Cornflowers and Corpses Page 8

  Briggs nodded. "And we've already found his binoculars."

  "Maybe he wasn't carrying a phone," Rowley offered with a shrug. "My aunt is a big bird watcher. She took me with her to the Rocky Mountains once. My phone went off just as we were closing in on some kind of jay, can't remember the species. My phone sent it off into the trees. She was so mad," Rowley said. "Maybe he wasn't carrying a phone because he didn't want to scare off the birds."

  "Well, phones have this magical little setting that allows you to put them on silent," Briggs said. There was a touch of sarcasm in the tone, but I knew he was going easy on the guy. He was young, a rookie probably.

  Rowley chuckled. "Guess that's why you're the detective. So do you want me to get a large evidence bag?" He really was a rookie.

  Briggs looked up at him. "That's probably a good idea. And, Rowley, while you're walking that direction, look to see if John Jacobs, the victim's friend is still hanging around the picnic area. He's wearing a light green polo shirt and gray pants. Walk him this way when you return."

  A text came through on my phone. It was Amelia's reply. "No problem. Things are fine here." I read. "Guess that means I can stick around for awhile. Why are you bringing John here?"

  Briggs put the backpack down. "Well, fellow investigator, you tell me." There was a teasing lilt to his tone, but he was genuinely interested to see if I could figure out his reasoning.

  I tapped my chin and gazed down at the backpack and the tossed out contents. "Ah ha, I've got it. You're hoping since John was Mason's friend, he'll be able to tell you exactly what is missing from the backpack."

  Briggs nodded appreciatively. "Well done. Hopefully John knows enough about his buddy to let us know what's missing and possibly even why it might be missing."

  Officer Rowley returned quickly and efficiently, just like a rookie trying his hardest to do things right. John Jacobs returned with him, a questioning expression on his face.

  "Detective Briggs," John said as he followed Rowley around the maze of shrubs and dangling tree limbs. "You wanted to see me?" he asked just as he reached the small clearing where we stood. His gaze dropped instantly to the backpack. "That's Mason's pack. I wondered where that went. He never goes out bird watching without it." He looked up at Briggs. "It looks as if someone has rifled through it. He would never leave the zipper open."

  "Yes, we found it like that," Briggs explained as he pulled out a pair of gloves for John. "I was hoping you could look at all the items I've pulled out and the several items that were strewn about when the assailant went though Mason's things. It would be helpful if you could tell us what is missing from his usual gear. Not including the binoculars that you already identified as belonging to the victim."

  John's head bobbed in quick, short nods. "Yes, yes of course. Anything I can do to help." He pulled on the gloves and pinched the rain slicker and sweatshirt between two fingers, apparently worried he'd damage evidence if he handled the things too roughly. He took his task quite seriously and took note of the items already on the ground, including the wallet. Then he lifted the backpack and spun it around to the camera pouch. He looked back at the items on the ground and turned to Briggs. "Where's the camera? Mason never went into the wilderness without his camera." He looked into the now emptied bag. "His phone is gone too. We always take our phones for safety reasons and for the occasional spontaneous photo. Sometimes the camera isn't practical. But Mason would never walk out here without those two tools."

  Briggs pulled out his notebook. "Do you happen to know what kind of camera he carried?"

  "Sure, it was a Canon EOS."

  "This question will be harder," Briggs warned. "Do you know why someone would want it? Was it especially valuable?"

  John considered the question. "It wasn't a particularly valuable camera." He snapped his fingers. "Wait." He tapped the side of his head. "I don't know why this didn't come to me sooner. Late last night, after the convention had closed for the night, Mason met me in the hotel bar for a beer. He told me he had taken a very important picture. He said it was rare, and it would have significant consequences."

  Briggs and I snapped to full attention. "Did he tell you the contents of the photo or why it would be significant?" Briggs asked.

  "No, he didn't give out any details but told me I'd see it soon. I just assumed it was a photo of a rare bird. Three years ago, Mason won a prestigious award for a photo of a California condor feeding its chick. It was a spectacular shot. I'm not sure what he had this time, but it sounded important."

  "Important enough for someone to steal the camera?" Briggs asked.

  "And possibly the phone for the same reason," I added. Both men looked at me. "Did he tell you if he caught this photo on his camera or phone?"

  John rubbed his chin. "No, come to think of it he didn't say. I guess I just assumed it would be the camera but you're perfectly right. I've known fellow bird watchers to catch a spontaneous and terrific photo on a camera phone. Like I said, sometimes it's inconvenient to pull out a camera." He chuckled lightly. "Most birds don't wait around for the pose."

  "No?" Briggs glanced my direction. "I know of at least one who would." He brushed past the comment that was meant only for me. "Thank you for your help with this, Mr. Jacobs. We're going to collect up Mr. Fanning's things for evidence."

  "I sure hope you find who did this," John said. "Mason wasn't exactly citizen of the year, but he didn't deserve this."

  Briggs nodded in agreement. "We'll catch the killer soon."

  John hiked his way back out of the clearing and headed along the trail.

  "So, Detective Briggs, do you think the motive had something to do with the mystery photo?" I asked.

  "Seems like it might be a clue." Rowley took care of the evidence collection, and Briggs and I headed out of the clearing.

  I sighed. "Guess I need to get back to my place of business."

  "Detective Briggs," an officer called as we reached the trail. "We've found the weapon."

  I shrugged. "Or maybe I could stick it out for a few more minutes."

  Chapter 17

  Briggs and I met up with the police officers who had found what was presumed to be the murder weapon. The blood smear on the six inch blade made it fairly certain. The pearl handled knife with its high carbon steel blade was nestled in a thick layer of loamy soil behind a large boulder. Oddly enough, the killer had taken the time and energy to attempt the impossible task of hiding the body, but they hardly bothered to hide the small knife. It was found only three hundred yards from the tree where Mason was murdered, and while the blade was slightly hidden by the soil, the white pearl handle could hardly be missed. There were infinite locations one could hide a six inch knife in a dense forest, but the killer merely jammed the blade into the earth and left it virtually in the open for the police to find.

  Briggs had the same thought. (It was part of the reason we were so perfectly matched.) "Interesting. It seems almost as if the killer was hoping we'd find the weapon."

  "You took the words right out of my mouth," I said. "It would have been easy to hide that knife anywhere in this forest where it would have taken days to find." I looked at Briggs. "I'll bet you a dinner out that there aren't any prints on that pearl handle."

  "That would be a fool's bet, but I'll take you to dinner win or lose." Briggs pulled out his phone and took a few pictures of the position and area around the knife. "Evidence bag, please" Briggs said as he stuck out a gloved hand. "I'm going to show it to the club members. Maybe someone can point us in the direction of the owner." He stooped down with the bag and carefully pinched the handle so as not so smear any prints that might be there. The blood was dry and the knife went cleanly into the bag. "Good work, officers. Keep looking. We're missing a camera and a phone."

  The two officers got right back to their search. I followed Briggs back toward the picnic area. Nate and his team had placed Mason's body in the bag. They were getting ready to transport him to the morgue. They would have no choi
ce but to roll the gurney with the macabre body bag past the stunned club members.

  "Let's hurry. I want to see the reactions of the others as Nate rolls the body to the van," Briggs said.

  "Something tells me there won't be torrents of tears and wet tissues," I added.

  We hiked along the path and headed toward the voices rolling up from the picnic area. The club members had gathered at various tables. Nora was still noticeably absent. The murder hadn't stopped them from enjoying Elsie's irresistible brownies. The tables were strewn with empty plates dotted with a few fudgy crumbs. And only a few, Elsie's brownies almost always prompted finger dabbing to get every last morsel. Nate's gurney wheels squeaked causing a few faces to fade white. Everyone pushed up from the picnic benches, and hats were pulled off in respect. But as I predicted, no tears or tissues.

  Briggs, also out of respect, waited for Nate's team to load the body into the coroner's van and pull out of the parking lot before approaching Mason's fellow club members with the key piece of evidence.

  Andrew spotted us walking toward the picnic area. He'd snapped out of his stupor and taken charge, it seemed. "Detective Briggs, we're getting tired. We'd like to head back to our hotel rooms. It's been a trying day." His eyes swept down to the evidence bag in Briggs' hand. "Nora's knife." He took a dramatic short breath. "Why are you holding Nora's knife?" His deep set eyes swept the area and his dark brows furrowed. "Where is Nora? Come to think of it, I haven't seen her since the beginning of the picnic." His exceptionally baritone voice rolled easily to his friends. Instantly, whispers and shocked gasps mingled with the usual bird twitters and rhythmic tune of waves curling and splashing along the coastline.

  Briggs kept it straight and professional. Setting off a hurricane of rumors and accusations was not going to help the case. "Can you confirm that this knife belongs to Nora Banks?"

  A few more club members, including Minnie, the treasurer, moved cautiously toward Briggs and his seemingly damning bag of evidence. "Oh my." Minnie pressed her hand against the colorful silk scarf that was draped haphazardly yet fashionably around her neck.

  Andrew swept his fingers anxiously across one thick brow. "Minnie, this looks like Nora's knife, doesn't it? I certainly don't want to confirm it without the rest of you agreeing." He glanced at the other stricken faces (some still wearing tiny bits of Elsie's brownies on their shirts and at the edges of their mouths). Heads nodded, reluctantly. It seemed no one was keen to implicate one of their own in a heinous crime.

  Minnie took a deep breath. "Nora's father gave it to her last Christmas. She kept it in a leather pouch on the side of her backpack. It was for protection, in case she found herself deep in the forest or desert or some other rugged place where a knife would come in handy." Minnie's face brightened. "Almost all of us have them." Her moment of positive enthusiasm dimmed. "But I'm sure that one belongs to Nora."

  Ivy had joined the group. "It's a particularly pretty one with the mother of pearl handle and all." Ivy peered up from the bag in Briggs' hand. "Is that how Mason died? We've heard little, so far."

  "It would be nice to know if we need to take our own precautions," an older man with a rust colored mustache and a t-shirt that proclaimed 'easily distracted by birds' said sharply.

  Briggs lowered the bag to pull it out of the center of attention. It seemed to be making everyone uncomfortable. Uneasy feet shuffles and supportive pats on the back made their way around the semi circle of people who had joined us.

  "We found this near the victim," Briggs said solemnly, "but we have no proof yet that this knife was used in Mason Fanning's murder."

  Just hearing the word murder caused vibrations through the group.

  "So there is a murderer somewhere out here," a woman said as she crossed her arms defensively. She followed the protective move with a shifty eyed glance around the half circle.

  "Nora had good reason to hate Mason," the mustache man said. "He humiliated her in front of everyone last night."

  Andrew, who thus far had seemed amiable enough but had shown little inclination to take charge as club president, finally found his leadership voice. He cleared his throat. "Everyone, let's not panic or jump to conclusions. Admittedly, this is frightening, but let's not jump to conclusions or fall right into the trap of unbridled fear. I'm sure Detective Briggs will use the evidence gathered"—Andrew looked pointedly at the evidence bag and the pearl handled knife—"to find the killer. In the meantime, we must keep it together."

  Briggs nodded his appreciation to Andrew. "Do any of you know where I can find Nora Banks? Any idea at all where she might be?"

  There was a silent pause, but this time it didn't seem to stem from people trying to avoid implicating a friend. They seemed genuinely perplexed.

  "I know she said she was going to go on her own birding adventure." Ivy looked at me. "Remember, I told you she ate a sandwich and then left the picnic."

  "Yes, I remember," I said. "Did anyone happen to hear her plans? Did she tell anyone where she was going?"

  A chorus of no's and head shakes followed.

  "That's breaking one of our most prominent rules," Andrew added with a scowl. "We always tell at least one club member where we're going when we head off on our own. Apparently, she was still too upset about last night."

  "Either that or she didn't want anyone to know where she was because—" Minnie's words trailed off. "No, that can't be. It just doesn't seem possible that Nora could be responsible."

  Briggs seemed to decide that was a good point to end the conversation. People were growing agitated. With that type of stress, people tended to jump to wild rumors and theories. Although, admittedly, theorizing that Nora might have murdered Mason wasn't all that wild.

  "Thank you all for your time. My officers will probably take down personal information, phone numbers and where you're staying. Please cooperate. That way we can reach you if we need to. While it never hurts to be cautious, try not to worry too much. We'll find the person soon enough."

  Briggs and I walked away. I was just about to ask how he felt about the whole discussion and whether or not he got any inkling about what happened to Mason when my phone buzzed. It was a text from Amelia.

  "You should probably return to the shop." It was all she wrote, but it was easy enough to read the urgency in her words.

  "I've got to head back to the flower shop." I smiled at him. "Do you think you can handle things without me for a bit?"

  He glanced around, took hold of my hand and brought it to his mouth for a discrete kiss. "I'll try to manage."

  Chapter 18

  By the time I reached the store, the scene inside seemed quite normal. Barbara was finishing up with a customer and Amelia was on the phone, with a customer, I presumed since she was using her professional voice, a soft, overly polite without being condescending tone that she told me she'd formulated during her job as a hostess at a large, posh restaurant. There was nothing amiss on the crow side of the shop either. My bird had tucked his beak under for a brief nap in the late afternoon sun coming through the shop window. Apparently, I'd misread Amelia's text.

  Amelia hung up with the customer and tugged at the slight curl in her tawny brown hair as she cast me a look that made it seem that the normal, placid scene in the shop was not what it seemed.

  Barbara smiled brightly at the woman she was helping as she handed her a mixed bouquet of pink roses and white carnations. "Here you go, Mrs. Shuster. I'm so glad you decided to take my suggestion and go with the pink rather than the yellow roses."

  Mrs. Shuster, a woman who was an occasional customer, didn't look altogether convinced about the pink roses. She stared at them in the way my ten-year-old self used to stare at the broccoli on my plate. "It's just that yellow roses are my aunt's favorites," she said meekly. I hadn't known her to be a shy or particularly reserved woman, but it seemed she'd been almost berated into accepting that the pink roses were better. I shot a glance toward Amelia. She nodded slightly and then tugged at the curl i
n her hair. It was a gesture I'd never seen her do before.

  I cleared my throat, catching the customer's attention for the first time.

  "Oh, Lacey," Mrs. Shuster said with relief. "I didn't see you come in." She looked askance at Barbara before favoring me with a weak smile.

  It was time to hop into action. "Mrs. Shuster, if you prefer to have the yellow roses, then we'd be happy to replace the pink with yellow. We'll add in a few extra for free for the inconvenience."

  Mrs. Shuster's face lit up. "Would you? That would be so nice." She turned a gracious smile toward Barbara, who looked as if she had just removed a tart lemon from her mouth.

  "As I explained to Mrs. Shuster," Barbara pushed herself right into the conversation, "the pink roses are a much nicer contrast to the white carnations."

  Mrs. Shuster's earlier, hopeful posture deflated again.

  "I think the yellow roses will contrast just fine," I said curtly. "I'll tell you what, Mrs. Shuster. I'll make the new arrangement myself. Barbara," I said forcing a polite tone, "there are three bouquets in the freezer that need to be delivered before the end of the work day. The recipients are all in the same few mile radius in Mayfield. I'll pay you extra for mileage, of course, but it would be a great help to me if you could deliver them."

  For the first time since she'd walked into my shop, Barbara seemed to be speechless. She was also reluctant to leave the task of making a new arrangement to me. It was going to take all my strength to keep her on. If only she weren't so good at her job. Elsie was right. Why did all the good ones have to come with hard to overlook flaws?

  "Yes, I'll deliver them," Barbara finally said. "I'll make note of my mileage for the reimbursement."

  "Perfect." I turned back to Mrs. Shuster and took the pink bouquet from her hands. "Let's get you those yellow roses."

  Barbara hurried off to the refrigerator. She kept a watchful eye on my bouquet building as she carried the three deliveries to her car. I half expected her to stop and move a rose or carnation to what she considered a more appropriate place, only, it seemed, she'd had more than enough of Mrs. Shuster and her yellow roses. Thankfully, she walked out of the shop with her purse and a slight ding to her pride. Obviously, we would need to have a chat about letting the customers choose their own flowers.