Marigolds for Malice Read online

  Praise for

  NIGHTSHADE FOR WARNING

  “The Enchanted Garden Mysteries are destined to become one of my favorite book series and I am eagerly awaiting future installments.”

  —The Qwillery

  “Enchantingly delightful! . . . A detailed, finely executed mystery that works beautifully.”

  —Open Book Society

  “[Bailey Cattrell] continues to craft plots that are compelling, original, and unpredictable.”

  —Kings River Life Magazine

  Praise for

  DAISIES FOR INNOCENCE

  “Cattrell, who also authors the Magical Bakery Mystery series under the name Bailey Cates, once again casts a spell over readers with this charming mystery filled with likable characters and funny dialogue.”

  —Kings River Life Magazine

  “Rating: near perfect—couldn’t put it down. Buy two copies, one for you and one for a friend.”

  —Mysteries and My Musings

  “Daisies for Innocence is the first book in the Enchanted Garden Mystery series and I’m officially hooked! I love the ambience Bailey Cattrell creates, and I’m ready to revisit Poppyville, California!”

  —Fresh Fiction

  “Daisies for Innocence is masterfully composed, and Cattrell enchantingly infuses the novel with lessons on the language of flowers and the lore of perfumery.”

  —Mystery Scene

  Praise for Bailey Cattrell writing as Bailey Cates and the New York Times bestselling Magical Bakery Mysteries

  “Katie is a charming amateur sleuth, baking her way through murder and magic set against the enchanting backdrop of Savannah, Georgia.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Jenn McKinlay

  “A smooth, accomplished writer who combines a compelling plot with a cast of interesting characters that are diverse and engaging . . . while the story’s magical elements bring a fun, intriguing dimension to the genre.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “[A] promising series.”

  —Library Journal

  Also available in the Enchanted Garden Mystery series

  DAISIES FOR INNOCENCE

  NIGHTSHADE FOR WARNING

  Also available by Bailey Cattrell writing as Bailey Cates

  The Magical Bakery Mysteries

  BROWNIES AND BROOMSTICKS

  BEWITCHED, BOTHERED, AND BISCOTTI

  CHARMS AND CHOCOLATE CHIPS

  SOME ENCHANTED ÉCLAIR

  MAGIC AND MACAROONS

  SPELLS AND SCONES

  POTIONS AND PASTRIES

  BERKLEY PRIME CRIME

  Published by Berkley

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  Copyright © 2018 by Bailey Cattrell

  Excerpt from Brownies and Broomsticks by Bailey Cates copyright © 2012 by Bailey Cattrell

  Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

  BERKLEY is a registered trademark and BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the B colophon are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Ebook ISBN: 9780698407206

  First Edition: September 2018

  Cover art by Adrienne Langer

  Cover design by Emily Osborne

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.

  Version_1

  For Stacey

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  So many people helped this book come into being. The amazing team at Berkley Prime Crime includes Jessica Wade, Miranda Hill, Tara O’Connor, Elisha Katz, Emma Reh, and Angelina Krahn. A big thank-you also goes out to Kim Lionetti and the team at BookEnds, LLC. I’m incredibly grateful for the valuable feedback from Mark Figlozzi, Laura Pritchett, Laura Resau, and Bob Trott throughout the process of writing this story. A big shout-out to Stacey Kollman, who first sparked my interest in aromatherapy and who has a real superpower when it comes to horses. And, as always, thank you to Kevin—for everything.

  CONTENTS

  Praise for Bailey Cattrell

  Also available in the Enchanted Garden Mystery series

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  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

  Chapter 26

  Recipes and Aromatherapy

  Excerpt from Brownies and Broomsticks

  About the Author

  CHAPTER 1

  WALLFLOWERS get a bad rap.

  For some reason, the shy girl who stands all by herself at the party, talking to no one and radiating awkward social anxiety, is called a wallflower. However, the actual plants are transfixing—rangy, branching stalks that end with clubs of delicate, four-petal blossoms in dusky shades of orange, yellow, purple, and red. Erysimum cheiri are some of the first flowers to erupt into bloom each spring, reaching into the cool air with a verve and cheerfulness not at all associated with the human version of a wallflower.

  Oh, and the scent! That was what made me pause in front of Heritage House, my hand frozen on the wrought iron gate that opened into the small square yard. The Poppyville town council had funded the restoration of the Old West log cabin and moved it from its original location to the wide lawn behind the library with the intention that it would house a museum dedicated to the California gold rush. Now the spicy, sweet, verdant fragrance of the wallflowers Thea Nelson had planted around the foundation was so thick in the air that I was surprised it wasn’t somehow visible.

  Yet a woman ushered her two small children past my corgi, Dash, and me without even a glance at the blooms of Chelsea Jacket and tiny, double-leaved Harpur Crewe. Shaking my head, I inhaled again, nearly swooning at the intensity of the aroma. It sparked the memory of my grandmother, her calm voice echoing through time from my childhood.

  See the white violets, Ellie? Breathe of
them deeply. Can you smell how they’re different than the modest purple blossoms? The white ones embrace challenge, want to take chances. And here—the wallflowers. So strong, though they seem so delicate. They need to be strong, though, for they represent fidelity in adversity. They only appear fragile.

  My corgi brushed against my leg as he turned to look behind us. Moments later, a familiar voice reached through the scented haze of my past, and Gamma’s voice faded from my mind.

  “Hey, Ellie! Sorry I’m a little late. You didn’t need to wait out here for me, though.”

  I looked over my shoulder to see my best friend Astrid Moneypenny striding toward us from the side entrance of the Poppyville Library. Almost a foot taller than my four feet ten, she’d tamed her wild, coppery tresses into a complicated updo held together with wooden combs. Her willow green eyes flashed affection, and the freckles on her nose stood out against the paleness of her early spring complexion. When we hugged, I smelled cloves and vanilla with just a soupçon of wet dog. My guess was that she’d been baking cookies or washing one of her pet-sitting clients. Probably both.

  “Couldn’t help myself,” I said. “Every time I come to the museum I have to stop and—”

  “Smell the flowers,” she finished, and stooped to rub Dash’s velvety ears. Panting, he gave her his best doggy grin.

  Standing again, she said, “I would expect nothing less, Ellie. They’re delightful. But I don’t think my humble nose can appreciate them quite the way yours can.”

  I rolled my eyes. I knew what she meant, though. It was true that I had a rather, er, well-honed sense of smell. Which was a nice way of saying it was almost freakish. But it had saved me when I’d divorced my husband after finding him in flagrante delicto with Wanda Simmons in the walk-in freezer of our restaurant, the Roux Grill. I’d always wanted to try my hand at perfumery, so, newly single, I’d sold him my half of the Roux, purchased a storefront at the end of Corona Street, and started my own business.

  Scents & Nonsense was where I indulged my love of aromatherapy and created custom perfume blends for a growing list of clients. Throughout the shop, every product featured lovely, lovely, natural smells. As a bonus, the more I worked with scent, the more I was able to understand exactly what kind of fragrance combination would help any particular customer.

  Of course, that didn’t account for the bits of weirdness since I’d opened Scents & Nonsense, planted the elaborate garden behind the store, and moved into my tiny house at the back of the lot. There had been a mysterious plant that provided memory-enhancing essential oil, strange whispers in the garden, and a few experiences that bordered on the otherworldly.

  Okay, sometimes they crossed the border.

  However, I wasn’t the only one of our friends with what Astrid had dubbed “superpowers.” Gessie King, who owned the stables on the edge of town, had a gift with the horses that went beyond “whispering.” Thea Nelson of Terra Green Nursery had a thumb so green I sometimes wondered if chlorophyll ran through her veins, and Maria Canto had a knack for knowing what you needed when you walked into the library before you knew you needed it. As for my best friend in the whole world, Astrid could diagnose most of the pets that came into the animal clinic where she worked as a veterinary technician with little more than a glance. That was part of why her personal business as a self-proclaimed petrepreneur was so successful. There wasn’t anyone in Poppyville who wouldn’t trust their pet’s welfare to Astrid.

  Opening the gate to Heritage House, I pointed at the half-open door and said, “We’d better get to work. The others have been hard at it since noon. I think Felicity and Gessie are gathering the last of the boxes from the basement of the Hotel California, and Thea and Maria are unpacking what we brought over yesterday.”

  “Are they finding anything suitable for display?” Astrid asked as we entered the old cabin. “Seemed like there was an awful lot of stuff that was old and falling apart.”

  “You’ve got that right,” a voice said from the dimness inside.

  We blinked. A few seconds later, my eyes had adjusted to the lower light, and I recognized Eureka Sanford crouched over a pile of hodgepodge metal implements. The knees of her khakis were dusty, as was the wrinkled white dress shirt tucked into them. She’d bundled up her gray-streaked hair under her signature red newsboy cap, and her dark eyes gleamed at us from beneath the short brim. I caught a whiff of fountain pen ink and mountain mahogany flowers.

  Dash ran over to her, and she patted him on the head a few times, then stood. Satisfied, he continued over to the corner and flopped down for a nap. Eureka turned toward us and held out a dented disc classically used to pan for gold. It had a gaping, rusted hole in the bottom.

  “We’ve unpacked so many of these things we could build a sculpture. Call it Pan Man or something.” She shook her head, then pointed to our left. “Pretty good stuff over there, though, once we weeded out all the crap from the last century. Seems like the collection, as Felicity keeps calling it, was just a bunch of things people didn’t want to throw away over the years and didn’t know what else to do with.” Her eyes narrowed. “But old doesn’t mean valuable, you know. Or even interesting.”

  “Well, we sure appreciate your expertise, Eureka,” Maria Canto said as she stepped from the shadows. Almost as height-challenged as me, the town’s librarian wore jeans and an electric yellow sweater with a matching headband to hold back her thick black hair. She smelled slightly of orange blossoms.

  “Not to mention your backing with the town council,” I said.

  A retired history professor from UC Berkeley, Eureka had moved to Poppyville the year before to work on her book about everyday life during the California gold rush. She’d been instrumental in getting the rural cabin fixed up and transported to Library Park. It had provided the perfect spot for the museum our women’s business group, the Greenstockings, had been trying to jump-start for a few years. The previous option had been a paltry display in the basement of the Hotel California, but Eureka had felt this location would be more of a draw for the tourists that were the lifeblood of our little town’s economy, and she’d convinced the council to pay for it.

  She beamed. “Glad to do it! Can’t let myself go to seed just because I’m not bossing around graduate students anymore.”

  “Where’s Thea?” Astrid asked, fingering a length of somewhat yellowed lace on a table next to an embroidered crazy quilt.

  “Right here,” our friend said from the doorway. The scents of fresh soil and green seedlings drifted into the museum. She wore a Terra Green Nursery T-shirt and baseball cap, and her long tan legs emerged from cargo shorts. Tall and lanky, Thea generally moved with a deliberateness I found calming. Today, however, she stomped into the cabin with a frown.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “How hard is it to get good help in this town?” Thea grumbled. “I mean, jeez. That new guy I hired doesn’t want to do anything except read comic books behind the register, and now he’s messed up an order so badly I’m not going to make a cent on it. You have no idea how lucky you are to have Maggie working for you.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed quietly.

  Thea started to go on, then stopped. Turning pink, she said, “Oh, gosh, Ellie. I didn’t mean . . . Josie was . . . oh, darn it.”

  I smiled. “I know what you meant. And believe me, I also know how lucky I am that Maggie can work for me at Scents and Nonsense as well as for Harris at the Roux.”

  Harris was my ex, and he sometimes snarked about his star bartender also tending my shop part-time. Thea’s discomfort had nothing to do with Maggie, though. Josie Overland, my employee before Maggie came to work for me, had been murdered the previous June.

  “Relax,” I went on. “We all know it’s harder to find good workers during the off-season.”

  Astrid and Maria nodded.

  Thea’s shoulders dropped. “At least that brother o
f mine will be coming back from Alaska in three weeks. In between his wooing you, Ellie, maybe I can get some real work out of Ritter.”

  Now it was my turn to blush. “I’m sure he’ll have plenty of time to help out at the nursery.” I tried to ignore the swoopy feeling in my stomach at the thought that I’d finally be able to see the handsome mountain man I’d only been in contact with via phone and the Internet for the last five months. See, hear . . . touch . . .

  I cleared my throat.

  She winked. “And plenty of time to spend with his little Ellie-boo.”

  My eyes widened. “No. Tell me Ritter does not call me that behind my back.”

  Astrid laughed.

  “Ever,” I said.

  Thea let a few beats pass, then relented. “Of course not. You think I’d put up with a brother who talked baby talk about his girlfriend? Sheesh.” At least she seemed to be in a better mood than when she’d come in.

  Shaking my head, I said, “Try putting a bouquet of goldenrod or black-eyed Susans on the counter by the register. Maybe it’ll help give your employee a little motivation and strength of character.”

  She quirked an eyebrow. “Really? Well, okay. You haven’t steered me wrong with your flower lore yet.”

  As Thea turned away to unpack another box, Astrid murmured low enough that the others couldn’t hear, “I bet Tanner Spence isn’t going to be too excited when Ritter comes back to his Ellie-boo.”

  I shot her a look. “I’ve been pretty darn clear that I’m not dating Spence.”

  “Maybe not. But you two sure spend a lot of time together.”

  “He’s my friend!”

  She quirked an eyebrow, but before she could continue, we were interrupted by footsteps and voices outside announcing that Gessie and Felicity had arrived. They came in, each holding a big box that they carried to the back of the cabin and put on the floor next to all the others we were supposed to be unpacking, instead of yakking about my love life—or current lack thereof.