Jasmine and Jealousy

by London Lovett

  "I know that Harvard Price abruptly ended the shipbuilding project that Bertram had been counting on. It had to have been devastating to Bertram."

  "Especially financially," Marty added.

  "Yes, that's why I wonder if at some point Bertram threatened Harvard, possibly physically, or maybe he threatened to sue him over the deal."

  Marty nodded. "It's possible but then they could have battled it out in court or, like gentlemen did back then, with a good, robust round of boxing." He chuckled. "Oh boy, I think all that chocolate is going to my head. I'm talking nonsense."

  "Maybe both of us have theorized enough for the night. It's getting late." As I leaned forward to pick up the tray, an odor struck my nose. I sniffed in the air. "Marty, did you leave on the stove? I smell gas." I decided not to wait for an answer and shot up from the couch.

  "My stove is electric," he called from behind.

  I reached the kitchen. The smell was lighter instead of stronger. "It's not coming from in here." I spun around and walked out of the kitchen.

  Marty was leaned down into his fireplace checking that it was turned off. He stood, his face red from bending over so far. "It's not the fireplace either." He sniffed the air. "I can barely smell it. Maybe it's coming from outside."

  I tapped my nose. "I'll find the source. It could be a gas leak somewhere." I rushed to the door and pulled it open. A more powerful smell of gas struck me.

  We stepped outside the house.

  "I can smell it," Marty said, "but I can't tell which direction it's coming from."

  I walked farther out on the pathway and took a deep breath. "It's coming from the town square. Let's hurry!"

  Chapter 12

  My adrenaline was in full throttle mode by the time I crossed Pickford Way to the town square. Marty had urged me to go ahead and promised he'd catch up. My nose led me right to the source of the leaking gas, the Taco Brothers truck.

  I knocked sharply on the back door. "Hello, is everything all right?" There was no answer.

  Marty's panting breath sounded behind me. "Is anyone inside?" he asked between gulps of air.

  "The light is still on. I know the younger brother had been prepping for tomorrow's menu." I knocked again. My heart was racing right along with my adrenaline. Something wasn't right. Gas seeped through the edges of the door. It was strong enough to nearly overwhelm me.

  "Did you try the door?" Marty asked.

  "I wanted to knock first but you're right. Don't know what I'm waiting for." I turned the knob. The noxious odor of gas sent me stumbling back. I covered my nose and mouth with my forearm and stepped inside the truck. Rico was lying face down on the floor of the truck. A knife and avocado lay next to his limp hand.

  Marty coughed and wheezed as he pushed inside. "Someone turned on all the gas burners." He had covered the bottom half of his face with his sweater, but he swayed on his feet.

  "Go on, Marty. Get some fresh air." I turned off the burners as I spoke.

  "We need to get him out of here," Marty said between coughs.

  "Can I help?" An older man I occasionally saw chatting with Marty at the lighthouse was standing in the doorway with a rolled up newspaper under his arm. His eyes swept down to Rico. The paper slipped out from his arm, and his eyes widened. "Oh my. I thought I smelled gas. Marty, come on out of there. We'll get him out of this truck."

  Marty was holding onto things to keep from falling over. He was in no shape to argue. "Thanks, Mike. Glad you happened by." Mike helped him down out of the truck and then pulled himself inside.

  "He's not too big," Mike said. "I think we can manage."

  "Let's turn him over, then I can take his feet and you can get his shoulders," I suggested. The gas was slowly dissipating out the open door, but my head was spinning and my eyes burned. Before we moved him, I spotted a tangled, wet mound of hair on the back of his head.

  Mike noticed it too. "Looks like he hit his head on the way down."

  "Yes," I said hesitantly. The injury didn't line up with Rico's position on the floor.

  With some effort, we managed to flip Rico onto his back. He was as limp as a dead man. His lips were slightly parted, and his eyelids were open a sliver. The sight of his lifeless expression caused Mike to grow pale. "Oh dear," he muttered.

  "Yes, oh dear," I repeated.

  We clumsily managed to pull Rico from the truck and onto a patch of grass. My sense was telling me that we were too late, but I was trained in CPR and wasn't about to let that skill go to waste. It had been awhile since my training. As I positioned my victim and lowered my mouth over his, Mike called 911.

  I spotted Marty's loafers amongst the host of unfamiliar shoes that now circled around me as I continued my attempt to save Rico's life. I wasn't getting any glimmer of life or breath from my victim. A deep, cold rock formed in the pit of my stomach as my frantic efforts went unrewarded.

  "Doesn't look too good, does it?" Marty's quiet, grim voice flowed over my shoulder. His words and familiar husky tone sent a short sob from my mouth. But it was no time to fall apart. Marty sensed that I was getting close to crumbling, but I wasn't going to stop until the medics reached us to take over.

  "I hear the sirens," Mike said from somewhere overhead. That produced another sob. I took a deep breath and leaned down over Rico again. Thoughts raced through my head about his brother, his wife, Angel, and even his friend Cody. They would soon hear devastating news.

  The sirens neared and Officer Chinmoor's familiar voice drifted through the other voices mingling over me.

  "Folks, let's clear the area," Chinmoor ordered.

  I'd been so thrilled that Briggs finally had a night off, but now I wished that he'd been on call. I needed to hear his voice at a time like this.

  I continued the futile attempts of pushing air into a dead man's lungs as feet shuffled away from the circle. A firm hand startled me for a second. I glanced up into the calm, collected face of a paramedic. He was young with a freshly shaven face and curly dark hair. "Good work. We'll take it from here."

  It was Marty's gnarled, age freckled hand that shot toward me to help me to my feet. The constant blowing along with the gas had left me quite dizzy. Marty and his friend, Mike, each took an elbow and walked me to an area that was free of people and far enough away from the gas smell to clear my head.

  I crossed my arms and shivered both from the terrible ending to an otherwise great evening and from the chilly wind kicking up from the beach below. Marty started to pull off his sweater. "Here, take this."

  "No, please, Marty. Really, I'm fine. I just need to collect some oxygen, then I'll feel all right."

  Mike patted my shoulder. He reminded me of my dad, with a slight paunch and age lines just starting to deepen around his eyes and mouth. "You did a fine job back there, but I think we both know that we were too late."

  I glanced the direction of the green truck. Just this afternoon it had been surrounded by anxious, excited new customers. Rico had been smiling and laughing and leaning out under the awning to take orders. "Yes, it's such a tragedy."

  Marty still gazed at me with concern. "Maybe we should call James to pick you up, Lacey. You look pale."

  I squeezed his hand. "No, he's busy tonight and I'm perfectly fine. Why don't you head home, Marty." I hugged him. "The evening started out so wonderful. But it's never dull in Port Danby." The last I said with confidence because my intuition told me something wasn't right about Rico's misfortune.

  Chapter 13

  Officer Chinmoor, who was normally nervous and somewhat bumbling in these more difficult situations, had taken charge nicely. (Maybe it was good for him to be completely in charge and not always just an assistant for Detective Briggs.) He asked Marty and I some of the pertinent questions about how we found the victim and the sequence of events that followed. He managed to clear the area as well. Having him in charge allowed me a little freedom to explore. There was a sullen darkness surrounding the medics who had taken every step to try and save R
ico, but while they were bound to continue resuscitation attempts, they all knew it was hopeless. Officer Chinmoor helped them lift Rico onto a gurney for transport to the hospital where he would soon be pronounced dead. They were treating it as a terrible accident, but something told me there was nothing accidental about his death. While Chinmoor was busy helping the emergency crew, I slipped back inside the taco truck for a little inspection.

  The inside of the truck was cramped and filled with the aroma of onions and spices. With the burners turned off and the door wide open, there were only traces of the deadly gas still lingering inside the small space. Two cutting boards were piled high with chopped onions, cilantro and avocado, all waiting for tomorrow's workday, a workday that would, no doubt, be cancelled. At least one person would be happy about that, only I was sure Franki didn't want her competition to fail this way.

  The knife and avocado were still on the floor. Rico was most likely holding both when he fell to the floor. The gas stove, the culprit or possibly even murder weapon, had been scrubbed clean, waiting for shreds of beef, chicken and potatoes to sizzle on top of its newly cleaned griddles. The knobs on the stove had to be pushed in and turned. There was no way they'd been accidentally switched on. Someone had to make a conscious decision to spin them. That same person then had to lean over and blow out the flames that would help burn off the gas as it streamed from the pilot. That easily ruled out the possibility that Rico somehow, clumsily turned on the burners and extinguished the flames without realizing he'd done it. And since it took some effort to fill the truck with a deadly gas, Rico needed to be out cold first. That would explain the wound on the back of his head. The killer (I was already thinking in those terms, it seemed) knocked Rico out, then finished his or her diabolical plan by filling the taco truck with enough gas to kill him while he lay unconscious on the floor.

  My nose tickled at an aroma that was prevalent and also familiar. Cumin. I was getting an extra big dose of the savory spice. It was one of those smells and flavors that was so pungent and unique, it was easy to discern from any other spice. I sniffed the air and quickly discovered the cumin smell was not coming from the vast array of spices and condiments lined up neatly on a shelf over the stove. It was coming from below. I followed my nose and stooped down. Right below the front edge of the stove was a spilled tin marked cumin. The reddish brown powder was spread in a shallow pile just under the edge of the stove. I couldn't be entirely sure but it looked as if the front end of a shoe had left an imprint in the spilled spice. I pulled out my phone and snapped a photo. The taco truck wasn't officially a crime scene and there wasn't officially a dead victim, but my intuition told me things would soon turn that direction.

  I peered out the side window to check on how things were progressing outside the truck. The ambulance was just pulling away. It was moving at a slow, non-urgent pace and while the red light was spinning, the driver didn't even bother with the siren. Officer Chinmoor stood about twenty yards away from the truck with a phone pressed against his ear. As much as I missed Briggs on a night like this, I hoped Chinmoor wasn't bothering him on his night off.

  I still had the truck to myself. The brothers had a nice supply of latex gloves handy for food safety reasons. I plucked two out of the box and yanked them on. They were a little big but they'd do the trick. A cork board had been attached to the back door. It was covered with permits, reviews, grocery lists and other reminders. Pinned to the corner was a pamphlet and weekly pass to a Mayfield camping area. I carefully removed the folded paper and opened it up. A receipt for three deluxe camping sites, complete with hook-ups for electricity and internet was stapled to the inside of the pamphlet. It seemed the Taco Brothers crew was staying in Mayfield. That notion struck me, leaving me a little breathless. Rico's brother, wife and friend were most likely relaxing and waiting for their next busy work day, but soon enough, they'd be hearing the terrible news about Rico. Or did one of them already know that the news was coming? And who would be relaying the tragedy to next of kin? Normally, the task fell to Briggs. It was the 'worst part of the job' he told me on more than one occasion.

  I turned back to the side window. Chinmoor was pacing with the phone still pressed to his ear. He looked more out of sorts than he had when he'd first arrived to take over the scene. Was he just realizing that he would be tasked with informing next of kin? The poor guy was really getting initiated into the club this evening.

  I decided I could help him by pointing out the brochure for the campsite. I spun around once more, making sure I didn't miss anything, when a blue light caught my eye. I ducked down and discovered a phone sitting beneath the order counter. It could have fallen from Rico's apron pocket when he was knocked out. I was still wearing gloves, but I took care to touch just the edges of the phone. Vince had just sent the text that lit up the screen and alerted me to the phone's presence. It read 'don't forget to clean the knives'. Sadness washed through me as I looked at the text. Vince had sent a text that he was sure his brother would read. Little did he know that, instead, the message receiver was a nosy florist who was stealthily investigating the possible murder of his little brother. Suddenly, it occurred to me that I might very well be tampering with a murder scene. I stooped back down to return the phone to its original place under the order counter.

  "May I ask what you're doing in here?" the woman's voice was sharp enough that I startled and bumped my head on the counter above me.

  "Ouch." I reached up to rub the back of my head, then twisted to look up over my shoulder.

  A woman in her late thirties, early forties, with an auburn bobbed haircut and dressed in a black leather coat, despite the summer heat, had braced her hands on her hips as she stared down at me with blue-gray eyes and an angry scowl. Her lips were pulled tight as she waited for my response. The shiny edge of a badge peered out around the crisp edge of the black leather lapel on her stylish yet somewhat harsh coat. I couldn't help but notice the bright red patent leather pumps that stuck out from beneath neatly hemmed and pressed jeans. It was close to ten at night, but she looked as if she had just stepped out of the house to start her day. I didn't need to see the name on her badge to know the woman glowering over me was Detective Fairchild.

  Some of my earlier embarrassment at being caught moving around evidence vanished. I plastered on my most gracious smile and stood up straight. My hand shot out. "You must be Detective Fairchild. I'm so pleased to meet you. I'm Lacey Pinkerton," I announced my name with great aplomb, certain that it would be familiar to her, but her expression remained solidly serious.

  "Are you related to the victim?" she asked.

  My cheeks warmed in embarrassment. Apparently, my name and my occasional assistance with an investigation had never come up in a conversation with Briggs. That thought was disappointing enough that I forgot to answer her.

  "If you're not related or part owner of this truck," Fairchild spoke tersely, "I must ask you to leave, or I'll have you arrested for trespassing."

  My chin dropped and I had no response. I skulked away like a chastised child. It wasn't exactly how I'd envisioned my first encounter with Briggs' new coworker. Chrissy Fairchild sounded like such a friendly, amiable name. Guess you really can't always judge a person by their name.

  Chapter 14

  After being rather abruptly shooed out of the taco truck, I milled about the area. There was no crime in that, as far as I knew. Officer Chinmoor was just putting away his phone as he came up the path toward the truck. He glanced around nervously. I could only assume he was looking for the new detective. I tilted my head toward the truck, but my effort was wasted.

  "Officer Chinmoor," Fairchild called brusquely from the truck doorway.

  The poor guy flinched at the sound of her voice. He immediately began smoothing out his uniform and smearing back his hair with his hands.

  "Just relax," I said quietly as he walked past. "You're a Port Danby local, and she's the new kid in town."

  Chinmoor took my words to heart. He
cleared his throat and paused to straighten his posture and shoulders. He took a few steps, then stopped and muttered from the side of his mouth. "By the way, the hospital called. Rico Sanders was DOA, but I think you knew that. Thanks for your help tonight."

  I winked. "Thanks for the information and keep up the good work, Officer Chinmoor."

  He cleared his throat and straightened his tie before heading into the truck.

  The ocean breeze was tossing a chill onto the coast, and it had begun to seep into my bones. It was a signal that the balmy nights of summer were slowly being replaced by crisp breezes. I was happy as could be about the prospect of autumn with its glorious colors and aromas, but on this particular evening, dressed in t-shirt and shorts, I wished that it would hold off. At least until I got clear of the beach area.

  The entire harrowing event had left me feeling exhausted and sad. It would have been wonderful to think that I'd saved a life tonight, but it wasn't in the cards for poor Rico. The town's new detective was another layer of disappointment. I'd envisioned an entirely different person, one that I could quickly warm up to and who would just as quickly warm up to me. That seemed somewhat impossible, but I wasn't going to give up.

  That new resolve sent me right back to the truck. After all, I'd been the one to discover Rico's body. I reached the door on the truck just as Detective Fairchild was stepping out on her pretty, yet impractical, pumps. She was incredibly agile and steady on the tall, thin heels, which wasn't surprising. She stopped and looked at me suspiciously.