"Interesting." A tap on the door signaled that my crow had returned from his tantrum. I walked to the door to let him in. "Especially the little side note you added about Lionel Dexter not being his real name," I continued.
Kingston marched in, wings tucked back, like a short, chubby man dressed in black and walking purposefully with his hands behind his back.
"That is one angry bird. What did you do to the poor guy this morning?" Briggs circled around to the treat can, hoping to win some favors with the bird while he was still mad at me.
"I accidentally turned off the alarm. If Never hadn't swatted my cheek with his paw, demanding to be fed, I might very well still be curled up under my quilt dreaming of Elsie's sweet cakes and my boyfriend's even sweeter kisses."
"Glad to know my kisses are swirling around in there between strawberry buttercream and German chocolate. Anyhow, the reason for my side note is that when we looked to notify next of kin for Mr. Dexter, we couldn't find anyone. He seems to have no connection to the outside world, which usually means he was running under a fake name. Which makes this next detail more plausible but equally stunning. The Palmer house is still in a huge probate struggle between family members. It was never sold. Mr. Dexter never purchased the property."
My hand flew to my chest. "He was just squatting there? Guess that explains the lack of furniture."
"It might also explain why the back door was broken," Briggs noted. "And why he left the front door unlocked. He had no keys."
"Of course that all makes sense. Oh my gosh, Kate is going to hate to hear all this. She went on at length about his wealth. What about the Porsche?" I asked.
He nodded. "He had leased it from a dealer under the name Lionel Dexter. Apparently, he had the required fifteen thousand for the down payment on the lease. So they were eager to hand him a contract. But he paid the deposit in cash, according to the dealership. However, he was already late on his first lease payment."
"I suppose that's not too surprising." I picked my hand broom back up and began sweeping leaf and stem litter into a dustpan. "What's next on our investigative list?" I asked with enough enthusiasm to assure him I wanted to be included on all of it.
He couldn't hold back a grin. "I've got a few things to do, but I'm planning to go interview some of the neighbors." He pulled out the evidence bag with the necklace. "I'm heading across to Lola's right now to get a positive identification on this necklace. Because I have to cross all my t's," he said quickly before I could assure him I was right. "But if you can get away after lunch, you can go with me on the interviews."
"And the woman on the boat, with the pink cocktail?" I asked.
He headed to the door. "She's on the list to be talked to. The boat is still in the slip, but there wasn't anyone on board this morning. I'll text you when I'm ready to head to Chesterton. Unless I fall asleep on my desk, which might very well happen."
Chapter 15
The wealthy neighborhood where the Palmer house stood was much more beautiful in daylight, especially minus the red blinking lights and the police activity. The only sign that something horrible had happened in the tree-lined neighborhood of stately homes and lush green lawns was the yellow caution tape still draped across the front door of the crime scene. As it was, the neighbors were probably tired of the vacant house, with its weed riddled, mostly dead landscape and deteriorating facade. Now, the house had brought something sinister to their upper crust, seemingly peaceful neighborhood.
A trio of people stood under a sprawling elm two doors down from the Palmer house. They had that drawn, worried look that one could expect from people whose night had been interrupted by a gunshot and murder. They stared at us as we drove past and pulled up to the Palmer house.
"Something tells me if any of the Palmer family ever shows up here at the house, they are going to have rotten eggs and tomatoes thrown at them. This house sure stands out, and not in a good way," I added, unnecessarily.
"I know there have been several heated city council meetings about it, but there's not much anyone can do and the feuding family members live in different states. When they get word that a stranger was living in the house and later wound up dead on their family room floor, they might find a way to settle their differences and finally unload the property. Of course, I'm not so sure people will be clamoring to buy it."
We climbed out of the car. The weather was somewhat dreary, gray and cloudy, not bright and crisp like the past two days. It was appropriate weather for a murder investigation, and the right amount of gloom to match the mood of the neighborhood.
"Guess we could start with the three people standing under the elm. See what they heard and saw that might have been unusual on their street," Briggs said.
I stretched my legs to take longer steps to keep up with his official detective's stride. Two women and a man, who all looked to be in their sixties or early seventies, stood beneath the halfway naked branches of the tree.
They eyed us with a touch of suspicion as we headed toward them. "Afternoon." Briggs immediately flashed his badge. "I'm Detective Briggs," he said.
One woman pulled the collar of her coat closed and smiled. "Of course, it's you, little Jimmy Briggs. My husband, Dr. Freemont, was your pediatrician when you were a little boy. I knew you were a detective now, but this neighborhood hasn't ever had anything terrible like this happen so I guess we've never seen you around these parts."
Briggs flicked his gaze my direction, no doubt to see my reaction to him being called little Jimmy Briggs. I was, of course, enjoying watching him squirm.
"How are you, Mrs. Freemont. How is Dr. Freemont?"
Her face softened. "I'm afraid he passed away five years ago. Sometimes doctors are too caught up taking care of patients, and they forget to take care of themselves. But thank you for asking anyhow, Jimmy. I mean, Detective Briggs."
"I'm sorry to hear that, Mrs. Freemont," he said.
"Guess you're here to investigate the murder," the man said. He was wearing a black wool hat, and a big red scarf was draped around his neck. His thick chin rested on the red wool as he peered out from under the brim of the hat. Something about his whole look reminded me of Frosty the Snowman. "Have they found the killer yet? None of us can rest easy until the person is behind bars."
"We're working on it, Mr.—" Briggs paused to let him fill in the blank.
"Hart, Bradley Hart."
Briggs pulled out his notebook. "If you don't mind me asking a few questions, I'm trying to find out if anyone noticed anything different on the street yesterday. Particularly around the Palmer house. Any cars that aren't usually around? Any people that seemed out of place?"
The second woman seemed to have a better grip on the cold weather than her two bundled friends. She was wearing just a thin blouse and a pair of black pants. "We sure did. All three of us noticed a small red car parked in the driveway yesterday evening. Must have been around six because that is when I cook dinner. I can see the driveway from my kitchen window."
"And your name?" Briggs asked.
"Sandra Tuttle. Uh, this won't go in the paper or on some list, will it? We're already concerned enough about a killer running loose. We certainly don't want any trouble." She looked rightfully scared.
"No, Mrs. Tuttle. This is my personal notebook. It helps me if I need to come back and ask you more questions and if we need potential witnesses."
I knew the last part would shock her, and the flicker of fear in her eyes confirmed my prediction. Briggs reacted quickly to assuage her concern.
"This is still all preliminary, so there's no need to worry. However, anything you can tell me will help us catch the killer quickly." He turned back to Mr. Hart. "Anything you can remember about the car?"
"I didn't think enough about it to give the car a good look," said Mr. Hart, "but if my memory serves me right—" he chuckled, "which it doesn't always, believe me. But I think it was a red Honda."
"Kate's car," I blurted without thinking.
Everyone looked at me.
"This is my assistant, Miss Pinkerton," Briggs said.
"Do you know who was driving the red car?" Mr. Hart asked.
"Oh, not necessarily." I quickly backtracked. The last thing I wanted to do was toss Kate out there as a suspect. It was rather unthinkable, but there I was thinking about it. "I just happen to know someone who drives a red Honda."
Briggs snuck a sideways glance at me before writing the information down in his notebook.
"Aren't you that nice, young woman who runs the flower shop in Port Danby?" Mrs. Freemont asked.
I smiled brightly. "Yes, that's me."
She turned to her friend. "I bought the loveliest bouquet of pink carnations from her when Minnie was in the hospital for her gall bladder attack."
Briggs cleared his throat to get them to focus on the case.
"Norris lives right next to the Palmer house, on the other side," Mr. Hart piped up. "He said he saw Margaret Sherwood wandering around the front yard, trying to get a look in the windows." He pointed to the neighboring house on our side. It was a large Tudor style home with thick swaths of ivy growing along its facade. "Margaret lives right there. Haven't seen her yet this morning. She usually has lunch with her sister in Mayfield on Wednesdays."
"You mentioned Norris?" Briggs asked as he wrote down the name.
"Yes, Jack Norris, but he left early this morning," said Mr. Hart. "He's helping his son restore an old house near the coast. He'll be back later. But he said it was very strange. He couldn't understand why Margaret would be snooping on the new neighbor. He pulled on his coat to go outside and make sure she was all right." He glanced at his two friends. They all cast a knowing look around their circle. "We always worry about Margaret. She's never quite been the same since Charles died."
Mrs. Freemont confirmed with a grim nod. "It's true. She nearly lost her entire fortune to an investment scandal. Fortunately, Mr. Escobar, who lives just down at the corner, got wind of what she was doing and stopped her before she gave everything away to some crooks."
"Did Mr. Norris ever find out why she was wandering around the Palmer house?"
Mr. Hart shook his head. "He said she saw him coming across the yard and hurried back to her own house and shut the door." Again, all three cast a concerned glance around their half circle.
"Did all of you hear the gunshot?" Briggs asked next. The question caused them all to blanch a bit. It must have been very alarming.
"It certainly woke me," Sandra said. "Sent my cat right off the bed. He hid under it for a good hour afterward. Now, mind you, I was deep asleep, so I wasn't totally sure about what I'd heard. But then I noticed Jane's light was on." She motioned toward Mrs. Freemont.
"That's right. We called each other to confirm what we both heard. We live right across the street from the Palmer house." Mrs. Freemont pointed to two stately homes that sat side by side. They looked as if the same architect had designed and built them at the same time. She shook her head. "That house has been a blight on this neighborhood since Thomas Palmer died."
"It's those darn children," Mr. Hart piped up. "Dennis and his sister, Mindy, never got along, and I'm afraid Thomas died suddenly and didn't have his affairs in order. The whole estate was in a mess. We were all pleased to discover that they had finally come to an agreement and sold the place. We were looking forward to seeing the house being restored."
"It's certainly been like an ever present, unsightly weed in this neighborhood," Mrs. Tuttle said. "Now it seems we are back to square one."
Mrs. Freemont's face snapped her direction. "Sandra, we are way behind square one. Now we have this scandalous event taking place. We're a neighborhood plagued with murder. Our home values just dropped significantly."
"Now, I don't know about that," Mr. Hart jumped in.
Briggs cleared his throat politely to remind them he was conducting an investigation. "There were multiple calls just after midnight to the police station to report the gunshot. Did any of you make a call?"
Slowly, they all nodded. "I suppose we should have coordinated it so only one of us made the call," Mr. Hart said. "But we're just not used to hearing gunshots in this neighborhood."
"Most neighborhoods aren't used to it," Briggs reminded him. "Thankfully," he added.
He flipped closed his notebook. "You have all been very helpful. Thank you for that and we'll keep you posted."
"Hope you find them soon," Mrs. Freemont called as we walked away.
"Just how long had Kate been dating this man?" he asked as we headed back to the car.
"I'm not sure. She came into the shop Monday morning to tell me about him, and the way she was talking, it was already serious. However that doesn't mean much because she's gotten engaged to men she's only known a month." We stopped and I looked at him before climbing into the car. "You can't possibly think Kate is a suspect."
He shrugged. "Haven't ruled anyone out at this point. But I'm definitely going to have a chat with her."
Chapter 16
The afternoon layer of clouds had disintegrated, leaving behind a blue fall sky. So when Ryder asked if I'd take a few more herbs down to the Corner Market, I was happy to oblige. Apparently, the sage had been a big seller for people making their Thanksgiving lists.
Ryder loaded up the little red wagon we used to pull half-off plants out onto the sidewalk with newly potted sage. The scent of sage could occasionally be too musty, almost skunk-like to my sensitive nose, but the fresh, leafy plants Ryder had placed in small red pots reminded me of my mom's holiday cooking. I pulled on my coat, grabbed the wagon handle and headed out on my sage delivery mission.
With the cloud cover gone, the temperature had dropped significantly. My nose and ears were instantly cold. I stopped to lift up the hood on my coat, and as I did, my gaze inadvertently floated in the direction of Kate's shop, Mod Frock. Her sidewalk chalkboard announcing the day's deals and the small rack she rolled out to go with the deals had been put away. The sidewalk in front of her shop was empty.
My wagon rattled and wobbled behind me as I circled it around and headed to Kate's store. There was a sign in the window that said 'closed for the rest of the day' and the shop was dark. It wasn't terribly surprising. I was certain this whole thing had hit her hard. First, she learned Lionel was seeing another woman, then the man ended up dead. It was a lot to absorb. I was sure Briggs would quickly determine that Kate had nothing to do with Lionel's death. She had motive and witnesses did see her car at the murder scene, but it was still too crazy to even consider that Kate had killed Lionel.
I turned the wagon around again, never an easy feat with a wagon filled with potted plants, then headed toward the market. It was cold enough that I walked most of the way with my face down to avoid making my eyes water from the chill. My downward gaze served a purpose in more than one way. I was also able to keep better track of cracks, ruts and other obstacles along the way, thus keeping my wagon from pitching sideways and spilling the breakable clay pots.
I knew, by the scent of onions in the air, that I was passing Franki's Diner. I reached the corner where Harbor Lane made a turn to become Pickford Way. I looked up just long enough to make sure it was safe to cross, then carefully rolled my wagon down the sloped sidewalk and crossed over to the Corner Market. I was still keeping my face out of the bitter cold when I nearly collided with a customer leaving the store. The woman gasped and dropped her paper bag. A few of the oranges rolled free.
"Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry. I was looking down to avoid the cold," I huffed as I ran after two of the oranges. I plucked them up and turned back to the woman. It was my turn to gasp. The woman I'd seen on the boat, the pink cocktail drinker, straightened from picking up her fallen bag. She was wearing large, dark sunglasses and a short leather coat trimmed with fur.
She grabbed the oranges from my hand and stuck them in the bag. She glanced nervously around as if she was worried someone was following her, then she took off on shiny blue high heels without a word.
"Again, I'm very sorry," I called to her, but she never turned back around.
I walked into the market. My head momentarily swirled from the onslaught of aromas, everything from spicy sausage and ham that the owners Tom and Gigi Upton sliced paper thin behind the deli counter to the sweet citrus scent wafting from the mountain of glossy, dimpled oranges sitting in the front bin of the produce aisle. Our freshly potted herbs had been neatly arranged around a rustic wicker basket overflowing with butternut squash, pumpkins and chestnuts still in their smooth, mahogany shells.
"Hello, Lacey, thanks for bringing those." Gigi was wearing a sweater with a colorful turkey. She'd pulled on black shoes that had big silver buckles in perfectly Pilgrim fashion. "People have been buying up the sage like crazy."
I helped her carry the sage over to the window display.
"I was keeping my face down to avoid the cold," I said, "and I sort of collided, actually it was a near miss, with your last customer. She wasn't very willing to accept my profound apology."
Gigi moved a few of the thyme plants around and pushed the new pots into place. "Yes, she's sort of an odd bird. She's been in here twice this week and is rather unfriendly. Not sure if I've ever even gotten a hello out of her. Today, she seemed anxious or worried about something. I know she's staying on one of the boats in the marina."
"Yes, I've seen her on a boat called Funtasy." We finished putting the last pots on the shelf.
"Have you seen Kate today?" I asked. "I noticed she closed up shop early."
Gigi tapped her chin. "Hmm, not sure. Hey, Tom," she called toward the back of the store.
Tom appeared with a matching turkey sweater, but instead of shiny buckle shoes, he was wearing a Pilgrim hat. It suited him. He was pushing a rolling cart piled high with butter leaf and romaine lettuce. "Hello, Lacey. Everyone loves your herbs."
"That's wonderful, only I have to give all the credit to Ryder because it was all his idea."
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