“Don’t be so quick to judge.” Aunt Florence sighed and pushed her way to her feet. “Marta has more problems than either of you know about. It’s not my place to tell you what she’s facing, but trust me—if she steals a cookie or a bar of soap, it’s because she needs it, not because she doesn’t want to pay. Whatever bit of spare money she has is tied up in helping her daughter and her disabled grandson.”
“I didn’t know that,” Barb said. She studied her hands. “I guess I never thought to ask Marta about her life.”
Aunt Florence shook her head. “Life can be rough for a lot of folks—young and old alike. Now, if you girls will excuse me, I’m going to go call Winthrop.” At Barb’s questioning look, she added, “Winchester. My lawyer. Trevor’s going to need all the help he can get.” With that, she headed into the den, shutting the door behind her.
I stood up. “I think I’ll make us some sandwiches. Tea and cookies are fine, but I’m starved. The day’s been one shock after another.” As we headed into the kitchen, it occurred to me that we really knew very little about the people who touched on the periphery of our lives. For instance, just how much did we really know about Trevor?
The papers were always full of stories that started, “He was such a nice man, nobody ever thought he was capable of such a crime.…” Was Trevor one of those people who lived a secret life that nobody knew about? Or was he just a convenient scapegoat? The Wangs were a prominent family in town. They’d want answers and they’d want them fast. I trusted Kyle to go by the book, but would he bother to look outside of it at other possibilities? He’d always had a linear, one-track mind back in junior high.
I pulled out the bread and meat and cheese while Barb got the plates out of the cupboard. As I fixed three roast beef sandwiches, she sliced up a cantaloupe and then we arranged the food on the plates, covering Auntie’s with plastic wrap and setting it in the refrigerator until she was ready to eat.
We settled in at the dinette table in companionable silence. I absently looked out the window. It was a gloomy, nasty afternoon that made me glad we were inside. The breakfast nook overlooked the kitchen garden Aunt Florence had planted on the south side of the house. Somebody would have to go out and weed it later. Trevor would be out of commission for a while; I had my doubts that Kyle would let him out for plant-patrol. Meanwhile, the lilacs needed harvesting, and the other flowers and herbs would be crying out for attention.
Sighing, I wiped my hands on my napkin and grabbed the phone, punching in Sarah’s number, hoping she could fill in full-time. Her answering machine beeped and I left a message asking her to call me back as soon as she had the chance. As I sat back down at the table and spoke to Barb, she jumped, off somewhere in her own little world.
“So, what are your plans for the evening? Do you still want to go out to dinner tonight?”
She shook her head and finished her sandwich. “I left Dorian stuck with all the work, so I don’t think tonight is the best night to leave him without a good dinner on the table. He wouldn’t complain, but… you know. Rain check, okay?”
Secretly relieved—I really wasn’t looking forward to the prying eyes that would turn our way once Lydia’s murder hit the papers—I walked her to the door. “Not a problem. You know, I’m curious about the missing mirror. It couldn’t have just vanished into thin air. Now, I know that Lydia wanted it, but she sure didn’t walk out of the shop with it. And if Trevor killed her, what use would he have for it? And why did he leave his hammer in the office instead of dumping it in the water where they wouldn’t find it?”
“Those are good questions that deserve good answers. Make sure that you pose them to Kyle. I like the man, but he’s not going to look very hard for anybody else if he thinks he’s got his murderer. Ever since his wife died, he’s changed, and not necessarily for the better.”
I gave her a quick look. “I know he was married, and that his wife died, but I don’t know much about what happened. Who was she?”
Barbara shrugged. “Her name was Katy. I don’t think you ever met her. She moved here a few years after you left. Two years ago, she was driving out on Weirback Road during a bad rainstorm—you know, the winding road that leads up to Klaxon Ridge? And there was this logging truck coming the other way. She skidded, pulled a hard right to try to avoid hitting it, and went over the embankment.”
“Oh jeez, what a mess,” I said. “Poor Kyle.” I felt like an ass. Kyle had reason to be upset with the world. The poor man was still mourning for his wife. I had to quit taking things like that personally. My ego could use a little deflating, that was for sure.
“He took it pretty bad.”
The rain had let up and the clouds were pulling away, though they looked like they’d be back in full force a little later on. A gust of wind whipped past and I shivered, crossing my arms to protect myself from the chill. I stepped back so Barb could pull out. “See you later!”
She honked and waved as she disappeared down the road.
After everything that had happened, I really needed to move, get a breath of fresh air. A glance at the sky told me that I’d probably have time for a walk before the next wave of pendulous clouds made their way to the island, so I ran inside, grabbed my jacket, called the dogs, and we all headed across the street and down the slope leading to the beach.
COASTLINES IN WASHINGTON State were, for the most part, rocky and jagged, with driftwood littering the beach, and pebbles and rocks intermingling with the sand. Even on the islands that dotted Puget Sound, the waves would come cresting in and cause havoc when storms whipped through.
We lived in an area on the island where the beach was smooth sand that changed form with each tide. Tall grasses grew through the sand, sparse and pale, and most of the trees along the shoreline had that windblown look, tilted with branches growing sideways due to the constant gusts buffeting the area.
Gull Harbor averaged forty-five to fifty inches of rain per year, most of it cold. It wasn’t unusual for the storms that swept through during the spring and winter to cause landslides, flooding, and general mayhem. Our side of Briarwood Drive sloped up so that the house sat on an incline far enough above the level of the beach for comfort, though Aunt Florence said she’d seen the road wash out several times over the past thirty-odd years.
During the late summer, tourists wandered the island and set up day camps on the beach. Even though it was warm enough to swim by then, few people ventured into the water alone. There was always the danger of a rip current, when the breaks in the sandbars funneled water into long, narrow currents that surged out into the Sound, dragging with them anybody or anything caught in their wake.
Less than a year ago, two teenaged girls got caught by one of the undertows and drowned. Sarah, our other gardener, said that she’d seen their ghosts walking Nakoma Point one night, but so far I hadn’t seen anything supernatural on the spit of sand, for which I was eminently grateful.
The sand was compacted from all of the rain, but I managed to find a log that was relatively dry. The bark had long been stripped away and it had that pale, sandpapered look that came from the motion of water and sand swirling around it during high tide. While the dogs raced happily along the beach, barking at the waves and bugs and whatever else they could find to chase, I stuck my hand in my pocket and felt paper. That’s right—Elliot’s letter. I pulled it out and looked at it for a long moment. How the heck had he found me?
I cautiously wedged open the flap of the envelope, taking care not to tear the letter. After making sure the dogs were still in sight, I withdrew the folded note. Three pressed violets fell out into my hand. I knew where they’d come from. I’d bought him an African violet plant on his last birthday. Their scent was faded, musty and old. Taking a deep breath, I began to read.
Persia, I can’t believe you ran off and left me like that. One mistake and you toss me out like an old shoe and now you’ve gone into hiding like I’m some common criminal you don’t want to be asso
ciated with. Well, I’ve got news for you. I’m free. They shortened my sentence because I turned over evidence, and I’ve spent the past week tracking you down. I shouldn’t bother but I’m feeling generous. I’m willing to give you one more chance.
Don’t sweat Benny and Jon—they won’t come after you. If they hunt down anybody, it’ll be me but since they won’t be out for several years, I’m not too worried. If that’s why you took off, then I forgive you. I can still smell your hair, feel the whisper of your lips on my own. I’ll never forget you, and I don’t want to let you go. Come home to me. I’m lost without you. Elliot.
I quietly folded the note and tucked it back in the envelope, making sure the flower petals were safely inside. Well, that certainly wasn’t something I’d been expecting to hear. Or wanting to hear. Damn it, why had he bothered to dig me up? He knew I didn’t want anything to do with him. I’d told him so when I visited him in jail, after the evidence had come to light that proved he really had swiped the money. In my heart, I was glad he’d gotten caught because I couldn’t stand the thought that I’d spent six years with a man who had managed to pull the wool over my eyes while ripping off the accounting firm who had given him his start and treated him like family. Then it came out that the whole company was corrupt and I just wanted away from any ties to the whole mess.
I rested my elbow on my knee and propped my chin on my palm. What should I do? If I ignored the letter, he’d get hold of my phone number and start bombarding me with phone calls. I knew him well enough to know just how persistent he could be. If I responded to the letter, he’d take it as encouragement. Either way, it wasn’t a good sign that he’d found me so easily, and I didn’t like the desperate, whining tone of his words.
Sighing, I stood and picked up a hefty stick, calling the dogs. They bounded up and I tossed the branch far out on the beach, watching as they panted after it. Auntie had it right. Pets were so much easier than people. No messy interactions, no expectations other than food when they were hungry, a firm hand to pet them, and a lap on which to snuggle.
Open my heart to Elliot again? Not a chance. After the initial shock, I’d discovered that I enjoyed being footloose. When we lived together, I never had a free moment to myself; he was always there, always loud even when he hadn’t said a word. Now the possibilities opened up like a blossoming flower. Who knew? Maybe tomorrow I’d decide to squirrel myself away from the world. Maybe I’d get the urge to move to Tibet and climb Mount Everest. Maybe next month I’d hop a plane for South America to explore the rain forest.
Or, maybe I’d stay here and take over my aunt’s business as the years went by. The point was that I didn’t know—and right now, I loved that feeling of unpredictability. I didn’t want to my future to be pat and secure. I wanted to be surprised, to let it unfold, to experience all the joys and sorrows waiting for me. I was happy just enjoying the journey—I didn’t want to plan out a destination.
As a new spate of rain started up again, I whistled for the dogs to follow me home. Recluse… hermit… the peace of mind that I’d found in Gull Harbor felt pretty good to me right now, but Elliot’s letter threatened to put an end to that. I had to do something. I just didn’t have any idea what that something might be.
From the Pages of Persia’s Journal
Juniper Girl Bath Salts
It occurred to me not long ago that women need all the extra energy they can get. Everybody’s looking for something to recharge and reenergize her. Work, family life, home and hearth, social life, all these factors seem to pile one on top of the other to send the modern woman screaming in frustration. So I developed Juniper Girl Bath Salts—“For the woman on the go, who has too much to do.” Health and beauty hints Auntie and I thought might be nice to add to the salts:
Get enough sleep. This should be your number one priority in maintaining your energy and strength.
Eat healthy foods as often as you can. Get plenty of fruits, vegetables, and muscle-sustaining protein.
Drink plenty of toxin-flushing water.
Limit your caffeine intake—after a while, too much will slow you down rather than build you up.
Try to do something nice for yourself every day, even if it’s very small—take a bubble bath, take a five-minute meditation break, talk with a supportive friend for a few minutes.
Exercise—even with our hectic lives, regular physical exercise will help maintain and build your ability to fight stress and illness.
Remind customers that homemade bath salts can clump, so keep them in a wide mouth jar, tightly covered so moisture doesn’t get in. If the salts do harden, simply break off the amount to be used and immerse them in one quart boiling water to dissolve, then add directly to bath water. There’s no change in their effectiveness or fragrance if they harden.
1 cup Epsom salts
2/3 cup table salt (plain)
1/3 cup baking soda
10 drops cedar oil
5 drops dark musk oil
5 drops violet oil
3 drops lemon oil
Green food coloring (if desired)
In a metal or ceramic bowl, mix the salts and soda together thoroughly. Add the oils, one drop at a time, and blend the mixture with hands after adding each oil, breaking up any clumps that may form. During this time, focus on the concepts of rejuvenation, recharging energy, and waking up the senses.
After adding all the oils, add 1/4 teaspoon green food coloring if desired and again, blend with hands (note to self: wear thin latex gloves for this last step to avoid staining hands. While the bath salts will not stain skin during use, this part of the process can get messy).
Once the bath salts are an even color and scent, store as directed above, and keep out of direct sunlight, which can deteriorate fragrance. Add 1/2 cup of the bath salts to hot bath water and they will dissolve.
Chapter 6
AS I CROSSED the road to Moss Rose Cottage, my aunt’s estate, the dogs padded ahead of me, worn out from their run. I stopped by the trash, hesitating for a moment as I debated whether to dump Elliot’s letter in the bin. A little voice inside whispered, Don’t do it, you may need it later if he tries something stupid, and so, reluctantly, I tucked it back in my pocket, squared my shoulders, and headed toward the house.
Three stories high, Moss Rose Cottage was spectacular, or at least, a spectacle. The front yard was overflowing with flowers, bushes, and trees, and the house itself looked like something out of a fairy tale. Captain Bentley had designed it himself, basing it on pictures of quaint English cottages with thatched roofs and kitchen gardens; however, it was anything but quaint. Built from gray stone and mortar, the house emerged from the tangle of vegetation, a miniature castle in the middle of a forested glen. Tendrils of ivy tenaciously curled across the mossy roof to coil around the chimneys.
Mullioned windows graced the walls. Their trim had recently received an eye-opening coat of white. Below the windows, crimson boxes were cluttered with pansies and primroses. Every time I pulled into the driveway, I felt like I’d entered Faerie Land. The strings of Christmas lights that Auntie used to illuminate the porch and yard during the night went a long ways in furthering that vision, their twinkling lights sparkling like glowing flutter-bugs. Fireflies couldn’t burn any brighter.
Around back, a small lawn with a patio and barbecue buttressed up against a picket fence that divided the yard from the gardens where, among the rose bushes and lilac trees and lavender patches, wildflower glades and bluebell thickets abounded, as well as a sprawling maze created out of hedgerows. Moss roses covered the trellis arching over the path that led to the gardens.
The house was huge, over a hundred years old. Captain Bentley had owned it until his death, at which point it had passed down from one heir to another until Aunt Florence took it off the family’s hands. To them it was a white elephant. To Auntie, it was home. And it was also home to me.
She’d been good to her word. The entire third floor was mi
ne. Five rooms with ceilings that towered upwards of fourteen feet. The walls of my rooms ranged from a tasteful green paisley paper to a rich, golden coppery color that spread across the walls in smooth strokes. Now and then, I heard the Cap’n’s footsteps in the hallway, and once I’d seen the doorknob to my study jiggle, but other than that, he left me alone and we existed in solitary contentment in the top of the old mansion.
Cold from my walk, I decided to take a hot bath and hightailed it up the stairs, taking them two at a time. I stripped off my clothes and stretched, luxuriating in the space. I’d felt claustrophobic when I lived with Elliot. His penthouse was cramped and he had a fit if I walked around the condominium naked; he was always worried that somebody would see me. I once asked him just who was going to be flying by the forty-eighth floor besides a few crows, seagulls, and the occasional butterfly, but all he did was mutter something under his breath about my lack of shame.
As I padded across the braided rug into my bathroom, I closed my eyes, listening to the silence. Beneath the veneer of stillness, there lurked the sounds of bird song, and of the cats and dogs running around the house, but gone was Seattle’s incessant drone of traffic and the some three million people who lived in the greater metropolitan area. While the city was only a ferry ride across the inlet, it might as well have been a world away.
I turned on the water and poured in a capful of lavender bath gel, filling the old-fashioned claw-footed tub with bubbles. The tub was long enough that I could sink up to my chin, even at my height, and it was separate from the glass-enclosed stand-alone shower.
Auntie had made sure my bedroom was fully furnished, including a sleigh bed, a matching vanity with beveled mirror and bench, and an eight-drawer dresser. The set gleamed, polished lovingly with a rich oil, and was probably worth more than my entire life earnings.
Scent to Her Grave Page 7