Gordon returned to the counter to pay for the roses. He plucked the money from his wallet. "I have to ask the obvious—why is there a crow sitting in a flower shop?"
"I suppose a brightly colored parrot would be the more reasonable choice, but Kingston and I crossed paths a few years back and we've been together ever since."
"Kingston?" Constance giggled. "You named a crow?"
"Well, if he's a pet, of course he needs a name," Gordon said sharply. I wasn't going to place any bet on him popping the question soon. He seemed mostly annoyed by Constance.
I gave him the change. "I'll see you later, and good luck finding a brain."
Gordon laughed. He was a nice looking man when he smiled. "If I had a dollar for every time someone told me that."
"Then you could have bought me an entire dozen instead of six," Constance added.
Gordon had no response. The two actors walked out of the shop. Constance held the flowers in one hand and his arm in the other.
"Lola is right," Ryder spoke over my shoulder. "Those flying monkeys are scary." He walked away.
"Are you all right, Ryder?"
He glanced back over his shoulder. "Fine. Why do you ask?"
"It just seems like your mood is a little darker than usual. But maybe the cold in my head is clouding my perception."
He didn't answer at first and busied himself at the potting table. "Nope, everything is fine." The way he said it assured me that things were anything but fine. I decided to drop the subject for the time being. I was sure I'd figure it out by the end of the day. After all, I was pretty good at solving mysteries.
Chapter 3
Ryder, I'm meeting James at Franki's for lunch," I called as I headed to the door. "I should be back in an hour."
"Have a good lunch," he called back. His mood had lightened some, but that might have been more due to the rush of customers we had after this morning's red rose episode. It's hard to stay grumpy or dwell on things when you're busy selling flowers.
I pulled my hood up over my ears. The cold was slowly moving from my throat to my head. My muscles were starting to get that mushy, achy feeling that came with every cold and flu. The brisk ocean breeze carried a chill with it, which didn't help. I hunkered down in my big coat and tucked my head back under the hood. I looked like I was about to hike up a snowy hill rather than take a short spring walk to the diner.
All the icky aches and chills left me when I spotted my breathtaking Detective Briggs standing in front of the diner.
Even my smile felt weak. "There's nothing better to help clear a head cold than a picture of the world's most handsome detective standing in front of my favorite diner."
He hugged me briefly but avoided a kiss. (A smart move. I was definitely not in a kissable state of being.) "Since you've obviously never seen all the detectives in the world to make that judgment, I won't let it go to my head. However, I will accept it from the world's cutest investigative assistant." He leaned back from the hug. "And I don't have to see the rest of the world's assistants to know I'm right on that." He decided a forehead kiss wasn't too risky but frowned afterward. "You're warm," he said.
"Good, that means I'm not dead," I said wryly.
"Lacey, you should be home in bed." He opened the door to the diner.
"Nothing a bowl of Franki's minestrone soup can't cure. Besides, I'm fine. Just a little head cold."
The lunch crowd was extra boisterous, possibly a result of the cold snap that had moved into town. I'd found that just like with animals, brisk temperatures could make people more energetic. If only some of that energy had found me.
I put on a cheery smile as I slid along the vinyl seat, pretending that all was well when, in truth, the notion of climbing into my warm bed sounded more inviting with each passing minute.
Briggs reached into his pocket. "I've got two surprises for you."
"If one is that you've discovered an instant cure for the common cold, I might just get up and dance a little polka right here on Franki's tile floor."
Lines formed around his crooked smile. "A polka? That's your go to happy dance?"
I shook my head. "No, I've never danced a polka nor would I know where or how to start one." I pointed to my temple. "This cold has me in a fog, but at least my throat is feeling better."
Briggs pulled his hand out of his pocket. "Then I guess these are too late." He dropped my favorite brand of cherry cough drops on the table. They were the kind that were more sugar and honey than medicine, so they didn't leave a yucky taste in your throat. They were, of course, rather useless in terms of relieving an irritated throat, but sucking on them always reminded me of staying home from school with a cold, camped out on the family room couch with my books, my stuffed animals and my mom's continuous stream of chicken soup and honeyed tea. The cherry cough drops were all part of the deal.
I picked up the box. "Only the greatest boyfriend in the world would search high and low, through deserts and mountains, to find my favorite cherry cough drops."
He leaned back with a satisfied grin. "Once again, I've earned a world title that I'm not entirely sure I deserve. Especially since I crossed no deserts and climbed no mountains. They were sitting right on the shelf at the Danby Drug Store. Right between that smelly stuff my mom used to rub on my chest to quiet my cough and the nasal spray."
"Yes but you remembered that these were my favorite. I think you can still keep the world title." I unwrapped one but then wrapped it back up in its tiny wax paper square. "Guess I'll wait until after the soup, otherwise the minestrone is going to taste like cherry."
"Wise decision. Cough drops are to minestrone as toothpaste is to orange juice," he said.
We were still having a chuckle about his analogy when Franki arrived at the table. "If it isn't my favorite Port Danby couple." She pulled the pencil from behind her ear. "What can I get you two?" as she spoke, her eyes swept toward me. She lowered the order pad and gave me a worried mom look. "You looked flushed and pale. What's wrong?"
I stared up at her in awe. "Wow, you've got that mom instinct down to an art. I suppose raising four kids does make you somewhat of a pro. I'm fine. Just a little head cold. And is it possible to look flushed and pale? Seems like one would cancel out the other."
Franki looked at Briggs for confirmation on her assessment.
He nodded. "Franki's right. It's a little of both."
She lifted her order pad. "You're having some of my chicken noodle soup. No arguments. When the kids are sick, I make a big pot and they're good as new in no time. What are you having, James?" She'd moved on, so I supposed there really was no chance to argue. My appetite for anything but a cherry cough drop, hot tea and my cozy bed was slowly waning anyhow.
I rested back against the cushion and realized it felt incredibly good to relax after the busy morning. Briggs ordered a pastrami sandwich, and Franki hurried off to get the soup.
"Are you ready for your second surprise?" he asked.
I sat forward. "I forgot you mentioned two surprises." I closed my eyes to wait for it.
"Why are you closing your eyes?"
I opened them. "I thought you might place it on the table or something. Is it big? Is it outside?" I peered through the window. "Are we going to have matching motorcycles? I would love to have an excuse to buy a black leather jacket."
His brow rose higher with each of my ridiculous statements. I sat back and fluttered my eyelashes at him coyly. "You'll have to excuse my absurdity. I'm not myself today. What is the surprise?"
"It doesn't come in a box," he said.
"Thank goodness I didn't hold out my left hand when I closed my eyes. That would have been awkward." A clumsy silence ensued. "All right, I'm blaming that last thought on the cold too. Ignore everything I say at this lunch." Briggs and I had lightly discussed an eventual engagement, but it never went beyond that. If I was honest with myself, I wasn't entirely sure I was ready for it yet. I was very much enjoying my independence and my success. Although
, I would have been lying if the thought of marrying Detective James Briggs hadn't crossed my mind now and then.
He smiled inwardly . . . to himself and stopped to take a drink of his cola. "As I mentioned, I have a surprise. I was talking to a friend of mine who works at the records office at the city hall building in Mayfield. That particular office has birth and death certificates for people in Mayfield, Port Danby and Chesterton. The records date all the way back to the early 1800s."
I sat forward so quickly I nearly slipped off the smooth vinyl seat. "Did you find something out about the unmarked grave in the Hawksworth family plot?" I had been researching the Hawksworth murders for over two years and had uncovered details but not enough to connect dots or solve the mystery. I was certain the small, unmarked grave had something to do with the tragedy.
"I didn't find out directly about the grave, but I did find Jane Price's death certificate. My friend made me a copy." He pulled a paper out of his pocket.
"You're the most—"
"Wonderful boyfriend in the world," he finished for me. "Or so I've been told."
I unfolded the paper and pulled my glasses from my purse. "It says she died on February 10th, 1906. Doctor Vernon of Seattle, Washington confirmed the death at the Ladies' Auxiliary Health Center." I looked up at Briggs. "It says she died in childbirth. My hunch about the picture Marty showed me was correct. Jane Price was pregnant when she left Port Danby."
"Considering the Victorian values still lingering at the beginning of the twentieth century, I'd say she left Port Danby because she was pregnant," Briggs added.
"And with her father, Harvard Price, being mayor, the scandal would have made all the papers. Politically, it would have been devastating. Although, I must say, the Price family does seem to be invincible in elections. I still can't believe one family has held the mayor's seat all these years."
Franki delivered my soup with a plate full of soda crackers. (They were essential with chicken noodle soup.) "I made sure to scoop up a lot of the carrots and turnips. Some people think it's the chicken and the chicken broth that provide the healing qualities. I think it's all the good chunks of vegetables. Either way, don't leave a drop behind, and I promise you'll feel better by tomorrow."
"Yes, Dr. Franki," I said with a wink.
I scooped up a carrot chunk and stared at it.
"What's wrong? Too hot?" Briggs asked.
"No, this cold just doesn't make anything sound good." I snuck a peek toward the diner counter where Franki was talking with a customer. "You might have to eat some of this soup," I whispered. "Otherwise, I'm going to disappoint Dr. Franki. But eat some first before I contaminate it with all my germiness." Franki walked into kitchen. "The coast is clear." I pushed the bowl across to him, spilling a few spoonfuls as it stuttered across the table top.
"It's boiling hot," Briggs whispered loudly back. "Do you expect me to just slurp it up?"
I batted my lashes at him. "The best boyfriend in the world would suffer a scorched tongue to help his lady."
"I'm regretting that title. And after I gave you two surprises." He leaned over and slurped up some good spoonfuls.
"She's coming back this way." I grabbed the bowl away from him with the spoon halfway to his mouth. "Spoon, spoon," I pointed to the utensil. He nearly tossed it into the bowl. More soup spilled. I wiped it up just before Franki reached the table.
Franki smiled down at the slightly emptied bowl. "How is it? I'll bet you're feeling better already."
I lifted the spoon with a big grin. "So good. And yep, I'm feeling like a million bucks. Thanks."
Franki walked away.
"And thank you, my brave boyfriend," I said quietly.
"You can add all the accolades and flattering descriptors you want to the word boyfriend, I'm not eating any more chicken soup. And Franki's right. You should have some. It's one of the few home remedies that has withstood the test of time. It's probably completely bogus, but people still swear by it."
I reluctantly took a sip, then decided the warmth of the broth was more comforting than expected.
I patted the copy of the death certificate. "If Jane died in childbirth, what happened to the baby? I wonder if it died too."
Briggs swallowed a bite of sandwich and motioned to the paper. "You didn't get to the small notation at the bottom of the certificate. It's hard to read because the original was faded, but the doctor mentions the baby."
I smoothed the paper out and moved it under the pendant light on the table. "Baby Price, a girl, was sent to live with her father's family in Port Danby. She is lacking in health and vigor and not expected to reach her first birthday."
My face popped up. Briggs was fully absorbed in his lunch. "Port Danby. That unmarked grave in the Hawksworth family plot, I think it's Jane's baby. Which means Bertram Hawksworth was the father. I have no solid proof of that yet, but I think it's a good theory. What do you think, Detective Briggs?"
He wiped his mouth. "I think you're a darn good investigator, Miss Pinkerton. Now eat your chicken soup, or Franki is not going to let us leave this diner."
Chapter 4
Ryder walked in from his lunch break and stopped in the center of the store. "You need to go home and rest. You look like a patch of wilted weeds, and I mean that in the nicest way."
"I'm not feeling too bad despite the resemblance to wilted weeds." I rested the broom against the wall. I'd only been sweeping the floor for a few minutes, but it felt as if I had run an uphill marathon. "I'm determined to go to opening night. I think all I need is some medicine. I'm going to stop by the drug store for some aspirin and cold medicine. I've tried Franki's chicken soup, but now it's time to pull out the big guns, namely the pharmaceuticals. My head seems to be filled with helium gas today. I'm surprised I'm not floating up by the ceiling. Aspirin will clear it right up." As I rambled on about helium and aspirin, I pulled on my coat and buttoned it up good. "Don't let Kingston out anymore today. Even if he paces in front of the door and taps the glass with his beak. I just know he'll head down to the town square and bother the theater group."
"I'll make sure he stays inside." Ryder pulled on a work apron. "I'm going to put some thyme in pots. Tom said he would set up a special table in Corner Market for our potted herbs. They are getting so popular, they're going to have their own spot in the window."
"That's great. Maybe we'll have to switch the name of the store to Pink's Herbs." I waved. "I'm babbling nonsense again. Goodbye." I stopped and pointed a motherly finger at Kingston. "I'll be right back. Behave and easy on the treats. Your belly is too round. Pretty soon your wings will be as useless as a penguin's wings." With that silly warning, I walked out into the brisk afternoon air.
Most of the people strolling along Harbor Lane had removed their coats and hats. Some had even reduced their outerwear to thin sweaters, but I hunkered down in my winter coat as if a glacial wind was swirling through town.
I was sure a couple of aspirin and some decongestant would do the trick. I didn't want to miss the play. Something told me it was going to be a memorable night.
There was a flurry of activity in the Danby Drug Store. It seemed I was not the only person who was unlucky enough to catch the mid-spring virus. A spinning rack containing every type of cold medicine sat prominently in the center of the store, obviously moved there from its usual location at the back. People were hovering around the spinning rack pulling boxes free to read labels and find just the right medicine for their symptoms. I sidled my way in between a man who was wearing a face mask and a woman whose nose was as red as a tomato and who looked the way I felt, like a patch of wilted weeds. Elbows jammed this way and that and tissues were being dragged from purses and pockets. The unmistakable scent of menthol threatened to overwhelm me, just as it had when I was eight and my mom insisted the odor wouldn't be too bad and that it would help my cough. She'd sorely underestimated my sense of smell and the strength of the menthol fragrance. She had to rush me into the shower where I spent a good te
n minutes getting the greasy stuff off my skin, all while trying to hold my nose.
Two more snifflers joined the crowd huddled around the cold medicine. I could almost feel the cloud of germs settling over the spinning display rack. The amount of choices was a little too overwhelming, so I decided to skip the cold medicine and opt for good old fashioned aspirin.
I freed myself from the pushy elbows, runny noses and fevered expressions and headed down the pain reliever aisle. I was steeped in self-pity when I spotted Constance, the actress who had visited the flower shop in the morning. Gordon, the straw blond scarecrow was nowhere in sight. Constance was standing in front of the ointments staring blankly at the various creams.
"Good thinking," I said cheerily.
She glanced my direction. Her eyes and nose were red and puffy, but I was sure it wasn't from a cold. It seemed she'd been crying. She didn't seem to recognize me. Her brows bunched almost as if she was angry. "Excuse me?" she said sharply.
"I'm Lacey, the owner of Pink's Flowers. You came into my shop this morning. How are the red roses?" I decided to skip over her unfriendly demeanor.
"That's right. The roses are fine. Very pretty." She couldn't have been less enthusiastic about the flowers she'd wanted so badly just hours before.
"I guess that rash is still bothering you," I said. "When do you have to get dressed for rehearsal? Hopefully the salve will bring you some relief first."
Her mood was dark, but she seemed somewhat pleased to have someone inquire about her woes.
"The director is having me just play a Munchkin so I can avoid the heavy monkey makeup. It's only a small part," she said, adding in a dejected frown.
"At least you'll have time to recuperate from the rash," I suggested.
"Only to have the rash fire back up when I return to the flying monkey part." Her expression hardened. "They are both silly bit parts."
"When is the dress rehearsal?" I asked brightly, hoping to erase the glower I caused by bringing up the rash.
Freesias and Foul Play Page 2
