Carnations and Chaos Read online

  I squinted up to the tree. The top branches were moving, but there was no breeze. Some magenta colored leaves fluttered down. The crow on the top branch was surveying the goody filled scene below.

  "No, Mayor Price, that's not my crow."

  Several yards away at the Sweet Cherry Pie booth, Celeste Bower was flailing her arms and yelling 'go away'. Her hens had chimed in on the frenetic energy in the booth. Chicken feathers filled the air like in a slumber party pillow fight. And at the center of the melee was none other than my pet.

  "That is my crow." I hurried over to Celeste's booth. Her eyes were wide with terror and rightfully so. Apparently some of the stale flax seed Celeste threw out had missed the trash. Kingston was desperately trying to nibble up the spilled seed.

  "Kingston," I said sharply. He was quite focused on the discarded flax.

  Celeste was confused that I was calling a wild crow by name. Her brows furrowed together, and her baby blue eyes looked a lot less friendly. Her big country smile had vanished too.

  "Is this your bird?" she asked angrily. "A pet crow? He's a menace." She lifted her foot to give Kingston a kick. I was shocked by her display of temper after acting the charismatic country charmer all weekend.

  "No, please. He's just a little too comfortable around people." I leaned over the side of the booth and lowered my hand to get Kingston's attention. It was a gesture I did when I wanted him to step onto my hand and use my wrist as a perch. He stopped pecking at the grass and hopped onto my arm. I straightened away from the booth, crow on hand and discovered that a curious audience had gathered.

  "Look, that crow is tame," I heard someone say.

  "I wish I had a pet crow," another voice said.

  Most people saw a tame crow as an oddity but a fun oddity. That was not the case with everyone. The only person who looked more angry than Celeste was my dear nemesis, Mayor Price.

  "Now you've done it, you daft bird," I muttered to Kingston. He took that as his cue to leave and lifted off my wrist. The crowd pointed up in awe as if they had never seen a crow fly overhead and watched until Kingston was just a black speck in the blue sky.

  "Where's he going?" a girl asked.

  "If he knows what's good for him—home," I answered. I turned to apologize to Celeste, but the mayor stopped me.

  "Miss Pinkerton." The way he said my name caused my shoulders to bunch up around my ears.

  "That bird is dangerous. I'm looking into having the council write up legislation to ban crows from the shopping and business areas."

  "Someone better tell the other crows then." The deep, smooth voice came through the crowd. Faces turned back to Detective Briggs. He took a sip of the soda he was holding before motioning toward six crows snooping around the tables and trash cans. Even after seeing its comrade nearly get kicked, one crow was still trying desperately to get to the dispersed flax seed. That stuff must have been like crow candy.

  With all the ruffled feathers, both human and bird, there was always one person who never had a feather out of place. Detective James Briggs. And the sound of his voice had made me feel safer and bolder all at once.

  I made every attempt to stretch up taller. "Mayor Price, if your city council really has nothing better to do than worry about pet birds, then go right ahead. But until then, Kingston will sit in my shop window. And when he tires of the window, he'll fly around the town and the trees just like the other birds."

  Mayor Price's mouth had twisted in a knot. He turned to Briggs. "I wouldn't have expected to see you lollygagging around the fair drinking sodas, Detective, when there's a mur—" He sealed his mouth shut, and his eyes flickered as he searched for a different word. "When there's an important case going on."

  "I assure you, Mayor Price, I never lollygag. And I'm here for precisely that reason. I hope you don't mind if I stopped for a soda. I was parched. Now I'm heading back to the office to continue on that case."

  For the second time that afternoon, I watched Detective Briggs walk away. Only this time, instead of an ache in my eyes, there was the tiniest little pitter patter inside my chest. I was pretty sure it was my heart sighing dreamily.

  Chapter 20

  I'd told myself a dozen times it was a mistake to go into the police station and see Detective Briggs, and yet, there I was pulling open the heavy glass door. The police station was the least inviting place in the entire town, which was saying a lot because the county morgue was just at the edge of Port Danby, past the church and right before the Mayfield turnoff. Still I had to give Officer Chinmoor and Hilda, the woman who ran dispatch, props for trying. For Halloween they had taped some paper Jack-'o'-lanterns to the front of the chin high dull gray counters. And that gray was the only splash of color in the place. For November, they had tried to add a touch of festiveness by taping up a paper pilgrim and turkey. It seemed they'd used the same pieces of tapes as the pumpkins because I was sure I saw a corner of Jack still stuck to the tape over the pilgrim's tall black hat.

  Officer Chinmoor must have been out in the police car because it was not parked out front. Hilda, a retired police woman from the next town of Chesterton, popped her head up and removed her headphones. "Hello, Miss Pinkerton. Are you here to see Detective Briggs?"

  "If he has a minute, yes." I didn't have much more to tell him, but I was dying to see what he'd discovered in his interviews at the fair.

  "Let me check. How is that magical million dollar nose?" she asked, tapping her own nose at the same time.

  "It's still on my face. I'm hoping I can be of assistance in the murder investigation if Detective Briggs needs me."

  "I'll just check on him and see if he has time. I know he's working hard today." She knocked on the door and entered.

  My entire body froze as it suddenly dawned on me he might just say no to seeing me. I tended to look too positively on everything, and I'd immediately concluded that when he stepped in to take my side against Mayor Price, it signaled we were still friends. But just maybe I'd been wrong.

  Hilda walked out. I braced myself for disappointment. Her face didn't give me any clues. "Go on in, Miss Pinkerton."

  "Right. Thank you. I will." I walked into Briggs' office, which was perhaps one small step above the front office in terms of color and decor. But then it was a detective's office. My few years in the perfume industry where interior design and posh surroundings were tantamount to success had made me far too judgmental. I needed to work on that.

  I felt instantly shy in Briggs' presence. I usually felt so at ease with him, but the blustery greeting at the fair this afternoon had broken my confidence.

  He was flipping through his notepad. "Have a seat, Miss Pinkerton."

  Naturally, I was trying to gauge whether or not the simple request sounded cold or friendly or indifferent. The last option, I decided. Which could be good or bad.

  I sat down and rested my hands quietly in my lap, determined not to show my unease by fidgeting with the hem of my shirt or some other meaningless twitch. I waited for him to finish skimming his notes and noticed there was just enough tension in the air to require cutting with a jaunty little opener.

  "Well, Mayor Price is obviously growing fonder of me each day."

  The edge of his lip curled up so my opener worked. Sort of.

  He finally lifted his face to look at me. "The man thinks anyone not born within fifty miles of Port Danby is a hostile alien from another planet."

  "Ah, I see. That explains his warm, fuzzy approach with me." I sat forward, relieved that some of the tension had dissipated. "Did you find anything of worth when you were talking to the people at the town square?"

  He nodded and flipped to a few pages of notes. "I discovered that our victim was as much loved as she was hated. Of course the haters chose their words carefully so as not to seem suspect. As the Sandwich Queen noted, and I quote— 'Marian was vile. She was the type of person to step on your toe with her heel and then blame you for having a toe in the first place. But she certainly didn't deserv
e to die. Very sad. Poor dear.'"

  "It seems to me that the food bloggers, the people who have been around her in these kinds of events, see her in a totally different light than the people who read her blog and buy her cookbook," I said. "Which makes sense. A lot of people are very different face to face. Those same people can come off as likable and personable through a keyboard. I visited her blog by the way."

  "I did too," he said. "I didn't find much except that she really loves that blasted coffee creamer. That and the fact that she broadcast to everyone that she had a deadly peanut allergy. Of course there was nothing wrong with that, except it makes it that much harder to narrow down the list of suspects." He picked up a pad of paper from under a file folder. "Which, for the time being, is a list of one. Her nephew, Parker Hermann."

  "That is a short list. Where is Parker at the moment?"

  "At the hotel. He did book another suite though. The crime scene room is locked so no one, not even housekeeping, can enter. He's waiting to fly home with his aunt's remains. I've asked him to stay here until I get a clearer picture of what happened to her. But right now I don't have anything to keep him here indefinitely."

  "Nothing else came out of the fair interviews?" I asked.

  "Yes, one more thing. Apparently just about every person at the fair tried a sample of that honey-lavender hand lotion. I'm afraid that piece of evidence is worthless."

  "That's a shame." I sat for a moment and had a quick mind debate about whether or not to approach him about this afternoon's greeting. I'd come to the conclusion that it had to do with the rainy night and power outage and most of all with my neighbor, Dash.

  "Detective Briggs," I said, somewhat hesitantly.

  "Yes?"

  "I'm just going to say something here. I tend to ramble on when something has me upset, so please excuse me if my words get disjointed."

  He sat back and tilted his head just a tad defensively. He must have known the topic I was heading toward.

  "I live next door to Dashwood Vanhouten. I didn't know him before I bought and moved into my house. He has been polite and kind and exceedingly attentive. He even stepped in on at least two occasions when I was in trouble."

  His brows furrowed in question.

  I waved my hand dismissively. "A little incident falling off my porch and then once more when I got stuck inside the . . . Let's just say I got stuck somewhere and leave it at that. My point is—"

  "Yes, what is your point?"

  This time, I tilted my head defensively. "I'm getting to it. Dash is a friend of mine. He rushed over last night when he knew the power was out. He also knew I'd be distressed by the dark. Not that it's anyone's business, but he is a friend and a neighbor and that's all. You have both made no effort to hide the fact that you two don't care for each other, but whatever that's about has nothing to do with me. I'm not part of that triangle. There is Dash and me, friends and neighbors. And there is Detective Briggs and me, friends—I hope—and investigative partners."

  He rubbed the black beard stubble on his jaw. "We're not investigative partners."

  I shrugged. "I thought I'd throw that in to give it a whirl and see how it sounded. I rather liked it."

  He shook his head and then gazed at me across the desk. "We are friends, Miss Pinkerton. And you're right. Whatever has passed between Dash and me has nothing to do with you. I apologize."

  "Apology accepted. And thank you."

  "Thank you for what?"

  "For stopping by last night to make sure I was all right. Or maybe you were just making the rounds?"

  He seemed to contemplate his response. "No, I stopped by to make sure you were all right."

  "Then thank you."

  His phone rang.

  I stood up. "I'll leave you to it then."

  He picked up the phone. "Hello. Yes, this is Detective Briggs."

  I reached the door.

  "Right. Hold on, please. Miss Pinkerton," he called before I walked out.

  I turned around.

  "The manager, Mr. Trumble, wants his expensive suite back. I need to go in and do one last sweep for evidence. Would you like to go?"

  "Yes," I said faster than a blink.

  He finished his phone call, hung up and grabbed his keys.

  I did a quick little clap of my hands.

  "What's the applause for?" he asked as he got up from his desk.

  "It's my happy applause. You've never done a happy applause?"

  "Can't say I have."

  "You should." I followed him out the door.

  He stopped before opening the car door. "What about your shop?"

  "No problem. I'm out of flowers, anyhow."

  Chapter 21

  The manager looked just as harried as the day of the murder when he came skating on his hard soled leather shoes across the marble floor of the lobby. I wondered if he was just a naturally hyper kind of guy, always looking as if he'd had just one espresso too many.

  "Glad you are here, Detective Briggs. As I had Blanche, my assistant manager, mention on the phone, I just can't afford to have that suite vacant for much longer. If the crew could get in there and clean, then—"

  "Yes, I understand how the hotel system works, Mr. Trumble," Detective Briggs said. "I would like to make one more thorough check of the room before we hand it over to cleaning crews. If you could let us in or get us a key, that would be great."

  "A key. Right." He was just about to scurry off for a key, but Briggs stopped him. "Mr. Trumble, just for clarification, Ms. Fitch did have the room rented for the entire weekend, correct?"

  "Yes, they arrived Thursday. Like most of the others."

  "Then how are you losing money on the room when the weekend hasn't ended?"

  Mr. Trumble scooted closer. "Well, the nephew rented another room. So I just moved the charge to the new room. I didn't feel right charging him for two rooms. He did just lose his aunt, after all."

  "Yes, very hospitable of you. One more question." Briggs pulled his notepad out and feathered through it, finally stopping a few pages back. "By any chance, has Vincent returned from his camping trip?"

  Mr. Trumble's overly fluffy brows did a quick dance. "Oh yes, Vincent. Of course. I have two hundred employees, you understand. I believe he doesn't return to work until Monday morning. But I can check if anyone has spoken to him. I know he goes off into the wilderness to do whatever it is kids do these days." He winked and shucked Briggs on the arm. "Guess we all did that in our day too, eh?"

  I pressed my hand over my lips and turned my head to hide my smile. Briggs elbowed me lightly.

  "I imagine our days might have been at different times but I'm sure you're right. Some things never change. Now, if you could bring us the key, we'll get on with our work. Then you can have your suite back."

  "Of course." He raced off and returned with the key marked 801.

  We headed to the elevators. The doors opened. I hesitated for just a second. "I sure hope they got this thing fixed. I don't want another ride like the last one."

  "Really?" We stepped inside, and he pushed the button. "I kind of enjoyed it."

  I looked over at him. He stared straight ahead, but I caught a little twinkle in his eye.

  As we stepped off the elevator, the wheels of a maintenance man's cart squeaked down the hallway. Instead of turning left to the room, Briggs motioned for me to follow him to the right. We turned the corner to follow the cart. The man was dressed in pale blue coveralls. He didn't hear us walk up behind him as he pushed a key into the lock and opened up an apparently vacant room. He smiled and nodded politely at us before dropping the key on the cart, grabbing his tool box and disappearing inside the room.

  Detective Briggs stopped at the cart and looked at it.

  "What are we doing?" I asked.

  "I'm just wondering if the key he so casually just dropped on this cart is specifically for the room or if it's a master key."

  Without another thought, Briggs picked up the key and walked t
o the next room. He knocked once. A woman called out that she didn't need any towels.

  Briggs went across the hallway and knocked on another door. No answer. He pushed the key into the lock. It opened. He shut the room door again and made sure it was locked before returning to the cart. He tossed the key back in place just as the maintenance man walked out of the room.

  The man eyed us suspiciously as we walked back around the corner. We still didn't go to Fitch's room. Briggs tugged my hand to stop me and pressed his finger against his mouth to let me know to stay quiet. The wheels of the cart squeaked again. We peered around the corner and watched the man perform almost the same ritual of opening a door, dropping the key on the cart and picking up his tool box.

  Briggs turned around. "I've seen enough. Let's go to the suite."

  "I guess it would be terribly easy to get into any room with the maintenance man's master key sitting on that cart."

  "That's exactly what I was thinking."

  "Well, great minds and all that," I noted as we headed into Marian Fitch's suite.

  "I know Officer Pritchett and her team went through for prints and didn't find much. By the way, the tests showed you were right about her cause of death. The creamer had peanut butter in it."

  "Which means the only murder weapon was the infamous coffee creamer. That does make evidence slim. Maybe I'll just send this nose around the room once to see if I turn up anything else."

  His laugh was unexpected. "You talk about your nose as if it wasn't attached to your face."

  "It does sort of have a mind of its own. Maybe I should consider giving it a name. This nose seems kind of informal. I'm going to start in the bedroom."

  "That works. I'm heading to the kitchen where the so-called murder weapon was tampered with."

  I walked into the bedroom. It was an entirely different room without the dead body draped across the bed. It was hard to believe any crime had taken place in it. And I supposed, in the next few days, new visitors would be sleeping in the same bed. That thought gave me a chill. I wondered if there was any law that made hotels disclose when someone died in a room.