Tulips and Trouble

by London Lovett

  A cluster of cottony clouds slipped away from the sun. Light and heat poured down on the ocean below as I stared out to the horizon. It was turning out to be an unseasonably warm day, especially after a night of wind and rain. The cold, harsh night of weather made it seem even less likely that Letty had stayed out voluntarily. The icy feeling of dread that had overtaken me when I stood in her art room had stayed with me long after Briggs and I left the house.

  It seemed the strategy planning session was over. The dogs headed off in three different directions. Briggs headed toward me.

  "It seems you've got noses that are far superior to mine working for you now," I noted lightly as he reached me.

  "I don't know if they're far superior, but they don't mind hiking down treacherous paths or through thickets of overgrown brush. They've got a lot to cover. They'll start here at the marina and lighthouse, then head to some of the wilderness areas around Mayfield and the rural areas off Highway 48. We don't have much to go on to pinpoint a location, but we know she was last seen here."

  "Those dogs are so well trained," I said as we watched them nose to ground, lead their human partners on the search.

  "Yeah," Briggs said wryly. "That's what a trained dog looks like. Actually, the shepherd reminds me of the dog I grew up with. I named him Yogi. When I was twelve, my mom decided I was old enough to be on my own afterschool, so she went back to work."

  "Yogi? I love that name."

  It was rare for Briggs to talk about his past or his childhood. I leaned closer, not wanting to miss a word. I was fascinated to hear about a twelve-year-old James Briggs.

  "Yes, naming him after a picnic basket stealing cartoon bear was probably a little beneath the dog. Yogi had tall pointed black ears like the search dog. He would sit at the front door like a security guard when my parents were out. When I came home from school, he greeted me with licks and barks and then he set to work being my protector. It was kind of nice. I never would have confessed to my parents that I was kind of scared being on my own in the house but because of Yogi, I got past that easily. He was my only family for three hours after school and I loved that dog. I think that's why I never got another one. Yogi was irreplaceable."

  His story made my throat tighten up. I wasn't used to seeing that vulnerable side of Briggs. I liked it.

  The side door to the lighthouse opened, and Marty Tate walked out with a broom. It was a warm spring day but he was still bundled in a scarf and sweater. He shuffled his feet as he moved a straw broom in slow strokes across the cement path around the lighthouse.

  Briggs and I walked over to say hello.

  Marty's milky eyes peered up over the folds of his scarf. His gnarled fingers reached up to pull the knitted wool down from his mouth. "They still haven't found that poor girl? That's a shame." He clucked his tongue exactly like my grandmother used to do when I spilled milk on the counter or got caught sneaking a cookie.

  "I'm afraid the team will be trespassing here for the rest of the afternoon, Marty," Briggs said.

  "No problem, I'm just doing a few chores. I opened the lighthouse up for a few hours yesterday, and people tracked in all kinds of grass and dirt."

  I stared up at the tall tower and swayed on my feet with a flash of vertigo. "That's right, I was going to try and get over for the tour. I'm sorry I missed it. I've been dying to see what the view is like from the lantern room."

  Marty inclined his head toward the open doorway. "You can take a quick look right now, before I head back to the house for lunch."

  "If you're sure you don't mind," I said already making my way to the door.

  "Just mind those stairs. They are quite a climb," Marty warned.

  I stepped into the base of the lighthouse. The structure of white stucco and brick shot up like a tube with the only light coming from the lantern house and the sporadic small windows cut out of the thick walls. The first set of steps were brick risers topped with worn oak. They were short and squat like the steps leading up to a front porch on a house. But beyond the squat set of stairs were the black metal steps that led straight up to the top in a steep coiled pattern. It reminded me of the death defying tracks of a roller coaster.

  I was feeling slightly callous for treating myself to a quick lighthouse tour while there was a team of people searching for a missing woman right outside the walls, but since my nasal services were no longer needed I had a few spare minutes.

  An eerie whistling sound pierced through the edge of the door and circled up to the top of the tower like the howling winds on an autumn night. The sound grew dimmer and seemed to fade away completely once it reached the capped ceiling, but then another gust seeped in and started the cycle again. It was like the constant roar of the ocean, nature's never-ending music.

  It was definitely colder inside the lighthouse than outside in the warm spring sun. I zipped up my sweatshirt and climbed the squat low steps leading to the black curlicue of metal stairs. As I passed a door, painted a sickly green like the color you might see on the walls of a hospital, I caught a whiff of a rancid, unpleasant odor. A tarnished metal lock was looped through a latch on the door. I moved closer and scrunched up my nose to keep the taste of the smell out of my throat. It was a smell that was as rare as it was easy to recognize. It was the pungent, nauseating smell of death. It seemed that something flesh and bone was decomposing behind the hospital green door.

  Adrenaline was pumping through all cylinders as I raced quickly down the steps and out into the fresh air. I urgently scanned the area and found the broad-shouldered figure I was looking for. He was checking off an area on the map they'd created for the search.

  I raced across the lawn. "Briggs," I called and stopped for a breath when I reached him. "I need you to come with me. Something's not right in the lighthouse."

  Briggs folded the map up and pushed it under his arm. We race walked back to the lighthouse. Marty was on the opposite side still sweeping the pathway at a painstakingly slow pace.

  "There's a locked door on the bottom tier of the lighthouse. The strong odor of decay is seeping beneath the thin space under that door," I uttered between breaths.

  "Like something is dead inside?" he asked.

  "Yes."

  "Let's see if Marty has a key with him."

  Marty looked up, surprised to see us approach so quickly. He stopped and rested on the broom, using it like a walking stick. "Where's the fire?" he asked with a gritty laugh.

  "No fire," Briggs assured him. "There's a locked door on the bottom floor of the lighthouse."

  Marty's frizzled gray brows inched up like caterpillars.

  "It's painted in a pale green color and has a tarnished lock looped through the latch," I clarified.

  His caterpillar brows relaxed. "Yeah, of course. The storage closet. Nothing much in there but a few boxes of manuals. Instructions on running the lantern in fog and whatnot."

  "I need to get a look inside that storage closet, if you don't mind, Marty." Briggs started moving in the direction of the door. He was getting slightly impatient with Marty's sluggish, ninety-something manner.

  "No problem. Go right ahead." Marty stayed frozen to the spot hanging onto his broom like Father Time holding onto his long sickle.

  Briggs erased the four sharp steps forward he'd taken and returned to Marty. "Do you have the key to the lock?"

  "Key?" Marty repeated.

  I rested my hand on Marty's arm to get his attention. He turned his milky gaze my direction. "Marty, there's a lock on that door, and we'd like to see what's inside it."

  "Yes, go right ahead," he said again.

  I noticed the tiny twitch in Briggs' cheek that signaled his patience was wearing thin.

  "Could you give us the key?" I asked politely.

  "Key?" Marty repeated again.

  This time my bracing hand landed on Briggs.

  "You don't need any key," Marty continued. "That lock has been broken for years."

  Briggs was halfway to the lighthouse door befo
re Marty got the final syllable out. He dashed inside. I caught up to him as he was yanking open the broken lock. He pushed the back of his hand against his nose to block the smell. I stood back a few feet, not anxious to see what was behind the door.

  Briggs disappeared inside. "Yuck." It wasn't exactly the professional response I was expecting from a detective discovering a dead body. His face appeared around the door. "It's not the missing woman. It's a dead squirrel. It must have slipped inside the closet when Marty wasn't looking and got locked in."

  A burst of air blew from my lips in relief. "Thank goodness." A whistling sound filled the mostly hollow tower again. Briggs stepped briskly out of the closet.

  "That's just the wind," I assured him.

  The whistle blew again but louder and more urgently. Briggs slammed shut the closet door. "That's not the wind. That's the search team letting us know they've found something."

  He raced out of the lighthouse. I followed quickly behind.

  Chapter 16

  A wave of nausea passed through me as the lifeless lump was brought up from beneath the clutter of seaweed on the rocks. I'd spent some years in medical school, until making the tough decision to quit. During those years I'd had plenty of opportunities to view, examine and even dissect dead bodies. I'd also seen more than one murder victim up close while lending Detective Briggs my nose and sleuthing skills. But seeing Letty's lifeless form being pulled from the jagged rocks and ocean debris was hard to watch.

  Her salt-water soaked, rubbery body bounced and tossed back and forth on the gurney during the difficult trek back up the trail. Several times, the officers had to stop and reposition their feet and their holds on the stretcher to avoid sliding down, victim and all, to the rocks below. Each time, a collective breath was held by those of us who waited at the head of the trail.

  Officer Chinmoor had finally managed crowd control, and all spectators had been moved back to the flea market across the street. Two of the people from the art class, Jodie and Denise, had spent the morning at the town square waiting for word about Letty, but I no longer saw their faces in the crowd. Mayor Price had come out of his office at least three times to get an update but didn't seem to have the stomach for watching a dead body come up from the rocks. He had walked off rather hurriedly, and we hadn't seen him since.

  The search crew circled around the victim, making a human and canine curtain of sorts, while Detective Briggs examined the body. I drew in a breath of refreshing coastal air to quiet the nausea before edging my way into the circle. No one seemed to question my presence. Briggs had made it clear I was there with him for investigative reasons.

  Letty's naturally pale skin had taken on a gray-blue sheen and sand dripped from the sides of her ashen lips. A strand of seaweed was wrapped around her body somewhat like a sash in a beauty pageant. Briggs pulled out a pocket knife and cut the tubular plant away from Letty's chest.

  I covered a gasp, not wanting to seem like a complete amateur in a circle of professionals. "Looks like we just found the cause of death, and it had nothing to do with the storm surge or that treacherous trail," Briggs said as he peeled back some of the ripped fabric of Letty's black sweater. The dark color of the sweater and the hours spent soaking in the ocean had washed away a lot of the blood, but the gash just below her throat looked lethal.

  "A knife wound, from the looks of it." Briggs reached for his notepad. He stood up and looked back down the difficult trail. "It's hard to believe the murderer would have gone through the trouble of carrying the body down there to dispose of it. It just took three of you to bring the body up to the top. I'm thinking the murder happened somewhere up the beach. The tide moves west from the marina to Pickford Beach before heading this direction below the lighthouse." Briggs wrote something down on his notes.

  "The coroner is here," one of the officers said.

  Nate Blankenship, the local coroner, drove up onto the lighthouse lawn and parked strategically to block any view of the scene from the town square.

  I walked over to where Briggs was standing. "It seems my nose is not going to help with this case."

  My statement seemed to remind him that he had a search crew waiting for further instructions. "Team, thanks for your help today. I know you've got a drive ahead of you and your dogs will be tired and hungry and ready to head home. Good work."

  The officers and their dogs headed back to the their vehicles. Nate Blankenship set to work with a visual inspection of the body.

  Briggs was still trying to figure out the murder path. His gaze circled the area, including where Letty's car was parked. "I think the murderer stabbed Miss Clark somewhere near the beach and then pushed her body into the water thinking it would be taken out to sea."

  "But last night's storm surge would have pushed her right back to shore." I looked back toward the lighthouse. "And the natural flow of the tide brought her to the rocks below the lighthouse."

  "It would explain why we didn't find the body in our preliminary search," Briggs added.

  I stepped forward and landed on something rubbery. I gasped and stumbled back, worried that I'd stepped on the victim.

  "It's just the seaweed." Briggs lifted it up.

  "Wait just a second," I said quickly before he tossed it aside. He held it up for me to examine. Seaweed was like no other plant in the world, with its plastic looking leaves, hollow tubular stems and bulb shaped protrusions. Which was why it was exceptionally easy to spot the branch of laurel jammed between the thick leaves. I pulled the stem free from the seaweed. Several black threads hung from the sharp broken edge of the branch.

  Briggs moved in closer. "I'd say those are threads from the victim's sweater. That plant doesn't look like anything from the sea."

  "No, it's not. It's laurel, like the hedge that runs along the western edge of Pickford Beach."

  "Let's head over there. Hey, Nate, I'll be right back."

  The coroner who was crouched down over the body waved back over his shoulder.

  We headed along the walking path that stretched between the lighthouse and the section of pavement that led down to the westernmost side of Pickford Beach. The laurel hedge started at the end of the pavement and bordered a walkway that circled the far end of the beach. The dense, waxy shrub created a small cove.

  Briggs stopped and examined the hedge. "I don't see any place where a body might have been dragged through to get to the water. The wind and rain would have washed away a trail if something had been dragged across the sand."

  The hedge ended about fifteen feet from where the water lapped at the shore. It was a gentle tide, but the night before the shoreline would have looked much different.

  "See that ridge of debris?" I pointed to the line of wood splinters, shells and bits of seaweed that stretched along the sand. "That ridge shows how far up the storm surge came. It came up right up to the laurel hedge."

  I turned back to the thick shrubby border. As I moved, something shiny caught my eye. I knelt down in front of the laurel and poked my arm through to the cell phone that was jammed between the branches. I pulled it free and pinched it between two fingers, not wanting to disturb any prints that might be left on it.

  Briggs reached into his pocket and pulled out a glove and evidence bag. "The rain probably washed away any prints, but I'll bet anything this phone belongs to the victim." He put on the glove and examined it. The case and glass were scratched. He pushed the button on top and shook his head. "Either it was ruined in the rain or the battery needs charging." He dropped it into the baggie. "Good work, Miss Pinkerton. After a thorough search for evidence, I need to go back and interview the people from the art class. Starting with the man in the portrait, Darren Morgan."

  Chapter 17

  A murder had put a damper on the day. Several of the flea market vendors had packed up and cleared out, leaving the occasional empty table between the sellers determined to squeeze every last dollar out of the remaining shoppers. Lola was more than happy to shut down for the day. I h
elped her pile the last unsold items into her car, and we headed back to the antique shop.

  "I can't believe that quiet little artist was murdered," Lola said as she turned the car onto Harbor Lane. "Can't imagine she'd have many enemies." Just as she finished the statement, Lester's pub tables came into view. The Coffee Hutch wasn't open, but Ryder was perched on a stool. Denise was sitting across from him, huddled in a white sweater and holding a tissue.

  Lola made a puffy sound. "Boy, someone went straight for the sympathy card."

  "Lola," I said with some degree of scold, "we can assume Denise and Letty knew each other pretty well if they were in art class together. I'm sure Ryder is just lending a supportive ear."

  Properly chastised and possibly feeling a little guilty about her previous statement, Lola fell unusually silent. I caught Ryder's gaze a few times as he watched us pull up to the antique store in Lola's car. She sat still, staring straight ahead, her black cap pulled down tightly around her red curls.

  "I've got the afternoon free," I said quietly. "I could help you carry the stuff back into the store."

  Lola shook her head. "No, thanks. I'm tired. I think I'll just leave the things in the car until tomorrow."

  "If you're sure." My car was parked on the other side of the street. I opened the passenger door and stuck out a foot. "You know he likes you a lot, Lola. If you'd just put down your guard for a second, you'd see it."

  She nodded without looking at me. "Speaking of letting down your guard, how was your day with Detective Briggs?"

  "Touché, my friend. And well deserved. See you tomorrow." I climbed out of the car and walked across the street.