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  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

  “Elliana is easy to like. She’s one of those characters you would enjoy chatting with in real life . . . The killer confrontation is tense and well done. The wrap-up puts a smile on your face and leaves you disappointed to leave Poppyville and Elliana’s mesmerizing garden. Rating: near perfect—couldn’t put it down. Buy two copies, one for you and one for a friend.”

  —Mysteries and My Musings

  “Bailey Cattrell has planted all the seeds to get this series off to a blooming start.”

  —Escape with Dollycas into a Good Book

  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.”

  —Jenn McKinlay, New York Times bestselling author

  “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

  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

  BERKLEY PRIME CRIME

  Published by Berkley

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  Copyright © 2017 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 9780698407190

  First Edition: May 2017

  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.

  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

  This book is dedicated to librarians everywhere

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I am grateful to everyone who lent their expertise and support to this book. Among them are my agent, Kim Lionetti, and the extraordinary team at Berkley Prime Crime. They include my insightful and wise editor, Jessica Wade, as well as Miranda Hill, Roxanne Jones, and Karen Haywood. There are numerous others that proof and polish and format and sell my books, not to mention the artist who created this enticing cover. I am also lucky to have so many talented writers in my life who critique, advise, encourage, and push me. Just a few are Laura Pritchett, Laura Resau, Mark Figlozzi, and Bob Trott. Then there are the dear friends who keep me going, including Mindy Ireland, Amy Lockwood, Barbara Clark, JoAnn Manzanares, Natasha Wing, Teresa Funke, and Jody Ivy. And finally, there’s Kevin Brookfield, who has been putting up my writerly habits for ten years. Love you so.

  CONTENTS

  Praise for Daisies for Innocence

  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

  Recipes

  Special Excerpt from Brownies and Broomsticks

  About the Author

  CHAPTER 1

  THE honeyed, floral scent of sun-drenched zinnias curled into the air from the half-barrel planters in front of the Poppyville Library. It was subtle, likely unnoticed by most passersby, but tantalized my senses with possibility. Distilled to its essence, the fragrance would deepen, become richer and multilayered. Inhaling deeply, I paused to consider how I might use it in a custom perfume. My corgi, Dash, immediately plopped down on the walkway, watching me. His foxy ears swiveled, and his head tipped to one side as if he was wondering what I was up to now.

  Scarlet zinnias for constancy. White zinnias for goodness.

  In the Victorian language of flowers, the dark, bird’s-foot ivy that spilled around the edges of the barrels represented fidelity and friendship. In combination with the zinnias, the planters sent good vibes all the way down the block.

  My stomach growled. Glancing up, I saw the enormous round clock at the top of the library building read nearly one o’clock, and I hadn’t eaten lunch yet. Dash and I had already stopped by the stables at the other end of town to drop off a big bottle of lemon eucalyptus insect repellent. The black flies were biting in August, and Gessie King preferred to use the essential oil blend I’d developed rather than commercial chemicals to protect her horses. Then we’d picked up Dash’s favorite peanut butter treats at Doggone Gourmet. Finally, I’d snagged two bags of hazelnut-shell mulch and a rosemary topiary from my friend Thea Nelson at Terra Green Nursery. Those were the last items I needed to add to my gardens before the photo shoot the next day.

  Photo shoot.

  I wanted everything to be perfect when Blake Sontag came to interview me for his piece in Conscience Magazine on the tiny house movement and small-scale, green living. Of course, nothing is ever perfect. But after spending every spare moment of the last three days cleaning and organizing, planting and deadheading, I felt confident my tiny house and the elaborate garden between it and my store would make a good showing.

  Now, if only I could say the same about myself. The whole idea of being featured in a magazine article made me quake in my muck boots every time I thought about it.

&
nbsp; Remember to mention Scents & Nonsense a few times—but don’t be too obvious.

  The women’s business group I belonged to, the Greenstockings, had emphasized that in the flurry of e-mails that erupted after I’d told them about the interview. Unfortunately, Sontag’s assistant hadn’t expressed interest in my custom perfume shop when she’d contacted me, but it was sure to come up. The other Greenstockings had also urged me to publicize their businesses if the opportunity arose. Our charming little town buttered its bread with tourism, so naturally we wanted to get the word out about it any way we could.

  Ha. As if I’ll be thinking straight enough to remember all the things they told me.

  I’d be lucky if I didn’t pass out.

  Shaking my head, I pushed into the library and breezed over to the online catalog with a brisk sense of purpose. My nose filled with the age-old aroma of ink on paper, flavored with a metallic soupçon of modern electricity and a hint of Pine-Sol. Dash trotted at my heel, his corgi eyes bright. He’d just had a treat, but there were always more behind the checkout counter, so he kept right on going when I sat down at the keyboard.

  “Hello, Dash,” I heard Maria Canto say. “Sit. Good boy.” And then the sound of a dog cookie crunching between his teeth.

  “Ellie,” she said, and I looked up.

  “Hey! Sorry I’m in such a hurry. Have to get back to the shop. Maggie’s there, but she has to get to the Roux soon.” My part-time employee also tended bar at the Roux Grill, the restaurant I’d owned with my husband until I’d discovered him shtupping Wanda Simmons in the walk-in cooler. Then he’d become my ex-husband. More than a year later he still managed to be a pain in the backside, though.

  “Dios mío.” Maria raised her eyes toward the ceiling in exaggerated supplication. “Always so busy. Still, I had a feeling you might come in today. I set aside a few things for you.”

  I hesitated, but only for a second. The book on botanical drawing I wanted could wait. I jumped up and joined Dash in front of the counter.

  Maria perched on a tall stool. A crocheted headband in the same eye-popping lime green as her blouse held a wave of luscious black hair away from her face. Nearly as height-challenged as I was and comfortably padded, the librarian exuded calm and the scent of orange blossoms. I instantly felt my blood pressure drop a few points. She scanned my face with quick, intelligent eyes and reached beneath the counter. Retrieving a selection of magazines and books, she slid them across to me.

  One book was a guide to preparing for an interview, and the other was on how to interview someone else. The periodicals were mostly back issues of Conscience. There were also a couple of issues of architectural magazines that showcased tiny houses.

  But Maria wasn’t a member of the Greenstockings, and I hadn’t told her about Sontag’s article. A smile broke out on my face.

  “You know, Astrid would say this is evidence of your superpower,” I said. Astrid Moneypenny was my best friend.

  Maria’s eyes widened. “My what?”

  “We were talking about how so many of our friends seems to have unique, er, gifts.”

  She nodded knowingly. “Like your sense of smell.”

  I shrugged. “I guess. Or how Gessie can calm a horse with a simple touch.”

  “Astrid has her own way with animals,” Maria pointed out. “Doc Ericcson says she usually knows right away what’s wrong with the pets that people bring into the vet clinic, before the owners say a single word.”

  “Right. And you have the uncanny ability to know exactly what book someone might need.” I leaned forward.

  She matched my conspiratorial gesture until our heads were nearly touching.

  “How do you do it?” I asked in a low voice.

  Though in truth, if she’d asked me the same question about my olfactory skills, I’d have been hard-pressed to explain. I’d always had a fine-honed, even freakish sense of smell, which was linked to a weirdly empathic ability to sense what aromas might benefit another person—sometimes physically, sometimes mentally, and sometimes simply by tapping into memories via the oldest and most primitive sense humans possessed. I’d taken my talent for granted most of my life. Then, more than a year ago, I’d divorced Harris, sold him my half of the Roux Grill, and opened my dream business. In the course of getting Scents & Nonsense up and running, I’d realized I had a real gift, one that could change someone’s day if not their life, and that I loved using it to help people. My custom perfume and aromatherapy shop had blossomed as a result.

  There was more to my gift than I’d realized, however. A few months later, an encounter with a mind-bending plant oil had revealed hidden memories of my mother and grandmother, both of whom had passed away when I was a child. As a result, I was only beginning to explore the depths of my true connection to plants, their essences, and the ancient language of flowers.

  Maria leaned even closer, her eyes darting around the library as if to see whether anyone was listening. “You really want to know my secret?”

  Catching my breath, I nodded.

  She spoke in a low voice. “Cynthia Beck came in to return some books this morning and told me all about the journalist from Conscience”—she pointed at the stack of magazines—“who’s coming to do the piece on your tiny house.” She straightened and sat back on her stool with a grin. “I thought you might want to bone up, if you haven’t already. The interview’s tomorrow, isn’t it?”

  I laughed. Cynthia Beck had started the Greenstockings a few years before. The other members were Thea, Gessie, Astrid, and myself, though other local businesswomen sometimes attended our meetings.

  “Small-town gossip wins again,” I said. “I can’t believe Blake Sontag is coming all the way back to Poppyville to talk to me about my little house. I bet he hasn’t been back more than half a dozen times since he left for Princeton years ago.”

  Not that I’d necessarily know if he’d visited his hometown. Poppyville was small, but not that small. However, Blake was a local boy who’d made good, and the rumor mill was always in fine working order.

  A half smile lifted Maria’s lips. “Cynthia seems to think he might be coming back to see her, as well as doing the article on you.”

  I blinked. “Oh?”

  “You didn’t know? That’s how he found out about your house.”

  “She told him? I wonder why she didn’t mention that at our last meeting. I thought maybe his sister had told him.”

  Maria quirked an eyebrow. “So you know the family? I moved here after Blake had already left to start his career as a big environmental journalist, so I only know Joyous.” She gave a little snort before her hand flew to cover her mouth. She couldn’t keep the laughter out of her eyes, though.

  A smile tugged at my own lips. Joyous Sontag was one of the most militantly unhappy people I’d ever encountered. Like nicknaming a big lunk of a guy “Tiny,” it was as if the elder Sontags had taken one look at their pinch-faced daughter and chosen irony over accuracy.

  I shrugged. “Sort of. Joyous was a year ahead of me in school, but Mr. and Mrs. Sontag were friends of my dad and stepmother back in the day. Then they moved to Arizona, and Dad and Wynn moved to Florida. I wonder if they’re still in touch.”

  “What about Blake?” she asked. “Were you friends?”

  “Not really. He’s four years older than me, which is a lot in high school.” I paused. “Huh. I bet Ritter knew him. I’ll have to ask him next time I talk to him.” Which had better be sooner rather than later.

  Ritter Nelson was my boyfriend. Of the long-distance variety, unfortunately. When he’d come back to town to stay with Thea a few months before, the old crush I’d had on her older brother as a teenager flared like a rocket. Lucky me, it turned out he felt the same way. Unlucky me, he’d left a month ago to resume his botanical research project in the Alaskan tundra.

  A six-month project.

&
nbsp; We’d known it was coming, and tried to keep things as casual as possible. It hadn’t worked. The night before he left, he told me he was torn about leaving. He’d actually considered dropping out of the research team and staying in Poppyville. But I knew how much he loved his work and urged him to go. No way could I be responsible for him giving it up.

  I knew that his team would be using an expensive satellite connection for phone and Internet, and personal time on it would be very limited. We’d spoken on our cell phones a lot as the group prepared in Fairbanks for the trek up to the research site by the Beaufort Sea, but in the last two weeks they’d been setting up in the wild, and I hadn’t heard a single word from Alaska. Not a call, not an e-mail, nada.

  My stomach twisted, and I pushed the thought away.

  Maria hadn’t noticed my distraction. Her forefinger trailed along one of the magazine covers. “Blake has certainly made a name for himself. National Geographic, Esquire. Not bad for someone who focuses on the environment.”

  I handed her my library card. “Maybe I should ask Cynthia for the skinny, so I know what to expect.”

  “All I know is that she and Blake were engaged for a brief time and have remained on what she called ‘friendly’ terms.” Maria’s eyes danced again.

  I was surprised, but only mildly. Cynthia went through husbands like her employees at Foxy Locksies Hair Studio went through shampoo. Two so far, and she was shopping for a third. That she might have had a few spare fiancés didn’t stretch the imagination much.

  The door opened and a mother led two preschoolers in. I scooped up the books and magazines and turned to go. “Thanks, Maria.”

  “Hang on,” she said. “I put this aside for you, too.” She handed me a book on botanical drawing.

  I stared at it, then up at her. Her mouth curved up in a slow smile.

  “This is why I stopped by in the first place,” I said. “How did you know?”

  She shrugged. “I had a feeling.”