Tulips and Trouble Page 13

  I pulled the box forward. For a fairly good sized chest, it wasn't dramatically heavy, lending support to the bed linen theory.

  Other than four nicely shaped squat feet, the chest was fairly plain. No initials or designs had been carved into it, which made me wonder if it was a hope chest at all. I used every yoga stretch I knew to feel along the back and sides. There were no secret compartments.

  To get a look underneath, I had no choice except to stretch out on my side. I aimed the flashlight beneath the chest. The short legs provided only a three inch gap and the light did nothing more than allow me to check for spiders and mice before I slid my hand underneath. My bravery paid off. My fingers slid along the smooth bottom of the chest until they were abruptly stopped by an edge. It took some Twister game style moves, but I managed to find a latch. I pushed and pulled, something I'd learned to do when replacing the batteries on the remote. Without too much effort, a small rectangle of wood dropped onto my palm. Something metal slid through my fingers and clinked on the floor. I picked it up and held it under the beam of my flashlight. It was a very delicate brass key.

  For the briefest second, a shadow fell across the room. I pushed up quickly to my knees and circled my flashlight around like the lantern in a lighthouse. I saw nothing and was too excited about my key discovery to pursue it any further.

  I propped the flashlight on the floor to spotlight the lock. Surprisingly, with all the rust and years of being unopened, the key slipped in easily and turned with one click. I unhooked the lock. The heavy lid of the chest took slightly more effort than the lock. It creaked with age as I lifted it open. Mildew and dust from a long past era drifted up from the contents, causing my nose to itch. I rubbed away the tingling sensation and gazed into the cedar lined box.

  It seemed the chest had not belonged to the eldest daughter but rather to the man of the house, Bertram Hawksworth. A stack of black ascot ties and three straw boaters, each one frayed from decay, sat upon a stack of what appeared to be business ledgers or account books. As I reached inside to pull one out, another shadow passed through the room. It had come from the open doorway.

  The sound of receding footsteps sent my heart several beats ahead. I lowered the lid on the chest and pushed it back, taking care to snap the lock back into place. I slipped the key into my pocket for another time. Again, the creeping sensation that someone had been watching me crawled up my neck. I rubbed away the gooseflesh and got to my feet.

  I lifted the flashlight, deciding with its four pack of batteries it could do some damage if I needed to wield it as a weapon. I hoped that wouldn't be necessary. I was more or less convinced that the noise and shadow had been caused by some teens coming up to the site to hang out.

  I circled the yard with my light and saw no sign of anyone. Still, it was time to head home. I'd found what I came for, the key to the chest. And I was sure with some extra time and preferably warm daylight, I could ferret out some interesting clues into Bertram Hawksworth's life.

  I slid closed the door and pushed shut the useless lock. I wasn't going to waste time listening for noises or watching for unexplained shadows. My feet started at a jog and then broke into a full run. I didn't stop until I reached Loveland Terrace and my cozy, safe house.

  Chapter 28

  Ryder and I had been hard at work making pre-ordered flower arrangements. There had been so much to do, we'd barely had time to take a breath, let alone carry on a conversation. I knew it was going to be a brutally busy morning and decided to leave Kingston at home. He would, no doubt, be skewering me with angry looks all evening.

  I tied the last ribbon on a bouquet of tulips and looked up and down the island at the array of finished arrangements. I lifted my hand. "I'm not generally a high-fiver, but I think this accomplishment calls for it."

  Ryder smacked my hand. "I agree. I also think it deserves a couple of Lester's coffee mochas."

  "Couldn't agree more. And tell Les to put them on my tab. My treat."

  "Your treat for what?" Lola asked as she stepped inside the shop.

  "How do you always manage to hear the last pieces of a conversation?" I asked. "It's as if you've got your ears primed and ready before you even walk inside."

  "I do. After sitting alone all day in the antique shop, talking to Victorian dress dummies, I'm starved for conversation."

  "I'm going over to get some mocha lattes," Ryder spoke up. His free, easy tone had disappeared. He swallowed hard before he asked about the coffees. Poor guy seemed to have no idea where he stood with Lola, and it was messing with his head. I wanted to flatten the black men's bowler on my friend's curly red head, preferably while she was still wearing it.

  I was waiting for Lola to rudely dismiss his offer of coffee. Then she surprised both of us.

  "That would be really nice, Ryder," she said in the sweet tone I'd heard her use often around men. "Whipped cream please."

  "Whipped cream, right." Ryder lumbered out of the shop wearing a faint smile.

  I stared at Lola as she fingered a few of the bouquets and then hopped up on her favorite stool. It took her that amount of time to realize I was giving her a pointed look.

  "What?" she asked with a shrug. "I've decided you were right. I'm not being fair or kind to Ryder."

  I took an excited breath and was about to jump into my list of reasons why Ryder would be perfect for her, but she held up her hand.

  "You didn't let me finish. I'm still not convinced that we're right for each other. I don't want to start something that I have to stop in a month. Then I won't be able to walk in here without major awkwardness and tension. So tamp down the enthusiasm."

  I began picking up fragments of stems from the island. "And when do you think you'll know for certain?"

  Lola took the bowler off, shook out her curls and pressed it back down on her head. "I don't know, maybe about the time you decide that Detective Briggs is the one for you." Her brow arched up. "Or is it Dashwood Vanhouten that has caught your eye? Must be nice to have such choices. Tough too, I imagine. It's like trying to choose between a hot fudge brownie sundae or a box of chocolates."

  "I think that bowler is a bit too tight on your brain." I dropped the stem pieces into the trash. "Oh, I nearly forgot. Your brilliant history lesson about hidden keys on antique chests has helped me on my quest to solve the Hawksworth murders.”

  "Did it? Good for me. What did you find out?"

  I grabbed the broom and started sweeping. "You know that old trunk in the gardener's shed at the manor?"

  She moved her chin in thought. "Not sure. Wait, that old hope chest?"

  "Yes, but it's not a hope chest. And I know that because I found a secret key compartment on the bottom and I opened it. It was filled with men's clothing, accessories and some ledgers."

  "Yep, that would be a pretty pathetic hope chest. Did you find out anything useful?"

  "Not yet. A noise startled me. I closed up the trunk before I got a chance to really look through it."

  Ryder returned with the coffees. He favored Lola with a gallant smile as he handed her the cup. She smiled politely back, and I thought he might fall over in shock.

  Lola took a sip. "What was the noise?"

  "Not sure. I'm not usually paranoid, but all evening, it felt as if someone had been lurking around watching me. Even when I was out in my front yard planting snapdragons."

  "Sounds like you had a creepy night." Lola was occasionally expert at useless observations. "How do they get the name snapdragons?"

  I looked to Ryder, the human botanical encyclopedia. He was still recovering from Lola's sudden politeness. It took him a second to notice we were waiting for his explanation.

  "Snapdragons? They were grown in ancient gardens. Their species name comes from a Greek term meaning 'nose-like'. And with a heavy dose of imagination the buds look like dragon heads."

  "All I know is they're adding nice height and color to my garden."

  "Now that I'm armed with more knowledge of the plant
world, I need to head back to the world of old, dusty cast-offs and my headless, speechless friends, the Victorian dress dummies." Lola hopped off the stool. Her brown eyes sparkled as she looked at Ryder. "Thank you again for the coffee mocha."

  Ryder couldn't find his tongue fast enough to say you're welcome. He just nodded his response. And I tamped down my enthusiasm but gave a silent cheer for my matchmaker skills.

  Chapter 29

  I'd sent Ryder off to lunch and had finally gotten the shop back in order when Detective Briggs walked through the door.

  I had to practice some more of that tamped down enthusiasm. I was always thrilled to see him, but I certainly didn't need him to know that.

  "Court time is over?" I asked airily.

  "Finally. I've been back in town for a few hours. I wanted to fill you in on some details about the Letty Clark case."

  "Excellent. I have something important to tell you too. You go first." I walked around to the customer side of the island. We were face to face, just a few feet apart, and I took a second to admire how especially handsome he looked in his dark gray suit and black tie. He always had to polish up extra spiffy for his court appearances, and I looked forward to seeing him in all his spiffy glory.

  "The tech team was able to save Letty's phone and unlock it. There wasn't anything of particular note in the texts or call history. The last call was the one from her parents in Europe. Earlier that day, she'd made a call to the phone number on the auction house business card. More about that in a minute." He stopped suddenly and looked around. "I wondered why I wasn't getting that creeping feeling I was being watched. Where's Kingston?"

  "I had far too much to do today to keep my spoiled bird entertained so I left him at home. And remind me later to tell you about my creeping sensation experience last night."

  Briggs' face instantly hardened to concern. "Did something happen? Were you in danger? I worry sometimes that I'm exposing you to hazards when you accompany me to interviews."

  "Stop. It was fine. I wasn't in danger and please don't stop taking me along. You know how much I enjoy unraveling these murder cases."

  "Sorry." He combed back his hair with his fingers. "I jumped right into hysteria mode, didn't I? I still haven't gotten past that scary incident at Christmas, when I thought . . ." His words trailed off. He seemed to shake the grim thought from his head.

  "Trust me, I haven't gotten past that incident either. But it's fine and I'm here. So, what else have you found out about the case?"

  He loosened his tie a bit. "The text exchanges with Darren Morgan sent up a few red flags. They seemed to slide back and forth along the emotional scale. Angry and hurt at times and then loving and kind the next. Their relationship must have been quite a roller coaster ride. Also, Letty's parents have arrived in town. They live in Chesterfield. They were, as expected, very distraught and not particularly in the mood for a lengthy interview. But they both seemed to go directly to blaming Darren for Letty's death. They said he had a bad temper and that Letty had been trying desperately to break off with him for good. But Darren wasn't making that easy."

  "Wow, then it looks like you have a suspect. Or at least a person of interest."

  "Quite possibly. Crimes of passion are common, and from the texts, it seems Darren was on the raw end of the relationship. He lives in Mayfield. I'm going to go talk to him later this afternoon."

  "I see. Is your partner going to be involved in the interview? I could check out his skin care products. Men use hand lotion too, after all."

  "I don't know. After what you told me a few minutes ago—"

  "No, that was probably just my imagination. I was alone up at the Hawksworth site. It was dark and you know I get sort of wiggy in darkness."

  A lopsided grin tilted his mouth. "I have witnessed you getting wiggy in darkness. But I think my next question should be—why were you up at that old house alone at night? It's not safe."

  "It's a teenager hangout. It's certainly not dangerous either. Now that you've changed the subject completely, I'll bring it back around to your interview with Darren Morgan. Please," I said, using my most gracious, pleading smile.

  "I guess you can go," he said with a relenting sigh. "You said you had something to tell me."

  "Yes, I do. I nearly forgot." I pointed to his pocket where I knew he stored his notebook. "You might want to write this down. Yesterday, I went to Mayfield for some glass beads and ribbons. While I was waiting for an interminably slow woman to relinquish her highly sought after parking spot, I saw a woman walk out of Urban Antiques with a painting."

  Briggs waited pen in hand. "All right. Is that all?"

  "Of course not. The woman was none other than your favorite art teacher, Ms. Dean, and she was—" I paused for dramatic effect. "She was carrying the flea market painting that was missing from Letty's house."

  He lowered his pen and looked up with full attention. "Are you sure it was the same painting?"

  "Absolutely. Mountain lupines in an ornate wooden frame. She must have taken it from Letty's house. And that's not all. She looked angry about something when she walked past my car."

  "Did she see you?"

  I was surprised by his question. "Possibly, but I'm not sure if she recognized me. We've only met a few times. I'm hardly that memorable."

  He stared down at the mostly blank page of his notebook and laughed to himself. "Understatement of the century," he muttered.

  "What?"

  Briggs shook his head. "Nothing. Continue."

  "She was carrying the painting very casually. Then she tossed it into her trunk like she was dropping in a sack of potatoes. Not that I treat my potatoes rudely like that, but you get the picture."

  "Got it. Do you think she was trying to sell the painting to Urban Antiques?"

  "Well, partner detective that I am, I called Lola to find out a little more about Urban Antiques. Lola's parents are friends with Rick Urban. Rick used to work for museums, and he's an art appraiser. Jodie had come back to the flea market to buy the painting after she'd scoffed at the notion that it had any value. She must have changed her mind. Only I'm thinking her first instincts proved right, and the painting turned out to be worthless."

  Briggs reached into his pocket and pulled out the business card. "I wonder if this auction house card has anything to do with the painting and with Jodie's sudden interest in it."

  "Sudden interest enough to steal it?" I asked.

  "Yes, I'll definitely be asking her about it. Good work, partner."

  Chapter 30

  "I'm on my way down to the police station, Ryder." I pulled on my sweater.

  Ryder looked up from the sink. "Sounds good. I'm just going to clean up here, then I'll lock up the store. Have fun doing detective stuff."

  "I plan to."

  I decided to leave my car parked near the flower shop and walk down Harbor Lane to the Port Danby Police Station. The puppy's big gray snout poked around the corner of the station seconds before the rest of him bounded out on the sidewalk. Detective Briggs plodded behind.

  Briggs ordered the dog to sit and after several forceful commands, the pup settled down on his behind. But his tail continued to spin wildly, like a tornado.

  "I'm impressed," I said.

  "With what? That my arm is still attached to my shoulder?"

  I smoothed my palm over the dog's soft fur. "No. He sat. He's even still sitting." The second I said it, the dog leapt up to give me a warmer welcome. I rubbed his ears. "I guess you haven't found a home for him yet."

  "A man who owns a junk yard off Highway 48 came in to see him. He was going to take him, but when he said the dog would just be out in the yard, guarding the property, I knew it wasn't the right home for him."

  I pulled in my bottom lip to keep from grinning. "I'm glad you're at least being picky about his next home."

  The puppy came back and sat right on Briggs' feet, leaning against his legs like a wall. "I want him to have a good home. Officer Chinmoor volunteered t
o watch him for a few hours while we're out and about. And I talked to Joseph Morgan, the auction house owner. I'll just get my stuff, then I'll fill you in."

  I followed him into the station. Officer Chinmoor opened the counter gate and called the puppy to his desk. He opened the desk drawer and took out some dog treats. Briggs disappeared into his office.

  I peered over the counter. "I think you should just keep him here as a mascot for the police station."

  Chinmoor nodded in agreement. "I've told Briggs that a dozen times. We could get him a bandana with yellow stars, like sheriff badges. And we could name him something like Doc Holliday. Doc for short."

  "I like that idea," I said, just as Briggs came out of his office.

  "What idea?" he asked as he pulled on his coat.

  I pointed over the counter at the puppy. "Doc Holliday, the new station mascot."

  "I don't think so. I should be back in two hours, Chinmoor. By the way, I bought a new rawhide and some chew toys. They're in my office. Don't let him eat any furniture while I'm out."

  I decided not to comment about the fact that he was out buying toys for the puppy that he had no intention of keeping. We walked to his car and climbed in.

  "I thought we'd stop by Urban Antiques before heading to Darren Morgan's house. I'd like to ask Rick Urban about the visit from Jodie Dean. I called earlier to let him know we'd be coming by. I left a message for Ms. Dean letting her know I needed to talk to her, but she hasn't returned my call yet."

  "It sounds to me as if you're opening up your mind to the possibility that Jodie Dean may be wrapped up in something nefarious."

  "If she stole a painting from the victim's house, then I'd say yes. Even if she did used to let me out of art early to go to football practice." I knew the thought of his former, well-liked teacher being involved in a murder was a bitter taste for him to swallow. For his sake, I hoped the art theft incident was entirely unrelated.