Marigolds for Malice Read online

  Gessie wore a plaid flannel shirt and Wrangler jeans imbued with the rich, musky scent of the horses she tended, but for once her iron gray curls were uncovered. Felicity, formerly the editor of the Poppyville Picayune and now the manager of the Hotel California, had on a pair of coveralls over a black T-shirt, and her long dark hair was gathered into a single braid that snaked down her back. Dirt smudged her heart-shaped face, and I detected a hint of bergamot from the Earl Grey tea she liked so much.

  “Need some help unloading?” Astrid asked.

  Gessie nodded. “We finally cleared out the storeroom over at the hotel, but my truck is packed chock-full of the last of it.”

  “Let’s start putting things outside that can go to the dump,” Eureka said. “Then when we have enough to fill Gessie’s truck, a couple of us can make a run.”

  “Need to empty the truck first,” Thea said, and strode toward the door.

  Astrid and I nodded to each other and followed her outside.

  * * *

  • • •

  LATE in the afternoon we’d sorted through nearly everything and filled the back of Gessie’s pickup, and she and Thea had made the trip to the landfill.

  Inside Heritage House, items that would be displayed together were gathered in rough groups. There were several samples of the equipment used for gold mining, including picks, axes, short-handled shovels, placer cradles, hip boots, and a few of the sluicing pans Eureka had complained about. An example of the convoluted-looking assaying machines sold to gullible—and hopeful—miners by entrepreneurial inventors who likely knew nothing about gold or mining sat in one corner. There were also examples of clothing and footwear. Nearby was a display of home goods and women’s clothing ranging from calico bonnets and long skirts to a skimpy red dancehall dress that would have raised some eyebrows even now.

  Near the door, we planned a reception desk and educational displays. Visitors could browse through old newspapers, letters, and other ephemera, though the items Eureka had deemed most important would be displayed under glass.

  “Oh, no!” Gessie exclaimed from the corner.

  We all turned to look at her.

  She stooped and lifted what looked like a tall jug out of a box in the shadows. “I thought we were done. What the heck is this thing?”

  Eureka hurried over. “It’s a butter churn! Here, put it on this table.”

  As we crowded around to see this new treasure, she quickly ran her hands over the yellow ceramic vessel. It was chipped here and there but looked to be in good shape. Stylized flowers and birds decorated the sides of the churn, all painted in blue.

  “I thought butter churns had dashers,” I said, trying my best to ignore the strange sensations that had erupted in my solar plexus. There was something about this simple vessel that gave me the inside shivers: part trepidation, part anticipation, and part something that felt almost like . . . need?

  Dash must have sensed something, too, because he abandoned the corner to trot over and lean against my leg.

  Maria frowned from the other side of the table. “Look at the lid. It’s been sealed with wax. Even the hole where the butter dasher would fit.” She reached toward the churn. “What’s this?” She untwisted a thick cord and loosened a flat square of thick paper about three inches by four inches.

  “There’s writing,” Felicity said.

  Maria angled it toward the natural light coming in the window. “The writing is so faded. It looks like ‘For’ and then something I can’t make out, and then ‘Poppyville, 1850.’” She squinted again, then looked up. “You guys! You know what I think this is? A time capsule!”

  CHAPTER 2

  SURPRISED, we looked around at one other.

  Felicity suddenly broke the silence with a laugh. “Oh, wouldn’t that be amazing? Eureka, you’re the expert. Do you think it really could be a time capsule?”

  Eureka nodded. “I do indeed. It’s a miracle the seal is intact at all. And that tag! I’m surprised it’s not completely illegible.”

  “Let’s open it.” I had to make an effort to keep my tone light.

  The erstwhile professor grinned at me, and I saw she was as curious about the contents as I was. She reached for a screwdriver on the table behind her.

  “Now, hang on!” Felicity held up her hand. “We can’t just go willy-nilly opening up a time capsule that’s almost a hundred and seventy years old!” She looked around at us. “We have to do this right.”

  “Yeah.” Astrid said. “This might be a big deal.”

  “It’s publicity, ladies. For Poppyville, and therefore for our businesses.” A satisfied smile played on the lips of the de facto leader of the Greenstockings.

  Impatience swelled beneath my sternum, but I kept quiet.

  “We’ll have a ceremony,” Thea said thoughtfully.

  Gessie nodded. “Invite the press. Get the mayor involved.”

  “Put Poppyville on the map—or at least hit a news cycle or two,” Felicity said, sounding determined. “It’s a great opportunity to bring some people into town during the off-season.”

  Astrid turned to me.

  “Yes,” I managed to croak out around the unexplainable desire I felt to immediately see what was inside that butter churn. “That’s exactly what we need to do. Have the mayor speechify and reveal the contents with a flourish.”

  Astrid’s eyes narrowed. “You okay?”

  I nodded and pasted on a bright smile, not trusting myself to say more.

  “Okay, then,” Eureka said. “First thing we need to do is get the thing under lock and key.”

  A few faces showed surprise.

  “Who knows what’s in here? There could be gold dust!” Eureka said.

  “It is kind of heavy, but not full-of-gold heavy,” Thea said, her tone dry. “But you’re right. Where do we take it?”

  “The bank?” Astrid suggested.

  “The police station,” I said.

  Felicity snapped her fingers. “That’s it! And it’s right by city hall, so we can drop by the mayor’s office afterward.”

  I kept my face neutral and shrugged, trying to quell the subtle vibrations I felt coming from the churn. Besides the scent of old honey in the beeswax seal, there was something else teasing my nose. Something I couldn’t identify.

  The last time there had been a mysterious scent I couldn’t pin down, things hadn’t ended so well for my shop assistant.

  “I’ll come with you, Felicity.” Eureka shrugged on her jacket.

  “I’ll stay here and lock up,” I said.

  Eyeing me, Astrid said, “I’ll stay and help Ellie.”

  Oblivious, Thea and Gessie wrapped the time capsule in an extra quilt and took it out to Felicity’s SUV before going back to their workaday lives.

  Astrid watched them go, then turned back to me and crossed her arms. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Bull pucky.”

  I hesitated, then made a face. “I don’t know how to explain it. There’s something in that churn that . . . well, it feels like it’s calling me or something. Like an itch I can’t scratch.” I rolled my eyes. “Good Lord. I sound like a crazy person. Don’t mind me.”

  Her expression remained concerned. “Ellie . . .”

  I looked at my watch. “Have to get back to the shop so Maggie can get to her shift at the Roux on time.”

  “Really? You sure you’re okay? I know that empathy thing you do can hit you hard.”

  “Pfft. Empathy for a butter churn? I’m fine.” I took my key to Heritage House out of my pocket. “Come on, Dash. Let’s get going.”

  Dash wiggled his tailless behind and ran out the door as soon as I opened it. I locked up behind us, and we began walking toward the street.

  Out in front of the library, Astrid said, “You know, I’m pretty curious
about what’s inside that thing, too.”

  “We’ll find out soon!” I infused cheer into my tone, even though “soon” seemed a long time away.

  The itchy feeling continued to twitch in the back of my mind as I walked down Corona Street to Scents & Nonsense.

  * * *

  • • •

  THE Greenstockings worked like crazy women, though, and it was only a week later that we were ready for the big time capsule reveal. The displays inside Heritage House were arranged with care, press releases had gone out, and the history and anthropology departments of California universities had been alerted to our find.

  It was a Wednesday, and I woke even earlier than usual. Ever since we’d found the time capsule, random speculations of what might be inside had littered conversations around town and in Scents & Nonsense. None were enticing enough to account for my fixation, though.

  Probably just a bunch of moldy, rotten, unimportant memorabilia . . .

  Didn’t matter. I still wanted to know what was inside the butter churn.

  “Come on, Dash!”

  He jumped off the bed and headed toward the spiral staircase that led down to the first floor of my tiny house. I donned a warm fleece robe and followed at a more leisurely pace, trailing my fingers along the railing as I descended. The staircase was perhaps my favorite feature of my small-scale home. The contractor I’d hired to transform the rambling potting shed at the back of the Scents & Nonsense property into a place where I could live was a creative genius when it came to saving space. There were built-in shelves, drop-down furniture like the dining table that could be tucked out of the way when not needed, and super-efficient pieces like the ottoman that also served as a coffee table and storage. But I’d fallen in love with the bookshelves he’d fashioned between each of the circling steps that led up to my skylit bedroom. They were the ideal place to house my collection of aromatherapy, gardening, and perfumery books. Having room for a library even that size was usually unheard of in tiny house construction, and every evening I had the pleasure of climbing a bookcase to bed.

  At the bottom, I paused to push my palm against the battered garden journal my deceased grandmother had left to me. I’d rediscovered it when clearing out the basement in my old house after the divorce, and over the course of many consultations among the pages, I’d learned it was a strange volume indeed. Changeable, and bizarrely informative in obscure situations. It had helped me find scentual solutions to enough of my clients’ problems that it had become a habit to touch it each morning. The warmer it felt, the more information was waiting inside for me to find.

  This morning it was cool. I moved into the abbreviated kitchen to brew strong coffee and rummage in the nearly empty cupboard for a quick breakfast. Peanut butter and saltines it was. I washed down five with the first swallows of searing caffeine and then went to take a shower in the deep, Japanese-style tub in the bathroom.

  Feeling refreshed, I dressed in brown jeans, a white silk mock neck, and a navy blue peacoat. I slipped on comfortable loafers and led Dash out to the Enchanted Garden. I usually indulged in my second cup of coffee while letting my crazy dark curls—longer now than they’d been in years—dry in the sunshine that streamed obliquely from the east.

  The air was crisp but pleasant as we wended our way past beds spilling over with pansies and yellow trillium. Tulips were in full riot, bordered by short rows of grape hyacinth and faded crocus. A few irises had burst forth, their stems heavy with more silky buds in wait. Chartreuse ice plant and dusky mother-of-thyme spilled from the rock garden, punctuated by pink rock rose and purple phlox waterfalling over the edge. The delicate white petals of oak-leaf hydrangea sparked subtly in the shade of the fence between my property and Flyrite Kites next door, and hellebore, bleeding heart, and snowdrop anemone brightened the spaces among a myriad of perennials and herbs greening up for later bloom.

  I paused, smiling at the gnome door set into the base of the apple tree. Another one—smaller—cheerily beckoned from a rock near a stand of cress and the wee pansies Gamma had always called Johnny-jump-ups. Near it, a miniature picnic table and benches invited the fairies to come sit, and a tire swing the circumference of my forefinger and thumb touching swung from the branch of a bonsai pine.

  Similar tableaus were tucked in surprising niches and cozy crannies throughout the gardens. I’d created my first fairy garden by the birdbath near the shop—a tiny gazebo surrounded by pint-size Adirondack chairs and landscaped with baby tears and delicate ferns—and had been adding new ones ever since. Most were hidden, or at least not obvious, and the Enchanted Garden—declared by those very words etched into a large rough boulder in the center—had become a regular attraction for children and adults alike. They would come to explore the fairy scenes, enjoy the flowers, sip a hot beverage or lemonade, and browse in the shop. I loved providing a place for people to relax, away from the rest of the world, and the additional business was more than welcome, too.

  Dash bounded ahead to the patio at the back of the shop. Nabokov, the Russian blue shop cat, waited there for him. Nabby languidly stretched his back before deigning to touch noses with the corgi. Together they ambled out of view, no doubt heading for the mosaic retaining wall where they liked to hang out.

  My phone vibrated in my pocket, and I drew it out. The messaging app Ritter and I used since there was no cell service where he was in the wilds of Alaska showed an incoming message. I opened it with a smile.

  Good morning, Elliana! Just wanted to check in and say hi. I’ll be out in the field for the next twenty-four hours, so won’t be able to chat. Didn’t want you to worry when I don’t respond. MISS YOU.

  My smile broadened, just as it did every morning that he was able to contact me. Between messaging, online chats, and the occasional video call, we’d managed to stay close despite the physical distance between us. It would have been easier if all his contact with the outside world hadn’t been through his research project’s expensive satellite connection, but we took what we could get.

  Standing in the middle of the Enchanted Garden, I messaged him back.

  Good morning right back atcha! Be safe out in the tundra. Miss you, too. Can’t wait to see you. Only two more weeks! <3 <3 <3.

  I’d settled into one of the mismatched rocking chairs, when the smell of coconut reached my nose. A moment later, the latch rattled, and Astrid pushed open the gate that led from the covered boardwalk out front. She wore leggings with boots and a tie-dyed tunic that flared at the bottom. In one hand, she held a lidded container and in the other the leash of a gray Nubian goat wearing a red harness.

  I stood. “What do we have here?”

  She grinned. “Coconut squares.” My friend hated to cook but was crazy about baking cookies. Said it was the perfect way to start the day. Of course, she wasn’t about to eat a batch of cookies every day, so Scents & Nonsense and yours truly were the happy recipients of her labors. Her delicious concoctions had gained enough of a reputation that sometimes customers came in just to see what the treat of the day was.

  “Yum!” I said. “Though actually I was wondering about . . .” I pointed to the goat.

  Awkwardly juggling the leash, Astrid opened the plastic lid and handed me a gooey lump of goodness. “Oh, this is Hector. He belongs to Charlene Gibbon.”

  “Chief Gibbon’s wife?” I mumbled around a mouthful that was far superior to the saltines and peanut butter I’d scrounged for breakfast.

  She nodded. “The most recent addition to her backyard menagerie. Says with Hector around there’s no need for a mower anymore. Keeps the ducks company, too.”

  I swallowed and side-eyed the creature. His mouth parted enough to reveal two perfect rows of teeth designed to tear plants to shreds, and he blinked long lashes over unsettling horizontal pupils.

  “Looks like he’s flirting,” I said.

  “Oh, he is.” Astrid ruffled his soft ears. Dash ma
de a noise of disgust and trotted over from the retaining wall to inspect the newcomer.

  “Well, at least someone is.” I regretted the words the second they left my mouth.

  Astrid rolled her eyes. “Poor you. When Ritter gets back, you’re going to have more flirting than you can stand between him and Spence.”

  Ignoring her, I pointed to Hector. “Do not let him off that leash. The last thing I need in this garden is a rogue goat.”

  Astrid thrust the container of cookies at me. “Oh, please. You know I’d never. I was just giving him a walk and thought I’d drop these off early. Is Maggie covering for you this afternoon during the ceremony at Heritage House?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t want her to miss out, so we’re closing the shop for a couple of hours.”

  My friend let out a whistle. “Wow. You never close the shop.”

  “I don’t think I’ll lose too many sales with everyone in town gathered at Library Park.”

  Astrid made a sound of agreement, then led Hector back to the gate. “See you later, Ellie-gator.”

  Raising my hand in farewell, I said, “Thanks for the treats!” and proceeded to eat another one on my way into Scents & Nonsense.

  Inside, I emptied the rest of the coconut squares onto a plate and set it on the table by the back door. I started brewing dark roast coffee, flipped on the overhead lights, and turned back to scan the interior of the shop.

  My breathing deepened, and contentment settled into my bones as I surveyed the business I’d built from dreams and determination. Sunlight streamed through the back window, sparkling through the brightly colored glass bottles that lined the sill, ready for use. The air smelled of dozens of scented products, the natural floral and herbal fragrances melding into a heady miasma of welcome. My work area was clear except for a basket of fresh evergreen fronds and a half dozen jars of dried herbs and petals from the garden, soon to be blended into potpourri. The kids’ corner was scattered with scratch ’n’ sniff books and offered shelves of child-friendly products like scented play clay, nap pillows, and diffusers. The front windows boasted more colorful bottles, while on the boardwalk out front, hardy pansies and ornamental kale spilled from planters on each side of the door.