Carnations and Chaos (Port Danby Cozy Mystery Book 2)

by London Lovett

  Dash had been wrangled by a persistent Yolanda into setting up heating lamps for tonight's dance. He was rolling a lamp's heavy base along the cement path as I parked my bicycle. I headed his direction.

  "I see you can't say no to Yolanda either," I quipped. "Have you seen her? Or is she repainting the entire town before the fair guests arrive?"

  "That woman does seem to have boundless energy. After all this, I'm ready to spend the rest of the weekend sitting in front of some video games."

  I peered at him over my sunglasses. "I thought I heard an alarming amount of gun shots coming from inside your house. That along with a lot of loud arguing that seemed to have only one side, your side."

  It was rare for Dash to look shy, but he had a sheepish grin on his face. "Guess I need to stop shouting at the games. Either that or insulate the walls better."

  Yolanda dashed through my field of vision like a scurrying mouse. "Oops, there's the boss. I guess I'll find out what she needs me to do. Catch you later. Unless maybe you'll be too tired for that dance."

  "Not a chance, Pinkerton. You're not getting out of it that easy."

  I shrugged. "Worth a try." I headed across the pathway. Only one booth was still vacant. It was double the size of the other booths.

  "No, Trixie, you bad hen! Come back here!" a woman's voice was followed by a fat maroon feathered chicken scurrying across the lawn and path.

  I crouched down and stopped its progress. The bird's red fleshy comb wobbled back and forth as it turned its head side to side to seek out an escape route. Fortunately, I had some skill with a headstrong bird.

  "Look what I have," I said as I held out my empty palm.

  The bird eyed the invisible treat and walked forward to investigate, giving her owner a chance to swoop in and grab the hen.

  "Thank you. Trixie is such a scoundrel." She stuck out her hand. "Celeste Bower, I run a country living blog called 'Sweet Cherry Pie'." Celeste looked to be about thirty, but it was hard to tell her age due to her flawless pink skin. She had big blue eyes. Her curly blonde hair was swept up on the sides and held in place by decorative clips. She was wearing a Tom Petty concert shirt that didn't really go with the rest of her, or a country blog, but I was instantly drawn to her purple cowboy boots.

  "I'm Lacey and I love your boots."

  She looked down at them and turned her ankle back and forth. "Aren't they great? I found them at a flea market." Trixie grew restless in her arm.

  "I'll let you put the chicken away." I stretched up and looked past her to the booth with the Sweet Cherry Pie banner. "What a cute little chicken coop." Another chicken was scratching away at the grass under the coop.

  "Yes and it's easy to transport. They have a much bigger coop at home, of course. It's like a chicken palace."

  "That's wonderful. Well, I'll let you get back to your work. I'm sure you have plenty to do."

  "Is Marian Fitch coming?" Celeste asked. "I haven't seen her. She's the headliner for the fair." The slightest eye roll followed.

  "I'm not sure. Let me know if you need anything."

  I reached Yolanda, who was just ripping open a cardboard box.

  "Did someone cancel, Yolanda? I see an empty booth. And why is it a double?"

  "No one cancelled. That is Marian Fitch's booth. She requested a double." Yolanda straightened from the box and handed me, of all things, a deflated beach ball.

  I stared down at it. "I'm holding a flat beach ball."

  "Yes. Would you be a dear and blow them up? I'm going to have Dash hang some from the trees. I thought they'd add a festive touch and remind everyone to check out Port Danby's wonderful beach."

  "How many are there?" I was already feeling lightheaded from getting up in the middle of the night. I could only imagine how silly I would be after blowing up beach balls.

  "There are only twenty." She didn't give me a chance to respond before something else caught her attention. "No, no, I don't want the speakers so close to the booths," she called to the workmen setting up the sound system. She hurried off, leaving me standing with a box of airless beach balls.

  I decided to dump out the balls and turn the box over to the unopened side. I sat gently on it. It seemed I might have less chance of falling on my face from lack of oxygen if I sat to blow the balls up.

  My vantage point gave me a clear view of the entire fair. It was coming along nicely. Yolanda could be proud.

  After some coaxing, I got the first puffs of air into the beach ball. Dash was walking my direction, and I was bracing for him to tease me about my important job. I would simply remind him that at least I didn't have to climb up in trees and hang them.

  I finished the first beach ball and realized quickly that I had no place to secure them if a breeze swept through. I held the first one between my feet and started on the second one. With my cheeks puffed out in a hamster-like manner, Dash winked at me and then turned to talk to none other than the cute country living blogger in the purple boots. And, I certainly didn't mind because Dash had the right to talk to anyone he liked. I told myself that twice while watching the two of them laugh about something.

  I finished the second ball and looked around. Since the double booth was still vacant, I decided to toss the balls inside of it to avoid having to chase down and herd together a bunch of wayward beach balls.

  Twyla's booth was across the way. She waved in between cutting some potatoes. "I don't envy you that job," she called.

  "Thanks." I tossed the first two beach balls into the booth. Celeste's booth was right next door, and Dash was still being the overly friendly local, making small chat with her. Oh, who was I kidding? It wasn't small chat. It was flirting, something Dash was highly skilled at. Apparently Celeste was telling him all about the last Tom Petty concert she went to and how she and her sister were obsessed with his music.

  With my beach balls secured, I headed back to my box to blow up a few more. This time I faced away from the fair and my overly friendly neighbor and admired the fall trees across the way.

  I finished six more beach balls and decided I needed a break. I got up too suddenly. The autumn foliage swirled into a flame colored blur. I swayed forward and was close to pitching face first on the cement when a large hand took hold of my arm to steady me.

  "Watch it. Those beach balls can be dangerous." I hadn't heard his voice in awhile. I realized I had missed it. His dark eyes were hidden by sunglasses, but his familiar half smile showed right up on cue. And then there was that perfect curl of hair on the back of his shirt collar.

  "Detective Briggs? I didn't expect to see you here."

  "I'm just here to ask Yolanda a few details about parking." He surveyed the beach balls I had yet to blow up. "Seems she has you busy too."

  As he spoke, a large white box truck pulled up along the curb next to the park. A navy blue sedan pulled up behind it.

  Yolanda hurried over. "Detective Briggs, you're here. I'm going to show you where we need the no parking cones." Yolanda, who already talked fast, was starting to sound like an auctioneer. "Oh my, there's Marian Fitch with her things." She took a breath. "After a few phone conversations with the woman, I'm not looking forward to meeting her." A visible shiver ran through Yolanda. "She's quite demanding. Come, Detective. Follow me."

  Briggs shot me a small grin before he followed behind Yolanda. The two lines that creased his mouth when he smiled—I'd forgotten about those too.

  My head was solid again as I bent down to pick up the next beach ball. Behind me, an angry voice broke the otherwise convivial atmosphere in the town square.

  "Who put these ridiculous beach balls inside my booth?"

  Seemed that so far everything I'd heard about Marian Fitch was spot on.

  Chapter 6

  It was amazing how the arrival of one small woman could turn a smooth running operation upside down. Marian Fitch, the fifty-something owner of the Sugar Lips company and blog had thick wavy hair, which she had dyed a severe black to contrast with a pasty whi
te, heavily powdered complexion. The dark red lipstick, which was used to paint on a bow shape that didn't really exist, topped off the woman's stark color scheme. Her dark, deep set eyes were bordered by a pair of rectangle framed eyeglasses that made her eyes look extra big, reminding me of the 'why, Grandma, what big eyes you have' line in Red Riding Hood. She wore a slightly outdated satin blouse that she'd topped off with a long strand of pearls.

  After the removal of my highly inconvenient beach balls, Marian Fitch took a sweeping look around and her bow shaped lips twisted into an angry pretzel. "This won't do," was all she said before screeching for her assistant.

  Fitch's assistant turned out to be her obedient nephew, Parker Hermann. Parker was an anxious, jittery twenty-something, who wore his brown hair combed heavily to one side. He tucked his short sleeved, button down shirt, a camel colored cotton, into his pants and tied off the entire prim look, astonishingly enough, with a wide belt and big silver skull-shaped belt buckle. He was obviously fond of the buckle because he made a point of adjusting it every time he spoke. After watching him in action with his aunt berating him at every turn, I was feeling rather sorry for him just ten minutes into their arrival.

  An hour into their arrival, the double booth had been deconstructed and reconstructed in a more suitable location, especially away from those smelly chickens. (Marian Fitch's words, not mine.)

  I'd had about enough setting up for the day and needed to get back to my shop. I'd closed it for the entire morning, but I had plenty to do. Not to mention, I was sure Kingston would be pacing his perch, wondering where I'd disappeared to for so long.

  As I headed toward Pickford Way, I saw Lester rolling a cart filled with lidded coffee cups. The wheels got caught on the lip of the cement, so I raced over to help him.

  "Lacey, you're just in time. I decided to brew up some of my special dark roast and offer some to the fair participants."

  "That was kind of you, Lester. I'll help you pass them out."

  "Would you? Thanks so much. I even brought a few pitchers of cream and dairy free creamer."

  I helped Lester navigate the busy lawn with his cart. The first stop was none other than the Sugar Lips booth. Parker was balancing on a chair trying to hang up a sign, while Marian busied herself with very little as she sat on a chair she'd brought along. I was surprised to see it wasn't painted gold and in the shape of a throne.

  "Welcome to Port Danby," Lester said. He placed two cups of coffee on the wood shelf of the booth. Lester flashed Marian his gracious smile. As far as I was concerned, his was the kind of smile that could brighten even a rotten day, but the woman couldn't even work up a lip turn. Maybe she was worried she would ruin the clownish amount of lipstick she had smeared on her thin lips.

  Lester was a little taken aback, so I jumped in to save him from the shark infested waters. I picked up the creamer. "Cream or non-dairy?" I asked cheerily.

  Marian gave the creamer a cursory glance. "Neither. I have my own." She reached into her bag and pulled out a small white bottle with a French label. "I only use this creamer. I buy it whenever I'm in France. There is nothing else like it."

  "France, wow. It must be delicious." Lester was great at pretending charm even when he wasn't feeling it.

  Marian picked up the cup of coffee and read the label. "Coffee Hutch."

  "Yes, indeed. I'm the owner. We're located just a few blocks away on—"

  "If you own a coffee shop of any merit, then you should consider carrying this creamer."

  Lester was stopped cold on his impromptu commercial. He snuck a glance my direction, and I snuck a wink back.

  "He'll look into it," I said. "Well, Lester, maybe we should get moving before these coffees get cold."

  "Yes," Lester said. "It's rather chilly out here in the town square." He winked back at me.

  Suddenly a business card clutched in long white fingers that were topped in red nail polish was shoved in my face. "Here's my business card. It has my blog and website listed. I have several posts about the creamer and where to buy it."

  "Right." I pushed the card into my pocket. "Thank you."

  "Good day," Lester said through a tight jaw. We rolled the cart to the Barbecue Boyz booth. Lester leaned his head my direction. "Sugar lips? More like sourpuss."

  I had to control my laughter, afraid that Fitch would think we were laughing at her.

  Oh, that's right. We were.

  Chapter 7

  A loud clanging disintegrated the strange dream I was having about beach balls filled with coffee creamer. It took me more than a few seconds to figure out where I was and why my neck and back were so stiff. I lifted my heavy head from my forearms. My bottom wobbled on the stool beneath me. And through the fog of my heavy sleep, a dark figure walked toward me. The late afternoon sun coming through the windows blotted out his features.

  "Miss Pinkerton, are you all right?"

  I took a deep breath and slipped off the stool but fortunately landed on my feet. "Detective Briggs." My voice had that raspy, just woke up quality to it. I cleared my throat. "I must have dozed off." Between getting up early to help Elsie with her souvenir cookies and blowing up twenty beach balls, the day had finally caught up to me.

  I looked over at Kingston's perch. It was empty. Then I remembered my irritated crow had flown right over me and out of the shop the second I opened the door.

  "What are you doing here?" I asked. "Have you come to order one of my Thanksgiving centerpieces?"

  He smiled and shook his head. "Actually, I heard that Elsie had made cinnamon rolls, so I decided to stop for one. But I'm a day too late. Then I walked past your shop and glanced in the window and saw you fast asleep with your head on the counter. I worried something was wrong, and here I am." He pointed up to his thick dark hair. "You have something right—"

  I reached up and my fingers grazed over a stem of green fern. I yanked it free and tossed it onto the counter. "Must have fallen asleep on my work. Excuse me, I see a grumpy crow in the tree out front."

  I opened the shop door and just as he had swooped angrily out of the store, Kingston swooped angrily back inside. He didn't even give Detective Briggs a cursory glance before flying straight to his perch. And Briggs, who was always cool as cream, hardly flinched as the big black crow swept past him.

  I stretched my arms out and tried to ease the grogginess out of my head with a deep breath. "I think I'm going to need some fresh air."

  "I'll walk with you. I was going to head to the beach and eat my lighthouse souvenir." He lifted up a cellophane wrapped cookie.

  "You bought a souvenir cookie. Good for you. A quick jaunt to the beach works." It was rare for Detective Briggs to be so friendly and informal. I wasn't going to waste the opportunity. I grabbed my keys and sweatshirt and flipped over my closed sign, not that I expected any customers at the end of the day. Everyone was too busy getting ready for the dance.

  We walked out onto the sidewalk. Yolanda's voice blasted out over the town saying 'testing one, two, three' over and over again. Each time her sound test was followed by a piercing, high pitched noise that made my shoulders bunch up to my ears.

  Briggs laughed. "I guess they don't quite have the sound system perfected yet."

  "Apparently not. Poor Yolanda. She's sounding a little on the edge of hysteria in those sound tests. She has worked so hard. I hope it all goes smoothly."

  We headed past Franki's Diner and on to Pickford Way where we could catch the walkway down to the sand.

  Briggs offered me a piece of cookie, which I declined, before he took a big bite, effectively removing the black pointed top of the lighthouse. His permanent five o'clock shadow was thick from a long day at work. I'd deduced that since he had to wear proper suits and shoes for work, the unshaven jaw and slightly long hair were his small concessions to a wilder side of James Briggs. Although, I might have been totally wrong. It was possible he was just as no-nonsense in his personal life.

  "Will we be seeing the illustrious Det
ective Briggs at the dance tonight?"

  "I don't know about that. Dances and fairs aren't exactly my thing."

  "How disappointing. I was hoping I could show you just what a terrible dancer I am."

  He laughed. "I confess, that would make it all worth it. But I doubt I'll be there."

  I was surprised at how disappointed I felt about him not attending the dance. But I was being silly. I should have known James Briggs wasn't the town dance type.

  "It's been a few weeks since I've seen you," I said. "Are there any big, exciting cases you've been working on? I've been itching for a new mystery to solve."

  "Nothing too exciting. Mostly cut and dry cases. I thought you were going to do some research on the Hawksworth murder-suicide."

  "I haven't had any time. But now that you mentioned it, I am planning to go up there and visit the little makeshift museum in the gardener's shed. It'll be open all weekend for visitors."

  We reached the sand. Port Danby had been a bustling port back in the day when the Hawksworth Manor was in its glory. But bigger and more modern ports down south made Port Danby obsolete. The docks had been trimmed down to a marina for fishing and pleasure boats, and the shoreline had been smoothed into a nice beach for day trips.

  "Yes, I've heard they're opening it. I just hope Officer Chinmoor and I don't have to pry any curious trespassers out from the broken stairway. I've had to do that several times."