"Yes but he's a dead key."
"What? You mean there's a third victim?"
Briggs glanced around as two women strolled past. He nodded and smiled hello, then returned to our conversation. "Marco Plesser died in 2007."
"A stolen identity?" I asked.
The woman who seemed to be taking the lead on the sixtieth anniversary popped her head out the door. "Sorry to interrupt, but we've made a decision."
"Wonderful. I'll be right there." I turned back to Briggs. He had a nice amount of dog hair on the front of his coat. I brushed it off. "Someone got a Bear hug this morning before he left the house."
"And a slobbery kiss to go with it. I'm just glad my neighbor has offered to have Bear over during the day to hang out with his dog. I was starting to feel guilty about leaving him home alone so much. Now he can't wait to head over to the neighbor's house."
"I'll bet he loves it. I've got to head inside. Before I do, I'm going to tell you my new theory, in light of this new information."
He smiled. "Looking forward to hearing it."
"Lionel Dexter was one of those terrible men who preyed on vulnerable women, pretending to be in love with them so he could take them for everything they had. Just not sure how Glenda or, whatever her name was, fit into his scheme."
Briggs glanced around and leaned forward for a quick kiss. "Good theory. I think we're both on the same page. If that's the case, he probably had a lot of enemies. I'll let you go sell flowers. See you later. Maybe dinner tonight if I can break free."
"Sounds good. Have a nice day, Detective Briggs."
"Same to you, Miss Pinkerton."
Chapter 25
I pulled the long stem rose from the vase and trimmed off the end at an angle to help it take in more water. I stuck it back into the vase and plucked out the next one. After the morning flurry of activity, things had calmed down.
"I think I'm going to just go for it and get a new car." Ryder had been lamenting the old, junky-ness of his car all morning. Since he was saving up for his eventual horticulturist adventure around the world, he was very tight with his budget, but it seemed he couldn't take his old car one more day.
"There are so many of those car shopping sites now, I'm sure you can get a reasonable deal." I grinned over the yellow rose in my hand. "Or why don't you just splurge and get something really fancy and fast. Lola would love it. Of course, that means you'd deplete your savings account and have to start all over again. Which means you wouldn't be leaving me anytime soon, and yes, I'm being selfish but I don't mind. I consider it a worthy cause to reveal the dark side of my personality."
He chuckled. "At least you don't hide behind any fake facade. I'm sure I can find a good deal, something that won't drain my account. I'll start looking when I take my lunch break."
"Good idea." I finished the last rose and was just about to carry them back to the cooler when the door opened and Marty Tate walked inside. He was bundled up in a thick corduroy coat that had worn leather trim on the collar and cuffs.
I circled around the work island to greet him. "Marty, how wonderful to see you." I gave him a gentle hug. "How are you doing?"
"Fine, thanks. The photographer is done taking pictures so the rest of my week has been rather slow. It was such a nice day, I decided to take a stroll along Harbor Lane to visit my favorite florist."
"How nice of you. I have a bottle of water in the refrigerator, nice and cold, would you like it?"
"No, thank you." He unbuttoned his coat but didn't remove it. "Hello, Ryder."
"Hey, Marty, how's it going?" Ryder put down the vase he was filling and walked over for a handshake. "Good to see you, man. You look great."
Marty chuckled. "For a mummy. Truth is, this cold weather slows me down more and more each year."
"Nonsense," I said. "You just walked down here and strolled enthusiastically into the store. There isn't anything slow about that."
"Kind of you to say, but I feel like I'm moving in slow motion on these cold days." He reached into his coat. "I've found a few things I thought you might be interested in, Lacey." He pulled out a small book with a faded green cover. The embossed title had lost its black color, but I could still make it out. A Handbook of Herbal Remedies.
Marty handed me the book. "Open the cover. There's an inscription."
I carefully opened the book. A quickly scrawled note had been written on the yellowed title page.
Dear Elizabeth,
I think you'll find this book very helpful. The chapter on cough remedies is particularly good when the winter cold causes a dry throat. I hope you'll put it to good use.
Your friend, Jane Price.
My face popped up. "It's a note from Jane Price," I stated unnecessarily. "It's wonderful."
A half dozen lines creased the side of Marty's mouth when he smiled. It was truly a marvelous smile. "I thought you might appreciate it. I was putting the box of photos away, and I remembered that my mother kept a few personal items wrapped up in a knitted shawl in the closet. This was one of the items she treasured enough to keep tucked away." A boyish grin crossed his face. "She also kept a necklace I made for her from shells I'd collected on the beach. I was eight years old when I handed it to her. I'd wrapped it up in a piece of brown paper and twine. I remember being so excited to give it to her. God bless her, she wore that horrible looking thing to every special occasion. At least until I was twelve and old enough to tell her she didn't have to wear it, which I think I did because I was so embarrassed by the darn thing at that age. She'd wear it and tell everyone I made it for her. That was all right when I was eight but definitely not at twelve."
I could have listened to Marty's charming little anecdotes all day.
"Now, I've got something else to show you." Marty's smile was plastered across his face. He fumbled around in the inside pocket of his coat for a second, even resorting to biting his lip in concentration as he tried to retrieve whatever it was he was looking for. His gray eyes twinkled as he apparently found it. He pulled out another old photo. "When I found the book, I opened it and this fell out. It's an albumen print like the other one, and it's still in good shape because it was protected by the book pages."
It was indeed. The picture was crisp and clear, considering the age and the method of photography. I'd only seen her several times, in an old newspaper photo and the picture at Marty's house. It was Jane Price. She was what people back then would have referred to as a handsome woman. She had nice symmetrical features with large, wide set eyes and fair skin. She was wearing one of the day's fashionable day dresses with slightly puffed sleeves that stopped at the elbow and a skirt that was fitted at the waist to drop slimly over the hips. Only something about her physique wasn't quite right. Jane Price was in no way overweight. Her face was small and slim and her arms looked petite, yet her waist looked too big for the rest of her, even beneath the fitted bodice and skirt. I brought the picture closer to get a better look. She was turned just slightly at an angle with her hand resting on an unopened parasol.
Marty was rightly waiting for some kind of response. "It's Jane Price," I said still studying the photo. I looked up at him. "Maybe it's the angle or the dress but it almost looks as if she is pregnant."
Marty snapped his fingers. "I was thinking the same thing."
"Wow, this is huge, Marty. Maybe that's why Jane was sent away. She was still using the name Jane Price, so I think it's safe to assume she wasn't married. Women carrying illegitimate babies were hidden from public eye or, at the very least, sent off to live away so the family name wouldn't be ruined."
Marty chuckled. "You're pretty good at theorizing this stuff." He noticed Kingston for the first time and walked over to visit with him. He stroked King's head. "You mentioned the letters in Bertram's trunk. Maybe that inscription in the book will match the letters," he suggested.
My feet nearly left the floor. "Marty, you're brilliant. See, you're pretty good at theorizing this stuff too."
He laughed. "
Maybe we should become partners, solving all the world's great mysteries."
"Or, at least this hundred-year-old Port Danby mystery. This is great. You've given me some excellent evidence, Marty. I don't know how to repay you."
"Sure you do." He smiled.
"Elsie's lemon poppy pound cake?" I asked.
He nodded emphatically. "Best payment there is."
"Actually, how about lunch at Franki's, my treat?"
"I wouldn't say no to a lunch at Franki's," Marty said.
I patted his arm. "Great, I'll just grab my coat, and we can walk down there together."
Chapter 26
Franki lit up as we walked into the diner. As much as I would have liked to think her enthusiastic reaction was for me, it was all for my lunch partner, Marty. He was quite the celebrity in town. After Franki's hug and a hand flourish showing us the way to what she referred to as his favorite table, nearly every customer in the diner had to greet or shout hello to him. And he took it all in stride with his sparkling gray gaze and kind smile. We sat down at the table, and Franki dashed off to get Marty his usual cup of coffee. She completely forgot the other person sitting at the table until she returned with his coffee, which happened to be in a special blue mug with the name Marty in dark blue lettering.
"Oh, Lacey, sorry, I didn't ask what you'd like to drink." She looked somewhat embarrassed, but it passed quickly when she turned her attention back to Marty. "I've just taken a hot cornbread out of the oven. Should I bring you a chunk with some whipped butter?" she asked him. (Again, nothing for the woman sitting across from him.)
Marty, being the wonderful person he was, smiled graciously across the table. "What do you say, Lacey? Should we have some cornbread and butter to start?"
"Yes, that sounds perfect, Marty." I shot a slightly annoyed look at Franki. "Hot tea, please."
"Sure thing. I'll be right back with that cornbread." I had never witnessed Franki being anything but herself, a plainspoken, sharp business woman who somehow managed to keep her life moving smoothly along, even as a single mother of four teens, but she winked rather flirtatiously at Marty before bustling away to get his fresh cornbread.
I sat up straighter so I didn't have to talk too loudly over the chorus of conversations surrounding us. "Why do I feel as if I just walked into this diner with George Clooney?"
Marty chuckled. "I think people get excited when they see me because that means I'm not dead yet. It's more like a woo hoo, there's Marty, still kicking around and breathing."
I pressed a hand against my mouth to stifle my laugh. His droll humor was nothing short of charming. (Maybe I had walked in with Clooney.)
In what I would label as the quickest service ever, Franki swept right back with a small basket brimming with cubes of steaming cornbread and a bowl of her special whipped butter. My hot tea was nowhere to be seen.
Franki snapped her fingers. "That's right, Lacey, you wanted hot tea. Be right back with that." I wasn't counting on it.
"I hear there was a murder at the marina." Marty offered the basket to me first before taking one for himself. He pushed the butter bowl my direction too.
"Yes, a woman who was visiting on a boat called Funtasy. She wasn't the first victim though. There was a murder in Chesterton earlier in the week, a man who was also new to town."
Marty clucked his tongue. "I sure miss the days when people weren't always getting killed."
I slathered butter on the bread and pushed the bowl his way. "What time period was that, exactly?" I asked wryly. "As I recall, this entire town's tourist appeal is based on an infamous murder."
He nodded once. "So true. Then I suppose it's better to say, I wish there was a time when people weren't getting killed."
We both chuckled and took a moment to enjoy the cornbread. Franki returned. Surprisingly, she remembered the tea. "Guess you two should decide on lunch before you fill up on all that cornbread," she noted.
"I'll have some of your vegetable soup," I said.
"Hmm, that sounds good. Make it two," Marty said. "And a tuna melt."
Franki smiled. "Be right back with that."
"Have you seen the photographer?" I asked. "Or has she left town already?
"I'm not sure. I know she was finished with the lighthouse pictures. Funny thing, this morning I was taking a walk to the market, and I spotted her heading across to the wharf with her camera and her big black camera bag. I waved and called hello, but she was so preoccupied by something she didn't even look to see who was calling her name."
"Maybe she didn't hear you." I sipped some hot tea.
Marty nodded. "Could be. My voice is always a little hoarse in the morning. Comes from all the years of living in a damp filled house. That coastal fog knows how to get through every crack and crevice. Maybe she was just too wrapped up in her book deal with Ballard Publishing."
"I think you mean Shuster Publishing." I had little self control when it came to Franki's cornbread. Who was I kidding? I had little self control at all when it came to yummy treats. I reached for another square and was slightly disappointed that the cornbread hadn't stayed magically warm in the basket. I glanced up from buttering my bread. Marty was scratching his chin in thought.
"No, I'm certain she said Ballard Publishing. Don't know how I would have come up with that name otherwise. I don't know much about the publishing world."
I sat back, genuinely perplexed. "How weird. She told me Shuster. I wonder if she just got mixed up."
"Maybe," Marty said. "Although, it seems like a sort of strange thing to mix up."
Franki returned with the soup. "Here you go, Marty, topped with a sprinkle of cheese and toasted croutons just the way you like it." She placed my unadorned soup unceremoniously in front of me and dashed away.
I smiled behind my hand. "If I didn't know any better, Marty, I'd say Franki has a crush on you."
He shrugged. "Not surprised. It's the Tate curse. Women just can't get enough of us."
We both had a good laugh as we sat forward to eat our soup.
Chapter 27
Ryder had headed out to test drive a car he was hoping to buy. Earlier in the afternoon, a frazzled mother had walked in with two school aged kids. She needed centerpieces for a club meeting she was hosting. The kids, who were bouncing around, happy to no longer be sitting in their school desks, were making it hard for her to concentrate on her task. Then a tap on the front door signaled the return of a certain shop mascot. Kingston had taken off when Ryder left, but he returned quickly, apparently not finding any activity to his liking outside the shop. His timing was perfect. The kids spent the rest of the time dropping treats into his tray and watching him eat them. It was rare but my bird actually reached a saturation point on the treats. But he had kept the kids entertained enough for their harried mom to choose orange and yellow carnations for her centerpieces. The group left and Kingston settled down for a long nap, leaving me alone to think about the murder cases. Normally, by now, I would have at least a semi-solid list of suspects, but there was only Kate and Margaret. I was having a hard time trying to picture either of them as a cold blooded murderer. Kate had opened up her shop this morning and was back in business, complete with a new sidewalk sale sign and a display of cool mod frocks to go with it. It seemed her interview at the station must have eased her mind about being a possible suspect. I'd contemplated walking down the street to chat with her for all of a minute. There had never been a great bond between us, and I was sure she'd consider me to be prying. Which, technically, would be right. It was one thing to sort of push my way into talking to a suspect when I didn't know the person well, but it was another thing when that person was a neighboring shopkeeper who I had to see almost every day.
I headed into the office to order the carnations. I sat at the computer. Rather than open my purchase order file, I went straight to Google. I was interested to find out whether Heather Houston had signed a deal with Ballard or Shuster. Not that it mattered much, but it did seem strange
that she'd told Marty and me different publisher names.
I typed in Heather Houston, certain that whichever publisher it was, there would have been a press release or some sort of news article about the forthcoming book. There was a lawyer named Heather Houston, and a singer in an indie pop band went by the same name. I decided to take a shortcut and go straight to Ballard Publishing. They had a list of books due out in the next year. I read through the list but saw nothing about a lighthouse photo book and, more importantly, nothing from Heather Houston.
I moved on to the Shuster Publishing site. Their site was a little harder to navigate, but a few clicks and some serious scrolling earned me no reward. There was no mention of an upcoming book from photographer Heather Houston. I tried a few more keywords like lighthouse, coffee table book, coastal scenery but nothing took me to a mention of Heather's upcoming book. I had never asked her when the book was due out. It was possible that the estimated publishing date was two years away. After all, a book of photographs would take a great deal of preparation and work to produce. On top of that, Heather still seemed to be moving up the coast for more pictures. I had to give her the benefit of the doubt that her book was still in the early stages of creation, and there was no mention online because it was too far in the future.
The only question I couldn't reason away was why she would tell me it was a Shuster publication when she told Marty it was Ballard. Something wasn't quite right with any of her story. Since she was quite possibly long gone from Port Danby, I would probably never find out just what the heck was going on.
I was just about to stop my procrastination and start my purchase order when the bell rang on the front door. The clanging was followed by the distinct aroma of cinnamon, which meant that Elsie had arrived with a baked good. The carnations could wait.
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