Ryder poked his head out from the bay window as I walked into the shop. "How was the light show last night?"
"So you weren't there. I was looking around for you." I approached the window cautiously. He didn't tell me to stop. He'd covered the front panes with paper so no one passing by could see his work in progress. He'd asked me to stay clear too.
"Can I take a peek?" I asked.
"I guess."
He leaned out of the way as I looked into the window space. With wire and chicken coop fencing, white birch chips and white rose petals, Ryder had created an adorable three foot high polar bear who was sitting back in a snow drift made purely of white carnations. Two jolly sunflower seed penguins were halfway on their way to playing and tummy sliding through the carnation snow.
"Ryder—" I was nearly speechless. "You are so talented. I love it."
A wide smile crossed his face. "I wasn't too sure at first, but I think the bear turned out pretty cool."
"Are you kidding? I wish he wasn't made of perishable material. I'd keep him in that window all year." I pulled my eyes from the playful scene. "How did you get all this done?"
"My friends couldn't make it to the light show, which was fine. I've seen it so often. Some of the decorations are getting kind of tired and old. I decided to work on the window instead."
I smiled thinking about what Lola had said about the overused decorations. They had so much in common. "I feel guilty that you worked so late."
"Nah, I'm enjoying this. How was the flotilla?"
I tilted my head side to side to show I was slightly underwhelmed. "It was all right. I mean, don't get me wrong, it was spectacular to see all those sparkling lights against the backdrop of the black night sky. It reminded me of that Lite Bright toy I had as a kid. But there were so many people. It was just a touch too hectic for me."
"I could hear the noise all the way up here. Were you with Lola?" he asked unexpectedly.
"Uh, yes. I was. Elsie, Les, Dash, Lola and I walked down together." I certainly didn't need to mention that Lola left early for her date. "Which reminds me, I had several people ask me to make them a kissing bough. People have been admiring the one hanging in Lola's shop window. I hate to pull you from this monumental task, but if you could . . ."
Ryder pointed past me to my work island. "Already made four more spheres for you."
I sighed. "When you leave me to travel the arboretums and rain forests of the world, I'm just going to retire."
Even his deep laugh was likable. He turned back to the window display, and I headed to my office. As I passed the front door, I spotted Lola crossing the street looking like the cat who caught the mouse. I couldn't let her come inside and gush about her carriage ride. Ryder would overhear.
"I'll be right back, Ryder," I called and hurried out to meet her.
I could see the dreamy stars in Lola's brown eyes long before she reached the curb. "I was just coming to see you," she said. "Are you going somewhere?"
I badly wanted to let her know that I'd stepped out to spare Ryder the displeasure of hearing her gush about her date, but I kept quiet.
I motioned toward the Coffee Hutch. "I was going to go buy a hot cocoa. Since it seems you're bursting to tell me, how did things go last night?" I hadn't gotten much more out of Dash last night except that he just didn't get good vibes from Randall Dayton. That very general assessment wasn't enough to mention to Lola or ruin her newfound elation.
Lola hugged herself, and I was sure it didn't have to do with the chill in the air. "It was magical. We took a double ride and then we walked along the pier. We talked and laughed. Then we went into Franki's about midnight and shared a plate of pancakes. I wanted to pinch myself. And he's so handsome. Only one complaint. I think he smokes. I smelled tobacco on his clothes."
"Yuck. That's too bad." I was sure that dirty little fact would put a quick end to the budding romance. Like me, Lola had a huge distaste for cigarette smoking. I could usually detect a smoker from fifty feet away just by the smell on their clothes. "I didn't notice him smelling like tobacco when he walked into the diner. Maybe there were just too many other scents floating around. "
"I sat across from him and ate pie, and I didn't notice a thing. Even though I don't have a sensitive nose like you, I can always smell it on people. Like I did last night when I met Randall at the carriage stop. It was instant."
As we spoke, a siren sounded in the distance. It was a clear day so sound traveled far.
"I guess that sort of puts a quick end to it then," I said.
Lola's brows pushed up the edge of her beanie. "End to what?"
"The new romance?"
She gave a half-hearted shrug. She was obviously torn. "I could probably look past it as long as he doesn't light one up around me."
"I see." I tried not to sound judgy, but Lola knew I was being exactly that.
"We don't all have the two most eligible men in town vying for our attention, Pink. I can't be that picky. There just aren't that many totally perfect men in the world."
I looked pointedly back to my bay window, where, behind the strips of brown packing paper, a perfectly perfect guy who liked Lola was toiling away on my window display. "Right. And by the way, I don't have anyone vying for my attention."
"Right," she repeated curtly.
The sirens grew louder. There was more than one now. It seemed that people were migrating toward the wharf. I was glad for the diversion from our conversation. "I wonder what's going on?"
Lola and I both walked toward the street to get a better view of the beach. Red flashing lights and screaming sirens startled us as they raced past on Harbor Lane.
"Something has happened down at the marina." I hurried to the flower shop and poked my head inside.
Ryder was out of the window. "I just saw emergency vehicles. What's happening out there?"
"Not sure. I'm going to head down to the marina and find out. I'll be right back." Lola had gone back to her shop. I knew she wasn't terribly pleased with me after our chat. I hadn't meant to crush her romantic dreams. I'd apologize later. After I found out just what the heck was going on down by the water.
I wasn't the only curious person rushing along the sidewalk to Pickford Marina. I noticed that Detective Briggs' car had moved from in front of the station to a block away at the entrance to the pier. His assistant, Officer Chinmoor, was trying his hardest to keep onlookers from swarming the pier and, more specifically, the fish cleaning station. That seemed to be where the activity was happening.
Like a salmon swimming upstream, I hurried past the people being directed off the pier. I spotted Detective Briggs with his notebook looking at something behind the brick retaining wall where fishermen stopped to clean their catch. It was a favorite hangout for pelicans, seagulls and other seafaring birds, but there were no hungry birds hovering overhead today. The human ruckus below had scared them off.
I headed toward Detective Briggs. Officer Chinmoor's long thin arm stretched out to stop me.
"Sorry, Miss Pinkerton, I can't let you through. This is a crime scene."
Detective Briggs heard him mention my name. He glanced back over his shoulder. "It's all right, Officer Chinmoor, you can let her through." My heart did a little skippity skip, but I had to quickly tamp that down. From the solemn looks on the faces around me, it seemed I was about to see something grim and a skipping heart just wasn't appropriate.
I reached Detective Briggs' side and stepped around to the back of the wall. Chad Ruxley was curled on his side between a pile of discarded fishing nets and two broken pallets. And from the pallor of his skin, my brief medical training assured me he was dead.
Chapter 13
Chad Ruxley, the stout, forty something owner of Ruxley Plumbing and the owner of the twenty foot sailing sloop Sea Gem looked peaceful, almost as if he'd decided to just curl up for a nap amongst the worn out fishing nets. He had on a bright blue sweater and a khaki colored winter coat, and his hands were covered with black gl
oves. But his face was a ghastly gray, and his lips and fingertips were as white as the piles of snow around him. In a macabre twist, a festive piece of tartan ribbon was jammed between his chin and his chest.
Nate Blankenship, the local coroner, was already at the scene. He was crouched near the body checking for rigor mortis and body temperature. A dead body slowly loses its biological warmth and reaches ambient temperature or the temperature of its surroundings.
The coroner stood. "The temperature is just above freezing out on this wharf, which makes things a little harder to calculate because it slows down rigor mortis, but I'd say this man died at about eleven o'clock last night."
Briggs added that to his list of notes. "That makes sense. The crowds would have cleared out by then. I wasn't here last night, but Hilda said the light show and festivities ended around ten."
"James, (The coroner and Briggs were on a first name basis. Lucky Nate.) did you notice the lump on the back of his head?"
Briggs put his notebook in his pocket and walked around to where the coroner was kneeling. He crouched down with a gloved hand and felt the spot on the back of Ruxley's skull. "That's why you're the doctor, and I just piece together the evidence," Briggs said to Nate.
Nate pulled back Ruxley's collar to expose a grisly cut and bruising on his neck. "The marks on his neck are obvious and consistent with this piece of ribbon. It's the kind my wife uses to make holiday bows for the tree. It has wire running along each side to make it easy to shape."
They stood up and pondered the position of the body. I couldn't stop myself from interjecting. "It certainly doesn't look as if he struggled at all. It almost looks as if he just curled up here by the nets to nap. Maybe he was knocked unconscious first and then strangled."
Nate Blankenship had only met me briefly at a murder scene in Mayfield when a popular food blogger was killed with her favorite coffee creamer. He knew I'd had a hand in solving that crime with my super sense of smell, so rather than look askance at my help, he seemed to welcome it. Especially after Briggs told him I had also spent several years in medical school.
Nate nodded approvingly at my assessment. "Since he didn't struggle or fight someone off, I probably won't find any skin or DNA under the victim's fingernails." He elbowed Briggs. "Which makes your job that much harder."
"Detective Briggs." Officer Chinmoor came up behind us. He was fidgeting with his gun belt, something he did when he was nervous. "We've got Timothy Ruxley here now. I haven't told him the news yet. There were no other people on the victim's boat. He appeared to be alone."
Briggs sighed. "Another part of the job that's hard. If you'll excuse me, Nate. The victim's brother was out here on one of the other boats. I need to break the news to him. I'll ask him if he wants to identify him right now or wait until he's taken to the morgue. Sometimes that is less shocking."
Detective Briggs walked around us and out to the pier where Tim Ruxley stood, looking rather pale and rubbing his arms and shoulders for warmth. White, hazy breaths puffed from his mouth as he nervously eyed the emergency vehicles and personnel around the wharf.
"The air is especially frigid this morning so scent molecules will be scarce," Nate noted, bringing my attention back to the murder scene. "But maybe you'd like to take your nose for a spin around the victim's clothing and hair. There might be some invisible evidence that needs sniffing out."
"Of course. And yes, I agree the weather is going to make it a difficult task." I crouched down next to the body and hovered my face over him. It was always an eerie feeling to get so close to a dead person, as if at any second they might pop open their eyes and yell surprise and send me straight into orbit. But Chad Ruxley wasn't going anywhere, and from the terrible bruising on his neck and the shade of blue around his mouth, I was certain he wouldn't be yelling surprise again . . . ever.
The glacial air and the strong fish odor wafting off the nets masked any scents on Ruxley's clothing. It seemed he ate something with onions the night before, possibly a burger or steak. As I pushed my face closer and drew my nose along his coat, I noticed a small rip in the fabric just below the coat pocket. A section of the khaki material was gone. I moved back toward his neck and ran my nose closer to the ribbon, the decorative murder weapon. Two smells mingled together around the ribbon and the collar of his sweater, making it hard to distinguish one from the other. One reminded me of the glue Lola was using to fix the vase and the other was sweeter, like the smell of wood. I made a mental note of what I thought they might be and finished my nasal inspection. Other than the unexpected odors around the ribbon and the sweater, there was nothing to report.
As I stood, I saw that Detective Briggs was leading Timothy Ruxley to the body. The man didn't look nearly as distraught as I'd expected. But then they had parted ways. And that thought reminded me of what I'd witnessed as I ate my turkey sandwich on the beach.
I waited quietly off to the side as Tim Ruxley gave a positive identification of the murder victim. "Yes that's Chad," he said quietly. For a second I thought I detected a waver in his voice. But it might have been my imagination.
Detective Briggs took a few contact details down from the victim's brother before walking over to talk to me. "Miss Pinkerton, were you able to detect anything of note on the victim?"
I hesitated, not sure if I had anything solid enough to share, but I forged ahead. "First, something I noticed that you might have already seen. There is a tear in the shell of his coat, and it seems a piece of fabric is missing."
He tapped his notepad. "Yes, I made note of that. Anything else?" I was thrilled to have him value and trust my smell skills so much. But I was disappointed that I didn't have anything concrete.
"When I was smelling the ribbon and the collar of his sweater, two things drifted out to Philomena." I pointed to my nose.
He responded with a questioning brow lift.
"You're right. Now that I hear it out loud, it doesn't work at all. Anyhow, back to the smells. They were sort of dancing around each other, so it was hard to pinpoint either one. And then there are the terribly foul smelling fish nets. And, of course, Philo—my nose doesn't work as well when it's cold outside, but I smelled a fresh woodsy fragrance. And in between little sparks of the woodsy fragrance, I caught whiffs of something chemical. Some kind of solvent or glue or possibly a paint thinner of some kind. I'm sorry I can't be more specific. The traces of scent are miniscule and circumstances are making it too difficult to get a solid smell."
Briggs pulled out his notepad and wrote down my rather rambling, disjointed description.
"I'm sorry I can't be more definitive," I said.
"Not at all. Each of the those smells falls into a pretty specific category of odors. They might just help." He glanced back to see that Tim Ruxley was gone. "Frankly, the brother's reaction was fairly underwhelming. Even if they were estranged, it would be shocking to hear that your brother had been murdered. And during a holiday festival event. I think we'll be starting with him as a possible person of interest."
I nodded quickly. "And, on that account, I can give you something much more concrete. Yesterday, after you left the pier, I walked down to the water to eat the rest of my turkey sandwich. Something caught my attention out near the boats—" I stopped and drew in an excited breath. "Oh my gosh, I just remembered what it was that caught my attention. It was the pungent smell of varnish." I had to slow down so Briggs could keep up with his pen. "Timothy Ruxley was painting varnish over the hand painted nutcracker standing at the railing of his boat. The boat you were admiring yesterday, the Cloud Nine."
Briggs looked up when things clicked in his mind. "Varnish? Do you think that's the smell on his clothes?"
I scrunched my nose. It was really hampered by the cold. "I'm not sure, but it could be. But that's not all. While he was painting the nutcracker, his brother"—I nodded respectfully toward the body—"rowed up to the Cloud Nine. He climbed on board. Uninvited, I could only assume, due to the cold greeting he got from Timothy.
They argued loudly for a few minutes and then Chad climbed back down to his boat and rowed away."
"Did you catch what the argument was about?"
"I couldn't make out the words, but the body language and the angry faces assured me it was an argument."
Briggs put away his notes. "We're going to finish up here, Miss Pinkerton. You've been a great help this morning. I hate to take up any more of your time, but—"
"Yes," I said with way too much zeal.
He released a quiet laugh. "I guess you've anticipated what I'm about to ask you."
I tapped my head. "Like our minds are synced up. You want me to go on board the Cloud Nine with you and sniff around for the matching smell on Ruxley's clothes."
He smiled. "I guess we do think in unison."
"Like two choreographed detective brains."
"I can't search the boat without a warrant. And even then, this is a unique predicament. I'm pretty fuzzy on maritime law and boundaries, but I'd probably need to get the coast guard involved. Still, I thought you could twitch that little button nose around and see if anything is amiss."
"My button nose and I are at your service. Just text me and I'll come by the station when you're ready to go out to the boat."
"Great. Thanks."
"No, Detective Briggs, thank you. I'm in need of a good mystery to solve." I looked politely toward the victim. "No disrespect to you, Mr. Ruxley, of course."
"I'll see you later then, Miss Pinkerton."
"Yes you will, Detective Briggs."
Chapter 14
I held up my newly finished kissing bough to admire and decided it needed a colorful bow on top. The bough had turned out so nicely, I decided to hang it in my shop. Ryder had already volunteered to climb the step ladder and add a hook to the ceiling.
I checked my phone for the hundredth time to see if Detective Briggs had texted. I chastised myself for being so excited about a new murder case. But I just couldn't slow the rush of adrenaline. And it didn't hurt that I'd be working alongside my favorite detective either. When we weren't working on a case together, we were both so busy with our jobs and other aspects of our lives, we rarely spoke or saw each other. It was sort of depressing to think that a murder had to happen for the two of us to hang out together. But I'd accepted it as a fact of life. And now, someone had died by nefarious means, which was terrible and tragic, of course, but it also meant I would get to solve a case with Briggs. Or at least try to solve it. The last two cases had been successful, but there was never any guarantee that a case would come to a conclusive end. Much like the Hawksworth murders. I was sure that if that poor family had been murdered in this century, the sketchy evidence wouldn't have been so quickly considered concrete and the true perpetrator would have been found. And I was certain that the murderer was not the left-handed Mr. Hawksworth.
Mistletoe and Mayhem Page 6