Marigolds and Murder (Port Danby Cozy Mystery Book 1) Read online

  Marigolds and Murder

  Port Danby Cozy Mystery #1

  London Lovett

  Marigolds and Murder

  Copyright © 2017 by London Lovett

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Carnations and Chaos

  Elsie’s Sugar and Spice Pumpkin Bread

  Recipe Card

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  I stepped back to admire my handiwork. I wasn’t exactly Van Gogh, but I had to admit, the tiny flowers I’d painted on the rustic bench were charming. I’d found the old bench at a yard sale and had decided that it would look great under the bay window, still leaving enough room for me to roll out my flower carts and set up my portable ‘specials and deals’ chalkboard.

  Aside from falling in love with the eclectic charm of Port Danby, I’d fallen instantly in love with the small building I’d leased for my shop, Pink’s Flowers. Like every shop on Harbor Lane, it was entirely unique with its Cape Cod shingles and deep bay window. While not exactly traditional for the Cape Cod style, I’d had the wood siding painted a blush pink because … well … it was Pink’s Flowers. The thick window trim and the French door for the entry were painted bright white for a perfectly pleasing contrast. The unusual pink color had drawn a few judgmental glances from neighboring shop owners, but once everything was finished, people seemed to approve.

  I dipped my paintbrush into the bottle of lavender paint, and as I pulled it out, my phone rang, startling me and triggering a small string of calamities. Pale purple paint dripped down my shin. I stepped sharply to the side to avoid more and kicked the paint bottle. It fell over and splashed across my sandal and foot. I flirted with the idea of not answering my phone, but I knew it was my mom. If I didn’t answer, her head would fill with endless terrifying scenarios that might be keeping her daughter from answering the phone.

  Standing with my knee lifted and my purple foot high off the ground, I managed to keep my balance as I picked my phone up off the window ledge. “Hey, Mom, can I call you back? I’ve got a purple foot.”

  “What? Why? Did you bruise it? Are you having circulation problems? Maybe your shoes are too tight.” My mom was highly skilled at dashing off numerous opinions and unnecessary advice without needing to stop for a breath.

  “It’s purple paint, Mom. My shoes and circulatory system are fine.”

  “Well, why didn’t you tell me? You gave me a fright.” I didn’t need to see through the phone to know she was placing her hand against her chest for added drama.

  “I would have told you if you hadn’t jumped right into your list of possible sources and solutions for a purple foot.” I decided to give delaying the call another shot. “Let me call you back.”

  “I’m just calling to see how things are going with the little flower store.” She couldn’t have said the words with more disappointment if she’d punctuated each one with a sniffle. But I couldn’t fault her for that. My poor mom, the eternal optimist and the woman who took huge pleasure in bragging to her book club about her daughter’s successes, had suffered the trifecta of motherly letdowns. In the past few years, I’d quit medical school and walked out on a six figure job in the perfume industry. But the last disappointment was the one that really had the poor woman reeling.

  I braced my free hand against the window ledge to keep my balance. “The little flower store is fine. I open in two weeks. My right leg is getting tired. Can I call you back?”

  “You need better shoes.” I opened my mouth to remind her of the painted foot but decided it would be a waste of breath. “Lacey, have you heard from Jacob?”

  I made sure to huff in annoyance loud enough that she could hear me. “Why would I hear from him? We aren’t together anymore, and mentioning him in every phone call is not going to magically bring him back into my life.”

  Jacob was the third horse in the trifecta. He was like the Kentucky Derby of disappointing blows for my mom. He was rich and handsome and from a good family. Unfortunately, that good family forgot to teach him that if you were engaged to one woman, it wasn’t good to date another woman. Jacob’s family owned Georgio’s Perfume, a multimillion dollar fragrance company, and for one year I had been employed as their head perfumer. I had been born with hyperosmia, or in more crude terms, a heightened sense of smell. Sometimes I considered it a gift, and sometimes it was a curse. In the matter of my ex-fiancé, it had been both. Jacob had hired me because I could detect the slightest aroma and even separate that microscopic odor into its basic parts, a skill that made me highly sought after in the perfume industry. But the man had somehow forgotten that skill when he started showing up wearing hints of another woman’s perfume on his shirts. And whoever she was, she wasn’t even wearing Georgio Perfume.

  “I just worry that you were too hasty in your decision to break it off. Jacob was such a nice man.”

  “He was seeing other women behind my back. How does that make him nice? If you like him so much, give him a call. I’m sure as long as you make sure Dad has new batteries in the remote, frozen entrees in the freezer and plenty of bait in his tackle box, he won’t even notice you missing.” I hopped toward the door of the shop to go inside and clean my foot.

  “Lacey Sue Pinkerton,” she said in her best angry mom voice.

  “Uh oh, the middle name is coming out. I’m in trouble.” I opened the door and hopped clumsily inside. Kingston pulled his sharp black beak out from under his wing. He looked angry about having his nap interrupted.

  “You sound funny. Are you exercising, Lacey?”

  “Yes, Mom, I’m in the middle of an aerobics class.”

  “That’s enough, miss smarty pants.” Apparently we’d moved from middle name use to the good ole smarty pants stand by. I was twenty-eight, but a five minute conversation with my mom and I was back in sixth grade.

  “I’m sorry, Mom. I would love to stay on the phone and rehash all the crummy stuff that has befallen me lately, but I need to get back to work.”

  “Lacey, sweetie, I worry you’ll get terribly bored in a small town like Port Dancy.”

  “Port Danby, and I won’t be bored. I’ll be running a business.”

  “Yes, a flower shop. It’s quite a change from your life in the big city working with important people.”

  “It’s a big change, Mom. And it’s the change I wanted. Besides, I’m looking forward to living in
a place where the biggest thing to happen is the neighborhood stray cat knocking over a trash can. There’s something to be said for peace and tranquility.” Her last words had gotten to me a bit. The notion of life moving too slowly in Port Danby had crossed my mind more than once. But I was determined to keep myself and my mind occupied.

  The paint had dried on my foot, caking into a lavender patch on my skin. I lowered the foot to the ground. “I’ll call you later, Mom. Kiss Dad for me.”

  “All right. Call if you need anything.”

  I hung up and glanced around at my shop. I couldn’t help but smile. It was the first time in my working life that I’d gotten to make all the decisions, and I was pleased with the outcome. Cape Cod exterior aside, I went totally batty trying to decide whether to go modern industrial or Soho chic inside. As is often the case, I couldn’t make up my mind, so I went with both and invented my own Soho Industrial Chic. Practicality played a big part too. I left the exposed brick walls in place for the corner that was home to the steel rolling shelves I’d purchased at a factory sell off. They were the perfect place to store vases, glassware and ceramic pots. A long antique potter’s table took up more than half of the back wall. The deep porcelain basin sink left behind by Elsie, the baker, when she moved her kitchen next door was the perfect place for transferring plants and arranging bouquets.

  For a change of pace, I covered the brick wall on the other half of the shop with smooth plaster and bright white paint. An array of wood crates were nailed, bottom side, to the wall to create geometric cubbies for some of the prettier baubles I had for sale. The center of the store held my prize find, a massive island with a black and white checked tile counter and rows of drawers to keep ribbons, tissue and all the small goodies needed in a flower shop. I’d painted the entire island in black chalkboard paint so I could write labels on the drawers.

  Kingston, my pet crow, fluttered his large wings a few times, vibrating the ribbons hanging from spools on the wall. I grabbed a bag of sunflower seeds from the top drawer of the island and tossed a few into the dish on his perch. He busied himself with the treat as I stroked the silky black feathers on his head.

  “Well, Kingston, the shop is almost ready. I think we’re going to like it here. What do you think?”

  Kingston flicked the empty shells out of the dish.

  “Right, I guess you’ll be happy as long as there are plenty of treats.”

  Chapter 2

  Putting to good use the free trial month yoga class I’d attended, I somehow managed to get my foot into the sink and free of its purple tattoo. Getting it back out took a little more effort. I wrangled my leg away from the basin and patted it dry with a rag.

  A gasp shot from my mouth as I spun around and found Elsie standing just a few feet away.

  “My gosh, Elsie, you scared me. You move like a cat wearing slippers.”

  “I’ve told you many times, you need a bell on the door.” Elsie could rival my mom when it came to giving advice and opinions. She pointed her finger, which meant more advice was on its way. “Lola mentioned that her parents sent her a box of old goat bells for the antique shop. That would be perfect.”

  “You’re right. I’ll go across the street later and buy one.”

  Elsie spent her entire day baking and creating the kind of confections that went straight to the thighs, but she was as fit and trim as an Olympian. Even though Elsie was, as she liked to say, ‘pushing sixty’ (although Lola had told me Elsie’d already pushed sixty several pushes ago) every afternoon, she pulled on her shorts and athletic shoes and ran the five mile loop from Harbor Lane down to Pickford Way along the beach, and up Culpepper Road. Elsie and her husband, Hank, a traveling salesman who I had yet to meet because he was always traveling, had lived in Port Danby for thirty years. Elsie’s Sugar and Spice Bakery was a local and tourist favorite. I’d grown so fond of her goodies, I worried that I, too, would have to start running the grueling five mile loop just to stay ahead of my treat consumption.

  Elsie stopped at Kingston’s perch to admire him, and my crow liked to be admired. “Hello, handsome.”

  Kingston responded by bobbing his head up and down in approval like a parrot. “He’s going to have a head the size of a balloon if you keep calling him handsome. When I put him near a mirror, he’ll stand there for hours just flirting with himself.” I took a deep whiff. “How is the pumpkin bread turning out?”

  Elsie swung around quickly, nearly dislodging the hasty bun of gray peppered hair at the nape of her neck. I hadn’t noticed the streak of flour on her cheek until the sun through the window highlighted it. “How did you know I was making pumpkin bread?” She waved away the question and provided her own answer. “That’s right. I forgot about you and that incredible sense of smell.”

  “I’ve been smelling a lot of cloves, nutmeg, cinnamon and yeast so I figured pumpkin bread. And to be perfectly honest, I saw Tom, from the corner market, deliver a crate of canned pumpkin.”

  Elsie put her finger against her lips. “Shh. I like to let people think I’m using fresh. I even leave a few pumpkin halves on the work table. I hope that doesn’t make me seem terrible.”

  “Since your baked goods are like an elixir for happiness, I think we can let this one indiscretion go. Besides, who would fault you for using canned pumpkin? You work so hard.”

  “Thank you, Pink. You’re a gem.” The people who I’d already grown close to, like Elsie and Lola, had taken to calling me by my nickname, Pink.

  “I’ll bring you a sample when I have them perfected.”

  “Looking forward to it.”

  Elsie ran her fingers along the black and white tiles on the island. I’d only known her a few weeks, but it was easy to read that she had something on her mind. But before she could part her lips to speak, the door opened and a salty coastal breeze ushered in behind my neighbor on the other side, Lester. Aside from being Elsie’s twin brother, Lester was a retired fireman, who had, after a year of golfing, watching television reruns and as he liked to say watching his hair turn white, decided to open up a coffee shop. He was always a fun sight to see in his snowy white hair, brightly colored Hawaiian shirt and sandals. As far as neighbors went, Lester was much quieter and less opinionated than Elsie. His wife died of cancer just ten years into their marriage and he, as Lester himself put it, never found true love again. (Yes, those men exist, but they are as rare and hard to find as the perfect fitting bra.)

  Lester popped right up with a question for Elsie. “Well, did you ask her?”

  “I was just about to until you came bursting in as if the devil were chasing you.”

  Lester took immediate offense. “I did no such thing. Should I ask her?”

  “No, I’ll get to it. Stop being pushy.” Elsie shook her head my direction. “He was even pushy in the womb.”

  “What I should have done was push you right out of it,” Lester quipped.

  I leaned against the center island and crossed my ankles waiting for them to stop arguing about who should do the asking. I had no idea what the burning question was, but I’d found, with Lester and Elsie, it was easier to let them finish their round of sibling rivalry first. Eventually, they’d get to the point. It was usually entertaining to watch, and it made me, all at once, thankful and disappointed that I’d never had a sibling. Of course Elsie always came out the victor because Lester usually just got tired and gave up.

  “We were wondering if we could put my three tables out in front of your shop,” Elsie blurted so quickly I hadn’t realized her statement was directed at me until I noticed they were both looking expectantly at me.

  I pushed off the counter. “Oh, you’re talking to me. But why would you need to put the tables in front of my shop? Lester already has three tables, and you have plenty of room in front of the bakery.”

  Lester rolled his eyes at his sister’s clumsy approach to the topic. Lester shuffled forward on his sandals. “Here’s the thing, Lacey. Since the bakery used to be here in the flower
shop—” He cast his blue-gray eyes around. “Nice work in here, by the way.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Anyhow, the customers enjoy getting baked goods and then picking up a coffee inside the Hutch to go with their pastry. As it stands now, if they want to finish their breakfast and if my tables are full, they have to walk past your shop to Elsie’s tables.”

  Elsie put her little fists on her slim hips. “Actually, my tables are almost always full first. You get the spillover customers.” Elsie leaned her head toward me. “My tables have a nicer paint finish.”

  “Your chairs wobble,” Lester noted.

  “There’s nothing wrong with my chairs,” Elsie insisted. “It’s your big head that wobbles. Just look at him. He’s always had an oversized head. He’s like one of those bobble headed Hawaiian dolls only instead of a grass skirt, he’s wearing a flowery shirt. But back to the tables.” She returned her attention to me. “You have plenty of space in front of your shop, and Lester and I will make sure the customers pick up after themselves.”

  “But there won’t be much free space.” I walked to the back corner where my rolling carts were waiting to be filled with potted flowers. “Once I open up for business, I plan to use these carts to lure people into the shop. I’ll be rolling them out onto the sidewalk on nice days. As you can see, they are quite cumbersome. There just won’t be room for any tables. Otherwise, I’d be happy to help.” I was new to Harbor Lane, the main street for shops and businesses, and I knew I needed to tread lightly and keep up good relationships with the other shop owners. But I couldn’t change my business plan just to accommodate my neighbors.