Lavender and Lies Page 7

  "If it is way more expensive than any boat I could ever own, I label it a yacht. Of course, that means Bill Trainor's rusty old fishing trawler is a yacht because it's far above my pay grade."

  I turned to him. "Are you saying that I should not expect keys to a glamorous yacht under the Christmas tree this year?"

  "I could get you the keys and wrap them up in a cute little box if that's what you're hoping for."

  I laughed. "Oh my gosh, you can tell the two of us were woken out of a deep sleep just an hour ago."

  "True. I suppose we should get back to the murder investigation. It's hard though because my assistant is quite distracting."

  "I'll try to distract less."

  Briggs headed across the room where a small hallway led to a service porch with a deep sink and wall hooks for coats and hats. I perused the kitchen. A newly purchased plastic trashcan, with the price tag still on it, was sitting behind the center work island that was basically a slab of scarred pine and square legs. I picked around in the trash with my gloved hand. An empty frozen dinner tray, some kind of spicy food with smoked paprika, according to my nose, sat on top of a moldy half loaf of bread and an apple core. There was only one dinner tray, so it seemed Lionel had been eating alone. He certainly didn't have the elegant gourmet food taste I would have expected.

  The rim of a glass peered out over the lip of the sink. I walked over and was pleased that I'd made the journey. A half filled cocktail glass sat next to an empty water glass. The inch or two of liquid left behind in the cocktail glass was pink, just like the one the woman on Funtasy was sipping when I saw her sunning on the deck.

  Even with a gloved hand, I didn't dare touch what I considered to possibly be significant evidence. The glass of pink liquid could prove that the woman from the boat, Lionel's third female friend, was inside Lionel's house sometime this evening. Connecting a suspect to a crime scene was very important. I nearly skipped with giddiness to the service porch where Briggs had stayed an inordinately long time.

  "I've found something," I said, excitedly as I rounded the corner.

  Briggs was taking pictures of the door jamb. It had been splintered into wooden shards.

  "Oh wow, you found something too," I said as I walked up behind him. "I take it those giant splinters aren't just normal wear and tear."

  "Definitely not. Someone pushed this door in." He moved the door aside to point outside. "I'm guessing they used that cinder block to do it."

  "Probably a good guess. So it was planned. The killer showed up here with the intent to shoot Lionel dead."

  "Could be. It's also possible Lionel didn't know the killer or did know them but would never have invited them inside. Apparently, they never thought to try the unlocked front door."

  I touched Briggs' arm. "James, is it possible this was a random killing? Maybe someone came here to rob the place. After all, one would expect to find expensive art and treasures inside a house like this, even as rundown as it is."

  "And with the Porsche out front," he added. "But what thief goes through the trouble of shooting someone and then leaves the victim's wallet untouched?"

  I shrugged. "Maybe he couldn't find the wallet?"

  "Maybe, although Gillum said they found it on the sofa in the sitting room. There isn't much furniture or personal belongings in this house. It would have been easy to find."

  I sighed. "Yes, that makes sense."

  "I noticed you switched to the pronoun he," Briggs noted.

  I blinked at him. "My goodness, you are pronoun centric this evening. But mostly I've switched to he because I'm picturing a possible thief instead of a jilted lover. And I just think that a thief is more likely to be a man because, well men are just more—"

  "More dissolute?" he offered.

  I tilted my head side to side. "That's a strong word, but I guess it pretty much captures my thought."

  "You're probably right there. If it was a random killing, that is. But I'm not convinced it was. The crime scene is just too clean. No struggle, no overturned furniture, what little there is. The only thing that's out of place is this broken door."

  "Well then, if we're off the random killer notion, which thank goodness we are because those are much less fun, then I've found something that could be important."

  Briggs followed me to the sink. He stared into it, and the anticipated puzzled brow followed. "It's a pink cocktail," he said plainly.

  "With lipstick on the edge of the glass," I noted.

  Briggs leaned in closer. "Yep, you're right, and I didn't see that color on the victim, so I guess we can assume he had a female visitor at some point in the evening." Briggs glanced at me and squinted. "You're smiling."

  "Yes, yes I am."

  "You know something."

  I nodded. "Why, yes I do. Remember that woman we saw Lionel kissing this evening, the one on the boat?"

  "The yacht?" he asked.

  "If you insist but I think it sort of misses the mark. Anyhow, I saw that same woman, stretched out on a lounge on the deck in a glamorous movie star sort of pose with big sunglasses and red lipstick." I motioned to the sink. "This color is more coral. The color she wore on the boat was much more of a cherry red."

  "So this drink might have been consumed by someone else?" he suggested.

  "On the contrary, Detective Briggs. Most women have a plethora of lipstick colors, one to go with certain moods or the colors of their clothes or whether or not they have a suntan." I waved off my explanation. "No, the important thing about my earlier run in with the woman on the boat—" I sighed in irritation. "We really need to find out her name. Anyhow, when I saw her yesterday, she was lounging with her pink cocktail. It was the same bright pink as the liquid in this glass. She was here. That woman on the boat was here in Lionel's house, having a drink."

  "Unless it was another woman in coral lipstick drinking a pink cocktail," Briggs suggested.

  "You're just being contrary because you were woken from a deep sleep."

  "You're probably right. Anyhow, it's definitely evidence that the team missed." He shook his head. "I'll get them in here to collect the glass. Anything else you noticed or smelled?"

  "Do you mean aside from decades old grease and dust?" I crinkled my sensitive nose. "Seriously, there are layers of it in here. I could probably tell you what Mrs. Palmer cooked for Thanksgiving in the year 2000 if I gave it a good whiff."

  "Like Officer Gillum said, hope Dexter got a good deal on this place. It's a wreck." Briggs reached for his tie and realized he wasn't wearing it. He stared down at his crumpled shirt with the top button uncharacteristically open. "I'm never going to hear the end of this at the Chesterton Precinct."

  "What? That you came to work without a tie and a wrinkled shirt?"

  A slight smile formed on his lips. "No, that I showed up to a murder scene with my girlfriend and still only partially dressed in what was obviously yesterday's work clothes."

  "Oh," I said calmly, then my eyes rounded. "Oh!" My face warmed with a blush. "Guess it looks somewhat unseemly but then like you said, I am your girlfriend." I reached forward and straightened his crooked collar. "I can't decide which moniker I like better, girlfriend or investigative partner."

  "Assistant," he said.

  "If you say so, but I did just discover a major piece of evidence. Think I'll survey a few of the other rooms and see what the professionals missed." I tossed a teasing glance over my shoulder. "Might even find the murder weapon." I added a haughty swing to my hips as I left the kitchen.

  Most of the rooms along the hallway that jutted from the main area, namely the kitchen and front room, where Lionel's body was discovered, were empty. There weren't even the obligatory unpacked boxes one would expect to find when someone recently moved into a house. A slightly open door led into what must have been the previously mentioned sitting room. The floor to ceiling dust crusted windows looked out over a weed choked yard, which included a long since dry fish pond and a fountain that was crumbling from decay
. A rather unfashionable brown and green sofa sat in the center of the mostly empty room.

  It was easy to assume that the evidence team didn't need to spend much time in any room since there was so little furniture and clutter. It made for an easy inspection. It also made for a rather disappointing crime scene. There were no interesting smells, or at least none that I could smell over the victim's powerful cologne. It seemed there was no real evidence of any kind.

  The only light in the room was coming from the coroner's bright lamps down the hallway. The room was filled with shadows of the overgrown trees outside the windows. I walked to one of the tall windows and gazed out over the moonlit patch of weeds. It certainly was a fixer upper. If Lionel was as wealthy as Kate had purported, then why on earth did he latch onto a place that needed so much work? Maybe he saw its potential and for a good price, he decided it would be a great investment. Wealthy people never needed to worry about renovation costs. A big budget could have eventually turned the place into a palace. Only, sadly, it seemed the old house wasn't going to get its chance to shine again.

  I swung around and my eyes caught a tiny sparkle in the otherwise dark room. It had come from the sofa. I hurried over and knelt down in front of it. My body produced another shadow, this time over the couch, but in the darkness, something glittered. I took my glove out of my coat pocket and pulled it back on. I reached under the sofa and my fingers wrapped around something solid. I dragged it out and turned toward the light streaming down the hallway.

  "The necklace," I muttered. "My goodness, I've seen you more often than I've seen any of my own necklaces."

  "Who are you talking to?" Briggs' deep voice flowed into the room. He pointed a flashlight at me and quickly lowered it when I had to raise my arm to shield my eyes. "What do you have there?" He came into the room.

  I pushed to my feet. "Your assistant just found another very significant piece of evidence . . . I think."

  He pointed the flashlight at the necklace on my gloved palm. "Where did you find that?"

  "Under the sofa. I just happened to see the little diamond glitter in the light coming down the hallway."

  Briggs pulled an evidence bag and pen out of his pocket. He began to write down the necessary details on the outside.

  "Aren't you going to ask me why I think this is significant?"

  "Well, the fact that someone apparently threw or hid a necklace under the couch means it could have been there because of a fight, or Lionel was trying to hide it from someone."

  "Yes, there's that," I said, flippantly. "Or it could be that this was the necklace I saw Lionel buy in Lola's shop. The expensive antique necklace he bought for Margaret Sherman, the widow he was dating. I saw her wearing it and bragging about it earlier today when I went into Elsie's bakery."

  His eyes lifted. "You're sure about that?"

  "Positive. You can ask Lola just to be certain, but it's an unusual, one-of-a-kind necklace." I snapped my fingers, suddenly remembering something. "Margaret Sherwood lives nearby. Possibly even this same street."

  "Good work, Lacey. That's all information I wouldn't have had if you weren't always flitting about town."

  "Thank you very much. I'm happy to flit whenever it's required."

  Chapter 14

  Nevermore had woken me from a sound sleep. In my tired stupor I'd accidentally, or quite subconsciously, turned off my alarm rather than hit the snooze button. Thankfully, a hungry cat could serve as an excellent back up alarm. He was quickly dismayed at me for practically throwing his cat food at him as I rushed around like a nutcase trying to get ready. I texted Ryder to let him know I was running very late. Awesome guy that he was, he texted back no hurry. He had everything under control.

  Kingston hated it when I was rushing and anxious. He churned himself into his own nervous dance. His talons scraped on the top of the car seat as he moved back and forth along it, letting me know, in no uncertain terms, that I had irritated him. He was also angry that I didn't have time to cook him his usual hardboiled egg breakfast. In fact, the more I thought about it that was probably a greater source of his irritation than me rushing around with my hair on fire.

  My tires chirped a little as I pulled up to the curb and parked. I opened the door and Kingston and I flew out, the bird literally and me . . . well, my arms were sort of flapping. We almost always had a morning rush, people buying flowers for coworker's birthdays, teachers, and other daily occasions that required a nice bouquet, and I felt guilty that I'd left Ryder entirely alone for the busy period. It was hard to both wait on customers and arrange the flowers.

  Kingston had had enough of me. He shot straight into a tree, letting me know he had no desire to sit in the flower shop with a crazy woman.

  I pulled open the door, still in a frenzied state but was immediately calmed by the sight of Ryder leaning casually over the work island, sipping a coffee and chatting with Les. The leaf and ribbon debris on the island assured me it had been a hectic morning, but, as usual, Ryder had handled it all with ease.

  "Oh my gosh, what will I ever do without you, Ryder?" I said as I hurried past to put my things in the office. "Morning, Les," I added as I disappeared around the corner.

  "Morning, Lacey," he called back. "Brought you a gingerbread latte to try. It looks as if you might need it."

  I shoved my purse in the cupboard and a carton of yogurt in the mini office fridge, then raced back out to the comfort of my gingerbread latte. I grabbed it and took a sip. Instantly, all the anxiety of the morning melted away. "Hmm, Les, this is wonderful. Transports me right to a holiday morning, cozy in my pajamas and sitting by the tree. You are a lifesaver." I pointed at Ryder. "And so are you, you terrific, wonderful, amazing assistant."

  "You forgot talented, handsome and, uh, a pretty good skateboarder," Ryder said.

  "And I'm sure there are at least a dozen other appropriate accolades, but my head is still too foggy to come up with them."

  Les pushed the sleeve of his sweater up. "I take it you were out late investigating the murder."

  I lowered my coffee cup. "You know about it?" I asked, stunned that the news had traveled so fast.

  "Sure. That's the nice thing about owning a coffee shop," Les said. "You get to hear all the latest news as early as five in the morning. Customers from Chesterton were all a twitter about the murder at the Palmer house. Gunshots, death, a mysterious new stranger, intrigue, all the stuff to make a morning over coffee cups that much more enjoyable."

  "I suppose all the police activity in such a quiet neighborhood doesn't go unnoticed. I'll clean up from the morning, Ryder. You take a break." I started cleaning the work island.

  "Is it true the victim was Kate's new boyfriend, the rich guy with the expensive car?" Ryder asked. He hopped on a stool to take a much deserved rest.

  "It's true. Has anyone seen her? I was in such a hurry this morning I didn't even glance at her shop when I drove past."

  Ryder looked at Les and they both shook their heads. "She hasn't been in for her usual coffee," Les said. "Which reminds me, I own a coffee shop. Better get back."

  "How is the new barista working out?" I asked. Lester was much less picky about his workers than his sister, Elsie, but he occasionally hired people too fast and then regretted it later. This time it was a young man who was just starting city college. He seemed bright and nice.

  "He's great so far. No complaints but we'll see. The good ones usually move on quickly." Les walked out and popped back in. "I see a certain detective heading this way." The door shut and he headed back to the coffee shop.

  "I wonder if James is feeling as groggy as me. I think he dropped me off home just before five in the morning."

  "Jeez, no wonder you overslept. You hardly had any time in bed," Ryder noted. "I've got to take a bunch of potted herbs down to the Corner Market. Tom and Gigi wanted some sage and thyme to place with their Thanksgiving display. I've already put them in my car. Do you need anything while I'm down there?"

  I'd heard
most of what he said, but things were still processing slowly. "How about a clear head? Preferably one that got a few hours more sleep."

  "I'll see what Gigi has in her clear head aisle. Too bad the Uptons don't sell those smelling salts they used to use in the nineteenth century to arouse a woman who had swooned. With your nose, one whiff could probably send you straight to the moon." He laughed at his theory as he headed out the door.

  Just as Les had mentioned, the bell rang and a certain detective walked inside. He looked far more awake than I felt. He was back to a tie and buttoned shirtsleeves.

  "I found myself drifting off over paperwork, so I decided to take a brisk walk down the street to visit my favorite florist." He instinctively walked to Kingston's perch but was just out of it enough to not notice it was bird-less. He stared at the empty perch. "There's no bird." He pointed at Kingston's favorite end, then turned back to me. "There is usually a pushy bird standing right here. Unless I've been imagining it all this time. Which might be the case."

  He seemed to catch me standing in somewhat of a daze with a dust broom in my hand and headed across the shop to me. He took the broom from my hand, placed it on the counter and pulled me into an embrace. "I saw Ryder leaving so I'm taking advantage." He kissed me. "That was a thank you for helping last night."

  He lowered his arms, and I involuntarily sighed in disappointment. I could have just stood in his warms arms for a few hours and taken a nice nap.

  "I came to fill you in on a few details about the case," he said.

  "Yippee. What did you find out?"

  "First, the obvious. Victim died of a gunshot to the chest. According to ballistics, the killer used a small handgun, a Glock 42, easy to hide in a purse or deep pocket. Unfortunately, there was no sign of the weapon in or around the property. Mr. Dexter, if that's his real name, died between eleven and midnight, which we already knew because that was when the neighbors called the police to report a gunshot."