“But you missed home.”
“Of course. But basically I was doing okay.”
He gave me a skeptical look. “Okay is not wonderful. That’s what she wanted for you, to live life fully, joyfully. Can you honestly say that’s what you’ve been doing, living so far away, living in a city, in L.A.?”
“Well, no. It’s difficult there. It’s noisy, the beaches aren’t the same, there’s no space or seasons. I miss . . .”
He held up the letter. “You miss Greenport. She knew that, and in the event of her death, she wanted to help you find your way back here, Willow. Back to your home.”
I grabbed another Kleenex and blew my nose. “But why did it have to be this way? Why didn’t she tell me about her concerns?”
He thought for a moment. “I think she wanted to, but she also didn’t want to step on your independence. You were doing very well, from all outside appearances.”
“But she knew better.”
He nodded. “And she wanted to help you.”
I thought about how I’d been feeling lately, especially after my ex and I split. Out of balance, annoyed by city living. L.A. was less claustrophobic than, say, New York, but it was still a city. Everything from shopping for groceries to doing laundry to getting to work was a hassle. How many hours had I spent in traffic on the 405? In airports traveling back and forth between L.A. and Arizona? Yes, my neighborhood in Studio City, near CBS Studio Center, was nice, but it wasn’t the country. It was, in fact, one street over from bustling Ventura Boulevard. The Pacific Ocean was wonderful, but I was tired of going to the beach with a thousand other people. It wasn’t the same as walking on the beach along the bay or the Sound and relishing the solitude. It wasn’t the same as being home. In Greenport. I’d often yearned for a simpler life, but not this way. Not with Aunt Claire gone, and under such suspicious circumstances.
“Willow, Claire wanted you to be happy. Be happy.”
I sniffed back tears. “How can I be happy if I feel guilty?”
“It’s not your fault she’s gone.”
I didn’t say anything.
“Willow?” He arched an eyebrow and leaned forward in his chair. “What are you thinking?”
“I think she was murdered and that Janice did it,” I blurted out, telling him about the scene in the lawyer’s office.
Nick made a face. “I’d be thinking the same thing, only I don’t believe Janice would do anything to Claire. She seemed to revere her. I’d look at Gavin Milton. He’s that bodybuilder who owns the health food store across the street and has been hassling Claire ever since he opened last year. He’s been trying to drive her out of business by doing things like undercutting prices and spreading rumors that Nature’s Way has roaches.”
“Drive her out of business? But she’s been here for twenty years!”
He shook his head. “He doesn’t care. It made her very upset. She was worried about the Fresh Face formula, too. She was very nervous that she’d be scooped.”
“Is it really that unique?”
He walked around the desk, opened a drawer, and pulled out a key. Walking back around the desk, he went over to a dark brown floorboard and pulled it up. It was the kind of hidey-hole Lane on Gilmore Girls used for her favorite music. Underneath was a strongbox. Nick used the key to open it and plucked out a large sheaf of papers, which he handed to me. “This is the formula. You could say that it’s the culmination of her life’s work. She’d traveled the world looking for the right combination of ingredients. This time, finally, she was sure she had it. It made her excited and nervous, very atypical for Claire.”
“I’ll say.” I glanced through the papers and found a list of ingredients she planned to use, including lavender, plantain, sunflower and borage oils, willow bark, and peppermint extract. She’d listed at least a dozen more ingredients. “Is this the only copy?”
“I’m not sure.” Nick put the papers, the floorboard, and the key back as he said, “But I think that’s why she wrote this letter. Maybe she had a feeling something bad was going to happen. She wanted to provide you with guidance.”
Maybe she wrote the letter for the same reason she’d gone to the funeral home. Aunt Claire’s “feelings” were the same kind of intuitive nudges I received from my inner self. Meditation, which both she and I practiced faithfully each morning, only made it stronger. Aunt Claire’s radar was right on when it came to people, situations, or places. Mine was pretty finely tuned, too, which meant I might be able to use it to find some answers . . . namely, who killed her.
Aunt Claire had been my surrogate mother, best friend, inspiration, and moral compass. Suddenly I knew what I had to do. I would stay in Greenport and carry on her vision and her work with the community and find her killer. I owed her that much, no matter the risk.
That night, sleep did not come easily. Thoughts about Aunt Claire’s letter, what Nick had said, and what I’d decided kept me as awake as if I’d had ten cups of organic coffee. Was I crazy? What did I know about running a health food store and café? Sure, I’d watched Aunt Claire handle things with ease for more than twenty years now, but that wasn’t the same as doing it myself.
And what did I know about conducting a murder investigation? Was a personal stake enough? Plus, could I really just leave L.A.?
One thing I did know was that I liked the idea of providing naturopathic care to patients in New York. The more naturopaths there were in New York, the more likely New York would be to license them. We would gain further acceptance nationwide as an alternative to traditional care.
I tried to push past and future thoughts out of my mind. I’d never get to sleep this way. I heard a thump, then another. A few moments later Ginger and Ginkgo jumped on my bed and purred soothingly. I guess they’d been in Aunt Claire’s room sleeping, probably because they felt closer to her there. I petted them as they arranged themselves, one around my head, the other by my feet. Their routine would definitely bring me warmth this winter. I’d need to get Qigong up here, too. But for tonight he’d stubbornly insisted on staying downstairs on the couch in the office.
To ease myself into sleep, I repeated one of my favorite mantras from Louise Hay, the grande dame of the positive-thinking movement. “All is well. Everything is working out for my highest good. . . . I am safe.” Affirmations work by changing thoughts from negative to positive, which in turn changes the way one feels.
I was just drifting off to sleep when I heard a huge crash downstairs. Qigong started barking. Sitting bolt upright, I considered the possibilities. Had something fallen over in the store? Or in the office?
Or was it something more sinister, someone making trouble? The cats looked at me as if to say, “What are you going to do about it?” I glanced at the phone but decided against calling the cops until I knew more.
Pushing back the covers, I crawled out of bed and headed downstairs. Halfway down, I heard movement in Aunt Claire’s office. Scurrying the rest of the way, I found Qigong waiting for me, barking loudly.
“Are you okay, buddy?”
He barked some more, wagged his tail, and headed for the office. As we rounded the corner into the produce, dry foods, and tea aisle, I saw someone running through the store, something tucked under his arm. It sure wasn’t organic lettuce. Qigong, barking, took chase.
“Hey! You!” I yelled. “Get back here.” This declaration fell on deaf ears as the person headed out the door, down the steps, and into the black night.
I grabbed a wooden yoga block and a purple strap, used for doing certain poses, as weapons and headed for the door to make sure the intruder was gone. Yes, according to every horror movie ever made, this was exactly what I shouldn’t have been doing. But I did it anyway.
As I rounded the checkout counter, I discovered that the front window had been shattered with a brick, which now lay on the floor. That was the crash I’d heard just moments before.
I zoomed outside. The intruder had disappeared. But where was Qigong? I called for him,
and he ran up to me, tail wagging, a piece of fabric in his teeth. Not only had he taken to his new name but he’d brought me a prize. I bent down, gave him a hug, and gently removed the fabric from his mouth.
“Good dog! I knew you came here for a reason.”
Under the porch light I looked at the piece of orange fabric Qigong had retrieved. It seemed unremarkable except for a label with the name of a popular organic clothing manufacturer. Maybe the organic clothing store in town sold this brand. I’d have to check it out.
In Aunt Claire’s office, Qigong jumped back up on the couch. The office looked undisturbed except for where the piece of floorboard had been moved away. Below it was a black hole. I grabbed a flashlight, looked into the hole, and felt my stomach drop. The strongbox was gone, and with it the formula, Claire’s life’s work! Too late I realized I should have put the formula in a safe-deposit box at the bank. I had failed Aunt Claire.
Feeling sick, I went back into the store and surveyed the damage. Picking up the brick, I noticed that tied around it was a white sheet of paper, attached by a rubber band. I pulled it off and, holding it by the edges to avoid smudging any existing fingerprints, turned it over. It read: Get OUT or ELSE! I felt a chilly sensation wend its way down my spine as if caused by a ghost’s cold finger. Creepy, and expensive, I thought as I looked at the big gap in the wall and broken shards of glass on the floor. Someone obviously wanted me gone. Was it the same person who had killed Aunt Claire? I shuddered at the thought as I reached for the phone to call the police.
chapter five
Dear Dr. McQuade,
I have suffered from migraine headaches since I was a teenager. I’ve been to see a neurologist and taken prescription medications, but nothing really works. Or it works, but then I get a headache again. I’d rather not take some pill to get rid of my headache, anyway. Could you recommend a natural remedy?
Signed,
Still Suffering
Dear Still Suffering,
I give you credit for wanting to treat your headaches naturally. Natural remedies can be very effective at preventing migraines. You’ll want to take vitamin B2 (riboflavin) and magnesium. Butterbur is also very effective, and you can’t go wrong supplementing with a good-quality fish oil and co-enzyme Q10. Make it a habit to include these nutrients and watch your incidence of migraines decrease markedly.
Signed,
Dr. Willow McQuade
The bleat of a tugboat out in the harbor woke me Sunday morning. Hoping the sight and smells of the sea would help soothe the raw wound of Aunt Claire’s death, I padded into her room and stepped out onto the small balcony. The view of the horseshoe-shaped harbor was spectacular twinkling in the early morning sun and populated by motor- and sailboats moored to the dockings in front of Mitchell Park. I sucked in a breath of fresh, salty-sweet air. This is what I missed living in L.A.
I thought about Aunt Claire and what she’d wanted for me, to stay here and carry on her business and serve the community. It seemed more right than ever, and today, in spite of the break-in, I decided to commit myself to my new role as the owner of the store and café. And to finding Aunt Claire’s killer and the missing formula. The cops had secured the scene last night, and I expected the detectives this morning. I also needed to call a locksmith right away. I knew Janice had a key, but I wasn’t sure who else did.
After doing a short seated meditation, showering, and dressing in my Be. Peaceful T-shirt, khaki capris, and hemp sneakers, I headed downstairs. Merrily was standing in the middle of the store, holding yet another energy drink and looking dumbfoundingly at the shards of broken glass.
She turned to me and said, “This is weird. And a mess. What happened?” She took a sip.
“I think someone is trying to send me a message.” Message received. Not that I was going to follow its dictates and “Get OUT!” Qigong trotted out of the office. I patted him on the head and examined his wound, noting that it already looked much better.
Merrily squinched up her face, thinking. “Who would do that?”
“I’m not sure,” I said, heading for the office. “But, Merrily, we’ve got a big problem. They took Aunt Claire’s anti-aging formula.” I went to the desk and began to search for a copy of the formula.
“Oh no!” Merrily’s eyes opened wide. “We all knew she was working on something big and that it had to do with a new product, but we didn’t know the details.” She began to tear up. “Claire was so good. Why did all of this have to happen? This sucks.”
That was putting it mildly. I didn’t find anything pertaining to the formula on the desktop, so I opened the top drawer of the desk. Whoever had stolen the formula must have known that Aunt Claire was very close to getting it exactly right, to the point where it would be a bestseller and be worth millions. What I couldn’t figure out was how they thought they would get away with pretending the formula was their idea.
Finding nothing, I closed the drawer. “Do you think Janice would do something like this? Throw the brick through the window and take the formula? Do you know if there’s another copy somewhere?”
Merrily twirled her hair around her finger. She’d yet to put it up into various tiny ponytails with colored bands. “I don’t know about a copy. As far as Janice goes, she was pretty upset on the phone yesterday when she called to say she wasn’t coming in. I didn’t tell you, but she was accusing you of having killed Claire. But I knew you couldn’t do that. I saw how you two were together.”
Shaking my head at Janice’s audacity, I moved on to the rest of the desk drawers but found nothing.
Merrily headed out to the store, and I followed her, saying, “Janice seems to be under the impression that Aunt Claire owed her something for her work here at the store.” Like the store, café, and formula, for example.
Merrily picked up a big shard of glass and carefully placed it in the oversized garbage can behind the checkout desk. “Janice felt like she gave her life to the store.” She gave me a meaningful look. “Of course, that was her choice, and when she’d complain about it, that’s what Claire told her. She didn’t ask Janice to be on call twenty-four/seven; she just doesn’t have a life outside of here.”
“What kinds of things did she do?” I grabbed a shard, careful to avoid the sharp end.
“She handled all the staff, the ordering, the books. She was always on call in case Claire needed something. She was devoted to her.” Merrily picked up another fragment and put it in the trash can.
“Then why change the will?”
“I don’t know. Ouch!” Merrily put her finger to her mouth. “Crap. I cut my finger. Now I’m wounded just like Qigong.” Qigong gave her a sympathetic look before padding back into the office.
Putting down the piece of glass I was holding, I grabbed a napkin from one of the tables and handed it to her. “Keep this on. Hold it tight.” I headed for the counter and the first-aid kit I knew was there. I rounded the spot where the brick sat; that and the window area had been cordoned off with police tape. Trying to ignore the creeps the police tape gave me, I entered the square counterspace and went to the cash register, below which was the first-aid kit. Opening the bright red box, I found some hydrogen peroxide.
“Let’s go in the bathroom. The blood will clean out the wound, but we need to clean it further with the hydrogen peroxide, then I’ll take a look at it.” I headed toward the tiny, white-tiled bathroom next to the back stairs, picking up some tea tree oil soap and lavender oil along the way.
“It’s a good thing for me and Qigong that you’re a doctor,” Merrily said, holding her finger and smiling as she followed.
Why didn’t my mother or Natasha feel that way? Stop it, Willow, I admonished. Focus on the task at hand. I poured the hydrogen peroxide on the wound, an inch long but not very deep. “You won’t need stitches. But because it’s a fingertip wound, it’ll bleed more than, say, a wound on your elbow would.”
I handed her the bar of soap. “From now on, use this tea tree oil soap so you don
’t destroy new cells that will help heal the wound.”
She washed her finger, and then I applied lavender oil to further disinfect the wound.
I’d also grabbed an herbal salve containing comfrey, calendula, lavender, and vitamin E, and I applied it to the wound to help it heal. Finally, I covered the wound with gauze and taped it in place. “There, good as new!”
Back in the store, I scanned the homeopathic remedies and picked out Saint John’s wort. “This is good for a wound where there are lots of nerve endings, like your finger. Take it four times a day until you feel better,” I instructed, handing it to Merrily.
“Thanks, Dr. McQuade.”
“Willow, please.”
In the office, I grabbed the yellow pages and found a local glass company. As I dialed the number, I hoped I had enough money in the till to pay for it. I wouldn’t be able to touch Aunt Claire’s bank accounts until the will was probated. Hopefully, there wouldn’t be any more incidents. Fingers crossed. As I made an appointment for the window to be replaced later in the day, the store’s other service assistant, Julian, a tall, bookish guy headed for Cornell in the fall, arrived. He took one look at the mess and grabbed a broom while Merrily filled him in on what had happened.
Next on the list was a locksmith. Locating one in the yellow pages, I scheduled for him to be here within the hour.
That taken care of, I decided to check Aunt Claire’s computer for an electronic copy of the formula. I fired up the computer and fruitlessly searched the desktop. My anxiety grew and I sucked in a breath. There was nothing left to do but deliver the bad news to Green Focus. Riffling through Aunt Claire’s Rolodex, I found the name and home number for her contact at the company, a development executive named Randy McCarty. I had to inform them that their secret project was compromised and also make sure they had a copy of the herbal formula. Randy answered on the second ring. I explained who I was and what had happened and was greeted with stunned silence.
Death Drops Page 5
