“You think the coroner is wrong?”
A radio squawked and two officers hustled out the door. Until Kate had flinched at every sound, Tom hadn’t realized how well he ignored the racket around here. What else might he have ignored?
He turned on Hank. “I think the coroner is a young hotshot trying to get his name in the paper, because I sure didn’t leak this report. Did you?”
Hank squared his shoulders and dropped the jovial tone. “Watch it. I’m the boss now. PR decisions are mine to make. And you can’t afford to be on my bad side.”
Tom slumped into his seat. Not only had Hank stuck his neck out to get Tom this job, but Tom had pulled the lone ranger routine one too many times for the FBI to take him back into active duty anytime soon. If he burned his bridges here, he’d be walking security duty at Walmart.
Hank scooped up the newspaper and tossed it into the trash can. “Forget her. You have enough to deal with between open cases and your dad.”
“Dad!” Remembering that he’d put his dad on hold, Tom grabbed the phone receiver and pressed the line button.
A dial tone droned in his ear.
“Great, he hung up. Something else to apologize for when I get home. Why do I even bother?”
Hank straddled the chair Kate had vacated and plopped his coffee mug onto Tom’s desk. “Because he’s family.”
“Yeah.” Tom scraped his fingers over his eyelids and let out a groan that had been building in his chest for weeks.
Across the room, a female cop exhaled an identical sound as a woman sporting a shiner shuffled out with the smooth-talking jerk who’d likely given her the bruise in the first place. The same scene played out too many times to count. Rarely did they make a real difference.
Tom looked from the empty spot on his desk where the newspaper had been to Hank. “Miss Adams seemed so convinced Daisy wouldn’t have committed suicide.”
“Could be compensating for a guilty conscience. She plays around with those herbs too, you know. Maybe she slipped the wrong one into her friend’s tea.”
“If you thought that,” Tom shot back with more sarcasm than he’d intended, “why’d you insist I close the case?” He knew Hank was joking around, but his decision to cut short the investigation had irked Tom almost as much as Hank’s unexpected appearance at Daisy’s autopsy. He’d been prepared for the don’t-trust-the-new-guy mentality from the officers on his shift, but not from Hank.
“Lighten up, man. This is Port Aster, not DC.” Hank propped a foot on his knee. “I’m just saying Adams is the only person I know who drinks flower tea.”
“You’re forgetting your grandma.”
“Oh yeah.” Hank puckered his lips like he’d sucked back a lemon. “She has a different tea for whatever ails ya.”
Tom studied his buddy-turned-boss. Hank’s hair had thinned on top, and he’d shaved his goatee into a mustache, but he hadn’t shed his ingrained suspicion of people’s motives. In the old days, Tom would’ve been the one telling Hank to lighten up. Although they’d grown up in the same neighborhood, they’d always seen the world from opposite sides of the street—Hank, as the son of a convict, and Tom, as the son of a cop.
Yet, for a brief moment, hadn’t he too entertained the idea of Kate as a suspect?
Maybe his years in the FBI had made him more like his old buddy than he wanted to admit.
Tom replayed in his mind the exchange with Kate. Her bravado had been just that—a futile attempt to make sense of what had happened, to cling to the image she wanted to remember her friend by. He knew what that felt like.
Tom gulped the now-cold coffee and handed the empty mug to Hank. “You’re right. The case is closed. Let me get back to work.” He snatched up the digital recorder he’d instinctively activated the moment Kate slapped the newspaper onto his desk. His years as an agent had taught him how to read people, and when he’d looked into Kate’s clear green eyes and seen her heart laid bare, he knew she was as innocent as they came.
He shoved the recorder into his jacket pocket.
Naïve. But innocent.
His index finger lingered on the recorder’s Play button. Then again, people were rarely what they seemed.
2
Two blocks from the police station, Kate parked her car curbside. Her stomach was more scrambled than her morning eggs, and her hands hadn’t stopped trembling since she marched out of Parker’s office, vowing to find Daisy’s killer.
Was she nuts?
What did she know about tracking down a murderer?
She could end up his next victim.
Her gaze darted from window to window. Okay, Kate, get a grip. No one besides a roomful of cops even knows you’re looking. She pocketed her keys and stepped out of the car. A short walk might help her calm down and figure out what to do next.
Bright splotches of sunlight dappled the tree-lined street, but the scene felt wrong—as if even the sky had failed her. The weather should be cloudy, miserable, like she felt.
How could Detective Parker insinuate Daisy killed herself on purpose?
He’d acted so concerned with those soft eyes and mellow tones, and then boom, he delivered that “people are rarely what they seem” line. Well, she’d show him. Daisy was an open book—and more than that, a woman full of life and zest. She never would have killed herself.
And Kate would prove it.
Somehow.
She turned the corner and wandered down the cobbled main street in a daze. Everywhere she looked dredged up more memories of Daisy—the flower baskets that hung from old-fashioned lampposts, the smell of cinnamon buns wafting from the bakery, the enticing wares spilling onto the sidewalk from quaint little shops. For more than four years, she and Daisy had strolled these streets together, hashing over ideas, solving problems, sharing dreams. Dreams of discovering a miracle cure for depression. A cure they’d been on the verge of unveiling. Another reason Daisy never would have taken her own life.
Kate pushed open the door of their favorite tea shop, and Daisy’s British accent tinkled in her ears like the bell over the door. Let’s have a spot of tea. There isn’t a problem that can’t be solved over a good cup of tea.
Yet as Kate walked in, the aromas of spiced teas and freshly ground coffee failed to lift her mood. She glided her fingers over the rows of glass jars lining the counter, filled with herbs of every description. In her mind she heard Daisy chatter on about the health benefit of each.
If only there was a tea that could fix a broken heart.
Blinking back a fresh sting of tears, Kate helped herself to a cup and saucer. She scooped a bit of passionflower to soothe her nerves and a bit of chamomile to help her relax, then added a pinch of ginger to chase away the acid that had begun to eat a hole in her stomach. Kate handed the blend to the new girl behind the counter. “Steep this for ten minutes, please. With a lid on.”
The girl, with her straight black hair and clipped bangs reminiscent of Disney’s Snow White, looked a few years younger than Kate, maybe twenty-three or twenty-four.
The mayor’s wife, a chic-looking woman in three-inch heels and a pencil-straight skirt, joined Kate at the counter. “Goodness. Who has time to wait that long for a cup of tea? Molly, just give me one of those energy teas, and make it to go, will you?”
The girl handed the woman a disposable cup with a plastic cover.
Kate dug her nails into the Formica. “How can she drink a tea without knowing what’s—” Kate clamped her mouth shut. Good grief, what was she doing ranting at the poor counter girl? “Um, sorry,” Kate mumbled, laying a five-dollar bill on the counter. “I’ll wait over there.” She retreated with a muffin to her usual table in the back corner by the stone fireplace.
Nibbling on her muffin, she could almost imagine Daisy sitting across from her, telling her how dotty she’d been to yell at the detective. But Kate wouldn’t let him close this case.
She wouldn’t.
Daisy didn’t kill herself. Kate had to make him see
that. She owed Daisy that much.
If not for Daisy, she’d probably still be the server behind the counter, pouring tea like Molly back there. Kate traced her finger over the rim of her cup. She could picture the day as clear as yesterday. Daisy had marched into the shop and, instead of ordering her usual blend, demanded to know why Kate had dropped out of her class.
She’d burst into tears and Daisy had ushered her over to this very table.
“My mom died,” Kate burbled, sopping the fountain works with a napkin. “I don’t have enough money to, to”—she sniffed—“to pay the bills, let alone finish the program.”
“Well, we can’t let a little thing like money stand between you and your future.” Daisy patted Kate’s arm, and in a lyrical Mary Poppins voice, added, “As my research assistant.”
“Your . . .” Afraid to hope, she whispered the words. “Your research assistant?”
“I do have a little pull at the university.” Daisy fluffed her curly white hair. “I’m sure I can scrape up a grant to tide you over until the end of the school year.”
“You . . . you’d do that for me?”
“I daresay I’d do just about anything for you. You’re the brightest graduate student I’ve ever had the pleasure to work with. I meant what I said.” Daisy’s eyes, the color of perfectly brewed chai, twinkled. “I want you to be my research assistant.”
Someone tapped Kate’s shoulder and her arm jerked, knocking her purse to the floor.
“I’m sorry.” Molly drew back, and the tea she carried sloshed into its saucer.
“No, it’s my fault.” Kate fluttered her hand, feeling her cheeks flush at being caught daydreaming. “My mind was . . . uh . . . somewhere else.”
Molly steadied her hold on the saucer and reached for the fallen purse.
“You must be new in town,” Kate said. And then, inspired by the memory of what Daisy had done for her, she added, “Welcome.”
“Thank you.” The girl’s eyes stayed glued to the teetering cup as she rose with purse in hand.
Kate relieved her of the tea and took a sip. “I got my start here. Beth is a great boss.”
“Yes, she’s very kind.”
“So are you interested in herbs? Working here sparked my interest.”
“Yeah, I was studying pharmacology in school, but I had to drop out when my aunt got sick and needed me to take care of her. She was into homeopathy and loved teaching me about it.”
“I think I heard that the research center plans to offer a course on—”
Molly set the purse on the table, and in Kate’s mind she saw not her own purse but Daisy’s bulging black handbag with a journal protruding from the top.
“That’s it! Daisy’s journal. She wrote in it as faithfully as she read her Bible.”
At Kate’s sudden exclamation, the poor girl startled and bumped the purse into the saucer, spilling what was left of the tea. “I’m so sorry.”
Kate squeezed Molly’s hand. “Don’t worry about the tea. I have to run now, but I’d love to chat with you later, okay? Because if I can find the journal, I’ll find the answers.” And she knew just where to look.
She scooped up her purse and rushed to the door.
Kate parked in Daisy’s driveway and sat staring at the brick bungalow. The masses of pansies along the front walk—yellow, violet, blue—had begun to droop in the hot sun as if they too mourned Daisy’s passing. Kate opened her purse and dug out the spare key Daisy had given her for emergencies.
Glancing around to ensure no one would see her go in, Kate hurried up the porch steps. There was no question in her mind this was an emergency, but after Detective Parker’s warning, she wasn’t anxious to test his interpretation of the law where trespassing was concerned.
To the right of Daisy’s driveway, cedar hedges blocked the neighbor’s view of the house. But on the other side, a gray-haired woman stood in the middle of her yard, her gaze fixed on Kate, a pair of pruning loppers poised to trim a rosebush.
Kate slipped the house key into her pocket and started down the porch steps. Not only might this woman report Kate’s appearance to the police, but she looked like the kind of neighbor who would have noticed something out of the ordinary. Something that might give Kate a clue to solving Daisy’s murder.
The bone-chilling squeal of rusty hinges sounded behind her.
Kate misstepped, grabbed at the handrail, and turned to find Daisy’s nephew standing in the doorway. “Edward,” she gasped. “I didn’t expect to find you here.”
He held the door wide. “My car’s in the garage. Come in. Come in.”
In the three months since they’d met, Kate had only seen Edward in the suits and ties he wore for his public relations job with the research station. She almost didn’t recognize him in old jeans, a flannel shirt, and three days’ beard growth. She stepped inside, half expecting to hear Daisy’s cheerful welcome ring from the kitchen.
And when Kate didn’t hear it, the silence squeezed her heart.
Edward pushed open the living room drapes. “I came by to air out the place.” The dark circles under his eyes confirmed that he too had tossed the last few nights away, grieving Daisy’s death.
He lifted a watering can from the sofa table. “My aunt would be horrified if she knew I’d let her houseplants die.” The tremor in his hand matched the quaver in his voice. “I still can’t believe she’s gone.”
Covering her mouth, Kate moved farther into the room. Nothing had changed, as though the past two weeks had been only a nightmare. The old-fashioned tea cart still displayed Daisy’s favorite serving set. Her sweater hung over the armrest of an upholstered rocker, and a paperback lay open on the table beside it. Kate ran her fingers over the title: The Gardener’s Daughter, undoubtedly a romance.
Yes, at any moment, Daisy would walk into the room.
Edward watered Daisy’s prized irises, which sat on the pedestals strategically placed in front of the picture window to maximize sun exposure. “To think, four months ago, I didn’t know I had an aunt. Now”—his Adam’s apple bobbed—“I’ve lost her. Sometimes I wish she’d never told me I was her nephew.”
Kate touched his arm. “You don’t mean that. Finding you made her so happy.”
He nodded but avoided Kate’s gaze. When he moved on to the next plant, she let her hand drop to her side.
“Do you intend to live here?” She scanned the room, searching for anything that might give her a clue what really happened to Daisy. “I imagine it’s yours now.”
“I don’t want to think about that. It’s too soon. I can’t think straight. How can the death of someone who I knew such a short time affect me like this?”
“Daisy affected everyone she met.” Kate wished Edward shared his aunt’s belief in eternity and understood that her faith had inspired her goodness. Daisy had tried to explain her beliefs to Edward, but his bitterness over the circumstances surrounding his adoption had undermined any attempt to convince him of God’s love, whereas Kate’s certainty that Daisy now lived with her Savior was her one solace in the gloomy days since learning of her friend’s death.
Daisy’s desire to help Edward find faith in God was one more reason she wouldn’t have taken her own life.
“My aunt was a remarkable woman,” Edward mumbled.
“I know finding you after all these years meant a lot to Daisy.” Kate deadheaded the potted violet on the end table. As much as she wanted to get on with her investigation, her heart ached to help Edward find some peace.
Edward moved to the opposite end of the sofa. “I wish we’d had more time.”
“She would have felt the same way.”
A pained look crossed his face.
Did he think Daisy actually took her own life?
Kate drew in a deep breath. “I don’t believe for one second that your aunt killed herself. I intend to clear her name.”
“What are you talking about? How?” Edward’s voice edged higher with each question, and if the frown
puckering his forehead was any indication, he didn’t like her idea any more than Parker had.
She straightened her shoulders. “By figuring out what really happened.”
“But the police already investigated.” Edward plunked the watering can on the table, splashing water over the side. He patted his pockets and, coming up empty-handed, dried the spill with one of Daisy’s crocheted doilies. “Digging around will only stir up gossip. Let the scandal die with her, and it will soon be forgotten.”
“I don’t want Daisy to be forgotten.” Kate pointed to the newspaper he’d left lying on the sofa. “Or remembered like that.”
“The police conceded her death could have been accidental.”
“Daisy was an expert. She would never confuse calendula marigolds with tagetes. Calendulas don’t have divided leaves and the flowers have far fewer petals.”
“You think she was murdered?” He paced in front of the window, stroking his forehead with his fingertips. “But you said yourself she was a wonderful lady. She didn’t have any enemies.”
“No, not enemies.” Kate had imagined an endless stream of possible scenarios from the moment she read the headline in the newspaper—a jealous competitor, a disgruntled student, a psychopathic drug company advocate—but working up the nerve to voice them was another thing altogether.
What if Edward thought she was as misguided as Detective Parker had?
Yet if she wanted to search Daisy’s house, what choice did she have?
Kate skimmed her fingertips back and forth over the edge of the table. “I thought perhaps a disgruntled student decided to play a prank on Daisy and switched her stock of dried flowers.” When Edward didn’t balk at the notion, Kate rushed on. “Since Daisy would assume they were hers, she wouldn’t pay attention as she scooped the petals into her infuser. Daisy kept a journal. I thought she might have written something that would tell—”
Edward stopped pacing. “I remember she’d said something about a kid.” He strode to the rolltop desk in the corner of the room and yanked up the cover. Scattered papers lined the desktop. He riffled through them, then crouched and tore through the drawers. “The kid plagiarized his research report. Daisy said she’d have to inform the university.” Edward slammed down a stack of files and sat back on his heels. “It’s not here.”
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