Freesias and Foul Play

by London Lovett

  Right then, one of the crew members poked his head around the corner of the trailer. "Hey, Johnny, if you're through with your smoke break, Susie needs to see you."

  "Be right there," he answered, then returned his silver face toward me for a response.

  "It's just that when I walked by earlier, the actress playing Dorothy and the woman wearing the director's hat were having a terrible argument." I pointed between the trailers. "They were standing right there, so it was hard to miss."

  "Oh that. Nah, that wouldn't affect opening night. Susana, the director and Amanda, the actress who plays Dorothy, rarely see eye to eye on anything. They are constantly fighting. Amanda is spoiled and Susana is spineless."

  "Well, James and I have had tickets for a few months, so I'm glad they were able to solve their differences. It just wouldn't be The Wizard of Oz with a grumpy Dorothy."

  "Whoever James is, I'm thoroughly jealous." It seemed we were back to the awkward, one-sided flirt session. "Amanda will put on a good performance. She never lets anything get in the way of her art, but I doubt they solved their differences. Even if they had, there would just be a new set of differences right behind it. They will never like each other but that's all right. Wouldn't be the first time a director and a leading star didn't get along. I've got to go. If you ever get tired of this guy James, you know where to find me."

  "Yes, you'll be the one wearing silver makeup and a funnel hat," I said as he walked off. He seemed properly embarrassed, although I was sure he was the kind of guy who didn't stay embarrassed for long.

  I took another deep breath. What an excursion it had been. I needed to get back to the quiet of my shop just to gather my thoughts. It had been quite an afternoon.

  Chapter 10

  We closed the flower shop early. Opening night had caused a quick desertion of town, allowing people to go home, eat dinner and dress for the theater. It was amusing to think of Port Danby shutting down to dress for the theater, as if our little town had been dropped back into another time and place where culture and live dramas and musicals were as commonplace as sitting to a night of television. As much as I didn't agree with anything Mayor Price did or said, I had to hand him this little victory. Booking a theater group for The Wizard of Oz was amazing. And I would've been looking extremely forward to it if some of my more annoying symptoms hadn't returned.

  I'd gone straight home to a cup of tea and the knitted throw on my couch. Nevermore, with his keen cat sense, knew the second his human stepped in the door she needed her fur covered heating pad. He'd curled up neatly in my lap and purred out his radiant cat heat. Smartly, I'd downed two more aspirin before hibernating under my throw, so I was feeling a good deal better and somewhat drowsy when Briggs' knock startled me to attention and sent my four pawed heating pad off my lap and into the bedroom.

  Briggs wore a worried look. His phone was clutched in his hand. "I texted but you didn't answer," he said as he walked inside. The aroma of rosemary and tomato drifted to my nose from the white bag he carried in his other hand.

  "Sorry, I was in a mild and pleasant state of warm delirium. My phone must have still been in my coat pocket."

  He looked down at the rumpled blanket and the mostly empty tea cup, then turned back to me. He'd pulled on one of his nicest sweaters and his usually unruly hair was neatly combed. (It was appropriate for the night's event, but I never grew tired of his usual uncombed look.) "You're still not feeling well. Lacey, why don't we cancel? We can just stay in tonight."

  "Nonsense. We've both been looking forward to this night out. I took some aspirin. It did wonders for me earlier today." I took the bag of food from his hand and carried it to the kitchen. "This smells good. Ravioli from Mama Jean's?"

  "And breadsticks," he added. "I know you said nothing too spicy, so I compromised with Italian."

  I pulled down two plates. "You did well, sir. An hour ago, I might have cringed, but now I'm in the mood for pasta."

  Briggs followed me into the kitchen. "What did our fair mayor have to say exactly?"

  I sensed a slight jaw clench, which meant Briggs was not feeling too friendly toward Mayor Price at the moment. I decided not to add any fuel to the potential fire.

  I shrugged lightly. "Oh, you know, the usual grumpy comments. He just doesn't like me. Do you know he tried to blame Kingston for stealing someone's sandwich? He thinks every crow is Kingston."

  "He's always consistent in his ignorance, I'll give him that." Briggs walked up next to me, instantly swaddling me in his cozy, manly warmth and the scent of his soap. "This afternoon, when you called me, you were very upset. What did he say? I think I need to have a talk with the man."

  I spun to him but resisted the urge to kiss him. Darn germs. "I'm a big girl, and I think I handled him just fine. He's upset about me investigating the Hawksworth murders, and that's because his great grandfather, Havard Price, was somehow involved in the tragedy. I think it's one of those dark family secrets he's trying very hard to keep secure."

  "I'm sure that has him worried. Just don't get ahead of yourself. You don't want to start rumors or gossip before you have actual evidence."

  I blinked at him. "Thank you, Detective Briggs. After all, this is my first murder investigation."

  "How do you manage to make sarcasm look so cute?" He pulled me closer and, to be safe, kissed my forehead. "I'm sorry I questioned your methods. You're one of the best investigators I know."

  I leaned back. "One of them?"

  "O.K. the best. Definitely the most fun to kiss. Except when you have a cold."

  "Don't remind me. I can't wait for this quarantine period to be over."

  The aroma of garlic, oregano and rosemary filled my small house as we carried our plates to the table. "You mentioned on the phone that you had more details about the Hawksworth case. You were looking at old obituaries?" he asked.

  "Yes, a somewhat depressing task but it proved fruitful." I plucked a breadstick from the bag and broke off a piece. "I'm almost a hundred percent sure that Jane Price had Bertram Hawksworth's baby, and the child is buried in the unmarked grave in the Hawksworth family plot."

  "Almost a hundred percent certain?" he asked.

  "You're not going back to that same old lecture, are you?" I asked, somewhat disappointed that he'd focused on that trite detail rather than the explosive revelations. "I'm not going to take out a front page in the local paper announcing that the late Mayor Harvard Price was grandfather to Bertram Hawksworth's illegitimate baby. Thought you'd be more interested in the information I found." I sat back and nibbled on my breadstick.

  "I am." He shook his head once. "Sorry, I guess I'm still sore about the way Price spoke to you today."

  "Forget about it. I've hardly given it a second thought."

  Briggs always knew when I was lying. He stared at me as he ate a ravioli waiting for me to confess.

  "All right, so I have given it a second thought . . . and maybe a third and a fourth. But now I'm going to wipe it from my mind because I'm looking forward to a wonderful evening at the theater." I added a posh accent for the last part of the sentence because it seemed the right thing to do.

  "The theater where we'll no doubt run into Mayor Price," he reminded me.

  I lifted my chin and straightened my posture. "I'll ignore him, and I'm sure he'll do the same. Now let's get back to the good stuff."

  "I apologize in advance for sprinkling on what you have termed as the stinky cheese." Briggs sprinkled some parmesan on his ravioli. It was a cheese that smelled far too strong for my sensitive nose so I rarely used it.

  I lifted the garlic stick to my nose to mask the smell of the parmesan. He caught my little trick and chuckled. "I find it interesting that parmesan is too strong, but garlic never seems to bother you."

  "If it's not too heavy, garlic is a pleasant aroma. I can't say the same for the stinky cheese."

  He wiped his mouth after a bite. "All right, so what did you find in your obituary research?"

  "
There was a sweetly written obituary for a baby girl who died in March of 1906, just a month after Jane Price. Her mother died in childbirth and the baby died soon after. All the other obituaries had full names, but for this particular one they called her Jennifer P. H.." I shifted proudly in my chair and nodded once. "Jennifer Price Hawksworth."

  "Or Jennifer Patricia Harris," he noted.

  My straight posture deflated. "Since when are you so cynical?"

  "You're right. I don't know why I'm being so contrary tonight. I guess I just don't want you to get ahead of yourself on this. It all sounds very plausible, and Jane Price's death certificate certainly fits with your theory. But answer me this. Do you think Hawksworth fathering a baby with Harvard Price's daughter was enough for him to murder the entire family? I know babies out of wedlock were definitely frowned upon back then, but it was hardly a scandal worthy of such a horrendous crime."

  "That has definitely crossed my mind." I was feeling a little more inflated now that he was earnestly discussing my theory. I sat forward and picked up my fork. "I could see Harvard wanting to kill Bertram for the affair that eventually destroyed his daughter's life and left the potential for a big political scandal, but why take out Mrs. Hawksworth and the children? There must have been more to the story." I stabbed a fat square ravioli with my fork. "Guess there are more rocks to overturn. I'll figure it out. Just wait and see."

  "I look forward to your final report, Miss Pinkerton. I'm sure it'll be a doozy."

  Chapter 11

  Briggs and I lingered far too long over our dinner. We found ourselves scurrying around to look for car keys and coats so we wouldn't be late for the play.

  We rounded the corner of my street. "You know—if you put your light and siren out, then we could blow through the two stop signs between us and the town square." I smiled hopefully at him.

  "You know I'm not going to do that," he said.

  "Spoilsport," I muttered and sat back. I'd decided to wear my warmest coat and toss a knitted scarf around my neck to keep the chill out. Heaters had been rolled into the massive theater tent, but I wasn't going to take a chance. The aspirin seemed to be doing their magic. With any luck, I'd make it through the entire performance without so much as a shiver or a sneeze.

  Most people had been shuttled down to the town square from various central meeting spots, but my house was only a few miles away. It would have been a waste of time for us to drive farther away just to meet up with a shuttle to drive us back through town.

  "Those shuttles were a good idea. Parking is limited," Briggs said. "Looks like we'll have to park here on Harbor Lane and walk to the play." He pulled over in front of Lola's Antiques and across from my store. "Are Lola and Ryder coming tonight?" he asked as he parked the car.

  "No way. Lola is terrified of the flying monkeys."

  A short laugh spurted from his mouth, then he looked at me. "You're being serious."

  "I sure am."

  "I didn't figure Lola as the type to fear flying monkeys. She seems more like the type of person who would own one as a pet."

  I sucked in a shocked breath. "Are you saying she's a wicked witch?"

  "What? No. That's not what I meant at all. You know what? Let's go before I push my foot farther into my mouth this evening."

  "You do seem to have a propensity for it tonight," I mused as he stepped out of the car.

  He whipped around to my side, opened the door and offered me his hand.

  "Thank you, kind sir," I said. "You're momentarily forgiven for the many foot in mouth comments this evening."

  We passed the police station. Officer Chinmoor was on duty. Briggs was tempted to pop his head inside and check that things were under control, but I reminded him it was his night off so he walked on without stopping in.

  The hum of many voices coasted around the corner as we reached Pickford Way. "Looks like we're not late at all. They haven't even let people inside yet." Briggs pulled out his watch to check the time. "Showtime is in ten minutes."

  "It seems odd that everyone would still be standing outside the tent." I pushed up my scarf. "And a damp fog is rolling on shore. I was counting on going straight into the warm, dry tent. Guess it's good I dressed for a blizzard." I took hold of his arm and pulled him closer.

  "You might be a little overdressed but not if we're stuck out in the cold. They must be behind schedule." We headed toward the large crowd gathered outside the tent. Most were dressed as if we were all attending a major production on Broadway rather than a traveling play under a canvas tent.

  "Detective Briggs." A smartly dressed man I'd seen around town but didn't know walked straight over to us with purpose filled steps. The man had graying sideburns and a serious furrow to his brows. "Maybe you can do something about this. We've been waiting out here in the cold fog for an hour, and they still haven't opened the tent. Mayor Price is nowhere to be found. If you ask me, he's probably hiding from this disgruntled crowd. We are getting plenty agitated. My wife, Marianne"—he waved back to several women and another well-dressed man huddled together talking and laughing—"she catches cold easily. She shouldn't have to stand out here and catch her death after we paid a good amount of money to be sitting inside the theater and not outside of it." He finally took a breath. His bright blue bowtie did a little dance on his neck.

  "I'm not entirely sure what I can do, but I suppose I could make my way to the front and find one of the crew members. Otherwise, this really doesn't fall under my jurisdiction," Briggs said lightly to try and jolly the man out of his sour disposition. It didn't work.

  Briggs took hold of my hand. "Stay close so I don't lose you in this crowd of disgruntled theater goers. They could turn into an angry, fashionably dressed mob at any minute," he joked, although from the tense energy bouncing around the group he might not have been far off in his assessment.

  "It figures that that coward Mayor Price ran and hid when people started getting mad," I muttered as Briggs pulled me through the maze of black suits and silk dresses. "Who knew Port Danby people had such finery in their closets," I said on a near whisper.

  We reached the entrance of the tent. "There's Briggs," someone said over the other voices, "he'll get to the bottom of this."

  I giggled. "I feel so important being dragged along like a kite behind the famous James Briggs."

  Briggs squeezed my hand and dragged me closer behind him. "Not sure what they expect me to do. Whip out my badge and demand they start the play?" A troubled looking stagehand stepped around the side of the tent and then, with a look of horror at the scene in front of it, spun around and took off.

  "That's not exactly an encouraging sign," Briggs said. He released my hand and took off after the guy. I stood in the center of the irritated crowd and smiled at a few of the lingering, scrutinizing gazes.

  "She runs the local flower shop," I heard someone mutter not so quietly behind me. There were definitely faces I didn't recognize, people from Mayfield and Chesterton, no doubt.

  I breathed a sigh of relief when Briggs came back around the tent. "Well, Briggs," someone shouted. "What's going on? We're all freezing. Either they should let us in or they should refund our money."

  "One of the cast members is missing. They're looking for her now," Briggs explained.

  "Well, if it's just one cast member, why don't they get on with it and work the play around her?" someone asked.

  Briggs had an amused glint in his eyes as his gaze swept past me. "Because the missing cast member is Dorothy."

  Grunts mingled with a few gasps and an even fewer giggles. My reaction landed somewhere between the two. The Wizard of Oz couldn't very well go on without Dorothy. I wondered if her absence had anything to do with the terrible fight she'd had with Susana. Maybe she was trying to put a little scare into the director to remind her how important her role was and that the show couldn't go on without her.

  "Will they give us our money back?" someone shouted over the heads.

  "How did I get thrown in
to this mess?" Briggs said quietly.

  The disgruntled growls in the crowd grew louder, but the entire group fell silent when a scream cut through the night air. People glanced anxiously around.

  Briggs looked at me. "Did that come from the tent?"

  "That's what I was thinking."

  "Help, I think she's dead!" a voice yelled from inside the tent.

  Briggs grabbed my hand. Startled onlookers stepped aside as he pushed his way to the tent entrance. He pulled open the flap and we stepped inside. Props were set up to display a farm scene, only the house that I'd seen them carry in earlier was face down on the stage. A shaken looking stagehand, a young man whose face looked as pale as the tent canvas, was pointing down at something.

  Briggs and I raced to the stage. More of the theater group, stagehands, extras and a few of the play attendees crowded into the tent behind us. We reached the stage and froze at the sight of a pair of thin legs clad in black patent leather shoes sticking out from the fallen house.

  My first reaction was that it was some sort of prank. "Isn't the house supposed to fall on the witch?" I asked, then realized the stagehand's face was dead serious.

  Briggs didn't take time to walk around to the stage steps. He hauled himself up on stage. (I, on the other hand, decided to walk up the stairs.) Briggs and the stagehand had lifted the wooden prop up to its proper position before I reached the body.

  "Dorothy," I said on a gasped breath. She was pale and lifeless. A gray cable was wrapped around her neck, and the skin beneath it was bright red.

  Briggs knelt down next to the body and quickly unwrapped the cable. I knew from his unhurried movements that he was certain she was dead. He pressed his fingers near the red mark on her neck and searched for a pulse. A minute later he glanced up at me and flashed the look that confirmed my suspicions.

  Briggs stood up and turned to the stagehand. It was then that we both noticed he looked close to passing out. "One of you come up here and escort this man down to a chair. He needs to put his head between his knees," Briggs said. "I'll need the rest of you to clear out and find me the person in charge of this operation."