I walked straight to the door and out into the melee on the sidewalk. Reporters and curious onlookers all craned their necks to see who had walked out of the police station. The frenzy I'd created with my exit quieted the second they saw that it was no one of interest, just the local flower shop owner. And certainly not anyone who had anything to do with the murder case.
But then, who was to say I couldn't do a little investigative work of my own? I'd helped put Jacob in this terrible predicament, and I was going to find him a way out. I might even solve the murder before Detective Briggs. That would show him.
Newly fortified, after the terrible blow I'd received just moments before, I walked purposefully and briskly to my shop.
Chapter 22
The impassioned pep rally in my head, the one that had fortified my determination to solve Jasper's murder without the assistance of the local detective, had grown silent as the morning progressed. What if the clues and my investigation led me straight to the conclusion I was trying to prove wrong? What if Jacob had killed Jasper in a fit of jealous rage? All the evidence certainly pointed to it. Maybe it was better for me to just step back and let the police do their work. As hurt as I'd been by Briggs telling me in his own gentlemanly way to 'butt out' perhaps he was right. I was too close to all the people involved. My views and opinions were tainted.
Ryder was at the potting table tucking herbs into decorative window pots. I had taken advantage of the morning lull to water the plants that were sitting on the outside cart. Several women walked out of Elsie's bakery twittering excitedly about the Mr. Darcy flyer in their hands. I had tried to talk sense into my friend, but Elsie seemed to think it would work out just fine in the end. In the meantime, Lester had definitely gained an advantage in the table war with his stylish counter height tables and stools. His tables were filled, and it wasn't even a peak time of day for coffee. In fact, it was more of a peak time for lunch, and my stomach reminded me that I'd left the house without breakfast.
I finished watering the pots. The news crews had finally trickled away from the police station and the town was quiet, so quiet it was almost hard to imagine that a murder had taken place just a mile away on Maple Hill. I was surprised not to see Hazel again after her early morning visit. I hoped that she wasn't too put off by my abrupt departure. I was sure I'd see her soon. With my banishment from the case, Hazel would most likely be my only source for information about the murder.
Lola was pulling an old red toy wagon out the door to display in front of her shop. She hadn't noticed me standing amongst my plant carts. I called her name, but she didn't hear me.
I carried the watering pot inside the store and put it in the sink. "Ryder, I'm going to walk across the street and see if Lola wants to get some lunch. I'm starved. Does that work for you?"
"Yep, my mom made me biscuits and gravy this morning with a side of sausage. I won't need lunch for awhile."
"Hmm, biscuits and gravy. My mom used to make those on cold Saturday mornings. Sometimes I just want to crawl back into my childhood and back into one of those Saturday mornings where the only things I had to worry about were which cartoon to watch and which friend to invite for a sleepover."
"Those were the days, huh? You go ahead, boss. And they might not be the same as your mom's but don't forget that Franki makes a rockin' plate of biscuits and gravy."
I pointed at him. "See, I need to think out of the box like you. I was thinking sandwich because it's lunch, but last I heard there was no law against breakfast at lunch. I'm going for it. Can I bring you back anything?"
"Nope, I'm good."
I grabbed my coat and headed across the street. Lola had gone back into the antique shop. Her dog, Late Bloomer, met me at the door. I stopped to give him a good rub before heading around the maze of shelves and displays to the counter. Lola was nowhere in sight.
"Hey there, I'm in the mood for Franki's biscuits and gravy." My words ricocheted off the displays, but no answer bounced back with them. "Lola," I called again.
Lola emerged from the office. She had a few old pictures clutched in her fingers. With all that had happened, I'd forgotten about the strange picture with the ghostly figure.
"Do you want to get some lunch?"
Lola walked past me and placed the pictures on the counter. She still hadn't said a word, highly unusual for loquacious Lola.
"I mean it doesn't have to be biscuits and gravy. You can order whatever you like," I added, confused by her silence.
She looked up at me with a sort of 'oh I didn't see you there' expression.
"Lola, hello? Have you heard anything I said?"
Lola pushed her curly red hair back behind her ear. "Yes, sorry. Lunch sounds good. I was still thinking about these pictures." She spread out four pictures on the counter. I was almost hesitant to look at them. They certainly had Lola in a fog.
I cautiously approached the counter as if someone might jump out of the pictures at me. Lola spun one around for me to look at. It was the same Georgian house, a large sprawling brick building with white columns and a half round portico over the front door. A woman, the same woman from the first picture, was dressed in full petticoats playing a game of croquet on the front lawn. There were several children playing the game along with the woman. It seemed a wholesome and pleasant enough scene. I looked up at Lola, who had been silently waiting for my reaction. "They are playing croquet," I said lamely.
Lola huffed brusquely, lifting several curly red strands of hair from her forehead. Her finger tapped the picture. "Look closely at the front stoop."
Rather than lift the picture, I lowered my face over the image and my gaze landed on the shady spot beneath the portico. I sucked in a sharp breath. The milky haze from the earlier picture was pressed against one of the white columns and once again the image of a tall, rather dapper looking man dressed in early nineteenth century Regency fashion seemed to be standing in the mist, his piercing dark eyes riveted on the woman playing croquet.
"That's just not possible," I uttered once I caught my breath.
Lola spun the first picture around. "And yet we are both seeing it. And since he's standing in this photo too, the first one can't just be a problem with the film or development process."
"I guess not but there's still no explanation. Maybe this man just has a really rich aura and we're seeing it around him in the pictures," I suggested and was met immediately with a turned lip and raised brow. "Yes, I suppose that sounds just as far-fetched as the alternative."
"Which is?" Lola asked.
"That the man is a ghost."
She released a breath. "Good. I was waiting for you to say it because frankly I've been starting to question my sanity over these pictures."
I picked up the first picture and turned it around. Someone had written the name Mary Richards, Firefly Junction, 1859 on the back. "There's some information on the back."
"I know. Instead of spending the last two hours dusting antiques I've been doing a little research. Firefly Junction is a small town on the eastern base of the Blue Ridge Mountains. It was a small mining town through most of the century but when the coal was drained out of the area, most families moved on. In the 1920's, it was revived by moonshiners and they made some good money with their stills. They used it to restore some of the town." She waved that information off as inconsequential. "It wasn't until I found an article about Cider Ridge Inn that things got interesting."
"Cider Ridge Inn?"
She pointed at the brick house in the picture. "There was a few articles about it with pictures because of its unusual past. It was built in 1815 by Cleveland Ross, a wealthy businessman who wanted a charming escape for his young bride, Bonnie. She loved the Blue Ridge Mountains, so he bought a parcel of land and had the house built for her. A few years into the marriage, Cleveland heard word from his family in England that a distant cousin, Edward Beckett, had gotten into some legal trouble. Apparently he was quite the rogue and black sheep but he was also a member of th
e gentry. The family decided to ship him off to America to save the family any further embarrassment. Gambling and women, I deduced from the few scant pieces of information I could find."
"I think I know where this is going. Edward Beckett had an affair with Cleveland's young wife."
"Yes. Which led to a duel. Naturally."
"Naturally."
"Beckett was shot in the shoulder. He didn't die right away. It seems that a very distraught Bonnie had the servants carry him inside the house where she nursed him and watched over him until he died. Cleveland sent his wife to live out the rest of her days with relatives and sold the house to the Richards family."
I looked down at the pictures and the ghostly image standing on the porch. "Do you think we're looking at Edward's ghost?"
"It would explain what we're seeing and why his clothes are so outdated. The Herbert family bought the place in 1920, presumably with moonshine money, after it had sat vacant for decades. They turned it into Cider Ridge Inn."
"You have done some very good detective work, my friend. And what a story. I wonder who is living there now?"
"It's in a family trust but it's vacant. Too many unexplained disturbances."
"I'll bet. These pictures?"
Lola shook her head. "Not sure how they got into the box of relics. My parents are on the east coast so they must have discovered them with the rest of the attic finds." She swept the photos into her hand and put them aside. "Enough of that. These stupid things are taking up too much of my time. I'm way behind on my work. Let's go to lunch. Unraveling ghost stories has made me hungry."
Chapter 23
Hazel looked as if she was bursting with news as she waited for me to finish with a customer. She impatiently tapped her feet on the tile floor as she pretended to look at the bouquet examples in the window. I hoped that she had some good news. Although it was probably silly to expect any good news after someone had been murdered.
I finished the order for a silver wedding anniversary to take place in March. It was a big order of purple irises and white roses for a party of a hundred people. I was thankful the party was still a month away, giving Ryder and me plenty of time to design arrangements and order supplies. The woman paid her deposit and left, pleased with the flowers she'd picked.
Hazel nearly jumped out of her coat to start talking the second the door shut. "The press finally got bored and left, but I think this town's haunted house attraction is going to get a lot of publicity. When they couldn't find out anything newsworthy about the current murder, they started taking pictures of the manor and delving into its sordid history. A murder-suicide of an entire prominent family made for an interesting diversion for the reporters. I was just glad to see the last news van roll away. This awfulness is not going to bode well for Georgio's Perfume."
I placed the silver wedding anniversary order into the binder and joined Hazel on the stool side of the counter. "Have you heard anything new?" I asked. "Did Baxter Redmond get to town?"
"I believe he arrived. Aside from what we've been telling each other, the rest of us are mostly in the dark." She unzipped her coat. "You probably know more than we do since you're assisting the detective."
"No, I'm not, actually. It's true he asks me to help with evidence collection from time to time, but I'm sitting this one out. Involuntarily," I added.
"Oh, why is that? I thought you and your nose had helped him solve more than one important case. I remember reading about some famous food blogger with a rabid fan base who got killed in the same hotel where we're staying this week." Hazel pushed off her coat. It seemed she'd be staying for awhile. Ryder had gone on a late lunch break, and I was actually pleased to have some company. It was one of those days where I was better off not left to my own thoughts.
"Yes, I did help Detective Briggs with that case. But this one is too close to home. At least according to the detective."
"That's a shame. Then again, maybe he's right." She had accepted the reasoning much easier than me. She sat on the stool and absently played with a few of the stray pieces of ribbon on the island. "I did find out a few juicy nuggets that you might not have heard now that the nice—and handsome—detective has cut you off."
I crinkled my nose at her phrase choice.
"You're right. My bad. Not cut you off but turned off the flow of information," she corrected. She shifted her bottom to get a more solid purchase on the stool as if whatever she had to tell me might just blow her right off the seat. "Remember I told you that Autumn and Jasper had planned to do some spa treatments while waiting for the rain to stop?"
"And according to the evidence in the trailer that was true."
"I know." She squished her face like a kid tasting broccoli. "Poor Jasper died with pink clay mask all over his face."
"How did you know?"
"Alexander told me. He's the one who found Jasper."
"Oh, of course."
"Anyhow, that brings me back to Alexander. Autumn told Lydia and me and, I can only assume, the police that she saw Alexander storming angrily out of Jasper's trailer just as she was walking over with her facial supplies. She asked him what was wrong, but he barely grunted a word in response. He just kept marching, fists curled, and nostrils flaring."
"Wow, that's a big reaction for Alexander. He's pretty mild mannered. Maybe Autumn was exaggerating."
"That could be. She's been known to do that. I even considered that she was making it up just to put another suspect into the detective's headlights," Hazel suggested. "After all, she and Jacob are an item," she added unnecessarily. "And then, of course, there was the discovery of a striped sock beneath Jasper's couch that didn't belong to him. Autumn was freaking out because the detective showed it to her and asked if it was hers. Which it was."
"Perfectly logical line of questioning." I walked over and picked up the broom from the work area and began sweeping the day's trimmings into a pile. It had been a long day, and I was looking forward to going home to be nudged and kneaded by my cat and glowered at by my crow for leaving him in his cage for the day. "Why was her sock there? I assumed it had something to do with spa day."
"Supposedly Autumn was planning on putting the mask on her feet too, but Jasper said he was tired and wanted to nap. That's when spa day ended, apparently. Autumn was mad. She searched for the sock but couldn't find it so she just put on her shoes, swept up her things and left. At least that's what Autumn told me that she told the police."
I looked up from my task. "Do you have any reason not to believe her?"
Hazel shrugged. "Autumn is not exactly a pillar of honesty. She obviously left upset with Jasper." Hazel had never cared for Autumn and it seemed she'd managed to talk herself into the possibility that the model was a suspect. "According to the timeline, Autumn was the last person to see Jasper alive."
"Other than the murderer," I added. "Hazel, early cancellation on an impromptu spa day is hardly enough to drive someone to murder."
She sloughed off the suspicious tone in her voice. "You're right. I'm just trying to make some sense of it all. I'm just so distraught about poor Jacob. Unless, of course, he's guilty, then I'm disappointed with myself for not really knowing the man. I have, after all, been his assistant for many years."
"And a good, loyal one at that. That's why you're searching for ways to prove him innocent. I feel the same sense of loyalty to Jacob, and he doesn't even deserve it from me. I just can't believe he'd do anything so heinous."
"Me neither. Now that you're not helping with the investigation, I guess we both just have to wait and see how this plays out."
My shoulders slumped. I hated being out in the cold on any case, and most especially on this one. "You know, Hazel, with you sort of still on the inside of this, maybe we can work together and find puzzle pieces."
She brightened. "Like private investigators?"
"Yes, like that."
She hopped off the stool and saluted me. "At your service, PI Pinkerton. If I find out anything I will re
port it directly to you. And if you hear anything, you can report it to me."
"Sounds like a plan, Hazel. Who needs that nice and, admittedly handsome, Detective Briggs? We'll figure this out on our own."
Chapter 24
My plans for a quiet evening with my pets were dashed just before closing when a glum looking Elsie walked into the shop.
"You were right, Pink. I'm a silly goose."
I pulled on my coat and reached for my scarf. "Is this about Mr. Darcy?"
"Yes. I'm trying to decide if I overestimated or underestimated people. I was sure everyone would reason out that they wouldn't be having tea with the real Mr. Darcy. But this morning, Ingrid Baines from over on Culpepper Road came into the bakery excited as a schoolgirl who'd been asked to the prom. She told me that her sister Betsy was flying in from California to meet Colin Firth. That was when it finally struck me that I'd made a big mistake."
"Oh, Elsie, did you tell her the truth?"
At sixty, Elsie was one of the fittest people on the planet. She had a posture that was so perfect, the word slouch wasn't even in her vocabulary. Or at least it wasn't until that moment. Her shoulders crumpled forward. "I couldn't. I didn't have the heart to tell her the truth. She looked so excited." Her face lit up with an idea. "Do you think I might be able to talk him into coming to Port Danby?"
"Who?"
"Mr. Darcy. Colin Firth. Maybe if I promised him a lifetime supply of my baked goods."
I tilted my head. "Pretty sure that idea isn't going to work. I'm sure he's a gentleman and a nice man, but I believe he's an Oscar winning actor. He might not have a lot of time to drop by Port Danby for tea and cupcakes."
Her shoulders deflated again. "You're right. I'm just getting sillier. Boy, I've learned my lesson. I no longer care how many people are sitting at my tables." She waved her arm in the direction of her brother's coffee shop. "Everyone can sit at Lester's fancy tables. Makes no difference to me." Since she'd made the same declaration many times, I just smiled and nodded.
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