Chapter 2
To repel moths in the garden, plant rosemary
and lavender; to keep them out of your closet,
hang the herbs in sachets.
—Henny Penny Farmette Almanac
Guiding her Jeep out of Las Flores and along the blacktop roads that twisted through the foothills, Abby managed to keep Kat’s vintage silver roadster in sight all the way to the summit. However, after the cutoff, which was only about eight minutes from downtown Las Flores, Abby lost sight of her former partner. After the cutoff, Abby negotiated the steep switchbacks of the narrow two-lane road until it dipped into a heavily forested area of pine, oaks, and redwood trees. Through the open Jeep windows, the mountain air smelled of sun-drenched earth and dried plant matter. Soon she turned off onto a link road leading to Kilbride Lake. The mountain lake supplied drinking water through a series of canals and reservoirs to Las Flores residents, as well as to the mountain people who lived on the western side of town.
Pulling off the road behind police cruisers and a fire truck, Abby guided the Jeep beneath a towering sequoia with a trunk nearly as wide as the fire truck Kat had parked behind. Abby jumped from the Jeep and slammed the door. The stench of burnt plastic, rubber, and human flesh turned her back. She opened the door and searched the vehicle for something to use as a mask. Behind the driver’s seat, she found a package of work gloves. After ripping open the plastic bag, she removed a pair, then held them against her nose and mouth as she strode toward the coterie of first responders.
Firefighters from Cal Fire had already extinguished the blaze and were mopping up. Las Flores police chief Bob Allen and Sergeant Otto Nowicki assessed the scene. Kat, in her sundress, looked totally out of place as she stood next to a uniformed officer. Sheriff’s deputies, a canal patrol agent, and the local forest ranger huddled together a few feet away, chatting, apparently awaiting the arrival of the coroner.
Abby’s heart pounded as she spotted Fiona’s car. She took in as many details of the scene as possible as she made her way over. A booming voice called out her name.
“What the devil are you doing here, Mackenzie?”
“Hello, Chief,” Abby said. She lowered the gloves from her nose and stared at him. “I wanted to see for myself why my guest of honor didn’t show up for our garden party today.”
The police chief fixed one of his famous steely-eyed stares on her. “You know the vic?”
“I know Fiona Mary Ryan. Until I get a look at who is in that car, I won’t be able to tell you if the woman is Fiona or not.” Abby scrutinized the car. It had not been wrecked. There were no signs of any exterior damage beyond what the fire had done. So, there had been no roadway accident.
“Petrovsky says it’s her,” the chief said. “But another ID couldn’t hurt, since we found no purse or documents in the glove compartment. Get over here, Mackenzie.”
Abby walked toward Otto, who was ogling Kat in her short sundress. Abby picked her way through the grass and weeds until Chief Bob Allen’s voice boomed again.
“Watch out there!”
Abby halted. You always could bark like a rabid dog, Chief, she thought.
“Back up and go around,” the chief snapped, as if addressing a rookie. “Can’t you see the tire impression?”
Abby had indeed noticed the partial tire print and had sidestepped it by more than a foot.
“Get the crime-scene tape over there.” Chief Bob Allen bellowed the order at the uniformed officer behind him.
Abby wanted to bark back, “Should have been taped long before now.”
“If you’ll recall from your academy training, Mackenzie,” Chief Bob Allen continued, “that tire track could be a clue. It might belong to the killer’s vehicle.”
Whatever. Don’t talk down to me. Abby knew only too well Chief Bob Allen’s passive-aggressive personality after working for him for seven years. She took his barked comments in stride, because she felt pretty certain that the police chief had a deep-seated inferiority complex and felt his confidence elevated only when he was demeaning someone else. Abby returned the gloves to her nose. The stench of Fiona’s body and the burnt car was overpowering. She peered inside the driver’s side door.
Fiona’s pale complexion was black and red in areas, but the bone structure was still intact. Her shoulder-length dark hair clung to her scalp in clumps, like tufts of wild weeds dotting an arid field. Abby looked at Fiona’s neck. She took a sharp breath and peered more closely. Where was the necklace with the Celtic cross that Fiona always wore, believing as she did that it held a link between her and her pre-Irish ancestors, the Celts?
Abby fought back a wave of nausea. Oh, Fiona, what happened to you?
Fiona’s attire suggested to Abby that she’d dressed especially nice for the luncheon—a gauzy white blouse, a chiffon gypsy skirt, lace leggings, and flats. The smoke and the agony of seeing her friend’s body in such a senseless and sickening state caused her eyes to sting. But this was neither the time nor the place for an emotional display. Abby muffled a sob and wiped the gloves across her cheeks to erase any evidence of tears. Her throat tightened. Do not cry. Not here. Not now. She gulped hard and fought for composure. She would have only these moments to study the car and her friend’s body. She sniffed hard, as if doing so might help her disassociate from her emotion and instead focus on the car interior.
The fire had claimed the front end and most of the dash. The driver’s and the front passenger’s windows were down, and the doors unlocked. The backseat was devoid of baskets and books, which seemed to accompany Fiona wherever she went. There were no signs of a struggle, no purse, no pills, or flammable liquids that might have started a fire. Nothing. Weird. Fiona seemed to have been sitting peacefully behind the steering wheel, waiting to burn up. Why hadn’t she tried to escape?
Stepping back, Abby turned to face Chief Bob Allen. After sighing heavily and clearing her throat, Abby said. “It’s her, Fiona Mary Ryan.”
“What was your relationship with her?” Chief Bob Allen asked pointedly. He scrutinized Abby’s face like he would that of a perp who might be hiding something. If he felt any sympathy for Abby’s loss of her friend, he didn’t show it.
“We shared a love of gardening.” Abby swallowed hard against the lump that had formed in her throat. Hold it together. Stand strong, straight-faced. “Fiona owns the botanical shop on Main—Ancient Wisdom Botanicals. She was supposed to join us for lunch today but was a no-show.” Abby swallowed hard. “Now we know why.”
“What time was that lunch to be held?”
“Noon.”
“Does she have family in Las Flores?” Chief Bob Allen asked.
“I don’t think so. She lost her parents several years ago in a car crash. She has a brother. I’ve heard a lot about him, but I’ve never met him. Does a lot of international travel, I gather. When he’s on the West Coast, he stays with her.” Abby sniffed again and then waved the smoke away with her gloves.
“What about a husband, children?”
“Children, no. Husband, yes. She’s married to Tom Davidson Dodge. Separated now. She goes by the name of Ryan. Divorce isn’t final. He lives down the road, in that mountain commune, when he isn’t staying with her, which he occasionally does. Or did. Their relationship was a little strange, but you had to know Fiona. There’s a boyfriend, too, recently estranged. Laurent Duplessis.”
“Duplessis. Unusual name,” remarked the chief. He looked over at Otto, who was jotting down Abby’s comments in a notebook, as if wanting to make sure Otto had duly noted that name.
“He’s Haitian, I believe. I only met him once,” said Abby. “Seems all right.”
“Any idea where we can find this boyfriend?”
“Last I heard, he had rented a room over Twice Around Markdowns.”
“All right, Mackenzie. Good information. Stick around. We’re going to need your statement.”
“Yeah, I know the drill, but thanks for reminding me.”
“Coroner’s van is here,” said the chief, looking over the latest vehicle to arrive.
Millie Jamison stepped from the van, setting one black flat on the ground and then the other. A black dress with red piping showed her curves as she quickly slipped on a disposable gown, pulled booties over her shoes, and threaded her fingers into latex gloves.
“Oh, my, my,” said Otto. “You’d never know she had a baby a few months ago. She’s looking pretty hot.”
Abby and Kat shared an eye roll.
“Really, Otto. Get over your bad self,” said Kat.
Abby watched Millie make her way over to the body. “Glad she’s here. She’s good, no question. But when is the county going to hire a permanent chief medical examiner? Didn’t the grand jury’s report make that recommendation? Bringing a chief medical examiner on board makes more sense than having the two assistant medical examiners working cases with the coroner, don’t you think?”
Kat shrugged. “It’s all about funding. There isn’t any. The system’s working, so I guess the consensus is, if it isn’t broken, don’t try to fix it.”
Otto strutted to the crime-scene tape and, lifting it, said, “We believe our vic is Fiona Mary Ryan.”
“Noted. Thanks,” said Millie, darting under the tape. She was clearly all business.
The local TV station van pulled in behind the coroner’s vehicle, diverting Abby’s attention from Millie to the crew. In a heartbeat, they were setting up for a live shot from the scene.
Abby shook her head and said to no one in particular, “Boy, they got here fast.” She knew the news reporters listened to the same scanners as the emergency responders, fire, and police. Fat chance of keeping the lid on the murder investigation, if that was what the chief wanted—and that was what he always wanted on any investigation. He hated bad publicity for the town and always tried to put a positive spin on negative news. But it was difficult to spin a murder, especially when the victim was a local businesswoman.
Abby watched Chief Bob Allen straighten his jacket, walk over to meet the news crew, and point them to a spot farther away from the body in the car. He probably offered to step in front of the camera, with the proviso that they wait for a shot of the car until the body was in the coroner’s van.
“Well, here we are again, just like the old days,” Otto said. “You still shucking corn and shelling peas, Abby?”
Abby smiled and nodded. She liked Otto. His wife, the West Coast regional director of an ambulance company, was gone a lot. Back in the day, when she was still on the force, Otto often offered to buy Abby and Kat dinner or drinks at the Black Witch, just to have a little company. But Otto could be annoyingly blunt.
“If you’re asking if I’m still farming, the answer is yes,” replied Abby. “Corn in the fall, peas in the spring.” She smiled sweetly at Otto, then added, “Listen, guys, I’ve got a few of Fiona’s things at my place.”
“Oh, yeah?” replied Otto. “Like what?”
“Nothing special. A trowel, a scarf, and an armful of old books. She tended to write notes on scraps of paper and stuff them inside books. I doubt you’ll find anything in them relevant to her death, but just the same . . .” Abby swallowed and took a deep breath. “I’ll hand them over so you can give them to her next of kin.”
Otto nodded. Kat stared expectantly at the coroner, who was approaching them.
It was the first time Abby had seen Millie in over a year, and Millie’s countenance reflected a new mother’s glow.
Stepping carefully, she ducked under the crime-scene tape to approach Abby, Kat, and Otto. Peeling off her gloves, Millie said, “Been a while since I’ve seen the three of you on scene together.”
“Yeah, well, it looks like we pulled you away from something pretty special,” said Otto.
“You look stunning,” Abby chimed in.
“Hope it wasn’t the christening,” added Kat.
Millie smiled. “No. My hubby and I were at the symphony, on a rare date. I got the call in the middle of the ‘Méditation’ from Thaïs.” Met with a blank stare from Otto and Kat, Millie looked at Abby. “You know that piece, don’t you, Abby?”
“One of my favorites,” Abby replied.
“Still pick up your violin once in a while?” Millie asked.
“Not really.” Abby tried to sound indifferent, as if it didn’t matter anymore. Millie sounded sympathetic, as if she knew that the thumb injury that had sidelined Abby’s law enforcement career had also deprived her of one of her personal, secret pleasures, playing the violin. Her gun hand was also her bowing hand. It required a stable thumb. And hers wasn’t. Safely locked in its case, the violin that Abby couldn’t play but couldn’t part with gathered dust on the top shelf of her closet.
Glancing at her watch, Millie asked, “So which one of you is in charge?”
Otto replied, “Technically, that would be me, although Chief Bob Allen is over there, doing the live interview, and you might want to talk with him, as well.” Otto ran a hand over his crew cut and hitched his duty belt a little higher, as if doing so somehow elevated his stature.
“So, my best guess is the death occurred sometime between seven o’clock this morning and noon,” Millie said.
“Ah, jeez, Doc. Could you be a little more specific?” asked Otto.
“Hard to say exactly. You know how this works. We might be able to get a little closer after the autopsy.”
Otto nodded. “Cause and manner?”
“That, too, is hard to pinpoint in the absence of obvious signs of trauma, wounds, ligature, punctures, and cuts. We got severe thermal burns. Carbon monoxide poisoning is the most frequent cause of death in burn victims. But there’s no cherry-pink and apple blossom–white skin mottling. That tells me she wasn’t breathing during the fire. As I said, the autopsy will tell us more.”
Millie’s driver approached with a collapsible transport gurney, a body bag, and a form, which he handed to Millie. Otto presented a pen to Millie, and she filled out the form.
“So, here’s the release number. I’ve put my contact info on there, as well,” Millie said, handing back the paperwork.
Abby’s thoughts raced. She had a zillion questions she wanted to ask, but this wasn’t her investigation, and this wasn’t the right time. Otto scanned the form and then looked over at the burned car. Kat’s expression mirrored the solemnity of the moment. Abby felt her stomach tighten, knowing how they all had to compartmentalize emotions when dealing with cases like this one. Millie seemed to do it best. She respected the bodies and had deep empathy and compassion for their families. In that way, too, Millie and Abby shared a similarity.
Millie turned to leave, and Kat called out, “Before you go, Dr. Jamison, can you tell us with any certainty that Fiona did not just sit there and died of smoke inhalation? That’s kind of hard to think that might have happened.”
“Indeed,” said Millie. “I’d think if she were still alive, she would have tried to escape, unless she was incapacitated, of course. But to answer your question, if she was in the car, breathing in smoke, we will undoubtedly see evidence of soot in her lungs during the autopsy.” Millie flashed a sympathetic smile. “We’ll get to the bottom of this. Unfortunately, we’ll just have to wait and see what secrets her body gives up.”
After Millie left, with Fiona’s body bagged and tagged in the back of the coroner’s van, Abby spotted Chief Bob Allen walking toward her, Otto, and Kat. Abby groaned. “Okay, guys. This is where I say, ‘See you later.’” She knew that Kat and Otto would understand the strained relationship between their boss and her. The tension between them was old history.
“Understood. Go,” Kat urged.
Otto nodded.
Abby gave them both quick hugs before hurrying back to her car. Otto and Kat were smart, diligent cops. Abby knew they would draw up a time line for the last twenty-four hours of Fiona’s life. They would make a list of the people with whom she’d had contact and would make note of the reasons Fiona had associated with them. A person of interest would soon emerge. Abby knew that killers always had a relationship with their victims—however fleeting.
Passing through town, Abby stopped by the doggy spa to pick up Sugar.
“Zowie! Somebody looks better for an overnight stay at the Diggity Do,” she said, hugging Sugar, who seemed just as eager to see her. After taking the leash from the worker at the spa for pets, Abby walked an excited Sugar to the Jeep. She patted the car seat, and Sugar hopped in. Her tail wagged almost as hard as she panted.
Fifteen minutes later, back on the farmette, Abby poured herself a cup of cold tea from the pot she and Kat had abandoned. She strolled with Sugar from the patio to the backyard and sank onto the seat of the free-standing porch swing that she’d placed between two apricot trees. The cloying, sweet fragrance of citrus blooms permeated the air. A family of twenty crows that had taken up residence in the tall eucalyptus tree on the vacant wooded acre behind her property cawed in a raucous chorus. Abby rocked on the swing, hoping to push out the images stuck in her mind, images that sickened her as she thought about how Fiona might have died at the hands of her killer. What had been troubling Fiona? Why had she wanted advice from someone who had worked in law enforcement? Abby knew she might never get the answers to those questions, but she was sure going to try.
Dusk descended like a diaphanous veil over the farmette. Its hues of silvery violet and pale lavender reframed the landscape. A barn owl winged its way overhead, then disappeared into the dark canopy of trees. Abby struggled to fight back tears, which finally overtook her, hot and salty, spilling down her cheeks, wetting the fabric of the retro-hippie-chic peasant dress that Fiona would never see.
Abby rocked until the moon rose. Until her stomach was no longer knotted. Until her heart hammered no more. Her thoughts turned to the usual suspects: husband, boyfriend, known associates, and people harboring grudges.
Ancient Wisdom Botanicals had opened less than a year ago—a year after Fiona and her husband, Tom Davidson Dodge, had separated. He lived most of the time at the commune, in an old VW bus that bore the rainbow colors and peace symbols of a bygone era and rested on railroad ties and concrete blocks. Tom had gotten a good deal on the van from a mountain mechanic who’d kept it over a dispute about payment for repairs the mechanic had done. But why, after separating, had Fiona and Tom occasionally still shared a bed at her cottage on Dr. Danbury’s property? People in town knew that Fiona had wanted a child with Tom before her biological clock made it impossible. They also knew that even when she’d dated others during their separation, Tom remained her one true love.
Fiona’s most recent boyfriend, Laurent Duplessis, could drum, sing, and attract more girlfriends than a Haitian masked booby could find fish in the sea. But his relationship with Fiona hadn’t endured. She had liked that he seemed to know more about herbs than most people in town, particularly how to use them in Haitian food. His voodoo religion was, according to Fiona, mind-blowing, and they’d shared an interest in learning about various spiritual paths and practices. She had allowed herself to be comforted by him as her relationship with the commune people became increasingly strained. She’d let him work in her store for a while. But in a reversal of roles, she’d ended up as the caretaker of Laurent, who became increasingly irresponsible. When their relationship grew toxic, she had moved on. He hadn’t. Abby recalled that Fiona had confided in her that she believed Laurent had been following her around. He had seemed to be stalking her. Just three days before the luncheon, she’d asked Abby for a meeting. Now Abby wondered if the purpose of the meeting was to find out about how to get a restraining order. Or was it something else?
She owed Fiona a debt of gratitude for all the help with the farmette herb garden. Abby vowed to repay the debt by finding out how Fiona had ended up alone and dead in a burning car, instead of dining on egg salad sandwiches in Abby’s lovely garden, in the company of friends.
Egg Salad Tea Sandwiches
Ingredients:
6 hard-boiled eggs (chilled or at room temperature)
½ cup mayonnaise
¼ cup finely minced red onion
2 tablespoons minced sweet gherkin pickles
2 tablespoons coarse-ground mustard
1 teaspoon organic honey
½ teaspoon finely minced fresh dill
Kosher salt, to taste
Freshly cracked black pepper, to taste
12 slices white or whole-wheat bread
6 chilled, crisp lettuce leaves or 24 thin slices Armenian
cucumber
Directions:
Peel and chop the hard-boiled eggs and place the chopped eggs in a medium bowl. Add the mayonnaise, onion, pickles, mustard, honey, dill, salt, and pepper to the eggs and mix thoroughly. Set the egg salad aside.
Stack 2 slices of bread on a cutting board so that they are completely aligned and cut off the crusts with a sharp knife. Repeat this process until all the slices of bread have been trimmed.
Spread a thin layer of the reserved egg salad on 6 bread slices. Top each with a lettuce leaf or 4 cucumber slices and then a plain bread slice to make 6 sandwiches.
Cut each sandwich into 4 squares or, if you prefer, 4 triangles with a sharp knife. Arrange the tea sandwiches on a large plate and serve at once.
Serves 4 to 6 (4 to 6 tea sandwiches per person)