Carnations and Chaos Read online

  Briggs had let Officer Pritchett know that he was heading into the lobby as we climbed out of the car. I decided to remain as invisible as possible while he conducted his official business.

  We stepped into the hotel lobby. A frazzled looking gentleman with a tuft of gray hair combed over his otherwise bald head was dashing back and forth in the lobby, barking orders at employees. His forehead was deep with lines of worry. I couldn't read the small gold badge on his suit pocket, but I was pretty sure it said 'manager'.

  A few confused and stunned guests stood in the lobby with their suitcases, watching the flurry of activity and the parade of medics and firemen streaming in and out of the elevator. And to top off all the chaos, an elevator repairman was busy working on the control panel sitting between two of the visitor lifts. I could only imagine, by the harried state of the manager, that death was not a normal event at the hotel.

  The elevator marked 'staff only' opened, and a young police woman with thick copper hair, green eyes and just a touch too much pink blush strolled over in her uniform. She managed to make the dull blue slacks and shirt look as if they could be worn on the runway. I shouldn't have felt disappointed (and a bit dowdy) upon seeing the beautiful female officer, but I did.

  "Detective Briggs, I'll show you up to the room." She glanced at me.

  "Miss Pinkerton is with me," Briggs said quickly and then just as quickly headed to the service elevator.

  The three of us stood in a moment of awkward silence as the elevator shimmied up toward the eighth floor.

  "It's one of the suite rooms." Officer Pritchett seemed to decide that it was all right to talk in front of me. "The woman was one of the food bloggers from the fair in Port Danby. According to the manager, Mr. Trumble, the frantic looking man you saw in the lobby, a number of the rooms have been rented by participants and visitors to the food fair." She reached over and tapped his arm. "Guess they didn't want to stay at the run-down motel on Pickford Way."

  I was about to speak up and defend the Port Danby Motel, even though it was a touch run-down, but I decided since I was standing in the middle of police business and I didn't actually belong there, I'd just keep to my invisibility plan.

  The elevator stopped and we stepped off and headed left. Several policemen were standing outside Suite 801. They opened the door and let us through.

  A crystal chandelier glittered overhead as we moved past an officer and a medic. Another policeman was standing with his back to us consoling someone in the center of the sunken in seating area, which was filled with an ivory colored sectional, glass end tables and afforded a panoramic view of the ocean.

  The officer turned when he heard Detective Briggs' voice, giving me a clear view of the person he had been consoling. Parker Hermann. His face was pale, and it seemed he had been crying. But not too much. He was wringing his hands as he saw more people enter the room.

  There was a book on the counter beneath the television. It was a Sugar Lips Cookbook, confirming my suspicions. We were in Marian Fitch's room.

  Officer Pritchett led us down the short hallway, past a gloriously appointed bathroom that sparkled with marble and chrome. She stopped at the entrance to a bedroom and looked pointedly at me and then at Briggs.

  "Miss Pinkerton can come in too."

  I shouldn't have been so thrilled. We were, after all, about to walk into a room with a dead body, but I had to hold my grin back.

  We walked into the bedroom. Marian Fitch was sprawled out on the bed with her legs hanging over the side. Her eyes were wide open, never a good look for a dead person, especially for a woman with severe black hair and a powdered white complexion. I couldn't help but notice that she looked a bit vampire-ish. It sent a chill through me.

  Briggs who had an uncanny ability to sense even my smallest reactions turned with a curled brow. "Are you all right?"

  "Yes. I'm fine."

  Officer Pritchett listed some details as I browsed the room. The phone was off the hook as if she had been trying to call for help. A cup of coffee, a hotel cup, sat on the nightstand by the bed. It had spilled, and the brown liquid was dripping off the shiny nightstand. Next to the spilled cup was Marian Fitch's special coffee creamer.

  "There are no signs of injury," Pritchett spoke behind me. Her voice had a sultry edge to it. Darn her. "Mr. Trumble, the hotel manager, said someone from this room had called down at four o'clock to order a cup of coffee to be brought to the room at five."

  "Strange," Briggs said. "Why the hour delay?"

  "There's an explanation for that," Pritchett piped up. "The hotel offers free coffee and tea from five until six. Apparently, their coffee brew is considered the best in the area."

  A snort of derision shot out before I could stop it. I'd gotten their attention. "Sorry, it's just that the Coffee Hutch already has that honor. But please, continue."

  I heard a quiet mumble behind me as if Pritchett was asking about me. Briggs muttered a short response.

  The officer walked into the bedroom with Parker Hermann. "Please," Parker said, "I just need to be with my aunt. What happened to her? I'm surrounded by police and medics and not one person can answer that."

  Perhaps a bit of his aunt had rubbed off on him.

  "We are trying to assess that, Mr.—" Briggs stopped and let the officer fill him in on the name.

  "This is Parker Hermann," Pritchett said. "He is Ms. Fitch's nephew. He travels with her and works as her assistant."

  "Or at least I did." He covered his face in despair. It seemed mostly genuine.

  As I turned back to the coffee, I smelled something that wasn't entirely coffee, or creamer, for that matter.

  I leaned over to get a whiff.

  "Don't touch anything," Officer Pritchett snapped.

  "Just breathing in the air," I said with a pleasant smile.

  "Do you smell something out of the ordinary?" Briggs asked as he walked over.

  "Yes, out of the ordinary for a cup of coffee." I straightened, and it seemed all eyes, even Parker's, were on me.

  "Peanut butter," I said. "I think it's in the creamer."

  Parker's mouth dropped open. "That's impossible. My aunt has a deadly peanut allergy. One taste of peanut and she goes into anaphylactic shock. There are no peanuts in that creamer. She's been drinking it for years."

  Briggs looked at me and then at the body on the bed. "Miss Pinkerton, would you be able to smell the peanut butter on the victim's mouth?"

  "Possibly." I walked over and knelt gently on the bed, trying to avoid Marian's direct, lifeless stare as I leaned down to her face. One quick whiff told me everything I needed to know. I climbed back off the bed, and as I did so, Marian's hand rolled off her body and bounced on the quilt covered mattress like rubber.

  The other people in the room looked baffled and more than a little skeptical as they waited for my conclusion.

  I turned to Briggs. "Definitely peanut butter."

  Chapter 13

  Marian Fitch lay still on the bed with her wide-eyed stunned expression. It seemed clear now that the reason her eyes were wide and one hand was on her chest was that her throat had constricted in a fatal allergic reaction to peanuts. For some people, the innocent, funny little nut that came two to a shell and that people gobbled down at baseball games and bars was as toxic as the worst kind of poison. According to her nephew, Parker, Marian had been one of those people.

  Parker shook his head in disbelief after I emphatically stated that the creamer contained peanuts. Of course, why should he believe a stranger? He knew nothing of my hyperosmia, my extreme sense of smell. But there was no doubt in my nose or my mind that the creamer had a smidgen of peanut butter in it.

  Parker pushed past me and lunged forward to reach for the creamer.

  "Don't touch that," Detective Briggs said sharply.

  Parker froze as if someone had just sprayed him with dry ice. He shot Briggs an irritated glare.

  "We are going to need it for evidence and fingerprints," Briggs ex
plained.

  "Evidence?" Parker's face morphed from irritation to shock.

  Briggs seemed to be assessing his reaction. I'd already discovered that Detective James Briggs was one of those quiet, introspective types, who was great at finding clues in people's reactions. "Yes, evidence, Mr. Hermann. Unless you think your aunt poisoned herself with peanut butter, it seems someone purposely laced the creamer. Someone who wanted to see her dead."

  "But this is all ridiculous." Parker popped out of his stunned state. "Aunt Marian has an epinephrine pen. She carries it with her wherever she goes. It's probably sitting right there in her purse for emergencies. We're both well trained on how to use it." Parker walked into the master bathroom and returned. "I don't see the pen, so it must still be in her purse." He skirted around his aunt's legs. I noted how he hardly gave her a second glance as he passed. It seemed the shock of her death had already worn off.

  Parker walked over to two pieces of designer luggage. He tilted each one side to side. "That's odd. She always puts her purse next to the suit—" He fell silent and his face grew white. It took him a second to speak, especially with three police officers staring at him. "I put it inside the safe in the closet. She usually pulls the pen out." His steps were a little less confident as he headed to the closet. He pulled a piece of paper out and used the numbers written there to open the safe. He pulled the purse from the safe as if it was filled with explosives. The pale pink pallor of his skin tinged with gray as he took the epinephrine pen out. "I thought she'd pulled it out. I never even checked."

  His reaction seemed genuine, as if this one mistake was going to haunt him for a long time. Then he seemed to release a breath he'd been holding. "Wait. She kept a second pen in her luggage. Right on top. She knew those pens could save her life, and she made sure to always have two available. He hurried over to the luggage, almost as if he thought he could still save her if he found the pen in time. He pulled out the largest piece of luggage and pushed on the latch. "It's still locked." The same ghostly skin tone washed over him as he fished in his pants pocket. He pulled out a small set of keys. "I had the key with me." The poor man looked close to throwing up.

  There was a knock on the bedroom door. A man in a white lab coat stuck his head inside. "I've brought the van, Briggs. But I think you'd better come down and talk to the hotel manager. He nearly had a stroke when he saw me walk through the lobby in my lab coat."

  "Well, Nate, it does have the word coroner emblazoned across the back. It might be a little distracting for the other hotel guests." He looked over at Officer Pritchett. "Melody, can you go out there and calm the manager down. Ask him if there are any service exits, so we can remove the body without going through the lobby." He turned toward Parker. "Mr. Hermann, let's step out into the other room so I can ask you some questions. Then we can assist you if you have any next of kin to notify."

  "Kin? Just me. I mean, my mother is her sister, but they haven't spoken in years. I was her only family."

  "Then I'm very sorry, Mr. Hermann. I'm sure you are very distressed, so we'll keep the questions brief."

  On their way out, Briggs instructed the other officer to collect the coffee cup, creamer and check for other prints in the room.

  I listened to Detective Briggs interview Parker Hermann as I moved around the front room and looked and smelled for other clues.

  "When was the last time you saw your aunt alive?" Briggs asked.

  Parker paused. "We left the fair around three. Aunt Marian had me book her a four o'clock appointment in the hotel salon for a manicure. She'd broken a nail at today's book signing, and she said she couldn't stand to look at her uneven nails. We came back to the hotel and got changed. We were both leaving, so I put her purse in the safe. Still can't believe I forgot to pull out the epi-pen."

  The hotel suite was large for two people, and since they'd spent most of the day at the food fair, the place had hardly been touched. Everything still smelled of furniture polish, window cleaner and disinfectant.

  "And where did you go while your aunt was at the salon?" Briggs continued.

  "I drove back to Port Danby and strolled through the town. I stopped at the antique shop and the bakery. I brought back two souvenir cookies. They are in the refrigerator. I put them in there before I went into the bedroom and found . . ." His voice trailed off.

  "You've had a big shock, Mr. Hermann." Briggs was working on his sympathetic tone, but it needed just a little more finesse.

  I walked into the kitchen and was about to glance in the refrigerator to check for the cookies when I reminded myself not to touch anything. I took a paper towel and grabbed the bottom of the refrigerator handle, a place where most people wouldn't touch. I pulled the refrigerator open. Parker had been telling the truth. A lighthouse cookie and a Graystone Church cookie sat on the top shelf of the refrigerator. The only other items in the refrigerator were a bottle of white wine, (the expensive kind) and a bottle of Marian's special creamer. The plastic tab was still secured over the top, so it hadn't been opened. I closed the refrigerator, and I crumpled up the paper towel. As I smashed it between my palms, a fragrance floated off of it. Honey lavender hand lotion. Whoever touched the refrigerator had tried Celeste's sample of hand lotion.

  I walked out to the front room. Briggs was just putting away his notepad.

  "Mr. Hermann," I piped up and drew both men's attention my way. "By any chance, did you sample some of the honey lavender hand lotion that was being distributed at the fair?"

  Parker's brows scrunched together. "Why on earth would I do that?" I had apparently insulted his masculinity.

  Briggs knew I wasn't asking just because I was curious. He looked at Parker. "So you didn't rub any on your hands."

  "Certainly not."

  "What about your aunt?" I asked.

  "My aunt has coffee creamer flown in from France. Do you honestly think she's the type to try some homespun, country bumpkin hand lotion recipe?" And there was that wonderful streak of charm he had inherited from his aunt.

  "No, of course not. I apologize." I had to work hard to remain polite because the man's aunt and seemingly only family member had just been found dead on a hotel bed.

  A quiet exit had been arranged for the removal of the late Marian Fitch from her hotel room. Parker stood nearby, wringing his hands and looking properly distressed as the coroner rolled the gurney through. Detective Briggs and I waited in the hallway to make sure the coast was clear, so they could take her through to the service elevator and out the back through the hotel loading dock.

  "The lavender hand lotion?" Briggs asked as we waited for them to roll Marian out of the room.

  "I used a napkin to look inside the refrigerator. The cookies were there, by the way. And another bottle of the creamer. But as I crumpled up the napkin, I smelled the hand lotion. It's very strong stuff. I could hardly taste my spicy sweet potato fries over the smell of it on my hands."

  "So someone had it on their hands, and they touched the handle of the refrigerator."

  "Seems that way."

  The gurney rolled toward us. Marian's hand was the only visible part beneath the white sheet.

  "Hold it for just a second," Briggs said. "This is your last chance to see if there's any hint of lavender."

  "Right. I suppose I should, just in case." Marian's nails had just been freshly painted in a dark pink color. "She had a manicure so it wouldn't be on her hands anymore, and it would be hard to smell over the strong lacquer smell of nail polish." I breathed in deeply along her wrist and sleeve. "I don't smell any lavender."

  "Thanks." He waved the coroner on, and they rolled Marian toward the service elevator.

  Chapter 14

  Detective Briggs and I headed back into the hotel room. He had some details to discuss with the Mayfield police, and he'd asked me to sniff around for more of the lavender smell. If neither Parker nor Marian had tried the lotion, that meant someone else had been in the room.

  I'd gone over most of the front
room and bathroom by the time Briggs had wrapped up with his team. They were still in the bedroom discussing the matter. I noticed that Officer Pritchett fell instantly silent as I walked in.

  "Carry on," I said. "Don't mind me." I tapped my nose. "Just doing my bloodhound impression."

  From the corner of my eye, I caught Briggs suppressing a smile. It was hard not to be terribly fond of a man who understood my unique sense of humor.

  "See if there's any lavender fragrance on the phone, Miss Pinkerton," Briggs called from the group. "And remember not to touch it."

  I shot him a seriously look and walked over to the phone. It had not been placed properly on the charging stand. It was more than possible that Marian had tried to call for help but was already struggling to breathe too much to talk. The poor woman must have been terrified.

  I lowered my face to the phone but found no lavender smell. I continued on through the room and walked past a trash can that was empty except for a tissue. The tissue looked as if it hadn't been used. I lowered my face to the can, and there it was. Celeste's lavender and honey hand lotion.

  "Detective Briggs, the tissue in this trash can has some traces of the hand lotion on it. But there isn't any on the phone."

  Briggs walked over and stared into the can. "It looks like a fresh tissue. Whoever grabbed the handle of the refrigerator suddenly wised up about touching things in the room. They might have used the tissue to pick up the phone and order a free coffee." He motioned for me to follow. "Pritchett, make sure this tissue is added to the evidence collection. Miss Pinkerton and I are going down to the hotel kitchen to see who took the coffee order from this suite. I think if we get that answer, we'll find out who tampered with the creamer."

  Briggs and I walked out into the hallway. The lights were on for the guest elevator. "It looks like the main elevators are working again." I pushed the button, and seconds later, the familiar ding sounded, letting us know the elevator had arrived.

  We stepped inside. "So you think it'll be as simple as figuring out who called from the room for coffee?" I asked. "But what if it was Marian herself? I mean, it makes sense."