Tulips and Trouble

by London Lovett

  Ryder waved me over to the table. I was rather anxious to talk to Denise anyhow. I was hoping to get a little more insight into the various relationships between the members of the art class.

  I reached the table. Denise provided me with a sad, teary eyed frown, but that vanished quickly with her first question. "I saw you at the lighthouse when they brought Letty's body out of the water. How could you stand to watch?" She dotted her eyes with the tissue but tears didn't really go with her enthusiasm to find out how I'd stomached the murder scene.

  Ryder saw that I was slightly stunned by her question and kindly responded for me. "Lacey went to medical school, and she assists in some of the murder investigations."

  Denise's dark brown eyes were round as saucers. "You do? A flower shop owner? I don't understand."

  Ryder was about to jump in again, but I decided to shut down the inquiry into my life. I had an inquiry of my own. "You must be terribly upset about Letty's death. Were you two very close?"

  "We were good friends." Denise tried the tissue routine once more, but even she seemed to realize she was pushing it. She crumpled up the tissue in her fist. "Of course, Letty was much older. Like six or seven years," she added to qualify what she deemed as much older. "Not old enough to die of course."

  "Of course." I shot a secret wink at Ryder. "Denise, do you have any idea who might want to hurt Letty?"

  Denise put her hand against her chest in shock, and I realized, too late, she didn't realize it was murder. "You mean she didn't just fall accidentally into the water? That's what Jodie and I concluded. How awful that someone might have killed her."

  "Oh, no, there's no way of knowing yet how she died," I lied. The horrid gash in Letty's chest left no doubt it was murder, but I might have opened my mouth too soon.

  "Right, I'm sure the police still have a lot of investigation to do," Ryder added to help out with my misstep.

  "Poor Letty," Denise sighed. "She had a great career ahead of her. She was so talented." She stretched out the word so. "In fact, she was doing so well—" She sat up straighter. "Now that you mention it, Greta Bailey from class sure didn't have a great affection for Letty. She was monstrously jealous. Greta has been working so hard to get noticed in the art world. She even had a few art galleries and collectors interested in her work, but then Letty's paintings came along and took the shine right off of Greta. Everything fell through for her after that. I wouldn't be surprised if Greta was jealous enough to do something awful to Letty."

  "No, Denise, we can't go making up murder scenarios," I said quickly to stop her theorizing.

  "Besides," Ryder interjected, "doesn't an artist's death just make their artwork more desirable? Killing her competitor would not help Greta in the long run."

  Denise looked at Ryder the same way Nevermore stared up at me while I was opening his cat food, with admiration, longing and a touch of good old-fashioned lust. Ryder was going to have to cut this friendship short if he didn't want to give Denise the wrong impression.

  "Of course, there's also the torrid on-again, off-again relationship Letty was having with Darren. He's the guy with the long hair and man bun."

  "Yes, I've seen him." As much as I didn't want Denise to go off on an uninformed spree of murder theories, I was interested in Darren's relationship with Letty."

  "So Letty and Darren dated?"

  "If that's what you call it." She rolled her eyes. "One minute they were playing kissy face and the next cold shoulder. Like two teenagers, seriously. I can't believe the way thirty-somethings play games with each other."

  "Yes, we millennials certainly have social relationships down to a texting, twittering art," I said wryly.

  Ryder stifled a laugh, but Denise didn't seem to catch on to the sarcasm.

  "All I know is that I was certain Darren took the class just to be closer to Letty. He's an all right artist, but he's not very into the class. And once Letty's career started taking off, she had even less time and interest in Darren. I'll just bet he was so heartbroken about it all, he killed her," she pronounced with a dramatic, confident flare.

  "Again, Denise, it's not a good idea to start accusing people until the facts are uncovered."

  Denise's phone buzzed and she glanced at it. "It's a text from Greta. She's acting all shocked and upset. I'll bet it's just an act, you know, to throw the scent off of her. She wants to hang out, but I think I'll avoid her just in case—" She lowered her voice to a whisper. "In case she's a murderer."

  Even though I'd gotten a few significant details about the relationships Letty'd had with her art classmates, I wasn't sure it was worth it. Denise seemed to be fully immersed in the world of intrigue, jealousy, heartbreak and murder now.

  "Hey, boss," Ryder said suddenly, "didn't we need to go over that paperwork and those numbers about the flower thing for the—" He stuttered, looking for a word.

  "The wedding," I supplied. "Why yes, if you have time right now we could work on that."

  Denise pouted for a second. "I guess I should head home anyhow. I'll call you later, Ryder."

  Ryder and I made our pretend exit to the flower shop. I pulled out my keys and opened the door, and we stepped inside to make it look good.

  Denise climbed into her car and drove off. Ryder released an audible sigh.

  "You are going to have to cut the cord clean and simple, Ryder. Otherwise, it's going to get harder and harder to saw through it."

  "Trust me, I know."

  I patted his shoulder. "Guess it's not easy being a nice guy, eh?"

  "It's always been my downfall. I noticed Lola drove off fast. I was going to offer to help her with her antiques."

  "I think she was tired from the long weekend."

  Ryder's bangs hung low over his face but he didn't brush them away like usual. He was thinking about Lola.

  "Don't give up on her yet, Ryder. Sometimes Lola makes things more complicated than they are, but she'll come around."

  He shrugged as if it didn't matter to him, but I knew it did. "I've got more to worry about anyhow, like prying the Denise barnacle off my hull."

  I laughed at the analogy. With the coast clear, we headed back outside.

  "So was it murder?" Ryder asked.

  "Sure as the million dollar nose on my face." I locked up the shop.

  "That's scary. Isn't it true that sometimes the killer tries to implicate motives for other people to lead the police off their trail?”

  "I suppose a really diabolical murderer might do that. Why do you ask?"

  We walked toward our cars. "No reason really, except Denise sure was going out of her way to solve the murder just now."

  "True. Guess you better let her down slow and easy."

  Ryder turned a worried look my way.

  I laughed. "I'm kidding. I think she was just throwing out ideas because she likes to stay the center of a conversation."

  "Hope you're right. See you tomorrow, boss. Then we can go over the paperwork about the thing with the flowers."

  "Indeed," I said with a laugh.

  Chapter 18

  My insatiable curiosity stopped me at the end of Harbor Lane where I quickly made a U-turn and headed back toward Pickford Way. I was interested in knowing if Detective Briggs had uncovered any more evidence since I'd left the scene. Even though Denise was doling out wild, unfounded conspiracy theories, I decided it couldn't hurt to let Briggs know what she'd said about Letty's unsteady relationship with Darren Morgan and Greta's jealousy over Letty's success.

  I pulled up alongside the town square. About half the vendors seemed to be sticking it out until the prearranged four o'clock closing time. Most probably figured that since they had taken the time and energy to carry the stuff to the flea market, they might as well see it until the end. After all, the more things sold, the less that had to be loaded up and hauled away.

  It seemed that Detective Briggs was done for the afternoon. He was at the trunk of his car packing away gloves and bags used for collecting evidence.<
br />
  "Miss Pinkerton," he said sounding a touch weary but nonetheless genuinely pleased to see me.

  "You must be tired." I leaned against the side of his car.

  "Hungry more than tired. I've got a sandwich at the office. And I need to get back there because Hilda wants to head home. She was watching the puppy for me, making sure he didn't destroy the police station while I was gone."

  "How did the evidence search go?"

  "Fantastic." He reached into the trunk of the car and pulled out an evidence bag. The bag contained a knife, a knife with a mother-of-pearl inlay on the handle. "The blade has been washed by the rain, but we're hoping to find some traces of blood and prints on it."

  I jumped to attention. "I know this knife. At least I think I do." I stretched my neck to get a view of the vendors in the town square. Roger, the chef with the fancy knife set, was still selling his kitchen wares.

  Briggs followed my line of sight. "It is a unique knife. Did you see it at the flea market?"

  "An entire set of them, actually. That man over there with the handlebar moustache is a retired chef. He was selling a lovely set of knives, each with a mother-of-pearl handle just like this one."

  "Excellent. Let's go see if the knives are still there." Briggs slid the evidence bag into his inside pocket. I caught a rare glimpse of his shoulder holster and gun.

  We headed across the street. I favored him with a smug grin. "Guess it's a good thing I stopped by."

  He glanced sideways at me. "I guess so. To be honest, I hadn't even thought about looking for similar knives at the flea market. I'm going to blame it on lack of sustenance. I just hope the puppy hasn't helped himself to my chicken sandwich."

  "I hope, especially since it's chicken, that it's in the staff refrigerator."

  "It is but I wouldn't put it past that dog to figure out how to open the fridge. He's very smart."

  "Bragged the proud dad," I teased.

  "I'm not Dad and I'm not bragging. I'm fretting about my lunch."

  The gelled curlicues on the ends of Roger's moustache were wilting into icicles from a long day under the sun. He'd pulled on a cap, but it seemed he'd thought about sun protection a few hours too late. His round cheeks were bright red as he packed some copper measuring spoons into a box.

  "I'm just packing up," he said to us without looking up. "Let me know if you have any questions."

  "I was wondering about the pearl handled knife set I saw here yesterday," I said.

  He looked up from his task and glanced at Detective Briggs before bringing a smile back to me. "Told you that you should have bought that set. I sold it this morning—half price."

  "Half price? That's a nice discount."

  Roger closed the packing box flaps. "I had no choice. Not sure when it happened, but I guess when I turned my back for a second, someone walked off with one of the carving knives. So the set was incomplete. But the customer was thrilled to have it for that price."

  "Roger, this is Detective Briggs. He has a few questions about those knives."

  Briggs pulled out his notebook and lifted his coat to show the badge on his belt.

  Roger stuck out his hand for a shake. "Of course, Detective Briggs. Thank you for keeping our towns safe. Although, I guess there was a terrible incident across the street at the lighthouse. Did the poor girl fall to her death? Kids are always hanging out near that trail. It's a dangerous place."

  "Yes, it is." Briggs reached into his coat pocket. "I wonder if you could tell us whether or not this knife came from the set."

  Roger's moustache teeter tottered over his pursed mouth as he squinted through the plastic. He reached into his cash box and pulled out a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. He put them on. Briggs held the knife closer.

  Roger's face smoothed with surprise. "Why yes, that's it. That's the missing knife." He seemed to be fitting the pieces together and the surprise turned to concern. "Good lord, did someone steal that knife to kill the poor girl?"

  "We'll have to let the coroner and lab techs decide that." Briggs saw that the knife was causing Roger some distress. He returned it to its place inside his coat. "Who purchased the knife set? Just for our records," he added quickly. "In case I need to have the rest of the knife set put into evidence."

  "Well, I don't know her name, but I think she was with the group of painters." Roger's brows bunched together. "That girl you found was a painter too, wasn't she? My word, I wonder if there was a connection?"

  It appeared that just like Denise, Roger was going to head off into his own mystery solving moment, but Briggs was more effective at stopping accusations and theories.

  "There is very likely no connection. Which of the painters was it? Could you describe her?"

  Roger tapped his chin, and his moustache twitched as he thought about it. He lifted a thick hand. Briggs readied his pen over his notepad.

  "She was about so high and forty something. Not the most pleasant woman in the world, a little brusque, if you ask me."

  Briggs stopped writing. "Brusque? Are there any other details, hair color perhaps?"

  "Actually, Detective Briggs," I spoke up, "I think I know the person he's talking about."

  "Right. Thank you, Mr. Brooking. You've been very helpful."

  We left the table and headed back across the street. "The woman's name is Greta Bailey." We stopped at his car, and Briggs wrote down the name.

  "I don't want to keep you from your late, late lunch, but Denise, the young woman who's been painting with the group, mentioned that Greta Bailey has been very jealous of Letty's success. Apparently Letty's career was really taking off, leaving Greta, who had high hopes for her own budding career, in the dust. Denise also shed a little light on the relationship between Darren and Letty. Mind you, Denise is a loquacious, somewhat gossipy woman, so I can't vouch for anything she said, but according to her, Darren and Letty had an on-again, off-again relationship. This is also according to Denise," I prequalified the information. "Apparently, Darren took the art class just to be closer to Letty. And this all brings me to a slight confession."

  Briggs looked up from his notes.

  "I sort of, kind of, might have let it slip that Letty was murdered. Like Roger, most of the people who watched from across the street had concluded that Letty slipped on those treacherous rocks."

  His lopsided grin appeared as he returned to his notepad. "What was that again? Sort of, kind of, might have? And can I quote you on that?"

  "Funny man. I guess hunger makes you ornery."

  He closed the notebook. "Yes, and I'm late. Hilda is going to give me an earful. Thanks for all your help today, Miss Pinkerton."

  "You're very welcome, Detective Briggs."

  Chapter 19

  It was an extraordinary spring day, and I had every intention of riding my bike to the shop until a text came through from Briggs.

  "Morning, Miss Pinkerton, is there any chance you could stop by the station before you open up the shop? I need you to look at something."

  "Absolutely."

  Naturally, I was thrilled to help out on the case, thrilled enough that I rolled my bicycle back into the garage and pulled my car keys out of my backpack. I shaded my eyes and searched the trees for Kingston. He had flown off when he saw me push the bicycle out of the garage. The bird always danced and chattered happily when he saw that I was riding my bike to work. It meant he could take a leisurely flight around town, staying somewhat parallel with me while I rode down to Harbor Lane. I hoped he wouldn't be too confused when he didn't see me on my bicycle.

  I climbed into the car and kept a watchful eye out for my crow as I drove to town. When a group of sparrows twittered up from a tree like kernels of popcorn in hot oil, I knew where my bird had landed.

  I reached the police station and climbed out of the car. Briggs was just crossing back from the town square with the puppy. The dog rolled into a lope when he saw me waiting at the station. Briggs' shoes smacked the sidewalk as he took long, fast steps to keep his s
houlder from being yanked from the socket.

  I rubbed the dog's head between my hands. "Hey, good boy, I see you're taking the nice detective for a walk."

  "Isn't that the truth." Briggs muttered as he opened the door for me. "I need wheels on my shoes."

  Hilda peered up over the counter. She had made her usual sweet but sad attempt at adding a bit of color to the drab police station by taping a paper garland of tulips along the top edge of the counter. Several of the flowers had been ripped and repaired. Something told me the puppy might have been the culprit. The dog hopped up on his back legs and slapped the counter with his meaty front paws.

  "Oh," Hilda squeaked, "I see my big friend is back."

  "Yes, sorry, Hilda," Briggs apologized. "I don't think I can trust him alone at home. Any calls on the flyer?"

  Hilda grinned. "Yes, one woman called." Her enthusiasm faded. "But she said she couldn't take him if he was going to be bigger than a beagle. That's what she has now, and she said she didn't want to give the beagle an inferiority complex. Anyhow, that puppy passed beagle size a few inches ago, and it seems he has many inches to go, so that was the end of that."

  I followed Briggs and the dog through the counter gate. The puppy walked over and curled up on a nice, plush dog pillow in the corner behind Hilda's desk.

  "Wow, someone has a nice bed." I looked at Briggs, who was trying to avoid direct eye contact.

  "It was on sale at the store," he said rapidly.

  "I see. So, what was it you wanted me to look at?"

  "Follow me into the evidence room." We walked down the hallway to the back rooms. "I actually need your nose." He unlocked the door, and we entered the cold, stark evidence room.

  "Maybe Hilda should put up a few paper tulips in this room," I said. "It's so uninviting in here, it sends a chill down my spine."

  "Well, it isn't really meant to be a room for a tea party or Sunday brunch." He walked to the shelf and pulled down a box. "As I was packing the evidence bags away yesterday afternoon, I noticed that the bag holding the knife had gotten greasy with some sort of substance. If the rain washed away the blood, then it stands to reason that the substance left on the knife and in turn on the bag was a waterproof substance."