Carnations and Chaos

by London Lovett

  "Yes, except she was at a four o'clock manicure appointment. It's entirely possible she called just before walking down to her appointment. We'll have to fill in the timeline by asking some of the employees."

  "Yes, we will."

  We stepped inside the elevator, and he pushed G for ground floor. "There you go again getting excited about my use of the word we."

  I walked to the back wall and leaned against it. Briggs joined me. "I didn't say a word," I insisted.

  "Well, the truth is, it would've taken us longer to find out the cause of death if you hadn't smelled peanut butter. This would still just be an unexplained death and not a homicide."

  "So you've ruled out accidental?" Just as I asked the question, the elevator came to an abrupt halt. The lights flickered off and on and went off completely, bathing us in the pitch dark.

  "Oh!" I gasped as I turned toward the tall silhouette standing next to me. I clutched his shirt. His hand felt warm and protective on my arm.

  The lights turned on. With some effort, the elevator started up again. The instant change from dark to light caught me by surprise. I was still clutching the fabric of his shirt. He lowered his hand from my arm. The tilt of his mouth assured me, he'd found the entire event amusing.

  I released his shirt and smoothed my palm over the ruffled fabric. "Sorry, I get a little panicked in the dark. It's this thing I have—" I shook my head. "Anyhow." I took a steadying breath. He watched me, still wearing a hint of a grin.

  I leaned back against the wall of the elevator and stared straight ahead. Me and my stupid fear of the dark.

  Thankfully, the doors opened and the fresh air of the ground floor rushed in to cool my warm cheeks. I couldn't tell if the blush was from embarrassment or because I'd instantly turned into the man's arms. Possibly both.

  We walked to the kitchen. The usual loud voices, clamor of pots and pans and sounds of food sizzling thrummed behind the two swinging doors.

  Detective Briggs pulled out his badge to get us into the 'employees only' entrance. A nice young woman with a tilted cook's hat and oversized white coat led us to the room service station.

  We were greeted by a woman wearing a badge that said 'room service manager'. Her name was Connie. Detective Briggs showed her his badge and introduced me as Miss Pinkerton.

  "I was wondering if you kept a log of room service calls. In particular, a log for the free coffee service?"

  "Oh yes. I've already pulled it out, assuming you'd want to see it. Mr. Trumble called down here to fill me in on some things," she added quickly. "Terrible tragedy." She reached for a clipboard on her desk. "This was this afternoon's log for the free coffee service. It will tell you what time the call came in, the room number, the order and the name of the server who delivered it."

  I peered over Briggs' shoulder as he ran his finger down the list. "Room 801 called at 4:03 and ordered one house specialty coffee, black. It was delivered at five by someone named Neil." Briggs looked up from the clipboard. "Is it possible to talk to Neil and to the person who took the order?"

  "Yes, certainly," Connie said. "Neil should be back in a moment. He was just delivering an order. But I'm afraid you won't be able to talk to Vincent. He takes the orders for the coffee service. He's left for the weekend. He and his friends go"—she held up air quotes—"off the grid camping. No technology. Just mother nature." A short dry laugh followed. "I suppose I shouldn't be so sarcastic. I wish my teenagers would consider a weekend off the grid. A day or even an hour off the grid would be wonderful."

  "When will Vincent be back?" Briggs asked.

  "Not until Monday morning." She looked past us. "Here's Neil. Neil, could you come here for just a moment. Detective Briggs and his assistant would like to ask you about the delivery up to Room 801."

  Neil had the bottom half of his hair shaved and the top half was left long. He had it combed to one side, but it hung in his eyes some. He looked a little nervous at first when Connie mentioned the word detective but then he seemed to understand what it was about.

  "Yeah?" he asked.

  Briggs pulled out his notepad and asked his full name, which was Neil Plummer. "You delivered a free house specialty coffee up to Room 801 at five o'clock."

  "That's the woman who died, huh? That grumpy lady with the black hair and face powder." Neil held up his hands. "Wasn't me. I didn't even know the lady. Even though she didn't give me a tip, I didn't kill her."

  "Oh, Neil," Connie interjected. "Don't be ridiculous. Just answer the questions."

  Briggs nodded a thank you toward Connie. "Was there anyone else in the room with her?"

  It had only been a few hours ago, but it seemed Neil had to do quite a memory search to remember. Of course, he had probably been to a lot of rooms today. "Nah, she was alone. Unless someone was in the back rooms, but I didn't see anyone else."

  "So she took the coffee and didn't tip you. Anything else?"

  "Well, yeah." He flipped aside the long strands of hair that had dropped over his eyes. "She didn't really want the coffee. She said she hadn't even ordered it. In fact, at first she told me to take it back to the kitchen. I turned to leave, and she called me back. She said, 'on second thought, I could use it'. I handed her the coffee, waited politely for a tip, but the only thing I got was the door slammed in my face."

  Briggs looked surprised by the last statement.

  I leaned my head closer and spoke quietly. "Totally in character with the woman I met at the fair."

  Briggs nodded. "Right. Thank you, Neil. You've been helpful. There might be a few more questions at another time." He turned to Connie. "And I'll still need to talk to Vincent when he plugs back into the grid."

  Chapter 15

  The sun had set on the long, extremely eventful day. I wasn't sure what would happen in the morning with the fair. Visitors had come to town, rented rooms and even flown from other states for a three day event. Many of the participants had spent good money and driven miles with their wares to be part of it all. It didn't seem right to shut the entire thing down early, but then it seemed disrespectful to continue on with a jovial, happy event when a woman had died in an apparent homicide. Which also left the question of whether or not one of the fair participants had had their hand in her peanut oil poisoning. I didn't envy Detective Briggs' position. It seemed he needed to get down to a serious suspect before everyone packed up and went home. He told me that he couldn't insist anyone stay in town unless he had some firm evidence to keep them there.

  Briggs had dropped me at my shop. Fortunately, I'd driven my car into town instead of my bicycle. There had been just a little too much traffic on the roads for my comfort level, and I'd decided I was safer driving to work. The only shop lights still on were my own and Lola's office light.

  Mayfield was a close neighbor of Port Danby. Many people had family living in one of the two towns. I was sure news of Marian Fitch's death had already reached Port Danby. Especially because Fitch seemed to be the big name and most famous blogger at the fair.

  Kingston glowered at me with sleepy eyes from his perch. It was equally good that I'd brought my car. My bird would stop being cranky about being left alone so long once he realized he was getting a ride in the car, something he loved almost more than his sunflower seeds.

  "I just need a few minutes, Kingston, and then I promise a fun ride home in the car." I stroked his head and tossed some shelled peanuts into his dish. I watched him picked up a peanut in his beak and wondered if Marian Fitch had been open about her allergy. I decided to take a quick browse through her website before shutting down my computer.

  I was heading to my office space when I heard a knock on the front window.

  Lola's face peered through the glass. I hurried to let her inside.

  "Is it true? That grumpy lady with the Sugar Lips is dead?"

  "She didn't actually have sugar lips but yes. She is dead."

  "I knew it. The rumors started buzzing through town, but I think Yolanda was trying to squelch
them. Everything had been going so perfectly. This sure throws a wrench into things, eh? Come to the Port Danby Food Fair. Only you might never leave."

  As inappropriate as it was, it was hard not to respond with a smile. "You are tired, Lola. You should head home."

  "I am but I figured you'd have some of the details."

  "Why is that?"

  "Because I saw you being dropped off by Detective Briggs." She added in a little eye roll for good measure. "And, of course, it was all business. He needed your nose for snooping evidence."

  "As a matter of fact that is exactly right."

  "What happened? Do they know? Did she just drop dead out of meanness, or did someone take her out?"

  When Lola was tired her mood could go in one of two directions, namely, grumpy or kooky. The latter seemed to be the case this evening.

  "It might have been foul play."

  She pointed at me. "I knew it. I could see it in your face. It's that nephew. He couldn't take all those years of being insulted and pushed around by his overbearing aunt. And then there's what I heard him saying today."

  Being tired myself, I had only been half listening to what she was saying, but now she had my full attention. "When did you hear him and what did he say?"

  Lola beamed, thrilled to have something important to tell me. "Parker walked in with a woman, a pretty girl with tawny curls. Not one of the bloggers. A visitor, I think. He seemed excited to have met someone, and he was doing the usual bragging and rooster strutting that guys do when you first start dating them and they want to impress you. The woman was admiring an expensive antique diamond bracelet in the glass case, and Parker was bragging about how he was the sole heir to his aunt's fortune. He said it was the only reason he stuck it out with the 'old hag'." Lola paused. "His words, not mine. Sounds like a good motive, right?" She followed her narrative with a long yawn.

  "Yes, it does, and it sounds like a good stopping point for now. Go home and get some sleep. I'm right behind you after I finish up something in the office."

  Lola trudged heavy footed to the door. "I am feeling the effects of the long day in my bones. I'm too young to feel this old." She reached the door. "I'll see you tomorrow." She stopped before walking out and looked back at me. "Do you think the fair will continue?"

  "Good question. Good night, Lola."

  "Good night." She walked out.

  I slipped into my tiny office and sat at the computer. Marian had handed me her business card, and I'd dropped it on the desk with the mail. My fingers dashed around the keyboard, and I pulled up her blog. It was a nice, professionally designed site, complete with blog posts and recipes. She actually managed to sound charming and personable in her posts as I skimmed through a few. Maybe someone else was writing them? Or maybe she was just more likable from behind a keyboard than face to face.

  I stifled my own yawn and decided to skim blog post titles for anything pertinent. As she'd mentioned, she had a post about her wonderful coffee creamer. (Ironically, the wonderful creamer that'd caused her death.) She waxed poetically about the silky smoothness and the vanilla essence of the creamer and how she wouldn't drink a drop of coffee without it. Then, in a snooty twist, she mentions that it's quite costly and has to be flown in from France.

  I skimmed down along the comments where it was easy to see the usual fan club responses of how wonderful the creamer sounds and so on, but one comment stood out, partially due to the font being used and also from the negative response. The commenter went by the name 'SourGrapes' and they used an italic bold font. It seemed unusual to see someone writing in italic bold font.

  The comment was pretty harsh. 'Do you actually think anyone cares what kind of coffee creamer you use, you fake charlatan? You're a fake and everyone knows it.'

  I scrolled down. A few people came to Marian's defense, but most people ignored the comment. I glanced at the topics on Marian's other posts. There were several about her deadly peanut allergy. This meant people who visited her blog knew she had it. It was no secret. That certainly put a different light on things.

  Chapter 16

  When I worked in the big city, a rainstorm meant wet overcoats, frizzy hair and the constant search for a place to park my umbrella. It meant standing under the thin eaves of the bus stop and avoiding ankle deep puddles that would instantly turn expensive shoes into worthless dog chew toys. In other words, rain, wind and thunder in the city meant major inconvenience in every way. But in my new, quaint small town of Port Danby, a rainstorm meant spectacular night time light shows, the melodic drumming of raindrops on the roof and hot berry tea on the sofa with my cat curled up next to me purring along with the beat of the rain.

  By the time Kingston and I had pulled up in the driveway of my cozy house, the drops had begun to tip toe lightly on the windshield and cement walkway. An hour later, after I'd filled my empty belly with hot tomato soup and crackers, the rain had started to fall, less in drops, and more in sheets.

  I sipped my tea and stared out at the night sky. An occasional streak of lightning would illuminate the gray pillows of moisture drifting through the dark sky. Thunder rumbled in the distance, somewhere out on the water. The weatherman had forecast a possible rainstorm, so most of the bloggers had taken precautions with their equipment and supplies. With this latest unexpected turn of events, I doubted if it mattered now. It seemed quite possible that the fair would shut down early.

  Detective Briggs would have to move his investigation along at full speed. When Kingston and I drove away from the shop, I saw his car still parked in front of the police station. It wasn't surprising to see him working late.

  I carried my teacup into the kitchen and lifted the sheer curtains to glance next door. A flickering light told me Dash was watching television in the front room. I hadn't seen him since the dance, but then he was always busy working on boats at the marina. And when he wasn't fixing boats, he was working on his house. And, I had no doubt that in between he was going on dates. He had been a veritable rock star at the dance. Just as I'd predicted.

  Before I sat back down on the couch, I picked up the pictures I'd borrowed from the Hawksworth gardening shed. The day had been so busy, I'd forgotten to return them. I decided to look through them, so I could return the pictures first thing in the morning.

  Typical Lacey, I thought. It was a perfectly snuggly night, in my perfectly snuggly house, on my perfectly snuggly couch with my snuggle loving cat, and I was pulling out century old murder scene photos. I put on my reading glasses, deciding that I would need them to see the details clearly in the faded photos.

  Photographs at the turn of the century tended to have an ethereal dreamscape or in many cases a nightmare-scape quality. Photographers at the time didn't know the phrase 'say cheese', and virtually no one smiled in a portrait. Even children looked stone-faced, and the staged lighting gave everyone a slightly crazed stare. I'd read several theories on the somber faced pictures. One theory proposed that dental hygiene was so bad back then people weren't apt to show off their teeth. A second more plausible theory was that it was considered more dignified not to smile and that unprompted grinning was for the lewd and lower class. If grim, serious expressions were considered the height of good taste, then the Hawksworth family had reached a lofty status indeed. The three children sat in various positions around an upholstered settee while the parents sat in the middle. Everyone was staring directly at the camera as if they had been hypnotized by the lens. I turned the picture over. Someone, probably Mrs. Hawksworth, had written their names and October 1901 on the back in pencil.

  There was one more family portrait where Mr. Hawksworth was sporting thick mutton chops, and Mrs. Hawksworth had a tight little bun on top her head, making both her head and shoulders, in puffed sleeves, look bigger than average. The room was decorated for the Christmas holiday. Sprigs of evergreens had been hung on the ornate mantel behind them and a tinsel covered tree sat in the corner of the room. The date on the back said December 1905. It was a photo of
their last holiday. The final picture, the one I'd saved for last, was the crime scene photograph. While family portraits were staged and probably took hours to pull off, the police photographer had taken much less care for his gruesome subject matter.

  The storm outside had churned into an angry wind that spit rain against my front window. The room lit up bright white and a loud clap of thunder followed, causing Nevermore to lift his head, but only for a second.

  I sat forward and moved the picture closer to the lamp on the end table. Mrs. Hawksworth was splayed out on her stomach. The dark edges of what I could only surmise was a pool of blood spread out past the voluminous layers of her dress. Just ten feet away, Mr. Hawksworth was curled on his side. The photo was taken to show the back of his head, or what was left of it. And sitting just below his limp right hand was a handgun. A smear of blood stretched out behind him, which seemed odd. If the man had shot himself in the head, he would not have been writhing in pain on the ground before succumbing to the head wound. His damaged skull seemed to indicate that death was instant.

  A wind gust howled around my house, and the lights flickered for a moment. I decided I'd had enough of looking at dead bodies for the day. I put down the pictures and got up to grab some candles just in case of an outage. I only took one step before the lights flashed bright. A loud popping sound followed, then my house went dark. Very dark.

  My heart rate sped up, keeping rhythm with the rush of rain on the roof. I glanced toward the front window. The power had gone out all over the town. With no light of any kind outside, I could hardly even see shadows or the outline of furniture.

  I moved slowly and felt for the coffee table. I managed to make it past the end of the couch, but without the furniture for my guide, walking across the open floor felt endless and extra scary.