Scent to Kill: A Natural Remedies Mystery (Natural Remedies Mysteries)

by Chrystle Fiedler

  “MJ, how can I help?”

  She smiled at the people who were still waiting. “Meeting my fans has energized me, but I have to admit that I haven’t been feeling well. I think that’s the reason that I couldn’t reach Daniel or Roger. It was as if I’d lost my gift. So I had to get away and be with my people, recharge my batteries, and restore my confidence.”

  I lowered my voice. “Is it your hip that’s bothering you?” I’d noticed her favoring her right leg.

  “No, I’ve had that for years. It’s this incessant ringing in my ears. I can’t think of anything else and I can’t sleep. I’m worn-out. It’s making me crazy.”

  “When did this start? Were you injured?”

  She frowned. “Not in my ear. But two months ago, I fell down the stairs at my home in Malibu and sprained my ankle. It was very painful.”

  I suspected that I knew what was wrong. “What were you taking for the pain—NSAIDs? Nonsteroidal anti-inflammatories like aspirin and ibuprofen?”

  “How did you know? I was popping them like Skittles.”

  “Those kinds of meds can cause ringing in the ears. It’s called tinnitus. If you stop or ease off those painkillers, it will go away. I’d also recommend taking ginkgo biloba three times a day, either in a tea, tincture, or capsule. It will improve nerve-signal transmission and increase your brain’s use of oxygen. I’ll get some for you.”

  “Oh, thank you! You are an angel.”

  I looked at the line of fans. “So, will you come back and wrap up the show?”

  MJ looked at Rick and back at me. “Yes, I will. Just let me finish up here.” She took my hand. “And, Willow, thank you.”

  I quickly stopped by the store to grab some gingko biloba for MJ. It would take time, but eventually she would feel much better. Hopefully, just knowing why her ears were ringing and that she was getting treatment would perk her up; that and her fans’ adoration.

  Late Sunday afternoon, I was back at the cottage, where I was surprised to find it full of people waiting for treatment. I said hello to everyone, grabbed the sign-in sheet, and went to Allie’s room. She was stripping her massage table.

  “What is going on out there?”

  “Amanda called and told me quite a few people were headed over since MJ wasn’t back yet. It’s the last day to get treatments, so I guess they wanted to take advantage of that. I’ve cut my sessions in half so I can get everyone in. Hector did, too.”

  I checked my watch. It was 5:05. I scanned the sheet. Six people were here to see Allie, five for Hector, and four for me. I headed into the living room.

  “Hi, everyone. We’re going to try and get to you as quickly as possible.” I called my first appointment in. An hour later, I’d seen three people. I didn’t rush; I just got down to the nitty-gritty without much preamble. My last client was Pierre, the director, who was lounging in one of the easy chairs texting on his cell phone.

  I called him and led him into the front porch. After he was seated, I asked what I could do for him.

  “I can’t wait to see my doctor in L.A. I’ve got nasty blisters on both of my heels. I made the wrong choice to wear a new pair of crocodile loafers today.” He slipped off his expensive left shoe and showed it to me.

  I stifled any comment about his choosing to wear animal skins on his feet and examined his heels. The blisters were red, raw, and oozing. They looked painful.

  “Don’t worry, I can help you with that.” I went over to the bookshelf and picked up a small bottle of tea tree essential oil, organic aloe vera wipes, and Band-Aids.

  “You’ve been a big help to the crew, and MJ, too,” Pierre said. “People are a lot less stressed since you’ve been around. Rick was right to hire you.”

  “Can you sit at the end of the couch and put your legs up?” He did as I asked. I put on gloves and cleaned out both blisters with the wipes. “That’s really nice of you to say.”

  “Allie gives a great massage.” He looked off into space. “Roger would have dug that. He used to have a masseuse come into the L.A. office at least once a week.”

  “What was he like to work with?” I applied tea tree oil to the blisters.

  “Great, well, most of the time. Roger was very smart and he knew the business. But he also could be moody and difficult, and then when he and Carly started to have problems, it was very tense.”

  “I can imagine. Did you two work together before this project?”

  “Many times. MJ introduced Rick and me to Roger. She’d known him for years.”

  This was a surprise. So Rick had lied to me when he said he’d met Roger at Jerry’s Deli in Studio City? But why? “How did MJ and Roger meet?”

  “The two of them went to college together and afterwards were roommates in New York while they were out-of-work actors.”

  “MJ was an actor?”

  Pierre nodded. “Sure, when she was in her twenties. Mostly off-off-Broadway stuff. Roger made a living making commercials. You know, he did that one for margarine. ‘Better Than Butter.’ ” Pierre suddenly realized whom he was talking to. “Oh, that was before your time.”

  I mulled over Rick’s lie as I applied bandages to each heel. “I thought that Rick met Roger first.”

  Pierre shook his head. “No, that was all MJ. She’s one of those people who knows everyone—and introduces them to everyone else.”

  I took off my gloves and threw them into the trash. So MJ was a psychic, an actor, and a social butterfly? “Okay, you’re all set. I’d switch shoes though. It will just aggravate the wounds if you don’t.”

  “I’ve got a pair of sandals I can wear, thanks. I’ll go barefoot for now and ask Amanda to pick me up.” He pulled out his phone and texted her.

  I walked him to the door. “When will you start shooting again?”

  “We’ll go tonight after dinner. We’ve got a bunch of pickups to do—you know, close-ups of MJ. Later we’re going to reshoot the bathroom scene. It should be interesting—that is, if she connects this time with Daniel Russell and Roger. You should come by.”

  I thought about what he had said about MJ and Roger. “I’ll do that.”

  Half an hour later Jackson and I were eating fresh crab cakes and organic sweet-potato fries with the crew and production staff under the big tent in front of the mansion. Allie and Hector were headed to New York to hear a lecture by Dr. Newsome, a nationally known holistic physician. They asked me to come, but I couldn’t leave, not now. Fortunately, MJ was back, and lying down in her cottage, resting for this evening’s performance. They’d begin shooting after the dinner break.

  “So you’re saying that MJ was the connection to Roger, not Rick?” Jackson popped a sweet-potato fry in his mouth.

  “That’s what Pierre said.”

  “But why would Rick lie?” Jackson ate a piece of crab cake. “This is good.”

  “I don’t know. For some reason he didn’t want us to know that MJ was the connection to Roger, but I can’t figure out why.”

  “Maybe he needs to be top dog, you know, the guy that gets things done, so he wants everyone to think that he knew Roger first, that he made the whole deal happen. Some men are like that. You know, a big ego. Of course, I’m not that way.” Jackson winked at me.

  “Of course you’re not, sweetie.” I smiled. “You’re one in a million.” I ate a fry and thought things over. “I need to talk to MJ.”

  “Maybe you’ll get a chance tonight.”

  “I have to. It’s Sunday. They’re leaving tomorrow.” I looked out the door of the tent at the sky. It was definitely darkening. “I don’t like the way the sky looks. What’s the word on the hurricane?”

  Jackson took out his cell phone and checked the weather channel. “It’ll hit the East End around midnight.” He glanced up at the tent’s ceiling. “I hope they’ve got this thing tied down tight.”

  Carly, dressed in a black linen shift dress and orange flip-flops, spotted us and was coming our way. Jackson tilted his head toward her. “I forgot to te
ll you. I heard from my guy who checks financial backgrounds. Simon was telling the truth. She is a trust-fund baby. Her family is old money, the kind that would make the Bixbys, at their richest, look like paupers.”

  Carly came straight to our table. Her short blond hair was mussed, as if she hadn’t bothered to comb it, and her eyes were red rimmed from crying. “I just saw Simon.”

  I put my hand on hers. “Are you okay? Is he okay?”

  “He’s talking about breaking out. He’s acting crazy. That’s why I need to talk to you. He said you haven’t figured out who killed Roger, but are you close?”

  “Hard to say.” I sipped my lemonade. “But I’m working on it.” I glanced at Jackson. “We both are.”

  “You’ve got to hurry,” Carly said. “Once we wrap the shoot tomorrow, everyone will leave and we’ll never get to the truth.”

  She was right. I needed answers. I reached into my purse and pulled out the photos from the disposable camera. “Speaking of the truth . . . did you take these photos?” I spread them out in front of her. She glanced at them and pointed at the one that showed her sweater and sunglasses. “Those are my things, but I didn’t take these photos. Why do you ask?”

  Before I could answer, her phone pinged. She pulled it out of her pocket and looked at a text message. “I have to go. We’re starting to set up for tonight and Pierre needs me. You should be there. It might help you figure this out.”

  “I will be,” I said.

  “Good. It may be our last chance.”

  chapter twenty-three

  Dr. Willow McQuade’s Healthy Living Tips

  If you are stressed-out, tired, anxious, or angry, it can result in a tension headache. If you have one, you’ll feel pain or discomfort in your head, scalp, or neck along with muscle tightness. This natural cure will help to ease the pain:

  Tension-Type-Headache-Buster Oil

  1 ounce apricot kernel or sunflower vegetable oil

  5 drops of lavender oil

  3 drops of peppermint oil

  Yours Naturally,

  Dr. McQuade

  Two hours later on Sunday evening, Pierre and his crew were set up in the third-floor bathroom. MJ was dressed in a midnight-blue robe with tiny stars, and an elaborate silver headpiece. Pierre, Tom, and the cameraman were in the bathroom, while Rick, Carly, and Amanda stayed next to the door, and Sarah and Cassidy hovered in Max’s old bedroom. Jackson and I stood on the landing at the top of the stairs. I could hear the wind picking up outside and the branches of the trees next to the house scratching the windows. The hurricane was getting closer.

  “So what do you think about what Carly said?” Jackson asked me. “Do you think she was telling the truth about the photos?”

  “I don’t know. I guess it’s possible that she left her things on the dock and someone else took the photos. But who and why?”

  Amanda leaned over and whispered something in Rick’s ear. He whispered something back and turned and looked at us.

  “What is it?” Jackson said. “Is there a problem?”

  Rick took a cigar out of his pocket and lit it. “Amanda says that Willow took the diary that Sheila Russell gave her. I told her you were just trying to help.”

  “That’s right,” I said. “If you have a problem with that, Amanda, you should talk to me, not Rick.”

  “Forget it. I’m just the lowly assistant.” She turned her back on me.

  “That’s not true, Amanda.” Rick squeezed her arm. “Sorry, Willow. She’s just trying to do her job.”

  So am I, I thought, but I said, “I have a question for you, if you don’t mind.”

  “Go ahead.” Rick blew out a perfect smoke ring. “Anything to help.”

  “I had a talk with Pierre this afternoon and he told me that you met Roger through MJ, not at Jerry’s Deli in Studio City.”

  Rick looked puzzled. “I don’t know why he would say that. It’s just not true. I actually met Roger before I met MJ.”

  Whom to believe—Rick or Pierre? Which of them had something to hide?

  “Okay, folks, we’re going to start,” Pierre said. “Rick, you need to shut down that cigar.”

  “We’ll need to talk about this later,” Rick said, stepping into the bathroom to douse his cigar in the sink.

  I whispered in Jackson’s ear, “I can’t figure out who is telling the truth.”

  “You need to talk to MJ,” he whispered back.

  Rick stepped back out in the hall. Amanda whispered something to him. He smiled. What was going on between those two? He stepped back into the bathroom. “I want to be in here with MJ.”

  “Honey, that’s not necessary,” MJ said.

  “It is, if he wants to run the special effects,” Jackson whispered to me.

  “That’s fine, Rick. Just stay out of the way,” Pierre said. “Now, I’m going to ask questions as we go along, MJ. I think it might help.”

  “That’s all right with me,” she said. “But if I’m onto something, let me follow it.”

  “Right,” Pierre said. “Let’s go.”

  “We’re rolling,” the cameraman said. “Speed!”

  “Action!” Pierre yelled, and pointed at MJ.

  MJ walked over to the bathtub and stood still. “This is a dark place. Evil things have happened here. Two murders. Both for passion, both for love.” She closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths. “The murderers killed because they were desperate. They felt that this was the only way to get what they wanted.”

  “What did they want?” Pierre asked.

  “Love and possession.” MJ stepped back from the tub and took a deep breath. “Both of the men who were killed were lured up here. Both of them were tricked.”

  “By whom?”

  MJ took another deep breath. “I don’t know that.”

  “Are the victims here now?”

  “I’ll check.” MJ walked slowly to the middle of the room. “Daniel Russell, are you here? Daniel?” At first there was no response. Then the windowpanes began to rattle, gently at first and then more loudly. I was willing to blame the wind for that, but seconds later, water began to pour into the bathtub. If this was a trick, it was pretty good. MJ walked over to the tub. “Daniel? What is it you want to say to me?”

  The windowpanes stopped rattling and the water seemed to turn itself off.

  “Go ahead, Daniel.” She circled the room. “I hear you.” She stopped and listened. “He’s saying that he was betrayed. He says that the Bixby family is evil.”

  “But Roger Bixby was the second victim,” Pierre said.

  MJ held up her hand. “Later. I’ll call Roger later. Now it’s Daniel whose spirit is present.”

  A low hum began to resonate from the room. MJ seemed startled and walked over to the closet. “I’m opening the door.” She turned the handle and pulled the door open. As she did, an inky-black shape swept into the room and swirled around the ceiling. MJ looked aghast. “What are you doing? Daniel? Stop this!” The inky-black shape descended from the ceiling and headed right for MJ, but at the last moment it zoomed past her back into the closet and the door slammed shut. The lights went out and the bathroom and hallway were plunged into thick, black darkness. The door to the room opposite the bathroom slammed shut.

  “Willow, stay close to me,” Jackson said. “We don’t know what’s going on here.”

  “Okay,” I said, trying to reach for his hand. But before I could, someone stepped between us, grabbed me by the shoulders, and pushed me hard. I screamed as I tumbled down the stairs.

  My shoulders and hips and ankles were hitting against the stairs, and I was crying out. Then suddenly my head slammed against the railing, and my body rolled to a stop.

  The next thing I knew I was on my hands and knees, sobbing and trying to get my breath. I could tell that the floor was flat beneath me—I had to be on the next landing—but it was spinning. Everything was spinning. I saw stars and crumpled into a heap.

  The lights came back on, and I heard
footsteps clattering down the stairs. Then Jackson was beside me. “Willow! Are you okay?”

  I tried to get up but my legs felt wobbly and my head was still spinning. “I think I have a concussion. My brain feels like it’s swimming in my skull.”

  Jackson helped me to my feet. “We’re going to the ER, right now.”

  I leaned on Jackson. “Someone just tried to kill me.”

  “No kidding.” He put his arm around me. “Now, step down, carefully.”

  I looked back up the stairs and saw MJ, Rick, Pierre, Tom, Amanda, Sarah, Cassidy, and Carly watching. Everyone looked concerned, even Tom, everyone except Amanda, who wore a look of smug satisfaction on her face.

  Because it was Sunday night on Labor Day weekend, Jackson and I waited for two hours before anyone in Eastern Long Island Hospital in Greenport could see me. The ER waiting room was full. I was bruised and dizzy and aching, but I wasn’t as sick as the woman who had just had a heart attack or the guy who was injured in a car accident. So we sat, me slumped against Jackson’s shoulder. It hurt to think, but I knew I had to try to make sense of what had happened.

  “Amanda has to be the one who did it. Did you see her face?”

  “Not necessarily,” Jackson said. “She might have just been pleased that you got hurt.”

  “That’s sick.”

  “Some people are.” Jackson held my hand. “It also could have been someone who hid in the closet, like James or Lucas, and then, when the lights went out, came out and pushed you down the stairs. Regardless, you are obviously getting too close to the murderer.” Jackson gave me a long look. “The other things—the phone call, the branch, the letter, even shutting you in the shed—I think all those things were designed to scare you off. But this was different. The killer is getting serious now, and he or she is perfectly willing to take you out.”

  “You’re right.” I tried to keep my voice steady, though I wasn’t doing a convincing job of it. “But I’m not going to give up.”

  Jackson sighed. “You only have about a dozen suspects, and you’re not sure of any of them.”

  “I know. But I am sure that this all has something to do with the past. The murders are just too similar. I need to talk to Edith Thorne.” I pulled out my phone and checked my messages. Wallace hadn’t texted me, so I texted him again: NEED TO SEE EDITH THORNE ASAP PLEASE!