Nightshade for Warning

Home > Mystery > Nightshade for Warning > Page 3
Nightshade for Warning Page 3

by Bailey Cattrell


  “I’d love that. At the hotel? I haven’t been to the Empire Room in ages.”

  “Sounds good,” Larken said, and Colby nodded.

  We made arrangements to meet at seven.

  • • •

  I WENT out to the Wrangler and retrieved the bags of mulch and the rosemary topiary. After placing them around the corner by the hose faucet, I reopened the shop and headed into the office. I’d just finished making dinner reservations when the jingle of the door reached my ears, and I hurried back out with a customer greeting on my tongue.

  But the newcomer wasn’t a customer. Astrid Moneypenny strode inside with even more energy than usual.

  “Ellie! Was that Colby I saw driving down Corona Street?”

  I couldn’t hide my grin. “Yup. Surprise visit.” Then my mouth opened as I took in the stretchy baby sling wrapped around her torso. Inside was tucked a tiny sleeping . . . pig?

  She reached the counter and pressed both palms down on it. She wore a sports skirt, trail runners, and, under the baby sling, a purple LIFE IS GOOD T-shirt was covered with pet hair. Her red hair, usually braided or at least somewhat tamed with product, rose in frizzy waves around her shoulders, and her willow green eyes sparked with interest.

  “How long will he be here? Who was that with him? Is he camping nearby? When did he show up?”

  A laugh escaped my throat. “Wow. Lots of questions.” I ticked off my fingers. “I don’t know, his girlfriend Larken, they’re staying at the Hotel California, and just now.” I pointed at her charge. “What’s that?”

  “‘That’ is Precious, and she’s a teacup pig.” She grimaced. “Supposedly. It’s hard to tell. Remember when potbellied pigs were so popular, and then everyone found out they grew to be around three hundred pounds or so? Well, these are supposed to stay much smaller than that.”

  “She looks downright tiny.”

  “She looks like a baby. Which she is. Even if the guy who sold her to Mrs. Paulson—you know, the owner of the Juke Diner?—even if Precious turns out to be as advertised, she’s going to end up around fifty pounds, minimum.”

  My nose wrinkled. “Oh, Lord.”

  “Anyway, she’s boarding for the very first time at Dr. Ericcson’s, and it turns out the poor little thing suffers from separation anxiety.”

  “So Astrid to the rescue,” I said.

  She gave me a well, duh look.

  My best friend was a self-proclaimed petrepreneur. She worked part-time for the local veterinarian as a vet tech and also had her own business pet sitting and dog walking. She’d take care of any animal, but specialized in difficult pets and those with medical conditions that required special care.

  “How long do you need to keep her with you?” I asked doubtfully.

  “Another day should do it. Really, pigs are very independent. She’s not nearly as disoriented as she was right after Mrs. Paulson dropped her off.”

  Precious opened one eye and sleepily regarded me before snuffling, sighing, and going back to sleep.

  Inspiration striking, I said, “Hey, can you leave her alone long enough to go to dinner at the Empire Room with us tonight? I made reservations for seven o’clock.”

  Astrid shook her head ruefully. “Sorry. No can do. I have a date.”

  “The concert promoter?”

  “Nah. I’m done with him. Too full of himself. I met this guy at the post office yesterday. He was sending postcards back home.”

  “A tourist, then,” I said flatly.

  “Yup.” She frowned. “It’s just drinks and dinner at the Sapphire for some fun. It’s not like I’m starting a long-distance relationship with the guy.” Her hand went to her mouth. “Sorry, Ellie. I didn’t mean . . .” She trailed off.

  I waved it away. “Don’t be silly. I’ll see you tomorrow morning, then.”

  But after she left, I spent the rest of the afternoon trying not to think about Ritter Nelson, off in Alaska and up to his eyebrows in the work he was so passionate about. Trying not to think about him, and certainly trying not to miss his kind eyes and crooked smile, his easy manner and full-throated laugh.

  Not to mention how great he looked in a pair of tight jeans.

  • • •

  DASH followed me out to the Enchanted Garden that evening and looked on as I locked the front door of my house. Growing up in Poppyville, I hadn’t worried about locking anything, but ever since finding Josie Overland dead on the boardwalk in front of the shop a few months before, I’d tried to be more careful about security. The corgi settled down beneath the retaining wall. I glanced at my watch and hurried up the path toward the front gate. I’d be cutting it close to make our dinner reservation on time.

  I lucked into a parking spot on the street in front of the hotel with a few minutes to spare, which saved me from having to go around to the parking lot behind. As I got out, I realized my Jeep was two cars down from a black Escalade. Quickstepping to the front, I saw the California license plate had a five and a six in the number. It had to be the same one that had nearly run me down earlier that day. I took out my phone and snapped a picture. I’d check in later with my friend Lupe Garcia, one of the two detectives on the Poppyville police force, to find out whether it would be worthwhile to make a report.

  The Hotel California was one of the exceptions to downtown’s Western theme. Ironically, the five-story Victorian building happened to be one of the actual surviving structures from Poppyville’s inception in 1847, when hordes of hopeful miners had streamed into the foothills of the Sierra Nevada range in search of gold. A group of enterprising souls had seen the opportunity to support the rush of dreamers with supplies, food, drink, lodging, and entertainment—some innocent, and some harking back to the world’s oldest profession.

  Pauline “Poppy” Thierry had practiced the latter. She’d been a madam with surprisingly high moral standards, and a woman with a keen eye to efficient business practices. She’d certainly been as powerful as any of the founding fathers. Indeed, one of them, my great-great-great-grandfather, Zebulon Hammond, had proposed they change the name of the town from Springtown to Poppyville.

  Dodging a family of five, I climbed the stairs to the wide covered veranda of the hotel. To my right, two couples lounged in Adirondack chairs, wineglasses in hand. On the other side, three women played Scrabble at a glass-topped table, while their husbands recounted the afternoon’s golf round over lowballs of amber liquid. A large man in a cream-colored suit and Panama hat held one of the tall double doors open for me, and I murmured my thanks as I hurried inside.

  Straight ahead, a wide carpeted staircase led to the second-floor rooms. It was flanked on each side by carved wooden columns topped with stylized pineapples—a traditional sign of hospitality. Guests were gathered in clusters of sofas and brocade-covered wingback chairs, a gas fire burned merrily behind glass doors without adding heat to the lobby, and someone was tinkling out a tentative attempt at “Heart and Soul” on the grand piano. A miasma of expensive perfume, sunscreen, and clinging cigar smoke mixed with the enticing smells wafting from the Empire Room.

  The clatter of dishes further beckoned, and my steps veered toward the sound. The hostess met me with a smile, and I told her we had a reservation. The smile ebbed as she scanned her computer screen.

  “I’m very sorry, ma’am,” she said. “I’m not showing an entry for your party.”

  “But I called this afternoon—” I began.

  “Hey, sis!” Recognizing my brother’s voice, I turned to see him and Larken approaching from the direction of the elevator.

  “Hi!” she said, then gestured toward my floral handkerchief skirt. “Ellie, that blue perfectly matches your eyes.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “You look lovely.” And she did, in a simple green halter dress and white cardigan. Her hair was twisted up and clasped with a metal clip.

  Colb
y’s concession to the evening was a pair of clean jeans and a collared shirt. He kissed me on the cheek. “Sorry we’re a little late.”

  I sighed. “No problem, since they don’t have a record of our reservation.” I turned back to the hostess, who was scanning her screen with a pained expression. “Can you get us in anyway?”

  “It might be a while,” she said. “It’s a very busy evening.”

  Well, of course it was. August was always busy in Poppyville.

  “How long?”

  “Maybe an hour? Or a bit longer?”

  A waiter passed behind her, the plate of pasta alle vongole in his hand filling the air with garlic, lemon, and the smell of the sea. My stomach growled. I never had managed to get a real lunch earlier. Instead I’d indulged in more of Astrid’s lavender shortbread cookies than I should have.

  “We could check out the Sapphire Supper Club,” I said doubtfully, taking my phone out of my purse. “But they probably won’t be able to get us in any faster.”

  “Or we could go the Roux,” Colby said, his eyes dancing. “Say hi to ol’ Harris.”

  I managed not to stick my tongue out at him.

  “Behave yourself,” Larken murmured to my brother. “I’m sure we can—”

  “Ellie!” A woman’s voice from inside the restaurant cut short whatever Larken was going to say.

  Squinting into the dim light, I made out Cynthia Beck’s perfectly coiffed blond tresses and the fact that she was waving a manicured hand.

  I raised my own very unmanicured hand in reply. She pushed back from her table and strode toward me on four-inch heels. Her usual business attire had been replaced by a little black dress with plunging neckline, and her signature Chanel No. 5 hovered subtly around her like an aura.

  “Is there a problem?” she asked, looking between us.

  Glaring at the computer screen as if I could change it by sheer willpower, I said, “They lost our reservation.”

  The pained look on the hostess’s face deepened. “Would you like me to call the manager?” she asked. “Perhaps . . .”

  Cynthia flicked her fingers. “Nonsense. If they don’t have a reservation, what’s the manager going to do? Set up a kiddie table in the corner? We have two empty chairs at our table already. Find us one more, and Ellie and . . . Colby! I just realized it’s you! Good Lord, honey, you look so rough and ready with that beard.”

  I suppressed a smile as my brother turned beet red.

  Her attention returned to the hostess, who appeared relieved to have this tall woman deal with the situation. “So, bring another chair to the table over in the corner. Colby, I want to hear everything you’ve been up to since turning into an itinerant adventurer. And we haven’t met, have we?” This directed at Larken, who shook her head in wide-eyed silence.

  “Well, come on, everyone. We’ll make a party of it.” She turned to go, but not before shooting a meaningful look at me.

  Unfortunately, I had no idea what she was trying to tell me. With a mental shrug, I thought about making some excuse to be polite, but Cynthia was not one to extend insincere invitations. Besides, I was starved. So we followed behind her like three baby ducks.

  Mmm, duck. Is that duck à l’orange on that woman’s plate? I nearly swooned at the concentrated savory citrus fragrance.

  A man sat with his back to the wall at the corner table. His mane of dark hair was combed straight back from his forehead to reveal a distinct widow’s peak, and his eyes were so light blue that they looked nearly colorless in the filtered evening light coming in the windows. He didn’t get up when we approached. Instead he distributed a glare among the four of us and ended by narrowing his eyes at Cynthia.

  Colby stiffened beside me.

  Uh-oh. Maybe this is a bad idea.

  Cynthia completely ignored her companion’s grumpy demeanor, cheerfully introducing us, asking Larken’s name and shuffling chairs to make room for the extra one a waitress brought over. As we settled in, a waiter distributed menus and setups, poured water, took drink orders, and recited the evening’s specials. When they’d left, Cynthia put her hand on the man’s shoulder.

  “And everyone, I’d like for you to meet my old friend Blake Sontag.”

  CHAPTER 3

  I BARELY managed not to gape. No wonder Cynthia had given me that look. I should have figured out who her companion was. How could I not have?

  Because you’re all a-dither over Colby being here.

  Cynthia continued. “Blake, Ellie’s your interview subject tomorrow morning! She can confirm what I’ve been telling you about how Poppyville is on the rise.”

  He gave me a stony look. “The garden lady.”

  Beside me, Larken’s quick intake of breath was audible. I felt myself redden, and my appetite fled. If I’d been nervous about the interview before, now I was sure to be a complete basket case tomorrow. I could sense a sour bitterness emanating from the man: old socks and vinegar and gall.

  “Ellie’s a perfume maker, too.” Colby stepped in. “She’s really good at it.”

  “Oh, my, yes . . . ,” Cynthia started, then trailed off when she saw his lip curl.

  Blake sniffed. “The article is on green living and small-footprint housing. I’m not here to promote her business.” He spared Cynthia a glance. “Or yours, either, honey.”

  Her eyes flashed.

  I could feel the tension coming off of my brother in waves.

  Cynthia clicked her tongue. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Blake, stop being such a wet blanket.” Her tone was casual, but when she turned to look at me, I realized from the pinched look around her eyes that she’d invited us over to help promote our business community. So far it didn’t look like her efforts were going very well.

  Thanks a lot, I thought.

  However, over time I’d learned most unpleasant people were essentially unhappy people. Maybe there was a scent combination I could give him before my interview the next morning that would help. I took a deep breath, trying to release my nervousness so I could figure out what was bothering the journalist. But my spidey sense only picked up Cynthia’s frustration and mild bewilderment from Larken.

  Cynthia took a deep breath and tried again. “You remember Ritter Nelson, don’t you, Blake? He and Ellie have been dating, and you’ll be interested to know he’s up in Alaska studying . . . what is it, Ellie?”

  “Environmental impacts on the tundra,” I said. Maybe if we all played nice, Blake would get tired of being a jerk.

  “Yeah. Been there, done that,” Blake said when I paused.

  Colby stared at him. “But you wrote that piece in National Geographic about the loss of polar habitat—”

  Blake started to say something, but the waiter came over to take our orders. I opted for the clam pasta dish I’d seen the waiter carrying when we’d arrived.

  I checked my watch. That had been fifteen minutes ago. It seemed like we’d been sitting at the table making awkward conversation for much longer. I wanted nothing more than to bolt my food and hustle my brother and his girlfriend off to a quiet corner for a chance to catch up.

  A movement in my peripheral vision drew my attention to a man wending his way through the tables toward us. His sun-streaked hair waved around his face like something out of Greek mythology, and as he neared I saw his grass green eyes spark with a combination of intelligence and humor. His brown T-shirt molded to his upper body, hinting at a ripple of muscles across his abdomen and accentuating his biceps. The shirt read, “I Shoot People,” over a stylized picture of a camera.

  When he stopped at our table, I felt myself staring.

  Blake glowered up at him. “What do you want, Spence?”

  The newcomer flashed a white-toothed grin at all of us. “Just checking to make sure everything’s set for tomorrow.”

  Tomorrow? Oh, God, this must be the photographer.


  “Yeah, yeah. All ready. We’ll meet a little before ten in the lobby and go over together. Get in and get out.” Blake didn’t even bother to look at me when he said it. I felt my face grow pink.

  Again.

  “I thought you said you wanted to start at nine,” Spence said. First name or last?

  “That’s what your assistant said, too—” I started to say, but Blake cut me off.

  “Ten. It was always ten o’clock. God knows, with my insomnia I sleep little enough as it is.”

  “You should try a sleeping pill, Blake,” Cynthia said. “I couldn’t live without mine.”

  “Great idea, Cyn, but I don’t take a pill for everything like you do.”

  Her nostrils flared, and I could see the effort it took not to retort.

  He rubbed his eyes, and when he looked up, I could see how exhausted he was.

  Was that why he was in such a bad mood? Maybe. But I’d suffered from insomnia after Harris and I broke up, and I was pretty sure I didn’t take it out on everyone around me. Blake Sontag might be tired, but even if he were fully rested I didn’t think he’d be a very nice guy. Still, it couldn’t hurt to offer him my standard sleeping blend of lavender, vetiver, and chamomile essential oils when I got the chance.

  Then I saw the smile had dropped from Spence’s face. He was looking at me quizzically.

  “Are you . . . ?”

  “Ellie Allbright,” I said. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow?” It came out as a question.

  “I certainly hope so,” Spence said, eyes dancing.

  “Anything else?” Blake asked his photographer.

  “Mind if I borrow your car keys?”

  “What for?”

  “Thought I’d check out the restaurants in town.” He gestured around us. “No way am I going to get a table in here.”

  Blake sighed and fished in his pocket, then drew out a key fob and handed it to him.

  “See you at ten tomorrow.” Spence nodded to us, his gaze lingering on me for a few extra moments, and walked away.

 

‹ Prev