“Yes, I believe you have said that before. Numerous times.”
“That’s good. Then I’ll leave it at that.”
“Wonderful, now if you don’t mind, I’ll be on my way.” I checked the highway for traffic and pedaled around his car. I could feel him watching me for a good fifty yards before I heard his car door slam behind me. The motor started. A few seconds later his car whizzed past, spraying me with grit and dust.
Chapter 22
Green Acres Farm Supply was a massive industrial building with pallets of animal feed piled up under a large metal awning. One corner of the large parking lot was dedicated to the storage of heavy equipment like dirt movers and tractors and another was filled with a wall of hay bales. The only vehicle in the lot that was not a truck was Detective Briggs’ car … and my purple and white bicycle.
I leaned the bike close to the front door, so I could keep an eye on it. The inside of the store was as utilitarian as the outside. Fluorescent bars of light hung from the exposed rafters. The cavernous building was piled high with farm needs like tools, fertilizer and barrels of animal feed. Voices carried in every direction, eventually pinging off the metal walls in tinny echoes. But even with the melee of voices and sounds, I could easily distinguish the deep, measured tone of Detective James Briggs. I tried not to read anything into that.
Briggs was up at the counter that ran the length of the center of the store. Its shelves were filled with bottles and tubes and special tonics and supplements for farm animals. Two cash registers were positioned, one at each end. Briggs was talking to a tall, burly man standing at the far register. The man had on a hat with the store’s logo, and he was wearing a pair of crisp denim overalls. Directly across from the counter space, where the two men were talking, were three tall aisles of horse supplies. I skirted around the back of the aisles and came up behind a large barrel filled with stable mucking rakes. I used the rakes like the proverbial potted fern and hid behind them to catch tidbits of the conversation. I wasn’t proud of my sneaky efforts, but it was all Briggs’ fault. If he wasn’t so stubborn, I could have stood in plain view to listen to the chat.
“Beverly Kent?” the man in the hat asked. His big, drum-like voice fit perfectly with his size. “Yesterday? Yeah, she came in. The reason I remember was because she wanted to rent the skid steer. I couldn’t understand why she wanted it so early.”
“Does she use the skid steer on her farm a lot?” I glimpsed Briggs through the multicolored mucking rakes. He was writing down notes. There was something utterly likable about the fact that he wrote stuff down instead of using a fancy tech device to record things.
“Beverly rents it to scoop up her prize pumpkin for the Port Danby contest. But that’s a few weeks off. She was definitely not her usual self. Preoccupied with something. And when I told her the machine had been rented for the week, I about thought she’d break down in tears.”
A forklift beeped loudly as it entered the store through the rear opening. I leaned forward to hear over the noise. The rakes parted and I fell through them, creating a nice little clamor of my own.
Both men looked in the direction of the moving muck rakes. My face peered through the forest of handles. Detective Briggs stared at me for a long time before speaking. “I didn’t know you owned a horse, Miss Pinkerton.”
I pulled myself out and straightened up the display. “Yes, well I don’t, but I figured it’s never too late to fulfill that dream of a pony on Christmas morning.”
“Thank you very much, Mr. Banning. You’ve been helpful.” Detective Briggs put the notepad into his pocket.
“Is Beverly all right? Hope there’s nothing wrong,” Mr. Banning said.
Detective Briggs looked down for a moment to gather his words. “I’m afraid that Beverly Kent died yesterday.”
“Oh, good lord. What a shame. She was such a nice lady. How did she die?”
“That’s what we’re trying to piece together. Thank you again, Mr. Banning.”
“Let me know if there’s anything else you need.”
“That’s appreciated.” Detective Briggs walked past me. “You might want to buy that muck rake after all, Miss Pinkerton, because it’s getting a little thick around here.”
Chapter 23
I was more than a little miffed at Detective Briggs, but I decided not to let it get in the way of my investigation. And yes, I had decided it was exactly that. There was no harm in me delving a little more into the unseemly death of a Port Danby neighbor. And particularly since circumstances had somehow landed me right in the middle of it.
I waited for Briggs’ car to pull out of the farm store parking lot. According to the map on my phone, Featherton’s Nursery was just around the corner. Since I was, after all, the owner of a flower shop, I had every right to visit a nursery.
I climbed onto my bicycle and rode down the sidewalk and around the corner. Featherton’s Nursery was a quaint wooden cottage with ivory painted siding and gunmetal gray roof tiles. Featherton’s Nursery was painted in emerald green letters across a banner that hung along the porch railing. They were having a special sale on ornamental squash plants and rose bushes. There was also a note on the big handwritten sign that this was the last week to order praying mantis eggs for the garden.
Detective Briggs’ car was parked out front in one of four parking spots. I pushed my bike past the front steps and stretched up to see what was happening inside. I could see Briggs’ blue dress shirt as he browsed a spinning display of seeds. Something told me the man wasn’t actually interested in the seeds. Which meant he was probably waiting to speak to the owner.
A sign with a large yellow arrow said rear garden entrance. I pushed my bike around the side of the cottage store front and parked it next to a recycling bin. If the detective was waiting inside for the owner, then that meant there was a good chance Mr. Featherton was out back.
I hurried through the gate, hoping I’d get a chance to talk to the owner before Detective Briggs. I needed a tiny bit of revenge on his muck rake comment.
The small cottage in front was a terrific camouflage for the back. Plants, flowers and garden decor stretched on for a good two acres. There was even a long green striped awning set up for shade plants and an entire corner had been turned into a picturesque pond, with a gurgling waterfall and beautiful display of water plants. There were even broad leafed lily pads and bright orange koi swimming beneath them.
I heard someone moving ceramic pots on the back side of the shade garden. I decided I needed to look interested in a purchase. I picked up a five gallon pot containing a tangerine tree and walked to the back of the awning. A man, about fifty, wearing a floppy linen hat and blue knee pads stood up from a line of freshly potted basil plants. He was wearing a t-shirt with the store name. As he turned around, I could see the name Daryl on his nametag. The marigold delivery man had said the owner’s name was Daryl Featherton.
As the man walked toward me, I noticed that the thigh of his work pants was stained with some kind of plant residue. Unfortunately, the scent of basil was so strong on his hands, I couldn’t smell past it to find out what the stain was from. But it looked a lot like pumpkin or some kind of orange squash.
His fingers and knuckles were stained with soil. He gave them a shake. “How can I help you?” His skin was weathered with deep lines. He had obviously spent a lot of time out in the sun. His gray-blue eyes were set deep in his head, and he had a stiff smile. Or maybe it wasn’t a smile at all. He was exactly as one would expect the owner of a nursery to look, with the one exception being a rather large swath of sterile gauze wrapped around his forearm and secured with masking tape. Maybe his first aid kit had run out of medical tape. It definitely looked like a self-made bandage.
“I was just wondering if the fruit on this tree was seedless.”
He reached into the base of the plant and pulled out the plastic tab that gave all the pertinent information. Rather rudely, he handed me the tab to read on my own and then headed to t
he deep sinks set up on the side of the house.
I followed him to the sinks. Naturally. “It says seedless, so I will buy it when I come back with my car. I’m on a bicycle.”
He turned the sink on and washed his hands. “That’s fine.”
“That looks like a pretty bad injury on your arm. Did it happen in the garden or the kitchen? Last year my aunt nearly lost an arm trying to cut open a bagel. Do you know they say half the kitchen related emergency room visits are due to bagels? Who knew a round piece of dough could be so dangerous. I mean there was no mention of donut injuries in the same article.” There was a method to my madness. I would fill the air with nonsense and then pop out a few more pertinent questions.
He seemed to be listening to me over the sound of the faucet, but he wasn’t responding to anything.
“I own a flower shop in Port Danby. In fact, your truck just delivered the last flats of marigolds to my store. I’ve heard you are an expert in hybrid seeds.”
His face popped my direction. The bagel topic had been a nonstarter, but now I’d grabbed his interest. He turned off the sink. Rather than do the obvious and reach for the paper towel roll hanging above the sink, he shook his hands dry. They were red, raw and chapped, normal for a gardener.
“I could grab you a paper towel,” I suggested.
“No thanks.” He gave his hands a few more flicks. “How did you hear about the hybrid seeds?” There was just enough suspicion in his tone to give me quick pause on my response. I certainly didn’t want to get anyone in trouble. The delivery man seemed to know a bit about it, but if he wasn’t supposed to talk about the experimental seeds, then I wasn’t going to mention it.
I waved my hand casually. “I’m so new in town, I don’t know many names. I’ve just heard mention of some hybrid pumpkin seeds. Not even sure where I heard it.” Maybe Briggs was right in his assessment. I was getting awfully good at lying. Although these white lies had an honorable purpose.
There was just enough of a crease in his already deeply-line forehead to make me worry that I’d brought up the wrong topic. I resorted to humor to break up the awkward moment. “I just thought if you ever come up with long stem roses that last longer than a week, then I’d love to sell them in my shop.” I laughed airily, but he didn’t even crack a smile.
“I don’t sell the hybrid seeds in my shop. I’m working on them for commercial seed and agricultural companies.” He was just about to speak again when a woman’s voice called out from the side door of the shop. “Daryl, the man is still here. He’s waiting to talk to you.” The woman who looked about the same age as Daryl but who had taken much more care with her skin, stepped outside for a second. “He says it’s important. Some kind of detective.”
“I told you I’m coming,” Daryl answered angrily. “If you’ll excuse me, miss, I’m quite busy. I have a brochure inside that tells you all of the plants we keep in stock and everything we can order. Let’s set up a time to talk and see how we can help with your store.”
Before he could walk away, I purposely dropped the plastic tab from the citrus tree plant at his feet. “Oops, I better put this back.” I leaned down and picked it up, pausing to take a deep whiff of the stain on his pants. With the basil scent washed away, it was easy to smell that the stain on his pants was pumpkin.
“Got it. Thank you. I look forward to talking business with you,” I said hastily as he headed into the shop.
The woman exited as he entered. She smiled graciously at me and walked toward the pond area. I wandered behind her, deciding I might gather a little more information. “I’m just going to feed the fish. If you have any questions,” she called over her shoulder, “feel free to ask.”
“Actually, I just wanted to watch you feed the fish.” I stood at the pond’s edge and watched as she headed to a small metal bin that was sitting next to an array of fake rocks. She pushed a metal scoop into the bin and pulled out brown pellets.
“Are you Mrs. Featherton?”
She laughed. “No. I just work here. My husband works for the electric company.”
“I see.”
She sprinkled the pellets along the pond. Gaping mouths with whiskery protrusions popped through the surface. A vibrating collage of sparkling silver and orange fish scales followed as the fish swam over each other to get to the food.
“Wow, they are hungry.”
“Yes, and they lack table manners, as you can see.” She smiled at me. “I’ve never seen you before. Are you new to Chesterton?”
“I’m from Port Danby. I just moved there. I’m opening a flower shop.”
Her brown eyes rounded. “Oh, you’re Miss Pinkerton. I’m Patty. We spoke over the phone about the marigolds. How did those work out for you?”
“They’re perfect.”
“Great.” Her face smoothed to a more somber expression. “I heard that Beverly Kent died yesterday.”
“Yes, sadly. So you knew her?”
“Yes. She came into the shop quite often. Although, less frequently lately. I think she and Daryl had a falling out over something. It’s a shame to hear she died.” Patty dropped the scoop back into the bin. “Well, I better get to watering the roses out back. Let me know if you need anything.”
“Thanks. I will.”
I headed back toward the shop. Detective Briggs’ deep voice drifted through the back screen door, but I couldn’t make out the words. The shop interior was small and it would be impossible to hide and listen in on the conversation. It would surely annoy Briggs.
That didn’t stop me from walking right inside.
Chapter 24
I noticed a discrete, exasperated rise and fall of Detective Briggs’ shoulders as I stepped into the shop. He continued with his interview, but I was keenly aware that he was keenly aware that I was listening.
Daryl Featherton was, however, unaffected by my entry into the shop. I browsed the same seed stand I’d seen Briggs looking at when I arrived at the shop. There was no law against it, as far as I knew.
“That’s just terrible news,” Daryl said sadly. “She’ll be missed. I know she was taking medicine for her heart,” he continued.
“Yes, well, we haven’t narrowed down the cause of death,” Briggs said. I held back my smile, thinking how I wasn’t the only person spreading boloney. “I found some phone numbers in Mrs. Kent’s truck and your store’s number was listed. Have you seen Beverly lately?”
It was an easy enough question, but it seemed to throw Daryl off his moment of sorrow. “Here, in the shop? Uh—no.” From the corner of my eye, I saw him tap the side of his head. “Wait. Yes she was. She came in here yesterday for a brief stop on her way to the farm store.”
I could hear Briggs’ pen scratching his notepad. “What was her reason for stopping?”
“Reason for stopping? Oh, yes, she bought a new garden hoe.” I could almost hear the tiny sound of a red flag waving over Briggs’ head. It was definitely waving over mine. The hoe I had lifted from the garden was new or nicely kept, but it was not brand new. While the handle was pristine, I’d made note of the shovel head as I handed it over. There was enough wearing of the metal to show that it had been used. Possibly even for murder.
“That looks bad,” Briggs said.
I peeked over my shoulder to see what he was talking about. He was pointing at the gauze wrapped around Featherton’s arm. He had brushed off the question when I brought it up. But then, I had immediately gone off on a wild tangent about bagels, so it wasn’t too surprising.
“Oh this. It’s nothing. I was sharpening some garden shears and the darn things slipped. Now, if there’s nothing else, Detective Briggs, I need to get back to work.”
“I almost thought you’d cut yourself carving jack-o’-lanterns,” I said abruptly, and instantly had both men’s attention. I snuck a secret wink at Briggs as I approached the counter. He looked perturbed. I laughed lightly and pointed to the stain on Featherton’s work pants. “I thought since you had pumpkin guts on your pants
that you might have been carving those Halloween pumpkins ahead of time.”
Briggs took notice of the stain and then waited for Featherton to respond.
The man wiped absently at the stain but didn’t say a word.
“It does seem a little early to be carving pumpkins,” Detective Briggs said in a way that seemed to require a response.
Mr. Featherton sighed with aggravation. “I’m not carving pumpkins, but just in case there is some law that says I can’t carve ‘em early—” He marched stridently to a side door that said Keep Out.
Briggs glanced my direction, but it was hard to read if he was still annoyed or thankful that I’d pointed out the pumpkin stain. Featherton opened the door to the ‘keep out’ room and we looked inside. It was a science lab with gram scales and beakers and Bunsen burners. In between the equipment were numerous pumpkins in various degrees of dismemberment. And at the end of the long metal table was a pile of ‘pumpkin guts’.
“This is where I work on hybrid seeds.” Featherton looked back toward me. “The ones you were asking me about outside.”
Briggs slowly turned his face toward me. He was wearing exactly the expression I expected. “Oh, were you now?”
“Yes, Mr. Featherton and I were discussing how his nursery might help my business. Anyhow, it’s getting dark and I’m on my bicycle, so good day to both of you.”
I made my exit and headed around to the side of the house where I’d parked my bicycle. Patty was pushing some flattened boxes into the recycling bin.
“I suppose you and Mr. Featherton were two of the last people to see Beverly alive,” I said casually as I took hold of my bicycle.
She looked up slightly stunned by my statement. “Were we?”
“Mr. Featherton mentioned that Beverly came into the shop yesterday.”
With a few good pushes, Patty got the boxes into the bin. “Yes, I guess she was. As a matter of fact, she was walking out as I was walking in. Daryl had the afternoon off, and I came in to run the store for the rest of the day.” She seemed to be recalling the previous day. “Sorry, it was rather busy and I was all alone at the counter so the day was a blur. But, yes, Beverly passed me on her way to her truck. She was quite red in the face about something. Why, now that you mention it, she blew right past me without a hello. And that’s unusual for her.”
Marigolds and Murder (Port Danby Cozy Mystery Book 1) Page 10
