2

Two blocks from the police station, Kate parked her car curbside. Her stomach was more scrambled than her morning eggs, and her hands hadn’t stopped trembling since she marched out of Parker’s office, vowing to find Daisy’s killer.

Was she nuts?

What did she know about tracking down a murderer?

She could end up his next victim.

Her gaze darted from window to window. Okay, Kate, get a grip. No one besides a roomful of cops even knows you’re looking. She pocketed her keys and stepped out of the car. A short walk might help her calm down and figure out what to do next.

Bright splotches of sunlight dappled the tree-lined street, but the scene felt wrong—as if even the sky had failed her. The weather should be cloudy, miserable, like she felt.

How could Detective Parker insinuate Daisy killed herself on purpose?

He’d acted so concerned with those soft eyes and mellow tones, and then boom, he delivered that “people are rarely what they seem” line. Well, she’d show him. Daisy was an open book—and more than that, a woman full of life and zest. She never would have killed herself.

And Kate would prove it.

Somehow.

She turned the corner and wandered down the cobbled main street in a daze. Everywhere she looked dredged up more memories of Daisy—the flower baskets that hung from old-fashioned lampposts, the smell of cinnamon buns wafting from the bakery, the enticing wares spilling onto the sidewalk from quaint little shops. For more than four years, she and Daisy had strolled these streets together, hashing over ideas, solving problems, sharing dreams. Dreams of discovering a miracle cure for depression. A cure they’d been on the verge of unveiling. Another reason Daisy never would have taken her own life.

Kate pushed open the door of their favorite tea shop, and Daisy’s British accent tinkled in her ears like the bell over the door. Let’s have a spot of tea. There isn’t a problem that can’t be solved over a good cup of tea.

Yet as Kate walked in, the aromas of spiced teas and freshly ground coffee failed to lift her mood. She glided her fingers over the rows of glass jars lining the counter, filled with herbs of every description. In her mind she heard Daisy chatter on about the health benefit of each.

If only there was a tea that could fix a broken heart.

Blinking back a fresh sting of tears, Kate helped herself to a cup and saucer. She scooped a bit of passionflower to soothe her nerves and a bit of chamomile to help her relax, then added a pinch of ginger to chase away the acid that had begun to eat a hole in her stomach. Kate handed the blend to the new girl behind the counter. “Steep this for ten minutes, please. With a lid on.”

The girl, with her straight black hair and clipped bangs reminiscent of Disney’s Snow White, looked a few years younger than Kate, maybe twenty-three or twenty-four.

The mayor’s wife, a chic-looking woman in three-inch heels and a pencil-straight skirt, joined Kate at the counter. “Goodness. Who has time to wait that long for a cup of tea? Molly, just give me one of those energy teas, and make it to go, will you?”

The girl handed the woman a disposable cup with a plastic cover.

Kate dug her nails into the Formica. “How can she drink a tea without knowing what’s—” Kate clamped her mouth shut. Good grief, what was she doing ranting at the poor counter girl? “Um, sorry,” Kate mumbled, laying a five-dollar bill on the counter. “I’ll wait over there.” She retreated with a muffin to her usual table in the back corner by the stone fireplace.

Nibbling on her muffin, she could almost imagine Daisy sitting across from her, telling her how dotty she’d been to yell at the detective. But Kate wouldn’t let him close this case.

She wouldn’t.

Daisy didn’t kill herself. Kate had to make him see that. She owed Daisy that much.

If not for Daisy, she’d probably still be the server behind the counter, pouring tea like Molly back there. Kate traced her finger over the rim of her cup. She could picture the day as clear as yesterday. Daisy had marched into the shop and, instead of ordering her usual blend, demanded to know why Kate had dropped out of her class.

She’d burst into tears and Daisy had ushered her over to this very table.

“My mom died,” Kate burbled, sopping the fountain works with a napkin. “I don’t have enough money to, to”—she sniffed—“to pay the bills, let alone finish the program.”

“Well, we can’t let a little thing like money stand between you and your future.” Daisy patted Kate’s arm, and in a lyrical Mary Poppins voice, added, “As my research assistant.”

“Your . . .” Afraid to hope, she whispered the words. “Your research assistant?”

“I do have a little pull at the university.” Daisy fluffed her curly white hair. “I’m sure I can scrape up a grant to tide you over until the end of the school year.”

“You . . . you’d do that for me?”

“I daresay I’d do just about anything for you. You’re the brightest graduate student I’ve ever had the pleasure to work with. I meant what I said.” Daisy’s eyes, the color of perfectly brewed chai, twinkled. “I want you to be my research assistant.”

Someone tapped Kate’s shoulder and her arm jerked, knocking her purse to the floor.

“I’m sorry.” Molly drew back, and the tea she carried sloshed into its saucer.

“No, it’s my fault.” Kate fluttered her hand, feeling her cheeks flush at being caught daydreaming. “My mind was . . . uh . . . somewhere else.”

Molly steadied her hold on the saucer and reached for the fallen purse.

“You must be new in town,” Kate said. And then, inspired by the memory of what Daisy had done for her, she added, “Welcome.”

“Thank you.” The girl’s eyes stayed glued to the teetering cup as she rose with purse in hand.

Kate relieved her of the tea and took a sip. “I got my start here. Beth is a great boss.”

“Yes, she’s very kind.”

“So are you interested in herbs? Working here sparked my interest.”

“Yeah, I was studying pharmacology in school, but I had to drop out when my aunt got sick and needed me to take care of her. She was into homeopathy and loved teaching me about it.”

“I think I heard that the research center plans to offer a course on—”

Molly set the purse on the table, and in Kate’s mind she saw not her own purse but Daisy’s bulging black handbag with a journal protruding from the top.

“That’s it! Daisy’s journal. She wrote in it as faithfully as she read her Bible.”

At Kate’s sudden exclamation, the poor girl startled and bumped the purse into the saucer, spilling what was left of the tea. “I’m so sorry.”

Kate squeezed Molly’s hand. “Don’t worry about the tea. I have to run now, but I’d love to chat with you later, okay? Because if I can find the journal, I’ll find the answers.” And she knew just where to look.

She scooped up her purse and rushed to the door.

Kate parked in Daisy’s driveway and sat staring at the brick bungalow. The masses of pansies along the front walk—yellow, violet, blue—had begun to droop in the hot sun as if they too mourned Daisy’s passing. Kate opened her purse and dug out the spare key Daisy had given her for emergencies.

Glancing around to ensure no one would see her go in, Kate hurried up the porch steps. There was no question in her mind this was an emergency, but after Detective Parker’s warning, she wasn’t anxious to test his interpretation of the law where trespassing was concerned.

To the right of Daisy’s driveway, cedar hedges blocked the neighbor’s view of the house. But on the other side, a gray-haired woman stood in the middle of her yard, her gaze fixed on Kate, a pair of pruning loppers poised to trim a rosebush.

Kate slipped the house key into her pocket and started down the porch steps. Not only might this woman report Kate’s appearance to the police, but she looked like the kind of neighbor who would have noticed something out of the ordinary. Something that might give Kate a clue to solving Daisy’s murder.

The bone-chilling squeal of rusty hinges sounded behind her.

Kate misstepped, grabbed at the handrail, and turned to find Daisy’s nephew standing in the doorway. “Edward,” she gasped. “I didn’t expect to find you here.”

He held the door wide. “My car’s in the garage. Come in. Come in.”

In the three months since they’d met, Kate had only seen Edward in the suits and ties he wore for his public relations job with the research station. She almost didn’t recognize him in old jeans, a flannel shirt, and three days’ beard growth. She stepped inside, half expecting to hear Daisy’s cheerful welcome ring from the kitchen.

And when Kate didn’t hear it, the silence squeezed her heart.

Edward pushed open the living room drapes. “I came by to air out the place.” The dark circles under his eyes confirmed that he too had tossed the last few nights away, grieving Daisy’s death.

He lifted a watering can from the sofa table. “My aunt would be horrified if she knew I’d let her houseplants die.” The tremor in his hand matched the quaver in his voice. “I still can’t believe she’s gone.”

Covering her mouth, Kate moved farther into the room. Nothing had changed, as though the past two weeks had been only a nightmare. The old-fashioned tea cart still displayed Daisy’s favorite serving set. Her sweater hung over the armrest of an upholstered rocker, and a paperback lay open on the table beside it. Kate ran her fingers over the title: The Gardener’s Daughter, undoubtedly a romance.

Yes, at any moment, Daisy would walk into the room.

Edward watered Daisy’s prized irises, which sat on the pedestals strategically placed in front of the picture window to maximize sun exposure. “To think, four months ago, I didn’t know I had an aunt. Now”—his Adam’s apple bobbed—“I’ve lost her. Sometimes I wish she’d never told me I was her nephew.”

Kate touched his arm. “You don’t mean that. Finding you made her so happy.”

He nodded but avoided Kate’s gaze. When he moved on to the next plant, she let her hand drop to her side.

“Do you intend to live here?” She scanned the room, searching for anything that might give her a clue what really happened to Daisy. “I imagine it’s yours now.”

“I don’t want to think about that. It’s too soon. I can’t think straight. How can the death of someone who I knew such a short time affect me like this?”

“Daisy affected everyone she met.” Kate wished Edward shared his aunt’s belief in eternity and understood that her faith had inspired her goodness. Daisy had tried to explain her beliefs to Edward, but his bitterness over the circumstances surrounding his adoption had undermined any attempt to convince him of God’s love, whereas Kate’s certainty that Daisy now lived with her Savior was her one solace in the gloomy days since learning of her friend’s death.

Daisy’s desire to help Edward find faith in God was one more reason she wouldn’t have taken her own life.

“My aunt was a remarkable woman,” Edward mumbled.

“I know finding you after all these years meant a lot to Daisy.” Kate deadheaded the potted violet on the end table. As much as she wanted to get on with her investigation, her heart ached to help Edward find some peace.

Edward moved to the opposite end of the sofa. “I wish we’d had more time.”

“She would have felt the same way.”

A pained look crossed his face.

Did he think Daisy actually took her own life?

Kate drew in a deep breath. “I don’t believe for one second that your aunt killed herself. I intend to clear her name.”

“What are you talking about? How?” Edward’s voice edged higher with each question, and if the frown puckering his forehead was any indication, he didn’t like her idea any more than Parker had.

She straightened her shoulders. “By figuring out what really happened.”

“But the police already investigated.” Edward plunked the watering can on the table, splashing water over the side. He patted his pockets and, coming up empty-handed, dried the spill with one of Daisy’s crocheted doilies. “Digging around will only stir up gossip. Let the scandal die with her, and it will soon be forgotten.”

“I don’t want Daisy to be forgotten.” Kate pointed to the newspaper he’d left lying on the sofa. “Or remembered like that.”

“The police conceded her death could have been accidental.”

“Daisy was an expert. She would never confuse calendula marigolds with tagetes. Calendulas don’t have divided leaves and the flowers have far fewer petals.”

“You think she was murdered?” He paced in front of the window, stroking his forehead with his fingertips. “But you said yourself she was a wonderful lady. She didn’t have any enemies.”

“No, not enemies.” Kate had imagined an endless stream of possible scenarios from the moment she read the headline in the newspaper—a jealous competitor, a disgruntled student, a psychopathic drug company advocate—but working up the nerve to voice them was another thing altogether.

What if Edward thought she was as misguided as Detective Parker had?

Yet if she wanted to search Daisy’s house, what choice did she have?

Kate skimmed her fingertips back and forth over the edge of the table. “I thought perhaps a disgruntled student decided to play a prank on Daisy and switched her stock of dried flowers.” When Edward didn’t balk at the notion, Kate rushed on. “Since Daisy would assume they were hers, she wouldn’t pay attention as she scooped the petals into her infuser. Daisy kept a journal. I thought she might have written something that would tell—”

Edward stopped pacing. “I remember she’d said something about a kid.” He strode to the rolltop desk in the corner of the room and yanked up the cover. Scattered papers lined the desktop. He riffled through them, then crouched and tore through the drawers. “The kid plagiarized his research report. Daisy said she’d have to inform the university.” Edward slammed down a stack of files and sat back on his heels. “It’s not here.”

“I’m surprised she never mentioned the incident to me.”

“I’m not. She wanted to convince the kid to come clean on his own.” Edward stuffed the files back into the drawer and closed the desk lid. “Say you’re right about the switched teas being a prank. How did the kid get the marigolds into her cupboard?”

“May I look at her kitchen?”

Edward swept his open palm toward the entrance. “Be my guest.”

Sun streamed through the patio doors that opened off the breakfast nook. Philodendrons climbed from pots at the sides of the door and twined across a bar above. Two navy blue place mats decorated with white daisies—the place mats Kate had given her for Christmas—lay at either end of the table, waiting for them to sit and sample Daisy’s latest blend.

Kate’s throat thickened.

Edward watched her from the doorway, his expression unreadable.

She offered him a halfhearted smile and turned to the counter. She gasped at the dusty mess the police had left behind. Fingerprinting residue covered the herb-filled jars lining the granite counter and the teacup sitting at the lip of the sink, not to mention the counter itself and the dribbles across the floor to the fridge.

“I guess we should be grateful the cops saw no point in dusting the rest of the house for fingerprints,” Edward said.

As much as it felt like the police had defiled Daisy’s home by leaving it in such a state, Kate disagreed with Edward. If the police had investigated more thoroughly, they might not have been so quick to dismiss Daisy’s death as self-inflicted. Kate opened the fridge door. A stench wafted into the room. Rotten meat. Gagging, Kate shoved the door closed and threw open the window over the sink.

Edward reached into the cupboard above the stove and pulled out a garbage bag. “Sorry, I can take care of that. This is the first I’ve been back since the police released the scene.”

While he disposed of the bag outside, Kate found a box of baking soda and stuck it in the fridge to absorb the odor. She shoved away the thought of how horrible the entire house would have smelled if Daisy’s body hadn’t been discovered so quickly, but she couldn’t shake the heaviness that had settled over her.

She couldn’t do this. Not here. Not now.

Edward returned to the kitchen with a cardboard box. “You might as well take the jars of herbs home with you. I won’t use them.”

Relief swooshed the air from her lungs. “Are you sure?”

“Trust me. Real men don’t drink this stuff.”

A laugh slipped out, but it felt good.

Edward loaded the jars into the box. “Is there anything else you want to see?”

Remembering the journal, Kate led the way back to the living room. A hint of jasmine veiled the stench that had crept through the kitchen. “Your aunt may have written something in her journal that will give us a clue to who would poison her.”

Edward’s heavy sigh rattled the jars in the box he carried. “It’s almost easier to believe she killed herself than to believe someone wanted her dead.”

Kate thumbed through the stack of papers on the coffee table. “She usually kept her journal with her Bible.”

“I’ve never noticed.” He set the box on the sofa. “I’ll check her night table.”

Kate followed him down the hallway, but at the door to Daisy’s room, he stopped her.

“Wait here,” he said, then plunged inside and pulled the door shut behind him.

Torn between not allowing him to face the room alone and sparing herself the sight of Daisy’s deathbed, Kate hovered outside the door with her hand on the knob. By the time she pushed it open, Edward was rushing out.

“Don’t go in there. I’ll arrange for a guy to take the mattress to the dump. I should have done it days ago.” He shut the door and handed her a stack of notebooks. “Are these what you’re looking for?”

Kate fanned through the pages. “No, these are research notes.”

Edward touched the small of her back and prodded her toward the living room. “Then you might as well take them. I won’t read them.”

She tucked the notebooks into the box next to the jars. “Was Daisy’s Bible in her room?”

“I didn’t see it.” He scrunched his nose.

Okay, maybe she wouldn’t check. When she’d found Daisy the morning after her death, the room hadn’t smelled great. But from Edward’s face, it seemed the odor now rivaled that of the fridge. Funny that she hadn’t picked up on it in the hall.

Edward moved toward the front door. “Can I carry the box to the car for you?”

She tilted her head. Why was he suddenly in such a hurry to see her leave?

Another possible scenario whispered through her thoughts—Daisy’s long lost nephew, angry over her role in his adoption, killed her in revenge.

Kate snatched up the box. “I got it, thanks.” Could he hear the strain in her too-high voice?

“I’ll keep an eye out for that journal,” he said, holding open the front door.

A creepy bugs-under-the-collar sensation pitter-pattered across her neck as she stepped past him. Was it her imagination, or did he seem less grief-stricken than when she first arrived? The almost imperceptible curl of his lips reminded her of a cat with a mouse by the tail.

Some sleuth she turned out to be. Of all the people who might have had a motive to kill Daisy, Edward, as her only living relative, stood to gain the most.

And she’d just told him everything.

Tom drove a different route home—one that happened to take him past the late Miss Leacock’s house. From the moment Kate left his office, her demands had niggled at his mind. He trusted the coroner’s report, but Kate was right. People could be bought. Tom knew that too well. And if the coroner falsified his report, Kate, by digging into Leacock’s death, might become the murderer’s next target.

Approaching Leacock’s street, Tom slowed his car. He’d take a quick look around, just to check.

The street was home mostly to retired couples and devoid of the after-school ball hockey games that plugged the streets around his dad’s place. Here and there a stray Tonka truck or trike, likely left behind by visiting grandkids, littered front yards. Otherwise, the area rivaled the pristine gated communities surrounding DC.

Tom parked in Leacock’s driveway, and the moment he opened his car door, Mrs. C, his former eighth-grade teacher who also happened to be Leacock’s neighbor, called out to him from her front yard.

“You missed them.” She lopped off a shriveled lilac blossom.

The potent fragrance hung heavy in the air like cheap perfume.

Giving the house a cursory glance, Tom meandered toward her. “Who might them be?”

“Daisy’s nephew and that friend of hers. If you ask me, they had as good an excuse as any to bump her off. Daisy’s not cold in her grave yet, and the girl’s already carting stuff out of the house.”

“Oh?” Tom propped his foot on the short picket fence separating the yards, and rested his elbow on his knee. “What girl?”

“Daisy’s research assistant. Daisy rescued her from the dregs of that old tea shop and this is the way she shows her thanks.” Mrs. C sliced off a branch of lilacs, dispensing of the living with the dead.

Tom fought to rein in his impatience. “Are you referring to Kate Adams?” He hated to encourage Mrs. C’s fondness for gossip, but it sounded like Kate had already carried her personal investigation too far.

“Kate?” Mrs. C’s nose wrinkled. “Hmm, yes, that sounds right.”

“How did she get into Daisy’s house?”

“Daisy’s nephew let her in. They were in there a long time too.” Leaning toward the fence, Mrs. C dropped her voice. “You don’t think they were . . . you know . . . in the middle of the day?”

The intimation knotted Tom’s gut.

“Goodness.” Mrs. C tossed her loppers into her wheelbarrow and scooped up the blooms condemned to the compost pile. “What’s this world coming to? She’d seemed like such a nice girl too. Daisy brought her to church every Sunday, but she wasn’t there last Sunday. Nope.”

Tom ground his heel into the fence board. “Perhaps Kate was too heartbroken to face everybody so soon after Daisy’s death.”

Mrs. C lifted her chin and sniffed. “I suppose that could be.”

“You mentioned Edward was here?”

“Yes, I suppose he’ll move in soon. Daisy told me that other than a few small bequests, she left everything to him and that Kate girl.”

“Kate Adams?” Kate and Edward had both disclaimed any knowledge of a will. Tom tamped down a surge of resentment, loath to admit he’d let himself be duped.

“Oh my, yes. Daisy thought of her as a daughter. If not for Edward, Kate would have received the whole caboodle.”

The knot in Tom’s gut tightened. Since no copies of a will were found in Daisy’s house, nor any indication as to who her lawyer might be, Tom had watched the newspaper for notices, when apparently all he had to do was ask Mrs. C. “When did Daisy tell you about her will?”

“Why . . .” Mrs. C rubbed her chin, her eyes drifting skyward.

He suspected she remembered the day exactly but wanted to savor the moment of knowing more than the cops.

“I believe it was three weeks ago Tuesday. She said she’d been thinking about changing her will for some time and had an appointment with her lawyer the next day.”

“Did she happen to mention the name of her lawyer?”

“Oh my, yes. It’s Hilda’s boy. Dave McCleary. He has an office in Niagara Falls.” Mrs. C removed her gardening gloves and slapped them against her hand. “I’m surprised your dad didn’t tell you.”

Tom’s foot jerked from its perch on the fence rung. “My dad? Why would he know who Daisy’s lawyer was?”

“She visited your father before she made the decision. I guess she figured with him being a retired policeman, he’d be able to give her a balanced opinion. If you know what I mean.”

Tom grazed his hand across his jaw, covering a frown. He had no idea what she meant, but he intended to find out. The second he got home. If Dad withheld information pertinent to this investigation, he’d—

Tom turned toward his car. “I appreciate your time, Mrs. Crantz.”

Her voice skipped after him. “So the newspaper was wrong?”

“Pardon me?”

“About Daisy’s death being a suicide? You’re still investigating, aren’t you?” A conspiratorial glint lit her eyes. “Anyone who knew Daisy knows she’d never have killed herself. I told Hilda you planted that story in the newspaper so the murderer would think he got away with it and get cocky.”

Tom muffled a groan. His sense of humor when it came to armchair detectives and their overeager imaginations had died years ago. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but we have no reason to doubt the coroner’s findings.” No reason, except that the woman who’d demanded he reopen the investigation suddenly topped his list of suspects.

Not only did the impending change to Daisy’s will offer a compelling motive, but Kate had means and opportunity. So what was it about her that made him want to trust her?

Maybe it was because he couldn’t get her voice out of his head. In my world, Detective, people stand by their friends.

He snorted. Yeah, in his world too. Until that world imploded, making it impossible to tell his friends from his enemies.

If Daisy’s research proved to be as promising as Kate had suggested, with Daisy out of the way, Kate would receive the glory and an inheritance. People killed for far less.

Forty minutes later, Tom parked in his dad’s driveway and grabbed the sack of groceries off the passenger seat. The grass needed cutting and flyers bulged from the mailbox. Dad probably hadn’t even stepped outside today.

Tom let himself in the front door. The sun wouldn’t set for three more hours, yet darkness hung over the house, broken only by the flickering light of a rerun on the TV. The canned laughter was a poor substitute for the real thing. Tom missed hearing his dad’s belly-jiggling, laugh-till-you-cry kind of roar.

“I bought steaks for supper,” Tom called into the living room on his way through to the kitchen. Cheering up his dad with a good meal seemed like the best way to broach the subject of Daisy. Although officially the case was closed, Tom still wanted answers.

He shoved aside the breakfast dishes to make room on the table for the sack of groceries. Closing the cereal box, he crammed it into the cupboard and took the bowls to the sink where last night’s dinner plates lay crusted over with dried pork and beans.

Apparently, Dad hadn’t bothered with KP duty or lunch.

Tom dropped the bowls on top of the plates and marched into the living room, where he turned off the TV and opened the curtains. “I’m trying to help you, but you have to want to help yourself.”

Dad thumped the recliner’s footrest to the floor and glared. For Tom, looking at his dad was like looking at an age-enhanced picture of himself, the kind the department created of missing persons. The broad shoulders, now stooped; the square chin, now marred by folds of skin beneath it; the dark hair, now salted with gray. Yep, his own physical features were all gifts from his dad. Unfortunately, so was the mulelike stubbornness.

“I never asked you to come.” Dad crossed his arms over his sleep-rumpled shirt.

“I won’t let you starve yourself to death. You act like you’re the only one in the world who’s ever lost someone. Stop feeling sorry for yourself and start living. Do you think Mom would be proud of you like this?”

Dad shot to his feet, grabbed his coat, and slammed out the door.

Great. Why’d he have to deliver the lecture tonight, when he’d wanted to talk about Daisy? Now Dad probably wouldn’t talk to him for a week.

Tom collected a dirty mug and three empty chip bags from the living room. Okay, his dad wouldn’t starve, but how long could anyone survive on coffee and potato chips?

Tom put away the groceries, then filled the sink with soapy water. He inhaled the lemony scent that always roused memories of Mom. Her tulip-shaped suncatcher glittered in the window. She had loved to work at the counter and watch the colors dance across the walls. He hated to think how she would shudder at the mess her men had made of the place.

A bird flitted past the window and rose toward the heavens. Even in the darkest days of her illness, Mom had lifted her troubles to God as confidently as that tiny bird launched itself into a vast unknown. Tom wished he had a quarter of the confidence. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do here, Lord. I thought you wanted me to come home and help my dad find his footing, but I just seem to be making a mess of it. Worse than that, I have a civilian conducting her own investigation, and if her theory is right, she could put herself in danger.

Or she was a murderer.