"Yes, I'll meander down with my heavy footsteps and sullen expression in just a few. Bye."
Ryder had heard my side of the conversation. "I think a walk is a good idea," he said before I could ask if he'd watch the shop. "Come back with that"—he waved his hand around my face area—"erased. Take your time. I've got the shop covered."
"Thanks, Ryder." I headed to the door but stopped and looked back at him over my shoulder. "If I haven't said it enough—I'm so glad you're back."
I walked out of the shop and let the warm, calming sunshine wash over me. It was one of those pleasant weather days where the sun was powerful, but a cooling breeze from the ocean mixed with it just enough to make the temperature perfect. Ryder was right. A walk was just what I needed. Instead of the depressed, plodding steps I'd envisioned, I put a little spring in my gait to get my heart pumping. The light few moments of exercise helped refresh my mood by the time I reached the station.
Hilda peered up over the counter to see who had walked in. She had her earphone in and was talking to someone, so she just waved excitedly. She buzzed me in and waved again.
I lifted my hand to knock but Briggs' door opened. "Lacey, I thought I heard the buzzer." He reached for my hand and tugged me playfully into his office. He snapped the door shut and pulled me in for a kiss. It helped revive my mood as much as the walk.
"Feel better?" he asked.
I laughed and tapped his chest. "Someone sure has a lofty opinion of his kisses."
"Well, I take it back then. No, on second thought, I'll try once more." His mouth pressed against mine. For a long, luxurious moment I melted against him, feeling all his positive energy and affection. He lifted his mouth from mine. "Well?"
"Yes, that definitely makes me feel better."
"Good. Take a walk with me to the evidence room. I need your nose. You can fill me in on what you know about the Sanders case and how you concluded that Vince Sanders killed his brother."
All of this was coming as a shock to me. But before I had a chance to ask him one of many questions, he stopped to talk to Hilda. "When Detective Fairchild comes in, show her to the evidence room."
Now I had even more questions. We turned the corner to the narrow hallway leading to the evidence room.
"Why is she coming here? I don't think I can handle a visit or chat with Detective Fairchild. She's made it perfectly clear that she doesn't want me anywhere near her investigation. I shouldn't have sent that picture of Angel and her friend. That's who she's concentrating on even though it was Vince."
Briggs let me ramble on while he unlocked the evidence room and opened the door. We stepped inside. It was always an odd smelling room with its steel tables and shelves of boxed and bagged evidence, mostly clothing or personal belongings, each with a different story and odor.
Briggs plucked some latex gloves from the box and motioned for me to do the same.
"I don't understand. What am I going to be looking at? Did you find something of interest?" I asked.
"No. You did."
I paused halfway putting my gloves on. "James, are you going to keep talking in riddles, or are you going to fill in the details?"
He smiled. "Was I talking in riddles? Hmm, must have learned that from you. Like the text you sent me earlier about Vince being the killer and that it was all about his shoes." He walked over to the shelf and pulled down a bag that contained a pair of shoes, the same shoes Vince had been wearing at the coffee shop. "They were open for business this afternoon. Apparently, none of them were too broken up about Rico's death," he added. "After I got your text, Fairchild called me to let me know—one, that you were snooping around the trailers—" he continued before I could defend myself. "But that's not what this is about. She also wanted to let me know that she had gotten confirmation of Angel's alibi. She was on Zoom with two friends during the time of the murder. The friends and the data on Zoom confirmed it, so she is no longer a suspect. But while Fairchild was at the campsite, a reluctant witness, one of the groundskeepers, told Fairchild that he saw Vince ride away on his bicycle at around nine o'clock. He thought it might be important and decided he should say something."
"That isn't surprising," I said, coolly. "He had to sneak off in order to kill Rico. The cumin proves he was inside the taco truck when Rico was murdered."
"Cumin?" he asked.
"That's right, you have little insight into this investigation." I ended with a teasing wink. "In the midst of the murder, someone, I presume the killer, knocked an entire canister of cumin seasoning onto the floor. It landed at the foot of the stove. The killer stepped in it while they turned on all the gas burners to carry out their diabolical plan. It was only the front section of a shoe print, but cumin is strong, so strong that I knew it would linger on a shoe tread, at least enough for this nose to smell it. I have a photo of the cumin and print, but I left my phone in the office."
His brows knitted together. "How on earth did you confirm that Vince's shoes had cumin on them?"
I blinked exaggeratedly at him. "A good investigator never reveals her techniques." I pointed at the bag. "But now you have the shoes."
"Yes, secret techniques and all, I still thought it would be better to get a confirmation under more official means."
The sharp tapping of heels on tile alerted us to the arrival of Detective Fairchild. My entire body tensed with the notion of having to face her again. Briggs sensed my reaction, but before he could say something about it, Fairchild stepped into the evidence room. She glanced around with wide nostrils and a sour look as if she was an interior designer who had just walked into an atrociously decorated room.
After her long perusal, she turned directly to Briggs and entirely ignored the other person in the room. "Detective Briggs, surely this isn't the entire evidence room."
"Surely it is," Briggs said dryly.
"I'll speak to my uncle about getting it expanded."
And there it was—the first inkling that she was going to take full advantage of her friends in high places or, in this case, relatives. I was sure she'd already used it once before to land the detective position.
"Please don't, this one suits us just fine." Briggs' jaw twitched, always a sign that something or someone had irritated him. "I called you here because I think I have a key piece of evidence for the Sanders case."
Fairchild improved on her earlier nostril flare. (Much wider and even she would be able to smell the cumin on the shoes.) It seemed she didn't take too kindly to Briggs stepping into the case, but he was putting up his usual solid, cool, no argument accepted front.
"I don't understand." Her eyes flitted my direction but only for a second.
"You're focused on Vince Sanders, correct?" Briggs asked. He set to work removing the shoes from the bag. "I have his shoes. Miss Pinkerton can help place Vince at the scene with the help of her nose. I assume you took evidence pictures of the spilled cumin spice on the floor of the taco truck. There was half a shoe print in the spice, most likely left behind by the killer as he turned on the gas burners." As Briggs spoke, Fairchild's ramrod straight posture wilted like a daisy in the hot sun. "Detective Fairchild?" he prodded when she didn't respond.
She reached up and fussed with her hair, eventually pushing it behind her ears. "You have to understand, when I reached the scene I'd been told that the victim accidentally asphyxiated himself with the gas from the stove. He was still alive when they took him away."
"No," I said quietly. "That was just the paramedics still attempting to resuscitate him. It's protocol. I worked on him for a long time—'
Fairchild snapped her attention back to Briggs. "I don't quite understand how a civilian is allowed in the evidence room."
Briggs' jaw twitch turned into a small spasm. "Miss Pinkerton, as I've told you several times, has a special skill, a sense of smell that allows her to discern between aromas, even at trace levels. She is here because Vince Sanders' shoes are part of the evidence for this case. Since you didn't answer directly, am I
to assume you never collected any of the spilled cumin, the spice with a footprint, as evidence?"
It was obvious from the twisting and contortions her face was going through that she had skipped that important part of the investigation. "It's of no matter now. I have an eyewitness who saw Mr. Sanders bicycle away from his campsite during the time of the murder."
Briggs arched a skeptical brow. "That's not even enough evidence to arrest him, let alone convict him. You'll need to conduct a search on his trailer, look for the meat mallet used to knock his brother unconscious."
The faintest eye roll followed. "I do know how to do my job, Detective Briggs. I've already put the search warrant into motion." She seemed quite pleased with herself for doing so.
Briggs turned to me. "Miss Pinkerton, if you wouldn't mind just confirming the cumin on these shoes."
"Not at all." I flashed Fairchild an oversweet grin and proceeded to run my nose along the shoes. I wriggled my nose a little, strictly for drama's sake. After all, I'd already confirmed the presence of cumin with my toss the keys trick. I straightened. "Yes, there is cumin, and it's concentrated mostly on the right front toe. That's the part of the shoe print I saw in the spilled cumin."
"Detective Fairchild, I'll leave these shoes here in evidence while you build your case. I would think about at least bringing Vince Sanders in for questioning soon. I don't expect them to stick around much longer. You might have to make clear that you need them to stay in town until this is solved." Briggs spoke plainly and calmly. She flinched a smidgen with each suggestion. "In addition, Detective Fairchild, next time Miss Pinkerton has some information I suggest you listen. She has a keen sense of intuition and great amount of skill when it comes to investigating murders, and while it seems unorthodox to have her involved with a case, I trust her and so should you."
If Detective Fairchild hadn't been standing in the room with us, looking more and more like a woman who swallowed a cactus, I would have given Detective Briggs a huge, well-deserved kiss.
Chapter 33
Part of my afternoon had been a major disappointment and part of it a major victory thanks to my wonderful, marvelous boyfriend. I made a plan to wipe away the fringe of despair left behind by the editor's refusal to publish Bertram's letter. Before I'd closed up for the day, I created a nice bouquet of white lilies and yellow roses for Bertram's grave. It was just something that felt right to do.
I dropped Kingston at home and fed Nevermore, then got ready for the walk back to the cemetery. The weather was far too inviting for a drive, and it was just a short mile down to Graystone Church Way. The century old graveyard that included more than one gated family plot for the wealthy, including the Hawksworths and the Prices, was nestled behind the quaint church.
On the horizon, the sun was starting to lower itself , taking with it the warm glow of daylight and causing just enough newly formed shadows over the church and graveyard to give it an eerie ambience. (That sort of went along with any graveyard, no matter what the time of day.)
I walked through the maze of upright tombstones, the ordinary, simple and weatherworn stones marking the graves of past Port Danby citizens, the ones who couldn't afford the marble plaques or the fancy gated plots
The black wrought iron gate surrounding the Hawksworth family plot was set on a small grassy knoll. I headed toward it. I stopped cold when I saw a figure draped in gray hunched over in front of the large speckled stone bearing the Hawksworth name. There were just enough shadows over the site from gnarled tree branches and the setting sun to make the figure look ethereal, ghostly.
I hadn't realized how hard I was squeezing the flowers in my hand until one of the stems snapped in two. I shook my head and even gave my entire body a little shake to get out of my frightened state. I blamed my temporary silliness on the location and the waning daylight.
I willed my feet forward and drew closer to the gravesite. The figure straightened and a gray scarf slipped back off her head revealing the silvery white hair beneath. As she moved slightly to the left, I spotted the bouquet of daisies she had set in front of Bertram's headstone.
My feet crunched the summer frazzled grass, causing her to turn around. Her face was softly wrinkled, just starting to show age and the lines next to her light blue eyes were not even close to crow's feet. Sparrow's feet was how my mom like to describe the lines next to her eyes.
A kind smile erupted on her face. "Hello, are you here to visit the Hawksworth grave?" She looked pointedly at the flowers in my hand.
"Yes, yes I am. I brought these for Bertram Hawksworth." I entered the tiny gate.
"Truly?" she asked with surprise. "Not many people bring my great-granduncle flowers. He didn't exactly leave this earth as a saint." Sadness washed over her lovely face. (I'd decided just seconds after seeing her that I liked everything about her face.)
"Your great-granduncle?" I asked. "You're related to Bertram Hawksworth?"
A slight blush washed over her cheeks. "I suppose admitting that is not the easiest thing to do in these parts. I'm Nellie Smith. Bertram's younger sister was my great-grandmother. I've recently moved back to town. My grandmother left me her quaint farmstead over on Culpepper Road. I inherited it about five years ago but only recently decided I'd had enough of the city and my job in an insurance brokerage. I finally took the leap and moved into the old house. It's in need of repair but I love it. Spent a lot of time there as a kid."
Everything she told me was astounding enough to whisk my breath away. "So Bertram's niece has been living over on Culpepper Road all these years. I never came across any peripheral family members in my research, but I hate to admit, I never looked for any. And now here you are."
Nellie looked puzzled. "Research? You've been researching my great-granduncle?" There was a touch of suspicion in her tone. "Are you a reporter?" Some of the sweet veneer had vanished. I needed to explain myself.
"No, no, in fact what I have to tell you will shock you." I hesitated for a moment, worrying that I would be opening a large can of worms. Once I told Nellie Smith what really happened on that fateful October night in 1906, the truth would be out. She waited with an anxious, unsure expression. She absolutely deserved to hear the truth no matter what kind of domino reaction it created.
"Your great-granduncle Bertram did not kill his family and commit suicide." I still had Bertram's letter tucked in my pocket. I pulled it out. "I found this in the gardener's shed." I handed her the parchment.
She pulled a pair of reading glasses out of the handbag she was holding and carefully unfolded the paper. Her gaze swept back and forth as she read the note. "Oh my goodness," she said under her breath. She silently perused the note again, then peered up at me. "My grandmother always thought something was amiss with the whole thing. According to her mother, my great-grandmother, Bertram would never have done anything so atrocious. He was rich and loved power, but he was a good man and he loved his family. I was young but I do remember my grandmother saying that Harvard Price was a corrupt man who should never have been mayor. I suppose this puts him far beyond corrupt. He was a murderer too. How can we let people know? My great-granduncle's name should be cleared." She handed me back the letter.
"I agree. And I'm working on it." I walked over and placed flowers in front of the gravestone. I rubbed my fingers lightly over Bertram's name, then glanced at the smaller headstones for his three children. At the end of the row sat the unmarked stone, the one for Jane's baby.
Nellie caught me staring at the unmarked grave. "I've always wondered about that last stone, the one without the name. My grandmother knew something about it, but she never told my mother or me. It must have been some big family secret."
I turned back to her with a polite, sympathetic grin. "Her name was Jennifer Price Hawksworth. She was only a month old when she died. There is an obituary for her in a file in the mayor's office."
Nellie's confusion slowly turned to comprehension. "My great-granduncle fathered another child?"
"Yes, he was having an affair with Harvard Price's daughter, Jane. Jane died in childbirth, and the baby was sent to live with the Hawksworth family."
She nodded. "Another reason for Harvard Price to despise him, I suppose."
"I'm sure back then it was considered a terrible scandal. Jane was sent away to have the baby in private but she died."
Nellie gazed down at the unmarked grave. She plucked one of the lilies from the bouquet and laid it on the unmarked grave. "Well, baby Jennifer, it's about time you get a proper headstone. I'm going to see to it." She turned slowly to me. A smile appeared on her face. "I certainly didn't expect this when I came out here to visit the gravesite. Thank you for showing me the letter and telling me about the baby. I feel much more connected to my great-granduncle now."
"I'm so glad I could give you some peace of mind about it all. And thank you. I was starting to feel that I'd uncovered the truth for nothing, but now I know that my efforts benefited at least one person." If nothing else, at least Bertram's descendants would know that he was not the horrible person everyone purported him to be. Instead, he was the tragic victim of a man obsessed with power, greed and revenge.
"What will you do with the letter?" Nellie asked. "I imagine the current Mayor Price would not like that revelation about his great-grandfather to be made public."
I stared down at the folded parchment in my hand. "I've spoken to one editor about publishing it in her paper, but she was more than a little reluctant. It seems the current Mayor Price holds a lot of power over the people in this town." It was not an easy decision so I had to make it quickly before I changed my mind. "I think this belongs to you. At least your family will have proof of the truth."
Nellie's face smoothed with surprise. "Are you sure? After all, it seems you did a great deal of work to find it. I'm forever grateful for your diligence but—"
I pushed the letter toward her. "Really, you may keep it. I've taken a photo of it so I have a lasting image, a reminder of what I found."
Jasmine and Jealousy Page 15