Spence waited for me on the back porch and hurried to open the screen door when I started to push it with my foot.
“Wow. That looks like something from the Middle Ages,” he said, eyeing the elaborate contraption. “Can you show me how you use it?”
“Really? It’s not very exciting to watch.” For most people, at least. I found the process of transforming the energy of plant matter into its essence to be as powerful as any alchemy.
“Are you kidding? What you’ve told me so far is fascinating, and I want to see how that thing works.” He pointed at the alembic.
I smiled and glanced at my watch. I’d have to hurry. It was five thirty, and I was due to meet Polly in an hour to go see the Sontag property. But I hadn’t wanted to interrupt his photo session with more questions, so this might be the perfect chance to find out if Tanner Spence knew anything about plants.
“Okay, one quick demonstration coming up,” I said. “Would you mind grabbing the camp stove from that cubby over there?” I gestured with my chin.
“Of course,” he said, and turned to retrieve the one-burner stove. He followed me to the circular, graveled area at the back of the Enchanted Garden and set it down where I indicated.
“Give me just a sec,” I said, carefully leveling the burner and placing the alembic in the center.
However, camera in hand, Spence followed me as I got my cutting basket and shears from behind the shop and went out to the garden.
“I’m going to distill one of my favorite combinations,” I said. “Lavender and basil. Do you know what kind of lavender this is?” I asked, pointing at the mound of English lavender that was admittedly past its flowering prime.
He shook his head. “There’s more than one?”
“Yep. They smell very similar, however. This is Lavandula angustifolia.” I bent and began snipping off the drying blooms. They weren’t as fresh as they’d been a month before, but the buds still contained plenty of essential oil for my purpose.
“People think of lavender as being such a sweet fragrance when actually, it’s quite astringent. Basil, which is thought of as a savory herb, has a sweet, licorice-like scent. Together they perform a perfect balancing act.”
He obediently smelled the lavender flowers and basil leaves that I crushed together between my fingertips. “And that’s the basil?”
I stared at him. “You’re kidding, right?”
He looked apologetic. “I’m not much of a cook.”
Or a horticulturist, I thought. Was he playing up his ignorance about plants to throw me off, or did he really not know anything about them?
“Mm,” he said, sniffing the combination again. “It’s nice. Not too girly. And . . . mellow?” He seemed oblivious to my scrutiny.
Relaxing a little, I nodded. “Each is considered relaxing in traditional aromatherapy. In floriography, basil means good wishes and lavender usually represents devotion or virtue. There are a lot of interpretations, of course.”
He snapped a couple of pictures as a puzzled frown furrowed his brow. “Floriography?”
“The language of flowers. It’s a kind of code that developed in the nineteenth century.”
“Okay.” He drew the word out.
I laughed. “Follow me.”
My basket full of Lavandula angustifolia flowers and the leaves of Ocimum basilicum, I returned to the area I’d set up for distillation. Spence settled on one of the large rocks that encircled the space as I lit the stove and disassembled the copper pot. Gamma had used a grate over an open fire, but I only went to the trouble of building a fire for special distillations.
I placed some of the flowers and leaves in the bottom, round pot. “This part is called the retort,” I explained as I worked.
More basil. I stuffed in another handful, inhaled again to make sure the ratio was right, then filled the rest of the retort with bottled spring water. Then I added still more plant material to the dome-shaped vessel that served as the retort’s lid.
“This part is called the onion,” I said. “It acts as the condenser for the steam. And this is the bird’s beak.”
“Bird’s beak,” he muttered, peering at it. “It really looks like one.”
I filled the onion with more cool water as the water in the retort began to boil. “The steam from the retort is full of plant oils. It travels through this coil of copper pipe inside the onion. The essential oil separates and then comes out of the bird’s beak. The hydrosol—that’s a fancy name for super-fragrant floral water—will stay in the pot.”
“Hydrosol,” he said, and I saw he’d taken out his tablet and was making notes. He rested the device on his knee. “Can you make perfume from that?”
I shook my head. “Not really. It’s organic, so it can go bad. Some add rosemary oleoresin to extend the shelf life, but I usually just use a splash of vodka because it doesn’t interfere with the scent. You can use hydrosols for lots of things, but lately I’ve been using them to rinse my hair.”
Spence’s eyes lit up. “Is that why you smell like roses?”
I shrugged, feeling my face turn pink.
The water had come to a boil, and the coiled condenser began to quietly hiss.
“I love the smell of roses,” he said quietly.
I looked over, but he didn’t meet my eye.
“There.” He pointed.
The first drop of combined lavender and basil essential oil began to emerge from the bird’s beak. I hurried to capture it in a tiny blue bottle. Four drops later, I turned off the flame.
Spence looked surprised. “Is that all you get?”
“Not usually. But this is just a demonstration, right? So you could see the process.”
“Oh. Right.” He stood.
I rose, too, and held the bottle out to him.
He breathed in the potent aroma, and a smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “For me?”
“If you want it.”
He tucked it into his pocket. “Thanks. And thanks for showing me all this. And for consenting to the interview and photograph session. I thought it might be awkward after what happened yesterday, but you’ve been a real gem.”
“It’s an honor to be featured as part of Conscience’s tiny house issue.”
It was true. And I’d had a good time sharing a small piece of my passion for scent with this interesting man.
So much so that I’d forgotten for a little while that he was a possible murder suspect.
As he packed away the last of his photography equipment, I made one more effort to draw him out about Blake.
Leaning casually against the porch support, I asked, “Did you know Blake was born here in Poppyville? That his family has lived here for generations?”
Spence’s lip curled for a moment. He looked up from where he was packing away a camera filter. “Oh, yeah. He told me. In fact, that was one of the things he said to the editor in order to get him to hand the tiny house issue over to him. If we hadn’t decided to come to Poppyville, I might still have control over the project.”
“You do have control over the project,” I pointed out, watching him.
“Yeah, now, but . . .” He trailed off. “That’s not how I wanted it to happen.”
“Of course not,” I said, letting him off the hook. “Can I ask you something about Blake?”
One eyebrow rose sardonically. “You mean like you already have been?”
I ignored that. “Did he say anything about his family’s land outside of town?”
Spence snorted. “Say anything? He insisted we go see it.”
My breath caught, but I kept my tone even. “Did you go inside the fence?”
He zipped shut the compartment on the side of the bag, stood, and slung the strap over his shoulder. “Yep. The old cabin looked pretty cool. I can see why he would have wanted to keep the plac
e in the family. Apparently there was an issue with his sister over that.”
Aha!
The photographer sighed. “Listen, Blake Sontag was unpleasant and difficult to work with, but he was also a good reporter, and I’m sure his family is grieving his loss. I’m not sorry to have this tiny house project back, but I am sorry he’s dead.”
I walked Spence to the gate that led to the boardwalk out front. As we passed by one of the herb gardens, he paused and put down the bag so he could pick a leafy sprig and bring it to his nose.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“Savory,” I said. “It’s great to flavor roasted meats.”
His gaze snagged mine for a long moment, and I found myself unwilling to break eye contact. “Does it have a meaning in the language of flowers?”
My chin bobbed in a small nod.
He smiled and waited.
Does he already know?
“It symbolizes interest.”
Spence quirked an eyebrow.
I gave in. “Spicy interest.”
His laugh was deep, open, and utterly infectious as he handed the sprig of savory to me. “Would you have dinner with me tonight? We don’t have to go to the Empire Room. In fact, I’d insist that we go somewhere else.”
My mouth was suddenly so dry that I couldn’t quite speak. Finally, I managed, “I’m sorry. I can’t.”
His face fell. “Oh. Okay. Maybe tomorrow?” He sounded almost tentative now.
“Uh . . .”
“Oh!” He smacked his forehead with his palm. “I’m an idiot. You have a boyfriend, don’t you? Of course you would.” He tried to grin.
“Well, yes,” I said. “It’s kind of complicated.”
“Right. Yes. Complicated. Got it.”
A feeling of betrayal washed through me, a sharp-edged and bitter thing flavored with embarrassment that I recognized from when I’d stumbled upon Harris and Wanda Simmons in the walk-in freezer at the Roux. But this was different. This feeling wasn’t actually mine. I was picking it up from Spence.
He thought I was lying about having a boyfriend.
“I do,” I insisted. “His name is Ritter.”
“Sure. No problem.” He turned and fled through the gate to the street.
A knot of guilt formed in my stomach. I’d almost said yes to the dinner invitation. Not because I was interested in him romantically—though heaven knew he was easy on the eyes—but because I’d really enjoyed the last two hours hanging out with him, and with Ritter gone I’d been spending a lot of time at home. However, I could tell Spence’s interest in me went beyond the friendship I had in mind.
I sighed and looked down at Dash, who was still looking at the gate. “Why does life have to be so complicated?”
Woof!
• • •
I QUICKLY tidied up the distillation area and returned the copper alembic to its cupboard in my bedroom. After changing into jeans, tank top, and trail runners, I took my cell out to my back porch and called Astrid. Oblique shadows were beginning to fall across the meadow.
“You want to come with me to check out the Sontag property?” I asked when she answered. “Spence just left.”
“Spence, huh,” Astrid teased. “How did that go?”
“It was fun,” I said.
“Just fun? Come on, Ellie.”
“I’ll tell you about it on the way out to the Sontag place.”
“Sorry, El. No can do. Not tonight anyway.” Something in her voice.
Something I recognized. “The guy from the post office?” I guessed.
“Mm-hm. Todd. We’re going miniature golfing tonight.”
“You hate miniature golfing.”
“Do not.”
I rolled my eyes, but didn’t have time to argue. “Then I’ll see you in the morning. And Astrid?”
“Mm?” She sounded distracted.
“I expect a full update on your evening.”
“Aye, aye, Cap’n.” A male voice murmured in the background, and she laughed. “Bye.”
Shaking my head, I quickly dialed Colby’s cell. I had another idea.
“Hey, sis.” His voice was quiet.
“Hi. Everything okay?”
“Great.” He bit off the word.
I let it go. “Is Larken around?”
“Sure. Let me put her on. Lark!” he called.
“Wait—” But he’d already handed off the phone.
“Ellie?” She sounded subdued as well.
“Hey there. Are you guys up for a field trip? I’m going to look at that property I told you about last night, and I’d like you to come along.”
She hesitated, then agreed.
“Great. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”
I left Dash with Nabby in the garden and guided my Wrangler to the stables. The van was in the same place, only now an electrical cord snaked from its side to the plug-in by Gessie’s chuck wagon. The horsewoman was nowhere to be seen. Colby sat in a camp chair and waved as I approached. The pop-top ceiling of the Westfalia was raised, and the smell of onions, garlic, and ginger drifted out from the open side door.
I peeked around the side and saw Larken putting a bottle of soy sauce into the mini-fridge tucked under the sink. The floral scent of jasmine rice drifted from a pan on the fold-down table, and my stomach growled right on cue.
She looked unhappy, her lips pursed. But when she looked up and saw me, a sweet smile transformed her face.
“Hey, Ellie! You want some stir-fry? There’s a bit left.”
I glanced at my watch with regret. “The real estate agent is expecting me in ten minutes.”
“Oh! Well, let’s go, then. Colby, you’re on dish duty.”
“No problem,” he said.
I peered at him. “You’re awfully quiet.”
He shrugged.
“You aren’t coming with us?” I asked.
“To see a bunch of dirt? I don’t think so.”
I blinked. “It’s not just any bunch of dirt, as you put it. It might have something to do with Blake Sontag’s murder.”
“I don’t want to go.” He scowled.
Moving to stand in front of him, I put my hands on my hips. “What’s the matter with you?”
“Nothing.”
“Colby—”
He abruptly stood and turned toward the house on the far side of the barn. “I’m going to take Gessie up on her offer of a shower.” Without another word, he strode away.
I turned and looked at Larken, completely bewildered. “What just happened?”
She gazed after him with worried eyes. Then she took a deep breath. “We’d better get going if you want to meet that real estate agent.”
“But—”
“We can talk on the way.”
I gave in, and moments later we were heading to Cooperhawk Court. Larken sat in the passenger seat looking pensive. She wore the same clothes she’d had on while cleaning stalls for Gessie, and the not-unpleasant smell of horse musk emanated from the weave of her T-shirt. It was one thing for Colby to live in his van by himself, but it had to be difficult for two people in that small space, especially since there wasn’t any running water. I knew he’d installed a compostable toilet, but I remembered him telling me he usually joined a gym when he moved to a new town—partly to work out, and partly to have a place to shower.
How long had Colby and Larken been together? It had been such a crazy couple of days that I hadn’t asked about any details. I was about to bring it up, when Larken spoke.
“I think Detective Lang is going to arrest me,” she said.
My fingers gripped the steering wheel so hard it was difficult to guide the Jeep around the corner. “Did something happen?”
“He came by Gessie’s a few hours ago. Said he was j
ust making sure that we were really staying there and didn’t have any plans to leave, but it was more than that.” She sighed. “He asked me a bunch of questions about deadly nightshade—what it looks like, whether I knew the kind of places it grows, how poisonous it is.” She rubbed her hands over her face and groaned. “Why did I have to open my big fat mouth? I never should have let on that I know all about belladonna.”
Suppressing a frustrated sigh, I said, “Don’t worry. He could have proved that you know about plants and herbs, right?”
Pressing her lips together, she nodded. “Probably.”
“Then maybe it’s better that you own it. But, Larken?”
“Yeah?”
“Be careful when you talk with the police, okay? In fact, maybe you should think about getting a lawyer.”
She blanched. “Oh, I don’t . . . Maybe.” I stopped in front of the two-story that housed Gold Rush Realty and Cynthia’s office and turned off the engine. Larken unfastened her seat belt, but before she could get out, I put my hand on her arm.
“What was wrong with Colby tonight? Why didn’t he want to come with us? He was downright rude about it.”
She bit her lip. “I’m not sure.”
“Listen, I know this vacation of yours has turned out to be a real bummer.” I opened my own door and put my foot on the running board. “If you want me to talk to him—”
“No, it’s not that. I think he’s just feeling itchy, you know? Ready to move on.”
“He’s only been here for three days! Doesn’t he usually stay in a place a month or more? He was in Crested Butte, Colorado, for over three months, right?”
“This isn’t just anyplace, Ellie.” She got out and turned to look at me. “This was home. This is where he left, not where he wants to be.”
That resonated. It also kind of hurt, since I was part of “home.” And honestly, though I could accept my brother’s wandering tendencies, I really didn’t understand them. Poppyville and the area around it was so deeply ingrained in my blood that I’d never leave. Plenty of people had suggested that I might want to after the divorce, but I’d be darned if Harris’ bad behavior could run me out of town.
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