"Kate's new guy, huh? Well, it looks like he decided on jewelry instead of roses," Lola said. "So she's on to the next man already? Hope this one sticks."
"Me too. Somehow, I think she'll be less annoying once she finally gets married." I picked up the last chocolate. (After all, I couldn't leave the job unfinished.)
"Except then she'll be letting us know just how rich she is." Lola picked up her last chocolate.
"What should I tell Elsie?" I asked. "She's waiting to hear from her official taste testers."
"Tell her she should be anointed star baker of the world." She pushed the chocolate between her lips and licked her fingers.
"I will tell her exactly that."
Chapter 7
The clouds had brought a distinct gloomy chill to the air, but no rain had fallen. The wind caused the ocean to ripple, frosting the otherwise coal black water with frilly whitecaps that glowed under the moon. Elsie's pound cake was so delightfully dense, the strings on the pink bakery box tightened on my fingers as I carried it with one hand in order to keep my coat collar bunched around my neck with the other. Winter was certainly whispering its arrival on this cold autumn night.
A single yellow porch light showered Marty's tiny front stoop with a warm glow. He'd had such a busy day with the photo session, it wouldn't have surprised me if he'd forgotten about our rather impromptu cake date. I knocked lightly, not wanting to startle him in case he had drowsed off on the sofa or forgotten I was coming.
I was wrong on both accounts. The door swung open and Marty's bright smile greeted me. "Lacey, I was hoping you didn't forget."
"Not a chance." I lifted the box. "I remembered the cake too."
"I put on a pot of coffee." He pointed at the box. "Lemon and poppy?" he asked. I'd worried that he'd forgotten we made plans, and it turned out he even remembered all the details.
"Of course. As soon as I left here, I texted Elsie to put one aside just for us." I stepped into the cozy interior.
Marty carried the box into his kitchen, from which the delicious earthy aroma of hot coffee was billowing. I took off my coat and hung it on an oak and brass coat rack standing near the door. The interior of the house was small and cozy, simply decorated with just the necessities for a comfortable life. Marty's small sofa had a faded spot right next to a side table that held a reading lamp, a book and a pair of metal rimmed glasses. An oil painting of the Pickford Lighthouse hung over a small stone fireplace that was filled with a crackling fire. The heat from the flames was enough to warm the entire room. A round table was set up beneath a picture window that overlooked the ocean. A half finished jigsaw puzzle covered most of the table. I walked over to a set of mahogany shelves that held several more books and an impressive collection of ships in bottles.
I was admiring the details of a miniature reproduction of the U.S.S. Constitution when Marty returned with a pewter serving tray. He had sliced off two slabs of the pound cake and placed them on white china plates. The coffee splashed about in two porcelain cups as he lowered the tray to a cherry wood coffee table in front of the sofa.
"That one is my favorite," Marty said.
I looked back at him, slightly confused.
He walked over to the bottle collection and picked up the one I'd been admiring. "Old Ironsides, that was what they called her back in her glory day. Bill, an old friend of mine, made all these. He's long since gone, like most of my friends," he said with just enough sorrow it made my throat bunch up. "That's the one big drawback of living to a very old age," he said. "You have to bear losing everyone you knew and loved." After a wistful moment, his smile returned. "Shall we have some cake?"
"Absolutely."
I sat down but Marty shuffled around the end of the couch. "I pulled out my mother's box of photographs." He reached down and picked up a small wooden box that had a lighthouse carved on the side. The paint had long since worn off.
I rose from the sofa cushion. "Can I help you with that?"
"No, no, you sit down and have your cake. I've got it. It's not too heavy," he said with a grunt as he lowered it onto the table next to the pewter tray. "Considering how cumbersome and inconvenient photography was back in my mother's day, there is quite a nice collection. She tended to label names on the back of the photos as well." He reached for a piece of cake. "Was there something in particular you were looking for?"
"Not something," I said between bites. "Someone."
Marty paused our conversation long enough to enjoy the bite of rich, lemony cake. He shook his head. "God bless Elsie and her baking talents."
"Amen," I said and took another bite.
Marty set his plate down and flicked open the tiny brass latch on the box. Its hinges creaked as he lifted the lid. I could almost smell the years, the joys, the sadness, the events that made up a family's long life.
Marty glanced over at his jigsaw puzzle table. "Now, where did I put those glasses?"
I put my plate down. "They are right here on the side table." I swiveled around and picked them up.
"Thank you." Marty's fingers had a slight tremble as he pulled on the glasses. The lenses made his soft gray eyes giant. He turned back to his mother's wooden chest of photographs. He fingered through a few, then pulled out one that was covered with a thin sheet of paper. He lifted the paper back to expose a picture of an attractive woman with dark wavy hair and an almost mischievous smile. I was no expert but it seemed she was wearing a Victorian era wedding dress.
Marty stared at the picture with admiration. "This was my mother, Elizabeth, on her wedding day. It was taken in 1880. This is a daguerreotype. Still looks good, doesn't it?"
"Like it was taken yesterday."
Marty chuckled. "Well, that might be pushing it."
"Maybe. She is lovely, Marty. And I must say, she looks as if she was quite the character. Most of the women in Victorian era pictures look so stern. Did she have a good sense of humor?"
"That she did. You're very perceptive." He lowered the protective sheet of tissue over his mother's photograph and reached into the box for another stack that was folded between some brown paper. "I have them organized by type of photos. These brown, blurry photos are all salt prints. Mid nineteenth century photographers used sodium chloride, better known as salt, to make the photos more light sensitive. This is a picture of what we now call Harbor Lane."
I pulled out my own glasses so I could get a good look at the picture. The police station was a square cement building with only one small window. The place where Franki's Diner now stood was merely a green space filled with a few carts from local fishermen selling the day's catch. One woman in a gray shawl and long layers of skirts held out a bouquet of flowers. There was a wagon filled with flowers next to her, and several women were looking over the blooms.
I pointed at the photo. "This woman was my predecessor. The first Port Danby florist."
Marty chuckled. "I suppose so. I wasn't born yet, so I don't remember this little open market area. Once the Hawksworth shipyard project was stopped, the town built the wharf. That way, fishermen could sell their catch right off the boats. I remember my mother would hand me a dime and say, 'Marty, go buy a nice piece of fish. Smell it first to make sure it's fresh.'"
"Good advice," I said.
"I guess your nose would smell a bad fish from a mile away," he added.
"I can smell a good one from that far too. I think that's why I rarely eat seafood. Just a bit too odorous for me." I scrutinized the photo more. "It looks as if the photographer was standing right about where Lola's Antiques is now. Harbor Lane was just a wide dirt road. There aren't any shops except for this barber shop. It seems to be sharing space with a fishing tackle shop. I don't even recognize that building." I looked up at Marty.
"No, I still remember when they knocked those old buildings down to put up some more modern shops. My friends and I stood all day on the side of the road watching as big men took sledgehammers to everything. Then they piled all the debris onto carts and dragge
d it away. The street was paved once horse carriages were replaced with motorcars. I think it was Fielding Price, our current mayor's grandfather, who decided to name it Harbor Lane. Not terribly original but then the Prices were never known for finesse."
"Our current mayor sure doesn't like me," I said. "I'm not quite sure what I did to get him in such a ruffle, other than that I was new to town and I had an unusual pet bird. I did somehow ruffle him more by asking him about a distant relative, Jane Price." I shifted on my seat to face him more. "Actually, Jane Price was the main reason for me to come here."
He pressed his hand to his chest. "Now I'm heartbroken. I thought you just wanted to spend some time sharing a piece of cake with ole Marty." He grinned afterward to assure me he was teasing.
"Well, if it helps, I am enjoying this little cake party immensely. Thank you for letting me take up your evening."
Marty placed his hand over mine. "The pleasure is all mine."
Chapter 8
Time had swept by as Marty told me stories about Port Danby. I could have listened to him all night.
"Should we have one more slice of cake before looking at more pictures?" he asked.
I patted my stomach. "I think I've had my limit, but please, don't let me stop you."
Marty put his glasses back on and adjusted them on his nose. "No, I think I've reached my limit as well." He leaned into the box. "Ah ha, here is a picture of my mother and father standing with Mayor Harvard Price."
I instantly recognized the rotund man with the imperial chin lift. "When did your father die? You haven't talked much about him."
Marty's gaze dropped behind his glasses. "Yes, my father died when I was just seven. His fishing boat got caught in a squall, and the vessel sank, taking my father with it."
"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. You were so young. It's good you had such a marvelous, energetic mother."
His smile returned but it was still edged with sadness. It was so long ago, but I was sure he still remembered every detail of that terrible day as if it were yesterday. "My mother was energetic and she had to be. I was quite the handful. But we managed, the two of us." He looked at the picture again. "My mother never liked Harvard Price. She didn't mind his son, Fielding though. I think Harlan takes after his great granddad. So don't take it too personally if the mayor is unfriendly toward you. If you ask me, that Harlan Price is just a grumpy old man. Never could figure out how he got himself elected. He lacks even an ounce of charisma."
I picked up the cup of coffee. It was good and warm on such a chilly night. "Well, from what I've read in my research, the Port Danby mayor position is all part of a family legacy."
"That's true. Harvard Price cemented himself into the position and from there passed the mayoral keys on to his kin. Just like a royal family, I suppose."
The mention of Harvard Price focused me back on my main quest. "Mary Russel mentioned that your mother was very social and that she knew everyone in town."
My comment produced a proud grin. "Indeed, she had so many friends, this house would be filled with people on Sunday afternoon after church. Everyone would stop by with pies and biscuits just to have tea with my mother. She was quite the advice giver, apparently." He laughed. "Not sure if it was always good advice but I suppose there must have been some merit to it if people were willing to hand over perfectly good pumpkin and apple pies."
"I would say so. And if they kept coming back, she must have been handing out solid advice. Was it about marriage issues or health or keeping house?"
"Everything. You name it. I still remember one woman, Mabel was her name. Kept coming back with this terrible toothache and, naturally, my mother was not a dentist. Although, dentistry was nothing short of torture back then with rusty implements and nothing to dull the pain except strong whiskey. My poor mother kept telling her she should go to see the dentist over in Mayfield, but the woman had no money and she was afraid of what he might do. So my mother had the woman sit in one of her kitchen chairs and lean her head back. I was eight years old at the time and curious as heck about what my mother planned to do for poor Mabel. Mother held a gas lantern over the woman's face and stared through a magnifying glass into her mouth." A low chuckle rolled up from his chest as he transported himself back in time. "My mother placed the lantern confidently on the kitchen table and said, 'Mabel, I've got just the thing for you.' Then, with the same confidence, Mother was brimming with it, she marched over to the cupboard where she would store a few treats. She always kept them up too high for me to reach without pulling a chair across the floor." Marty's gray brows danced a little. "Tried that once and couldn't sit down for a week. Anyhow, she dragged over a chair, climbed up and pulled down the tin of salt water taffy she'd made a few weeks earlier for the town fair. She handed Mabel a big lump of the vanilla taffy and told her to chew it on the left side of her mouth, the side with the bad tooth." Marty sat back with a laugh. "I can still remember Mabel's expression." He lifted his fingers and curled them around his eyes like fake glasses. "Eyes as big as saucers. I think she was having second thoughts about relying on my mother for her dental needs. Mother stood there with fists on her hips waiting for Mabel to follow her instructions."
"Did she?" I asked, anxious to hear how the unorthodox dentistry worked.
"She did. Shoved that whole piece in so that the whole left side of her face looked as if she was a chipmunk storing nuts. Her eyes scrunched up in pain." Marty put on a good visual of Mabel trying to eat taffy with a bad tooth. "She chewed and chewed. Then her eyes popped open, and she smiled around that mouthful of candy. Mother knew just what to do. She pulled the wastebasket out from the kitchen pantry and held it out. Mabel spit out the rest of the taffy and the bad tooth came with it. After that, she brought mother and me her special molasses cookies every week for a month."
"Sounds like a nice payment. What a great story. Marty, do you know if your mom knew Jane Price? She was Harvard's daughter from his first marriage. I think she might have been a town treasurer or accountant at some point in time."
Marty tapped his chin. "Jane Price. Jane Price," he repeated. Then his brows hopped up. "You know, I think I've seen her name on one of these old pictures." He hunched over to dig in the box, and I tried to keep from springing off the couch and doing a little happy dance.
"Hmm, let me see," he muttered into the hollow box. "I think it was one of these newer albumen prints." He paused long enough to turn his head over his shoulder. "Can you believe they actually used egg whites to get a clearer picture that wouldn't fade. It worked, too." He turned back into the box. "Yes, let me see." He lifted out a picture. "This is it." He turned it over to read the back. "Yes, Jane Price 1902. I never met her." He handed me the picture. "My mother is on the right. Jane is the one holding flowers."
I brought the picture closer. "Yes, this is her. I've seen a picture of her in a newspaper. She was standing behind her father's desk. From what I read in my research, she left town a few years after this picture was taken."
"Occasionally, my mother and I would take this old box out and go through the collection of photos. I remember asking her about the lady in the picture, Jane Price. She said they were friends and that Jane was the mayor's daughter. She never said why Jane left town though. Of course, I probably never asked."
I stared at the photo a long time, trying to catch all the details, trying to get a sense of the woman and then it occurred to me, the most important detail was staring me right in the face. "She's holding a bouquet of lavender," I said.
Marty looked over at the picture. "Yes, I think my mother told me she used to grow lavender in the field behind the mayor's office. She used it in soap and cooking."
"Interesting," I said as I sat back somewhat flabbergasted. Had I just landed on something big?
"Why is that so interesting? I believe lavender is still used for those same purposes today."
I sat forward again, still clutching the picture. "I should explain. In my research, I've gone through the
old trunk in the gardener's shed up at the house."
Marty's forehead crinkled. "Did you now? I thought the trunk was locked."
I smiled coyly. "It was but I found the key. It is filled with Bertram Hawksworth's belongings, including a few love letters from someone called Button. One of the letters had a dried sprig of lavender inside it. It had been preserved there all these years."
"Do you think Jane might have written the letters to Bertram? Maybe the whole thing was a crime of passion." Marty poured another cup of coffee and stirred in some sugar. "Of course, lavender has always grown abundantly in this area."
"I'm sure and it's a commonly used dried flower." The fire had dwindled during our long chat, and without thinking, I rubbed my arms for warmth.
"You're cold. I'll put another log on the fire." Marty, gentleman that he was, hopped up from the couch. (Amazingly well for someone his age. Heck, amazingly well for someone my age.)
"I think I've taken up enough of your time tonight, Marty. I should be on my way." I stood up and leaned over to pick up the pewter tray.
"Oh no, you can just leave that, Lacey. I'll take care of it in the morning." He patted his hand over his mouth to stifle a yawn. "I guess it is rather late. I could reminisce about the past all night long, especially with such an appreciative audience. I must say, most people, particularly young people like yourself, aren't interested in past events and historical details."
I reached for my coat. "I've always loved it. How else can you know anything about the future if you're not tuned in to the past?"
Marty beamed. "I knew I liked you the moment we met." He squinted one eye. "It was on the holiday horse and carriage ride, wasn't it?"
Lavender and Lies Page 4
