Dahlias and Death Page 7

I placed my hand against my chest. "Me? Breaking and entering? I don't need to break anything. Surely you've heard of Garth, the infamous lock destroyer? Apparently, his handiwork is still in use all over the town. Including the shed."

  "Yes, I know about the broken locks and Garth. I wasn't always a cop, you know? I even had fun occasionally and did scurrilous things like sneak into the gardener's shed with—" He stopped. "Never mind."

  "Oh wow, that's quite the cliffhanger you just left there, Detective. But you're right. Back to the original subject. Lola showed me how old trunks and jewelry boxes had hidden key compartments. So I snuck, I mean, walked into the shed one night and found the key compartment on the old trunk. My investigation got stopped because someone had followed me to the site. Your murderous ex-art teacher, to be exact." I shuddered involuntarily at the thought of a killer stalking me around the dark house site. I shook the tremor from my body and took a deep breath. "The Hawksworth museum the town is so proud of is hardly worth a dime when it comes to evidence about the murder, but there were a few things inside that trunk that looked promising. My parents want to walk up there tonight. I might use Garth's lock system to poke around in the shed."

  "Just be careful when you're up there poking around."

  "I will be but at least this time there won't be any psycho art teachers lurking around in the shadows."

  Chapter 13

  I should have known better. The auction and picnic and, in general, the day had gone way too smoothly. I was feeling too at ease about everything. That was always the case when something unexpected and unpleasant happened—when I was feeling too pleased with my life.

  Briggs carried the empty basket as we strolled back toward the flower shop. I spent a good portion of the walk trying to decide whether the night would end in our first kiss. It seemed like the perfect ending to the picnic. And frankly, it felt as if we'd just finished a date, so a kiss would be the natural conclusion.

  Briggs looked ahead to the sidewalk in front of the shop. "Where's your car?" he asked.

  "I rode my bicycle to work."

  He stopped in front of Franki's Diner. "What? It's too dark to ride your bike. We can get my car."

  "There are plenty of streetlights along the way and it's such a short trip. Really, I'll be fine." Before we could start off again, I took hold of his arm. "But thank you for worrying."

  Franki's neon sign reflected off his brown eyes as his gaze held mine. He moved his arm to hold my hand. "Lacey," he said quietly. He always called me Miss Pinkerton when we were doing investigative work, but when we were enjoying each other's company for social reasons, he switched to Lacey. I liked the way it sounded.

  I stared up into his eyes, making sure to give every indication that I was waiting for that kiss. Heck, not just waiting but expecting, anticipating, about to jump out of my sandals ready for it.

  "Yes . . . James." I rarely called him James, but I liked the way it sounded too.

  He leaned a few inches toward me. A gentle breeze blew between us. I closed my eyes and parted my lips.

  "Olivia?"

  I kept my eyes closed. "No, it's Lacey, but that's all right. Mistake forgiven." I waited but his hand dropped away.

  I opened my eyes as he skirted around me and walked toward a woman coming out of the diner. Not just any woman but the undeniably pretty woman with glowing skin and auburn hair Lola and I had seen at the Corner Market.

  "James." The woman stopped and blinked her large, almond shaped eyes at the man who had been just seconds away from kissing me. I was beyond deflated. I was devastated.

  The woman, Olivia apparently, took a moment out of her shock at seeing James to check out the woman he had nearly kissed. Briggs finally seemed to recall that I was standing behind him, just recuperating from a missing kiss.

  "Olivia, this is—uh, Miss Pinkerton. Miss Pinkerton, this is Olivia."

  I couldn't speak. The wind was sucked out of me when he called me by the formal name. Obviously, he didn't want the beautiful Olivia to know we were out socially and on a first name basis, no less.

  Olivia reached out to shake my hand and added an interesting detail to the introduction. "James and I used to be married."

  Since the wind had already been taken out of me, all I could do was nod and force an awkward smile.

  I could feel Briggs' gaze on the side of my face. I worked hard not to make eye contact. It was the last thing I needed at the moment. I finally had enough breath in me to speak. "Nice meeting you. I was just on my way home. Good night, Detective Briggs," I said sharply and still without looking at him.

  I headed down the sidewalk. My shoulders tightened as I heard his footsteps behind me. "Lacey, wait. Just give me a second and I can drive you home." He reached for my hand, but I pulled it quickly away.

  I stopped and faced him with my best stony expression. I didn't want him to see how upset I was and I most definitely didn't want his lovely ex-wife to see. "Thank you for the offer but I'd much rather ride home. Good night, Detective Briggs." He visibly flinched at the harsh way I said his name. Job well done. I didn't want to leave behind even a splinter of ambiguity about how badly the night had just ended.

  I walked fast and then ran toward the shop. I was thankful that I had my bicycle and not my car. I needed to work off some emotion and cool my head before I got home to Mom's million questions about the picnic.

  I unlocked my bicycle and rolled it out to the sidewalk. A light was on in Lola's shop. For a brief second, I considered walking over to tell her just how disastrously my night had ended but then I saw Ryder's head in her front window. It seemed her night had gone much better than mine. Maybe a bicycle ride and home to my bed was my best bet. After all, my pillows and quilts never disappointed me. Tomorrow was a holiday. Maybe I could stay in my wonderful bed all darn day. That thought brought me to the fireworks show and the date. It seemed that was a farfetched notion after all.

  Chapter 14

  Nevermore nudged me awake with his head. I rubbed his ears and turned around on the bed, drawing the covers up over my face. After the terrible end to the evening, I rode my bicycle home. It felt as if I was dragging a cart of bricks behind me the whole way, but I knew it was just a giant lump of disappointment. Along the way, I rehearsed what I would tell my parents about the nice picnic and good food and slow sunset on the horizon. They didn't need to know more than the basics. I was sure that would satisfy Dad, if he cared at all. But I worried Mom would drill me about Briggs and our friendship. I didn't want to talk about it. As luck would have it, after the long mental preparation for the scene at home, I walked inside and found they had gone to bed early. The entire house, even pets, was fast asleep. I was relieved and headed straight into my own room.

  "Lacey," Mom's voice sang down the hallway. "Sweetie, I'm making my traditional red, white and blue pancakes," she called. "Up and at 'em."

  On any other day, Mom's patriotic pancakes, fluffy buttermilk cakes topped with powdered sugar, strawberry glaze and fresh blueberries would have sent me down the hallway like a torpedo. But the last thing I wanted this morning was food. All I needed was my quilt for cocooning and my pillows for muffling sounds and smells. I buried my face into my pillow and wrapped the blanket around me. Of course I knew that Mom wasn't going to give up with just one holler down the hall. And I was right.

  Seconds later, she yanked the quilt from my head. "Hurry before your father eats them all. Oh, and Dad let the bird out. He's standing on the kitchen counter staring at the box of Fruit Loops. Should I pour him a bowl?"

  I tossed my covers aside. It was too warm for a quilt cocoon anyhow. Apparently bed sulking was best done in the cold months. "No, he doesn't want the cereal. He has a crush on the bird on the box."

  Mom stopped in the doorway and looked back at me with a wide-eyed blink. "Did you just say your crow has a crush on the cereal box?"

  "Not the box. The Fruit Loops toucan on the front of the box. I guess he's got beak envy or something. Mom, don't be o
ffended, but I'm not really in the mood for pancakes. Just a cup of coffee, please."

  "Not hungry for pancakes." She wiped her hands on her apron and came to sit next to me.

  "Mom, you're not going to—"

  She reached over and placed her hand on my forehead to check for a temperature.

  "O.K. I guess you are. I'm not six anymore, Mom. I know when I've got a fever. I'm just not hungry."

  "Oh dear, did something happen last night?"

  I quickly searched my mind for the monologue I practiced all the way home. It had vanished. "Last night was fine. I'm just not a big breakfast eater anymore." I got up from the bed to show her I was fine and fever-free. "I need to ride down to the shop."

  "But I thought the shop was closed today for the holiday."

  I grabbed some shorts from my drawer. "Best day to catch up on dull paperwork." I had no intention of sitting down to paperwork. I doubted I'd be able to concentrate on any numbers or orders. What I really needed was to ride my bike, get some fresh air and hopefully run into Lola. She was the only shop owner who'd decided to have a quick morning sidewalk sale on the holiday.

  Dad showed up in the doorway holding a plate and eating a pancake.

  "Stanley, take that back to the table before you drop blueberry and powdered sugar everywhere."

  "You act like I'm walking around the house waving my pancakes at the end of the fork. Everything is going straight from the plate to my mouth." Dad looked at me. "Kingston wants Fruit Loops."

  "No, he has a crush on the toucan," Mom said matter-of-factly, as if it was a perfectly normal thing.

  I waited for Dad to start a line of questioning or break into one of his famous belly laughs. He just shrugged and shoveled another forkful into his mouth. He carried his plate back to the kitchen. I went into the bathroom to get showered and dressed.

  Mom and Dad were still at the table picking at the remaining pancakes and sipping coffee. Kingston had returned to his perch. The cereal box was back in the cupboard.

  "I thought it was better to separate him from the toucan," Mom whispered.

  "Why are you whispering?" Dad asked. "It's not like the crow can understand you."

  I poured myself a cup of coffee. "I wouldn't be too sure about that, Dad. Anyhow, I'll just be gone for an hour or so. If you'd like, we can walk up to Hawksworth Manor when I get back."

  Mom sat up straight. "Yes, let's do that. It looks so spooky and gothic from your backyard. I'd love to see it up close."

  I drank the coffee and put the cup in the sink. "Great. I'll be back in an hour." I headed straight out to the garage and wheeled my bike to the driveway. I didn't even look in the direction of Dash's house. I didn't want to see him . . . or Briggs . . . or anyone, except Lola.

  I climbed on and rode downhill toward town. The morning air cooled my face and helped revive me. I knew once I cleared my head, the night and the lost kiss would fade away. I wasn't one to waste time fretting or stewing over feeling jilted.

  Since most of the shops were closed, the town was close to deserted. People were probably using the day off to sleep late so they'd be rested for the night's festivities. I had no idea what was going on with Briggs and me. We hadn't talked and I hadn't heard from him. It certainly didn't feel like we were still going to attend the celebration together. I wasn't too sure I wanted to go at all, for that matter. I could see the show from my front yard and avoid all the chaos and crowds down at the beach.

  Lola had stuck to her plan. She'd rolled a few pieces of mid-century furniture out to the sidewalk. Slick tables and chairs from the middle of the twentieth century were the new hot item in antiques. Unfortunately for Lola, her shop was stuffed to the gills with mid nineteenth century relics, as she called them, and those items were getting harder sell. Recently, she'd managed to snag some more modern pieces and had a hard time keeping them in the store. She'd placed a few sleek night stands and coffee tables out on the sidewalk, along with a shiny cherry dining table. I'd warned her that there wouldn't be many people browsing or walking Harbor Lane on the holiday, but it seemed she had a few people already checking out the furniture.

  My shoulders sank and my legs slowed on the pedals. Lola would be too busy to talk. Still, I rolled on, deciding I could just hang out in the store and wait for her to have some free time. In truth, I was almost more anxious to ask her how her evening went with Ryder than to recount the terrible details of my night. As I rode past the Harbor Lane Medical Group my gaze flashed across the street to Kate Yardley's Mod Frock. There was a closed sign on her door, but I saw her standing in the front window glaring intensely at Lola's shop. Maybe she was angry because we'd all collectively decided not to be open for business—all except Lola, that is. Kate could have done the same if she felt so strongly about it.

  One of the customers in front of Lola's shop turned to look at a pair of lamps. I pulled the brakes and my bike slowed and skidded to a stop. Lola's early morning customer was none other than the lovely Olivia or ex-Mrs. Briggs as she’d so plainly stated the night before. The whole event rolled back to me, the near kiss and the abrupt metaphorical cold splash of water at the end. I didn't want to see the woman with her flawless skin and golden glow. My therapy session with Lola would have to wait. I turned the bike around and pedaled hard and fast back home. Maybe what I needed was a trip to Hawksworth Manor for my ongoing murder investigation to take my mind off of James Briggs.

  Chapter 15

  It was a holiday. I had the day off and just twenty-four hours earlier I was thrilled with the prospect of sitting down to a spectacular fireworks display with Briggs. Now I was seriously considering hibernating in bed for the rest of the day. Only I had two energetic travelers staying in my house.

  I pushed my bicycle into the garage and walked inside.

  "You're back already?" Mom asked.

  Dad was on the couch watching television and Mom was wiping down the kitchen counter. I was momentarily transported back in time and I was a kid coming in from a bike ride with friends. The house was my beloved childhood home instead of my cute little house on Loveland Terrace. Of course, Kingston was out of place. Back then he would have been standing on the front fence with the other crows instead of on top of his cage.

  Mom pulled on oven mitts and scurried to the oven. "I kept some pancakes and berries warm for you." She emerged with a short stack of perfectly shaped pancakes. Butter dripped along the outer edges. A bright mound of berries sat on top.

  Mom's brow dropped in a frown. "Or are you still not hungry?"

  The few seconds of nostalgia as I walked in the door helped wipe away some of my glum mood. "Actually, Mom, pancakes sound good. Then we can walk up Maple Hill to the Hawksworth site. I'll fill you in on all the details behind its gruesome history."

  "Did someone say gruesome?" Dad was adjusting his pale green shorts beneath his belly.

  "Stanley," Mom said. "You and that morbid curiosity. You should see the weird stuff he watches on the science channel. He loves gore. The man who used to read you Goodnight Moon and P.J. Funnybunny likes blood and guts."

  I swallowed the mouthwatering bite of pancake. "I forgot all about P.J. I used to love it when you put on that big goofy voice to narrate his parts."

  "Do you mean like this, kiddo?" Dad hadn't lost his talent for voiceovers.

  "Yes, that's it." I laughed. I finally caught my breath and took another bite. "Hmm, these are so good, Mom." I looked at both my parents and smiled. "I'm really glad you guys came." My throat tightened unexpectedly. I had to blink back tears. I realized how lucky I was to have such wonderful parents. Especially at a time like this when I was feeling down.

  Mom brought me a glass of milk as I finished the breakfast. It was nice to be a kid again for those few minutes.

  "Well, get your walking shoes on, parental unit. I'm taking you uphill to the pride and joy of Port Danby, the infamous site of a hundred-year-old murder."

  It was a beautiful day, which went counter to our murder adven
ture, but we strolled cheerily along Myrtle Place.

  I walked between my parents to fill them in on the story. "A wealthy businessman named Bertram Hawksworth built the estate in the late nineteenth century. He and his wife, Jill, had three children. Bertram was quite the entrepreneur, apparently. He had plans to build a shipyard down on the coast. Those plans were thwarted by Mayor Price."

  Dad laughed. "I'm going to assume that's not the same Mayor Price as the one I saw at the picnic auction."

  "No, but they are relatives. Harvard Price, mayor at the turn of the last century and three of his descendants, including Harlan Price, the current mayor, have been holding the mayor's office for over a hundred years. Anyhow, on to the murder. One dreary night, (actually I had no idea about the weather but thought it added to the atmosphere) the entire Hawksworth family, even the three children, were shot dead. The murder weapon was found in Bertram's right hand. It was immediately concluded that, in a fit of rage, possibly over losing the shipyard deal, Bertram killed his entire family and then killed himself."

  "How tragic," Mom said and then quickly added that the Crape Myrtle Trees along the road gave the whole street a fairy tale quality.

  "So it sounds like the case was solved," Dad noted. "Why is it a big mystery?"

  "The police at that time closed the case without much investigation. But here's where it gets good and it lets me know that I'm a pretty good sleuth. I saw a picture of the murder scene. It was quite gory even though the quality of the hundred-year-old photograph was poor. But one thing was very clear. Bertram Hawksworth was holding the murder weapon in his right hand." As we reached the bend where Myrtle Place became Maple Hill, a car filled with noisy teenagers streaked past. I hoped it meant they'd cleared out for the morning. "As you can imagine, the place is sort of a hangout for kids. Anyhow, I went to the library in Chesterton. They have a wonderful room filled with old newspapers from the town. After a little research, I found a picture of Bertram Hawksworth signing the original contract for the shipyard . . . with his left hand."