Carnations and Chaos Page 10

  I searched every inch of the room, taking in long deep inhales to pick up all the molecules of scent. Nothing stood out as out of place or wrong. I continued out to the main room and walked over to the seating area where the room's telephone was sitting. I knew they'd already dusted it for prints, but still, I grabbed a tissue from the box on the end table and picked up the phone just to give it a whiff. Nothing but disinfectant. As I put the phone down, I dropped the tissue. I reached down to pick it up from the rug, and as I did, an odor rose up from the plush carpet. Whatever was on the carpet was strong enough to taint the tissue. I dropped down to my knees, took a deep breath and winced at the unpleasant odor.

  I glanced up to find Briggs staring down at me over the back of the couch. "Did you find something?"

  "I found something, but I don't know if it has anything to do with the case. It is just a strange odor." I leaned down again for another breath and had to swallow back the bitter taste in my throat. "Wow, I'm trying to think of a way to describe it. It's as if someone took a dead fish and dipped it in old paint."

  Briggs pulled out his notepad. "May I quote you on that?"

  I laughed. "As long as you're the only person reading those notes." I pushed to my feet. "Other than the weird smell that I can't possibly figure the source for, I found nothing. How about you?"

  "Nope. Seems like I'm just hitting walls today. Let's head back to Port Danby."

  Chapter 22

  We'd returned to Port Danby in the late afternoon without much more to go on except that the hotel had a lax system in place for security, what with master keys just hanging about for anyone to grab. And then there was the strange odor on the carpet in Marian Fitch's room. But that was it.

  I was so thrilled to be back in good form with Detective Briggs, I almost didn't care that the trip to the hotel revealed nothing critical. Although, I did feel for Briggs. He was deep in thought the entire way back to Port Danby. He was in a race against time with this case. Most of the people from the fair would be leaving soon. And everyone was going in a different direction.

  On my way back from the police station, I stopped by the Corner Market to buy a precooked hardboiled egg for Kingston. He'd had a rough day. I knew after the scene at the fair, he would be feeling melancholy. And there was nothing worse than a depressed crow.

  I headed straight back to the shop with my hard-boiled egg. I had created a chalkboard display for my Thanksgiving centerpieces and decided to place it out on the sidewalk for people to see. I needed to start taking orders or risk not having them finished by the holiday.

  Lester was standing in the table area in front of his shop contemplating something as I walked past.

  "Hey, Lester, what's got those gears spinning?"

  "Hey, Lacey, just trying to figure out something to spruce these tables up for the holidays."

  "I've got Thanksgiving centerpieces for sale," I said with a laugh.

  Lester's eyes rounded beneath his mop of white hair. "What a great idea!"

  "No, I was just kidding, Lester."

  His slightly hunched over shoulders drooped under his Hawaiian shirt. "So you don't have any centerpieces for sale?"

  "I do but they are for Thanksgiving tables. They are far too big and elaborate for your small coffee tables. There wouldn't be any room for people to place their beverages. And they are far too expensive for a mere sprucing up for the holidays. How about a vase with a single orange rose or one of those pop-up paper turkeys?"

  "Paper doesn't hold up on foggy days."

  "Hadn't thought of that. Well, think about the rose idea. It's simple and cost effective."

  "Possibly too simple," he mumbled as I opened the door to my shop.

  I glanced over to Elsie's side to see what she had done to spur on Lester's new quest for table sprucing. She had placed hand-knitted red, orange and yellow placemats around each table. I knew Elsie did some knitting on the side between rising at three in the morning to bake, selling treats and running her five miles a night, but I had no idea how talented she was. The knitted placemats were beautiful and colorful . . . and highly impractical. I couldn't imagine they would last long in the coastal air and beneath messy bakery customers. I glanced back toward the Coffee Hutch. Poor Lester was still standing outside. He was nibbling on the edge of his finger, a habit I'd caught him doing more than once.

  I walked into the shop. Kingston swooped down from his perch and danced along the edge of my work island. I had a sensitive nose, but Kingston's sense of smell was preternatural. He had smelled the egg before I'd taken two steps into the shop. And it was inside a plastic container and a paper bag.

  I patted his head, but he was in no mood for a caress. His shiny black eyes and beak were focused on the bag in my hand.

  "To your perch. I don't want egg smeared all over my work space."

  The crow shot back to the perch. He reminded me of an old man with a sharp, crooked nose pacing with his hands behind his back as he trotted back and forth on the wood. I crumbled the egg into his dish and went to the sink to wash my hands.

  I was still thinking about Lester and his quest for pretty table adornments. Maybe I could make a smaller, pared down version of my centerpieces for his tables. Of course, then I would probably earn a cold shoulder from Elsie or, even worse, she would stop bringing me luscious samples to taste. Ugh, those two and their table competition.

  I decided it was time to put my sample Thanksgiving centerpieces on display in the window. I carried each one out from the cooler I'd had installed in the back closet. I placed each one on an upside down milk crate in the window. I walked outside to look at them.

  I had to say I was rather proud of them all. My customers would have one of three displays to choose from, starting with the Berry and Orchid Splendor, a rustic wooden box overflowing with bronze colored mums, ivory orchids, sage green oregonia and dried red berries. My Harvest Basket centerpiece was a less organized, slightly wild collection of tangled huckleberry stems, burgundy striped Nigella pods and cream colored peonies. For a touch of glitz, I'd added in gold painted walnuts and a bright yellow tartan ribbon. The last choice was perfect for the more fastidious host or hostess. I called it Simple Elegance. I'd surrounded a tall glass candle holder with yellow sunflowers, apricot roses, bright green leather leaf fern and sparkling white baby's breath.

  "See, that's what I need," Lester said over my shoulder. "But you're right. They would take up too much space. Maybe a pared down version?" he suggested.

  "I'll see what I can do, Les."

  "Thank you, Lacey. You're a peach." With his dilemma apparently solved, he walked briskly back into his coffee shop. Seemed as if I was being dragged back into the table war whether I liked it or not.

  The food fair was still going strong down in the town square. My gaze washed down Harbor Lane. Detective Briggs' car was still parked out front. I was sure he was poring over his notes looking for something to further the investigation. I had been meaning to check out Marian's Sugar Lips Cookbook online just to see if anything of interest popped out at me.

  Pleased with my window display, I went back inside and headed into my office. A quick search led to the bookstore page for Marian's book. It had thousands of reviews. Some glowing. Some less than glowing. The cover of the book was white. For some reason, Marian had decided to put her own image front and center, holding up a plate of what appeared to be hazelnut bombs. The severe black color of her hair and the red lips just didn't say cookbook to me but then some people just couldn't get enough of themselves.

  I scrolled through some of the reviews. Most people posted only with first names or screen names, but as I rolled the mouse one review caught my attention because it had been written in bold italics. Sure enough, it was from SourGrapes. It was a one star, of course. The person again blasted Fitch for being a phony who couldn't bake her way out of an open door. I clicked on the website link on Fitch's author page. As I searched through the comments, SourGrapes showed up all over the place. A
lways angry. Always negative. And always in bold italics.

  The goat bell rang, signaling I had a customer. I got up from my desk. The investigation would have to wait. I had festive centerpieces to sell.

  Chapter 23

  I sat at the kitchen table, sifting through my mail as I finished up my spinach salad. Nevermore was curled up on the chair next to me giving his fat paws a good cleaning. I got up and delivered my bowl to the sink. Somehow, I'd managed to get talked into an evening walk with Elsie. She hadn't had enough time for her five mile run and insisted she wouldn't be able to sleep if she didn't at least take a walk. I was sure her walk was brisk and energetic like her run, and still, I'd said yes. I was fairly certain my yes answer came from guilt. After I told Lester I'd create some centerpieces for his table, it had been chipping away at me like an annoying pick ax. It wasn't long after that when Elsie came in looking for an evening walk partner. Her husband, Hank, was out of town again on business. I had finally met him a few weeks back for the first time. I had started to think the man didn't exist. But then, boom, there he was one day standing in my shop, a tall, broad-shouldered man with distinguished gray sideburns and a kind smile, looking perfectly suited to the fit, energetic woman standing next to him. Elsie insisted that his long trips away had been the best thing for their marriage.

  The sun had long since set, and only thin, bluish clouds traipsed along the horizon. It was brisk outside, but a nice night for a walk. I bundled up in a coat, scarf and knitted beanie, a cocoon that I was sure would earn a hearty laugh from Elsie. That woman had no problem running a loop in shorts and a sleeveless tank shirt, even in an icy evening drizzle.

  I tied up my walking shoes and grabbed a flashlight from the kitchen drawer. After the power outage, I'd purchased four flashlights and placed them in various convenient locations around the house.

  I patted Nevermore on the head to say good bye. He barely lifted his big cat head to acknowledge me.

  Elsie lived a few blocks away. Since my street, Loveland Terrace, was at the top of Myrtle Place, it only made sense that I walk down to her house and we journey out from there. I was only halfway down my driveway, bundled up and illuminated with my flashlight, when a whistle drew my attention back to the house. Or the neighbor's house, to be more accurate.

  "Where are you off to, my adventurous friend?" Dash called from his porch.

  "I'm off for a walk with Elsie."

  "No haunted manors, eh?"

  "In the dark? Nope. I'll be staying clear of haunted manors. Good night, Dash."

  "Be careful and have fun."

  I continued down to Elsie's house. She opened the front door before I had a chance to knock. She was holding a picture in her hand. She'd actually pulled on a sweatshirt but was still wearing jogging shorts, leaving her muscular legs bare. "Thought you'd want to see this before we headed out."

  I stepped into her house. It was always jarring to step into Elsie's house and not smell sweet, buttery treats. Tonight was especially so. It seemed she'd made something with tomatoes, garlic and onions.

  Elsie had taken much more care in decorating the bakery than her home. It was cozy and inviting enough, but it lacked any of the frills and vibrant colors of the bakery.

  "Come here to the light. I have a picture of the pastry chef class." Elsie pulled on her reading glasses. I wished I'd brought mine. Each smiling face was sandwiched between a tall white chef's hat and an equally white chef's coat. It was easy to pick out Elsie's spunky grin.

  I pointed at her. She had hardly aged. "You look exactly the same, and you are practically swimming in that white coat."

  "Yes, they couldn't find one small enough. They were going to order me a children's size, but I decided to forgo the humiliation and just drown in the coat. I rolled the sleeves up to my elbows. Not very practical for working with dough but I managed. This picture was taken the week before I hurt myself and had to quit the class." She pushed it under the light in her living room. "Do you see any familiar faces?"

  I ran my eyes across the photo. "Ah ha. Marian Fitch. She's easy to spot. The only one without a smile." I moved to the next face. Her thin red hair streamed out from the tight rim of her hat. "Twyla is standing next to Marian. I suppose this was taken before the Hazelnut Bomb fiasco."

  "Oh yes. I kept in touch with a few of the other students, and they said that Twyla was devastated after she lost the lawsuit. When the judge made her pay legal fees for Fitch, Twyla had to declare bankruptcy. She left the chef world completely and worked in a bank or something. She only got back into the food business recently."

  "So Twyla had good reason to hate Marian."

  "I'd say so, yes. But then a lot of people hated Marian Fitch. Is Detective Briggs any closer to solving the case? I just assumed it was her odd-ball nephew. She treated him abominably. Probably years of pent up anger in that relationship."

  "I'm sure there was." I lowered the picture down but Elsie stopped me.

  "No, look at it again. There is one more face that you've seen at the fair."

  I scanned the faces again. "Is that Celeste Bower?"

  "Yes it is. She was kind of a stand-offish type too. She and Marian got along well, but I think they had a falling out." She put the picture down. "We should probably head out on that walk before it gets too late."

  I raised up my flashlight. "I'm armed with light and tucked in for warmth."

  "I see that." Elsie was holding back an amused smile as she looked me up and down. "You're ready for a walk around the North Pole with all those layers."

  We headed to the door.

  "I'm a little surprised to see you in a sweatshirt," I noted as we walked outside.

  "Since we're just walking, I figured it wouldn't hurt." We headed down Myrtle Place. The crape myrtle trees that lined both sides of the road had nearly shed all their foliage. The same trees would provide the street with a pink and white parade of fluffy popcorn shaped blooms in summer. I looked forward to it.

  We passed the Graystone Church Way turnoff. The old church sat in silence with only a few lights shining through the stained glass windows. Sitting on its grassy knoll, it looked like an opening scene for one of those homey historically set movies about pioneers or some small western town. The old cemetery with its tilted headstones of various shapes and sizes only added to the movie set image.

  Most of the people buried at the rear of the cemetery, where stone angels and family plot markers jutted up from the grass, had been entombed for many years. The newer graves, like the one for Beverly Kent, were near the front of the grounds with modern, polished stones to mark the graves.

  "Elsie, I haven't walked through the graveyard much. Did they bury the Hawksworth family here at Graystone Church?"

  "Yes, of course." We stopped just outside of the cemetery. "See that area in the back corner that is fenced off with black wrought iron?"

  I squinted through the darkness and saw a glint of the wrought iron in the moonlight. "Where the big angel statue is sitting?"

  "Yes, that's it. That is the Hawksworth family plot." An icy wind rolled across the graveyard right then, sending a simultaneous shiver through both of us. We looked at each other with round eyes.

  "Do you think that was a spirit?" Elsie asked with a laugh.

  "Well, we are standing at the edge of a graveyard. Come on, I think I've seen enough of it too."

  Chapter 24

  I loved being my own boss. I could make decisions about my business on my own with no input or argument or unwanted opinion. I'd gone to sleep deciding that I would open up the shop for a few hours on Sunday. Even though my cut flower supply had been virtually wiped out by Marian's bereaved fans, I hoped that some of the locals would stop in to order a Thanksgiving centerpiece. I'd taken two orders after I'd set the samples out and was thrilled to have people notice them right away. Without any extra help yet in the store, I would have to limit the orders to twenty or twenty-five. Any more than that and I'd run out of time and materials.

/>   After Elsie and I had walked to the lighthouse and back, an exhausting journey with a woman who moved at twice the pace of the average mortal, I'd asked Elsie if I could borrow the pastry class photo. If time permitted, I would walk it down to the police station. It was probably worthless for the investigation, but I thought Briggs might want to see it anyhow, just to give him an idea of who knew Marian even before the food fair. Sometimes those seemingly dormant histories came back to life again. Especially for someone like Marian, who had apparently made a lot of enemies in the past few years.

  I planned to only be gone a few hours, so I left Kingston at home with Nevermore. The two got along well, but I always kept Kingston in his massive cage when I wasn't home, just in case Nevermore decided it was time to take out the annoying guy with the black feathers and loud morning caw.

  The morning air was extra salty and brisk. Some ominous looking clouds hung low over the water. Otherwise, it seemed like the perfect day for a bike ride. I rolled my bicycle out of the backyard and climbed on. My legs were still tired from having to sprint walk to keep up with Elsie, but the trip to town was mostly downhill.

  I rode down Myrtle Place and took a moment to enjoy the cool air on my face as I coasted along. There were a few cars from locals attending Sunday service parked along Graystone Church Way. I stopped to admire the church. It looked far more like a church and less like a movie set in daylight. And the surrounding graveyard didn't seem quite as creepy either. I decided a quick detour to the Hawksworth family plot would not delay my morning too much.

  I turned down the small dead end street that led to the church entrance. Graystone Church, with its quaint single steeple, was neither gray nor stone. With the exception of three arched windows on the front and a line of rectangular windows drawn along each side, the entire church was covered with cocoa and earthy brown shingles. Pale yellow storm shutters that could be opened and closed like mini blinds crossed over the stained glass windows on each side of the steeple, and the steeple itself was coated in narrow charcoal slate tiles. The only concession to a walk on the wild side were the two bright red doors leading into the church.