Carnations and Chaos (Port Danby Cozy Mystery Book 2)

by London Lovett

  "So you'll be heading home for Thanksgiving?" Hilda asked.

  "Yes. Looking forward to it."

  "My three kids will be showing up for my feast too. It's the one day I don't mind standing at the stove all day. I think I'll try something new with the pumpkin pie though." She clicked her mouse and the printer came to life. She pulled the recipe off the printer and showed it to me. "It's a pumpkin pie cheesecake combo."

  I browsed the ingredient list and nodded. "I've found you can't go wrong when the recipe contains cream cheese."

  Hilda laughed. "See, that's what I thought."

  The door to Briggs' office opened and Parker swept out, looking only a little less angry. Detective Briggs stepped out to watch Parker leave and then turned to me. "I had a feeling you might still be here."

  I motioned to Hilda. "We were talking about pumpkin pie recipes. Are you heading out of town for Thanksgiving?"

  "Haven't decided yet." He pushed the buzzer for the gate. "If I could see you for just a second, I have some information."

  A tremble of enthusiasm raced through me as I walked through the gate. "Did my adventure pay off?" I asked as I followed him into his office.

  He didn't walk all the way around his desk but instead just leaned against the front of it. He rested his hands back on the edge, highlighting the impressive width of his shoulders. "I told him an officer saw him heading out on Highway 48 today and asked him what business he had out that direction."

  "And his answer?"

  "Well, after the red rage cleared from his face, he asked if he was being followed or if he was under investigation? And he asked if he should hire a lawyer. I told him it was just a simple question. He had a pretty simple, straightforward answer. He said he was out that way looking at a sports car he's going to buy. He left the man with a sizeable down payment until his aunt's living trust is freed up. It seems he's out spending his inheritance."

  "Do you believe him?" I asked.

  "Let's just say that I've been at this for awhile, Miss Pinkerton. During that time, I've become pretty good at telling a lie from the truth. He answered without hesitation, and he looked me right in the eye. There was no fidgeting, no extra blinking or change to his voice. I think he was out at Beacon Cliffs looking at a car."

  I pulled in a deep, disappointed breath. "Thought I was on to something."

  "Yes, I know you did. And don't do anything dangerous like that again."

  "Why, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you were worried about me, Detective Briggs."

  "I worry about all the citizens of Port Danby, Miss Pinkerton. Keeping everyone safe is part of my job."

  "All right then. I won't take your concern personally." I headed out.

  "Oh, Miss Pinkerton, I'll be heading to the hotel at six in the morning to talk to the employee who took the coffee order. That's when his shift starts. I think he's going to be a key witness. If you're interested—"

  "Yes," I said probably too quickly. "I'd like to go, if you don't mind."

  "I thought you might. By the way, just because he was out buying a car today doesn't mean Hermann is off the suspect list. In fact now that I see how anxious he is to spend his new fortune, I'll be looking even closer at him."

  "So my adventure did help a bit?"

  "A bit. Good night, Miss Pinkerton."

  "Good night, Detective Briggs."

  Chapter 30

  The cold rain outside made Nevermore decide that just curling up next to me on the couch wasn't enough. Instead, the cat burrowed beneath the plush throw I'd thrown over my legs. Even with socks on, my feet were cold. Winter was in the air, it seemed. Elsie had told me that Port Danby got a nice little 'hug of snow' in December and January. Even with my chilly toes wiggling beneath a blanket, I was looking forward to it. Occasionally, there would be snow fall in the city, but it took only hours before the sparkling white flakes turned to gray mush on the streets and sidewalks. Just like with rain, snow in the city was nothing but a major inconvenience. It would be fun to have snow that I could actually enjoy like I had as a kid, when I'd spent hours in the front yard trying to construct a snowman. The best part of that adventure was going back inside, limbs and precious nose frozen, to sit down to my mom's homemade tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. That little spark of nostalgia prompted me to pick up the phone and call my mom. I needed to pin point the dates for my plane tickets.

  I picked up the phone and dialed her.

  "Hello, my precious girl, I was just about to call you."

  "Then we must have been on the same wavelength. I need to figure out what day to fly out there for Thanksgiving."

  Silence. My mom was never silent during a phone call. With the delay on a cell phone, she tended to talk right over me. But this was silence. I pulled the phone away from my ear to look at it. I was still connected.

  "Mom?"

  "Yes, dear, I'm here. I thought you would be staying in Port Danby for the holiday."

  "And miss your Thanksgiving feast? Why would I do that? Or maybe you and Dad have other plans?"

  "Lacey, that's just it. Remember that nice couple Dad and I met on the cruise, Joan and Harvey? Well their kids are all out of town too, and they won't be coming in for Thanksgiving. They have a beautiful mountain cabin overlooking a lake. They've invited Dad and me up for the long weekend."

  "That's very nice," I tried to sound enthusiastic, but my mind was absorbing the notion of no pumpkin pie or sourdough stuffing.

  "No," she said suddenly. "We'll just tell them we can't make it. You fly home, dear, and we'll cook up a big feast."

  "Don't be silly, Mom. You can't miss out on a wonderful weekend like that. I'm glad you and Dad found some friends. You have to go. I'll be fine here. I've got lots of friends. I might even cook a feast myself. I think I know most of your recipes by heart. Even though nothing will taste the same if you don't make it."

  "Are you sure, Lacey? I don't want to leave you alone on Thanksgiving."

  "I won't be alone. You and Dad go and have a good time. Just remember to pack warm clothes. And don't forget to pack Dad's Thanksgiving pants. The ones with the elastic waistband."

  Mom laughed. "There is no way he is wearing those ridiculous clown pants on this trip. He'll just have to maintain some self control at the dinner table. If you're sure then, sweetie."

  "Yes. Absolutely. I'll make plans here. Besides, Christmas is just around the corner. I'll fly home for that."

  "I'll be looking forward to it," she said.

  "Have fun and I want to hear all about it when you get back."

  "We will, dear. And let me know if you need me to email you some recipes. I have them mostly in my head, but I can just type them out for you."

  "I'll take you up on that, Mom. Good night."

  "Nightie night."

  I hung up. It had been a long while since I'd felt the heaviness of homesickness, but I could still recognize it. I was happy for my parents though. They were getting out and making friends. It was wonderful. I would have been even happier if it didn't mean missing my mom's feast and her corny little resin turkey place settings. And Dad sitting on the couch yelling at the football players on television while snacking on cut vegetables and dip. But I was a grown up now. Maybe it was time to start some of my own traditions in my new town.

  I picked up the phone again and dialed Elsie.

  "Hey, Pink, I was just trying a new cinnamon streusel cupcake recipe. It's delicious."

  "Do you ever rest?" I laughed. "The reason I called is that it just so happens that I'm going to be all alone on Thanksgiving. My parents have some new friends. Apparently I'm just a big drag on their social life. You mentioned that Hank wouldn't be in town. Would you like to come here for dinner?"

  "Yes! Fun! I can make my special brioche rolls, and I make a pecan pie that melts in your mouth."

  "Mouth watering already. I'll ask Lola too. She didn't seem to have much going on. Her parents are somewhere in Austria or one of those castle filled
places."

  "Ooh, now I'm excited."

  "Me too."

  Chapter 31

  Briggs and I had stopped in for one of Lester's morning brews, a rich medium roast with a touch of hazelnut, before heading out to Mayfield. The storm had passed through by midnight, but it had left behind a heavy, bone chilling mist.

  I was as excited as a kid heading to an amusement park. It might have just been because my curiosity was in overdrive over Marian Fitch's murder. Or it might have been my elation at having Detective Briggs think highly enough of my sleuthing skills to ask me along. Or it might just have been my peculiar, offbeat definition of fun. It was probably all three.

  We pulled into the hotel parking lot. It was still early, a few hours before checkout, when most of the bloggers would be headed off in different directions. At least the main suspect, Marian's nephew, would still be in town for a day.

  "The hotel manager left me a message last night to stop at the front desk and talk to—" Briggs reached into his coat and pulled out his notepad. "Brenda, the desk clerk. He said she recently remembered that a woman had come in to ask what room Marian was in on the day of her death. She couldn't tell her, of course. But it might be something."

  "That is if Brenda is good at recalling details. She must see a hundred new faces a week at her job."

  He glanced over at me. "Someone isn't her usual positive, forward-looking self today."

  "Is it that obvious? It seems I've been left out in the cold for Thanksgiving by none other than my own parents. Turns out they'd prefer to spend it with their new friends up in some enchanting mountain lake cabin."

  "Those monsters," he quipped.

  I elbowed him. "But that's all right. I called Elsie and we're making a dinner at my house. You can come of you like. The food will be tasty because, well . . . Elsie the wonder cook will be in the kitchen. And I've been known to make a tasty green bean casserole or two."

  Briggs didn't answer.

  "I'm sure you have your own plans. I was just being neighborly."

  "Actually, that sounds nice. If you're sure you have enough."

  "Yes, of course we'll have enough. See, now I'm back to my starry eyed, Pollyanna self."

  "Glad to hear it. I think I need your Pollyanna self on this one because I keep coming up short on leads."

  We headed straight to the front desk.

  A tall woman with a tightly wound bun and a bright blue turtleneck sweater beneath her hotel coat was standing behind the counter. Her nametag said Brenda. "May I help you?" she asked.

  Detective Briggs discretely showed her his badge. "I'm Detective Briggs and this is my assistant, Miss Pinkerton." I had to work hard not to do an impromptu dance at his referring to me as his assistant. "I'm assuming you are the Brenda I'm supposed to see about a visitor on the day Ms. Fitch died?"

  "Yes, that's me." She looked around for another employee. "Mitchell, can you cover the desk for me? I'll be right back." She walked around the counter. "Mr. Trumble said we could use his office for this."

  We walked across the cavernous lobby to a small hallway. She knocked on the door with the hotel manager nameplate. After no answer, she used her key and we went inside.

  "I'm not sure why this didn't occur to me that day. I suppose it was just because we don't generally have police and coroners show up to the hotel. And poor Mr. Trumble was in such an agitated state that I had to step in and perform some of his duties. So I forgot all about the visitor."

  "That's fine." Briggs pulled out his notebook. "Mr. Trumble mentioned that someone who did not have a room at the hotel came in looking for Ms. Fitch's room?"

  "Yes. Of course I told her I couldn't give out that information unless the hotel client had left directions to do so. And there were no such orders. She pleaded a bit and then walked away from the counter."

  "Can you describe the woman? Was she alone?"

  "She was alone. And I don't remember much from the hectic day, but she had red hair and some butterfly tattoos on her forearm."

  "Twyla Walton," I piped up.

  Detective Briggs wrote down the information. "I remember talking to her the day after the murder." He flipped back in his notes. "She's the one who lost the lawsuit against Fitch for her stolen Hazelnut Bomb recipe." He turned to Brenda. "Anything else? Do you remember if she was carrying anything? How was she acting? Did she seem agitated or upset?"

  Brenda rubbed her chin in thought. "I think she was carrying one of those cute little backpack purses. But she didn't seem agitated or upset, at least not until I turned down her request to give out room information."

  I played a game in my head and formulated the questions I would ask if I was a detective, and I found I was doing a fairly impressive job of thinking like an investigator. I wondered if Brenda saw Twyla leave the hotel lobby at that point.

  Briggs scribbled down a few notes on Twyla's notebook page. "Did you see the woman walk out the exit?"

  I was good at this.

  "To be perfectly honest," Brenda started, "another customer stepped up to the counter afterward, and I lost track of the woman. I assumed she walked out the exit, but I can't say so for sure."

  "Was that the last time you saw her?" Briggs asked.

  I didn't think of that one. I suppose that was why he had the badge, and I was just the assistant.

  "Things got fairly crazy around here just an hour or so later, when all of you showed up, so I have no idea. I can't remember specifically seeing her, but it was entirely possible."

  "Thank you, Brenda. You've been very helpful. If you think of anything else we'll be down in the kitchen area."

  "Great. I'll see if anyone else saw a red head with butterfly tattoos that afternoon and let you know." Brenda opened the office door and we walked out.

  "Thank you again." Briggs and I headed to the elevator and stepped inside when it stopped at the lobby.

  I stepped to the back and blushed lightly as I thought about the moment in the dark in the elevator. It had been such a natural instinct to turn to Briggs when I was scared. I tried not to read anything into my reaction, but it was hard not to.

  "I think I forgot to mention that Twyla was serving deep friend peanut butter balls at the food fair."

  "Yes, I have that written down on my notepad already. She does have a motive."

  "The dance." The words popped out as I turned to Briggs. "I'd forgotten all about Twyla's scene at the dance. She had been sampling far too much craft beer, and she was wavering on the dance floor. Once she left the floor, she headed over to Marian's booth and started yelling at her, telling her she would never forgive her for stealing her recipe and that Marian's cookbook was a fake. It was quite the scene. Marian hardly flinched though. It seemed to just sail right over her. Dash stepped into lead Twyla away." I'd forgotten and used the 'D' word in front of Briggs, but he was too consumed with the case to notice or remark on it.

  He pulled out his notepad. "A few of the other bloggers mentioned it along with Parker Hermann. He seemed convinced that Twyla killed his aunt. But a beer fueled rant is hardly enough to make an arrest. Let's see what Vincent, the room service attendee, says."

  It turned out Vincent was waiting for us inside the small booth where the complimentary coffee service ran from. Vincent was a fresh faced, just out of his teens looking guy who was desperately trying to sprout facial hair but having a time of it.

  Briggs wrote down his full name on his pad. "I know you left town before most of the chaos started and you've been offline all weekend, but do you remember the complimentary coffee orders you took on Friday?"

  "They are sort of a blur now, but the order from 801 was definitely a woman. I can remember it mostly because she was talking sort of low and growly, like she was disguising her voice."

  "Anything else unusual about the conversation?"

  Vincent grinned. "Was I talking to the killer? That is so creepy and so cool all at the same time."

  "We don't know if you were talking to the kil
ler." Briggs never lost patience, which was amazing because I was ready to give the kid a pop on the head to concentrate. "Did the person order one coffee? Were there any specifics added to the order, like creamer or sugar?"

  "No, she just asked for one cup of the house's special brew, black, to be delivered to Room 801 at five o'clock. Then Neil took it to the room and left it, even though I guess the lady never ordered it." Suddenly Vincent looked a little paler, and he fidgeted with the buttons on his white coat. "I poured the coffee, but there wasn't anything wrong with it. I heard the lady was poisoned or something, but we poured a lot of cups from that—"

  Briggs placed a hand on Vincent's shoulder to calm him. "You are not being interrogated. You're not a suspect. You're a witness."

  Vincent's shoulders relaxed. "That coffee was the same as always."

  "Yes, of course." Briggs sounded disappointed. I wasn't sure what he was hoping to learn from Vincent. Something apparently that would give him some clues into who made the call.

  "The call definitely came from Room 801?" Briggs asked.

  Vincent pointed out the panel on the wall with each room number next to it. Several of the red lights were flashing next to room numbers, which seemed to indicate they were waiting for service. "Unless something is wrong with that board, it came from Room 801."

  "Thank you then, Vincent. You've been very helpful."

  "You know there was one thing that I just remembered," Vincent said. "But it probably doesn't matter."

  "Any information you have," Briggs said.

  "A cell phone rang as the woman ordered the coffee. The ringtone was music of some kind. One of those old time rock and roll guys, but I can't think who right now."

  Briggs wrote that detail down with more enthusiasm, his pen scratching the paper as he dragged it across the pad. "Think about it and call me if you come up with the song or the band."

  He handed Vincent his card. "Thank you again."

  Briggs and I walked back to the elevator. "Old time rock and roll guys," I repeated. "Buddy Holly? Elvis?"