Glossed and Found Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Foreword

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Praise for

  Scent to Her Grave,

  the first Bath and Body Mystery

  “An appealing, credible heroine.”—Publishers Weekly

  “Clever, often humorous, and definitely complex . . . The start of what smells to be a winning series.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  “Lots of good and relaxing beauty tips thrown in.”

  —I Love a Mystery

  “A great start to what will surely be a successful new mystery series.”—The Romance Reader’s Connection

  Bath and Body Mysteries by India Ink

  SCENT TO HER GRAVE BLUSH WITH DEATH GLOSSED AND FOUND

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India Penguin Group (NZ), Cnr. Airborne and Rosedale Roads, Albany, Auckland 1310, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.

  GLOSSED AND FOUND

  A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / January 2007

  Copyright © 2007 by Yasmine Galenorn.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-04356-1

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME

  Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  The name BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the BERKLEY PRIME CRIME design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  To my fellow Witchy Chicks: Lisa, Linda, Candy, Terey, and Maddy. Long may we blog.

  Acknowledgments

  Always, thank you to Samwise, my beloved, and my gurlz, who purr me to sleep, meow me awake, and generally make life livable.

  Thank-yous go out to my agent, Meredith Bernstein; my editor, Christine Zika; and so many of my dear friends. To all the makeup mavens and cosmetics junkies like me, who revel in the passionate search for just the right shade of lipstick. And for this series, a nod and thank-you to Aphrodite and Venus, goddesses of both inner and outer beauty. As always, to Mielikki, Tapio, Rauni, and Ukko.

  To my readers: As always, thank you for buying my books, and I hope you enjoy this one. Even though I write this series under a nom de plume, India Ink is just an alter ego of mine. You can reach me via my Web site, www.galenorn.com, or via snail mail. Join our Reader Forum boards on our site to discuss the books, if you like. And if you write to me snail mail, please send a stamped, self-addressed envelope for reply. Signed bookplates and bookmarks are available. See site for further information.

  The Painted Panther

  Yasmine Galenorn aka India Ink

  Foreword

  The recipes in this book are my own concoctions. I’ve spent many years blending magical oils, and here I give you perhaps not magical recipes but ones to heighten your senses, to bring new experiences into your lives.

  Essential oils can be expensive, so yes, you may use synthetics if you can’t afford the pure ones, but bear in mind that the fragrance may end up differing slightly. However, this should not be a significant problem. Also, some oils may irritate the skin, so if I make a note to the effect of: “Do not get on your skin,” I mean it. Cinnamon can irritate the skin. Black pepper and other oils can burn delicate tissue.

  The oil and other bath recipes are obviously not for consumption, but I am stating it here to clear up any potential miscommunications: Don’t eat them or drink them. They’re meant to be used as fragrances, for dreaming pillows, sachets, potpourris, and the like.

  She’s the kind of girl who climbed the ladder of success . . . wrong by wrong.

  Mae West, 1893-1980

  Chapter One

  Life was good, I thought as I brought my legs up to form a perfect V. My hands were behind me, pressed against the rubber exercise ball as I balanced on my butt, breathing slowly. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. I focused on one of my favorite photographs that I’d framed and hung on the wall: a picture of a group of Shaolin monks from their U.S. tour during 2003. When tickets went on sale in Seattle, I’d been first in line and had soaked up every moment of the performance.

  Someday I promised myself that I’d travel to China, to the foot of Songshan Mountain, where I’d visit the ancient Shaolin Temple. Of course, there were hundreds of tourists there, but I didn’t care. Ancient ruins begat ancient energy, and the whispers of the monks would still be engraved on the walls, in the statues, on the passing breeze.

  I sucked in another deep breath, gently bringing my focus back to the photograph. I’d built up to holding this pose for almost five minutes, and today I planned on taking it a step further. I cautiously lifted one hand from the ball, and then—inch by inch—raised the other hand, holding my arms straight out so that my butt was the focal point, the only part of me touching the ball as I balanced without support.

  As I exhaled, willing myself to remain still, a loud pop startled me, and the next thing I knew, I hit the floor squarely on my tailbone, a thin yoga mat the only thing separating my ass from the hardwood. The thud shook the room. Blinking, I sat there wondering what the hell had hap
pened. Then footsteps sounded from the stairway, and I heard Auntie calling me.

  “Persia, Persia? Are you okay?”

  “I’m in here,” I said, finding my voice. “I’m in my workout room.”

  I stared at the floor a moment, debating on whether I should stand up. Was I hurt? Maybe; I didn’t think so, but it was hard to tell from where I was sitting. No sharp aches or pains, no feeling that something was broken. Just a general sense that all was not right with the world.

  I was used to thumps and jolts from my martial arts classes and the self-defense classes I taught, along with numerous other activities—such as fighting off the occasional bad guy (or woman, as the case may be). But this . . . this was something else.

  I’d never had an exercise ball break on me before. I usually replaced them once a year, not trusting them to withstand all the punishment I put them through for any longer than that. But I’d only had this ball . . . When did I buy it? Five . . . six months ago? It shouldn’t have burst, and even if it had sustained a small puncture, the damned thing should have deflated slowly.

  “God almighty, girl! What happened?” Auntie bustled into the room.

  I accepted her hand, gingerly pushing myself off the floor to tower over her. My Aunt Florence might be the most intimidating woman on Port Samanish Island, but she was still a good seven inches shorter than me, though she had me beat in the weight department.

  “I have no idea. One moment I was on my ball, and the next thing I knew, I was viewing life from a distinctly different perspective.” As I examined the exercise ball I noticed it had ripped, not on the seams but across the ribs. “I think it was defective. Look at the way it tore open.”

  “Never mind that. Are you okay?” Auntie asked, leaning down to pick up the bright blue rubber that ripped even further as she touched it.

  “I’m in a little bit of shock, actually,” I said, unable to focus. I closed my eyes. My back felt stiff—I’d landed hard. My butt was sore, and my neck was beginning to ache. “I think I’m okay, but to tell you the truth, I don’t really know. I’m a little shaky.” I winced as I slowly bent over to touch my toes.

  “You’d better make an appointment with Cynthia,” Auntie said. “Can you make it downstairs to breakfast? We need to be at Venus Envy early today.” She gave me a pat on the back and a nasty twinge in my glutes made me think that maybe I’d managed to injure myself after all.

  An hour on the massage table would do me good. “I’ll call her, then take a hot shower. I’ll be down to breakfast after that.” As I cautiously crossed the hall to my study, a glance at the clock told me it was ten minutes after eight. I picked up the phone and dialed our masseuse.

  Cynthia answered on the second ring. “Radiant Massage Therapy, Cynthia speaking. May I help you?”

  I smiled. Radiant was a good word to describe her. Cynthia glowed, and she had a way of making every client feel special. “Persia Vanderbilt here. I just had a nasty little tumble off my exercise ball, and I think I should come in. Can you squeeze me in tonight at five?” I flipped open my Day-Timer and glanced through my appointments. The morning was taken up with clients looking for custom fragrances for the coming holiday season. I was cleaning up by making one-of-a-kind Christmas presents.

  During the afternoon, I planned on drafting out my column for Pout Magazine. After I’d given them an interview about the ins and outs of being an up-and-coming young entrepreneur, the editor asked me if I’d be interested in writing a monthly beauty hints column, and I’d agreed. I could always use an extra five hundred a month, and the column would bring more attention both to Venus Envy and to my custom-blended oils.

  Things had snowballed after that, with the column leading to a half-hour special segment on Northwest Island Living, a cable-access television show local to Gull Harbor and Port Samanish Island, where I answered callers’ questions about beauty, fragrance, and fitness. The show’s producers were trying to talk me into a regular spot hosting an early morning exercise and beauty show, which I was seriously considering. All I had to lose was a little extra sleep. And perhaps my dignity, if the show went the route my workout had gone this morning.

  Cynthia confirmed me for a five o’clock appointment, and I penciled it in, then headed for the shower. I slid out of my leotard and turned on the water as hot as I could stand it, then took a shaky step into the glass-enclosed shower. What I really wanted was to fill the freestanding claw-foot tub up to the brim and just soak, but Auntie and I needed to be at the shop early, so bubbles were a luxury that would have to wait until later.

  As the spray beat down on my back, I was aware of a growing ache in my tailbone. Damn, this was the last thing I needed. While the self-defense class that I taught was over until the end of January, I was signed up for a workshop on intensive bodywork for women that was supposed to start in two weeks—three days of grueling, push-it-to-the-max exercise and body detox work. The last thing I needed was a backache, neck ache, or any other type of ache threatening to bench me. I leaned over, back to the shower head, as the streaming water tapped out a staccato drumbeat on my coccyx.

  After my shower, I slipped into a gray tweed walking skirt and a royal blue V-neck sweater that shimmered with sparkling white beads. The sleeves ended two inches below my elbow and my bluebell faerie tattoo wound around my left arm like an old friend tagging along for the ride. I changed my belly button ring for one with a delicate polished garnet in it—my birthstone. In a month and a half, I’d turn thirty-two years old. A pair of mile-high Chanel round-toed pumps completed the ensemble. Sweeping my waist-length hair into a thick chignon, I fastened it in place with a pair of black lacquered chopsticks and then headed down to breakfast, wincing a little as my lower back complained about the two flights of stairs.

  Auntie had made a huge omelet with bacon bits, bell peppers, onions, cheddar, and diced zucchini. As I set the table, she fed apples, carrots, and pears through the juicer. I’d picked up the contraption a few weeks earlier, and we were on a juicing craze. I’d tried just about every combination of fruits and vegetables that I could think of—a few of which immediately ended up down the drain. Never again would I attempt to juice a kohlrabi.

  As I settled down at the table, the muscles around my tailbone spasmed again, and I winced. “Damn, I think I threw something out. I’ll call Will and schedule an appointment before I head over to see Cynthia.” Will Cohalis was our chiropractor.

  Auntie handed me a small plastic cup full of vitamins and supplements and the plate of toast. I buttered two slices of toast, swallowed the pills in three gulps with my juice, and dug into the omelet. “Yum, this is really good. I’m hungrier than I thought.”

  “With the workload we’ve got coming up today, I figured we’d want something more substantial than cereal. We’re heading into the busiest season of the year, and there’s a nasty bug going around. I don’t want anybody out sick during the holidays.”

  Auntie had gone on a modified health kick herself, hence the handful of supplements and antioxidants we were now taking with our morning meals. She told me that she might be as wide as she was tall, but she wasn’t about to let herself go. Her blood pressure was good, her cholesterol was spot-on, and she spent three nights a week at an aqua-aerobics class for older women down at the Gull Harbor Aquatic Center, known as the GAC for short.

  When I was four years old, Auntie had taken me in after my mother died and my father abandoned me, and now—twenty-seven years later—I owed her for everything I had and everything I’d become. She’d been my inspiration and my comfort, and now that she’d bestowed upon me half interest in Venus Envy, her bath and beauty shop and day spa, she was also my business partner. Last year, I’d returned home to the eccentric, artsy, high-tech town of Gull Harbor after a tiring stint in Seattle during which I’d gotten involved with an embezzler. Now, it was as if I’d never left Port Samanish Island.

  “What are you doing tonight, Imp?” she asked, clearing away our plates.

  Im
p was her nickname for me—short for impetuous—and it fit. I patted my lips with my napkin and pulled out my lipstick and compact. “I’m meeting Lisa at six thirty at the GAC for a half hour for another swimming lesson. Then Barb and I’ll connect at the Delacorte Plaza. Neither one of us has anything worth wearing to the Gala, and we’ve decided to play it up glam.” Done with breakfast, I carefully lined my lips with a burgundy liner and then stained them with Merlot Vision, the newest lipstick from Urban Gurlz.

  Auntie slipped the dishes into the dishwasher. “How’s Lisa doing on her lessons? She seems like such a strong girl, to be so afraid of the water.”

  We’d recently hired both a hair stylist and a makeup artist for Venus Envy, expanding our day spa offerings by double. Seth Jones was a master with the scissors, and Lisa Tremont was a whiz with makeup and manicures. Lisa and I’d become friends in short order. Although she was closer to our cashier Tawny’s age, Lisa was more mature. She’d been through the wringer, and it showed in both her attitude and her eyes. And yet she was terrified of the water and asked me if I’d help her overcome her fear. We’d been working together for the past month at the pool, one step at a time, trying to acclimate her with the more pleasant aspects of swimming.

  “Childhood trauma. She almost drowned when she was five. She was swept out toward the ocean during a riptide, and her father didn’t notice at first. He finally saw her struggling in the surf and managed to swim out and save her before she went under, but by then, she’d freaked. She’s never been back in the water since. At least, never in anything bigger than a bathtub.” I eased out of my chair and slid into the new black leather jacket Killian—my boyfriend—had given me. It was tailored and fit me like a glove. So did he, for that matter.