Emma Brennan always knew that her idyllic California hometown of Carmel-by-the-Sea would be the perfect place to open her very own spa. The success of her Aroma Wellness Spa, gift shop, and café has proved her right. But while the business is located in the Courtyard of Peace, Emma finds herself privy to events that are far from serene—like murder . . .
With its soothing décor and tempting treatments, customers are flocking to Aroma Wellness for more than just facials and massages. Lately, Emma has been booking private events, from spa parties to bridal showers and birthdays. Next on her calendar is something really unique: A “Happily Divorced” party.
After eight years of marriage, Addison Lacey is divorcing her husband, whom she claims convinced her he was Mr. Nice Guy when he was really Mr. Controlling Guy. To kick off her journey toward becoming a better version of herself, Addison wants to celebrate, bigtime. Her wealthy mother, Gianna, a former model turned difficult diva, is footing the bill. . . . But when Emma goes to Gianna’s home to pick up the final payment, she and Addison find her dead in her bed amid the aroma of lavender, with an herbal-infused pillow from the party nearby.
Soon, Addison is a prime suspect. But Emma knows there are plenty of others Gianna rubbed the wrong way, including her soon-to-be ex-son-in-law. Once again, with the help of her cousin, her nana, and her trusted Birman cat, Vivi, Emma is determined to sniff out a killer—whether the police like it or not . . .
Publisher:
Kensington Books
Print pages:
304
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I was adjusting the spa menu to reflect the Halloween-themed treatments we would offer during the month of October, like the pumpkin spice facial and apple cider wraps—the latter being great for detoxification—when the silent alarm flashed in big red letters on my computer screen and cell phone. Alert! Gift Shop! Alert! Gift Shop! My insides snagged. Although Aroma Wellness Spa, gift shop, and café were located in the aptly named Courtyard of Peace, one of the many charming courtyards in Carmel-by-the-Sea, whatever was going on did not sound in the least serene.
“Sierra!” I rasped.
My cousin, who was in charge of the café, was on her break and pouring a glass of cucumber water from the pitcher by the spa’s reception desk. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know. There might be a break-in at the shop.”
“Doubtful. I saw Yoly enter earlier and switch off the alarm.”
A few months ago, two incidents had occurred that had scared the spit out of me. Within a week, I’d installed security systems at Aroma Wellness, as well as where I lived. Until now, nothing untoward had happened at either location. “Yoly must have triggered the—”
“Mine!” a woman screamed in the courtyard.
“Mine!” a second woman bellowed.
Through the plate-glass window we’d decorated for Halloween with silk spiders and spiderwebs, I caught sight of two women having a tug-of-war with a small pillow. It wasn’t a robbery, but it wasn’t good. One of the women had pink streaks in her waist-length blond braid. The other and larger of the two had flaming reddish-brown hair.
“Sierra, I think Yoly activated the self-monitored alarm.” One that wouldn’t alert the security company, only someone at the spa. “Help me!” I raced outside, patting down my tawny hair, which was slightly frizzy from the cooler autumn air. At the same time, I made sure the front of my Breathe Easy T-shirt was smooth. Even though I donned comfortable clothing when working, and yoga pants or leggings and colorful tees were the norm, I wanted to present a strong persona to the combatants.
“Mine!” the woman with the braid repeated.
Usually the sound of the burbling fountain soothed my soul, but the scene playing out was making the hackles on my neck rise.
“Mine, mine, mine!” the woman repeated like a ravenous seagull. She was in her early thirties, I guessed, and had lethal-looking teeth, which were visible as she snarled at her rival.
The younger woman, closer to my age—twenty-five—glowered. A dragon couldn’t look as fierce. “Let me have it!”
The smallish lavender-infused pillow they were tugging was one of a collection I’d purchased from a talented Etsy designer. Lavender was a delicious scent that could help a person experience a more tranquil and rejuvenating night’s sleep. If only the two opponents would drift into slumber.
“Over my dead body!” The younger one grabbed the older woman’s braid and yanked.
“Ow!”
I cleared my throat and approached. “Ahem. Hello, I’m Emma Brennan, the owner of Aroma Wellness. Please …” I dared to press a hand on each of their shoulders. It was a calming technique I’d learned when studying meditation in Tibet. “Breathe.” I inhaled deeply and let it out slowly as an example.
Neither obeyed.
“Breathe,” I repeated more firmly. “Let’s be civil.”
From a safe distance, Sierra clapped her hands. “C’mon, you two, show some decorum.” She didn’t draw nearer. She was having too much fun watching me attempt to be an enforcer.
A small crowd was gathering in the courtyard. Customers in robes were peeking through the window from inside the spa. A few from the café were catching a glimpse, as well. Dang. I didn’t want to lose clientele because of a contentious spat. I had to get this under control.
Yoly Acebo, a delightful Latina woman and coordinator of the gift shop, emerged in the store’s doorway, hands on hips. Her brown hair was knotted in a messy bun and her pretty face pinched with exasperation. The women must have started fighting inside the shop and taken their argument outdoors.
I signaled to Yoly I had this. “Ladies, be advised this is a spa, which means it’s a noise-free zone. You’re supposed to be relaxing and—”
“I preordered this one,” Braid Woman whined, shaking off my hand. “I know because it’s sage green.”
“Well, mine isn’t here yet.” The younger shimmied to be free of me. “And I’ll settle for green. I arrived at the gift shop first.”
“But the saleswoman wasn’t supposed to show you mine.”
“Well, she did.”
“And you stole it!” Braid Woman bared her teeth again.
“I paid cash.”
“And ran out!”
Their ardent refusal to comply didn’t deter me. I was slightly taller than both of them, and thanks to an encounter with a killer a couple of months ago, I had been studying karate and tai chi ever since. I was no expert. A bantamweight wrestler could take me down. But I had some skills, which wouldn’t be hampered by my yoga pants. I glared at my cousin to chide her for keeping her distance. Granted, she was pint-size and probably worrying about how effective she might be in a tussle, but I knew firsthand she was fierce. If only she was holding a carving knife.
“Why don’t we go inside for a mindful meditation session?” I refocused on the squabblers, mentally urging them to agree. “My treat.”
“She stole my pillow,” Braid Woman carped.
“Are you deaf?” the other said. “I paid cash.”
“Liar.”
“Gimme.”
“No, you gimme.”
The way they were hissing at each other reminded me of crows I’d observed fighting over a snake that had been flattened by a car. Man, how their beaks and talons had worked overtime.
“Breathe, please,” I tried again. “We have more pillows coming tomorrow for a party. I’ll make sure two green ones are among them.” The item they were tangling over was mangled.
“A party?” The younger woman stopped pulling, which sent her adversary sailing backward.
Sierra caught Braid Woman before she pitched headlong into a set of wrought-iron chairs. Phew. The spa was up-to-date on its insurance payments, but I didn’t know if our plan would cover this kind of fracas.
“We love parties.” The younger woman tucked the pillow beneath her arm and brushed a strand of hair coyly behind one ear.
We? Did they know each other? Carmel was such a small community. Were they friends or frenemies? Did it matter?
“May we attend?” she asked, her voice suddenly as sweet as honey.
“Yeah.” I laughed. “I didn’t think you’d want to attend a happily divorced party.”
A happily divorced party was exactly what it sounded like. Addison Lacey, née McKay, a regular spa client who was a couple of years older than me, had been married for eight years, but she didn’t love her husband any longer, if she ever had. He’d tricked her, she alleged, by convincing her he was Mr. Nice when he turned out to be a duplicitous, controlling young man. She was through, through, through with him. In less than two weeks the divorce would be truly final. California laws could be challenging in that regard. In order to begin the journey of becoming a better version of herself, she wanted to celebrate big-time.
“Only friends and family are invited,” I added. “Listen, why don’t you come with me to the gift shop and we’ll sort out your issue?” I held out a hand for the pillow, but the younger woman seemed reluctant to release her hold on it. “Pretty please? I’ll offer you a ten percent discount on whichever color you choose. Good?”
She smiled and handed it over.
Yoly beckoned them. Sierra and I followed as they traipsed across the travertine tile.
Sierra said under her breath, “I’m coming, too. In case.”
I threw her the side-eye. “Yeah, you were so helpful back there.”
She tittered.
When I reached Yoly, I said, “How are you doing?”
She whispered, “I couldn’t … they wouldn’t …”
I patted her arm. “It’s fine. Crisis averted. Thanks for triggering the alarm.”
“It worked? I didn’t hear a thing.”
“That’s what silent alert means,” Sierra jibed.
The company I’d hired had suggested the soundless version so, should there be a false warning, it wouldn’t scare neighbors or family. An added benefit was intruders rarely knew the police were on their way. I’d protested, saying the noisy kind might be a better way to scare off a burglar, but the sales rep maintained if an intruder intended to steal, they would not run away because of the noise. The rep also suggested installing a panic button under the counter by the cash register.
I stepped inside the shop after Sierra and drew in the heavenly scent of burning cinnamon candles. Yoly had done a bit of decorating for the season, adding natural items like pumpkins, gourds, and autumn leaves, all in muted colors to maintain a relaxing vibe. It looked perfect. “Yoly,” I said softly, “I bet you wish you were a masseuse instead of the shop manager right about now. Am I right?”
She was working as manager until she obtained a massage therapist’s license. “About my future …” She scrunched up her mouth. “I’m having second thoughts. Can we talk about my plans sometime this week? Not now. We have to handle this situation pronto.”
“Sure,” I said, though sadness cut through me. I had been looking forward to having her work as a masseuse, but if the path wasn’t right, it wasn’t meant to be. I was skilled at going with the flow. Okay, almost skilled. The breakup with my last boyfriend still saddened me.
Heading for the counter, I caught sight of the plaque I’d hung above the register to the right of a starburst mirror. I liked posting inspirational messages in all three of the spa’s locations. At home, too. This one read: A creative project is a moving target. You never end up where you start. ∼ Evangeline Lilly. She was the actress who’d come to fame as one of the leads on the hit TV show Lost. As with all the quotes I put up, this one filled me with joy because it evoked a memory of bringing Aroma Wellness to fruition. How desperately I’d wanted to create a spa similar to the one my aunt owned in Sedona—a place where people could relax and find their centers through massage and sound baths. Aunt Sophie was the person who had taught me how to make and employ essential oils. She was a master at crystal divination and held fast to the belief that a crystal reading could offer spiritual insight and clarity as well as energy alignment and healing. I’d grown up in Carmel-by-the-Sea and knew since the moment I turned thirteen the town would be the perfect place for my own spa. With its charming environment, the salty scent of the Pacific Ocean, the lush vegetation and towering cypress trees, ingenuity and calm reigned supreme.
Designing the gift shop had taken some work. I’d wanted it to be soothing yet packed with items that would please customers. The walls were painted a soft mossy green. On the shelves stood dozens of books about how to find bliss. We sold wind chimes and small gongs and Chinese stress-reducing Baoding balls. We also carried geodes and crystals, obelisks and jewelry. Thanks to savvy marketing advice, we’d clustered many of the geodes and larger items like Zen gardens on the glass sales counter to prompt impulse buys. Currently, the gardens, which Yoly had decorated with tiny skulls and bats nestled among the sand, were a fan favorite.
“Ladies”—I addressed the pillow fighters—“we have color choices other than green.”
The pillow designer lived fifteen miles north in Monterey. She’d assured me a quick order wouldn’t be difficult, seeing as shipping delays would be a nonissue. I’d found her because Addison, the soon-to-be happily-divorced divorcée, had introduced me to her. She was also an Etsy entrepreneur. She designed gorgeous, handmade greeting cards. I’d purchased a few.
“Now I want pink,” Braid Woman decided.
Of course she did. To go with the pink swath of hair weaved into her lengthy plait.
“And I want blue,” the younger one said. “To go with my eyes.”
Sierra said, “I believe your eyes are green.”
“They turn blue when I wear blue. They’re like chameleons.”
“Whatever you desire. Yoly will handle your order,” I said. “Thanks for understanding.”
Sierra and I exited the shop and almost ran smack-dab into Addison. With her pixie-style black hair, sweet face, and round eyes—she’d coated them with an extra-heavy dose of mascara—she reminded me of Betty Boop, the iconic cartoon character from the 1930s. Her formfitting, polka-dotted dress further cemented the notion. It wasn’t a costume. Addison loved to wear quirky fashions.
“Emma, Sierra, hi! I’m ready to finalize plans,” she announced. “The fun and all of our treatments start tomorrow. Eek!” Her excitement was contagious. “Here’s the guest list.” She waggled a tablet of Halloween paper with a list of names. “I’ll text it to you, Emma.” She referred to her notepad as we crossed the patio and entered the spa.
My cell phone pinged in my yoga pants pocket.
Addison turned in a circle. “Ooh, I love this spa. It’s my happy place.”
“Glad to hear it,” I said.
I’d put a lot of thought into the spa’s design. The check-in desk was brass-and-hardwood and polished to a shine. The beverage cart to the right of the desk held glasses and a pitcher for water, plus an urn for coffee and another for hot water. A tea caddy filled with herbal teas stood at the ready, alongside accoutrements. A pair of giant ferns in soft green ceramic pots flanked the entry. A magazine rack held health and wellness issues that customers could browse before their appointments. Two sea-blue-and-sea-green armchairs invited customers to sit and relax. How relieved I was the pillow fighters hadn’t burst into reception and destroyed the tranquility.
“Come with me.” I beckoned Addison and my cousin, and turned down the hall.
I pivoted into my office, which was sparse. Sunlight filtered through a window that opened to the alleyway between our courtyard and the neighboring building. A feng shui ceramic water fountain sat on the corner of the white desk and emitted a soothing burble. My spiritually centered aunt told me moving water roused one’s life force. I wondered what she’d say about the two-foot-tall haunted house I had placed beside it.
Addison swept into the room, her voice breathy. “The guests include Mother, Daddy, and bridesmaids who told me the marriage would never work out.”
“Guess they were right,” Sierra quipped.
“Don’t tell them so. They will gloat.” Addison hiccupped a laugh. “Also on the list are my aunt Peyton, who isn’t really my aunt—she’s my mother’s best friend—and my aunt Idha.” She glanced up. “Did I ever tell you Idha’s name means intelligence and perception in Hindi?”
“No,” I replied. We were friendly but hadn’t spent a lot of one-on-one time together.
“Wait until you meet her. She’s smart and clever and gorgeous with her lustrous black hair and hazelnut skin. Did I tell you she worked for the CIA, and after she retired, she became an independent editor for spy novels and thrillers?”
I did recall that tidbit.
“She writes, too. Short stories.”
“Talented,” I said.
“She sure is.” Using the fingers of both hands, Addison mimed her head exploding at the concept. “I mean, I graduated college, but I don’t have half her brain. She’s a good match for my uncle. He’s super bright. A bit quirky, but I love him. Now for the menu …”
My cell phone pinged with more texts from Addison.
“I hope you can make everything, Sierra.” Addison peered at my cousin.
“I’m sure I can.” Sierra had been working as a sous-chef in a vegan restaurant when I convinced our grandmother, Lissa Reade, the head librarian at Harrison Library, to fund the Aroma Wellness venture and bring on Sierra as partner and chef at the café. Not only did Sierra make deliciously healthy smoothies and treats, but she could compete head-to-head with Michelin star chefs, thanks to her education at a renowned culinary institution in St. Helena, California. Her duck confit was to die for. Her dry cure of salt and herbs and spices was the reason, she boasted.
“We set up appointments for almost everyone tomorrow. Daddy included.” Addison was the apple of her father’s eye. “FYI, Mother will want to make sure you don’t muss her hair when you give her a facial on Thursday.”
“I’ll do my best.” I’d hired extra masseuses and technicians from spas north and south on the days I needed to accommodate all of Addison’s requests.
“At the party a week from Saturday, I’d like a champagne toast.”
Aroma Wellness didn’t have a liquor license, but for a private party on the patio, we would be allowed to serve it, seeing as Addison was providing the wine and we wouldn’t be charging any fees. California had very restrictive regulations, but last month we’d double-checked the rules in order to throw another private event, and we’d been in compliance.
Addison’s mobile chimed. She glanced at the readout. “Ugh. Wyatt. Again.” Her tone was bitter and dismissive. “He phoned me earlier and asked why I was going through with the divorce. He begged me to reconsider. As if. I told you he has ASPD, didn’t I?”
“Yes.” Afterward, I’d searched the internet for the diagnosis. People with antisocial personality disorder often sought treatment. Per Addison, Wyatt had not.
“He’s not a sociopath,” she said in his defense. She’d said the same the first time she’d mentioned his condition. “But he’s a liar and insincere, and he had an affair. I mean, c’mon. I’m so done. I actually told him to suck eggs.” The way she grinned made her look like a maniacal Betty Boop.
Sierra gasped. “Addison, don’t lash out. What if he takes it the wrong way? Someone with his ailment might, you know …”
“Nah, don’t worry,” Addison said. “I’ve told him to suck eggs on other occasions. He’s never been abusive. He’s threatened to harm himself, but he won’t. It’s just his passive-aggressive way to manipulate me. I’ve been to counseling—a lot of it—and I’m stronger now. Thank you, therapy!” She resumed studying her notepad and muttered, “Where was I? Oh, right!” She reached into her oversize red tote and pulled out a package of handmade cards tied with ribbon. “I made these for my besties.” She held them out.
I took the cards, removed the ribbon, and shuffled through them. “They’re gorgeous.”
The quilling technique she’d employed required using strips of paper that she rolled, looped, or curled to make different shapes and glued together to create decorative designs.
“Look inside one,” she said.
Using a stylized font, she’d written, Divorce is final and sometimes brutal, but you are my guiding light. I am forever grateful. ∼ Addison.
“What a lovely sentiment,” I murmured.
“They all say the same thing because, well, I didn’t want my friends to compare and contrast. Smart, right? They’ve been there for me from the outset.” She pressed a hand to her heart. “I couldn’t have made the decision to leave Wyatt if not for them.”
“Addison!” a woman called.
“Oof. It’s my mother,” she whispered to us.
“Is anything wrong with her being here?” Sierra asked.
“No, of course not, but she can be, um, daunting. Her energy is, like, through the roof.”
“Darling.” Gianna McKay, a repeat customer at the spa, made quite an entrance. She always did. She was a statuesque woman with chocolate-brown eyes and cheekbones that could cut ice. Her shoulder-length, golden-red hair framed her face perfectly. Prior to marrying her husband, she’d been a fashion model. When her bookings grew slimmer, she turned to selling real estate. When she realized she was bored with all the success, she gave up and decided to play golf, tennis, and canasta. During the first facial I’d ever given her, she’d confided she ought to donate her time to a worthy cause, except she couldn’t make up her mind about which one … hence, not donating to any yet. I’d suggested Family2Family, a group that assisted impoverished families. The notion hadn’t sparked interest.
Over her shoulder, she yelled, “O’Malley, they’re in here.”
“Shh, Mother,” Addison warned. “There are guests getting treatments.”
There was little resemblance between the two women other than the length of their hair.
“Sorry.” Gianna bussed her daughter on the cheek, leaving a trace of red lipstick.
Addison dutifully wiped it off with her knuckle.
O’Malley McKay tramped through the door and grabbed his daughter in a bear hug. Addison said she took after her father’s side of the family, and she was right. Like his daughter, O’Malley had an easy grin, and his pointy right ear gave him an impish appeal. “Hello, Cupcake. Emma. Sierra.” Not a hair of his steel-blond flattop style was out of place. If he hadn’t become a golf course designer, with his golden voice and gift for gab, I could see him making it in politics or podcasting. “All the details handled?”
“Everything but the payment,” I said to them as a group.
“Ahem. On you, dear,” O’Malley said to his wife.
He and Gianna had agreed to cover the cost of the happily-divorced party. From what I gathered, neither of them had liked Wyatt, but Addison had been headstrong and determined to marry the guy. Were they now saying I told you so in private, or were they taking the high road?
“Twenty percent up front,” Gianna said to me.
“Correct.”
Sierra said, “Plus the cost of the items needed to make all the appetizers for the soiree.” She rattled off a number.
“Yes, of course.” Gianna rummaged in her Prada purse. “Drat. I don’t have my checkbook.”
“Are you kidding?” O’Malley squawked. “After I explicitly reminded you—”
“Don’t carp at me. I put it in my purse.” She glared at her daughter. “Did you borrow it before you left the house?”
Addison gawked. “Me? Why would I borrow your checkbook?”
“I know you’ve forged my signature a time or two.”
“Solely when you’ve told me to do so.”
“By the way, are you the one who’s been eating all the ice cream in the freezer?” Gianna asked. “Straight out of the carton? I’ve given you the run of our home, and what do I get in return?”
“Gianna!” O’Malley barked. “Cut it out.”
“If you’re not careful”—Gianna aimed a finger at her daughter—“I’ll boot you to the curb.”
“Don’t guilt me, Mother,” Addison snapp. . .
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