn’t even known each other a full two months. Like many people, Simon was always on his best behavior in the beginning of a relationship. Then once you got to know him, the trouble started.

  But I pushed aside thoughts of Simon and his ability to screw things up when it came to women. If there were any problems, they were now Carly’s concern, not mine.

  The lavish seafood buffet featured Maine lobster, crab legs, littleneck clams, and oysters on beds of crushed ice that sparkled under the decorative lights in the tent. The many hot entrées ranged from baked, stuffed lobster tails and shrimp scampi to flounder Florentine, broiled scallops, and wild salmon.

  Carly, who had organized the event, was clearly health-conscious. There was a huge organic salad and organic corn
and lots of side dishes, including organic potato salad, tabouli, and couscous. For dessert, there was an extravagant five-tier red-velvet cake, emblazoned with GALAXY on the bottom, in midnight blue. Planets such as Mars and Saturn were embellished on other tiers of the cake in bright neon colors. On top was a crystal ball and a cartoonish figurine of MJ, the psychic.

  We managed to find a table for the four of us and started eating. Every bite was delicious.

  “Carly, this food is incredible,” I said as I tucked into Maine lobster, littleneck clams with hot sauce, and couscous and a garden salad. “It’s all so delicious and healthy.”

  “And Willow is hard to please,” Jackson assured her.

  “That’s not true,” I replied. “I just like organic, humanely raised food that is good for you.”

  “Me, too,” Carly said.

  “I have to admit, you two have made me a convert,” Simon said, and took a sip of his martini.

  A big man with a weathered face and downturned mouth took a seat at the next table. He didn’t look to be part of the L.A. crowd that had flown in for the shoot, and neither did the woman who accompanied him. She was thin, with a pinched face and wispy, gray hair. I guessed he was in his late seventies; she looked as if she might be ten years younger. He wore shapeless jeans and a short-sleeved, plaid shirt, and she wore a faded navy cotton shift. To my surprise, a good-looking guy in jeans and a T-shirt who looked like he was in his late twenties, sat down with them.

  Simon leaned over to me and whispered, “That’s James Russell, the Bixby estate caretaker; his wife, Sheila; and their son, Lucas. They’ve been here forever, Carly says.”

  “Nice of you to invite them,” I said as I put a dollop of hot sauce on a littleneck clam and ate it. It tasted like the sea.

  Carly shook her head. “I didn’t. It must have been my ex-husband, Roger. They’re not exactly sociable. They live in their own little world, in a cottage on the west side of the property, down by the lavender farm. I’m surprised they’re here.” She got up and went over to their table. “Thanks for coming, James. I hope you’re having a good time. Are you enjoying your meal?”

  “Fine,” James said, and put his head down and kept eating.

  “It’s very good,” Sheila added. “Thank you for having us, Carly.”

  Lucas remained silent.

  Carly exchanged a few words with them, then came back over to us and sat down. She took a sip of her martini. “Well, I tried. They aren’t the easiest people to talk to.”

  Simon patted her hand. “Enjoy your meal, honey. Forget about them.”

  After we finished eating, we left the tent and walked over to the retaining wall. By now, it was midafternoon, the hottest time of the day, and beyond the retaining wall, the beach across the inlet was packed. We lingered for a few moments, surveying the grounds.

  Off to the right in the gazebo, I noticed a woman with flaming-red hair piled on top of her head, and dramatic eye makeup in shades of blue and purple. She wore colorful, flowing robes that reminded me of the coat in the musical Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat and red, high-top sneakers that matched her red nails. She was arguing with a man with a graying goatee and tiny glasses, who wore a white linen suit. He reminded me of a younger Colonel Sanders. Both of them looked to be in their early fifties. Simon walked out of the tent and over to us.

  “Is that the TV celebrity MJ McClellen?” I asked.

  “The one and only,” Simon said. “Let me get Carly to introduce you.”

  Simon disappeared inside the tent and moments later came back with Carly, and we headed over to the gazebo.

  “Join us,” the man drawled when we reached the gazebo, the argument with MJ clearly over. His accent identified him as coming from somewhere south of the Mason-Dixon Line. “The more the merrier. I’ve got two bottles of Cristal in the bucket.” He tried to hand us two glasses of champagne. Simon and Carly stuck with their martinis and declined.

  “No thanks,” Jackson said. “I don’t drink.” Jackson belonged to Alcoholics Anonymous and had been sober for years.

  I’d never been much of a drinker either. “None for me, thanks.”

  “You all are missing out,” the man said, taking one of the glasses and draining it. “This is real good stuff. It should be, for the price.”

  “This is MJ and Rick McClellan,” Carly said, making the introductions. “MJ, Rick, this is Willow McQuade and Jackson Spade.”

  “Nice to meet you both.” Rick shook our hands. “Carly told us you two would be coming. I take it you are some kind of natural doctor, is that right?”

  “I’m a naturopathic doctor, yes.”

  “Now what in the heck is that?” Rick gave me a charming smile.

  I smiled in return. “Naturopathic doctors take a holistic view, putting body, mind, and spirit in harmony. I work with clients to remove any blockages, so that the body’s healing mechanism can work optimally.”

  “Say what, darlin’?” He cocked his head to the side.

  I smiled. It wasn’t always easy to explain what I did with patients. “In other words, we try to stop problems before they happen. Conventional medicine is more about treating symptoms, not helping patients become more healthy so they don’t get sick in the first place. We focus on body, mind, and spirit. The whole picture.”

  “Does that mean you need to eat twigs and leaves?” He laughed at his own joke.

  “Oh, Rick,” MJ said, clearly embarrassed. “Please excuse my husband,” she said to me. “I’m afraid he isn’t very conversant in alternative approaches. But I find them fascinating.”

  She, too, had a Southern accent, though hers wasn’t as pronounced.

  “And you’re a cop, right?” Rick said, turning his attention to Jackson.

  “I used to be. But I’m off the job now, and on disability.” Three years ago, Jackson had been a policeman working in Nassau County. One night he had been chasing a suspect when he slipped on black ice and injured his back. Conventional treatments such as physical therapy and chiropractic treatments hadn’t helped, but he found some relief using the natural products that Aunt Claire recommended. Now, with help from me; and Allie, the masseuse; and Hector, the acupuncturist; he was significantly better.

  “You look pretty healthy to me.” Rick chuckled. He seemed relentlessly upbeat, and I couldn’t help wondering if it was real or an act.

  “Rick,” MJ said, “leave them alone. Just ignore my husband, please. He doesn’t have an internal censor, like normal people.” She rolled her eyes and sipped her champagne.

  “That’s okay,” Jackson said. “No worries.”

  I tried to change the subject. “It’s so exciting that you’re shooting your show here.”

  MJ nodded. “Yes, Roger and Carly made a good choice. It’s unfortunate that his father, Max, isn’t still alive. I would have liked to talk with him about his experiences. He used to regularly hold séances in the mansion.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, he was quite the enthusiast.”

  “What do you expect to find here?” I asked, curious.

  “I’m picking up a lot of negative energy emanating from that mansion,” MJ said, and took another sip of champagne. “Perhaps dangerous spirits as well, which can make it quite perilous for those of us who are still alive.” She turned to look at the mansion. “I haven’t been inside yet, so I don’t know exactly what I’ll be dealing with, but my research shows that there was a murder here at the end of Prohibition. A caretaker named Daniel Russell was killed.”

  “Murdered?” I felt unsettled. Getting a negative vibe was one thing, but it was too soon to be dealing with murder again, even if it did happen eighty years ago. “So you think Daniel Russell’s spirit is still here?”

  MJ gazed at the mansion. “It’s very possible. Something terrible happened in that house.”

  I decided not to mention my own feelings about the place. “If you do find a spirit in there, what will you do?”

  “Id
eally, I try to understand the spirits and communicate with them so they can move on. But it’s not always that easy.”

  Rick put his arm around her shoulders. “MJ is the best darn psychic on the tube. If there are ghosts in that house, she’ll find ’em and show ’em the door.”

  MJ came up to me while the men and Carly continued to talk. I noticed that she had a slight limp, as if she were favoring her right leg. She leaned in close to me. “I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but I’m sensing you had a recent traumatic loss.”

  For a second that spooked me. How could she possibly have known about Aunt Claire? But then, I reminded myself, I had to keep an open mind. After all, I’d picked up on the negative energy from the house, so it was certainly possible that a psychic such as MJ could sense people’s spirits. It was also possible that Simon or Carly had told her about Aunt Claire’s untimely death. And if she was doing research on the area, she might have seen a newspaper mention of it. “Yes, my aunt died in June.”

  MJ looked at me sympathetically. “That was a tremendous loss for you, wasn’t it?”

  I could only nod. A tremendous loss didn’t even begin to cover it. Aunt Claire was like a mother to me. She had accepted me the way I was and had championed my career in natural medicine. My mother always wanted me to be MD, like my sister, Natasha, who had graduated from Harvard and considered my chosen career path a waste of time. I’d become weary of trying to convince her that I was a “real” doctor. My training had been rigorous. I’d studied with some of the best in the field, including Ray Richmond-Safer, MD, America’s favorite “natural” doctor, bestselling author, and teacher at the highly respected Arizona Center for the Advancement of Natural Medicine.

  MJ interrupted my train of thought, saying, “Perhaps I can help.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We could hold a séance to get in touch with your aunt. It might ease your mind to know how she is doing on the other side.”