Jasmine and Jealousy

by London Lovett

  I climbed in my car and headed toward Mayfield Campground. It was half past one, which meant the Taco Brothers crew, minus one, would be at the town square cooking for an anxious crowd of people.

  I was at a severe disadvantage not having the usual access to personal trailers and witness interviews. However, due to some lucky coincidences, I'd managed to conduct a few interviews on my own. While Vince's motive was still kicking around my head, trying to form a concise thought, I knew for certain that Rico had married Vince's ex-girlfriend. What he didn't realize was that Rico got the raw deal on that little arrangement. Angel seemed to have moved on entirely from the Sanders brothers. From the tidbits I'd learned from Cody, while he ate Elsie's carrot cake, there was no great love between the brothers. Vince certainly wasn't showing any real signs of grief about his loss while he sipped coffee. But one could hardly expect it from a murderer.

  I drove into the campground and headed straight toward the trailers. Just as I'd anticipated, their campsite looked deserted. No sign of Cody or Angel or, more importantly, Vince. As was usual for these cases, I had no idea what exactly I was looking for. I hoped to run across something, anything that might further implicate Vince Sanders in the murder of his brother. I just wasn't sure what that might be.

  During my last visit to the campground, Cody had pointed out which trailer belonged to Vince. I glanced around to make sure the coast was clear. Aside from a family parked two sites down, roasting hot dogs over an open campfire, there was no one around. I was sure the family was too involved in their camping fun to notice or care about a woman walking around an adjacent campsite.

  I strolled confidently, as if I had every right to be there, up to the door of the trailer and put my hand on the door latch. Not surprisingly, it was locked. I scooted around the exterior. There were two small windows, one on each side of the trailer and one long oval window on the back.

  I circled around to the back window and peered inside. A screen and a good amount of dust made it nearly impossible to see inside, but I was able to make out a pile of crumpled sheets on a narrow bed and the front edge of a kitchen counter.

  I moved around the trailer to the side window, hopped on tiptoes and peered inside. It gave me a different angled view of the same scene, an unmade bed and kitchen counter. A pile of dirty dishes sat in a shoebox sized sink.

  "What are you doing here?" A harsh voice said from behind.

  I'd gotten so caught up in my snooping, I hadn't even heard the car or the woman arrive. I spun around and came face to face with Detective Fairchild. Her neatly drawn brows were arched in an angry scowl.

  "I could have you arrested for trespassing," she snapped.

  I waved my arm around. "This property is public. I'm part of the public, so I'm not trespassing," I explained coolly, even if I was feeling anything but cool.

  She squinted, pretending she was just recognizing me but I knew better. "You're Miss Pinkerton, the woman who was at the scene when Rico Sanders died."

  "Actually, I wasn't just at the scene. I attempted to save his life."

  "Right," she said it offhandedly to assure me she didn't consider what I did important. "I've heard snippets of information about how you use your nose and occasionally offer assistance to Detective Briggs, but this is my case. My uncle also tells me you get far too involved in things that are not your business, so I'm going to give you a chance to head back to your car and leave freely."

  I was certain I couldn't dislike anyone more than Mayor Price, but it seemed his niece was topping the dislikable heap. It figured he would fill her head with negative tales about me. Boy, didn't I have a negative tale for the whole Price clan. That would certainly put Miss Big Shot back into her glossy, pointy toed pumps.

  As much as I wanted to just blurt it all out, I held my tongue and smiled the most disingenuous smile I could produce. "Since I've committed no crime, I don't see how I could not leave here freely, but since I have you here, I might as well tell you that my nose has once again solved a case. The night I discovered Rico on the floor of the taco truck, I noticed someone had spilled a container of cumin on the floor. The spilled cumin contained the front edge of a foot print. Vince Sanders still has cumin on his shoe."

  Fairchild nearly laughed in my face. (Or at least it seemed that was what she wanted to do.) "Sorry but your nose is taking you in the wrong direction. I'm here with a search warrant for Ange—" She stopped, apparently deciding not to tell me any more.

  "Angel didn't do it," I said succinctly. Somehow knowing what I did about the Price family's history gave me extra confidence.

  "I don't have time for this nonsense. Unless you can prove that you have permission to be on this campsite, please leave the premises."

  "I know there's photo evidence that Angel Sanders was quite possibly having an affair, but—"

  Her sharp scowl shot toward me. "How do you know about the photo?"

  It seemed I'd taken my confidence a step too far. I couldn't let her know I took the photo. I didn't want to get Briggs into hot water with the new detective. Especially since she had friends in high places.

  "I don't know anything about it really. It's just a rumor I heard." I laughed airily. "This town likes to gossip."

  Her expression softened some. "Look, I know that you're dating Detective Briggs, and I've heard you help on some cases but those are his cases—not mine. I don't agree with any of it, since it is not following protocol, but I suppose they do things differently in these small towns." She pushed her pert nose up just enough to punctuate her words with a touch of snootiness.

  I stood speechless for a second, then I took a deep breath. "I will let you get back to protocol then. Hope it leads you in the right direction." I waved notably at Vince's trailer, but she wasn't interested in any of my advice.

  "Good day," she said and turned on her sharp, little heels toward Rico and Angel's motor home.

  I tried not to look dejected as I shuffled back to the car but it was hard. Detective Fairchild's arrival to town was really going to put a crimp in my investigations. At least you solved one big murder mystery, I reminded myself. And the conclusion was one that would take both Mayor Price and Detective Fairchild down a few notches.

  As if my vengeful thoughts had somehow found their way into Ryder's mind, he sent a text as I reached the car.

  "My mom says her friend, Ann Wescott, would be interested in what you have. I told her you had something very interesting about the Hawksworth murders but didn't mention Price. I'm sending a link to her contact information."

  "Thanks, looking forward to talking to her." I sat in the car and watched as Detective Fairchild entered the motor home. She glanced back toward my car, managed another unfriendly scowl and then disappeared inside. The photo was leading her in the wrong direction, but at least it got Fairchild to shift her focus away from Franki.

  Chapter 31

  Ryder and I helped a half dozen customers before finally getting an afternoon breather. I was anxious to talk to the editor of the Pickford Tribune, so Ryder looked after the shop while I slipped into the office to put in a call. Ryder's mom had taken the generous step of letting her friend, Ann Wescott, know I'd be calling.

  I placed Bertram's note on my desk and snapped a photo. I was sure she'd want to see it before giving consent to print it in the paper.

  I dialed the number and the receptionist answered. "Pickford Tribune. This is Roger. How may I direct your call?" I could hear voices and a busy newsroom behind him.

  "Yes, may I speak to Ann Wescott? This is Lacey Pinkerton."

  "Let me see if Ms. Wescott is available." A pause and some tinny music followed. A minute or so later a voice came on the phone.

  "Hello, Miss Pinkerton, this is Ann Wescott. I've been waiting for your call. My dear friend, Nancy Kirkland, told me you would be calling about some interesting information on the Hawksworth murders."

  Her tone was inviting and cheery, so I leapt right into my pitch. "Yes, I have something quite
profound, an artifact that I think clears Bertram Hawksworth's name."

  "Really? An artifact? Our readers do love to hear about that terrible tragedy. As I'm sure you know, and it's almost shameful to admit, but that century old murder helped put Port Danby on the map. People do love to read about murder and mayhem, particularly when it's far in the past and not a current tragedy. This artifact, as you call it, vindicates Bertram Hawksworth? That would be astounding. For all these years Bertram Hawksworth has symbolized a man who had it all and who went crazy enough with rage to kill his entire family. You just don't get more horrendous than that. But you think he was just a poor victim in all this?"

  "Yes, absolutely and the note I have, from Bertram himself, reveals who was responsible for the demise of his whole family." Another call beeped through just as I was getting to the good part. I'd forgotten all about the text I'd sent Briggs letting him know that Vince was the killer. He had probably only just found time to call me. As badly as I wanted to talk to him, it would have to wait. I was in the middle of an important conversation.

  "You know who killed the Hawksworth family?" Ann asked, nearly breathless with anticipation. "Was it the gardener? It's almost always one of the disgruntled household staff members.”

  "No, it wasn't a member of the household staff." I was drawing out the suspense before I burst out with the explosive news. Then I got a brilliant idea. "Tell you what, why don't I let Bertram Hawksworth tell you in his own words. I've taken a photo of the letter he wrote just days before the murder. Ryder gave me all your contact information. I'll send you a picture."

  "How exciting," Ann said. "I love intrigue. Can't wait to see what you have. Go ahead and send it. I'll look it over and call you back. And thanks for coming to my paper first. It's always wonderful to get a good scoop."

  "You can thank Ryder for that."

  "I will. He's such a great kid. I'm so excited that he's getting married. She's a lucky girl."

  "Yes, yes she is. I'll send the picture right over."

  We hung up and I excitedly double checked the photo. If expanded it was legible enough to read Bertram's fancy handwriting. I attached it to a text that said 'thank you for your time and I look forward to hearing from you'. I tapped send and rested back, but only for a second.

  "James," I reminded myself. I tapped on his voicemail. "Hey, got your message. Call me. Oh, and I can't believe I have to say this but please stay clear of murderers. Love you."

  I had a brief laugh over his message. I didn't dare take the time to call him back. I was certain once Ann Wescott discovered the shocking truth about the Hawksworth murders she'd call right back, anxious for the opportunity to publish the letter. I didn't want to be stuck on another call when she rang through.

  Ryder popped his head into the office. "I'm going to go into the cooler and pull out the flowers that are past their prime." His gaze flitted to the phone on my desk. "Did you talk to her?"

  "I did. I just sent her Bertram's letter. I'm waiting for her to call back." The phone rang right then. I grinned up at him and rubbed my hands together. "That's her. I can't wait to hear what she has to say."

  Ryder winked and walked out to let me take the call in private.

  "Hello, this is Lacey."

  A significant stretch of silence followed. I double checked that we were still connected. "Hello? Miss Wescott?"

  "Yes, Miss Pinkerton, I'm here. Excuse the hesitation but I'm still trying to process the information. It is astonishing, to say the least. I'd heard rumors, now and then, that Harvard Price was a ruthless man who would do anything to stay in power. If what Mr. Hawksworth writes on this note is true, that certainly confirms those rumors. May I ask where you got the note and how you know it's authentic?"

  "It's a rather long story. I'd be happy to lay out the entire sequence of events that brought me to the letter in an email, but for brevity's sake, I'll just give you the key points. I've been researching the murder ever since I saw the old photos taken of the horrific murder scene. They showed Bertram Hawksworth, dead on the floor of his home with the gun in his right hand. I spent quite a bit of time at the library looking through the archives of old newspapers. They have quite a pristine collection of all the local papers dating back to late nineteenth century. One of the newspapers had a photo of Bertram Hawksworth signing documents for his future shipyard—"

  "The one that Harvard Price blocked from being built," Ann said.

  "Yes, I see you know your Danby history too. Anyhow, he was signing the papers with his left hand, which meant he was—"

  "Left-handed," she added. "You are quite the sleuth, Miss Pinkerton."

  "Please, call me Lacey. I do love a good investigation. There is an entire scandal about Bertram Hawksworth having a baby with Jane Price, Harvard's daughter from a first marriage. I have other details on that and on the double books that Price was keeping. I was also able to get into the trunk inside the gardener's shed. It was filled with Bertram's personal belongings, including some love letters from Jane Price." She sat quietly on the other end absorbing the copious amount of information. I didn't want to take up too much of her time when I could easily write it all in an email. "Bertram's account ledger was in the trunk. That was where I found a cryptic message saying that the raven knows all. Bertram initialed it. The ledger will also prove that the letter I just sent you was handwritten by Bertram, himself."

  "The raven knows all? What a strange message," Ann noted.

  "Yes, and it had me stumped until I remembered the stuffed raven sitting on the shelf of the museum."

  "Oh yes, I've seen it. Gives me the creeps."

  I laughed. "Yes, he tends to do that to a lot of people. The note was stuck to the marble base of the raven with sealing wax. So when would you like to post the letter in the paper?"

  "Oh, I can't post it," she said dryly and without explanation.

  "I don't understand—I thought you said the readers were always interested in the Hawksworth case."

  "They are and this is the most interesting piece of it by far but—" She paused but she needn't have. I knew what was coming next. "You see, Mayor Price, the current mayor, has a great deal of power and influence. He could call in favors and ask business owners not to advertise in our paper. Ads are our major source of income. I'm afraid it would be too risky."

  I felt my excitement flowing out of me like a balloon with a leak. I melted into my chair. "What about first amendment rights?" The disappointment made my voice squeaky and weak.

  "Trust me, I wish politicians didn't always wield power like this, but Mayor Price can be quite vindictive in his own right. Not like his great-grandfather, mind you," she blurted quickly in case it came across as her saying the current mayor was capable of murder.

  With the first amendment argument a fail, I decided to try a different approach. "I hate to take this to another paper, but I'm determined to get this note published. I feel this town owes it to the Hawksworth family. They owe it to Bertram Hawksworth."

  Another significant pause. I closed my eyes and made a silent wish that she was changing her mind during the silence.

  "I'm torn. I hate to see another paper get this ahead of the Tribune, but I must warn you, it'll be a hard sell anywhere you go. Price's influence stretches beyond the Port Danby borders. He is good friends with Mayor Chavez of Mayfield. Argh," she said in frustration. "I'm going to have to go with my gut on this one and say no. I appreciate you thinking of the Pickford Tribune, and I wish you luck on your endeavor."

  "Thank you for taking my call." Disappointment oozed out of every word, but I couldn't hide it. I was utterly despondent. I'd achieved something I'd worked toward for over two years, and it was all for naught.

  I sat quietly at my desk after the call, absorbing the whole conversation. Ryder popped his head into the office. "How did it go?" His hopeful expression melted. "Oh, not good, I see. I'm sorry to hear that, boss."

  "That's all right. It was worth a try."

  Chapter 32 />
  I moped around the shop, forcing myself to put on a polite smile for customers, but my heart was definitely not in it. My mood had sidetracked me so much I'd forgotten all about calling Briggs back. I'd even temporarily pushed the Rico Sanders case from my mind. (That might have been intentional because thinking about it only added to my disappointment.) In a matter of a few days, I managed, single-handedly, to solve two crimes, but both of my investigations were ignored. Maybe it was time to just concentrate on the business. After all, I was never going to get near any cases again with Detective Fairchild in town.

  Since I'd forgotten to return the call, it wasn't surprising when Briggs called me.

  "Hello," I said in what I thought was a non-committal tone but apparently not.

  "You sound upset," he said.

  "I guess that would be the appropriate word for my mood." My voice wavered. "I worked so hard to uncover the truth about the Hawksworth murders, but everyone in this town is so afraid of Mayor Price, the truth has to stay a secret, just like it did a hundred years ago. And I have to say—I didn't feel entirely supported by the one person I always expect support from."

  "I guess I'm that person. I'm sorry and you're right. What happened? Did you call the newspaper editor?"

  "I did and she's too worried about backlash from Mayor Price. No one should have that much power or control. It's not right."

  "You're absolutely right, Lacey. We'll get together and brainstorm some possible ways to get the truth out there. I do have some good news about the Sanders case. If you have time, why don't you walk down to the station. I have something to show you."

  "At this point, it better be a big box of chocolates and a new pair of soft, fuzzy slippers because those are the only things I can think of that will pull me out of this funk."

  "I don't have either of those, but I think you'll be interested in what I have. Can you get away?"