Daisies for Innocence (4 page)

And suddenly it was gone.

Just like that. Gone. As if the strange, heady scent had never existed in the first place. I stopped, one foot poised in front of the other. That was impossible.

Right?

Had my sense of smell turned on me? Or maybe I was losing my mind. Or both.
People with brain tumors smell things that aren’t there,
I thought, scrambling for an explanation, however morbid it might be.

Dash growled low in his throat. Surprised, I looked down to see him standing with all four feet firmly planted and his muscles bunched like springs. He barked then, high and urgent, and took off like a shot for the partially open garden gate. My gaze followed him as I stood, still stunned, in the middle of the garden. He veered around an overturned rocking chair and stopped next to the gate. Something was there, on the ground, holding it open a few inches.

Something that shouldn’t have been there.

I squinted.

A
boot
.

Dash looked over his shoulder and barked again.

B
ARE
feet forgotten, I flew down the path. When I reached the gate, I pushed it open and fell to my hands and knees, all worries about smells or brain tumors forgotten.

Josie Overland lay crumpled on the ground at the end of the boardwalk that ran in front of Scents & Nonsense, shadowed by my fence. I recognized her work uniform from the Roux Grill: jeans and black T-shirt, the orange flames of the restaurant’s logo visible under her arm. Her shiny brown hair fanned out, unbound, obscuring her face from view. She was on her side, one jeans-clad leg bent up toward her chest while the other stuck out straight, her foot wedged in the open gate. Her bare arms were wrapped around her torso as if she were trying to keep herself warm.

“Josie?” I reached a tentative hand toward that thick
veil of hair, intending to push it aside. “Josie, honey?” My voice was calm and soothing, which struck me as odd since my hand was shaking so badly I couldn’t seem to grip a single lock of hair. When I touched it, the faint smell of cheap aftershave, mingled with garlic and green-apple conditioner, rose into the air.

Finally, my trembling fingers managed to reveal her face.

Josie’s eyes were closed. She looked peaceful, as if she’d merely fallen asleep. Asleep—except she didn’t seem to be breathing. I moved my hand to her shoulder and gave a little shake. Her skin felt cold beneath my palm. Clammy, even in the dry warm air.

Dash looked at me with worried eyes and nosed Josie’s other cowboy boot.

Slowly, almost against my will, I placed my fingertips on her neck like I’d seen people do so many times on television. There was no pulse. But what if I wasn’t doing it right?

It didn’t matter. I knew she was dead. Blackness encroached on my peripheral vision, and my head swam.

Breathe.

I forced oxygen into my lungs with a big whooping inhalation, and the darkness receded a fraction. It took a few more deep breaths before I felt able to stand. Pushing myself to my feet, I turned and stumbled back to where I’d left my door hanging open in my half-asleep scentual daze only minutes earlier.

My cell phone was charging on the kitchen counter. I
waited through three rings before the 911 operator picked up.

“I found a woman collapsed out front,” I panted. “I think . . . I think she might be dead.” I took another wavering breath. “Please send help.” The last sentence came out an octave higher.

There was a moment of shocked silence on the other end of the line before the dispatcher slipped into professional gear. “Are you all right, ma’am?”

“Yes,” I said, impatient now. “I’m fine. But she’s not breathing. At least I don’t think so.”

“What’s the address?” she asked. I heard rapid typing in the background.

“Oh. Right.” I reeled off my address. “It’s Scents and Nonsense, at the end of Corona.”

The typing stopped. “
Ellie?
Is that you?”

“Who’s this?”

“It’s Nan Walton.”

I pictured the big-boned woman who always ordered the prime rib when she came into the Roux Grill. She knew the bartenders there quite well. “Nan, it’s Josie Overland out front.”

“Holy . . . okay, help is on the way,” she said, typing again at a furious pace.

That was all I needed to know. I ended the call, grabbed my keys and phone, and ran back to Josie. Checked her pulse again, in case I’d missed something the first time.

Please let me be wrong.

But I wasn’t. If anything, her skin felt even colder.
Looking up, I saw how hard it would be for anyone on the street to see her. I swallowed down the lump forming in my throat.

I propped the gate all the way open with a rock and hurried to the back door of the shop. Unlocking the slider, Dash and I went through to the boardwalk and walked a few doors down to watch for the ambulance. Most shops wouldn’t open until nine or ten, but old Mr. Freti was sweeping in front of the hardware store down the street. A few people turned their heads as they drove by, and as I leaned against a vertical support for the covered boardwalk, a jogger pounded by me. He gave me a friendly nod, then did a double take before veering around the corner. At first, I thought he’d seen Josie tucked into the shadows, but, glancing down, I saw my feet were not only bare but now quite dirty. Also, I still wore my purple cotton pajamas.

Which were covered with pink dancing poodles. I’d bought them on clearance in the girl’s department at Target.

Great.

The time on the huge round clock mounted above the library down the street showed eight thirty-eight. I had certainly slept longer than usual. My mind raced as I watched the minute hand tick by one, two, three minutes.

How long had Josie been there? Had she come straight from work? Her shift would have ended around midnight. Had she been trying to get help?

What had happened to her?

Then I saw the lime green Ford Fiesta parked down
the street in front of the Raven Creek Park. Josie’s car. She’d driven here. In the middle of the night? This morning? Why? Poppyville rolled up its sidewalks early. The Roux Grill and Sapphire Supper Club kept the latest hours, and both closed at midnight on weeknights.

Flashing lights colored the other end of Corona Street, moving toward me with a roar of engines but no sirens. I hurried closer to where I’d found the body.

A police cruiser pulled into the disabled parking spot in front of the shop, and a uniformed woman I vaguely recognized emerged. “Did you report an emergency?”

“I did. She’s over there.” I waved toward the gate.

In seconds there seemed to be people everywhere; police and firemen and medical personnel and others whose roles I couldn’t begin to guess. Two men immediately ran to Josie, and one reached for her neck, just as I had. He looked at his partner and shook his head.

Then I saw a few drops of blood on the ground beneath her.

“Excuse me,” a man in a jumpsuit said as he brushed by me and went into the back garden.

“Come on, Dash.”

We went back through the shop to the garden in order to stay out of everyone’s way—and to keep an eye on things. I moved to the north fence and fingered the silky petal of a Don Juan rose that twined up the cedar post. The warming sun teased out its deep floral tone, yet I felt cold to the bone.

The back door of Scents & Nonsense opened, and Astrid stood on the threshold with a plate of oatmeal cookies in her hand. “Ellie?” Her hand flew to her chest
in relief. “I saw all the police and thought something terrible had happened to you.”

“I’m fine,” I said.

But she was still talking. “They have a big tarp up, and the door was open, so I just came inside.” Her words tumbled over one another.

She stepped down to the patio as I moved away from the fence. “Are you . . .
Oh, my God!
” Mouth agape, she stared through the open gate at Josie, who was now being photographed from different angles behind a makeshift tarp curtain.

“Ma’am! I’m sorry—who are you? I’m going to need you to move.” A young officer gripped her elbow to hustle her back inside.

She tried to pull away. “Ellie, what happened? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I said again. “I’ll call you as soon as I can.”

Within moments, others had invaded Scents & Nonsense. It felt like a violation, but there wasn’t anything I could do about it. Astrid was shown out to the boardwalk in front of the store and waved good-bye, mouthing “talk to you later.” I watched it all through the back window, unwilling to leave the garden.

Or Josie.

My cell buzzed in my hand. The display said
Thea Nelson
.

“Are you the one who found her?” a woman asked.

I thumbed
IGNORE
on the phone and turned to look at her. Unlike most of the people working around me, the newcomer was a stranger to me. She was petite, not much taller than I was, and slender. Shiny black hair brushed
the shoulders of the navy blazer she wore over a crisp white blouse. Her dark eyes drank in the scene and me with it. Observing. Concluding.

Judging.

Heart hammering, I said, “Um, yes. Is Josie, um, I mean . . . ?” I felt tears threaten and swallowed, hard.

Her eyes softened. “I’m afraid she is, indeed, deceased.”

“Was she . . . ? I mean, did someone . . . ?” Apparently, I had lost the capacity to form full sentences.

“She has at least two stab wounds,” the woman confirmed. “I take it you knew her?”

Josie had been
stabbed
? How could I not have seen that? The idea that she was dead—actually gone, and at the hand of another person—seemed unreal. I took a deep breath and tried to marshal my thoughts. “Yes. Her name is Josie Overland. She worked for me. Sometimes, I mean. She worked for my ex-husband, too.”

Her eyes flashed at that. “You’re Elliana Allbright. Someone told me that you opened this perfume shop after splitting with your ex.”

She’s been in Poppyville long enough to access the small-town grapevine. . . .

The woman looked around. “How’s that working out?”

“Pretty well,” I said. “At least until . . .” I gestured helplessly toward Josie and swallowed hard.

“I’m Detective Lupe Garcia. Is there someplace we can talk?”

Gesturing vaguely at my attire, I tried a smile. “Can I change my clothes first?”

A man behind her turned at my words. I recognized him immediately and nodded to him. “Hi, Max.”

Max Lang. Detective Lang, actually. A longtime member of the Poppyville police force—and Harris’ best friend.

Great.

He looked me up and down, gray eyes unblinking beneath his neat straw-colored hair. He was hefty, but tall enough to pull it off, giving the impression of a military background I happened to know he didn’t have. “Ellie, why are you wearing—” He started to indicate my pajamas, then seemed to think better of it. “Where exactly are you living these days?”

“There.” I pointed toward my house at the back of the lot.

Detective Garcia’s eyes widened slightly. Her gaze took in the rough cedar-shingle siding, the door crafted of planks from a demolished barn, and the symmetrical four-paned windows on either side. Bloodred geraniums trailed from the window boxes among orange and yellow nasturtiums.

“Harris told me you were living off grid, but you live in a potting shed?” Detective Lang sounded downright insulted by the idea. “You can’t be serious.”

“It’s not a potting shed,” I said. “It’s a house. A very small house, granted, but still a house.”

He frowned. “It’s not a house unless it has a bathroom. You can’t just camp—”

“It has a three-quarter bath, full plumbing, and power,” I assured him, doing my best to keep the irritation out of my voice. “Not exactly off the grid.”

“It’s a tiny house,” Garcia breathed, and I knew she didn’t mean it was simply small.

I smiled at her. “It’s my home.” I pointed at the storefront. “And Scents and Nonsense is my business.” I blushed as I realized how silly that sentence sounded, as if I was a character in a Dr. Seuss book.

“To each his own, I guess,” Lang said. “You’ve met my colleague.” It wasn’t a question, but I nodded anyway. “So when did you discover the victim?”

I stared at him. The victim? Josie had served him plenty of drinks when he was off duty, enough that they’d been on a first-name basis.

“Right after I got up this morning,” I said. “I called nine-one-one right away. The library clock said eight thirty-eight.”

“I see,” he said. Detective Garcia had taken out a small notebook and was making notes while her partner quizzed me.

“And where were you last night, Ms. Allbright?” he asked, growing even more formal.

“The Greenstockings—that’s the women’s business group I belong to—met here in the garden at around six fifteen. They were here for an hour.”

“And after they left?” he prompted.

I silently pointed at my house—my house where actual, grown-up clothes waited for me to change into them. I wondered if Lang enjoyed having me at a disadvantage. I squared my shoulders in false confidence.

“You were inside all night?” he asked. “Before you discovered the victim?”

“I walked the dog a little after ten. Before that, I was
on the back porch for a while, watching the sunset. I went to sleep about ten thirty.”

“And can anyone vouch for you?” His eyebrow twitched with sarcasm.

“Well, if you put it that way . . .”

“I am putting it that way.”

I felt my lips thin. “Then, no.”

Detective Garcia’s eyes cut toward her partner, then to me, then back to her notebook. I snapped off a rose hip and rolled it between my thumb and forefinger like a horticultural worry stone. Around us, the activity seemed to be waning. It felt awkward to be having this discussion huddled in the corner of the garden.

Lang didn’t seem to notice. “Did you hear or see anything suspicious?” he asked.

“No.” My throat closed over the word.
Had I slept through her murder?

“Did the victim visit you last evening?”

“No.” I tried to regroup. “The last time I saw Josie was early yesterday afternoon. I left her tending the shop while I ran errands.”
After she told me she was dating Harris. And I didn’t actually run a single errand.
“She was gone by the time I got back. Had probably already started her shift at the Roux Grill.”