I started my car. The sleuth in me said 'follow him'.
Chapter 27
I didn't know much about stealthily following someone except from what I'd seen in the movies. In the movies, the pursuer was usually in some shiny black SUV or white unmarked van. My cheap little midsized sedan seemed far better for not being noticed. And even though there was no sun to block out, I kept the visor down over the windshield in case Parker looked in his rearview and recognized me. Not that I didn't have a right to be driving along Highway 48 to Chesterton. But I had, after all, been at the scene of his aunt's murder, and I had been the one to discover her cause of death. (No small feat, I reminded myself.)
I knew Parker had been told to stay in town, but Chesterton was so close to Port Danby Parker probably didn't consider it a problem. Chesterton had far more choices for food and stores. Perhaps Parker was just going stir crazy in the hotel waiting for some word on his aunt's murder, and he decided to take a drive.
I had stayed back far enough to avoid being noticed that a truck had pulled onto the highway from one of the smaller rural roads. The slow moving, shambling old truck must have been carrying a hay bale earlier because pieces of straw and grass flew out of the bed at intervals. The bits stuck to my semi moist windshield and the front of my car.
I had to tilt my head far to the left to see around the truck's big side view mirror. Parker's car was as small and plain as my car. On a busier road, I would have already lost sight of him. Thankfully Highway 48 was just a two way highway with very few cars.
I'd relaxed some, loosening my grip on the wheel, thinking I'd catch up to Parker in Chesterton until his car made a sudden left turn down a road that ran along the coast. I'd only traveled it once on a long bike ride and found that the road ended at a cluster of expensive beach houses overlooking the coast.
Thanks to the hay spitting truck, it took me a minute to reach the turnoff. Parker's tail lights disappeared around the bend just as the first significant drops of rain fell.
I wondered if Parker was just lost and would eventually realize he'd hit a dead end and not the town of Chesterton. Then it occurred to me, I was no longer undercover. There were no other cars on the quiet road, and I, too, would eventually hit a dead end. But I'd gone this far, I wasn't about to turn around and scurry off.
Parker's car reached the paved road that led up to the elegant row of beach houses. They had their own little slice of paradise amongst the evergreens and looking out over the pristine ocean below. I could only assume most of them were vacation houses for extremely rich people, people like Parker's aunt. And now people like Parker himself. But it wouldn't make sense for them to stay in a hotel if they'd owned a beautiful beach house just ten miles outside of Port Danby.
It would have been terribly obvious to follow behind him along the quiet street. Especially since I had no place to go at the end of the cul-de-sac. I pulled off onto a circular dirt area that had been cleared, I assumed, for lost drivers to turn around. It might also have been done purposefully to provide a vista for taking pictures because, even under the dreary sky, it afforded a picturesque view of the ocean below. Tall, deep gray rocks jutted out of the turbulent green water. Even from the distance, I could see sea lions resting on the rocks, waiting for the storm surge to pass.
I parked my car at an angle to get a view of the houses above but realized I could only see the top stories and impressive roof lines. And I'd lost sight of my target completely. I hadn't traveled all that way in inclement weather being pelted by wet hay to miss the end of the story. It might have been a bit premature to refer to the weather as inclement, but my nose and my twenty-year-old broken arm bone told me the heart of the storm was moving in fast.
From the landing where I'd parked my car, I noticed a foot path had been cleared. Railroad ties had been stuck in the ground to provide steps up to the street. It led up through a copse of tall evergreens, thickly trunked trees that would provide a nice cover.
I climbed up the crude steps and walked through the trees. A deep voice drew my attention to the end of the trees, where the small spot of wilderness ended in a steep cliff. Some fencing had been put up for safety, but it hardly seemed enough for the severity of the drop off.
I peered through the trees and spotted Parker across the street in front of a palatial looking mansion with white columns and what I considered to be a gaudy amount of marble and stone. Parker was standing on the driveway staring at the garage as if he was waiting for someone to come out.
Then, with a loud hum, one of the three garage doors opened up. A man walked out who looked nothing like I'd expected from a house with marble and columns. He was tall and had a shaved head with several tattoos around his neck. Even in the cold weather, he had on a tank shirt and shorts. And most of all, he looked kind of sinister with deep set eyes, thick brows and a large square chin.
Parker stood by, looking slightly fidgety, almost nervous or excited as the man disappeared into the garage. Seconds later, a loud rumble shook the birds from the surrounding trees. I stepped back quickly to avoid an anxious scrub jay. I lost my footing and slipped through the loose pine needles, landing hard on my knees. One foot had slipped between the wires on the safety fence. My heart skipped a few beats as I stared down at the ocean waves crashing violently against the rocks below. Some of the debris I'd kicked free with my foot tumbled over the edge and out of sight to the sea below.
I pressed my hand against my chest thinking somehow it would slow my racing heart. I pulled my foot back on the safe side of the fence and pushed to my feet. The loud rumble that had caused the trees to shake, the birds to flee and me to fall had been a sports car. The man who had come out to talk to Parker had backed a bright red, flashy car out of the garage. I was no car expert, but it was easy to see that it was an extremely valuable car.
The first of a series of significant rain drops fell through the branches of the trees as I watched the two men look at the car. As the drops fell faster, the bald, sketchy looking man hurried into the driver's seat and pulled the car back into the garage. He took a few minutes to wipe off any drops with a cloth. Apparently, expensive sports cars weren't waterproof.
Parker had lifted the collar of his coat up again as if that might keep him from getting wet. As the bald man came out of the garage, Parker held his hand out. He seemed to be holding an envelope. The man thumbed through the contents and they shook hands. The man went back inside and the garage door rolled down. Parker climbed back into his car, circled around and drove off.
I kept my face down to avoid the onslaught of cold drops and hurried back to my car.
Chapter 28
The rain was coming down at a good clip, but I decided to take the long way around past the marina to see if Detective Briggs was in the office. I wasn't sure what I'd just witnessed, but my highly imaginative mind had gone straight to the most dramatic scenario. Had Parker Hermann paid someone to kill his aunt? It would have been easy enough to give a key to a stranger and have them lace the coffee creamer with peanut butter. In the meantime, Parker took a leisurely shopping tour through town to make sure everyone saw him out and about at the time of his aunt's death. He thought it would give him, the person with the best motive, a perfect alibi. But I wasn't so sure that was going to hold. I was certain I'd seen a payment of some kind pass hands. The man in the extraordinarily expensive beach house certainly didn't look like an investment banker or surgeon or high powered lawyer, the type of person you'd expect to own a house in that exclusive neighborhood. But then maybe I was being blinded too much by stereotypes. Just maybe the man was a big success in the stock industry. Maybe he had invented some important medical device. Or maybe he killed people for a living.
I made a left onto Harbor Lane. I was in luck. Detective Briggs was in the office. I pulled into the diner parking lot. Business was slow for Franki during the storm, and I knew she wouldn't mind me parking there for a few minutes.
My naturally curly hair had suffered the tortu
re of the flat iron this morning only to spring right back into curls in the rainstorm. It seemed extra wild and bouncy as I stepped out of the car and hurried across the street to the police station. The gutters were already turning into mini rivers. I had to leap over the rushing water and onto the sidewalk in front of the station.
I stood under the overhang and tried my best to swipe off some of the water beaded on my coat before stepping inside. Hilda peered up over the counter. She had her headset and speaking device on and was just finishing up giving directions to someone on the other end.
She pulled off the headset. "What brings you out on this gloomy afternoon, Lacey?"
"I was hoping I could get in to see Detective Briggs."
"Thought that might be the case." Then she winked. I wasn't sure how to absorb that gesture, but I smiled in return.
Hilda knocked and poked her head inside the office. "Miss Pinkerton is here to see you."
"Send her in," he answered without hesitation. It seemed my talk with him about Dash had helped put any awkwardness behind us. I was relieved.
Briggs was flipping through a file folder. "Celeste Bower," he said as I walked to the chair.
"What about her?"
"She's the blogger who lost out on the cookbook deal when Fitch's agent swept in and grabbed the contract first."
My shoulders shrank just a bit. "There goes one of the pieces of information I was about to tell you. How did you find out?"
"Some deeper research and a few phone calls. I found out the name of Marian's agent. He'd just heard the news when I called him. But he gave me some background on what happened. One big publisher had put out feelers letting the literary agents know that they were in the market for a good cookbook from one of the many popular food bloggers with a big following. Celeste's following was big, but not nearly as big as Marian's with her Sugar Lips site. Which, from what I can deduce, was mostly due to the success of the Hazelnut Bomb donut. Along with some of the publicity that went with it. Guess it's true that any publicity is good publicity. Celeste's book got into the publisher's hands first. They were just about to ink a mid six figure deal with her when Marian's agent dropped her cookbook proposal onto the editor's desk. It seemed the actual recipes didn't matter much. Marian had over a million followers on Facebook, almost three times as many as Celeste."
Briggs dropped the side of the folder and sat back. His longish hair was slightly disheveled. It seemed he had been out in the rain. "How did you find out it was Celeste?"
I sighed contentedly. "I just asked. The two kids at the vegan booth had the same agent. Well, I didn't exactly ask. Byron just happened to mention it. But your way was effective too." I flashed him a satisfied grin.
"Yes, it just took up a lot of my time, and time is not a luxury I have at the moment."
"Losing a lucrative deal like that would be devastating, no doubt. But how long ago did this happen?" I asked.
"Three years ago. And yes, it seems like any anger would have worn off by now. Still, it puts a possible motive on Celeste Bower. Unfortunately, it's not enough to keep her in town. Or anyone else, for that matter. The rain cut the fair short today. Yolanda told me most of the bloggers are leaving town tomorrow morning."
I wiggled my bottom on the chair and sat up straight. "It might not matter if the bloggers are leaving because I saw something today that I think shines a suspicion spotlight back on Parker Hermann."
He squinted an eye to see if I was kidding. "You do?"
"I do. I was sitting at the park eating my flatbread vegan sandwich. Very good, by the way. Anyhow, I was in my car because it was cold and icky outside. And while I was parked on Pickford Way, Parker drove up in his car. He hopped out and collected some of the cards and handwritten sentiments the fans had put on the memorial. Which I thought was genuinely thoughtful."
"Or he wanted to make sure the fans weren't insulted by seeing their cards left in the rain. Remember, the Sugar Lips brand will live on even without Marian Fitch. Parker will benefit from that brand for years, until his aunt's legacy finally fades away for good."
"That's the other less heartwarming explanation for his actions. But it was what he did afterward that didn't make sense. Parker climbed in his car and took off toward Culpepper Road."
"The opposite direction of Mayfield," Briggs noted.
"Exactly. That's what I thought too."
"Wait," he said and squinted at me again, "did you follow him?" His tone let me know that he was not going to be happy with my answer. But if I didn't confess to following him, I'd have nothing of interest to tell him. And I was sure I had a golden nugget of evidence this time.
I ran my finger along the edge of his desk and watched my finger's progress rather than look Briggs directly in the eye. I could almost feel the front edge of the lecture I was about to get, but I forged on.
"There was some following, yes. But I kept at a safe distance," I added quickly.
His chair squeaked as he sat forward and rested his arms on his desk. "Lace—I mean, Miss Pinkerton, if our hunches turn out right and Parker killed his aunt that would make him, at the very least, a person capable of murder. It was dangerous for you to follow him."
I twisted my mouth to the right and left and waited for him to finish. Then I hopped right into the rest of my story. "There really was no danger, Detective Briggs. Unless, of course, you count my foot slipping past the safety barrier on the edge of a steep cliff."
His dark eyes rounded. He was just about to speak, but I put up my hand to stop him.
"That had more to do with startled birds than following Parker so let's just forget it. Obviously I survived because I'm sitting here. As you might have theorized, I had to get out of my car at one point to spy—" I cleared my throat. "To keep my eye on the suspect." That comment earned me one of the detective's wry yet undeniably pleasing half grins.
"And where was the suspect at this point?" he asked.
"Parker pulled up to one of those posh beach houses off Highway 48."
"Beacon Cliffs?" he asked.
"I think that's what the sign said. Anyhow, he waited in front of a massive house that was draped in marble and stone. A shady looking man walked out."
"How so?"
I stared at him not sure how to proceed. "There wasn't anything extraordinary. He just walked out one foot in front of the other. Like most bipedal mammals."
He laughed and shook his head. "No, I mean how was he shady? You said he looked shady?"
My cheeks warmed. "Oh, I see. His head was shaved and he had tattoos. He was dressed as if he'd just left the local tavern at closing time. Certainly not who I expected to walk out of the house."
Briggs nodded. "You have a point. What did Parker do with this shady looking guy?"
"Not much. The guy pulled his loud, expensive sports car out of the garage, and seconds later, drove it back inside. The rain had started to fall by then, so I guess he didn't want it to get wet."
"That hardly sounds like something that implicates Parker in his aunt's murder."
I scooted toward the edge of my seat. "I'm getting to that part. Before Parker left the man's driveway, he handed him an envelope. I think there was money inside. A lot of money. It was thick, and the man thumbed through it before going back into his house."
I wasn't overwhelmed by Briggs' reaction. I was hoping that he would at least sit up straighter or write something down in his notebook. He did neither.
"Interesting." That was his total response.
My shoulders deflated. "What if he paid someone to put the peanut butter in the creamer so he could be seen in town and have an alibi?"
"I'm not writing off that possibility, Miss Pinkerton. And I'll certainly ask him about it—without letting on how I know about the transaction," he added.
A knock sounded on the door, and Hilda popped her head inside. "Mr. Hermann is here to see you, Detective Briggs." She lowered her voice. "He looks angry."
Chapter 29
Parker
Hermann did look angry but the way he carried himself made him look comical. There was a stern glower on his small pasty face. "Detective Briggs," he said sharply. "I would like to know what's going on with my aunt's case. It seems you aren't getting anywhere, and I've got things to do. I need to get my aunt back home for burial. I've made arrangements for her remains to fly out on Tuesday, and I will be on that plane."
A person could walk in throwing flaming arrows and hurling death threats and I was sure Detective James Briggs would still stay smooth as polished glass. Sometimes, it seemed I was the only person who could occasionally rattle him or get him to work up some level of emotion.
"Miss Pinkerton," Briggs said calmly, "if there's nothing else, I need to talk to Mr. Hermann." He gave me the slightest brow lift. "I have a few questions for him."
I got up. "Of course and thank you for listening to—to my proposal for the thing we were discussing."
"You're welcome."
I walked out and shut the door after tamping down the urge to leave it ajar. I decided instead to make small talk with Hilda, who looked lonely in the front office. I noticed she was looking at a recipe for pumpkin pie as I walked past her computer. She buzzed me out of the gate, but I lingered at the counter.
"My mom uses real pumpkin for her pie," I said as I straightened up some of the flyers and forms on the counter. "It takes a lot of extra time but so worth it."
"I tried that once," Hilda said. "But I nearly set the oven on fire with pumpkin juice oozing all over the place. I find that the canned stuff is just as good as long as you add in the right spices. And the crust needs to be just right, not too tough or too crumbly. That's my husband's favorite part."
"I do love a good crust. My mom sprinkles cinnamon sugar on hers. It's making my mouth water just thinking about it."
"So you'll be heading home for Thanksgiving?" Hilda asked.
Carnations and Chaos Page 12
