Pulling my cell out of my purse, I saw he had indeed called, though he hadn’t left a message. I’d missed it because I was busy giving Spence a demonstration on how to use Gamma’s alembic to distill essential oil.
CHAPTER 16
SHOULDERS slumped, I went back outside and locked the door. Dash came to his feet as I went by him, and his toenails clicked on the stone path behind me as we walked to my house. Inside, I fed him some kibble and then made myself a decadent grilled cheese sandwich loaded with sharp cheddar, thinly sliced pears, and a slathering of Major Grey’s chutney. Dash got a bite of the crust for his dessert as I washed down the last of my hard cider. I put the kettle on to boil and went up to don my oldest, softest pair of cotton pajamas. Back downstairs, I grabbed my nature journal and the library book on botanical drawing Maria had given me, and settled onto the love seat with a cup of steaming chamomile tea.
I opened my journal-in-progress, which was still mostly blank, to a random page and began to try to sketch the tule fog that had surrounded me only hours before. After a few minutes, I sighed and put the charcoal pencil down. I so wanted my journal to be as nice as Gamma’s, as rich with meaning and the passion that I felt for plants and their scents. Instead, it looked like a ten-year-old had been doodling during class.
How the heck were you supposed to draw fog, anyway? It was like drawing air. A real artist could do it, but despite my aspirations, I was no artist. Not to mention, the fog I wanted to draw held mysterious whispers, quiet delight, and the scent of bubble gum.
I flipped through the book Maria had given me. It was a nice primer on botanical accuracy in drawing and enumerated the standard practices for precise rendering with an emphasis on science. On a whim, I checked the index and found a reference to Atropa belladonna on page 160.
It was a beautiful picture of the plant. Grabbing my notebook again, I turned to a fresh page and tried to copy it. I managed a decent-looking drawing of a berry and one of the flowers. At least they were recognizable. Then I put my journal aside and rose to retrieve Gamma’s.
Honestly, her rendering of deadly nightshade was better than the one in the library book.
After another long look at the list of how the poison affected its victim, I flipped a few pages.
And stopped.
Dash looked up from his bed by the door when I laughed out loud. Of course, Gamma had managed to draw the fog with no problem, and using only a plain lead pencil. She’d captured the energy of the swirls, the cool humidity, and there—a face that wasn’t a face, like finding a pattern in a cloud or within the full moon.
Even better was the outline of a deer peeking around the right side of the page. Just an outline on the paper, leaving the doe herself perfectly white.
I shook my head in wonder, even as the shiver ran down my back. “Gamma, you are something else.”
Opposite the doe, she’d inscribed a poem along the side of the page.
Of Pan we sing, the best of leaders, Pan,
That leads the Naiads and the Dryads forth,
And to their dances more than Hermes can.
Hear, O you groves, and hills resound his worth.
—BEN JONSON
Naiads and dryads. The nymphs of spring water and trees.
Of course.
• • •
AFTER downing the relaxing tea and with the hyacinth oil lazily filling the air around my bed, I thought I’d drift off in no time. But no such luck. As soon as I lay down with Dash curled by my side, thoughts of murder began to ricochet around my brain.
Well, not murder. Murderers. Possible ones, at least.
Finally, I gave up, turned on the light, and reached into my bedside table for a pen and paper. I would write down the suspects in Blake’s death in order to clear my mind enough for some nice, peaceful sheep counting. Taking a deep breath, I started in.
Felicity Donovan. Hated Blake for ruining her career, had access to his room. Access to deadly nightshade?
But she had an alibi, which Lupe would have surely checked by now.
Joyous Sontag. Blake stood in the way of her selling the family land. He likely would have let her into his room. Has a key to the gate and so has access to the deadly nightshade on her own property. Larken may have heard them arguing on the telephone the night he was poisoned.
A part of me appreciated the ironic possibility that Joyous had used a poisonous plant from the very land her brother wanted to keep and she wanted to get rid of, but the idea of a sister killing her brother made me ill.
Panama Hat aka Vaughn. Argued with Blake in the Horseshoe Bar the night Blake died. It was possible he was interested in buying the Sontag property, and Blake stood in his way.
Who else?
Any number of people who Blake had crossed or cursed or betrayed that I don’t know about.
Which was really just a way to put off the obvious next person on the list. I bit my lip and made myself write it anyway.
Tanner Spence. Hated Blake for taking over his pet project. And probably hated him on principle if he had to work closely with the guy. Was staying in the same hotel. Admitted to going inside the fenced property, so would have access to the deadly nightshade.
The guy didn’t know anything about plants, though. It seemed unlikely he’d use one as a murder weapon. Or had he been playing up his ignorance? I mean, everyone knew what plain old sweet basil looked like, didn’t they? Hadn’t the guy ever eaten a caprese salad?
Reluctantly, I added, May possess more horticultural knowledge than he lets on.
I tapped the pen against my teeth, thinking. Who were the “interested parties” the real estate agent had referred to? Could any of them want to purchase the land—to develop, or God forbid, to sell the water underneath it—enough to kill Blake for taking it off the market?
Putting the pad and pen away, I turned the light out again.
Why would anyone commit murder, really? Because they wanted something. Money. Love. To protect someone else, or even to maintain the status quo. It was the same reason anyone does anything.
That thought triggered a question on another front: What did I want from my relationship with Ritter?
I fell asleep without a clear answer.
• • •
THE sky was a brilliant red when I took my morning coffee out to the garden.
Red sky at night, sailor’s delight.
Red sky at morning, sailors take warning.
Then again, there wasn’t any sailing around Poppyville, so I was simply going to enjoy the beautiful view.
I grabbed my harvesting basket and clippers and headed to one of the overflowing herb beds. I’d worked like a madwoman getting the Enchanted Garden ready for Blake Sontag’s arrival, but I hadn’t been able to spend much time in its soothing atmosphere over the last few days. Yesterday’s distillation demonstration for Spence hadn’t involved the usual quiet ritual of most of my perfume making, either. So this morning I wanted to try an essential oil extraction method that I’d recently read about.
The article that had mentioned the process called it enfleurage, but it didn’t sound like traditional French enfleurage at all. That method involved immersing very delicate blooms, such as jasmine, into a solid oil. Then the more stable fat absorbed the essence without the use of heat. It was an ancient practice, but tedious.
What I wanted to try was quite different, a salt extraction technique that also took time, but didn’t involve the use of animal fat.
I’d decided to use a single herb for this experiment, and one that I regularly distilled by steam so that I could compare the final results. The lemon thyme plants were looking big and beautiful and would perfectly serve my purpose. Stepping carefully around a tiny stone house surrounded by a miniature mosaic patio and plantings of moss, trimmed angel vine, and rosy succulents, I snipped and clipped the herbal mounds
, keeping them neat as I gradually filled my basket.
When I was finished, I went into Scents & Nonsense and dug around in my production area until I found the ancient two-quart ceramic crock I’d picked up at a thrift store. It was glazed plain dark brown and squatted on the counter like Jabba the Hutt, but as soon as I’d seen it, I’d known it would be useful.
Nabby jumped up on the counter and mrowed plaintively. His next move would be full on head-butts against any part of my anatomy he could reach, and as much as I loved him, cat hair wasn’t recommended as part of the preparation for any kind of essential oil extraction.
“Okay, okay,” I said, abandoning the pile of lemon thyme that was already scenting the air in the shop. “Come on.”
I fed him on his place mat in the office and turned on the computer as long as I was in there. A glance at the phone revealed no messages had come in overnight. Returning to my workstation, I took my cell out of my pocket and made sure the ringer was on.
It was almost seven o’clock. Ritter would be calling in another hour.
I mulled over what I was going to say to him as I stripped the leaves and tender stems off the woodier branches of the thyme. The twigs went into the trash can, where they would continue to lend their pungency to the atmosphere of the shop. The leaves I layered on the bottom of the crock. Then I sprinkled a layer of coarse salt, followed by more thyme, another layer of salt, and so on until the crock was full. Carefully covering it with plastic cling wrap to make it airtight, I topped it with the lid and placed the crock in an unobtrusive spot on a back windowsill, where the sunlight could warm it during part of the day.
I’d leave it there for a month. The fresh herb would gradually disintegrate into a mush of organic matter, but the salt would prevent mold or bacteria from forming. Then I’d strain the liquid though muslin, and let it sit for another month to six weeks. The idea was that the essential oil would separate from the liquid, and I could skim it off. It was a lengthy process, but if it worked it would be a good way to extract oil from delicate plant material that didn’t hold up well to the heat of steam distillation.
After tidying my work area, I went into the restroom to wash the strong scent of thyme off my hands. As I was drying them on a towel, a loud banging startled me. I came out and peered around the corner of a tall display of pressed-flower greeting cards, but there wasn’t anyone at the front door. Colby’s Westfalia was parked in front, though.
The back door slid open behind me, and he came inside. “There you are.”
“Good Lord,” I said. “Do you know what time it is?”
He nodded. “I know you’re an early riser, and I wanted to talk to you.”
I searched for the typical glint of humor in his expression, but didn’t see it. “You okay?” I asked.
“Sure.”
“Let me get some coffee going,” I said.
My brother went outside to the garden as it brewed, and I watched him through the window. His hair stuck out from under his baseball hat, and his beard looked like it had grown half an inch in the short time since he’d been back in town. He wore his usual jeans and boots, today with an untucked chambray shirt with frayed cuffs. Standing on the edge of the patio by the birdbath, he jammed his hands into his pockets in a gesture I recognized as frustration.
But I couldn’t get a better hit from him than that. For some reason I’d always had trouble picking up on the feelings of my half siblings and my dad. My stepmother’s emotions, on the other hand, were obvious to anyone in her vicinity.
Dash brought my brother a tennis ball, and Colby tossed it down the path. The corgi took off at a dead run, snatched the toy out of the air on a bounce, pivoted, and was back for more within seconds. I was glad to see a grin finally break out on Colby’s face.
I filled a couple of mugs and took them outside. We settled into rockers in the cool of the morning.
“Where’s Larken?” I asked.
“She’s at the barn, exercising some horses for Gessie. She’s in heaven.”
“Your girlfriend does seem to like horses. She told me about working on the CSA farms—and about how you kept meeting up by accident over the last year.”
“Hmm.” He took a sip of coffee.
“And knowing you as I do, I wondered whether you two mysteriously showing up in the same places three times in a row might not have been as purely serendipitous as she thinks.”
He grinned mischievously.
I rolled my eyes. “You followed her!”
“Of course I followed her. In case you hadn’t noticed, she’s awesome.” Then the smile dropped from his face.
“And now she’s a murder suspect. I’m so sorry, hon. I bet you wish you hadn’t come back to Poppyville at all.”
He fell silent, and I felt regret twist in my solar plexus. My regret or his?
“Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?” I asked.
“Oh.” He waved his hand. “I didn’t want to talk about anything in particular. Just haven’t spent any time alone with my sis yet.”
That was true, but I knew he had something on his mind.
“I saw the van out front,” I said. “Don’t you have to pack everything up, even if you’re just driving across town?”
“Yeah.” He sighed and looked over at Dash, who was nosing at the lime-colored tendrils of moneywort spilling out of a pot of annuals at the edge of the patio.
“That’s kind of a hassle, isn’t it?”
His eyes cut to me, then back to Dash.
“Yes.”
I chose my words carefully. “Seems like there are a lot of disadvantages to living in the Westfalia.”
Turning, he regarded me with scarcely concealed frustration. “Yeah, but there are a lot of advantages, too.”
I smiled and nodded.
“You, too? I thought you’d be on my side, but now you’re going to try to convince me to sell my van and settle down, too.”
“Nah. I’m not going to try to convince you of anything. I’d never try to make you do something you don’t want to do.”
He settled back into his chair, slightly mollified.
“So what is it that you do want?” I asked.
“Freedom,” he said instantly. It was a knee-jerk answer he’d given a hundred times. As a child he’d always chafed under routine. For a while we’d thought he had ADD, but really he simply didn’t like to be stuck inside four walls all day long. College had been better for him, with its variable schedule and opportunities to explore different interests. Wynn and I had understood, but Dad still thought Colby would grow up and get a real job.
Unlikely.
I watched him through the steam rising from my mug until he met my eyes. “Seems to me that there are a lot of different kinds of freedom.”
His lips pressed together, conflict written all over his face. “You know Lark wants to stay here and buy that place.”
I carefully raised one shoulder and let it drop, hardly able to breathe.
Suddenly he stood, and Dash scrambled backward. Colby turned and looked down at me. “She said something about different kinds of freedom, too. The freedom of having land of my own, not having to answer to anyone, living off the grid.” His eyes narrowed accusingly. “That sounds like something you’d say.”
“That sounds a lot like freedom to me,” I sidestepped. “But it might not be the kind you want.”
He paced to the edge of the patio and looked out toward Kestrel Peak. Then spun around and came back, dropping into the rocker beside me. “Actually, it does appeal to me. But it’s hard, you know? I mean, I’ve been so adamant about the nomadic life. And I do love it. It’s just . . .” He trailed off.
“It’s been three years,” I said. “And there’s this woman you seem to be pretty enamored with.”
“Yeah.”
“And you kno
w darn well she’s not going to live in that van with you forever.”
He sighed. “Yeah.” His palms scrubbed at his face. “Yeah,” he said again. “I guess I just needed to talk it out.” His hands dropped, and his gaze snagged mine. “Thanks, Ellie.”
My lips turned up. “No charge.”
“So what do you want?” he asked.
I blinked. “What? Oh. Well, I have everything I want. My dream business, this garden, my tiny house. I love my life.”
“What about companionship?”
Frowning, I considered my little brother. He suddenly seemed a lot more grown-up than I’d given him credit for.
“I have lots of friends.” But I knew what he was getting at. “And Ritter, of course.” I looked at my watch. “He’s going to be calling in about twenty minutes.”
“Must be hard with him gone.”
“Harder than I thought it would be,” I admitted.
“Because . . . ?”
I thought about that. “He’s good company. Makes me feel good. It’s . . . nice.”
“Nice? Jeez.”
“Hey, I didn’t mean—”
“Nuh-uh. I know exactly what you mean. And maybe that’s all you want right now.”
“Maybe,” I said. No.
“But you can’t even have that if he’s not here.”
I drained my mug and set it on the nearby table. “Have you been talking to Astrid?”
“No. Why?”
“Never mind.”
“My point is just that you should figure out what you want and go for it. I did it when I quit the brokerage and took off in the van, and it sure looks like I’m about to do it again with Larken—whether she buys that land south of town or not.” He reached over and squeezed my shoulder.
I covered his hand with my own, and smiled. “I want Ritter to finish his project and come back. It’s only five more months. That’s a drop of time in a lifetime.”
He looked skeptical. “And then what?”
I blinked.
“Seriously. Is he going stay here after that project? Or will there be another one? And then another one? He’s been doing this awhile, hasn’t he?”
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