As I approached, I noticed Andy among the crowd. A few of the younger kids from town were surrounding him to touch his uniform and ask him questions. As he knelt down to speak with them, one kid climbed onto his shoulders. He laughed and handed the small girl his hat to wear. I waved and he waved back.
I carried with me a basket filled with my simple white unscented candles. I passed them out to anyone who asked for one as we quietly assembled to remember our heroes. Maude and Bill stood side by side, thinking about their son, who was far away from them on their anniversary weekend.
“Any left?” said Andy, coming to my side.
I handed my last candle to him.
“How’s Georgianna?” I asked.
He looked back to the monument. “She’ll survive. Turns out she and I have a very different idea of adventure. And art.”
I nodded, my eyes not leaving the monument either.
One of the little kids waved him over, and he obligingly left to see what was up.
“I like that young man,” said Cherry, who I had not noticed was standing not far from me. “I’ll always remember when you were teenagers, and he set off those fireworks for your birthday because he knew you were at the observatory.”
“He did?” I said, remembering my close encounter.
“Who did what?” said Peter, coming up beside me. He planted a kiss on my cheek which made my knees weak.
“Hi,” I said.
Peter raised his basket, one filled with cheeses, wine, and, to my delight, a new kite.
“Ready?” he said.
STELLA’S “CANDLES 101” WORKSHOP NOTES
WHY MAKE CANDLES?
Candles are a source of light, a symbol at celebrations, the start of a romantic night, a balm for the senses, the heart of ceremonies, and a wonderful way to make a house into a home.
THE ABC’S OF A WICK & FLAME
• A wick draws oil from a candle’s wax and holds the flame. It is usually made of soft spun threads that absorb the liquid wax while the candle is burning.
• The wax holds the wick in place and fuels the flame. The coolest thing about candles? Wax has a memory! Tip: The first time you use a candle, let the wax melt to its edges, otherwise it might refuse, yes, refuse! to melt beyond a limited surface area when you light it again.
COMMON SENSE WITH CANDLES
• A burning candle should not be used as a night-light. If you’re feeling sleepy, blow it out!
• Keep your candle 2–3 feet from your stuff and put it on a flat, sturdy surface . . . especially if your furry friends like to stare at flames with uncanny devotion.
HOMEWORK: Spend a night by candlelight! Maybe you have a good book you want to read?
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many thanks to everyone who helped bring the Nantucket Candle Maker series to the bookshelves. I am most grateful to my agent, Christina Hogrebe, and my editor, Norma Perez-Hernandez, who have both been such strong advocates for the series. These heartfelt sentiments extend to the entire team at Kensington Publishing, a family-run company that immediately made me feel at home.
Thanks to Jonathan Putnam and Michael Bergmann for their fantastic assistance on this book. It was my lucky day when I met you and the talented writers at the New York Society Library’s Writers Group. Additional thanks go to the Gray Lady herself, Nantucket Island, where Lieutenant Angus C. MacVicar kindly answered my law-enforcement questions, and the staff at the Whaling Museum educated me about Nantucket’s fascinating history in candles.
The list is long and the page is short, but I am so grateful to all of my friends for their encouragement. Valerie Steiker and Peggy Boulos Smith guided me into the publishing world. Jill Furman and Alicia Cleary cheered at every step. Above all, my love and endless thanks for their help go to my parents, Rini & Tom Shanahan; my talented brother, Mark; my niece, Cate; and, so deeply, to Steve, Tommy, and Carly Brecher, who have mastered the mantra “You can do it!” when I’m staring at my screen and wondering where Stella will find herself next.
Keep reading for a sneak peek at
MURDER MAKES SCENTS
The next Nantucket Candle Maker Mystery
Available March 2020
From Kensington Publishing Corp.
Chapter 1
It was my last day in Paris, and I was in heaven among candles of every size, color, and scent at Cire Trudon, the city’s finest candle store. I reverently admired a display of tapers, piled in tidy rows by color against the back wall. Then I marveled over an elegant circle of bell jars that encased sophisticated scents on a round table in the middle of the room. I lifted one jar from a candle called Byron, melting into its peppery scent, and thought how wonderful the aroma would be during a winter’s day on Nantucket. Thirty miles off the coast of Massachusetts, my hometown is a chilly place in February, and a warm scent does wonders for body and soul. My nose sated, I crossed the store with the quiet reverence one saves for museums, to admire their piece de resistance. On a credenza at the far side of the store was a remarkable group of wax busts featuring characters in French history, tempting customers to light the wicks atop their heads. Marie Antoinette stared at me, daring me to try. As if I would. Her molded hair was too fabulous to mess with.
Most visitors to Paris look forward to the cheeses and breads, the art, the bridges linking the Left and Right Banks, the sparkle of the Eiffel Tower at night. As the proprietor of the Wick & Flame, my candle store on Nantucket, I arrived for a long weekend with my own sacred list of Parisian enchantments. This beautiful autumn morning, I had already made a pilgrimage to Diptyque, the internationally renowned French candle company. My senses alit, I’d followed my visit with a stroll through the Tuilleries Gardens and over the Pont Royal, where the Bateaux Mouches floated below me on the Seine. Once across the river, I’d visited Quinetessence Paris, a one-of-a-kind establishment that leads customers from room to room of a grand home to enjoy candles designed for each living space. I particularly wanted to visit this store because, like me, it is run by a woman from a perfume family. I’m the daughter of one of the finest perfumers I’ve ever come across. In fact, I was in Paris for a long weekend because of my mother, Millie Wright. The World Perfumery Conference was taking place this week, and they had invited her to speak on a panel entitled The Art of Scent Extractions.
When Millie had called me three weeks ago to propose I meet her in Paris, I knew that the invitation was an unspoken apology. This summer, she’d had plans to come home, a rare event, but then she’d canceled at the last minute. An opportunity to visit scientists in the rain forest to learn about indigenous scents had come up. Something about absorption traps. All very scientific. The trip had ultimately led to her invitation to speak at the conference, and I think she wanted me to see that her detour had been worthwhile.
I had one caveat, which was that she had to return with me to Nantucket for a visit as well, but the truth is she and I both knew I would accept her goodwill gesture. A sorry is nice, but Paris is Paris, and this was one case where our sense of adventure aligned. Millie is happiest roaming the world, seeking unique and exotic scents to create perfumes. In contrast, I find my buzz on Nantucket, running my store, the Wick & Flame, and tackling my candle creations. I also solved a murder a few months ago, so I argue that you can discover the mysteries of the world right outside your front door.
The sales associate at Cire Trudon politely indulged me while I took a few snaps of the candle busts on display. As I zoomed in on a stern-faced Napoleon, my phone pinged a photo from my boyfriend, Peter, who was back home. His lopsided grin and the wisp of blond hair over his forehead reminded me of his boyish charm, while the look in his eye made me miss his warm embrace. I smiled at the image of him holding up four fingers, and I sent a thumbs-up selfie back to him. We’d recently hit the four-month mark in our relationship, and we were feeling pretty smug about ourselves. I hated to jinx myself, but life was good. In addition to the magic of new love coursing through my veins, my business had bee
n strong enough over the summer that I’d felt confident to leave for a long weekend abroad. Even the timing of the trip was perfect since everyone back home had begun to remind me that my birthday was coming up. The Big 3-O. I might have been imagining it, but the reminder was often followed with a look that made me feel like I had spinach in my teeth.
“May I help you?” the sales associate asked. From her subtle pout, I realized that I’d crossed a line when my attention had shifted from her candles to Peter’s text.
“Non, merci,” I said, practicing my accent. I checked the time. It was later than I’d realized. With one last tour of the establishment and a friendly “au revoir,” I picked up a healthy pace to meet Millie for a snack at a café across the street from the conference center on the Left Bank.
Today was the end of the conference and tonight we’d be heading back to Nantucket, but Millie and I had likely patronized a years-worth of cafés over the last few days. We’d had a ball sitting at small round tables, unlit Gauloises cigarettes dangling from our lips for a cinema-noire effect as we drank our café cremes and people-watched. The parade of high style, fabulous couples walking hand in hand, even the dogs enjoying croissant crumbs from the pavement beside the cafés, was captivating.
It took a few minutes longer than I anticipated to reach what had become our favorite haunt, Café Bonne Chance, because I had to wait by the Odeon as a caravan of black cars with a motorcade on each side passed. The much talked about Peace Jubilee was being held the following week in Paris. Already, the city was filling up with important foreign leaders for strategic meetings and with citizens from all walks who had opinions to voice. It was an exciting moment to be in the city. Unlike other peace summits, leaders from small kingdoms, in some cases from remote areas, were invited to share insights into how they promoted peace. Including these new voices at the table had created excitement around the globe. I couldn’t help think what good sports the Parisians were. The closed-off streets, demonstrations, and obligations that came with such an undertaking made me appreciate the simplicity of my small-town life.
When I finally arrived, Millie was already seated at an outdoor table with the coat check lady from the World Perfumery Conference, Olive Tidings. The two women both loved the spot for breakfast, and had become fast friends over the last few days while enjoying their morning’s pastries.
“Bonjour, Stella,” my mom said with outstretched arms as I pulled up a chair.
We kissed on each cheek as if we were French. We both knew how silly we’d look with such formality back home, but we could not resist. In honor of the panel, Millie’s fabulous red hair, a Wright trait that contrasts starkly with my dark, wild mane, was pulled into a soft up-do. She wore a thick navy sweater, secured with big black buttons, high black boots, and bright red lipstick. Her storytelling skills are even more striking than her looks. Her audience was in for a treat.
“Maybe it’s because we’re leaving,” said my mother, “but the croissants are particularly delicious today. I ordered one for you.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” said Olive, wholeheartedly, over a bite of her own pastry. She waved at two men in business suits, who returned a friendly greeting as they passed us. Through her job at the coat check room, Olive had seemingly met everyone.
“I think this week was a sign you need to travel more, Olive,” said Millie with a speech I knew she liked to make to anyone she thought she might convert to her nomadic lifestyle. “I can see you like people and places too much to be cloistered in that school all the time. And people love you.”
Millie and I found it endlessly fascinating that the conference’s coat checker was actually a literature teacher from an all-girls boarding school in England. Olive was on sabbatical and had always dreamed of visiting Paris. After three days of rich, French foods, however, she’d realized she wasn’t a lady of leisure. Noticing an ad in Le Monde about the conference, she’d applied for a job and landed one working at the coat check.
“I always say, greet people with a smile, or your day will be rubbish,” she said.
“To smiles,” said Millie.
The ladies clinked their cups. I ordered an espresso, and shared my morning’s excursions as they peppered me with questions and looked at my photos. Finally, Olive looked at her watch.
“I’ll say my goodbyes,” she said. “And head off to make some others. I had a lovely time meeting you this week.”
“I never say goodbye,” said Millie. True, but after six months without coming home, I knew there were some folks back on Nantucket who felt they’d seen the last of her. “And remember what I said about travel. Mi casa es su casa.”
“Thank you,” said Olive. “And be careful what you say. I have a lot of time on my hands.”
We hugged and said our goodbyes, and Olive Tidings took off ahead of us in thick-soled shoes. A stocky woman, she wore skirted tweed suits every day. She was warm enough on even the chilliest occasions with no more than a matching tweed fedora.
“We should head over, too,” said Millie, after enjoying one more croissant at Café Bonne Chance.
Picking up her large black purse, which also held perfume samples she planned to share during her presentation, Millie linked arms with me, and we headed to the last day of the World Perfumery Conference. Three blocks away, the sliding doors of the conference hotel opened automatically. The lobby was a vast expanse of people with rolly bags, name tags, and all carrying folders of some sort or other. Posters lined the walls with advertisements for new perfumes. Some of the brands were familiar, mass-market products, and others were for the kinds of companies that catered to the industry—mixers, distributors, packagers. The heart of the conference was taking place down a long, wide corridor covered in a deep red carpet off of which there were meeting rooms, large and small.
I pulled out my phone and flipped it to video. I’d been making short, documentary-style clips of the trip all weekend, and this was the highlight I couldn’t miss.
“How does it feel to be a scent extractions expert?” I said to my mom. “Look at the camera.”
“Hi.” She waved.
I was about to ask her another question, but the lobby was crowded and noisy with people bumping into each other as they headed to their panels or meetings without so much as a pardon. I decided I’d try again later at a better location.
My mom and I entered the conference’s main area where people registered or met for impromptu meetings in one of several lounge areas. We headed to a map displayed against one wall that outlined the day’s events, so that we could confirm how to get to her panel. While I located where the meeting was to take place, and where we could find a rest stop along the way, Millie opened her bag on a bench beside me and looked through her inventory one last time. She took out her vials, examined them carefully, opened one or two. She is a perfectionist when it comes to her work, and her black bag is like an on-the-go lab. She’d had her prized accessory custom designed around the time I was born by a leather-maker at the San Lorenzo market in Florence, Italy. That bag had been around so long, I sometimes wondered if it held some deeper meaning for her. Between my first name, my wild mane of hair, and my Mediterranean complexion, I sometimes fancied as a child that I could be Italian. Millie, however, had always been quiet about my father’s identity.
When I’d figured out the lay of the land, I turned on my phone again.
“Let me get a video of you in front of the map,” I said.
Millie gathered her belongings, and struck a pose like Vanna White on Wheel of Fortune.
“Welcome to the World Perfumery Conference,” she said to the camera, her arms gracefully directed to the map. “Here you will see—”
Her speech was interrupted by a collective cry from the lobby. A woman screamed, a man yelled something in French, another person cried out in Japanese.
I searched the hallway where we were standing, up and down, as panic grew like a wave among the crowd. My mind went immediately to the worst. Shoo
tings. Terrorism. I heard others around me express the same fear, which made my blood run cold. My beautiful morning, and our excitement about the afternoon’s panel, had suddenly been hijacked by chaos.
“What’s going on?” my mom said.
“I’m not sure.”
I looked for a familiar face, anyone we’d met this week, in hopes we could find out. Suddenly, I saw a group of people forming by the Grand Ballroom. They were yelling and calling for help. Their circular formation suggested that a single person lay in its midst. In moments, the fear that had grown across the crowded lobby shifted to the sort of curiosity that accompanies drivers on a highway who want a glimpse of an accident. We were grateful it wasn’t us, hopeful help would come quickly, and slightly morbid in our desire to see the scene unfold. My mom and I took a few steps forward.
“Probably a heart attack,” she said.
“I hope the French paramedics are fast,” I said.
“Meurtre,” someone cried from the middle of the crowd.
My French is rudimentary at best, but there are certain words which, when said a certain way, and given the right context, can be universally understood. This was one of them.
“Did he say murder?” I said, but I did not need to wait for an answer.
From the cluster of people in front of the Grand Ballroom, I saw the hand of a man reach out, followed by a head. The crowd parted, and we watched a young man, about my age, crawl forward. He was neither handsome nor ugly, neither flashy nor shabby. He was average on every level. He was the sort of person who might walk by you without catching your eye. The sort of person who could fade into a crowd and even into a small gathering, except for one thing.
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