Essence of Foul Play

Book 1: Aroma Wellness Mystery

by Daryl Wood Gerber

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Animal Cozy Mysteries

Synopsis

Emma Brennan may have her head in a cloud of eucalyptus, but her feet are firmly planted on the ground in breathtaking Carmel, California, as she prepares to open her new spa business, Aroma Wellness. But all the reiki, shiatsu, and massage in the world can’t help her relax when she’s accused of murder . . .

Everything is going smoothly as Emma prepares for the grand opening of the spa. The therapy rooms are painted. The sales shop and café are stocked with meditative and delicious goodies, from essential oils to avocado masks and prickly pear massages. The fountain in the Courtyard of Peace is burbling with good vibrations. In fact, there isn’t a whiff of trouble until that morning when Emma is shocked to learn that a rival spa owner has been bludgeoned . . . with an item from the goodwill basket Emma gave her. Worse, a witness is pointing the finger at Emma . . .
 
With the police treating Emma like she’s the only suspect, and the town’s anti New Age anything posse badmouthing her every step of the way, she’s left with no choice but to conduct her own investigation. Incensed by the accusations but empowered by her cousin, her nana, and her trusted Birman cat, Vivi, Emma reviews the potpourri of possible suspects, determined to uncover the essence of foul play—before she’s cold-pressed for murder . . .
 
Praise for Daryl Wood Gerber’s Fairy Garden Mysteries
 
“A charming cozy with gardening tips, recipes, and a raft of suspects for those who don’t believe in fairies.”—Kirkus Reviews
 
“Enchanting series launch from Agatha Award winner Gerber. . . . Cozy fans will wish upon a star for more.” —Publishers Weekly

“A winner . . . Fans of Laura Childs’ work will enjoy.” —Booklist
 

Release date: March 25, 2025

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 320

Sample

“Emma, your new place is wonderful!” Nana Lissa exclaimed. I’d just finished giving her a tour of the interior of Aroma Wellness Spa as well as the café and the gift shop. Slowly, she spun in a circle and drank in the exterior courtyard, with its stone wishing well, burbling fountain, and gardenias. “You’ve done a remarkable job.”

“Thank you, Nana,” I murmured. “I couldn’t have completed it without you.” To her patrons at the Harrison Library, my grandmother was Lissa or Ms. Reade, the head librarian with a staff devoted to helping people find the right books. To me, she’d always been Nana Lissa or Nana, the woman who believed in spirits and fairies and taught me to dream big. I sure hoped, this time, I wasn’t dreaming too big.

“I love the slogans you posted around the spa,” she went on.

I grinned. I happened to be a positive-sayings freak. I’d written many on notecards as well as at the spa and at home. That way I could draw inspiration from them when I needed to keep myself on track. Nana was referring to the few I’d printed and framed.

“I love Immerse in Wellness and Indulge in You,” she said, “but my favorite is Experience Wellness and Wonder.” She placed a hand on her chest. “I’m breathing easier already.”

I’d done a deep dive on the internet to find exactly the right catchphrases.

“I’ve told everyone in Carmel about the grand opening tomorrow,” she said. Carmel-by-the-Sea, a gorgeous town on the coast of California, was the perfect location for a spa. It was an intensely spiritual place that radiated good vibes. “And I’ve reposted all your memes on Instagram.”

For weeks, I’d been creating digital art to boost our presence.

“You could do well with a TikTok campaign,” she said. “If you haven’t put one together, I can help.” My grandmother could navigate social media like a pro. She said her patrons at the library were educating her. “Having the opening on a Wednesday is perfect. Everyone looks forward to a midweek break.”

That’s what I’d thought, too. In the morning, we would serve goodies to entice people to drop in. The therapists would explain their techniques and styles, and I would talk up the meditation sessions. In the afternoon, the first round of treatments would begin.

“Now, give your old grandmother a hug for good luck.” Nana extended her arms.

“Old, ha!”

Nana didn’t look like a stereotypical grandmother. She was spry and lean and was stylishly dressed. Her short-cropped silver hair was always neat, unlike my tawny shoulder-length hair, which I swept into a clip or ponytail because it was baby fine, and it snarled if the weather was cool, like now in June, when the marine layer blanketed the coastline until midafternoon.

“The travertine tile turned out nicely,” she said, “and the wrought-iron tables on the patio are chic but casual. Very in keeping with your go-with-the-flow vibe. Did I tell you that I love the plate-glass windows? A direct view into the reception area is very inviting.”

I smiled. Her enthusiasm was infusing me with confidence.

“Are all the bugaboos taken care of?” she asked. “We don’t want any snafus.”

“All handled.” Of course there were a number of little nits that needed addressing. Any new business ran into roadblocks. Like massage oils that hadn’t arrived or singing bowls that had been delayed in customs but were due to arrive today. No matter the hiccup, I couldn’t let a few of them get me down. I was an upbeat person who saw possibility in a challenge.

Okay, sure, occasionally I floundered.

“Thank you again,” I said, my voice thick with emotion. My grandmother was the sole reason I was able to open my business. Not many in town knew it, but my grandfather, may he rest in peace, had amassed quite a fortune over the years, having been a consultant for some bigwig companies. Nana could retire anytime with the sizable portfolio he’d left her, but she intended to work at the library until she dropped. Rather than blow her money on cruises and the like, she’d invested in me and my adorable cousin, Sierra Reade, who was one year older than me. Nana had supported my post-college trip to Tibet to study meditative arts and had covered my classes to obtain my aesthetician and massage therapist licenses. She’d also paid for Sierra to attend the Culinary Institute of America. Throughout our journeys away from Carmel, she’d sent each of us articles from the Carmel Pine Cone, the local paper, telling us what our friends were up to, to keep us current and engaged.

I said, “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your support.”

“You’re my best investment.”

In addition to providing funding, she had found this courtyard, prophetically dubbed the Courtyard of Peace—Carmel had a number of unique and beautiful courtyards and secret passageways—and she’d negotiated the lease for all the shop spaces that bordered it. Plus, she’d arranged for the state licenses I’d needed for the spa, café, and gift shop. I’d worked out the business plan. I’d also come up with the blue-and-sea-green color palette and the logo, and I’d hired the photographer for our brochures and designed the spa treatments menu.

“How did those coupons for girls your age work out?” Nana asked.

Girls my age. I chuckled. I was twenty-four and way past girlhood. “Great. It was a brilliant suggestion on your part.” The spa was offering discounts for anybody under thirty, because many might not have the financial wherewithal to pay for treatments that wealthier people in Carmel did, yet I wanted them to feel beautiful and heard. “I’ve handed out a dozen or so. Word of mouth will help.”

“Emma Brennan!” a woman yelled shrilly. “What in the heck do you think you’re doing?” Willow Shafer stomped up the steps. In her espadrilles, she was taller than me by four inches, and I was no slouch at five foot six. She pointed at the new signage. “How dare you open a spa!”

Honestly? She knew I was doing so. I’d told her. Multiple times. As recently as a week ago, when we’d met for a glass of wine, I’d outlined the details. I’d also explained how mine was different from hers and how we wouldn’t be competing, given our facilities were located on opposite sides of Ocean Avenue.

“Careful on the steps,” I cautioned.

Carmel had some crazy citywide rules, like you couldn’t wear high heels without a permit, an odd law authored way back in October 1963 by the city attorney to defend the town from lawsuits resulting from the irregular pavement distorted by tree roots—a law Willow apparently didn’t abide by or, conceivably, she thought espadrilles didn’t qualify as heels. Maybe she’d applied for a permit.

“Don’t worry. I’m fine,” she said. “They’re not cobblestone.”

They had been. When we’d negotiated the lease, the steps had matched the sidewalk, but knowing bumpy pavers could be perilous for customers, we’d switched them out for smooth tile.

“Willow,” I said gently.

“Don’t try to manage me, Emma.”

When I met Willow in my freshman year of college at a gathering to support women’s rights, the first thing I’d noticed about her were her brown eyes. They tilted downward even when she smiled. I’d also noted her nose was too big for her face, although I’d never told her that, not even after she stole my boyfriend in junior year. Willow did have a gorgeously long neck that she highlighted by pulling her ebony hair into a knot and wearing big gold hoops to draw attention to it.

“What made you possibly think that this . . . this . . .” She tapped her foot trying to come up with a word. Willow hadn’t been the best of students. “That this atrocity could be a success?”

Nana Lissa cut in, “Aroma Wellness is far from an atrocity, young lady. The calming ocean tones of the massage and various therapy rooms walls are perfect. The sound bath room, which will also serve as the meditation room, has been soundproofed.”

“To the max,” I added. For the uninitiated, a sound bath was a meditative experience where attendees were awash in sound waves. It was super relaxing.

“And the white bistro tables and seating in the café look perfect against the sea-green background,” Nana added.

“Willow,” I said, “you know my grandmother, Lissa Reade.”

“I go to the library,” Willow snapped. “Of course I know her. And don’t squint like that, Emma. You’ll get wrinkles.”

For someone who claimed she meditated often, Willow sure could be abrupt. A tart comment was never far from her lips. I blinked to release the tension creeping into my temples and forehead.

“Mystic Waters is the destination spa in Carmel,” Willow continued, her know-it-all tone grating on my sensibilities.

According to her, her spa, which she’d opened two years ago, had the best treatments in town. In my opinion, what she offered was limited. Massages, scalp treatments, and seaweed wraps alone did not soothe the soul. Sometimes a customer needed alternative cures, like sound baths and aromatherapy. For years, my aunt, who owned a high-end spa in Sedona, had drummed into me that a spa owner had to study her clientele to know which treatment was best for them. We weren’t psychotherapists, she said, and the mind didn’t necessarily need to be picked apart. However, the body needed to chill. Often.

“Willow, I love your outfit,” I said to defuse her ire. I wasn’t lying. She deserved this compliment. She’d donned a chic, multicolored sheath that hugged her lean form. “Geometric patterns suit you.”

“Oh, can it, Emma. You’d love anything I put on because you have no flair.”

Ouch. That stung, but I pushed the slight aside. Willow couldn’t help herself. In college, she’d considered herself the foremost expert on good taste and had nagged me repeatedly about style and fashion. I didn’t wear trendy clothes. My bangs weren’t the right length. Nevertheless, to this day, she considered me one of her best friends. Why, was beyond me. After graduation, I’d tried my darnedest to put distance between us, but she’d followed me to Carmel. She’d tell you otherwise because, when she made the move, I was off in Tibet doing an intensive meditation course. But I was from Carmel and had always planned to settle here. She had not.

“I’m warning you, shut this place down or else,” Willow ordered.

“Willow,” Nana Lissa began.

I put a hand on her arm. My grandmother didn’t have a temper, but she was a wordsmith extraordinaire. I didn’t want her to say something she might regret.

“Did you tell Tish Waterman to shut down, Willow?” I asked sweetly. “I heard she wasn’t happy that you opened a spa when hers was the premier, go-to place in Carmel.” Tish’s spa, located a few blocks east of the Courtyard of Peace, not far from Mystic Waters, offered some wonderful treatments, but there was no café, dining patio, or retail shop, and Tish would never offer the New Age–type treatments that Aroma Wellness would. To get in her good graces and, thanks to the counsel of the wise woman who owned a nearby fairy garden shop, I’d met with Tish to show her my business plan. After accepting how different our models were, Tish had been quite supportive, saying she certainly couldn’t provide services for everyone in town.

Willow shook a finger at me. “I hope your opening day is a bust.”

“I appreciate your good wishes,” I said cheerily. In Tibet, I’d learned to counter an attack with a benign response. It wasn’t exactly the tried-and-true, “I’m rubber and you’re glue” retort, but it worked. As Maya Angelou would say, “It takes courage to be kind.” The Dalai Lama went a step further. “Be kind whenever possible. It is always possible.”

“And lose these!” Willow pulled an under-thirty coupon from her pocket and hurled it at me. “Discounts belittle the product.”

“Willow,” Nana said, “a meditation might—”

“Forget meditation!” She scuttled down the steps at such a pace I worried she’d trip, but she didn’t.

At the bottom, she ran into an older, hunchbacked man in a rumpled brown suit and fedora. He had a downtrodden demeanor. If he were standing tall, he would have dwarfed her. Scraggly hair poked from beneath his hat. I heard him apologize and heard Willow utter, “You!” but she didn’t pause. She hurried away.

The man gazed at me. I didn’t recognize him, although he looked sort of familiar. It was his eyes, I decided. He reminded me of my math teacher in high school who also had sad-as-a-hound-dog’s eyes.

He climbed the steps and said, “Got a sec for an interview for the Carmel Pine Cone, Miss Brennan?” He raised a pocket-size leather notepad holder in one hand and pulled a pen from the attached loop.

Aha. He was a reporter. “Sorry, no,” I said. “I’m on a strict timetable.”

“It’s about women entrepreneurs. I want to get the inside scoop on the rivalry between you and Miss Shafer.”

“There is no rivalry,” Nana Lissa stated.

“She’s right.” Not on my end, anyway.

“Miss Shafer would beg to differ,” he said. Had he already questioned Willow? Was that why she’d been dismissive of him? Had he followed her here in order to take pictures of us arguing? Were images going to go viral?

Even though the adage was All publicity is good publicity, I didn’t want bad vibes hovering around my personal space. “How about next week after we open, Mr. . . .”

“Marblemaw. Floyd Marblemaw.” His veiny face pinched with pain. Or was it guilt? Maybe he’d given me a phony name.

“Next week sometime,” I said.

He tipped his pen to the brim of his fedora. “Good day, Emma Brennan, and you”—he gestured to my grandmother—“whoever you are.”

As he shuffled away. I turned to Nana Lissa and attempted a smile.

“Phew! That man!” She brushed my shoulders with her fingertips, as she had my entire life, to rid me of any negativity. “And Willow? What a force. She could do with a sprinkling of fairy dust, don’t you think?”

I frowned at her. “You know I haven’t seen a fairy—”

“Don’t say you don’t believe.” She held up a finger. “Do. Not.”

“Oh, I believe in them. I simply haven’t seen one. I would like to.” I’d heard about the fairy inhabitants of Carmel. With its gorgeous rolling hills, lush valleys, and ocean coastline, it was the perfect locale for magical beings to thrive. I was surprised I’d never encountered one, especially since I tuned into all sorts of supercharged energy for my profession.

“Be patient. You’ll meet one.” She chucked my chin. “By the way, Thursday evening, I’ll be having the monthly meeting for my book club. You should attend. Do some networking.”

I clicked my tongue. “Will it be a laid-back-but-everything-is-perfect meeting, in keeping with your new coastal granny persona?”

“Get out of here!” She guffawed. “I’m far from perfect.”

The view from Nana Lissa’s house was of the Pacific Ocean, and I often teased her that after Papa died, she’d become a coastal grandmother, a term first used by a TikTok influencer, one suggesting a comfortable, chic lifestyle as exemplified by women in Nancy Meyers’s movies. Light-filled rooms, fresh flowers, tons of books, and neutral hues were Nana’s go-to decor.

“FYI, I’ve comped each of the attendees a session at the spa in the coming weeks,” my grandmother continued. “If they love their treatments, word will travel fast.”

“Thank you!” Her book club was populated by some of the wealthiest women in town. “What’s the book you’re discussing?”

“The Big Sleep, a mystery I know you’ve read.”

“It’s not simply a mystery. It’s the first in a series of eight by Raymond Chandler’s Philip Marlowe series.”

She smiled. “I knew there was a reason I liked you.”

I laughed. Thanks to her, I loved to read. I’d bet she kept a running list of every book I’d ever devoured.

“How is Sierra working out?” Nana asked. “I haven’t seen her in weeks.”

“Great!”

For the past two years, Sierra had been languishing as a sous-chef at a local vegan restaurant, but now, thanks to our grandmother, she was my business partner, and I couldn’t wait to show off her gastronomic skills at the spa’s café. We were best buds and as close as sisters.

“Is she still wearing that nose ring?” Nana Lissa asked.

“Don’t be judgy.” I winked at her.

“I’m not. I was asking.”

“Yes, she is. It’s not permanent. It’s a fake clip-on.” I wiggled my nose in jest. “Hey, have you checked out her Instagram page?” I trilled, “Awesome!”

“Good to know. Is she, um, calm?”

“Calmer than calm,” I said, hoping that was true. Sierra could be frenetic. Working in kitchens ramped up her energy twentyfold because she had to react quickly to dodge staff, hot plates, boiling oil, and more.

I turned to peek in on her through the café windows, but paused when I caught a glimpse of someone standing on the street peering up the stairs at us. It was Palmer Pilsner, a forty-something socialite who regularly held bake sales to help fund Carmel’s educational facilities. She played tennis when she wasn’t donating her time. She was also an artist. I’d seen her hawking her seascape watercolors at a plein-air festival, but as far as I knew, she had yet to sell one.

“Hello, Palmer!” I yelled. “Come on up and take a peek.”

“No, that’s all right.” She shoved a postcard into her tennis bag. “Have you seen Willow Shafer? The shopkeeper next to her spa said she was coming your way.”

“You just missed her,” Nana Lissa said. “You must have taken different routes.”

Palmer wore her red hair in a blunt style that Raggedy Ann would approve of. Her white-on-blue tennis outfit showed off her toned frame. If I had her legs, I’d consider running marathons. And her arms? They were the kind star athletes dreamed of having. “Why was she here, Emma? Was she miffed about you opening . . . this?” She gesticulated to the signage as Willow had done.

“This beautiful, enticing, good-for-the-soul spa?” I replied.

Palmer didn’t respond to my comeback. To be fair, it wasn’t a comeback. It was a passive-aggressive taunt. I’d had enough of people giving me guff about opening another spa. Mine was going to be different, and between the residents and tourists, we had plenty of people in Carmel to keep all of the spas humming.

“Coupon,” my grandmother said to me under her breath.

“Would you like a coupon for a discounted treatment, Palmer?” I asked. During opening week, for everyone of all ages, I’d designed ten-percent–off coupons. I dug into the side pocket of my leggings and pulled one out. “The prickly pear massage is to die for. The antioxidants and the vitamin K that the prickly pear oil contains rejuvenate the skin while neutralizing free radicals that cause—”

“No, thanks. I don’t . . .” She chewed the tip of her tongue. “No.”

What a shame. She could use a treatment that would relax those tight shoulders. “Why did you need to see Willow?” I asked. It wasn’t like they were friends.

“I wanted to chat.”

“What about?” my grandmother asked. She wasn’t nosy by nature, but she did like to draw people out.

“It’ll wait.”

“Coming to the library soon, Palmer?” Nana Lissa asked.

“We’ll see.”

Palmer pivoted and bumped smack into Yoly Acebo, the delightful Latina woman who was going to run the gift shop. Both women wheezed from the collision. Palmer apologized. So did Yoly. Then Palmer skedaddled. Was she in a hurry to get to a tennis match or was she worried she might get cooties by being in the vicinity of the spa?

I tamped down a giggle.

“Sorry I’m late.” Yoly trotted up the stairs while knotting her long brown hair into a messy bun. She used to work at Open Your Imagination, the aforementioned fairy garden shop, tending the sales counter and occasionally serving the shop’s Saturday tea events, but now, having given up on botany as a career—she’d toyed with the idea for a nanosecond—she was working toward getting her massage therapist’s license and really wanted to be a hands-on person. To entice her to join my team, I’d offered her the gift shop position. When she did become a therapist, I would facilitate a lateral move, and she could bring the new gift shop person up to speed. It would be a win-win for both of us. “Hola, Lissa, nice to see you!” Yoly was a patron of the library.

“Hello, sweet girl.” Nana gave Yoly a kiss on her cheek. “Did you finish Maybe Someday?”

Yoly pressed a hand to her chest. “I couldn’t put it down.” Her easy smile was infectious, and her caramel-brown eyes sparkled with warmth. She said to me, “Emma, you would love it. It’s about this woman whose boyfriend cheats on her, but there’s this handsome neighbor who plays guitar. When the two of them get together . . .” She flicked her hands to suggest fireworks.

“Don’t give the story away,” Lissa chided. “I want my granddaughter to read it.”

I studied my grandmother’s face. Did she hope that if I read the book I might try to reignite things with my previous boyfriend? She had liked him a lot, and, sure, he was swoon-worthy, but he’d walked out on me. I would not beg. And honestly, I didn’t miss him. Not a whit.

“Emma,” Yoly said, “you should join the Bookworms. We’re young females who read books that help us with the journey we are taking to become our most authentic selves.”

“I’ll think about it.” Not. I had a business to run and no time for psychotherapy or book clubs other than the occasional drop-in to Nana’s. Whenever I read a book, it was for relaxation and enjoyment.

A delivery truck with no driver’s door pulled up to the curb with a screech. The brawny driver set the brake, left the engine running, and hopped out. He pulled a dolly from the rear of the truck. “Aroma Wellness?” he bellowed.

“Up here!” I replied. Our herb-adorned sign was easy to spot, but he was studying a clipboard.

His gaze went from the steps to the courtyard and back to his dolly, and he frowned. With a grunt, he hoisted a square box, which was easily two feet by two feet, and trotted up the steps. “Three more boxes to go,” he announced.

He set the box down and returned for the next one. On his second trip, he caught his toe on a stair, and the box went flying.

The sound of shattering glass—crack, crunch—sent a chill through me.

It’s not an omen, I told myself. It’s not. You are not doomed to fail.

My mother’s words of caution clanged in my head. Starting a business like yours is a risk. Implied was that I’d be unsuccessful. I only have your best interests at heart, she’d added. Her constant focus on me, her only child, developed after my father left to live the life of a world-renowned do-gooder. You’ll be better off doing what I do, teaching literature, she said when I showed her my business plan. Literature is brain food. Though I couldn’t disagree—my mother and I did love to read—I could never teach English. No way. My resolve strengthened when she’d added, This spa thing . . . it’s a pipe dream.

“Don’t go there, Emma,” my grandmother said, cutting into my thoughts. “Do not allow you-know-who’s negativity to seep in.” For years she’d referred to my mother, her eldest child, as you-know-who. She loved my mother, but they could butt heads. “No. . .