Freesias and Foul Play

by London Lovett

  I was just about to pull myself away from the scene when my gaze drifted past a familiar face. Naturally, a few of the cast members had gathered just past the trailers to watch the spectacle. Constance's face was amongst the crowd, and there was no denying that she was wearing an amused grin. It looked just right with her rosy red Munchkin cheeks, fake yellow hair and brightly colored costume with glittery collars and cuffs. As was to be expected, in a group that traveled together, there seemed to be a lot of dynamics and small soap opera style subplots between the members. It probably made for some great drama on the road, but at the same time, it would be stressful. I loved Lola and Elsie and Les, but our friendships would be strained if we had to spend a significant amount of time traveling together from town to town.

  It was time to stop dawdling. I had a short window of opportunity to do some research, and I needed to hurry along.

  Chapter 7

  Mayor Price was still out and about meandering through the activity with that self-important grin he had perfected. I picked up the pace and headed to the small brick house with the white trim and columns, a far too cozy and congenial looking building for the perpetually grumpy mayor.

  Lanky, long faced Ms. Simpson, Mayor Price's fastidious and efficient assistant, hunched over her desk as she finished writing something with a pen. She heard the door open but didn't look up from her task. "I'll be right with you." She reached across her desk, picked up a stamp, pressed it on an ink pad and smacked the stamp down hard on the paper in front of her. She took her time placing the stamp back down, folding the paper in three and adding a staple to the whole thing. Then she looked up and dropped her chin to peer over the top of her gold framed glasses.

  "May I help you?" she asked in a tone that didn't fit the polite inquiry.

  "Hi, I'm Lacey Pinkerton. I own Pink's Flowers," I continued, even though she knew exactly who I was.

  "Yes. Nice to see you." Again, the tone didn't quite match the kind sentiment.

  "Nice to see you too." (My tone matched the words, but it wasn't entirely sincere.) The truth was, I'd had several interactions with Ms. Simpson, and none of them had been positive. It was as if her boss, Mayor Price, had warned her ahead of time to be rude and indifferent to the town florist. I just wasn't sure how I'd earned such a distinction.

  I stood politely holding my hands in front of me like a kid about to ask the teacher for permission to erase the chalkboard. "I'm hoping you can help me, Ms. Simpson." I decided it was always a nice added touch to address someone by their formal name. It seemed to soften her a bit. "I was told that this office had a file of town obituaries."

  Her long nose scrunched back enough to send her glasses to the tip. She pushed them back. "Yes, there is a file of obituaries. We don't usually get people asking to see it. Occasionally, a grade school student comes in to research a local historical figure. I'll assume you're not writing a social studies report." Obviously amused by her comment, her lips straightened in a suppressed smile.

  I decided to play along. Humor, no matter how wry and biting, always helped melt ice. And there were definitely a few glaciers in my path. "Yes, my desert habitat and Native American reports are behind me, thank goodness. I'm researching a death from the year 1906." I decided long before I'd made the journey to the mayor's office that I wouldn't bring up the Hawksworth name. "I assume the files are in some kind of chronological order."

  My question threw her off the path of inquisition she seemed headed down. She adjusted her shiny gold glasses again. "Yes, of course. Organization is the key to running a tight ship."

  I nodded. "I said that to myself the first time we met. I said that Ms. Simpson runs a tight ship. I mean, just look at this place." I waved my arms around the impeccably neat office. My overtures worked.

  Ms. Simpson rose from her chair and pulled a set of keys from the top desk drawer. "Obviously, you can't take the files out of this office, and I can't have you sitting in the center of the room doing research."

  "Obviously," I concurred, although there just wasn't that much foot traffic going in and out of the mayor's office that I'd get in the way.

  She walked over and opened a set of folding closet doors revealing a wall of metal file cabinets, each one labeled. Her long legs folded as she stooped down to a bottom file in the right corner of the closet. She unlocked the drawer and rolled it open. I moved my head side to side to get a look outside the front window. Most of the activity in the town square was blocked by the line of parked trailers, but I couldn't see anyone, and by anyone I meant Mayor Price, walking toward the mayor's office.

  "This file is dated from 1904 to 1908." Ms. Simpson's voice pulled my attention from the window. She was standing in front of me with a manila folder in her long fingers. She glanced out the window, then back toward me. "I suggest you hurry. Mayor Price doesn't like people loitering around the office with no real purpose." (It seemed our brief friendship was over.)

  I took hold of the file. "I'll be quick."

  "You can use the desk in that small alcove across the room. The light switch is on the right. Make sure the files go back exactly as you found them, in chronological order."

  "Yes, of course." I took the folder across the room. The small alcove held a walnut desk and matching chair. A green canister with pens and pencils and a notepad sat at the top edge of the desk.

  I pulled out the chair and sat down with the folder. It was hard to know whether a town would take the time to write an obituary for a young baby, but it was my best chance of finding out what happened to Jane Price's daughter.

  After thumbing through the first obituaries, I saw a pattern and came to a conclusion. The year 1905 ended with a terrible flu season that took many people unexpectedly, including the local school teacher and Roland Everton, the man who'd run the local tailor shop for twenty years. I thumbed through the first few months of 1906. Jane's death certificate had noted that she died on February 10th, and the baby was sent to Port Danby after that. So I skipped over to mid-February and flipped through each page. There were far too many young deaths, children in their teens and women and men younger than me, but it was a common occurrence back then. How hard it must have been in those days to endure so many losses. And losing a child, while I wasn't a mother, I could only imagine. As my mom once put it, losing a child would be like having your breath stolen from you every morning as you rose from bed, painful and nearly impossible to survive.

  I shook the bleak thoughts from my head. Apparently, obituary hunting wasn't as uplifting as one might think. I reached the end of March 1906 and a gasp caught in my throat. All these months of research and it finally felt as if I was getting close to solving everything. The small, yellowed obituary had been cut from a newspaper using somewhat dull scissors. Two of the corners had disappeared with age, but the text was still complete and only slightly faded. The obituary writer started with the words, Another tiny angel has left us. It is with sadness that I report the tragic and untimely death of Jennifer P. H. Her mother was lost in childbirth, and her little angel followed shortly after. Mother and daughter are rejoined for eternity. May they be forever at peace.

  I stared down at the brittle piece of newspaper. "Jennifer P. H. The baby's names were Price Hawksworth," I muttered.

  "What are you up to now!" Mayor Price barked over my shoulder.

  Chapter 8

  The mayor's sharp tone startled me so much, I sat back hard. The chair rocked, tipped back on two legs, then slammed back to four. I twisted around. Mayor Price's angry, red face hovered over me. His arms were crossed tightly over his belly, and he glowered down at me with wide, twitching nostrils.

  I caught my breath, although it was going to take several minutes for my pulse to slow. I swallowed and calmly put the obituary back into its proper place. After all, I wasn't doing anything wrong or illegal. I was merely rummaging through public records.

  I took another steadying breath before pushing to my feet. Mayor Price's wide girth filled the small alcove
leaving me little room to maneuver away from the desk. I glanced toward the front office hoping Ms. Simpson would gain a bit of compassion or an ounce of humanness and come to my rescue, but she pretended to busy herself with work on her desk. It was easy to see that she had a full ear tilted our direction so as not to miss one word of my subsequent scolding. Only I wasn't about to take this like some kid getting caught for staying out after curfew. I was a grown woman, and I wasn't doing anything wrong.

  I lifted my chin and held the manila folder tightly in my hand. "Mayor Price, nice to see you," I said with forced cheer (and a slight waver). I held up the folder. "As you see, I was perusing some of the public records for this marvelous town. I'm always interested in the history of Port Danby, so I decided to sift through the obituaries from the early twentieth century. Very interesting stuff, by the way." I was just nervous enough to ramble on. "Did you know a terrible strain of influenza killed dozens of people at the end of 1905?" I forced a soft chuckle. "Of course, you know that. You're the mayor and a member of a prominent family. Well, I'm all through here so I won't keep you."

  His stoney expression hadn't softened one bit and he hadn't budged an inch. I was stuck in the alcove with the mayor's thick form acting as a fourth wall. "I heard you say the Price name. You're snooping into my family history again. How many times do I need to tell you to stay out of my business." A bit of spittle shot from his rubbery lips. There was little space for me to dodge safely out of its trajectory but I managed.

  It was time to drop the polite charade. "Not that it's really any of your business, but I'm researching the Hawksworth family murder. It has nothing to do with your family." I included the last piece hoping I would get a reaction of some sort, but he was so angry the only things moving on his face were his twitchy nostrils.

  Then, without warning, a hard laugh shot from his mouth. "You're wasting your time. That case was solved by the police the week after it happened. Bertram Hawksworth was in financial distress, so he killed his family and committed suicide. Why don't you stick to selling flowers." His suggestion came with a simpering grin that made his round cheeks rise up and swallow his deep set eyes.

  His unearned wrath and what I perceived as a dramatic overreaction on his part, emboldened me. "Well, I believe the Port Danby Police were wrong. In fact, the first officer to investigate the tragedy wrote his misgivings in his report but then he was mysteriously sent to another precinct before he could follow up."

  The mayor's face was red nearly up to the forehead and he was huffing. "You're just creating a mystery out of nothing. Why don't you find something better to occupy your time."

  I smiled. "Yes, like selling flowers. I'd rather investigate the Hawksworth murders, and since there is no ordinance against it," I added for a stinging barb. During my first six months in Port Danby, Mayor Price tried to persuade the city council to pass an ordinance banning crows from businesses and shops. By then, Kingston had won over so many fans, the ordinance was voted down by the council. It was a solid and aggravating defeat for the mayor, and it made him dislike me even more. (Not that I needed help with that.)

  I, rather rudely, waved my fingers at him, letting him know he should move. He turned to the side. I had to sidle around his belly. He really had no right to berate me. I decided to toss out a little nugget to assure him my investigation wasn't frivolous. It would also help me solidify my theory about the unmarked Hawksworth grave.

  "By the way, I found the obituary for your Great Aunt Jane's baby." He stared at me with a wild-eyed look that nearly made me stop my comments. (Nearly.) "What a tragedy that the baby only lived a month. At least Bertram Hawksworth made sure she had a proper burial. Even if no one took the time to mark her grave."

  Mayor Price's bulging eyes looked toward Ms. Simpson. She still pretended to be working, but I was certain she'd heard every word. His tongue seemed to have twisted up in his mouth because his lips moved but no words came out. His reaction was all I needed to confirm my suspicions.

  "You are out of control and spreading malicious lies about my family. I've heard enough." He reached for the folder and yanked it from my hand. "And keep that crow out of the town square or I'll have animal control throw a net over him and take him away. Just a few minutes ago, I saw that menacing beast steal off with one of the actor's leftover sandwich."

  "Speaking of spreading lies—My bird is sitting on his perch in the shop window. Good day, Mayor Price. I guess I'll see you at opening night. Should be a wonderful play." I added a pleasant smile, nodded toward Ms. Simpson (who was still putting on quite the show of being interminably busy) and headed out the door. My phone was out and dialed before I reached the bottom step.

  Chapter 9

  Hey, baby, I was just about to call you. How are you feeling?"

  Even though every hair on my body was still at attention and adrenaline still pumped furiously through my veins, the sound of Briggs' deep, soothing tone coupled with him calling me 'baby', an occasional term of endearment that always left me dizzy, soothed my nerves and brought me back to earth.

  "I just had the most unpleasant conversation with our mayor." My words were coming in spurts between breaths. "What an aggravating man. He is utterly without charm, decency and—and—Argh, he's so devoid of personality I can't even think of another term."

  "Calm down, Lacey. First of all, why were you talking to Mayor Price? You usually avoid him."

  "Usually. Only this time, I was inside the mayor's office, so it was hard to avoid him. Although, in my defense, I thought he was still out in the town square. I was sure I could get in and out of the office without seeing him. But my luck abandoned me on that front."

  "Why were you in the mayor's office?"

  "I was telling Ryder about the information you found on Jane Price. He mentioned that there was a file of obituaries stored in the mayor's office. He used it once to research a social studies project. I went there to find out if there was an obituary for Jane's baby. And there was. But the mayor walked in while I was reading it. Then, I might have said something to myself about the baby being both a Price and a Hawksworth and he overheard."

  "I'll bet he didn't take too kindly to that. What did he say?"

  I stopped and took a nice, deep breath. "Oh, if I go through it again right now it'll only make me more upset. Hearing your voice is starting to help calm me down, so let's not spoil it. I'll tell you all about it when my hackles are no longer raised. However, I have some interesting details to add to the Hawksworth mystery." I headed back toward Pickford Way and the theater chaos. The disagreeable conversation with Mayor Price had added energy to my step. "I'll tell you this. The Price family had something to do with that murder. I'm sure of it. I think that's why Mayor Price dislikes me so much. I'm snooping into hidden family secrets."

  "How about I bring you dinner at your place tonight before the play? You can tell me all about it."

  "That sounds perfect. Bring something warm but not too spicy or too filling."

  "Any suggestions?" he asked.

  "Nope. Surprise me."

  His phone beeped to alert him of another call. "That's a call I've been waiting for. So you're still feeling up to a play tonight?"

  "Oh yes. Wouldn't miss it. I'll let you go. See you tonight."

  "Bye."

  As I rounded a corner of one of the trailers, I looked down to push my phone into my coat and ran smack dab into none other than the Tin Man.

  "Excuse me," he said. He was a good foot taller than me as I stared up into his silver face. The lingering smell of tobacco suggested that he had just stepped away from the activity to have a smoke. Interestingly enough, the pungent odor of tobacco was mixed with something much more herbal, rosemary according to my never wrong nose.

  "No, it was all my fault. I wasn't looking where I was going," I said. "Of course, the last thing I expected was to run into a Tin Man. An experience I won't soon forget." I was just being polite, but he seemed to instantly take it as flirting.

&
nbsp; It was more than a touch comical for him to put on a suave expression as he spoke as if he'd forgotten he was coated in silver makeup while wearing a funnel on his head and holding an oil can in his hand. "It was all my pleasure. I won't forget it either. Are those curls natural?"

  I primped my curls up with a hand. "Naturally annoying, yes. But we're stuck with what nature gives us, eh?" I stepped sideways to let him know I was on my way.

  He laughed and moved to meet my sideways step. "Beautiful and funny. Nice combination."

  The conversation needed a sharp turn. "Speaking of combinations—do your cigarettes contain rosemary? I'm getting a distinctly Italian food sort of vibe from you."

  He laughed again and lifted the oil can. "The prop crew ran out of oil for the can. Apparently, the Corner Market was fresh out of plain old vegetable oil. So they filled my can with rosemary infused olive oil."

  "Oh my, the Tin Man is really moving into gourmet territory. Might have to bring some garlic sticks to opening night."

  He raised his brows, inadvertently dislodging some of the silver makeup. "Are you coming to opening night?"

  "Yes, with my boyfriend," I added pointedly. It was my chance to find out what the earlier hullaballoo was all about. "I have to say—I was worried that the opening night would be delayed."

  "Why is that?" he asked.