Mistletoe and Mayhem

by London Lovett

  Tilly stopped and tapped her chin. "Let me guess. You're interested in the Hawksworth murders."

  My eyes rounded in surprise. "Why yes. How did you know?"

  She headed to a particular set of shelves. "I get people in here all the time asking about it. Even your mayor." Her glasses bobbed up and down on her nose as she scrunched it. "What's his name?"

  "Mayor Price."

  "Yes, that's him. He used to come in here to browse the articles surrounding the case, but I haven't seen him in at least a year." She reached up to one of the shelves and pulled a pair of latex gloves out of a box. She handed them to me. "If you don't mind. The newspapers deteriorate faster if they get oily. The dates are on the front of the shelves. There are some pieces of notepaper and pencils on the table, but please don't write on the newspapers. I'm afraid you won't have more than thirty minutes though. We're closing up soon."

  "Right. Thirty minutes. It'll be a good start." I pulled on the gloves. "Thank you."

  My time was limited. Instead of heading for the obvious, the newspapers from October 1906, the month and year of the murders, I decided to skim through front page headlines from earlier dates just to get a sense of how important the Hawksworth family was at that time.

  After wasting a good third of my precious short time in the newspaper room, I caught a glimpse of the name Hawksworth on the front page of the Chesterton Gazette. It was dated February 3, 1901, a good five years before the murders. The picture, which was somewhat unfocused to begin with, had both faded and yellowed with time. But the headline was clear. "Hawksworth Breaks Ground on Shipping Yard."

  I carried the paper to the table and sat down to skim the article and get a closer look at the headline picture and the two small images beneath it. I put on my reading glasses. The article mentioned that after a three year battle with local and state government officials, the millionaire businessman and entrepreneur, Bertram Hawksworth, finally had a start date for his massive shipbuilding yard. The shipbuilding facility would stretch along two miles of the coast, ending just south of the Port Danby shipping lanes. At that time, Port Danby was still an important stop for merchant ships. Decades later, the port was deemed obsolete and lost business to the larger, more accessible ports farther south. My quaint new hometown, a popular tourist stop and coastal nook, would have looked much different if it had remained a shipping port.

  I sat forward and leaned my face closer to the picture. I'd seen Bertram Hawksworth, looking severe and grim in several family portraits where he'd posed with a stone face to look like the typical somber Victorian man of the house. But this photo showed a much more jovial man. His bushy sideburns looked like giant fuzzy caterpillars lining each rounded cheek as he flashed a wide, proud grin for the camera. Another man stood nearby holding Bertram's black coat and top hat as Hawksworth, clad in his drop shoulder white shirt with sleeves rolled up, a look that was scandalously brazen back then even for a man, pushed a shovel into the ground. In the distance, the ocean curled over into crested waves. The photographer even managed to catch a seagull passing over the water. The jetty to the right of where the men were standing still stood today as a natural, rugged border between Mayfield and Port Danby. I'd been along that strip of beach more than once, and I didn't ever remember seeing a shipyard or even the remnants of something as large and industrial as a place big enough to build ships.

  Tilly popped her face into the room. "Just wanted to give you a ten minute heads up. And please just leave any newspapers on the table. I prefer to shelve them myself. Otherwise, they get thrown into disarray."

  "That's fine. I'm just finishing up."

  She walked back out.

  I moved my gaze down to the picture below the headliner. It was Bertram Hawksworth, dressed again in coat, dress shirt and ascot. He was sitting behind an intricately carved mahogany desk looking very important and almost presidential as he signed some documents with a nib pen. The caption read 'Mr. Bertram Hawksworth signing contractor documents for the Hawksworth Shipbuilding Yard'.

  I glanced at the clock on the wall. My time was up. I certainly hadn't gleamed much information today, but I'd return when I had more time. I stood up and stared down at the picture as I pulled off the gloves.

  "He signs with his left hand," I muttered into an empty room. There was nothing wrong with his right hand, as far as I could see. It sat there plain and empty on the desk as he signed the papers with his left. If Bertram Hawksworth was left-handed, then why did the grisly picture of the murder-suicide show him holding the gun in his right hand?

  Chapter 5

  By the time I reached the shop, the sun had set and the daytime fog had cleared into a navy blue night where the twinkling holiday lights nearly blotted out nature's twinkling lights in the sky above.

  Ryder was still working on his window display when I got back to the shop. He was sitting on the floor with a large wire sculpture in front of him. I wasn't supposed to ask questions, but I was sure I saw a bear taking shape in the wire.

  "You're still here, Ryder? You must be tired. Head home. I'm going to close up."

  "I'm just finishing up one more part." One of Elsie's pink bakery boxes was sitting next to him on the floor with the twine curled into a pile and the lid open, exposing the last crumbs of a blueberry muffin and cupcake inside.

  "Looks like you're fueled up with Elsie's goodies. I hope if I'm ever stuck on a deserted island that I end up there with a year's supply of Elsie's blueberry muffins. They are the perfect survival food."

  "I agree," Ryder said without looking away from his project.

  I dropped the bag of holly on the work island. "I've got the greenery for Lola's kissing bough. I'll work on it in the morning."

  "Oh"—Ryder finally lowered the pliers he was holding—"that reminds me. Elsie said you should take a ride in the horse-drawn carriage. It's free for Port Danby shop owners tonight. The driver wants to get the horse used to the street before he starts taking on paying customers tomorrow night."

  "Sounds like the shop owners are his guinea pigs."

  Ryder laughed. "I did see the horse balk at the overhead bells once or twice, but the driver seems to know what he's doing. Elsie mentioned that his name is Gerald Tate, and he's the great-grand nephew of Marty Tate, the lighthouse keeper."

  "Oh really? Then it seems I might meet the great-grand nephew before I meet the great uncle. I've been living in town since September, but I have yet to meet Marty Tate."

  Ryder looked up in surprise. "Really? I guess it makes sense. I think his arthritis keeps him indoors a lot. When I was in elementary school, we used to take field trips to the lighthouse. Marty would give each of us a vanilla wafer and a postcard on the way back to the bus."

  "That is so cute. We never had cool field trips like that. Although, in third grade we went to Burger King, and we all got to wear paper crowns and eat fries on the bus. That's all I remember about it." I grabbed a broom from the potting area and began sweeping up the remnants of mistletoe and other debris collecting on the floor.

  "You might be in luck tonight. I saw Marty riding in the carriage when they brought Elsie back to the bakery. He was bundled up in a scarf, hat and thick coat as if he intended on riding around for awhile."

  "That's great. I was going to head over to the police station. Maybe I'll take the carriage down there. Then I can finally meet Marty. I'm a big fan of the Pickford Lighthouse. It's one of the reasons I chose Port Danby for my new home."

  Ryder leaned back on his hands and turned his head side to side to check out his sculpture.

  "I know it's supposed to be a secret, but I see a bear," I said.

  He sighed with relief. "That's good to know. I was starting to worry it looked more like a mouse." He pushed to his feet and picked up the tools. "Well, I'm heading out. I'm meeting some friends for dinner in Chesterton. The carriage stops and drops off just before the Mod Frock. He's making the rounds about every fifteen minutes." He cupped his ear. "In fact, I hear the clip-clop o
f horse hooves right now. I'll finish sweeping. You go catch the carriage."

  An unbidden laugh rolled off my lips as I pictured myself waving it down like I used to do for a taxi in the city. "I will. But I'll sweep up tomorrow morning before we open. You go home and meet your friends."

  Ryder walked to the hook on the wall and pulled off his coat and beanie. "Why are you going to the police station?"

  "Nothing important. I've been scratching around looking for information about the Hawksworth murders, and I found something of interest to mention to Detective Briggs."

  Ryder glanced toward the front window. "There's the carriage. You should hurry. I'll lock up on my way out."

  "Thanks." I walked out to the sidewalk. One large, straw colored horse with a thick neck and billowy white mane and tail was steadily pounding the icy asphalt with its wide feet. The driver sat up tall and proud on the box seat of an open carriage in his black coat and top hat.

  I hurried my pace and reached the sign that had been posted for carriage rides. Beginning tomorrow night, passengers would be paying ten dollars for the short trip down to the wharf. I was sure the man would have a booming business. Who would pass up the chance to ride in a horse-drawn carriage?

  "Whoa, Mary, whoa," the driver said in a soothing tone. The horse's vision was blocked by the standard black blinders. A safety precaution, no doubt. Its bridle and head gear had been decorated with red ribbons, and the horse's mane, on closer inspection, had several rows of braids, also decorated with ribbon.

  "Hello there," the driver called down. "Are you a shop owner?"

  "Yes, I am. I'm Lacey Pinkerton of Pink's flowers." As I finished my introduction, the carriage waddled a bit and a passenger that I hadn't noticed leaned out past the driver's box.

  Kind gray eyes peered out from the narrow opening below the hat and above the scarf that was piled up in front of his face. Gloved hands reached up and pulled the green scarf away from his nose and mouth.

  "So I finally meet the flower shop girl." His voice was stuttering and weathered by the years, but I liked the sound of it.

  "You must be Mr. Tate," I said excitedly. "I've been anxious to meet you."

  "Then hop aboard." He lowered his hand out for me to take as I stepped up in to the carriage.

  I dropped into the tufted red velvet cushions and immediately drew my coat in closer around me. "Mr. Tate, I just want to say that my favorite sight on this entire coast is your lovely lighthouse."

  "Please, call me Marty." A gritty chuckle followed. "And I have to agree with you."

  I leaned back against the comfortable seats and watched the stars and lights roll past. "This is a great way to travel. I feel like I'm looking at the town with a whole new set of eyes. If someone ever figures out time travel, I'm heading straight back to the horse and buggy era."

  Marty laughed. "You'd get tired of it the second you discovered that there were no telephones or computers."

  "You're right. That would be a big drawback."

  "Dash tells me you live next to him on Loveland Terrace. My cousin Nina used to live in that house. That was years ago of course. There have been other families in there since."

  "I couldn't have found a more charming home. And it has a great view of the town."

  I could only see parts of his face, but it didn't look nearly as wrinkled as I'd expected. Maybe he wasn't as old as everyone purported him to be.

  "What do you think of that old, decaying mansion behind you? Bet you have a pretty good view of that too. That house was the pride of the town back when it was built. I remember it looking elegant and stately when I was a boy."

  Maybe the man just aged remarkably well.

  I sat forward with interest. "Did you know the Hawksworth family?"

  Even his grand nephew had a good laugh from that question.

  "No, I'm not quite that old. Even though the house wasn't occupied, it took many years until it started to decay. It was an architectural masterpiece. It's a shame it became a relic and a reminder of a terrible event."

  "I'm sorry. Of course, you couldn't have known them."

  "Not to worry. My mother knew the family. She grew up in Port Danby. Stop by the lighthouse sometime, and I'll show you pictures of the town in the old days. I've even got pictures of the lighthouse under construction."

  The carriage slowed as we reached the drop off place at the end of Harbor Lane.

  "I will absolutely make time to do that. And I'm so glad we finally got to meet." I looked up at the driver as I climbed out. "And thank you for the ride. It was quite memorable."

  I waved to Marty as the horse and carriage turned around and then I headed to the police station. I was in luck. Detective Briggs' car was still parked out front.

  Chapter 6

  Officer Chinmoor and Hilda, the woman who ran dispatch, had gone home for the night. But the door to Detective Briggs' office was open, which meant he was technically manning the front desk. He heard the door shut and walked out to the front counter. He had the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up, exposing a strong pair of forearms.

  "Miss Pinkerton, didn't expect to see you." For one brief, glorious evening, when everyone came to my house for Thanksgiving dinner, Briggs let down his professional facade and called me Lacey. In turn, I had called him James. It had sounded perfectly right when I said it too. But after the mashed potatoes, yams and pies had been divided up for leftovers and the holiday had come to a successful end, he switched back to Miss Pinkerton. I was disappointed, but it made sense. He was, after all, head detective for a long stretch of coastline.

  I fingered the plastic garland that Hilda had draped along the front of the counter. The police station was a bleak, dull place, but Hilda made subtle attempts to spruce it up for the holidays. Unfortunately, it was still a little depressing and cold. Maybe a Victorian kissing bough would help, I thought with a smile.

  "Is there something amusing about our holiday decorations?" Briggs asked.

  "Amusing, no. Sad, yes. I was just making a mental note of how I might bring a bit of festive atmosphere to this place."

  "It's a police station. I think plastic garland is about as festive as we can get. What brings you in here so late?"

  "A horse and carriage," I answered. "And the Hawksworth murder case."

  "Ah ha." He leaned his nicely chiseled forearms on the counter. "And how did you like the carriage ride?"

  "Actually, I'm feeling just a tad angry at Henry Ford for that whole motor car idea. I think the entire world would be much more delightful if we all traveled in carriages." From my side, the counter was too tall to rest my forearms, so I curled my fingertips over the edge and leaned closer. We were face to face and just a few feet apart.

  Under the ceiling lights, I saw that he had a tiny scar next to his eyebrow that I had never noticed before. Which was surprising because I had mentally catalogued just about every other attribute. "More delightful maybe but way less productive. And instead of streets being cluttered with cars they would be cluttered with . . . well, you know what happens around horses."

  I laughed. "I hadn't thought about that. Anyhow, back to the Hawksworth murder. I went to the library as you suggested. I found an article about Hawksworth breaking ground on a big shipyard."

  "Yes, that plan was squashed in the courts."

  "I figured something stopped it since there is no shipyard down on the beach. But I noticed something very interesting. There was a picture of Bertram Hawksworth signing the documents for the contract. And he was holding one of those nib pens that they used back then."

  "Why was that so interesting?"

  "Because he was signing with his left hand."

  He blinked at me, waiting for me to continue. But then his brows arched as if something had occurred to him. "The murder scene picture shows him holding the gun with his right hand," he said.

  "Exactly."

  "Hmm, interesting. You know there's a storage room where we keep boxes of evidence and reports from
all the past cases. The earliest box is dated 1899 when the milkman got angry at a customer and threw a bottle of milk at his head. I know this because I was bored one day and I decided to open the box to see just what the police were dealing with back at the turn of the century. There's a box for the Hawksworth case. I hadn't mentioned it because, unlike all the other boxes, it is small and light. The case was closed so fast nothing much went inside of it."

  I was practically on my tiptoes with interest as he went on about the box. Briggs was always good at reading my body language. He stopped his reasoning behind not bothering with the puny, near empty box and looked at me across the counter. "I take it you want to see the box."

  "Yes," I said quickly. "If it's all right. My pets are waiting for me at home, so I won't be long."

  "And you won't be long because, as I mentioned, the box is nearly empty. Don't get your hopes up too much." He buzzed me through to the official side of the counter and led me down a narrow hallway to a door. He unlocked the door and we headed down a set of metal stairs which ended at another door. Once again, he pulled out his keys to unlock the door.

  "Jeez, this place feels like a prison," I quipped.

  "Very funny." He opened the door and flicked on a light. The windowless basement room was filled with industrial shelving all piled high with boxes.

  My gaze circled the room. "My gosh. Port Danby must have been like the wild west at some point in time. How can there be so many boxes?"

  "Every crime, no matter how big or small, is stored inside this room. Not sure why, but I've been told by the higher ups to keep it all." Briggs headed to a corner shelf and pulled out a step stool. He climbed on top and reached up to the top shelf. He pulled out a box that was no bigger than a box for kid's sandals and stepped down.

  I stared at the box, trying not to show my disappointment.