Roses and Revenge

by London Lovett

  I pulled on just my scarf, deciding I could brave the twenty foot walk to the bakery without getting wrapped in layers. "I'm just going over to try Elsie's caramel kisses, Ryder. I'll bring you back a sample." I swung the fringed end of the sweater around my shoulder.

  Ryder's hands were submerged in the utility sink, and he was elbow deep in potting soil. "No problem," he called over his shoulder. "If I'm lucky, the phone won't ring."

  Of course, we both knew that Murphy's Law required the phone to ring the second I walked out of the store. But that didn't halt my quest for caramel kisses.

  I stepped out to the sidewalk and turned toward the bakery. A surprised breath caught in my throat as Elsie's tables came into view. It wasn't Colin Firth, but it was Detective James Briggs. Briggs was absently eating one of Elsie's cobblestone muffins as he read the newspaper and drank Lester's coffee. The usual dark stubble covered his masculine jaw line, and his slightly ruffled hair moved in the afternoon breeze, curling up ever so nicely on the collar of his black coat. With a little imagination, I could actually visualize him sitting in a nineteenth century frock coat, cravat and top hat, and I liked what I saw.

  In truth, I was never disappointed to see James Briggs. Especially after a long stretch of not seeing him. After Briggs rescued me from the clutches of a dangerous, murderous criminal, a villain who was determined to shut me up for good, I'd invited Briggs over for a home-cooked meal. We had an extremely pleasant evening, laughing and talking about anything except murder mysteries. The harrowing incident had brought us closer than ever. For a short time it seemed that we might be moving toward something more than a friendship. But after the nice dinner, Briggs was called to the neighboring town of Chesterton to help take down a gambling ring, and I got on a plane to visit my parents for Christmas. Since then, we'd both been too busy with our jobs to meet up again. Now it felt as if we were back to square one. Something that became painfully obvious during the first few minutes of our awkward greeting.

  Briggs stood hastily as I walked into the table area. (Just like a nineteenth century gentleman.) He dropped his last chunk of muffin back onto the paper plate.

  "Please, Detective Briggs, don't get up. It's only a sidewalk, after all."

  He looked slightly embarrassed, and I felt a nudge of guilt for the remark.

  He didn't return to his seat. "Actually, I have to get back to the office. I've stretched out this coffee break long enough."

  For a noticeably silent moment, we just stood, gazing at each other, both of us searching for a conversation starter.

  "How was your Christmas?" He found his first.

  "It was good. My parents were their usual comedic selves. They are altogether adorable and annoying all at once. But I love them. And I particularly love my mom's cooking. I hadn't realized how much I missed it." I patted my stomach. "I think I'm still carrying her banana bread around with me. How about you? I hope you didn't have to work through the entire holiday."

  "I had hoped so too. Unfortunately, it didn't work out that way." A crooked smile turned up his mouth. I'd missed seeing it. I wondered briefly if he had missed seeing mine too.

  "I'm sorry to hear that. Is the case all wrapped up?"

  He combed his hair back with his fingers and pressed his black fedora hat onto his head, pushing the edge of his hair up higher on his collar. "Yes, I'm back full-time, keeping the streets of Port Danby free of mayhem and mischief. I knew I was leaving it in good hands, which eased my mind when I was in Chesterfield."

  "Yes, right. Officer Chinmoor had everything well in hand. Aside from a little incident with a parking ticket in front of the town square. That sort of blew up into a scandal, but I think Chinmoor managed to appease all the conflicting parties."

  Briggs' full smile made its appearance. It was nearly as charming as his half smile. "I did hear something about the parking ticket fiasco. But, to be honest, I wasn't referring to Chinmoor when I mentioned leaving the town in good hands. I was referring to my occasional detective's assistant. And her highly skilled nose."

  I felt the blush starting, but there was nothing I could do to stop it. Or the giddy feeling that followed. "Ah ha, so I have officially earned the title of detective's assistant."

  "I think once you've literally put your life on the line, in the name of solving crime, then you are officially an assistant. I'm just glad no one has turned up dead lately. Speaking of people turning up dead—have you gotten any further on solving the Hawksworth murders?"

  "No, I've been too busy. But I am planning a trip back to the library to look at the newspaper archives for the town. So, you would agree with me that the true story remains to be solved?" I asked excitedly. My quest for caramel kisses was uncovering lots of pleasantries that had nothing to do with brown sugar and butter.

  "Well, if Hawksworth was left-handed, it seems highly unlikely that he would have used his right hand to take his own life. That gun had to have been placed there. And then there was the strange case of Officer Gilly, who noted his confusion with the misplaced pistol but was then quickly transferred off the case. And out of Port Danby as well. I think you're on to something. I look forward to you unraveling the mystery."

  "Now I really have to get back to the library."

  A van rolled past on Harbor Lane, drawing our attention momentarily to the street.

  Alexander, the location scout for the photo shoot, was hanging out the passenger window. "Hey, Lacey! Come visit!"

  I waved back.

  "Do you know the group of people shooting pictures at the manor?" Briggs asked.

  "I do. Only I had no idea they were going to be there. Mayor Price never accepted my friend request, so I'm kind of out of the loop."

  Briggs' head shook slightly. "That Harlan Price is a stubborn old mule. I haven't been up to Maple Hill yet. I've been sending Chinmoor up there to make sure ordinances are being followed. I heard it was a perfume company. I didn't realize it was the company you worked for." He stopped there with his comment. He knew through the grapevine and through my own ramblings that I had been temporarily engaged to the heir to a perfume company. But he only had spotty details. I planned to keep it that way.

  "I won't keep you, Detective Briggs. I'm heading in to fortify myself with Elsie's cookies before I get back to work. It was nice seeing you again."

  He stood for longer than necessary and gazed at me with those wonderful, dark eyes. "It was nice seeing you too, Miss Pinkerton."

  Chapter 5

  Elsie's bakery was a delight for the eyes, the nose and the taste buds. There were always mounds of yummy treats piled high beneath the curved glass on the teal colored counter. And with Valentine's Day just a week away, my friend Elsie had been working overtime creating sweets for sweethearts. Pink and red glistening frosting heaped on plump cupcakes, sugar cookies shaped like Xs and Os for hugs and kisses, and chocolate dipped marshmallows were lined in a perfectly decadent array along the top shelf. She'd even created mini multi-tiered cakes, each with its own glittering design of fondant and buttercream.

  Elsie came out from the storeroom with a stack of flattened pastry boxes. Elsie was an amazing woman with boundless energy. But today there were grayish circles beneath her eyes. She had tried to hire some help for the bakery. It seemed she'd found the right person with Sandra, a fresh out of high school young woman, who had aspirations to become a pastry chef. But Elsie was just too hard on her, and Sandra eventually left in a tearful fit.

  "Pink, I didn't hear you come in. My head has been in the clouds today." She walked straight to her back counter and grabbed a tray of cookies that were pinched like candy kisses. The bottoms of the cookies were coated in caramel and chopped pecans.

  She glanced past me out the front windows of the bakery as she lowered the tray to the counter. "Detective Briggs was outside eating a muffin. Did you happen to see him?" I knew she wasn't asking just to make small talk. She had spent no small amount of time inventing a romantic relationship between Briggs and me, even
though it only existed in her imagination.

  "We talked briefly," I said coolly, as if I hadn't temporarily lost my breath at the sight of him.

  Elsie placed two cookies on a paper plate and handed it to me. "Oh?" She managed to stretch that one syllable into one big, curious question.

  "We mostly talked about the Hawksworth murders and the photo shoot up at the manor."

  The frilly straps of her apron deflated as her shoulders drooped. "I see. You do spend a lot of time thinking about that horrible murder-suicide."

  "It interests me." I took a bite of the caramel kiss. The cookie was a light, delicate brown sugar shortbread robed in rich, buttery caramel. Tidbits of pecans were strewn throughout, giving a nice salty crunch to the sweet cookie. "Genius again, my friend. So delicious. I'll take the second one to Ryder." I finished the cookie and used my finger to pick up the crumbs left on the plate. "Yum. There was something I wanted to ask you about, Elsie." My gaze swept along the glass counter to Elsie's cash register. A pile of the Mr. Darcy flyers sat next to the tip jar.

  I walked over and picked one up. "Have you been holding out on me? You know Colin Firth and you actually talked him into having treats with a flurry of admirers on Valentine's Day right out here on the—" I cleared my throat. "On the terrace, otherwise known as the downtown sidewalk."

  Elsie's lips pulled in, which meant she was about to confess something. "Well, if you're going to take the flyer literally . . ."

  "I won't because I knew if Colin Firth was your friend you would have told me at least a dozen times by now. However, I'm fairly certain that other people will take it quite literally. A friend of mine, who is in Port Danby for the photo shoot, was already lamenting that she'd be missing her Valentine's date with Mr. Darcy because she will no longer be in town."

  "Oh, so that crew at the manor are your friends from the city. I knew it. I saw the name Georgio's Perfume on Mayor Price's post. I tapped my chin a hundred times trying to recall whether or not that was the name of the company you worked for. Is he here too? The ex-boss, ex-fiancé?"

  "Wow, that was the fastest change of topic I have ever experienced. My head is still spinning. Yes, it is the company I worked for, and I've heard that Jacob is in town. But I haven't seen him." I lifted the flyer and tapped it with my free hand. "Back to this. Elsie, you can't use this. It's false advertising. You're going to have a line all the way down to the coast and back up along Culpepper Road, adoring fans skipping their real Valentine's dates to have tea with Colin Firth, aka Mr. Darcy. I know Lester invested in some highly impractical but very inviting tables and chairs, but you can't let that—"

  Elsie put up her hand to stop my lecture. "It's not false advertising. Mr. Darcy will be joining my customers on Valentine's Day." She opened the swinging gate at the end of her counter and invited me through. Her storeroom smelled heavily of sugar, molasses and vanilla, and it made me slightly dizzy.

  Elsie swung open the utility closet door at the back of the storeroom and disappeared inside for a second. She emerged with a six foot tall cardboard cutout of, none other than, Colin Firth, in his youth, playing the part of Mr. Darcy.

  Elsie proudly held the cardboard cutout in front of her. "Ta da!"

  I blinked at it, a tad too dumbfounded to speak.

  Elsie poked her face around Mr. Darcy's shoulder. "What do you think?"

  "I think if you don't make it clear on the flyer that Mr. Darcy is one dimensional and cardboard, then you're going to have a lot of angry customers."

  Elsie waved her hand past Mr. Darcy's face. "Nonsense. They can't possibly think the actual man will be here. He's a big movie star." She carried the cardboard man back into the closet and shut the door.

  I stared at her, trying to work up a response that would let her see reason, but I could tell by the rounded cheeks and firm set of her chin, she was sure all would go well. I was far from convinced.

  The bell on the bakery door rang. "Oops, I have a customer."

  I followed Elsie out. Lola was helping herself to Ryder's caramel kiss. She licked the caramel off her finger. "Hmm so good. Just what I needed after combing through dusty, mildew rotted treasures from the past. By the way, Pink, when you have time, come look at some of the pictures I found in an old keepsake box. I think you’ll be interested."

  "I will but for now I've got to get back to work. Elsie, if you wouldn't mind, could I get a sample cookie for Ryder?" Just the mention of his name made Lola roll her eyes. I was about to ask her what the eye roll was for and then thought better of it. I forgot that Lola didn't need to be prodded to speak her mind.

  "Honestly, Ryder has no idea what he's getting into with that simpering, prissy little Cherise," Lola said in her perfect impression of a jealous sixteen-year-old.

  Elsie shot me a secret, all-knowing look as she handed me the cookie.

  "I don't know why you care, Lola. Just this morning you told him that what he did made no difference to you."

  "And it doesn't. Never mind that. What are you wearing next Tuesday?" Lola asked, quickly turning the conversation away from Ryder.

  "Next Tuesday?" I asked.

  "Yes, when Mr. Darcy comes to share cupcakes with all of us."

  This time it was my turn to cast a secret 'told you so' look at Elsie.

  I waited for Elsie to clear up the mess, but she stayed silent.

  "Elsie, may I tell her about the Mr. Darcy in the closet?"

  Lola's mouth dropped open wide enough to fit in an entire cupcake, layer frosting and all. "Do you mean that Mr. Darcy is—you know—?"

  "No. He's not in the metaphorical closet. He's in the literal closet. Elsie's utility closet, to be exact."

  Elsie finally took pity on a very befuddled Lola. "Oh, Lola, you can't possibly think that the real Colin Firth is coming to Port Danby to eat cupcakes," Elsie said with exasperation. "I found this marvelous, life-sized cardboard cutout of Mr. Darcy on Ebay and I bought it for Valentine's Day."

  Lola shifted her eyes toward me without moving her head. "She's joking, right?"

  I shook my head. "Nope, I've seen it. And yes, it is marvelous and life-sized. And it's definitely cardboard."

  Lola's posture crumpled with disappointment. "And here I thought my Valentine's Day had been saved from being the most depressing day of the year."

  I shot Elsie a second 'told you so' look. It might have been overkill. Elsie's expression soured, and she brusquely handed me a cookie for Ryder.

  "You two girls might have all kinds of time to worry about silly holidays, but I've got a bakery to run."

  Lola was confused again as we walked out of the store together. "She seems mad," she muttered under her breath. "Shouldn't I be the one who is mad?" she asked louder as the bakery door shut behind us. "I'm the one who has been floating around this morning picturing myself twirling around in my cotton muslin dress like a Regency coquette sighing dreamily as Mr. Darcy nibbled his scones. "

  I walked with her to the edge of the sidewalk. "I'm worried this is going to backfire badly for her. I'll have to go back later and apologize for being so unpleasant about it. I’ll drop by to look at those pictures when I get a chance."

  "Yes, I’m curious to hear your opinion."

  "My opinion?"

  "You’ll see," Lola said with a teasing smile.

  Chapter 6

  Kingston came in from his afternoon tour of the town looking lonely and dejected. The few birds that had returned to their spring, summer trees were too small and too afraid of crows to be any fun. And the gulls on the coast wanted nothing to do with Kingston. Worst of all, it seemed that Kingston never wanted to hang out with other crows. My poor bird was a social outcast. I decided a fresh batch of hardboiled eggs would cheer him up. I used my afternoon break to walk down to the Corner Market, a bursting at the seams, immaculately organized little 'everything' store at the corner of Harbor Lane and Pickford Way, right next to the Port Danby Police Station and across from Franki's Diner.

  I walked past t
he tinted windows of the police station and glanced inside. Detective Briggs' car was out front, signaling that he was inside his office doing paperwork. I knew for a fact that he preferred to be out on duty than stuck behind his desk. The half open blinds gave me a striped view of the front desk. Hilda, the wonderful woman who kept the station running smoothly, had taped a string of paper hearts across the bleak gray front of the counter. No matter what the holiday, Hilda made an attempt to bring cheer into the grimly decorated police station. I passed the station and came upon a much cheerier building, the always bustling Corner Market. The outside of the store was coated with white and blue lacquer paint and bright blue awnings stretched out over the rolling carts that were usually piled with the day's produce specials. Today Gigi and Tom Upton, the store owners had filled the carts with the last of the winter's citrus fruit, tangerines and succulent looking mandarin oranges.

  I stopped to pick a few oranges and breathe in the savory, sweet and tangy smells drifting out of the store. I was concentrating on finding the best smelling oranges and didn't look up when the door to the store opened and a customer walked out.

  "Lacey?"

  I glanced up from the produce. It seemed I was having one long day of awkward moments, starting with my lovely robe fashion show. Then there was the stilted, slow to smooth out conversation with Detective Briggs outside the bakery. And now I was standing face to face with the man I'd almost married and who my last words to had been, ‘I never want to see you again’. And yet, there we were standing not more than twenty inches apart, and both at a loss for words.

  Jacob was one of those men whose appearance was so fluid, it was hard to describe him with exact terms. Certain attributes were solid and required no objective opinion. He was tall, a few inches past six foot, and his shoulders were impressively broad. But his hair could change from tawny to brown to dark brown depending on the length of it. It seemed he'd opted for a close cut along the sides with some short, almost teenager looking spikes on top. He was a thirty something trying to hold on to his twenties. Even his eyes changed color according to the light. They were anywhere from gray to green. I'd discovered a few months after our engagement that his eyes grew particularly green whenever he was lying. Near the end of our relationship they were like two brilliant emeralds, a stone I'd never wanted to wear since. His nose was noticeably red, which meant he was suffering from a cold. And suffering was a light word for the way Jacob acted when he was sick.