The west side of the road was lined with quaint farms with rustic red barns and chickens pecking away at the insects in the pastures. One friendly looking homestead with a white farmhouse and cheery green chicken coop had a large hand painted sign leaning against a mailbox that was painted with black and white cow spots. I peddled to the west side of the road to read it.
“Fresh, organic eggs four dollars a dozen.”
Perfect. Kingston loved hard boiled eggs. I had no place to store them in the shop, so I made a quick mental note to ride past the farm on my way home. Smartly, I’d added a handy basket to the front of my bike.
As I peddled past a street called Dawson Grove, a splash of orange caught my eye. I decided to take a little side trip along the road to admire the pumpkin patches. The first house I passed had a pumpkin patch that seemed to start right at the back porch. It stretched and sprawled across the yard and out into a pasture where several goats were grazing. A tall scarecrow was dressed, oddly enough, in a fireman’s coat and helmet. I liked it. Some thin fencing had been erected around one particular pumpkin, a massive, deep orange squash. I concluded that it must have been one of the prize pumpkins being coddled and protected for the contest.
A thick border of purple and white lantana separated the two farms on Dawson Grove. I peddled past it to the next farm with its equally impressive pumpkin patch and even more impressive scarecrow. This scarecrow dawned a black top hat, frock coat and white cravat. Even Kingston, who normally thought nothing of scarecrows, might take a second look at the Mr. Darcy scarecrow. I’d been admiring the scarecrow and hadn’t noticed the woman circling the patch. She was wearing a green linen apron and a blouse with pink flowers, a sweet elderly woman’s gardening ensemble, only there was something not entirely sweet about her demeanor. She looked as upset as the woman hacking away at her steak in the diner. Her garden clogs were hitting the surrounding dirt so hard, a cloud of dust followed her.
“Morning,” I said cheerily, hoping to add a little bright spot to her day. “I like your scarecrow.”
Her straw hat shifted slightly as she glanced my direction. She grumbled something angrily under her breath and marched back toward her house. It seemed I’d met my first unfriendly local.
I decided my pumpkin patch detour had come to an end and turned my bike around to head back to Culpepper Road. As I rolled back past the patch and the finely dressed scarecrow, I noticed the name Kent was printed on the side of the parcel sized mailbox sitting atop a tilted post. I was sure Lola had mentioned the name Kent when she spoke of the pumpkin contest.
I glanced around the sky and surrounding trees for a familiar black bird, but Kingston had obviously decided to take his own route to work today. I wasn’t quite ready to stand in the shop sorting vases by size and color, so I turned south on Culpepper and headed toward the beach.
The view of Pickford Lighthouse, with its powder white siding and shiny black cap, was by far the most idyllic in Port Danby. My only regret was that I couldn’t see it from my shop. Still, on a clear day, if I took several steps down Harbor Lane and stood two feet north of the Port Danby Willy and then turned my body in just the right angle to see past the laurel hedge on Culpepper Road, I could get a slightly eclipsed postcard view of the squat little tower with its pointy black hat and big yellow light.
It was shaping up to be a brilliant blue day. I made the executive decision to explore the coast for a bit before heading into the shop. I could really get used to being my own boss.
The early morning air was still cold. I stopped to zip up my sweatshirt before returning my feet to the pedals.
Chapter 8
I rode my bike from Culpepper Road to Pickford Way. A sharp right turn rolled me right past Pickford Beach, the town square and motel row. The mayor’s office sat quietly at the far west side of the town square.
Aside from a few men with metal detectors and a woman feeding the seagulls, the sand was empty. Beach days were behind us but that didn’t stop weekend visitors from staying in town. I stopped at the vista where, with the right camera and skill, a person could take glorious pictures of the coastline. Gray granite rocks, layered with the occasional black shard of shale, made up the steep cliffs that dropped below the lighthouse.
I pedaled to the rather frail metal railing and peered over. A dizzy sensation struck me as I looked down the steep cliff, and I rolled my bike back from the edge. A small sign with red painted letters warned visitors not to climb over the railing or walk along the edge of the cliff. That was not going to be a problem for me. The outcroppings of rock below would not make for a pretty landing from any height.
I pulled my phone out to snap a picture of the lighthouse. My dad would get a kick out of it. Before I was born, he had spent four years in the navy. He had never lost that love of the sea and everything that went with it, including fishing.
I stared up at the squat white tower as it stood proudly on its green hillside. I had yet to meet the lighthouse keeper, but I’d heard he lived full time in the cottage that sat just beneath the lighthouse. The cottage’s exterior matched the lighthouse with a powdery white coating of paint, but the sharply pitched roof was covered with brick red tile.
I took a few more pictures of the lighthouse from different angles. It was such a simple, plain structure, yet somehow, it transported me back to a more romantic time when salty merchant sailors and wild haired buccaneers traveled the seas in tall sailing ships.
A whistle shot up from the marina and carried clear over to the lighthouse. I turned my bike around and shaded my eyes to see where the sound had come from. It seemed I was once again going to meet up with my neighbor, Dash.
I rode back toward the marina. Just fifty years ago, the area had been a dock for industrial boats, but when the bigger ports nearby swallowed up Port Danby’s business, the town rebuilt the coastline area and switched over to tourism as its main source of business. It had been a good choice. There was hardly a prettier, more welcoming stretch of coastline for a hundred miles.
A long set of parallel docks ran adjacent to the wharf, where stations had been set up to clean fish. There was a bike rental shop and a casual dining stop that proudly touted having the best shrimp salad in the world. A fishing pier, seafood shop and the shallow algae greased water that came with a marina could have easily overwhelmed my sense of smell if I allowed it.
My hands nearly popped off the handlebars when my tires hit the rough, stuttering planks of the dock. I turned along one of the short arms that branched out from the main dock. Most of the farther out slips were filled with recreational boats. The ones closer in to the fish cleaning stations were fishing boats.
Dash waved from the deck of what seemed to be an expensive pleasure boat. It was easy to distinguish because of the shiny lacquer hull and glossy teak deck. Whereas, the fishing boats tied off closer to the wharf, where pedestrians could walk and enjoy the world’s best shrimp salad, looked like rusted tin cans in comparison.
Dash was wearing a tool belt, and the side of his right hand was covered in black grease.
I climbed off my bike and squinted up at him and realized he was pleasing to look at from every angle. “I thought there was no family fortune, and yet, here you stand on a fancy boat.”
“Yes, and if only this fancy boat belonged to me. When I’m not hammering and annoying the heck out of my neighbors, I’m fixing boats. And actually earning money for my labor, unlike the work I’m doing at home.”
“You must be Lacey, the Pink’s Flowers girl,” a voice sang out from a few boats down. A woman threw her leg over the side of a fishing boat and hopped down, rubber boots and all, onto the dock. She was a stout woman with cheeks round and red as apples. Her short yellow mackintosh coat creaked with each of her quick, long steps. Her jaw was moving wildly over a wad of tobacco or gum as she approached. I was relieved to see it was the latter. Spearmint, according to my nose.
She stuck out her hand. It was a strong grip … and icy. “Sorry about
the cold hands.” She rubbed them together. “I’ve been helping on the boat.” Her fingernails grabbed her attention. “Oh, would you look at that.” She gave me a close up view of the tiny palm trees someone had painstakingly painted onto her nails. “Lost a palm tree. Probably somewhere in the pile of fish guts I tossed out for the seagulls.” The creatively painted nails did not match the rough and ready demeanor of the woman.
“I would imagine manicures don’t last too long out here on the wharf. As you already mentioned, I’m Lacey, owner of the flower shop.”
“Glad to meet you. I’m Theresa and that bald man with the long gray beard up at the bow is my husband, William. Though most people call him Willy.”
I had been meeting enough people to make it hard to keep names straight, but Lola had talked about Willy and Theresa during her long narrative about the class ring.
“What brings you down to the dock this morning?” Theresa managed to chew the gum between every other word. She had the skill quite mastered, leading me to believe that she chewed gum a lot. It made my jaw tired watching her.
“I’m just out for a little exercise, but I need to get back to the shop.”
“You should meet my husband first.” Before I had a chance to respond, she yelled down the dock. “Will! Come meet the flower shop woman.” There was no response. She gave it one more try and this time managed to alarm a row of pigeons off the railing of a nearby boat.
William’s shiny head was now sporting a floppy hat. He leaned over the railing of his boat and waved hello, which was all the greeting I needed. It was hard to match the weathered, bearded little man with the image of somebody’s high school sweetheart or secret flirt, but what did I know about love.
“Hey, Lacey,” Dash called from behind. He was standing at the bow of the shiny luxury boat pointing up to a tall mast on the ship moored across the dock. “Isn’t that your bird?”
I shaded my eyes and peered quickly up at the crow. “Yes, he’s trying to remind me that I need to get to work.”
I rolled my bike closer to the boat Dash was standing on. He leaned his forearms on the railing and smiled down at me. “Thought maybe he was looking for a crow’s nest.”
“Clever man.”
“Thanks. Been working on that one the last few minutes.”
I pointed my thumb back behind my shoulder. “Well, I’ve got to get back to the shop.”
“It looks good. Hope you don’t mind but I was snooping in the windows while I ate one of Elsie’s crumb cakes. I was going to sit at one of her tables, but she was busy rearranging them. She must have moved each table and chair a dozen times before I finished the last bite of crumb cake. She wasn’t her usual cheery self. I’m thinking maybe she’s been sampling the vanilla.”
I sighed. “No, it’s not the vanilla, but I think her mood is my fault. I wouldn’t let her put the tables in front of my shop. Now, it seems, she’s obsessing about them. I’d better get over there. I don’t want her to be upset. Thanks for the tip off.”
“Sure thing. Have a good day, neighbor.”
“You too, Dash.”
Chapter 9
I could hear the metal feet of a chair scraping cement long before I reached the little cluster of shops. Lester was inside the Coffee Hutch. His tables and chairs sat undisturbed in the morning sun. The front window of his shop was wide open, and, oddly enough, he had set a small fan on the ledge. It cranked and spun as it sent waves of rich coffee aroma out onto the street. I detected hints of almond in a medium roast scent.
Metal scraping on concrete pulled my attention to the neighbor on the opposite side. Elsie was wearing running shorts under her frilly apron as she leaned back to study her table arrangement. I parked my bike in front of the flower shop and walked over to her side.
Elsie heard me approach but didn’t look up as she spoke. “I’m worried that the sun will be too bright for this end table after ten.”
“I don’t think it’ll be a problem, but you could turn the chairs more to face the store. It’s such a lovely shop.” I hoped my compliment would produce a smile and it did. But it was hardly an exaggeration.
If ever a building could be described to resemble a cupcake it would be the Sugar and Spice Bakery. Elsie had had the building painted a butter yellow, the kind of color that made your mouth water even though it was slathered on bricks and plaster. The slightly arched front window was trimmed with candy stripes of teal and white. Billowy lace curtains provided a frilly frame for the shop’s interior, which was equally charming. The same earthy teal paint was emblazoned across the letters spelling out the bakery’s nursery rhyme name.
I walked over and put a hand on Elsie’s shoulder. “Your customers line up for your delicious baked goods. Frankly, with treats like yours, most people would be happy sitting on a piece of crumpled wet newspaper on the sidewalk as long as they had one of your fudgy brownies clutched in their fingers.”
“Thank you, Pink. And I haven’t forgotten about your pumpkin bread. I’ve added in a nice ribbon of sweetened cream cheese. I think you’ll like it. I’ve got some cooling right now.”
“Perfect. I can’t wait.” I grabbed my keys from the bike basket and opened the door. The flutter of wings from behind reminded me to duck. Kingston swooped in and landed on his window perch. Seeing Kingston reminded me of my plan to ride home via Culpepper Road to pick up a dozen fresh eggs. If I still had energy after two long bike rides and a day setting up the shop, then I would throw together a frittata for dinner. Once I’d figured out how to control my hyperosmia, I’d found a renewed joy in food. I managed to stir, bake, burn and, occasionally, over salt my way to being a halfway decent cook.
I slipped into my tiny office space, which was really more of a closet, and checked my email. Featherton Nursery, a garden supply store in the neighboring town of Chesterton, had written to confirm the delivery of six flats of orange and yellow marigolds. When I spoke to the clerk on the phone, she mentioned that they had six flats of marigolds left over from summer, and surprisingly enough, they were still blooming. But since it was the end of the season for marigolds and these only had a few last breaths of color left, she offered them to me for half price. I decided a free potted marigold would be a perfect grand opening gift. I purchased small pink pots with Pink’s Flowers printed around the side. It was my first real attempt at marketing, and I was rather pleased with myself.
I had not quite finished unpacking the multicolored vases I’d purchased for flower arrangements when Elsie hurried in with a small paper plate that was folding under the weight of a miniature loaf of pumpkin bread.
My acute sense of smell allowed me to taste things long before they reached my lips. Cinnamon, cloves and nutmeg did a little dance through my nose and down to the base of my throat. “I’m looking so forward to this, Elsie. I took a long bike ride this morning and I’m starved.”
Elsie waited with bated breath as I took the first bite. A moist crumbly landslide of spicy brown sugar and pumpkin filled my mouth. “Hmm, even better than I expected and, trust me, I was expecting. And you’re right, the ribbon of sweet cream cheese puts it over the top. Now I’m glad I took that bike ride because I plan to finish every bite of it.”
Elsie looked pleased with herself, and it seemed the table arrangement issue had left her mind completely. “You should bring your running shoes. We could run the loop together some time.”
I laughed. “No thanks. I think I’ll spare myself that humiliation. Besides, you’d probably have to carry me home on your back.”
I wasn’t open for business but the door flew wide and my primitive alarm system of one rusty goat bell clanged through the shop. I’d seen Mayor Price before, but we’d never been formally introduced. It seemed that moment had arrived. His bushy moustache was not terribly symmetrical, and it twitched as he glanced around the shop. It seemed from the sour twist of his mouth, which was barely visible beneath the gray moustache, that he didn’t approve of my taste. Which was not a bad thing cons
idering the man was wearing a dark green polyester blend suit that was at least a size too small. I felt particularly sorry for the button that strained to stay shut over his big belly.
“Harlan,” Elsie said enthusiastically, but a glower from the mayor caused her to abruptly change her greeting. “Of course, Mayor Price, how are you? Have you met Port Danby’s newest citizen, Lacey Pinkerton? Isn’t her shop beautiful?”
He grunted in response to her last question and stepped forward for a brief handshake. I put on my best smile. “Nice to meet you, Mayor Price.”
The mayor nodded as if he were agreeing with the statement that it was nice to meet him. So far that was not the case, and when his nod was followed by a rather brazen survey of my face, I had to bite my tongue not to point out his rudeness. Maybe he just took some getting used to. He was, after all, a politician. Somewhere in our myriad of conversations, Lola had mentioned that Mayor Price was the fourth generation of Price in the mayor’s office. She noted that it was mostly because no one else wanted the position.
Mayor Price leaned his head a bit and seemed to be focused on my nose.
Instinctively, I reached up to make sure it wasn’t covered in the cinnamon streusel from Elsie’s pumpkin bread. Everything seemed to be in order as far as my nose was concerned.
“Excuse me, Mayor Price, is there something on my face I should know about?”
“Uh, no.” He straightened and pulled his focus away from my nose. “I was just trying to understand how you earned the moniker ‘million dollar nose’. It looks like an ordinary nose to me.”
Elsie laughed but cut it short when he scowled at her. “Why, Harlan, I mean Mayor Price, where on earth did you hear that?”
I looked at Elsie. “Apparently Mayor Price has been doing a little research on Port Danby’s newest citizen.” I raised my brow in question at him.
Marigolds and Murder (Port Danby Cozy Mystery Book 1) Page 4
