Murder Makes Scents

Book 2: Nantucket Candle Maker Mystery

by Christin Brecher

Genres: Cozy Mystery; Female Sleuths; General Fiction

Synopsis

Stella Wright loves creating candles at her Nantucket store—and she also has a burning passion for justice. Now, after visiting a perfume conference, she must solve a vial crime . . .

Stella and her globe-trotting mom, Millie, have come home from a perfume industry conference in Paris, where their trip was marred by witnessing the stabbing death of a young man. It's a relief for Stella to be back on her picturesque island, with the comforting company of her cat, Tinker. But lingering danger may have followed them back across the ocean.

After someone breaks into her candle store, the Wick & Flame, Stella starts feeling spooked. And just as things threaten to ignite, Millie suffers a blow to the head. Stella receives an anonymous note claiming that her mother smuggled a secret formula out of France—and threatening her life if it isn't returned. Now Stella's picked up the scent of a cold-hearted criminal and an intriguing puzzle, and things are about to get wicked . . .

Release date: February 25, 2020

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 271

Sample

I was in heaven.

I was in Paris.

I was at Cire Trudon, one of the city’s finest candle stores.

Most visitors to Paris look forward to the cheeses and breads, the art, the bridges linking the Left and Right Banks, the sparkle of the Eiffel Tower at night. I was in Paris to enjoy all of those highlights, plus a few more. As proprietor of the Wick & Flame, my candle store on Nantucket Island, I had my own enchantments to enjoy.

This beautiful autumn morning, I had already made a pilgrimage to Diptyque, the internationally renowned French candle company. My senses alit, I’d followed my visit with a stroll through the Tuileries Gardens and over the Pont Royal, where the Bateau Mouche floated below me on the Seine. Once across the river, I’d visited Quintessence Paris, a one-of-a-kind establishment which leads customers from room to room of a grand home to enjoy candles designed for each living space.

I had particularly wanted to visit Quintessence Paris because it is run by a woman from a perfume family. I’m also the daughter of a perfumer. In fact, I was in Paris because of my mother, Millie Wright. The World Perfumery Conference was taking place this week, and they had invited her to speak on a panel entitled “The Art of Scent Extractions.”

When Millie had called me three weeks ago to propose I meet her in Paris, I knew that the invitation was an unspoken apology. This summer, she’d had plans to come home, a rare event, but then she’d cancelled at the last minute. An opportunity had come up to visit scientists in the rainforest to learn about indigenous scents. Something about absorption traps. All very scientific. The trip had ultimately led to her invitation to speak at the conference, and I think she wanted me to see that her detour had been worthwhile.

I’d had one caveat, which was that she had to return with me to Nantucket for a visit as well, but the truth was, she and I both knew I would accept her good-will gesture. A sorry is nice, but Paris is Paris, and this was one case where our sense of adventure aligned. Millie is happiest roaming the world, seeking unique and exotic scents to create perfumes. In contrast, I find my buzz on Nantucket, running my store, the Wick & Flame, and tackling my candle creations. I’d also solved a murder a few months ago, so I argue that you can discover the mysteries of the world right outside your front door.

Now, I was among candles of every size, color, and scent at Cire Trudon. I reverently admired a display of tapers, piled in tidy rows by color against the back wall. Then I marveled over an elegant circle of bell jars which encased sophisticated scents on a round table in the middle of the room. I lifted a jar from a candle called Byron, melting into its peppery scent, and thought how wonderful the aroma would be during a winter’s day on Nantucket. Thirty miles off the coast of Massachusetts, my hometown was a chilly place in February, and a warm scent does wonders for body and soul. My nose sated, I crossed the store with the quiet reverence one saves for museums, to admire their pièce de résistance. On a credenza at the far side of the store was a remarkable group of wax busts featuring characters in French history, tempting customers to light the wicks atop their heads. Marie Antoinette stared at me, daring me to try. As if I would. Her molded hair was too fabulous to mess with.

The sales associate politely indulged me while I took a few snaps of the candle busts on display. As I zoomed in on a stern-faced Napoleon, my phone pinged a photo from my boyfriend, Peter, who was back home. His lopsided grin and the lock of blond hair over his forehead reminded me of his boyish charm, while the look in his eyes made me miss his warm embrace. I smiled at the image of him holding up four fingers, and I sent a thumbs-up selfie back to him. We’d recently hit the four-month mark in our relationship, and we were feeling pretty smug about ourselves. I hated to jinx myself, but life was good. In addition to the magic of new love coursing through my veins, my business had been strong enough over the summer that I’d felt confident to leave for a few days abroad. Even the timing of the trip was perfect, since everyone back home had begun to remind me that my birthday was coming up. Thirty. I might have been imagining it, but the reminder was often followed with a look that made me feel like I had spinach in my teeth.

“May I help you?” the sales associate asked. From her subtle pout, I realized that I’d crossed a line when my attention had shifted from her candles to Peter’s text.

“Non, merci,” I said, practicing my accent. I checked the time. It was later than I’d realized. With one last tour of the establishment and a friendly “au revoir,” I picked up a healthy pace to meet Millie for a snack at a café across the street from the conference center on the Left Bank.

Today was the end of the conference, and after my mom’s presentation we’d be heading back to Nantucket, but Millie and I had likely patronized a year’s worth of cafés over the last few days. We’d had a ball sitting at small, round tables, unlit Gauloises cigarettes dangling from our lips for a cinema-noire effect as we drank our café cremes and people-watched. The parade of high-style, fabulous couples walking hand in hand, and even the dogs enjoying croissant crumbs from the pavement beside the cafés, was captivating.

It took a few minutes longer than I anticipated to reach what had become our favorite haunt, Café Bonne Chance, because I had to wait by the Odeon as a caravan of black cars, with a motorcade on each side, passed by. The much talked about Peace Jubilee was being held the following week in Paris. Already, the city was filling up with important foreign leaders for strategic meetings and with citizens from all walks who had opinions to voice. It was an exciting moment to be in the city. Unlike other peace summits, leaders from small kingdoms, in some cases from remote areas, were invited to share insights into how they promoted peace. Including these new voices at the table had created excitement around the globe. I couldn’t help think what good sports the Parisians were. The closed-off streets, the demonstrations, and the obligations that came with such an undertaking made me appreciate the simplicity of my small-town life.

When I finally arrived, Millie was already seated at an outdoor table with the coat check lady from the World Perfumery Conference, Olive Tidings. The two women both loved the spot for breakfast and had become fast friends over the last few days while enjoying their morning pastries. A stocky British woman, Olive wore skirted tweed suits every day. She was warm enough on even the chilliest occasions with no more than a matching fedora.

“Bonjour, Stella,” my mom said with outstretched arms as I pulled up a chair.

We kissed on each cheek as if we were French. We both knew how silly we’d look with such formality back home, but we could not resist. In honor of the panel, Millie’s fabulous red hair, a Wright trait that contrasts starkly with my dark, wild mane, was pulled into a soft updo. She wore a thick, navy sweater secured with big black buttons, high black boots, and bright red lipstick. She was a striking woman whose story-telling skills were even more enchanting. Her audience was in for a treat.

“Maybe it’s because we’re leaving later this afternoon,” said my mother, “but the croissants are particularly delicious today. I ordered one for you.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” said Olive wholeheartedly, over a bite of her own pastry. She waved at two men in business suits who returned a friendly greeting as they passed us. Through her job at the coat check room, Olive had seemingly met everyone.

“I think this week was a sign you need to travel more, Olive,” said Millie with a speech I knew she liked to make to anyone she thought she might convert to her nomadic lifestyle. “I can see you like people and places too much to be cloistered in that school all the time. And people love you.”

Millie and I found it endlessly fascinating that the conference’s coat checker was actually a literature teacher from an all-girls boarding school in England. After twenty years of teaching, Olive was on sabbatical and had always dreamed of visiting Paris. After three days of rich, French foods, however, she’d realized she wasn’t a lady of leisure. Noticing an ad in Le Monde about the conference, she’d applied for a job and landed one working at the coat check.

“I always say, greet people with a smile, or your day will be rubbish,” Olive said. To prove her point, she smiled across the sea of customers at Café Bonne Chance, and nodded at one woman who caught her eye.

“To smiles,” said Millie.

The ladies clinked their cups. I ordered an espresso and shared my morning’s excursions as they peppered me with questions and enjoyed my photos. Finally, Olive looked at her watch.

“I’ll say my good-byes to you,” she said, rising from her chair. “And head off to make some others. I had a lovely time meeting you this week.”

“I never say good-bye,” said Millie. True, but after six months without coming home, I knew there were some folks back on Nantucket who felt they’d seen the last of her. “And remember what I said about travel. Mi casa es su casa.”

“Thank you,” said Olive. “But be careful what you say. I have a lot of time on my hands.”

We hugged and said our good-byes, and Olive Tidings took off ahead of us in thick-soled shoes.

“We should head over too,” said Millie, after finishing her croissant.

Picking up her black bag, which contained perfume samples she planned to highlight during her presentation, Millie linked arms with me, and we headed to the last day of the World Perfumery Conference.

Three blocks later, the sliding doors of the conference hotel opened automatically. We entered the lobby, which was filled with people with rolling bags and name tags, all of them carrying folders of some sort or another. Posters lined the walls with advertisements for new perfumes. Some of the brands were familiar, mass-market products, and others were for the kinds of companies that catered to the industry—mixers, distributors, packagers. The heart of the conference was taking place down a long, wide corridor covered in a deep red carpet, off of which were meeting rooms, large and small.

I pulled out my phone and flipped it to video. I’d been making short, documentary-style clips of the trip all weekend, and this was the highlight I couldn’t miss.

“How does it feel to be a scent-extractions expert?” I said to my mom. “Look at the camera.”

“Hi.” She waved.

I was about to ask her another question, but the lobby was crowded and noisy with people bumping into each other as they headed to their panels or meetings without so much as a “pardon.” I decided I’d try again later at a better location.

My mom and I entered the conference’s main area where people registered or met for impromptu meetings in one of several lounge areas. We headed to a map displayed against one wall which outlined the day’s events, so that we could confirm how to get to her panel. While I located where the meeting was to take place, and where we could find a rest stop along the way, Millie opened her bag on a bench beside me and looked through her inventory one last time. She took out her vials, examined them carefully, and opened one or two. She was a perfectionist when it came to her work, and her black bag was like an on-the-go lab. Similar in size and shape to a doctor’s bag, she’d had her prized accessory custom designed around the time I was born by a leather maker at the San Lorenzo market in Florence, Italy. That bag had been around so long, I sometimes wondered if it held some deeper meaning for her. Between my name, my wild mane of hair, and my Mediterranean complexion, I sometimes fancied as a child that I could be Italian. Millie, however, had always been quiet about my father’s identity.

When I’d figured out the lay of the land, I turned on my phone’s camera again.

“Let me get a video of you in front of the map,” I said.

Millie gathered her belongings and struck a pose like Vanna White on Wheel of Fortune.

“Welcome to the World Perfumery Conference,” she said to the camera, her arms gracefully directed to the map. “Here you will see—”

Her speech was interrupted by a collective cry from the far end of the conference’s reception area. A woman screamed, a man yelled something in French, another person cried out in Japanese.

As panic grew like a wave among the crowd, my mind went immediately to the worst. Shootings. Terrorism. I heard others around me express the same fear, which made my blood run cold. My beautiful morning, and our excitement about the afternoon’s panel, had suddenly been hijacked by chaos.

“What’s going on?” my mom said.

“I’m not sure,” I said. I considered that we should run for cover, as many around us were, but my instinct to fight usually wins over that of flight.

Suddenly, I saw a group of people forming by the Grand Ballroom. They were yelling and calling for help. Their circular formation suggested that a single person lay within their midst. In moments, the fear that had spread across the crowded lobby shifted to the sort of curiosity that accompanies drivers on a highway who want a glimpse of an accident. We were grateful it wasn’t us, hopeful help would come quickly, and slightly morbid in our desire to see the scene unfold. My mom and I took a few steps forward.

“Probably a heart attack,” she said.

“I hope the French paramedics are fast,” I said.

“Meurtre,” someone cried from the middle of the crowd.

My French is rudimentary at best, but there are words which, when said a certain way, and given the right context, can be universally understood. This was one of them.

“Did he say murder?” I said, but I did not need to wait for an answer.

The crowd in front of the Grand Ballroom parted. I saw a hand reach out, followed by a head. I watched as a man, about my age, crawled forward in my direction. Instinctively, I reached out my arms. He looked up for a moment and caught my eye, but he did not say a word.

In the moment our eyes met, I saw that he was neither handsome nor ugly, neither flashy nor shabby. He was average on every level. The sort of person who could fade into a crowd and even into a small gathering, except for one thing.

There was a knife sticking out of his back.

Seeing a man collapse with a knife in his back had been so surreal, I would not have believed it had happened except for the frenzy that ensued. In an instant, the World Perfumery Conference ended. The gendarme rushed into the conference center and began to cordon off the room. I heard the sound of sirens and looked through the large paned windows of the hotel, where I saw the flashing lights of firetrucks, police cars, and ambulances. A man in a blue uniform began to bark loudly at all the bystanders. Immediately, we were herded like cattle into one of the hotel’s empty ballrooms. Many of the unlucky witnesses to the crime rushed into the room offered to us, presumably to escape the scene.

I moved more slowly, as I was fascinated by the proceedings. I watched as officers, wearing a variety of uniforms, converged around the man’s body and scattered across the hotel. Some spoke into walkie-talkies. Others traversed the building to relay information and give instructions. Although the scene looked chaotic, there was efficiency in the way the police, fire department, and emergency medical care teams worked.

At the door to the ballroom, I put my arm around my mother, who had been tugging me to move more quickly. I turned back and took one more look at the crime scene. My last image was of a man in a blue uniform, who passed us with a body bag.

I’d seen a murdered man before, last spring, but I’d never seen a man die.

The victim had made eye contact with me before his last breath. There had been a personal connection. I had seen the small knife, no bigger than a letter opener, moments after it had been thrust into his back. I felt sickened and angry that someone could do something so horrible to another human being.

“Dirty business,” I heard a man to the left of me say, “but only a matter of time before something like this happened. There’s a black market for new scents.”

“It was a lovers’ quarrel,” someone to the right of me said.

“I saw him the other night. He worked in the kitchen,” said someone behind me. “Must have been a disgruntled employee.”

Dozens of other theories began to circulate among the crowd in languages familiar and unfamiliar to me. I watched as some onlookers cried, others took pictures, and still more spoke on their phones, looking annoyed, distressed, or sometimes excited. I recognized a couple of familiar faces from the week, but no one who we’d particularly befriended. I didn’t think anyone looked guilty of murder, although experience had taught me that someone willing to commit murder could hide in plain sight.

While we were in lockdown, police officers circulated our group, checked bags, and asked every one of us for our identification. I was amazed, from the snippets I could hear, by how different everyone’s perception of the scene had been. I listened as the victim was described as both young and old, and even, by one person, as a woman. An older lady not far from me claimed the murdered man was speaking Italian, which I was certain was untrue. A man with a mustache said he heard the victim mumbling incoherently to himself when he first. . .