Nightshade for Warning

by Bailey Cattrell

  Or eating deadly nightshade?

  Polly continued. “I told her it would be better to let people explore if they wanted to, but she’s adamant.”

  Astrid sat back in her chair and casually asked, “So, who else is interested?”

  Polly smiled enigmatically.

  “You won’t tell us?” I asked.

  “I’m afraid we don’t share that kind of information.”

  Jeez. You’re a real estate agent, not a priest. I pushed a little more. “Are we talking about people who live in Poppyville, or outside interests?”

  She shook her head. “Sorry.”

  “Will you at least tell me who’s looked at the place? You don’t have to tell me whether they want to buy it or not.”

  Astrid gave me a puzzled look.

  Polly’s jaw set and she stood. “I’m sorry. I really can’t tell you who else has made inquiries.”

  “Would it be possible to get the key to the lock on the gate, so I can at least walk the property?”

  She brightened. “Oh, Ms. Allbright, I’ll be more than happy to take you out there myself. When would you like to go?”

  Stifling a sigh, I said, “The sooner, the better. You know, since there are so many other potential buyers.” I couldn’t quite keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

  The real estate agent ignored it. “How about this evening, then?” She reached for the cell phone on her desk and brought up the planner.

  “It would have to be after six,” I said. Surely Tanner Spence would be finished taking photos by then? I looked at my watch and saw it was already quarter to four.

  “Ohmagosh. I have to go.” Jumping to my feet, I started backing toward the door. “Sorry. I’m late for an appointment.”

  Astrid’s lips parted in surprise. Then realization dawned, and she hurried to follow.

  “Okay. Let’s say six thirty tonight, then,” Polly said, rising quickly and pacing us like a tigress. “Do you want me to pick you up?”

  I shook my head. “Can I meet you here and follow you out there? I’d like to have my own vehicle.”

  “Sure. I’ll see you then.” She looked skeptical, though, and I realized she suspected I wouldn’t show up.

  “I’ll be here,” I assured her over my shoulder and hightailed it out to the front walk.

  “Ellie!” Astrid called, hurrying to catch up.

  I stopped halfway to my car and whirled to face my friend.

  She stopped and eyed me. “You okay?”

  I hesitated, then shook my head. The nervousness I’d carried around waiting for Blake Sontag’s arrival in town suddenly returned with a vengeance. Now I babbled, “What was I thinking, agreeing to this interview with Tanner Spence? I’ve neglected the Enchanted Garden for a whole day, and really, my house isn’t all that interesting. I mean, why would anyone want to read about it? Plus, Blake Sontag is dead. Oh! And what about my hair?” My hands flew to my head.

  My friend snorted and pulled my hands down. “Stop it. You haven’t tended your plants for a whole day? I’m sure it all looks fantastic, as usual. And your house is charming and adorable.” She arranged a curl on my temple. “And so are you. Now take a few deep breaths in the car, make like Wonder Woman, and go rock that interview.”

  I nodded, feeling a little better. “Right. Yes. Okay.” We hugged, and I gratefully breathed in the scents that clung to her hair: cinnamon, wet dog, antiseptic, and love.

  “And thank you,” I said, pulling away and heading for the Wrangler.

  “Pshaw,” she said. “Good luck!”

  CHAPTER 12

  I WENT through the garden gate and was heading to my house to change my clothes when I heard Maggie’s laugh echo through the sliding glass patio door. It was high-pitched, almost a giggle, and not something I associated with the solidly built grandmother. Veering toward the sound, I stepped inside.

  Tanner Spence stood across from my assistant, his right hip leaning against the counter. His hair was pulled back into a rough ponytail, and he wore surf shorts, a blue T-shirt, and flip-flops. Quintessential California guy. His forearm was casually draped over Nabby’s red plush bed as he petted the rumbling feline. Maggie’s expression was a lot like the cat’s—intent and practically squinting with pleasure. A collection of bags and hard-sided cases were piled at the photographer’s feet.

  “And then the truck was swallowed whole, pulled down into that sinkhole like it was quicksand or something. Maggie, you should have seen it.” His eyes danced as he related the story.

  “My word,” she said with an awed shake of her head. “You’ve certainly had an interesting life.” She looked up. “Oh! Ellie’s here! Mr. Spence got here a little early and was telling me tales about his job with the Washington Post. War zones and everything. He’s even photographed the president!”

  “My former job,” Spence gently corrected and turned to regard me. “I haven’t worked for the Post for years.” He stopped and searched my eyes. “Is this still a good time? I know I didn’t give you much notice.”

  I nodded and realized I hadn’t said a word yet. I took a few more steps toward them and gestured vaguely outside. “Sure. I was going to change my clothes, though. Or does it matter? I know you’re here for the house, not me. So maybe it doesn’t matter what I wear, or don’t wear . . .” I trailed off as I felt the color rise in my cheeks. “I mean—”

  “You look terrific,” he cut in. “Those stripes on your shirt will photograph well, and I’ll certainly include you in some of the photos.” He was smiling, all his attention on me now. It was both disconcerting and gratifying. “I like to see how things pan out in a piece like this, you know? Organically. So maybe you could show me around your place first, and I can ask you some questions for the article. Then we’ll capture some of that late afternoon light for the exterior shots.”

  “Sounds good,” I said, feeling slightly less nervous. Spence seemed nice as pie. If Blake Sontag had actually interviewed me, I would have been a complete mess.

  The photographer bent to pick up his camera case and a black bag. The bag made me think of the body bag they’d wheeled Blake out in, and a wave of exhaustion suddenly washed over me. I had to figure out who the real killer was before the authorities arrested Larken. And this man had worked closely with the victim.

  Maybe he’ll be able to help. On the other hand, anyone who had to work with the not-so-delightful Blake Sontag might count as a suspect. I sure wouldn’t have wanted to deal with him for any length of time.

  “Can I help you carry anything?” I asked.

  Maggie moved around to the front of the counter. “I can help, too.”

  Spence laughed. “Thank you, ladies, but I’ve got it. When you’ve done this as long as I have, you learn to bring only what you can handle on your own.”

  Maggie looked disappointed as he followed me outside.

  “Thanks for taking care of everything today,” I called back to her.

  “Elliana,” Spence said. “I’m—”

  “Remember, call me Ellie,” I said a little too quickly. Even back in high school, Ritter had always insisted on calling me Elliana. Now he was the only one who did.

  “Right. Ellie. And my friends call me Spence.” He trained a dazzling smile on me, and I felt a little dizzy.

  I managed a deep breath that I hoped didn’t look too obvious. “Spence it is, then.”

  Dash trotted out from his bed under the shady pergola and stopped at my feet. Spence looked down at the corgi and grinned. “Hey, there. Who’s this?”

  “That’s Dash,” I said. “He and Nabokov—that’s the cat you were petting—keep an eye on things around here.”

  The dog examined Spence for a long moment, then let out a quiet woof and sat back on his haunches.

  The photographer smiled. “I’m going to take that as approval.”

&nb
sp; Me, too.

  “Maggie was telling me a little about your shop. That’s an interesting business.” Spence walked over and stopped at the edge of the patio by the birdbath. He scanned the garden beds with an assessing eye as he spoke. “I’ve heard about aromatherapy, of course, but custom perfume? How does that work?”

  I looked over. His eyes were fixed on me, full of sincere interest.

  “Well,” I started slowly. How to condense what I did into a few sentences? “All my perfumes are made from essential oils. Some I have to buy—things like sandalwood or frankincense I can’t make myself. But for the really special blends, I distill the essences from the plants and flowers I grow here.” I indicated the overflowing, verdant beds around us. “I use an old-fashioned copper alembic, and distill the oil from different plants at the same time, rather than mixing individual oils like most perfumers do.”

  “Alembic?” he asked.

  “Think of it as a still, like you’d use to make moonshine. Only much smaller, or at least mine is. Only three liters. But the principle is the same. I’ll show it to you, if you want.”

  Nodding, he looked around, very slowly. I could almost feel him figuring out compositions. I looked around at the area myself, trying to see it with the eyes of an artist rather than a horticulturist.

  “This is really stunning,” he said. “Impressive in its scope and variety, but there’s also a feeling of, I don’t know . . .” He thought for a moment, then snagged my gaze. “Peace and calm, I guess.”

  A quiet joy bloomed in my chest. “I feel the same way.”

  A current of warm air brushed through the oak tree by the corner of my little house, and the susurration of leaves rubbing together mingled with the light tinkling of a glass wind chime hanging from the shepherd’s hook near the center of the garden. Several flowers from the apricot bougainvillea broke loose from their stems, rose in a cloud, and swirled among the leaves of the tree before suddenly falling to the ground.

  Spence watched them, and then I saw his eyes widen. He squatted and put his camera case on the stone path, then twisted to scan the area around him.

  “Do you have many of these?” He gestured to the fairy tableau near where the papery bougainvillea blossoms had landed.

  “Over a dozen,” I said. “The number changes, depending on the season and what I have available to work with.”

  He stood, a big grin on his face. “That’s perfect!”

  Puzzlement creased my brow.

  He laughed. “You mean it’s not on purpose?”

  “Um . . .”

  “The tiny house surrounded by tiny gardens! It’s thematic genius! I’m going to use it as the backbone of the piece. I can share all the details about the house and how you came to choose such a small footprint, but the garden will make it different from any of the other tiny houses we’re featuring in the magazine.” He cocked his head to the side. “You’re kind of tiny, too.”

  “Hey!”

  He looked chagrined. “Oh, God. I’m sorry. I only meant that you’re petite. I certainly didn’t mean it as an insult.” His eyes searched mine. “Only that your house, your gardens, and you have such a natural appeal that readers will want to know all about you.”

  Beryl. His eyes look like uncut beryl.

  “You haven’t even . . . even seen the house,” I managed to stammer out.

  He nodded. “Well, show me, then.”

  I led him inside and showed him all the features I’d shown Colby and Larken. Had it been only two days ago? He oohed and aahed over the round Japanese tub—just over forty-five inches in diameter but deep enough that I could sit in water up to my chin—which was a recent addition.

  “I make a lot of scented bath products,” I explained. “I need to be able to test them out. Plus, you know: baths.”

  “This is a good solution for a tiny house. Tell me about this staircase. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  He continued asking me questions, all the time taking notes. Where had I found the barn wood for the front door? Where did the cedar shingles come from? How had I pared down my belongings to fit in such a small place?

  “Divorce is great motivator,” I said wryly, and he laughed. “It’s also a very good way to end up with fewer possessions. I cheated, though.”

  Something passed behind his eyes, and I realized how it sounded. “No! Not like that. I meant that I didn’t get rid of absolutely everything. See, Scents and Nonsense has a large storage room with enough space for me to keep my seasonal clothes, extra bedding, and a few boxes of, well, whatever.”

  The questions kept coming, and I answered them as cogently as I could. The man I’d hired to renovate the garden shed—“This was a garden shed? That’s another fantastic angle for the article!”—was well known for his innovative solutions for storage and small-space living. It turned out that Spence had already interviewed him.

  “Wait,” I said. “You interviewed him? Not Blake?” Finally, an opening to talk about his boss that didn’t seem too obvious.

  “No. Not Blake.”

  I blinked at the sarcasm that dripped from the words.

  Spence scowled and went outside. There, he began unpacking equipment. Grabbing a light meter, he carried it to different places around the garden, holding it at different angles and making notes.

  What was that all about?

  I sighed, and ducked back into the bathroom to take a long-overdue look in the mirror before he started taking pictures. Conscience didn’t have a huge circulation, but it was a national periodical and especially popular in the West. I knew Astrid had been trying to make me feel better about my hair, but I didn’t want to look like a ragamuffin.

  At least the humidity was low, so my dark curls weren’t too frizzed. The last few days showed around my eyes, though, so I dabbed a bit of concealer beneath them, added a touch of brown eyeliner to bring out the blue, and finished with a couple strokes of mascara. I was pleased to see my recent hours in the garden had added a natural blush of color to my cheeks.

  Leave it at that. Otherwise it looks like you’re trying.

  I found Spence waiting on the front step.

  “Sorry I snapped at you,” he said.

  “I must have hit a hot button.”

  His head inclined. “You did, I’m afraid. See, the idea of showcasing tiny houses and small-footprint living was my baby. I was setting it up with the editor, and had even conducted a few interviews—like with the guy who designed your house.” He paused, anger clouding his handsome face. He glanced at me as if wondering whether to go on, then seemed to decide.

  “Then Sontag horned in on the idea. The editor loves the cachet of having the ‘great Blake Sontag’ associated with Conscience, and Sontag knew how to play it. He told the editor he wanted control over the whole project.” He met my eyes again, his lips twisted ruefully. “And that meant yours truly was out of the picture—except for the actual pictures, you know?”

  “Ouch.” Blake had apparently made a habit of stealing other people’s story ideas. I wondered how many times he’d done it over the course of his career.

  Suddenly Spence shrugged and laughed. “It’s not really a big deal. Stupid professional infighting. Happens all the time in this business.” Then he sobered. “Though I guess I’m more upset than I realized. Normally I’d never share this with someone I just met.”

  I started to wave it away.

  His eyes probed mine. “I don’t know. There’s just something about you . . .”

  I blinked.

  Red-faced, Spence looked away. “Sorry. Forget I said anything.” He stooped to retrieve his camera. When he straightened, he was all business. “Let’s get some photos while the light’s good. Would you mind standing there at the edge of the porch? Good. Chin a little higher. Right like that.”

  He directed me to stand this way and tha
t, confidently in charge as he staged me in a series of photos. Maggie came out to watch from the back of the shop. She shot me a thumbs-up when he had me lean against the cedar shingles next to the overflowing window boxes, and clasped her hands over her head like a triumphant boxer when he had me point down at the gnome door at the base of the gnarled apple tree. She did all of it behind his back, and her antics relaxed me and made me laugh.

  “Yes!” Spence exclaimed. “Like that. You’re a natural.”

  Only because I have the equivalent of a dancing puppet over your shoulder. But I kept quiet and kept smiling.

  Then he moved on to take several photos of the Enchanted Garden and the exterior of my tiny house, sans me. The whole time my mind was whirling.

  Could Spence have killed Blake Sontag? As in Felicity Donovan’s case, Blake had charmed an editor to the detriment of one of his coworkers. Spence had tried to make light of it, but he was obviously furious about Blake taking over his tiny house project.

  Furious enough to commit murder, though? Poisoning wasn’t exactly a crime of passion. It took planning—and in this case, a very particular knowledge. He had motive, and since he was staying in the same hotel as Blake, plenty of opportunity, too. After all, the journalist would have admitted the photographer into his room, right?

  Finally, Spence finished, and we went out to the covered porch that ran the entire seventeen-foot length of my home. Taking a deep breath, he scanned the expansive meadow that reached toward the foothills and smiled. Then he turned to me and asked, “What about that, what was it? Alember?”

  “Alembic,” I said, smiling back. “I’ll get it.”

  CHAPTER 13

  I CLIMBED the circular stairs to the loft. Spence had taken a few pictures up there, but seemed so ill at ease in my bedroom that it was almost funny. Now I opened the special cabinet under the window and removed the elaborate copper distiller Gamma had left me along with her garden journal. Carefully cupping my hands around the spherical water pot at the bottom, I carried it downstairs. The late-day light angled through the windows, reflecting off the bright, reddish metal that had been so carefully polished over the years, first by my grandmother, then my mother, then me.