Death Drops (9 page)

But my sanguine attitude about staying on the East End and taking over Aunt Claire’s business was short-lived. As I headed for the kitchen to get a cup of herbal tea, the door swung open, and Simon Lewis, my ex-boyfriend from L.A., strolled through.

Simon was a skeptic of all things natural, so we had truly been an odd couple. Last I knew, he’d been in New York, researching his next novel. It had been nice to have the entire country between us. Now my buffer space had been reduced to a few feet.

Although not conventionally handsome, he had a broody demeanor and deep chocolate-brown eyes that were catnip to many women. Dressed in expensive-looking distressed jeans, a T-shirt I had given him that said Be. You, and Jack Purcell sneakers, he looked like a successful L.A. TV writer and author, and he knew it.

We’d parted two months ago when he left for the airport,
angry words still hanging in the air. We’d fought about his undermining attitude toward my work, dismissal of my difficulties with L.A. city life, and general lack of support in everything life had to dish out. Oh, and did I also mention he was a commitment-phobe?

“Simon? What are you doing here?” I said, feeling the knife enter my chest. The wound of our breakup had begun to heal with his absence but now felt raw again. I gave myself a pep talk to stay strong; this was not the time to fall back into old patterns or into his “love you, love you not” arms.

He pulled me into a hug. “I’m really sorry about your aunt,” he said, releasing me and putting his hands on my shoulders to give me a searching look. “How are you?”

Pushing my grief out of sight, I gave him a brave face. “I’m fine, Simon. Who told you?”

“I found out when I arrived last night. The owner of the B and B where I’m staying for a few weeks told me.”

I felt like I’d been socked in the stomach. “You’re staying in town for a few weeks?”

“Yes. I’m on hiatus from
Parallel Lives
.”

Parallel Lives
was a hit TV drama, in the genre of
Lost
and
Fast Forward
. They had just been renewed for a third season. Simon, a writer and executive producer on the show, was now rich, and he acted like it.

“Last week I took a copter out to the Hamptons and did some hard-core partying. This week it’s back to work on my novel.” He reached into his pocket for a Kleenex and blew his nose. “Sinus infection. Got any natural remedies for me?” He gave me a sly grin. “A Vike would be great.”

“Vicoden is not a natural remedy,” I said, rolling my eyes. Simon had become too fond of the pills after he broke his leg while attending the Sundance Film Festival in January. The doctor had
given him a generous supply, too generous, and he’d started to use them just to boost his mood. After, he crashed and became moody and irritable. It had been another reason I’d left him.

“That’s your opinion,” Simon replied, looking around at the market and café. “So this is where it all happens.”

He knew how much I loved this place. I’d constantly talked about Aunt Claire and the store and café.

“Is it true that you’re planning to take over?”

“Yes. I just gave my notice.”

He frowned. “But you don’t know anything about running a store and café.”

Nice. “Supportive as always, Simon.”

“I’m being realistic. You’re a doctor, not a shopkeeper.”

Instead of pointing out that my training as a naturopath made me extremely qualified to advise and sell natural remedies, I changed the subject. “So you’re staying out here?”

He nodded. “My publisher is putting me up. You always talked about how it was so peaceful. She thought it was a good idea. It’s what I need in order to meet my deadline. Peace and quiet.”

“When is the book due?” I knew he was working on a novel about a TV actress who gets hooked on prescription drugs. Ironic, considering his own fondness for pain pills, although he’d never admit it.

Instead of answering me, he pulled out his BlackBerry and wrote a text.

“Simon,” I prodded. “The deadline?”

He tucked the BlackBerry back into his pocket. “August third. Then it’s back to L.A. to start the new season of
Lives
.”

I sucked in a breath. Two months? This was not welcome news. I didn’t want him here, especially not now. I had my hands full with the business and my new career as an amateur sleuth.

“Being in New York gave me plenty of time to think. I want to work things out with you.”

His sudden desire to make up didn’t come as a surprise, as we’d broken up and reconciled several times. But this time, after he’d left for New York, I thought long and hard about whether I really wanted him in my life. When I weighed the pros and cons, the cons won. I was officially finished with him, no matter how he felt.

“No, Simon.” I headed into Aunt Claire’s office and sat in the office chair. Qigong jumped on my lap, tail wagging.

Maybe Simon would take the hint, although I doubted it. Moments later he appeared at the office door. “Who’s this? Now you have a dog?”

“Yes. His name is Qigong,” I said as dismissively as I could. I was too busy to deal with Simon right now. This afternoon I wanted to write a story for
Nature’s Remedy
about natural ways to beat allergies and blog about a silver nasal spray that was great for sinusitis. But most important, I wanted to search Aunt Claire’s e-mail archives for any info that might help me figure out where the final formula was and who might have stolen it.

Simon approached the desk, leaned over, and tried to kiss me. I pushed him away.

He looked perplexed and definitely unhappy. “Willow, give me another chance.”

I had to be strong. I knew ending our relationship was for the best. “Simon, we are so over.” I opened the e-mail folder labeled
Fresh Face
. There were over two hundred messages. This was going to take some time, but finding out who had taken the formula was the most important item on my to-do list. Not only was this Aunt Claire’s life’s work but the murderer was still at large and might come for me next.

He shrugged. “I don’t believe that.”

I could see why; I’d folded before. But now, with my new mission to carry on Aunt Claire’s work and find her killer, I felt bold and strong, like I was holding an Ashtanga yoga warrior pose. “Believe it,” I said as I got up, pushed him toward the door, and began to close it in his face. “Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got work to do.”

Dear Dr. McQuade,

I bumped my shin against my desk and now I have a nasty bruise. I’m also achy when I finish my workout at the gym. Is there something natural I can take to soothe bruises and aches and pains so I can stay active?

Signed,

Feeling Sore

Dear Feeling Sore,

One of the best remedies for bruises and aches and pains is
Arnica montana.
This herb from the daisy family is super at moving fibrin, a blood protein that forms at the site of an injury, out of your system, helping to reduce both swelling and inflammation. You can put it on your skin topically or take arnica pellets. Find them at your local health food store.

Signed,

Dr. Willow McQuade

Monday morning dawned like any other day, but this day was anything but normal. It was the day of Aunt Claire’s memorial service. I’d been up until one o’clock going through old e-mails about Fresh Face, trying to find both the final formula and someone with a motive to steal it, but had learned nothing except that the development process had been tortuous.

Feeling bleary-eyed and bummed, I dragged myself out of bed and lingered in a hot bath with organic, fragrant rose bath salts and thought of Aunt Claire. As the tub cooled, I added more hot water. I was reluctant to get out and face the day. Finally, with the clock ticking, I dried off, dressed in my best black dress and flats, went downstairs, and made sure the Closed sign was in the window. We were definitely not open for business today.

At ten thirty Nick arrived
to pick me up, wearing a sharp black suit and tie and looking mournful, his heart still broken into a million little pieces. As he bent over to give me a kiss, I caught the whiff of alcohol again. Had he always been a drinker? Or was this a response to Aunt Claire’s death? I needed to talk to him about it, but now wasn’t the time.

We arrived at the local church, which looked like it belonged in the English countryside, all dreamy spires and white clapboards. Pastor Wyatt, who was afflicted with seasonal allergies, was a faithful customer of Claire’s. We parked in the back and headed inside.

The church was packed to overflowing with Aunt Claire’s friends, customers, community members, and fellow activists. In the back row, I noticed my sister Natasha, dressed, natch, in a couture suit. Mother was at home recovering from her stay at the hospital. I nodded to Natasha and received a glare in reply.
Fine. I scanned the church for Simon to see if he’d had the nerve to show up. But whether he was respecting my wishes not to see him or had better things to do, he wasn’t there.

The service began at eleven o’clock; it was brief and to the point. We sang “Amazing Grace” and “Ode to Joy,” two of Aunt Claire’s favorites that I’d recommended be included. In between, there was a lovely homily by Pastor Wyatt, and sobs and sniffles from the audience. After the benediction, Nick and I walked out in the procession behind Pastor Wyatt, the deacons, and the altar boys.

The mourners stopped one by one to give Nick and me their condolences. Aunt Claire’s spirit definitely lived on in the lives of people she’d touched through her work at the store and in worthy causes. “She made my condition easier to live with,” a woman with diabetes told me. “Never too busy to listen to my problems,” said a man who struggled with depression. “Tireless in her commitment to animal rights,” said one of her activist friends. “An inspiration,” said a yoga student.

But then Janice trotted out, dressed head to toe in black, and hissed into my ear, “You’re not going to get away with this. I’ve asked my lawyer to contest the will. Expect it to be tied up in probate for a very long time.”

“This is not what Aunt Claire wanted,” I hissed back.

“She wasn’t in her right mind when she made out that new will. She was furious with Natasha and your mother. She wasn’t thinking clearly. It’s the only thing that makes sense. She wouldn’t have forgotten me otherwise.”

After reading Aunt Claire’s letter, I knew that wasn’t true. Her intention had obviously been for me to take over the business. That was definite. After all, we were family and she knew where my passion lay, in helping people and living here.

Nick realized we were fighting and pulled Janice away from
me. “Janice, thank you for coming.” He gave her a hug and looked at me over her shoulder.
It will be okay,
he seemed to be telling me. He released Janice and pushed her toward Pastor Wyatt.

“But,” Janice sputtered, “I’m not finished. She has to know she’s not going to get away with this.”

“Please, Janice, don’t make a scene,” Nick said.

Janice muttered something unintelligible as Pastor Wyatt led her away from the receiving line and counseled her privately.

Nick leaned over to me. “Don’t let it bother you.”

I couldn’t help but take Janice’s threat seriously, though. Not knowing how I was going to keep the business going until probate was settled, plus wondering if Janice was the one who may have killed Aunt Claire, I shook my head and replied, “If only it were that easy.”

After a brief service at
the cemetery and a post-memorial gathering at Nick’s house, I returned to the store around 7 p.m., in time to discover another gathering taking place at Nature’s Way. Although the café was closed, a half dozen women were grouped at two café tables they’d pushed together in the front of the store, chatting in low tones. Many of these friends of Aunt Claire’s had been at the memorial service. Why were they here now? One of them, Elizabeth Olberman, waved to me.

Dressed in her mourner’s attire, she looked the way I felt, depressed and tired but still trying to keep up appearances. She kissed me on each cheek, European-style, and said, “I hope you don’t mind that we’re here, but we have a protest planned.”

“A protest?”

“These two miscreant business owners want to open a pet store in town. They want to sell pure-bred puppies from puppy mills while the animal shelter in Southold is overflowing with strays. We’re going to picket if the town board gives them a permit to run the business, and we should know in the next few days. It’s bad timing, but I know that Claire would have wanted us to move forward with this. We have to be prepared.”

One of Aunt Claire’s passions was to shut down puppy mills that supplied pet stores with dogs. I’d learned from her that such mills were inhumane places where the owners treated dogs like products. They were kept in cages their whole lives, without companionship, exercise, or proper veterinary care. The females got the worst of it as they were bred relentlessly until they got too sick to provide the “product” read puppies, flowing to pet stores. When that happened, the dogs, both female and male, were thrown out like so much trash. Aunt Claire had given me a bumper sticker that read Stop Puppy Mills Now, with a photo of a miserable-looking dog trapped in a cage. I felt good about having her friends here tonight, carrying on in her name. “We have to do all we can to stop this. Please let me know how I can help.”

Elizabeth patted me on the shoulder. “Keeping the store and café up and running is enough. She was very proud of you, Willow. I hope you know that.”

I met her sad eyes and nodded. “I do, thanks.” The store still fairly hummed with Aunt Claire’s vibration and, looking around, I felt myself again near tears. Time for bed. “I’m going to go up, but please stay as long as you need to. It’s important work.”

“Thanks so very much,” Elizabeth said, taking my hand. “And, Willow, please don’t let the police worry you.”

I stiffened. “What do you mean, worry me?”

Elizabeth seemed flummoxed. “I just meant that I heard the
police were taking an interest in you. But that always happens when you’re first on the scene. That’s the way it is on
CSI
.” She turned back to the group of activists, who had obviously been listening to our conversation. “We’ll vouch for you, won’t we, girls?” The women at the table murmured assent.