Death Drops (3 page)

Thousands of tiny white lights hung from the roof, and on top of the building stood a ship’s weathervane, a nod to our village’s nautical heritage. Three white metal tables and chairs had been placed on the porch for al fresco dining.

I sped up the path lined with perennial plants of every size, shape, and color that Aunt Claire had bought, nurtured and watered faithfully, bolted up the steps, and pushed at the fire-engine-red front door. It was locked. In a town as safe as this, I found it odd that she’d bothered to do so, unless she wanted to make sure no early bird customers drifted in. Reaching for my key, I slipped it into the lock, pushed the door open, and stepped inside. It was eerily quiet. I looked around and, not seeing her, called her name several times. “Aunt Claire? Are you okay?” I felt panic rise in my throat.

Getting no reply, I headed farther inside, past the bright and cheery café section, with more white metal tables and chairs; bookshelves bursting at the seams with volumes on everything from vegan eating to yoga to meditation; and the oversize corkboard displaying the daily specials along with funky artwork and postcards from customers around the world. The smell of patchouli filled the air, giving the space a warm, musky scent.

I walked past the kitchen and the wood-paneled, square checkout station, which was situated in the middle of the bright green-and-blue space, facilitating attention to customers’ needs. Featured at the checkout station were items that were likely to be bought spontaneously, such as lip balm, stress mints, bug repellent, and bars of organic milk chocolate, along with magazines like
Nature’s Remedy, Yoga Journal,
and
Natural Health
. The sun coming through the skylights spilled over the entire area, bathing it in an ethereal glow. Pushing open the
office door, I peered inside to where I’d left her only an hour before. Aunt Claire’s teacup sat empty, as did her chair.

Turning around, I walked back into the store, past the display of eco-friendly cleaning products, to the produce aisle, which led to the stairs. Perhaps Aunt Claire had felt ill, headed upstairs to lie down, and fallen. I hoped not. The stairs were narrow and winding; one slip, and you could really hurt yourself. But I didn’t get that far. As I rounded the corner, I spotted her.

She lay in the fetal position on the floor, the bottle of flower essences resting next to her left hand. Her tabby cats, Ginger and Ginkgo, a brother and sister she’d adopted from a local animal-welfare foundation, were circling her, mewing. Had she fainted?

Dropping to my knees, I put my head to her chest. Was she breathing? No. Oh, God. Her eyes were closed and her face was pink, as if she’d stayed in the sun too long.

I put my head to her chest again and hoped against hope that I was wrong. No, she wasn’t breathing. I grabbed my iPhone, called 911, and then started to perform CPR. But it was no use. She didn’t respond. I kept trying. Moments later the EMT’s arrived and took over. After a few minutes of trying to resuscitate her, they told me that Claire was gone. The shock of her death reverberated through me. I wanted to throw up.

As I fought back nausea, my gaze landed on the bottle next to her left hand. I bent over her and inspected it. It was the flower essence Mimulus, which is taken for “Fear of worldly things, illness, pain, accidents, poverty, of dark, of being alone, of misfortune. The fears of everyday life. These people quietly and secretly bear their dread; they do not freely speak of it to others,” according to its creator, the British doctor Edward Bach, who’d discovered and patented the power of certain flower essences in 1934.

I went to the desk and got a napkin in case someone’s fingerprints besides Claire’s were on the bottle and carefully picked it up by the top of the dropper. When I opened the top and smelled the liquid inside, it didn’t smell like any flower essence I’d ever used with patients. Had someone put something into the bottle with the intent to kill?

My world tilted on its axis. Aunt Claire had been dealing with something big. Something so foreboding that she’d chosen this cure. And it had killed her.

Dear Dr. McQuade,

I’ve been feeling really low for over a month now. I can’t point to a specific reason, although I have had several personal setbacks this year: I lost my job, my husband left me, and my goldfish died.

Signed,

Feeling Down

Dear Feeling Down,

For mild to moderate depression, you may want to try Saint John’s wort. It’s been proven in many studies to be effective. However, if you’re feeling depressed and it’s getting worse, it’s time to see a professional. Remember, it takes a strong person to ask for help when she needs it. Feel better!

Signed,

Dr. Willow McQuade

I don’t know how long I sat there and cried with the cats keeping me company, dissolved in a puddle of goo and using the recycled-paper towels from the display to mop up my tears. I think subliminally I hoped that if I cried hard enough, I could will her back to me. But Aunt Claire had definitely, as she would often say when others died, gone to the other side. She was probably looking down on me right now. In spite of everything, I found this somewhat comforting.

The EMS volunteers had come and assessed the situation after I’d carefully replaced the bottle in its original position. When I told them my suspicions, they called the police, who asked me to sit tight until they arrived. While the EMS techs went outside for a smoke, I stayed where I was, by her side, a lump in my throat and thoughts buzzing around in my head like bees. Why did she choose this essence? What was she afraid of? Why didn’t she confide her fears to me? Had someone put something in this bottle to try and kill her?

But who would want to hurt Aunt Claire? A disgruntled customer? Someone she ticked off at the post office? Despite her Zen nature, Aunt Claire did have a knack for getting into confrontations with certain folks. This child of the sixties was also a real activist, holding meetings for causes like workers’ rights and animal rights every week in the store.

Suddenly I heard a startled gasp from behind me. “What happened?”

Turning around, I found Aunt Claire’s passive-aggressive right hand, Janice Dorian, a stricken look on her face. Despite being surrounded by natural ways to calm down, Janice was an uptight forty-something with a perpetually pinched-looking face. She wore the Nature’s Way green apron, khakis, and a white T-shirt, hair stuffed into a crisp ponytail. “What have you done to her?”

“Nothing!” There was no one I loved more than my beloved Aunt Claire. Checking my temper, even though I wanted to deck her, I steadied my voice and said, “She’s gone, Janice. The police will be here any minute.”

Janice pushed past me and bent over Aunt Claire’s body. “Everything was fine until you came home. I’ve never seen her so agitated since you arrived.”

This was true but had to do with my efforts to bring my mother and Aunt Claire back together. Or maybe her agitation had something to do with her new business venture, Fresh Face. Even then she hid it very well. “Janice, you know that we loved each other very much.” I pointed to the bottle of Mimulus. “I think she may have been murdered,” I said, and shared my thoughts about the strange smell.

Janice snatched up the bottle before I could stop her and snarled, “You did this!” She waved the bottle at me. “This is your fault!”

“No, Janice,” I said, feeling tears well up again. Dealing with Janice in this situation was like rubbing sand into a wound. “You’re wrong. That is simply not true.”

“I’ll take that.” I turned around to see that the cops had arrived, a few patrolmen and two men in street clothes who were most likely detectives. One of them, a tall, lanky guy with close-cropped brown hair, put gloves on and took the bottle from Janice. He dropped it into a plastic bag and gave her a withering look. “Nothing like contaminating the evidence.”

“That’s her fault,” Janice huffed. “She’s the one who told me about it.”

The other detective, short and stocky with an athletic build, got right down to business. “I’m Detective Koren. This is Detective Coyle. You are?”

“I’m Willow McQuade,” I said, and wiped away fresh tears with a Kleenex. “This is Janice Dorian.”

“I can speak for myself,” Janice huffed again.

“Fine,” I said, weary of her attitude.

Detective Koren arched an eyebrow. “Problem?”

“She’s the problem,” Janice said, and pointed at me. “Everything was fine until she came here. Claire and I worked together as a team. She trusted me. We built this business to where it is today. Then she comes and ruins everything! I’ll bet she killed her!”

The cops gave me a quizzical look.

A wave of dread washed over me. I took a deep breath to steady myself. “She was my aunt. I loved her. I did not kill her.” I told them my theory about what might have happened this morning.

Detective Coyle narrowed his eyes at me. “What makes you an expert?”

“I’m a doctor. A naturopathic doctor.”

“Oh.” Coyle smirked. “So you’re not a real doctor.”

I stiffened. I’d heard this before, but it just wasn’t true.

“Why don’t you two take a seat,” Koren said. “We need to take a closer look, and then we’ll have some questions for you both.”

Janice paced by the door and I watched from a table in the café with a knot in my stomach as Koren and Coyle examined Aunt Claire’s body and the area around her. After that, Koren separately questioned us about our connections to Aunt Claire and to the store, our contact information, and our movements this morning while Coyle took notes.

When I mentioned finding Aunt Claire and the bottle, Coyle held up the plastic bag and squinted at the label. “Mimulus? What’s this for? Some kind of quack cure?”

Okay, Willow, don’t take offense. You know that lots of people think natural medicine is quackery, but you know better. Your Aunt Claire knew better. Don’t go to the dark side.
“It isn’t a quack cure,” I said briskly. “It’s what is known as a flower essence, which is used for specific situations.”

“What kind of situations?”

“When you have an emotional imbalance, you choose a flower essence to help put you back in balance. In this case it looks like she was afraid of something.” I explained the properties of Mimulus to him.

Detective Koren, who was clearly the fashion-forward member of the team in an Armani knockoff, while his partner made do with JCPenney garb, grabbed the bag. “‘Fear of worldly things, illness, pain, accidents . . . misfortune’? That’s quite a list. You on that list?”

“No, officer, we had the best of relationships.”

Janice huffed her disapproval. “Then why did you fight?”

I shrugged like it was no big deal. “Like all people who love each other, we had our disagreements. Mostly about my mother. She and Aunt Claire are, I mean were, estranged. I was trying to bring them back together. Aunt Claire was, well, resistant. She didn’t give up a grudge easily.”

Koren held up his index finger. “Wait a minute, your aunt”—he glanced at Aunt Claire’s body—“had a grudge against your mother? Was it mutual?”

I was already getting tired of his questions, but I answered, “When my mother was in the hospital last year with heart problems, my aunt Claire disagreed with what the doctors were doing for her. She wanted to add some natural remedies. My sister and my mother rebuffed her. They still hadn’t made up.”

Detective Koren handed the plastic bag back to Coyle and drilled me with a look. “They local? I’ll need their addresses
and phone numbers for follow-up.” He flipped open a small notebook.

“Yes,” I said, thinking about how much my mother and sister were going to dislike talking to a cop. “My mother lives in Greenport.” I gave him her address and my sister’s in Southold.

He scribbled down the information. “Do you live around here?”

“No,” Janice said with a sniff. “She lives in L.A.”

Was that a crime? Some locals thought so. They called us citidiots. Pushy city folks clogging up the streets, the grocery store, and the beaches. “That’s right. I was here visiting Aunt Claire.”

“And you’re staying where?”

“I’m staying here, upstairs, and I’m not leaving until this is settled. Aunt Claire just had a clean bill of health from her doctor yesterday. Something is very wrong here. Like I told you, I think she was murdered.”

He gave me a look I didn’t like. “Why don’t you let us worry about that?” he said as he flipped the pad closed and put it in his jacket pocket. “And staying put is a real good plan. Why don’t you tell your mother and sister to stay put, too? Sounds like we all need to talk.”

The coroner arrived a few
minutes later and removed Aunt Claire’s body.

The day wore on into evening, and the cops worked late into the night processing the scene as I cried myself to sleep upstairs, which worked better than the valerian I took for my occasional insomnia. Valerian root, like chamomile, lemon balm, and lady slipper is an herb known as a nervine, which soothes and calms the nervous system. But tonight my tears did the trick.

Saturday morning, I awoke to the rhythmic pat-pat-pat of rain on the bedroom window and the crackle of thunder in the distance. When I got up to close the window, droplets peppered the windowsill. Ginger and Ginkgo both stirred, stretched, hit the floor, and then followed me as I crossed the hall to make sure the windows were closed in Aunt Claire’s room.

When I opened the door, her presence was so strong it felt like a punch to the chest. Even though I knew her spirit was gone, the room was all so
her,
everything from the art on the walls depicting Australia and London, two of her favorite places, to her beloved, worn cotton comforter, the books on the shelves, even the lavender smell of a large pillar candle. It had been her favorite scent.

I lit the lavender candle, which was also good for relieving stress, sat on the bed, and reached for the book on her nightstand,
The Power of Now,
a classic by Eckhart Tolle. Hers was well-worn and dog-eared; she’d obviously referred to it constantly. Perhaps even more so of late, since she clearly was troubled by something. Lying back on the bed, the grief like lead in my chest, I stared at the flickering candle and sifted through what could possibly have been troubling Aunt Claire.