Poisoned Primrose (Motts Cold Case Mystery Book 1)

by Dahlia Donovan

  Poisoned Primrose

  Motts Cold Case Mystery Book 1

  Dahlia Donovan

  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 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Thanks

  Also by Dahlia Donovan

  Acknowledgments

  About the Publisher

  Poisoned Primrose © 2020 by Dahlia Donovan

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any written, electronic, recorded, or photocopied format without the express permission from the author or publisher as allowed under the terms and conditions with which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution, circulation or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

  Poisoned Primrose is a work of fiction. All names, characters, events and places found therein are either from the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to persons alive or dead, actual events, locations, or organizations is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  For information, contact the publisher, Tangled Tree Publishing.

  www.tangledtreepublishing.com

  Editing: Hot Tree Editing

  Cover Designer: BooksSmith Design

  E-book ISBN: 978-1-922359-18-6

  Paperback ISBN: 978-1-922359-19-3

  For Meg, Renee, Debbie, and Jennifer, who help turn my first drafts into something magical.

  Chapter One

  A cat, a turtle, and a Pineapple walk into a cottage…. That’s it. That’s the punch line of my life choices.

  “Well, here we are.” Motts closed the solid wooden front door to her new cottage, leaning back against it and releasing a pent-up sigh. She opened her bluish-grey eyes to stare at all the boxes, plastic bins, and bags. “Bugger. You’ve no one to blame but yourself for this, Pineapple Mottley.”

  Pineapple Meg Mottley had been so named because her mother had craved nothing but the tropical fruit during her one and only pregnancy. There’d only been one issue. No one ever called her Pineapple; her uncle had nicknamed her Motts as an infant, and it stuck.

  Meow.

  The plaintive cry came from behind one of the boxes. Motts moved quickly to lift up her precious cat. Cactus was a tortoiseshell Sphynx cat; she’d found the poor dear at a shelter and fallen head-over-sneakers in love. He buried his head in her shoulder-length brown hair, purring his little heart out.

  She stroked the suede-like downy fuzz covering his wrinkly body. “What are we going to do about this mess? Want to help me unpack? No?”

  Figures.

  What have I gotten myself into?

  When her auntie Daisy had passed away, Motts had taken the inherited cottage as a sign. London had always been overwhelming to her senses. Polperro was a much quieter place with a slower pace suited for her autistic needs.

  She loved Polperro. Her parents were both originally from Cornwall. A lot of her family lived in the area, as did her ex-girlfriend.

  Despite having spent many a holiday with family at the cottage, Motts found herself overwhelmed by the sudden change. This was a terrible idea. I should’ve sold the house. I am such a silly fool.

  Okay.

  Take a few deep breaths.

  Match Cactus’s purring.

  You’re going to be okay.

  “Ahh!” She jumped when a rapid knocking on the door jolted her. “For goodness sake.”

  “Motts? You okay?”

  She spun around and yanked the door open to find the welcome sight of her ex-girlfriend, Pravina Griffin, and Vina’s twin brother, Nish. “I’m….”

  How do I finish the sentence?

  Panicked?

  In the middle of the biggest mistake I’ve ever made?

  Just slightly overcome by irrational fear?

  Nish moved forward to take Cactus from her arms while Vina led her inside. “Amma is bringing over supper. She wanted to let the sambar simmer a little longer. She even made your favourite kind of rice.”

  The Griffin twins took after their Tamil mother, Leena, who’d been a Bollywood star before falling in love with Cadan Griffin, a Cornish-Indian cricket player. They’d settled in Polperro to run a coffee shop and bakery. Griffin Brews had been around for thirty-plus years, and now their children managed it, allowing their parents to retire early.

  Leena and Cadan had welcomed Motts with open arms even before she’d briefly dated their daughter. Motts and Vina had realised over the years that their close bond felt more like that of siblings. They’d dumped each other but remained the best of friends, where they’d started in the first place.

  “Let’s talk about something less daunting than unpacking. How goes the dating life? Did you fill out a dating profile on the site I emailed you?” Vina plucked Moss, Motts’s turtle, out of his travel terrarium. “Well?”

  “No, I didn’t. There’s no box to check for asexual, biromantic autistic.” Motts gently took Moss to return her to a safer place. “No touching the turtle.”

  “I won’t drop Moss.” Vina thankfully turned her attention to the nearest box. “This says ‘bedroom’ on it.”

  “Congrats on being able to read.” Nish poked his sister in the side. “Why don’t we start with the kitchen? Motts can direct so we don’t mess with her space. We can ignore the bags of patterned paper.”

  Bags of paper lined one entire side of the living room. Motts made and sold origami floral arrangements for people who loved flowers but suffered from allergies. She’d made a decent living with her Hollyhock Folded Blooms business, and working from home was an added bonus.

  “Me? Make a mess?” Vina feigned great offence.

  “Mess is basically your middle name.” Nish knew his sister well. He turned dark brown eyes towards Motts. “Well, fruity one? Are you ready to make sense of chaos?”

  “Nope. Probably why I dumped her.” Motts grinned so Vina would know it was a joke. She was never wholly sure people would understand her sense of humour. “What am I doing?”

  “Showing independence?”

  “I’m thirty-nine. A bit late to become an adult.” She’d lived with her parents in London even while attending university. This would be her first attempt at being alone in a home. “I’m having hot flashes. Is it too late to learn how to be a grown-up?”

  “It’s never too late. Look at Nish. He’s still waiting on a growth spurt,” Vina teased her twin brother. They were only two years younger than Motts. “Well? Where do you want to start?”

  Motts glanced between the twins and the stacks of her belongings. “The mug box. We’ll want tea to get us through the evening.”

  They needed coffee, not tea. Motts’s kettle and blue-patterned mugs were unpacked first. Then, they methodically made their way through every box with “kitchen” on it.

  After a warm and filling supper of pumpkin sambar (delicious tamarind spiced stew) and fragrant steamed rice, Motts and t
he Griffin clan made short work of the boxes. Nish and his father carried bedroom items upstairs but left them for her to go through. Some things she had to do for herself.

  Once the Griffins had gone, Motts made sure Moss was settled in their new home, grabbed her mug of hot chocolate, and clambered up the stairs with Cactus close behind. She sat on the edge of her bed, close to tears.

  What am I feeling?

  Fear.

  Maybe.

  Am I overwhelmed?

  Probably.

  Taking a few deep breaths, Motts reminded herself that moving into the cottage was the right decision. Her aunt had left the two-story home on the cliff overlooking the Polperro harbour to her only niece. If Auntie Daisy could live alone, Motts thought she’d manage on her own just fine.

  Hopefully.

  The following morning, Motts woke to find Cactus curled up under the blanket beside her. He tended to be more of a burrower than the average kitty. She left him snoozing to find coffee and get the fire going.

  Sunlight was already filtering in through the windows. Motts managed to avoid bashing her knee against the various boxes in her path. February had been an unusually cold month, and a warm fire would defrost her frozen toes.

  First, she went through her morning routine. Clean teeth, clean face, get dressed. Her whole day would get thrown out of whack if she didn’t follow her usual schedule as best as possible.

  If hot flashes were at all useful, they’d heat my feet.

  “I have made fire!” Motts exclaimed. She waited for a few minutes to make sure the whole cottage wasn’t about to go up in flames. “Success.”

  Coffee and a plate of Jaffa Cakes made the best breakfast to wake her up. I’m an adult. I can eat biscuits for breakfast. Perfectly legitimate. And Mum’s not here to lecture me about my teeth falling out.

  Grabbing a second mug of coffee, she wandered over to stare out the back window at the garden. She hoped there was a garden underneath the overgrown mess. Her auntie had definitely allowed her flowers, weeds, and other greenery to run wild when she’d gotten sick.

  Motts pinched the bridge of her nose to stop a sneeze. “Don’t be dramatic. You can’t smell the pollen from inside the cottage. It’s not even warm enough for the flowers to be blooming yet.”

  Allergies had always been a plague for Motts. She loved gardening, but flowers were her nemesis. I suppose I can have Auntie Daisy’s caretaker come out to clean things up for me.

  Is that lazy?

  It’s lazy.

  Meow.

  “Morning. The sun is up. Do you want to watch me work in the garden?” Motts lifted her beloved cat up. She set him on the bench by the large picture window. “I’ve already put your breakfast out.”

  With Cactus’s high metabolism, Motts made sure he had sufficient meals and snacks throughout the day. She gave him a quick snuggle. He purred his contentment against her cheek.

  “What do you think is going to give first? My allergies or my energy?” She gently set him down on his mound of blankets. They’d been one of the first things she’d unpacked. “Well, the weeds won’t pull themselves, will they?”

  Some days, Motts enjoyed taking Cactus outside with her, but his sensitive skin made it impossible in the cold and windy February morning. She didn’t even want to be out there.

  But she needed to trim back the chaos of the garden. It had bothered her all night. She’d had nightmares of weeds and vines taking over the house, strangling her to death.

  No.

  The garden had to be cleared out completely. Her mind wouldn’t settle otherwise. She knew herself well enough. And she had to do it.

  Grabbing gloves and garden tools from the box by the back door, Motts made her way out into the bright sunshine. She paused to listen to the glorious sound of wind and waves. Polperro had always been one of her favourite places in the world; she’d never understood how her parents had moved away.

  Cornwall had to be the most magnificent place in the world. Both sides of her family had lived along the sea, going back generations. It was no wonder she felt most at home here.

  “What are you doing?”

  Motts dropped her spade and fell backwards into a pile of weeds. “What?”

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” a handsome young man she’d never seen shouted over the gate at her. “Who said you could muck about in the garden?”

  “It’s my garden.” Motts mustered her courage to get to her feet, holding the spade tightly in her hands. “My cottage. My garden. Naff off.”

  “You’re the fruit girl.”

  “Pineapple.” She refused to back down while glaring at his nose. “Who are you?”

  “Danny Orchard. I used to help my granddad and dad care for the garden.” He sounded calmer, but she kept a hold of her makeshift weapon. “Sorry if I scared you.”

  “I’m cleaning out the weeds.” Motts ignored the hand he was holding out across the gate. “Have a nice morning.”

  “Right.”

  Motts returned to the weeds and didn’t look up until she heard his footsteps heading away. “Fruit girl. What a berk.”

  After the strange encounter, Motts withdrew quickly into the cottage. She wanted stone walls between her and the outside world. At times, the best method of self-care was to retreat into a safe space.

  Weeds could wait. They weren’t going to crawl away. She had to bleed off all the weird energy leftover from being shouted at.

  Confrontation never came easily to her. Motts tended to shut down and lose her ability to formulate a coherent response. She barely managed to muddle through.

  She wrapped up in a heavy blanket in front of the fire with Cactus curled up in her lap. “Next time, we’ll stay in bed.”

  Meow.

  Chapter Two

  Lemon curd on buttered toast soothed a multitude of problems. Motts had made three slices to get her through the morning. She hadn’t quite recovered despite spending an entire day alone in the cottage.

  Although needing more time to recover, Motts had several early meetings. Vina had helped her connect with a few shop owners in Polperro. She hoped to convince them to consider commissioning some of her paper flower arrangements.

  Motts stared mournfully into her empty mug. “Can I take a sick day?”

  Meow.

  She ran her fingers gently over Cactus’s head, rubbing behind his ears. “Is that a yes or a no? Or do you not want to be left behind?”

  I could have another piece of toast.

  Procrastinating won’t erase your need to meet Marnie and Peggie.

  It helped Motts that she knew both women. She’d met them several times on the Mottley family holidays to Polperro. They were lovely people who’d make her feel welcome and comfortable.

  And yet, her anxiety refused to settle.

  She had a lifetime of experience forcing herself to get through dealing with the world. Her autistic diagnosis had come late—in her midthirties. She’d felt relief at having answers, yet in some ways, even four years on, she continued to struggle to adjust to the paradigm shift.

  Changing out of her comfy pyjamas into jeans and a long-sleeved flannel shirt, Motts stood in front of the full-length mirror on the back of the bedroom door. You can do this. Origami flowers are your bread and butter. Talk about the paper arrangements—you don’t need to make small talk.

  Motts redid the buttons on her shirt. “I’m Motts.”

  You don’t have to introduce yourself. You’ve met them before. They know your name.

  “Right.” She didn’t make eye contact with her reflection. “Okay. Hello. Lovely to see you again.”

  Do I ever say lovely to see you?

  No.

  “Hi. Do you want to buy my flowers?” Great. Now I sound like some Victorian street urchin without the accent and coal-smudged face. “Hello. Thanks for meeting with me. I brought sketches.”

  Well, it’s better. Not brilliant, but better.

  She pulled on an over
sized grey hoodie that had originally belonged to her younger and much taller cousin, River. She’d stolen it from him last year. He hadn’t complained—much.

  “You can do this.” Motts tried to summon the courage to leave for her first appointment. She refused to be late. “If we’re doing this, we’re going now.”

  With an apologetic pet to Cactus and Moss for leaving them behind, Motts raced out the door. She shivered in the brisk breeze off the sea. Hello, February in Cornwall. I’ll just be here freezing my toes off.

  Grabbing her blue bicycle, Motts secured her sketchbook in the left pannier bag and her backpack in the right one. Her bike was her pride and joy. A 3-speed Pure City Step-Through in seafoam green with dusty pink vegan leather seat and handles. She’d had it customised with the saddlebags and a wire basket in the front. Her dad had paid for it to be shipped over from the maker in Los Angeles.

  She adored it. And not just because it matched her seafoam green Vespa scooter. She thought both modes of transportation would be perfect for living in a tiny village.

  Pausing to glance behind her, she once again found herself appreciating the beauty of the area. Her auntie had inherited the cottage many years ago from her great-uncle. Their family had a long history in Cornwall.

  Motts could understand why they’d clung on to the cottage; it was ideally situated up almost at the top of a hill above Polperro. She had a stunning view of the coastline and across the village itself. In the bright early spring morning, the harbour practically sparkled like someone had dumped glitter into the sea.

  After carefully making her way down the narrow stone stairs, Motts hopped on her bicycle. She pedalled her way to Marnie Shaw’s Bridal Lace Designs for the first meeting. Her nerves kicked into high gear—and her fingers refused to work the buckles on the saddlebag.