Mistletoe and Mayhem (Port Danby Cozy Mystery Book 3)

by London Lovett

  Franki arrived at our table. “It’s a madhouse in here today. What do you two girls want?” She pulled out her order pad.

  “I’ll have the turkey on wheat.” I folded the menu.

  Franki and I looked over at Lola who was still admiring the construction worker from behind.

  I kicked her foot under the table to get her attention. As she turned to me, Franki’s phone rang. “Just a second, Lola,” Franki said as she pulled out her phone. She rolled her eyes, which meant it was probably one of her four kids.

  Lola kicked my foot back and motioned with her head toward the man on the stool. “What is it about men in steel toed boots?” she sighed and then leaned closer. “He is so incredible. I wonder where he’s from.”

  “From a construction site, I imagine.”

  Franki stopped her phone conversation for a second to fill us in. “I think they are building a mansion over on Beacon Cliffs. They must have gotten tired of that grease pit of a diner in Chesterton.” She went right back to her conversation. And from the tidbits I heard, it seemed Tyler might have injured himself at basketball practice.

  “It’s in the medicine cabinet, behind the gauze,” Franki said with exasperation. “Did you ice it? Good. I’ll take a look at it when I get home.” She hung up and grunted as she tucked the phone back into her apron. “Tyler pulled a muscle in his leg at basketball practice. Now he’s going to smell like spearmint. I don’t know why that healing ointment has to be so pungent. Taylor did the same thing last month, and the girls refused to let him sit at the dinner table. Which was fine with him because that meant he got to eat on the couch in front of the television.” She looked at Lola. “Aside from that tall house builder behind me, Lola, what would you like?”

  Lola pretended to be shocked but then laughed. “Was I being that obvious?”

  “Yes,” Franki and I said simultaneously.

  “I’ll have chicken soup and corn bread.” Lola said as she folded the menu.

  “And pie,” a deep voice added behind Franki.

  Dayton was turned on the stool and smiling at Lola. There was something about his smile that didn’t seem genuine. “If the lady doesn’t mind sticking around to share a piece with me after lunch.”

  Lola practically melted into a pool of butter right there on the vinyl seat. “I don’t mind.”

  He nodded politely at all of us and turned back to eat with his friends.

  Lola fanned her face. “It sure is warm in here today.”

  “Isn’t it though?” Franki said as she collected the menus and walked away.

  Chapter 9

  Lola had impatiently tapped the table with her fingers and the floor with her foot, waiting for me to eat my sandwich. I decided to have Franki wrap half of it to go so I wouldn’t choke to death trying to inhale it. Lola didn’t touch her soup and only picked at the cornbread. Her excitement about having a slice of pie with the tall stranger made me a bit nervous. She was just a little too anxious.

  Since my lunch had been cut short, I decided to finish the second half of my sandwich during a walk on the beach. On any other given day, in the winter, Pickford Beach would’ve been close to deserted. Today, it was more crowded on the sand than the pier because people were milling about the beach watching the boats get decked out with holiday lights. For the second time, I caught Detective Briggs standing on the sand watching the activities out on the water.

  He was so focused on the boats, he didn’t hear me walk up.

  “I think I’ve discovered something new about my friend Detective Briggs,” I said as I reached him.

  Briggs turned around. “Miss Pinkerton.” He said my name in such a way that made me think, he enjoys running into me as much as I enjoy running into him. Of course, it might have just been wishful thinking on my part. “What have you discovered about me?”

  “You like boats. Or maybe you like holiday decorations. But judging by the decor in the police station, I’m going to stick with my first theory.”

  He had been leaving his beard stubble even heavier in the winter weather, but it never detracted from his appealing grin, which was sort of lopsided. But in a good way. “You’re right. I do like boats. Especially nice sailing sloops like that one, Cloud Nine with the T. Ruxley Plumbing sign.”

  “Now T. is the brother of the other Ruxley?”

  “Yes.”

  “I could see you at the helm in a jaunty captain’s hat and possibly a white polo shirt.”

  He shook his head. “No polo shirt. But I’d take the captain’s hat. Unfortunately, my job doesn’t allow me time or extra income for a sailboat.”

  “Never give up on your dreams, Detective Briggs.”

  He smiled at me. “I’ll try not to, Miss Pinkerton. Oh, by the way, I found out something interesting about Officer Gaynor, the man who filled out the original report on the Hawksworth murder.”

  “You did?”

  “Yes, I did. Along with those dusty old boxes, there is a giant file cabinet that contains folders for each of the employees of the police department. I did some digging and found out Officer Gaynor was taken off the case and transferred to the Mayfield station two days after he wrote the original report.”

  A group of high school kids came bounding across the sand. We stepped out of their way or risked getting run down by chattering, laughing teens.

  “This event sure has everyone’s adrenaline pumping,” Briggs noted. “Which almost always leads to trouble of some kind.”

  “That sounds rather ominous coming from the head of the police department.”

  His thick, dark lashes dropped in a touch of embarrassment. “Sorry, that was one of those thoughts better left in my head. It’s just Port Danby is usually such a sleepy little town in winter, but events like this always stir up a lot of dust.” More kids stomped by as he finished, spraying our shoes with wet sand.

  “And sand apparently.” I shook off my ankle boot. “Back to Officer Gaynor—did it say why he was transferred?”

  “That’s the interesting part. No reason was given, and there are even lines on the form to explain the transfer. They were blank.”

  We walked closer to the pier where it was quieter. I ducked to avoid a seagull that had braved the mob of people on the beach to pick up a crumb of food. “It almost sounds as if someone wanted Officer Gaynor off the case. Off the Port Danby police force even.”

  “That is one theory. I don’t know much about how things were run back then, but it would have taken someone with considerable power to do that. And then there’s the much less nefarious reason that they were shorthanded in Mayfield and they needed Officer Gaynor. Since the report is incomplete, we won’t ever know for sure.”

  Briggs motioned toward the pier. “I’m heading back to the office. Are you going that way too?”

  I pulled my sandwich out of my pocket. “I came down here to eat the rest of my lunch before heading back to work.”

  He nodded. “Just watch out for hungry seagulls and exuberant teenagers.”

  “I will. It seems the mystery deepens on the Hawksworth case. Thank you for looking into that, by the way. I know you’re terribly busy, Detective Briggs.”

  “I wasn’t all that busy.” He glanced behind him to the pier where two teenage boys were throwing slushy snowballs at each other. Naturally, one of the wet balls of ice hit an innocent bystander, who didn’t look too pleased. “But I think I will be soon enough.”

  Chapter 10

  I nibbled my sandwich and watched as the anchored boats danced in the choppy water, their bows dipping and rising with the current. Most of the boat owners had small inflatable dinghies and row boats in the water to get back and forth to shore and travel between other boats. Long strands of lights dangled from tall masts and sails. In daylight, they looked like tangled messes of wires and cords. I was sure they would be spectacular at night. Some of the boat owners had gone slightly overboard with decorations, filling their decks with mechanical Santas and reindeer, inflatable snow
men and garlands that nearly weighed down the hulls. Other boats went less for quantity and more for quality, or, at the very least, organized chaos. I had never seen a flotilla of holiday lights, and I was looking forward to it.

  Most of the spectators were standing higher up on the sand, away from the perpetual mist the ocean provided. I decided to endure the salty spray instead of the crowd. My naturally curly hair had already curled into a Shirley Temple mop-like mound. I’d discovered mere weeks after moving to Port Danby that my flat iron was useless in coastal weather. After fighting the natural curl in my hair for years with every weapon known to woman, I waved the white flag of surrender and shoved my collection of flat irons and other hair torture devices into the bottom drawer of my dresser. I’d found a certain degree of relief in my new found freedom. My hair seemed happier too.

  Even through the thick briny air and with the flurry of food smells coming off the pier, my sandwich enjoyment was interrupted by a strong, pungent odor. I twitched my nose from side to side to catch the direction of the toxic smell. I swept my gaze along the boats and zeroed in on my target. The odor was coming from Cloud Nine, the boat Detective Briggs had been admiring from the beach. A tall, broad shouldered man with a red Santa hat pulled down over his dark hair was painting a coat of varnish on a large wooden cutout of a nutcracker that looked as if it had seen better days. Apparently, the coat of toxic smelling glaze was his last effort to save the fading paint on his custom holiday decoration. Interestingly enough, he was so busy with his task, he hadn’t noticed the man climbing up from a row boat onto the stern of Cloud Nine. I recognized the row boat man with impressive gray sideburns as Chad Ruxley, the man Briggs had spoken to briefly the day before. I could only assume the man with the paintbrush was T. Ruxley, Chad’s estranged brother.

  Footsteps finally alerted T. Ruxley that he had a visitor. He turned around and I got an amusing view of the felt reindeer sewn on the front of his sweater. It was a humorous ensemble that definitely didn’t match the anger on his face when he saw Chad Ruxley walking across the deck. They faced each other without stepping into one another’s personal space. There was nothing warm or spirited or brotherly about their greeting. While their physiques were quite different, they both had similarly shaped noses and chins.

  I tried to filter out some of the extraneous noise around me to hear what they were arguing about, but by the time their words finished the long, choppy journey to shore, they sounded like sharp, angry pangs of noise.

  Nosy posy that I was, I watched them argue for a few more minutes. T. Ruxley had taken the defensive body position and crossed his arms. Chad, on the other hand, was using a lot of hand motions and wild arm movements to get his point across. Whatever that point was. The shouting match ended with both men wearing angry scowls, but no punch had been thrown.

  Chad threw his leg over the railing and climbed down a rope ladder to the small boat below. Water curled up over the lip of the row boat as he sat down hard. He grabbed the oars and sliced them into the water as he headed back toward his own boat. I looked back up at the deck of T. Ruxley’s boat. Ruxley had yanked off the Santa hat. He clutched it in his hand as he glowered over the railing and watched his brother row away.

  I’d procrastinated long enough with my turkey sandwich. I made my way back up the pier and along the wharf. A circle of people had gathered on the corner of Pickford Way and Harbor Lane. I hurried my pace to see what had caught their attention, but I figured it out long before I reached the circle of onlookers. A rousing rendition of Deck the Halls drowned out all the other noise on the street. I reached the spectators and peered through to the performers.

  The professional caroling group consisted of three women and two men. The women were clad in richly colored bell-shaped skirts that moved stiffly as if supported by authentic crinoline underskirts. The layered flounces of one skirt stood out in a cerulean blue and red plaid. One singer with pretty red hair and round cheeks exposed white puffy pantalets as she crooned out her fa la las. Her fur trimmed mantelet was a rich cherry red. It went smartly with the black fur muff, which warmed both her hands, and, conveniently enough, held her song book. Her bonnet was trimmed in a green and red tartan ribbon that I quickly decided would look great around a holiday bouquet.

  The men were dressed in cutaway tail coats and brightly colored trousers. Black top hats and shiny leather spats finished off the look. It seemed they took their costuming very seriously. They sang wonderfully too. Yolanda had outdone herself once again. I was looking forward to the evening’s festivities.

  Chapter 11

  I figured my pets would give me the evil eye for leaving the house again in the evening so I lured them into blissful delirium with their favorite treats. Nevermore was cleaning the tuna juice off his whiskers with his paws, taking the time to lick each foot for every drop of fish flavored syrup, as I pulled on my coat. Kingston hadn’t once looked up from his feast of hardboiled eggs as I tossed my scarf around my neck. For my last bit of swaddling, I yanked on a red striped beanie to keep my head warm and keep my hair from doing the Medusa snake thing with curls lunging out in every direction.

  Parking near the wharf was limited so Lola, Elsie, Les and I had made plans to walk to the marina. My house was at the top of the hill, so it made sense for me to walk down to Elsie’s house, where she and Lester would be waiting. Lola lived farther down past Graystone Church, so she decided to wait at the antique shop for us to swing by and pick her up. I hadn’t spoken to her since her impromptu pie date, but she’d texted that she had lots to talk about.

  With my pets now tipsy from the treats, I slipped out easily. I locked the door and bounded down the front steps. Music and a rainbow-colored glow filled the night sky over Pickford Beach. Even my favorite site, the Pickford Lighthouse, twinkled with holiday spirit. The night could have easily been ruined by heavy fog, a common occurrence in the winter months, but it was crystal clear all the way down to the water.

  “Hey, there’s Waldo,” Dash called cheerily from his front porch.

  I spun around to look at him. He was pointing up to his head, which was covered with a black cowboy hat. (As if the man needed anything to make him look more breathtaking.) “The red and white striped beanie,” he said as he trotted down his porch steps. “It reminds me of that Where’s Waldo book.”

  I patted my beanie. “And yet I’m sure I won’t get lost in a crowd wearing this.”

  He reached up and pulled one curl before letting it spring back to its permanent coil. I hadn’t expected the slightly intimate gesture and wasn’t sure how to react. But before I could figure out my feelings about it, he spoke again.

  “Are you walking down to the light show?” he asked. “Do you mind if I walk with you?”

  I was still recovering from the hair touch, and it took me a second to answer. He mistook my hesitation as me not wanting to walk with him. I couldn’t see his eyes well under the shadow of his hat brim, but his mouth turned down on the sides. “That’s all right. I’m sure you have other people to walk with.”

  “No. I mean, yes, I’m going with Elsie and Lester and eventually Lola, but of course you can walk with us. The more the merrier, right?”

  He didn’t look convinced.

  “Really, Dash. I welcome the company down the hill.”

  “If you’re sure.”

  “Absolutely.”

  We made our way down Myrtle Place. Most everyone in the adjacent neighborhoods had already gone down to the marina to grab the best viewing spots.

  “I was on the beach today watching the boats get ready, but I didn’t see you. Did Yolanda finally set you free of light hanging duty?”

  Dash adjusted his hat down so the uphill breeze wouldn’t kick it off. He did it with the same cool finesse as a real cowboy. “Yes, thank goodness. That woman wears me out. I went to Beacon Cliffs this morning for a job interview. I need some work while the boat repair business is in a lull.”

  I looked over at him. “Job interview? At
Beacon Cliffs? Don’t tell me you were interviewing to work as a butler or chauffeur in one of those big fancy houses.”

  “Couldn’t you just see me in a tuxedo carrying a tray of brandy glasses? I interviewed for a job on a construction site. They are building one of those big fancy houses, and they need more men.”

  “Dayton Construction?” I asked.

  “Yeah, that’s it. How’d you know?”

  I attempted a shrug but realized I was too bundled in winter layers to pull it off. “I saw them at Franki’s Diner this afternoon. When do you start?”

  “I could start there tomorrow, but I called and told them I had another offer.”

  We turned the corner on Elsie’s street. “You’re popular. What was the other offer?”

  He moved his mouth side to side and adjusted his hat again. It seemed he didn’t want to answer. “Cleaning Mayor Price’s chimney,” he muttered.

  “That doesn’t seem like a job that will get you through the dry spell.”

  He cleared his throat. “It’s a day at the most. I don’t know why I didn’t take the job, and I’m not lazy,” he added quickly and unnecessarily.

  “Uh, take it from the neighbor who hears you drilling, hammering and sawing long after the work day, I know you’re not lazy.”

  “Sorry about that.” We reached Elsie’s walkway. Dash turned to me. “The truth is, after I left the interview I decided I didn’t want to work for the owner, Randall Dayton. There was just something about him that made me think stay clear. You don’t want to work for that guy.”

  Before I could get further details, Elsie’s front door flew open. Surprisingly, Lola was the first person out the door. Elsie and Lester followed. The winter weather had forced Lester to temporarily pack away his brightly colored Hawaiian shirts. I was still getting used to seeing him bundled in winter wear. I missed the Hawaiian shirts, but Lester’s smile always reminded me of sunshine.