Murder in the Rose Garden: A Scent with Love Cozy Mystery (Scent with Love Cozy Mysteries)

by Tabitha Tate

  Murder in the Rose Garden

  A Scent with Love Cozy Mystery

  Tabitha Tate

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise, without prior written permission from the author.

  Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  Chapter 1

  Beth Andrews sat in the front row of St Mary’s Church and wiped a tear from her cheek. She looked up at the man who had taken the podium at her mother’s funeral as he fumbled with a stack of messy, folded handwritten notes. The untidy black handwriting was riddled with thick scribbling that gave the appearance of a poorly written mess that had been put together the night before. She wondered what her mother had seen in him. The woman who had written a thoughtful, moving tribute to her husband of nearly twenty years. The woman who had read from a neatly typed stack of notecards with a trembling, perfectly manicured hand at her own father’s funereal five years ago had nothing in common with this bumbling fool who couldn’t even be bothered to write a meaningful tribute.

  Bernard Blackwell was a short, tubby man in his mid-fifties, with dark hair cut short on the sides and longer strands on top combed to the right in an attempt to cover up his balding head. The warmth in the church had turned him into a pool of sweat. He adjusted his glasses and wiped the glistening beads of sweat from his nose with a worn handkerchief, lifting his arms to show off the dark blue sweat stains which had formed on his cotton shirt. His stomach was round and bulged over the top of his black dress pants and the bottom button of his shirt looked ready to pop under the strain of his large stomach. He smiled, and perfectly shaped pearly white teeth gleamed under the lights. Beth studied his mouth and decided that his dentist had not gotten the proportions correct: the veneers were too large and did not fit the shape of his mouth and jaw. Bernard cleared his throat nervously and proceeded to tell everyone in the room that he had been the love of her life, the shining light in her final years. Wishful thinking, Beth thought to herself. She felt anger rising in her blood. She clenched her fists and turned her thoughts to the events of the past week, anything to drown out the monotonous, fanciful ramblings of the delusional madman who had been the cause of so much tension between her and her mother.

  St Mary’s Church stood on the corner of Seventh and Main at the center of the charming little coastal town of Bartholomew Bay. Her mother had moved to Bartholomew Bay five years earlier with a bank account full of her father’s life insurance money and her heart set on buying and running a quaint little flower shop. Gardening was her passion and she was convinced that running a flower shop in a quiet coastal town would be the perfect way for her to spend her golden years. The quiet life her mother had imagined had never happened and she had spent the last five years running the flower shop while Bernard lived in the lap of luxury, never lifting a chubby finger to help her.

  Bernard had a reputation as ladies’ man, but for the life of her Beth could not understand what women saw in him. He had a taste for the finer things in life and a wandering eye. He was a bachelor with a long history of dating wealthy widows. Bartholomew Bay was a firm favorite with older people who had retired or moved away from busy city life in search of rest and relaxation; it was the perfect hunting ground for a gold digger like Bernard. Beth had seen through all of him but her mother had refused to see him for who he really was and it had caused them to become estranged. Beth was filled with regret and she wished that she could have had the opportunity to reconcile with her mother before her death.

  The stone-clad church building was full of period charm, six double rows of oak pews with a navy blue carpet leading to the front of the building where the podium stood. Two stained-glass windows on either side of the podium, depicting scenes from the life of Christ, framed Bernard. Her mother had been cremated the day before and the church hall was now filled with local residents who had come to honor her mother’s life at an intimate memorial service. Beth scanned the room; a sea of unfamiliar faces sat in teary-eyed silence as Bernard’s raspy voice droned in the background. Beth found it hard to believe that any of them had known her mother very well at all. Her mother was a hard woman who had kept to herself and it surprised her to see such a large turnout.

  “I will never be able to forgive myself for not knowing that you were going through. I failed to see through the smiling mask you wore to hide your inner pain…”

  A sickening feeling rose in her chest. Bernard was speaking as if he actually believed that her mother had taken her own life. Beth wanted to scream. She wanted to scream out loud for all the world to hear, “My mother would never have taken her own life. She was a fighter, not a coward!”

  Beth wondered if Bernard had anything to do with her mother’s death. It wouldn’t have surprised her if he knew more than he was letting on.

  Mary-Ellen Andrews had spent her younger years performing on Broadway. She had never been a big star but she had made a career out of performing in smaller supporting roles. She was flamboyant, a true actress. If she really had chosen to end her own life, she would have done it with a little more imagination, a little more showmanship. She might have waded into the ocean hoping to be swept out to sea, leaving everyone to wonder about her for eternity or perhaps she would have jumped from the top of the tallest building in town, clasping the black-and-white photo taken the day she married Beth’s father in Vegas. She would not have chosen to die on bended knee in her rose garden, covered in mud, wearing her worn gardening clothes and a pair of navy blue wellies.

  The call from Bernard last Sunday had been devastating. “She died doing what she loved, Elizabeth…your mother drank a glass of wine laced with deadly nightshade and went out into the garden to spend her final moments doing what she loved most—pruning her roses.”

  Beth knew her mother better than anyone else. She loved her roses but she hated gardening attire and she would not have wanted anyone to find her in such an un-glamorous state. Her mother also loved wine—she fancied herself a bit of a connoisseur—and Beth could not imagine her ruining a full-bodied Merlot with poison.

  None of it made sense. Beth needed to find her mother’s murderer not only to preserve her mother’s dignity but also to ensure that she would receive the life insurance money she so desperately needed to pay off her mother’s debts and save the flower shop.

  Standing outside in the church gardens after the service, she looked out at the rose garden that reminded her so much of her mother. The garden was in full bloom, row upon row of colorful petals, white Long John Silver roses and bright pink Excelsa blossoms, nestled among Golden Arctic bushes in full bloom. A glorious mixture of rose perfume filled the air. Beth brushed a tear from her cheek and put on a smile for the crowd that had gathered on the church lawn. She smiled until her cheeks were sore and made small talk with those who came to offer their condolences. A short woman with brown curly hair and a rather large waist smiled and reached out to her at the front of the rose garden. Allison Lando
n was the owner of the diner downtown. The sight of black streaks of mascara below her swollen red eyes led Beth to assume that she had been the person sobbing uncontrollably in the back row during the service.

  “So sorry for your loss, my dear. I will miss her dearly. She was my best customer, loved my peach cobbler. I just don’t know what we are going to do without her; she was a great help to my Johnny during his illness. I don’t know how we will manage his pain now that she is gone.”

  Beth nodded and held out the basket of freshly cut roses from her mother’s prized rose garden, the garden in which she had spent her final moments.

  “Thank you, Allison, please take a rose from Mom’s garden.”

  What had she meant about not being able to manage her husband’s pain? How was her mom involved in all of this? It appeared as if there were a lot of things she did not know about her mother.

  Bernard walked over and stood beside her, not daring to look her in the eye.

  “Your mother was a great woman, Elizabeth, I will miss her dearly.” Beth thought of the meeting with her mother’s lawyer, Jack Reynolds, late the previous evening, and anger bubbled in her veins.

  “Will you miss her or her money most?” she replied sharply, her eyes focused firmly on his face, trying to read his reaction.

  He kept his composure and replied, “I don’t know why you dislike me so much. I was never after your mother’s money. I am not sure how much she shared with you but things have not been easy the last few years, times have been tough. The recession hit her hard.” Beth had to bite her tongue. Her mother had fallen on hard times but according to her Aunt Genie, this had more to do with Bernard’s gambling habits than the financial recession. “I don’t know why you insist on staying at Millie’s guest house; you should be staying at the cottage,” Bernard continued.

  Beth had to bite her tongue. Stay at the cottage, over my dead body, she thought.

  Beth had sat on the leather chesterfield sofa in Jack Reynolds’ office the previous day, calmly sipping her cup of honey tea. The well-worn leather seat squeaked awkwardly beneath her knitted bottle green pencil skirt. She was smartly dressed in a white button-down shirt paired with the knitted skirt and a matching knitted jacket. Her calm demeanor hid the explosive thoughts in her mind as she carefully considered her options.

  Jack had tried to break the news gently; the nervous chatter and tapping of fingers on the expensive mahogany table when she first sat down had alerted her to the bad news which was about to come.

  “I am sorry, Beth, your mother had fallen on some difficult times. I tried to manage her financial affairs as well as possible under the circumstances but things got a little out of control.”

  Beth raised a perfectly shaped black eyebrow questioningly. “What circumstances?”

  Jack stammered and placed his blue-and-white patterned teacup on its matching saucer. “Surely you knew about her cancer?”

  “Oh yes, the cancer,” she lied.

  Cancer! Her mother had never mentioned a word about it and if Bernard knew he was pretty good at keeping a secret.

  “Well, her medical expenses placed quite a strain on her savings. Chemo doesn’t come cheap.” Jack lifted his teacup, placed the rim to his thin, red pursed lips and slurped in delight as the warm honey tea warmed his throat. A man slurping tea was not one of her favorite sounds in the world but the sight and sound of this man, Jack Reynolds, slurping from the dainty china cup disgusted her.

  Beth placed her own cup down on the mahogany coffee table. A tiny clink, sounded in the room as the delicate flowery china cup landed on the matching saucer.

  “Well, Jack, where do I stand? What instructions did my mother leave in her will?”

  “Your mother’s instructions were very clear; she updated her will less than a month before her death. She left the cottage to Bernard and she left you her flower shop on the main road: Scent with Love.”

  Beth almost choked on her tea. A flower shop? She didn’t know a thing about the flower business and she had no intention of staying in the Bay. She had a bookkeeping job to get back to at Anderson & Cole, a small law firm back in Boston.

  Jack cleared his throat, removed a thick black ledger from the top drawer of his desk, walked over and handed it to her.

  “These are the books detailing the financial affairs of your mother’s flower shop. I must warn you, the business is in serious trouble and since your mother’s death was ruled a suicide, there is no life insurance money to rely on for all the payments due to the long list of creditors. I am not sure of your current financial standing but if I was in your position I would consider selling up as soon as possible. Should you be interested in pursuing this option, I would suggest you contact Joey Dunn, the local realtor, who deals with all property sales in the Bay area and surrounds.”

  Beth took the ledger and placed it in her smart black leather handbag. She got up to shake Jack Reynolds’ hand. Her own hand was trembling.

  “Thank you, Mr. Reynolds. I will need a few days to handle my mother’s affairs and in that time I will make a decision regarding the flower shop.”

  Beth hurried out of Jack’s office, her black leather heels clicking noisily as she went down the steep staircase that led to the entrance on the street. The ledger in her bag was heavy and the strap of her leather bag dug into her shoulder but she barely noticed. Her head was swimming. Her mother had had cancer and hadn’t mentioned a word about it. She was now the proud owner of a struggling flower shop and she had never been able to keep a potted plant alive for longer than a week.

  Beth’s thoughts returned to the church rose garden and she looked up to see the last people leaving after the service. Bernard had wandered over to talk to Allison Landon; it looked as if they were arguing which didn’t surprise Beth. Bernard was naturally argumentative and only ever saw things from his point of view. She looked at him waving his hands about frantically as Allison tried to calm him down and wondered what could be so terribly important so as to elicit such a heated discussion at her mother’s memorial service. Beth needed answers. She would have to go and see him, she told herself, and her heart sank at the thought of having to set foot in her mother’s cottage.

  Beth went back to the church building and gathered her things—her handbag and the printed tribute she had handed out to all the guests with a photo of her mother waving happily from her rose garden. She had inscribed the photo with the quote her mother had given to anyone who had asked why she never took rose cuttings from her garden.

  “I’m saving them all for my funeral,” had been her mother’s favorite response.

  She looked down at the empty basket in her hand and thought that her mother would have been delighted to know that she had treated everyone at her memorial service to rose cuttings from her treasured garden.

  She walked out of the building, turned to the church rose garden one last time and waved goodbye to her mother, who had been scattered amongst the blooms the previous evening. Beth had almost reached her car when a gray-haired woman who had been sitting in the back row of the church during the service brushed past her, bumped into her and stuck a small, neatly folded note in her hand. The woman did not make eye contact, and Beth could tell that she was afraid that someone would notice the note in her hand. Beth clasped the note tightly, enclosing it in the palm of her hand, and hurried to her car. She opened the note once she was safely inside.

  Things are not as they seem. Meet me at Fisherman’s Wharf at three p.m. tomorrow afternoon.

  Chapter 2

  Millie’s guest house and spa was located on the outskirts of town, on a beautiful patch of beachfront real estate. It was popular with locals and big city visitors who loved the peace and tranquility of the ocean setting coupled with recreational golfing and pampering in the five-star spa facilities. The men came to enjoy a round of golf, while the woman spent their days in the luxury spa facility. The nine-hole golf course was the perfect size, allowing plenty of time for a round of beer in the
bar which was aptly named the Tenth Hole. Beth had booked herself into a large self-catering suite with a sprawling front porch and direct access to the beach. There were two fluffy white sofas in the lounge area which had an open-plan kitchenette. A large master bedroom and en-suite bathroom led straight off from the lounge area. The bedroom had a large queen-sized bed which was draped in white linen. The top of the bed was covered in a mass of scatter cushions in blue and white linen in various floral prints, stripes and plaids. A large frameless glass stacking door opposite the bed allowed for spectacular sea views.

  Beth sat down on the bed, kicked off her heels, slipped out of her black knee-length dress and put on a pair of linen slacks and a light blue angora sweater. She combed her honey-blonde shoulder-length hair into a neat ponytail. She looked at her face in the mirror and wiped away the black smudges that had formed under her eyes. She had spent the entire memorial service fighting to contain the flood of tears that had welled threateningly in her dark green eyes. Now that she was safely within the walls of the guest cottage she felt secure enough to let her grief show. Warm tears exploded across her cheeks and she was engulfed in a sense of relief as she let her bottled emotions free.

  Beth walked out onto the beach, barefoot. The sand felt warm between her toes and the ambiance of the ocean brought a sense of calm to her mood as she paced at the edge of the water trying to collect her thoughts. Hungry seagulls wailed overhead, anxiously crying out as they scoured the water for anything that looked like food. So much had happened in the last few days, so many questions needed to be answered, it was so overwhelming that she barely knew where to begin. Beth had a nagging feeling at the back of her mind, a suspicion that her mother had left her the flower shop for a reason. Beth was an experienced bookkeeper and it almost felt as if her mother had wanted her to look into the finances at Scent with Love.