Freesias and Foul Play

by London Lovett

  "Requests?" Briggs asked.

  She shrugged. "Simple things like a special herbal tea that she liked to have with breakfast and a twice a week massage. She liked to be pampered. I didn't mind as long as it was in the budget and it didn't upset the others. There were things like a personal chef that I had to say no to, of course. She would get angry but then eventually she'd let it go. This afternoon she insisted I do something about the stage lighting because it made her look yellowish. It was a technical request that I told her would take a work order and a discussion with the lighting crew. She wanted it done for opening night, and I told her that wasn't possible. She got very angry."

  "So the words exchanged earlier might have been a good degree more than terse?" Briggs asked. Sometimes I marveled at how subtle yet pressing he could be.

  Susana nodded. "I suppose terse wasn't the right word. But I assure you, all was well after my apology and our chat. I left the tent and didn't speak to her again." That statement produced another long pause of sad reflection.

  "Did you see her leave the tent?" Briggs asked.

  She was genuinely puzzled by the question. Her eyes rolled up to the side. "Let me think. I walked toward my trailer so my back was toward the tent, but she didn't walk out with me. She was still sitting in the chair she'd taken for our discussion when I left the tent."

  "Did you have dinner with anyone or talk to anyone after your discussion with Amanda?" I knew Briggs' question would put her on the defensive, but sometimes there just wasn't any way to be subtle. He needed an alibi and usually that called for more directness.

  Susana's feet fidgeted on the vinyl floor causing her rubber soled shoes to make a loud noise. "I came to this trailer and heated myself a frozen dinner. The empty tray is in the trash if you need to see proof." Her tone was much sharper.

  "No, I don't need to see it." Briggs always kept his cool. (One of the gazillion things I loved about him.) "So you ate dinner alone? Who did you speak to next?"

  "I took a little rest on my couch and waited for dinner break to end. It had been such an exhausting day, I dozed off. The sound of urgent knocking woke me. That was when Wendall, the casting assistant, let me know that Amanda hadn't returned from dinner. He was lining the cast up to check that costumes and makeup hadn't been messed up during the break, but Amanda was nowhere to be found. No one had seen her."

  Briggs finished writing in his notepad and put it away. "Thank you for your time, Ms. Damon. We'll let you know if we need anything else."

  "How long will it take for the police to be finished? My crew and cast are going to be tired after all this."

  "It should be another hour or so. We're going to talk to a few more people too. Again, thanks for your time."

  We walked out of the trailer.

  "Ready to head home?" he asked.

  "I'm not feeling too bad. I'd like to stick around a little longer if that's all right."

  "I figured you'd say that." He curled his arm around my shoulders and gave me a little squeeze. It was all I needed to feel better.

  Chapter 14

  Briggs stopped at the tent where both the coroner and the evidence team were finishing up. Amanda's body had already been zipped into a body bag and lifted into the coroner's van. Nate's assistants were just picking up equipment. I waited at the entrance to the tent while he was debriefed. I pulled the long end of my knitted scarf so that it covered my shoulders like a shawl, and I tugged the warm wool up over my chin, nearly covering my mouth. Standing there in the cold mist, I thought it might be a good idea for me to head home to bed. Then I saw Gordon with his clumsy, heavy footed gait walking along the path to the tent. There were a few people with him. At least two of them carried the white bags Franki handed out for leftovers. Briggs had mentioned that several of the theater group members were going to head to the diner for coffee. Even after a tragedy, it would take willpower to sit in Franki's Diner and just have coffee. Seeing Gordon reminded me of the straw and the interesting nuggets I'd discovered about the Scarecrow throughout the day.

  Briggs reached me just as I finished my mental decision to stick out the night air a little longer. "I noticed you've practically cocooned yourself into that scarf. Are you sure you don't want to head home?"

  "I'll stay around for one more interview, one that might just be too interesting to miss." I looked toward the tall figure lumbering toward us. "That's Gordon, the actor who plays the Scarecrow."

  "Ah ha, the guy with all the straw," he said quietly. "Nate found a second piece of straw on the back of the victim's hair too. Near the nape of her neck."

  "I have to speak quickly because he's getting closer, but he came into my store this morning with Constance, his girlfriend. She plays some of the minor parts. But later in the day, Elsie mentioned that the Scarecrow and Dorothy, our victim, came into the bakery. They were in full costume, probably just before dress rehearsal. Elsie was tickled by it all because she said they were flirting and then she went into this whole speech about Dorothy having a tryst with one of her three companions," I shook my head. "Not important," I said just as Gordon passed us.

  "Uh, Gordon," Briggs said quickly.

  Gordon stopped and nodded goodnight to the others as they continued on to the trailers. His brows bunched up. There were still smears of makeup here and there on his face. His eyebrows were still kohl black, a stark difference from his light blond hair. Even under the streaks of leftover makeup and the dim lights around the tent, his face looked drawn, like someone who had suffered a serious blow. The pained expression caused me a twinge of guilt for thinking that he might very well be the killer. I also had to remind myself that he was an actor, but was it really that simple to portray anguish?

  Briggs showed him his badge. "Detective Briggs, Mr.—" he paused for Gordon to supply the name.

  "Houser, Gordon Houser. Did they find out who did this?" There was a nice touch of vengeful anger in his tone. Was he acting? This case was going to be harder than usual because reactions and emotions were all going to have to be taken with a spoonful of skepticism.

  "Not yet but we will," Briggs said confidently. He shot me a wink. It was a partner wink. (Not just a measly assistant wink.) Then he went right on to introduce me as his assistant.

  "This is Miss Pinkerton, my assistant. I wonder if we could step into the tent where it's a little warmer? I just want to ask you a few questions."

  He nodded weakly. "I suppose but I'm tired. It's been a big shock."

  "I understand. We won't keep you long." Briggs pushed open the flap and the three of us stepped inside. There was more lighting inside the tent, which allowed Gordon to get a better look at the assistant.

  His thickly drawn, Groucho Marx style brows looked comical when bunched. "Aren't you the florist? I bought some roses from you this morning."

  "Yes, that was me. I have a part time position assisting Detective Briggs." Of course, my explanation was weird and a little hard to believe. Sometimes, I could hardly believe it.

  "I see," he said in a tone that assured me he didn't. He turned to Briggs. "What did you need to ask me? Amanda was a great gal and a terrific actress. This group might not survive without her."

  "Yes, that's clear. I'm sorry for you loss," Briggs said as he pulled out his notepad. Everyone reacted differently to his very unpretentious notebook. Gordon was clearly taken aback that a detective would be writing down some of his statements.

  "Is this an interrogation?" Gordon asked.

  "I'm just gathering as many details of today's activities as I can. It will help me sort out people, places and times which, in turn, will help me find the killer."

  Gordon's face blanched under the ruddy makeup smeared on his cheeks. "So she was definitely murdered?"

  "Nothing is definite until we get the coroner's report, but it looks like foul play."

  Gordon scrubbed his fingers in his shaggy hair. "I don't understand who would do such a thing. What do you need from me? I want to help." His attitude had done an
about face.

  "When was the last time you saw Miss Seton?" Briggs asked.

  He scrubbed his hair again, only this time it was a ploy to earn him some time. "Well, let me see." A long pause followed. It was long enough to feel awkward. I glanced casually around, letting him search for his answer, but Briggs stayed unflinching with his gaze straight on the man and his pen at the ready.

  "I guess it was when the two of us went to town. We were dressed and ready. As main characters, we have priority in hair and makeup. We had an hour to kill." He dropped his face. "Bad choice of word." His chest spread out with a deep, steadying breath. "Amanda and I decided to get a treat at the bakery." His face turned my direction. "I'd noticed how wonderful the place smelled when I came to your flower shop in the morning, so I thought it would be a nice place to get a snack."

  I nodded. "It's hard to resist Elsie's baked goods. Did Constance join you two on your trip to the bakery?"

  My question pushed him into a short, red-faced stutter session. "Con-Constance uh—uh—no she was in makeup at that time," he said the latter with a relieved breath. Apparently, he was pleased with himself for coming up with a good excuse for sharing lemon tarts with someone other than his steady girlfriend. Elsie, who was a keen observer, was certain Gordon and Amanda were flirting heavily with one another. She was tickled about the prospect of Dorothy and the Scarecrow having a fling.

  Gordon decided he hadn't given enough explanation. "Like I said, Amanda and I were waiting for the extras to get ready for dress rehearsal. We just decided to take a short walk through town. Susie likes us to make brief appearances in costume in the towns we're playing in. It's good advertising. It was just a trip to the bakery. Nothing else." It was a short confession that was pointed at the wrong audience. He could have saved it for Constance.

  I sensed Briggs was getting tired of the interview when he got straight to the next point. "Your costume is designed to make you look as if you're made of straw, correct?"

  "Yes, that's right." Gordon didn't seem to have a clue where the questioning was headed, but I knew exactly what Briggs would ask next.

  "We found several pieces of straw in the victim's hair. One piece was lodged in the hair near the base of her neck. Any idea how it might have gotten there?"

  Gordon's face reddened. "Should I have a lawyer here?"

  His stern question tossed Briggs slightly off his game but he recovered quickly. "You're certainly entitled to have one with you. Not accusing you of anything. Just wondering how the straw got in her hair."

  He fidgeted with the belt on his pants and shuffled his big feet a bit. Then his face brightened as if a teeny, tiny light bulb had just flashed on in his brain. "The sun was getting lower on our walk back from the bakery. Amanda was just wearing a thin cotton dress. She got cold, so I pulled off my costume coat and put it around her shoulders." He motioned to one of the trailers. "The coat is hanging in the costume trailer if you want to see it. Straw is glued around the collar and cuffs to make it look like my stuffing is coming out," he added with a wry smile. He was quite pleased with himself for coming up with a perfectly reasonable explanation for Amanda having straw in her hair. "You can go look at it. That stuff is a mess. There's a pile of straw right below where my costume hangs." He rubbed the back of his neck. "It makes me itch too. I'm sure some of it got stuck in Amanda's hair while she was wearing my coat."

  It was an entirely plausible explanation, but he certainly wasn't willing to admit that there was more to the bakery trip than a quest for one of Elsie's tarts.

  Briggs finished his notes and looked up. "What happened after the trip to the bakery?"

  Gordon stopped to think a moment. "Amanda and I parted when we reached the town square. She was going to practice her lines and have some tea. I went to my trailer to rest until dress rehearsal. I didn't see her again until we were on stage rehearsing."

  "And after rehearsal?" Briggs was wasting no time gathering possible alibis.

  He groaned quietly. "It's been a long, trying night. I'm not sure."

  "It would be helpful if you could remember," Briggs prodded.

  "Fine, I went back to my trailer and had a few shots of whiskey. It helps me relax before being on stage."

  "And then?" Briggs asked.

  "I fell asleep. Guess it helps me relax a little too much. One of the crew came and woke me when it was close to show time. Never saw Amanda after rehearsal." His mouth turned down at the sides. "I never would have guessed that would be our last time on stage together."

  The salt laden fog that had settled over the coast had started to seep beneath the tent. I shivered once, imperceptibly, I thought, but Briggs caught it. He put his notepad away.

  "Thank you very much, Mr. Houser. I'll let you know if there's anything else we need. Go get some rest. I'm sure it's been an exhausting few hours."

  Gordon nodded. "Just find the person fast. None of us are going to get a good night's sleep with a killer on the loose." He walked out of the tent.

  We listened for his heavy footsteps to retreat, then Briggs took hold of my hand.

  "You need to get home now, and I won't take no for an answer."

  "You don't have to worry. I don't have any 'no' to give. Do you think you'll be here long tonight?"

  "No, in fact I'll drive you home. The theater group is exhausted and still in shock. Sometimes people have better recollections after a good night of sleep."

  A yawn escaped me before I could suppress it.

  "Let's get you home, Miss Pinkerton."

  "Sounds like a grand idea, Detective Briggs."

  Chapter 15

  Briggs walked me inside the house. He headed straight into the kitchen to put the kettle on for some tea. I shuffled to the bedroom and pulled on my favorite flannel pajamas and thickest pair of socks.

  A steaming cup of chamomile tea was waiting for me as I reached the kitchen. I cupped it between my hands to warm them. Briggs pressed his hand against my forehead.

  I peered up at him from the shade of his palm. "Does that really work? I'm not convinced. I would tell my mom I was too sick with fever to go to school, and she'd slap her hand against my forehead and seconds later tell me I was fine.

  Briggs lowered his hand and chuckled. "My mom did the exact same thing. I tried to convince her that her palm was colder than it should be and that's why she couldn't feel the fever. But you, my sweet angel, definitely feel warm."

  I smiled up at him. "Any girl would feel warm with Detective James Briggs calling her his sweet angel. I normally don't need this kind of affirmation, but I'm feeling crummy so say it again, please."

  He took gentle hold of both my arms and kissed my forehead. "My sweet angel. Now drink tea and go to bed."

  "I plan to." I pointed at him. "Don't go back out there and find the killer before I get a chance to sink my teeth into this one. There are all kinds of interesting characters involved. In every sense of the word."

  "Fine, I'll just push my job aside for now," he said wryly.

  "Don't tease. I'm feverish and wearing flannel and fluffy socks. Tomorrow, I'll be right as rain and ready to solve the case."

  "I hope so," he said as he reached the door. He glanced back over his shoulder with those rich brown eyes. "I don't know how much longer I can go without kissing those lips." With that he walked out, leaving me a touch breathless.

  I pulled my phone from my coat pocket. I hadn't checked it at all during the chaos of the night. There were two missed calls from Lola. I was tired and it was after ten, but I knew Lola stayed up late. It was unusual for her to call and not text. She must have heard about the disastrous opening night. I was sure the whole town knew already. I hadn't seen Mayor Price all evening. It would be just like him to hide at home to avoid the mess.

  Lola left no voicemail so I quickly deduced it wasn't anything too important. I was sure she just wanted to hear about the awful night, and I was too tired to give a proper account of the events. She would have to wait until tomorrow,
then I could relay the whole thing to Ryder, Lola and anyone else who was interested.

  Nevermore had curled up on my pillow. He had an incredibly soft mattress covered by my downy quilt to use as a cat nest, but it wasn't luxurious enough for my spoiled feline. He wanted the pillow. I nudged him off. He got up lazily, like a bear being woken from hibernation. Before vacating my pillow, he went into a series of yoga stretches that would impress even the most intense yoga instructor. He kneaded my cotton pillowcase a few times with his paws, making sure to leave some tiny claw holes in the fabric before finally strolling down to the foot of the bed.

  I flipped my pillow over and propped it up against the headboard so I could finish my tea. It was lukewarm now but it felt good on my throat and it helped clear my stuffy nose. I was savoring the last few drops when my phone startled me, causing the tea cup to clatter against my teeth. I rubbed them as if teeth had feeling and answered the phone.

  "Hey, Lola, guess you heard about the crazy night at the theater."

  "What crazy night?"

  "The murder? The actress who played Dorothy was found dead. And get this—the house fell on her, but that didn't kill her. A laptop cable was found wrapped around her neck." I'd inadvertently called it a laptop cable even though I wasn't sure.

  "Isn't the house supposed to fall on the witch?" she asked.

  I nodded to myself. "And that is why we are best friends."

  "Were best friends, you mean," she said.

  "What do you mean? We're not friends anymore?"

  "I suppose I won't delete your name from my contacts," she said with a snooty tone. "But best friends tell best friends when they know something big and life changing."

  "I guess Ryder finally told you about his research opportunity in the Amazon." I rested back against my pillow. My eyelids and head felt heavy.

  "What? No? He's going to the Amazon?" she asked frantically. "I was calling because Elsie isn't going to make cinnamon rolls on Monday."