I reveled in delight as I watched him read the note not once but twice. His forehead scrunched up. "Wow, sounds like ole Harvard was a dirty, rotten guy." His expression changed to one where it seemed he was about to tell me something I didn't want to hear. I was ready with my defenses.
"I know it's not cold, hard evidence or an eyewitness account but let's face it, Harvard Price committed this horrendous crime, whether personally or with a hired assassin. That's motive right there in your hands."
He placed the note gently on the table. "It's pretty damning, that's for sure. But like I've told you before, it's hard to convict someone for a crime that happened a hundred years ago."
"I just need to clear Bertram's name. He was a tragic victim in all this, but people think he was a monster. The real monster was Mayor Price's great-grandfather."
"It seems to be the case but remember—Mayor Price is not Harvard Price."
I sat back feeling winded from the conversation. I wasn't entirely sure how I'd expected him to react, but it certainly wasn't in this pessimistic tone. He sensed immediately that he had deflated my sails.
He sat forward and reached for my hand. I wasn't quite ready to give it. He sat back. "Right, you're mad. I wish I could say this is definitive and let's get the record cleared, but I'm not sure how you would do it without causing a lot of problems for yourself." Before I could speak up he continued. "But I will say this, Lacey, you're the best darn detective I've ever had the pleasure to know."
I couldn't stop a grin. "Detective? You called me a detective."
"And a darn good one." He touched the note. "Where and how did you find it?"
"It was right there in front of me all the time."
Briggs nodded. "It usually is."
"Bertram had written a clue on the bottom of his account ledger, the one inside the trunk. He assumed if he was murdered, a lawyer or accountant would be led to that note. Not entirely sure why he was so cryptic about it but then I didn't know the man personally. That could have been his style. The message he scrawled in the ledger said the raven knows all. For over two years, I've been looking at that stuffed bird in the museum. Actually, that's not altogether true. If I think about it, I've been avoiding looking at that stuffed bird. It was so creepy and with Kingston and all . . ."
"That makes sense. Plus stuffed dead animals are, in themselves, creepy."
"Then it's not just me. On my last visit, it dawned on me that Bertram might have been referring to his stuffed raven. There it was, the note wax sealed to the marble base of the raven." I stared down at the uneaten pizza on my plate. I wasn't nearly as hungry or as excited as I'd been when I first arrived. "But it seems this was all for nothing. I can't do anything with it. You're right. Mayor Price would probably take some kind of revenge like revoke my business license or something. Seems like the Prices have kept power in this town, and there is nothing that can pry it from them."
Briggs picked up the note and read it again. "I don't know about that. I'll bet there's a few local papers that would love to write a story about this note. You could ask to remain anonymous—or not. Either way, I'm behind you all the way, Lacey."
Chapter 28
Ryder and I had so much to talk about it was hard concentrating on work. After a busy morning of single bouquets, we organized the work island to create five table centerpieces for a party. Ryder walked out from the hallway with a vase brimming with pink carnations. I began cutting the lacy ferns and baby's breath to just the right length for the globe-shaped glass bowls.
"I still can't believe you found that note in the museum. You know how many people have walked through that place, looking at all the weird, old stuff on the shelves?" Ryder started to trim the bottoms of the carnations.
"It's true but I doubt too many people were anxious to touch that stuffed raven. And the marble base makes it pretty heavy." I filled each globe with a block of green foam. "If only I knew what to do with the information. I don't have an ironclad case against Harvard Price. I just feel like Bertram Hawksworth needs some vindication. It's a monstrous thing to kill your entire family. But he wasn't a monster at all. He was a tragic victim."
Ryder chuckled. "You sound almost sentimental when you talk about Hawksworth, like you knew him personally."
I picked up a leafy stem. "Do I?" I pushed the fern into the foam. "I guess I do. I suppose it's because I've spent so much time going through newspaper articles about him and then there's his trunk, filled with all his personal items, including the love letters from Jane. I even know their intimate nicknames for each other, Teddy and Button."
Ryder began placing the carnations into the foam blocks. "So you sort of do know him personally. It does seem unfair that the Hawksworth name has had to carry the notorious reputation of a family killer while the Price name goes on as powerful and important."
"James suggested some local papers might be interested in Bertram's note."
Ryder tapped the island hard, causing a breeze that pushed two ferns to the floor. He picked up the feathery green stems and placed them back on my pile. "I think I know someone who can help you with that. My mom is good friends with the editor of the Pickford Tribune. Her name is Ann Wescott. I can text my mom and get her number, if you like."
Some of the giddiness from yesterday afternoon returned. Had I found my way out of the bind? If the paper published the letter, then everyone could come to the same logical conclusion that I came to. Without directly implicating or accusing Harvard Price, the locals could read for themselves and make their own judgment. I was sure most people would come to the realization that Bertram Hawksworth was the victim and not the perpetrator. In a sense, that was all I wanted. I just felt the need to clear his name. Maybe it was more true than I realized. Spending so much time learning about Bertram Hawksworth had made me feel a sense of duty toward setting the story straight.
"You know something, Ryder? I'll take you up on that." I pressed a fern into the foam block. A new notion hit me and wiped away some of the excitement. "The current Mayor Price probably has friends in high places. A savvy politician always works on a good relationship with the local paper. Maybe Ms. Wescott won't be interested or, for that matter, brave enough to print something that would ruin the reputation of the Price family."
Ryder rubbed his chin. "Good point. I'm not entirely sure how Ann feels about the mayor. I know she likes to keep her paper in middle ground when it comes to politics. I'll talk to my mom and see if she can give me some insight into whether or not her friend would be receptive to something like this."
"Thanks, that would be great. I do think it would sell a lot of papers, and neutral politics or not, every editor likes a story that grows the readership."
"That sounds more like Ann. She works hard to keep the circulation of the Pickford Tribune high. I'll talk to my mom later, and see what she thinks. I won't tell her what it's about. That surprise is fully yours to give. What did James think of you solving the century old mystery?"
I plucked up some greenery. "Well, I don't like to brag—or maybe I do. He told me I was a darn good detective. It felt pretty good."
"I'll bet." Ryder walked over to the order for the centerpieces to read the details. "Uh oh, detective boss, we've overlooked something important."
"Oh? What's that? No baby's breath? I haven't added it in yet."
"No, it's not the baby's breath." Ryder looked at all of the carnations he had trimmed and tucked into the foam blocks. "They asked for chrysanthemums, not carnations."
We both stared at the colossal mistake we'd made. Pretty pink carnations that were now trimmed too short for anything but boutonnieres and corsages, and we were a good few months past prom season.
I picked up a trimmed carnation and spun it around. "Can I interest you in a steep price cut on your wedding flowers?"
He laughed. "Right, as if Lola would pick pink carnations for her wedding. I'm expecting her to carry black dahlias and thistles tucked in palm fronds. Anything to be out of the
ordinary."
We began cleaning up the mess. "But that's why you love her," I reminded him. "Still, I draw the line at working with thistles. Way too pokey. Have you two decided on a place to get married, or is that still up for debate?"
A laugh burst from his mouth. "Debate? Is that what you call it when one person makes all the decisions and the other just goes along with it?"
"You're too nice. Don't let her make all the decisions. She'll thank you for it later. I'm sure of it. I think. Maybe. You know what? Just forget I said anything."
"Never heard a thing. I'll go get the chrysanthemums, and we'll just pretend this didn't happen." He waved his arm over the carnations. "After all, we're both a little distracted with weddings and solving century old murders. I think we can allow ourselves this one mistake."
"I fully agree."
Chapter 29
Ryder and I managed to get through the rest of the morning without any more snafus. He took Lola to an early lunch. There was a lull in customer traffic, so I used the quiet time to enter some purchase orders into the computer. It was hard to concentrate, but just as I started to get into a flow, a text came through from Les.
"Would you like to come try my Honey Bee Coffee? It's got honey and a touch of lavender."
I typed back. "You don't need to ask me twice." I saved what I'd entered and hopped up for my honey coffee sample. It was exactly what I needed after the long morning.
I headed out and turned the corner but stopped short. I reversed stealthily before Vince could see me. I peered secretly at him. Vince was sitting at one of the tall tables enjoying an iced coffee. Nothing about his face showed mourning or distress over losing a brother. He was a big guy, but thanks to Les's counter height tables, his big feet were dangling. And his big feet were tucked in shoes. I stifled a laugh as I envisioned myself walking up to him and asking if I could smell his shoes. Then a brilliant but slightly wacky plan jumped into my head. It would probably be my only opportunity to get a whiff of Vince's shoes. All of it was a stretch, but it couldn't hurt to try.
I raced back into the shop and looked frantically around for my snooping decoy. "Keys." I hurried into the office and grabbed my keys, then rushed back to the door. I slowed my pace to look as if I was just casually walking to the coffee shop. My feet took mild steps, but I swung my arms back and forth in an abrupt manner. (I had a friend in high school who walked with arms swinging, like a drill sergeant. She would constantly smack her hands into things.)
With my exaggerated and ungainly arm movements, I strolled toward the door, making sure to take the route that took me right past Vince's table. Aim was everything and it wasn't easy considering I had to make the whole thing look like a naturally clumsy mistake. I didn't make eye contact with Vince and kept my focus on the door to the coffee shop. Not looking at my target was another obstacle for getting my plan right.
I was close to his table. I swung my arm forward and released the keys. Luck! They landed directly under his table.
"Oops, clumsy me," I said cheerily. I put my hand up to stop him from jumping off the stool to retrieve the keys. If he did, it would ruin my entire plan. "No please, I'll get them. Please just enjoy your coffee." I dropped to my knees and leaned under the table to pick up the keys. I had to do a small amount of contortion to get my nose near his shoes. I drew in a deep whiff of air. Cumin. It was there, faint and mixed with grass and several other odors that would take me longer to recognize but good ole cumin. It was never hard to smell cumin, no matter what other odors surrounded it.
I backed out from under the table and held the keys up victoriously. I had to consciously control a little trembling that had begun in my hands. "Got 'em. My mom always told me not to swing my arms so wildly when I walk. Guess she was right."
His demeanor was not friendly and not angry. He was just sort of there, drinking coffee, without any kind of emotion on his face or in his posture, like a stone statue. A case of nerves had started in my stomach. I fortified myself with a few good breaths, not deep enough to be visible but strong enough to clear my head. I decided to risk an impromptu conversation.
"Aren't you one of the Taco Brothers? I walked down to the town square yesterday to buy some of the tacos that everyone is raving about but the truck was closed." I acted the innocent and crinkled my nose. "It was weird because there was caution tape around it like some kind of crime had been committed." I added in a light giggle. "But I suppose that's silly."
His expression remained cast in stone. "We're opening later but then we're leaving, so if you want some tacos, this afternoon is your last chance."
Everything he relayed was a surprise. They were reopening? Had Detective Fairchild given them permission to leave? Was she still focused on the wrong suspect instead of the one sitting in front of me with the incriminating spice on his shoes?
I forced a polite grin. "Oh? So soon? I could have sworn I heard you guys would be here for at least two weeks."
He lifted his cup and took a drink, watching me over the brim with his icy, dark gaze as he took big swallows. The cup, wrapped in his fist, came down hard enough on the table to rattle it . . . and me. He was a menacing looking man, especially knowing what I now knew about him.
"Nope, we'll be leaving early. Something has come up so we can't stay. If you're looking to try some of our tacos, we'll be open from one to five." He ended his statement curtly, then stood from the table to let me know the conversation was over. For a businessman, he wasn't terribly friendly or approachable, but I supposed, for a murderer, he was more than amiable.
I nodded politely. "Right, I'll see you later then. Have a nice rest of the day."
Vince walked away without another word.
Les pushed open his door. "Thought you were going to come in and try my new coffee."
"I am. Can't wait to try it." I hurried to the door and stepped inside. The inside of his shop was always so rich with aromas, it made my head spin. But in a good way.
Les's pink cheeks matched the hibiscus flowers on his signature Hawaiian shirt. He was beaming with pride as he handed me his new invention Honey Bee Coffee. I lowered my nose to the cup and breathed deeply. I had to block out the countless other aromas swirling around me to uncover the warm honey fragrance and the sweetly floral lavender.
"Hmm, Les, you're a genius," I cooed.
He chuckled, causing the crease lines near his eyes to deepen. "You haven't even tasted it yet."
"Don't have to. This nose knows far in advance if something is going to be delicious." I took a sip. "Yep, the nose always knows. Really, Les. It's wonderful, an earthy mix of medium roast coffee. The honey takes off any of the bitter edges and makes it just float down your throat. And the lavender—I wasn't sure at first—but it adds a sort of whimsical touch to an otherwise serious cup of coffee."
"Wait." Les rushed to his register and pulled out a pad of paper and pen. "Now say that again, but slowly, so I can write it down. I'm going to use that on my sign when I make one for the Honey Bee Coffee."
I smiled and took another sip. "What do you know? Maybe I should have gone into advertising instead of flowers."
"Hey, by the way, who was that guy you were talking to? Not a very friendly chap, if you ask me. He came in here with an angry expression and wore it until he walked out with his coffee, extra espresso, no cream or sugar."
"That's exactly what I expected him to be drinking. He owns the taco truck parked in town square. But don't worry. I don't think you'll see him much more. I have a feeling he'll be going away soon."
Chapter 30
After the coffee tasting, I'd sent a simple text to Briggs. "It was Rico's brother, Vince. The evidence is on his shoes." I'd hoped to hear right back from him, but after waiting patiently for all of ten minutes, I concluded he was in a meeting or at the courthouse. I was far too antsy to get any paperwork finished, so I busied myself organizing the work island. It was a waste of time, of course, because once things got busy and flowers and ribbons and cellop
hane were flying, then all my hard work would be erased. The same ugly cycle seemed to take place in my home too. I could clean and organize the place for hours, but three days later it would look exactly the way it looked before all my hard work.
Ryder had taken an extended lunch with his betrothed. He returned looking slightly disheveled. (There was a satisfied grin to go along with the rumpled look, so I decided not to mention it.)
"Sorry, I was so long," he said. "Has it been busy?"
"No problem. It's been quiet." I couldn't resist teasing him. I walked up closer with a mother's discerning squint and rubbed my thumb on his neck. "Seems you've got a little lipstick right here."
"Do I?" he asked and reached for his neck. "That's embarrassing."
I laughed. "I'm just teasing you. I think I'll head out for lunch if you don't mind captaining the ship for awhile."
"Nope, not at all. Take your time."
I walked to the office to grab my purse. "I won't be too long, but I'm sure my lunch won't be nearly as fun as yours." I winked at him. His face turned a shade darker as I headed out the door.
Les's coffee and the trail mix I had stashed in my desk would have to hold me over until dinner. I had more important things to do than eat lunch on my lunch break. After the discovery of cumin on Vince's shoes, I was determined to continue my investigation parallel to the official one led by Detective Fairchild. Technically, it wasn't parallel because Fairchild had gone off on some wild tangent about an upset diner owner. I, on the other hand, was on the right track. I had the killer in my sights, but I still needed more evidence. While Samantha, my trusty nose, had helped solve multiple cases, the evidence I sniffed out was rarely used to convict someone. It just wasn't solid enough, and the scent of cumin on someone's shoe, a faint scent that only I could detect, would never be enough to arrest, let alone convict someone.
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