Marigolds and Murder (Port Danby Cozy Mystery Book 1)

by London Lovett

  My lunch mate sat up a little straighter. “Speaking of fascinating. Don’t turn around,” she said quietly. (I turned around … naturally.)

  Franki’s latest customer was a tall, undeniably handsome man, thirty something and wearing a button down shirt, slacks and shiny black shoes. While his attire looked neat and proper there was just enough beard stubble to give him a slightly rakish look. His black hair was just long enough to curl up on the top of his no nonsense shirt collar. I hadn’t finished taking catalogue of his attributes before I got caught in an accidental moment of locked gazes with the man. His brown eyes highlighted his rakish quality a bit. His mouth turned up in the slightest hint of a smile, or maybe it was just the way the light was pouring in through the diner windows.

  I pulled my eyes away and turned back around. I picked up a napkin to fan the embarrassed blush from my cheeks. “I feel like I just got caught gawking over the senior class president in chemistry class.” I breathed a sigh of relief when I heard the door to the diner open and shut.

  Lola had a good laugh at my expense. “Don’t worry. That’s a normal reaction to Detective James Briggs. He just has that kind of confident, manliness about him that draws female attention. But he’s a pretty plain-spoken, all business kind of man. I’ve heard rumor that his rather stiff personality is the result of a broken heart. He was married for a short time, but it didn’t work out. He lives over in the next town of Chesterton. He’s the lead detective for the entire stretch of coast that runs right through Port Danby.”

  “Fascinating,” I said airily, even though I could still feel the warmth in my cheeks.

  Chapter 5

  There was just enough sunlight left for me to pedal my way home. With any luck and a good deal of energy, I’d be inside just as the early October sun disappeared behind the horizon. It had been a long week, and I was glad tomorrow was Sunday.

  I hadn’t realized how tired I was from the day of setting up shop until my bicycle hit the slight incline on Myrtle Place. Working in a big city had gotten me used to living without a car. Lack of public parking and a plethora of public transportation in the city made owning a car just a couple of unnecessary monthly bills. I’d purchased a small blue compact when I moved from the city to Port Danby, but the town was small enough that riding a bicycle was a perfectly wonderful way to get around. I was sure that would change in the winter when brisk winds and glacial rainstorms dropped in on the town, but for now, I was going to take advantage of the glorious autumn weather. And it helped me burn off Elsie’s bakery samples.

  Myrtle Place was the main road that ran parallel to Harbor Lane, but instead of forking off right to the coast and marina like Harbor Lane, it curved left and turned into Maple Hill. Maple Hill eventually ended at a tall, looming mansion that looked as if it had seen its better days many decades ago.

  Myrtle Place, aptly named since it was lined on both sides by plush Crape Myrtle trees, also branched off into smaller neighborhood streets where most of the citizens of Port Danby lived in a mish mash of every style of house. My house, which I had purchased after I’d leased the shop, was on Loveland Terrace, the last small road before the Maple Hill turnoff. My small backyard afforded the perfect, unobstructed view of the dilapidated mansion on Maple Hill.

  I pedaled past Graystone Church, and its accompanying rustic, little graveyard. Kingston had finally found his bird energy, and he soared along above me, stopping occasionally in the top of a Crape Myrtle just to annoy the smaller birds who were finding their evening perches.

  With the exception of a few barking dogs and one particularly industrious ground squirrel, the streets were relatively quiet. I closed my eyes for just a second, took in a deep breath and wiggled my nose to see what people were cooking for dinner. Fried chicken mingled with somebody’s curried lamb, making for an odd mix of odors. The unpalatable combination reminded me of my childhood, before I had the ability to regulate my hyperosmia.

  Self-preservation had forced me to learn how to control my sense of smell. Growing up, I could hardly get through a meal, particularly if more than one aromatic food was on my plate. If I decided to peel a banana for a snack, and my mom was cooking an onion in the kitchen, then every bite of banana tasted like onion. In the third grade, I was so thin the other kids called me stick figure girl. My parents were worried sick. They eventually took me to a doctor who specialized in olfaction, the study of smell. Dr. Vickers showed me how to use my mind and other senses to control my sense of smell. She told me I was a superhero and that my super power was my sense of smell. That helped me regain some of the confidence I’d lost. My mom even sewed me a cape to play with at home that had the letters SN on it for Super Nose.

  I passed Shire Lane, the last street before Loveland Terrace. My house was on the corner, so I could see it long before I reached my street. I could also hear my neighbor, who had this annoying habit of hammering and sawing things in the house from four o’clock until six. I had yet to see the mysteriously energetic and noisy neighbor. Whoever it was, they seemed to have a day job that left them only evenings for working on a house that sorely needed work.

  Not that my small house was a shining star of the neighborhood. But it was cozy, and it looked lived in like a favorite pair of faded jeans. The pale yellow siding was sunny and welcoming, fringed as it was by a brown shake roof. My favorite exterior feature was a front porch that ran along the length of it. The white balustrades needed a good coat of paint, but I decided to go natural. I’d planted climbing pink roses around the base of the porch. With any luck and a not too brutal winter, the roses would be railing high by next spring’s bloom. I’d lined the small front lawn with bluish green juniper shrubs. I planted deep green and ivory white wintercreeper for ground cover on the stretch of space between my lawn and the road. I thought it had all come together nicely.

  The wavering shadow of my pet crow rolled over me as I turned my bike around the corner.

  “Don’t look now but I think you’re being stalked by a crow,” a deep, not altogether unpleasing voice called through the open window on the neighbor’s house.

  I squinted to get a look at the figure standing there, but the light was all wrong. I could only see my own house reflected off the top pane. I reached my driveway and as my front tire hit the ridge of cement, my keychain, house key and all, popped out of my bicycle basket.

  Kingston, who had an affinity for shiny objects (leading me to theorize that he was a pickpocket in a previous life) swooped down and plucked the keychain up in his beak. He landed on the front edge of the roof, triumphantly holding the silver key in his beak.

  “They do say crows are the smartest birds. I think this one wants you to invite him in.”

  I had no more time for my neighbor’s remarks. I climbed off the bike. “Kingston, you come down here right now or you can skip dinner.”

  The crow came obediently down but without the keys. They clanked into the rain gutter.

  I stared at the bird as he danced along the porch railing with his long talons.

  “Well, you won’t get dinner now anyhow. Neither will I, it seems.” I walked up the porch steps, and out of silly desperation, I glanced through the transparent curtains on the front window to see if Nevermore was lounging nearby. Of course, even if he was, which he wasn’t, it wasn’t as if his cat paws could turn the lock.

  I walked back to the front of the porch and held tightly to the front column that held up the left side of the portico. I climbed up on top of the railing with fingers crossed that it would hold my weight. I searched blindly in the rain gutter and crinkled my nose in distaste as my fingers grazed over wet mushy leaves and whatever else might have made its way into the gutter. Then luck. My fingertips grazed something metal. I plucked out the keychain. In my excitement, I’d forgotten that I was balancing on a four inch railing.

  My arms spun through the air like worthless helicopter blades. I gasped in fear and shut my eyes to brace for the slamming pain that was sure to follow. There
was some pain, but it was only slight, along with a short loss of wind. I opened my eyes slowly and found myself in a nice, big pair of arms.

  The man took a deep breath of relief. “Didn’t think I’d make it in time.”

  He stood there, his clumsy neighbor cradled in his arms, for a few seconds longer than necessary before lowering my feet to the ground. My eyes traveled up and stopped at his face. It was mid fall but his face and arms were tanned, which probably meant he worked at the marina. His thick blond hair went stunningly well with his green eyes.

  “Are you all right?” he asked. “Aside from being stalked by a crow, that is.”

  “Everything is still in one piece. And he’s not really a stalker. He’s a pet.” I smiled and nervously tucked my hair behind my ears until I silently reminded myself that I was twenty-eight and not twelve. And he was hardly the first handsome man I’d ever met. Although he was certainly the first to catch me as I fell off a porch railing. Unless, of course, I counted falling from an oak tree in fourth grade. But on that occasion, Stewart Germaine, my tall, skinny but semi-cute neighbor missed catching me, and I sprained my wrist.

  The man stuck out a large and nicely callused hand. “I’m your neighbor, Dashwood Vanhouten, the third. But you can dispense with the long name and call me Dash.”

  “Oh wow, yes, that is a long name.” He had a nice, strong grip. “I’m Lacey Pinkerton and you can call me Lacey or Pink. I answer to either.” The house next door certainly didn’t look as if it should belong to a man named Vanhouten or a man with the word ‘third’ following the distinguished surname. Maybe it was an investment. “If you don’t mind me asking—where was the family fortune made?”

  His smile was sort of Hollywood, big screen caliber. “What family fortune?”

  “O—oh,” I stuttered to find an appropriate way out of my social misstep.

  Dash laughed and darn if it didn’t just go nicely with the big screen smile. “That’s all right. Everyone just assumes that a fortune came with the name. Which is exactly why my dad invented it. He changed his own name legally to Dashwood Vanhouten, the second because he thought it looked more distinguished on his office door than Darren Vooten.”

  I blinked up at him in confusion. “The second? I don’t understand. If he made the name up, who was the first Dashwood Vanhouten?”

  He shook his head. “There wasn’t one. Dad just thought the second made him seem like part of an important family legacy.”

  I absorbed the name story for a few seconds and then laughed. “I haven’t met the man, but I like him already.” My stomach dropped in horror. “Oh my gosh, is he still alive? I just assumed again, a habit I obviously need to drop.”

  “No worries. Dashwood Vanhouten, the second is alive and well and living in Ohio.”

  Kingston cawed from the porch railing in a loud reminder about dinner.

  “I should let my bird inside before he starts scaring all the neighbors.”

  “Right. And I think you have another pet waiting for you.”

  I followed the direction of his sparkling green gaze to the front window. Nevermore had his thick front paws on the windowsill, and his big head was pushing away the curtains.

  “That’s Nevermore, my gray tabby.”

  Dash’s brow arched in question. “Nevermore?”

  “Yes, I’m a big fan of Edgar Allen Poe.”

  Dash crossed his arms in thought and looked from the crow to the cat and back to me again. “But you have a big black crow, a raven of sorts. And you named the cat Nevermore?”

  “Yes.” I smiled. “Unlike the cat, the crow picked his own name. I used to live next to an elderly man who blasted out Kingston Trio records on an old, midcentury stereo console. Kingston loved the music, so I decided to name him after the band.”

  Dash nodded, but still looked a little confused. “Right. I guess I’ll get back to my work.” Before he took another step, he pointed back at Kingston. “How did you end up with a pet crow anyhow?”

  “I found him near death after a big rainstorm and nursed him back to health. I sent him off to live in the wild again, but he showed up back at my door a week later.”

  “That’s sweet. So he missed you then?”

  “I like to think so, but I’m pretty sure he came back for my Belgian waffles. I’m pretty skilled with a waffle iron.”

  “Nice meeting you, Lacey,” my handsome new neighbor said with a laugh before heading back to his house.

  Chapter 6

  Nevermore licked every bit of food from his ceramic dish and stretched his gray striped paws forward for a good yawn. It was his ‘catch y’all later’ yawn before curling up on the sofa to finish his twenty-three hour cat nap.

  Kingston had long since shut down for the night. I kept a dark sheet over his cage to keep him from waking me at the crack of dawn with an eardrum shattering good morning caw.

  The moon was nearly full, and the sight of it, looking cheesy yellow out against the navy blue night sky, drew me out onto the porch. I had wisely grabbed a throw blanket to drop over my shoulders. It was definitely colder at night out on the coast. The usual shroud of nighttime fog was late, which allowed for a glorious view of the marina lights. Lola had explained that the Pickford Lighthouse rarely ran its light anymore because there were far more modern and efficient lighthouses and warning bells along the coast. But I’d seen the light circle through really heavy fog, casting an almost neon glow through the thick, briny moisture, and at least once, I’d been startled awake by the low, mournful howl of the fog horn.

  A trail of three cars filled with laughing teens and blaring music came down from Maple Hill. It hadn’t escaped my notice that an inordinate amount of cars traveled up a road that led nowhere except to a deserted old mansion.

  “That old Hawksworth Manor is a favorite hangout for the kids.” Dash’s deep voice was already familiar to me.

  I leaned forward and looked toward his yard. He was standing on the front lawn waiting for a large, shaggy dog to do his business. “This is Captain, by the way. But don’t worry. He doesn’t chase cats. No promises about the crow though because I have seen him dive helter skelter into a flock of resting seagulls.”

  I was surprised and not altogether disappointed to see my new neighbor again. He sat down on the porch step next to me. Captain lumbered over and flopped down at the bottom.

  “What’s the story behind that mansion?” I asked. “It looks as if it’s been many years since anyone hung their hat there.”

  “You mean you still haven’t heard the sordid tale of Hawksworth Manor?”

  I looked up at him. “No but from the enthusiastic timbre of your voice, it seems I’m about to hear it.”

  “You are. But to do this right, I need to stand and have my silhouette in front of the moon.” He pushed to his feet. “It was a hundred years ago today, give or take a few years … and months, for that matter.”

  “So, some time a long time ago?”

  “Right. Anyhow, it was a rainy night and the sky was filled with thunder and lightning.”

  I squinted one eye. “Are you adding the creepy weather for effect?”

  His broad shoulders dropped. “Was it that obvious?”

  “Well, after the hundred years ago today thing I’m kind of taking the entire tale with a grain of salt.”

  Dash leaned his head back with a great, deep laugh that stirred Captain from his snore session for a brief second.

  He caught his breath. “I’ll just get to the good stuff. The Hawksworths were a rich family who owned this entire side of Port Danby. There was a husband and wife, Bertram and Jill, and three kids, all under the age of fifteen. They say it was a murder-suicide. The only motive the police at that time could come up with was jealousy. But nothing solid was ever found to prove it. Apparently, old Bertram was convinced that Jill was having an affair with the gardener. In a fit of rage, he shot his wife and his three kids as they sat in the drawing room reading and playing cards. Then Bert turned the gun o
n himself and boom, one Hawksworth family wiped from the earth for good.”

  “Oh, that’s awful. Those poor kids. Why does the town keep the old place standing? With that kind of history no one would ever want to live in it.”

  Dash sat back down. I allowed myself a quick assessment of his shampoo, soap and aftershave. All manly scents with a hint of spice. “You’re right about that, but it’s become a favorite destination for tourists and most especially ghost hunters. There’s a gardener’s shed in the backyard that has some of the gory pictures and other creepy artifacts on display. Tickets to look inside are five bucks and the money goes into the town coffers. That place might look like it popped up from some grim serial killer flick, but it’s a gold mine for Port Danby.”

  “Wow, I can’t believe this was the first I’ve heard about it. But then I have been terribly busy setting up shop.”

  “A flower shop right?”

  “Yes, and I open in two weeks. I’m a little nervous about it, but I think that’s just because I’ve never done anything quite like this before.”

  Dash stood up again. He was very … well … for lack of a better word … dashing, even draped in faded flannel and denim. “I think you’ll do great. I’m glad you’re here, Lacey. Sophisticated, smart, a good sense of humor and a pet crow. I think you’re just what this town needed.”

  Chapter 7

  I’d spent the entire Sunday being lazy and decided a little exercise wouldn’t hurt. An early morning bike ride along Culpepper Road, past the bucolic landscape of family farms was just what I needed before another day of setting up shop. The east side of the road was lined with tall, frilly laurel hedges. They provided a brilliant green barrier wall. Strappy shrubs of red-hot poker intermingled with the hedges. Their signature fiery red and yellow spikes had long since withered with the long summer hours, but the spindly stems and leaves still stood proud and tall as they waited for the next bloom season. Patches of bold orange gaillardia, a long blooming plant that was still showing plenty of color, dotted the sides of the road in messy clusters.