Whenever it seemed as if Detective James Briggs and I had reached a new level with our friendship, a level that verged on a possible romantic connection, then we both got too busy to follow through on it. I hadn't seen him in several weeks. As always, he was a sight to see. Especially today. Aside from the very cute sidekick, instead of his usual detective suit, Briggs was wearing a dark blue t-shirt, jeans and black boots, signaling that he had a rare day off. He was lead detective for a stretch of coastal cities, and it seemed he was always on duty or being called in to investigate some calamity or other.
"I don't know if you realize this, but you're wearing a puppy at the end of your hand. It suits you very well, by the way."
Briggs' half smile creased his cheek. "Yes, I noticed. And I was hoping you could help me figure out what to do with my new friend."
"I think that's my cue to leave." Lola hopped up and patted the puppy on the head before strolling out. Of course she shot me a secret wink before walking through the door.
I grabbed the can of dog treats, causing Kingston to start his perch dance.
"Not for you, silly crow. It's for our visitor."
The puppy was spotted gray with big floppy ears and a white chest. He looked like a mix of every large dog breed on the official dog breed list. "He's quite a canine concoction." I held up the treat. "Does Dad mind if I give him a goodie?"
"No, I mean yes . . . to the treat. But I'm not Dad. Someone dropped him off in front of the station. They tied him to the lamppost with a rope and stuck a bowl of water nearby. I guess they decided not to keep him and thought that the police station was the place to leave him."
The pup eagerly took the treat from my fingers. I rubbed his head and ears. "He's so cute. Did you think of a name?"
Briggs had extra beard stubble and his longish hair was combed back so that it turned up on the back of his shirt collar. "No, because if I name him, he'll think he belongs to me. And he doesn't. Do you know anyone who wants a big, goofy puppy? So far, he's only inflicted minor damage to my couch and the legs of my kitchen table."
I smothered a laugh behind my fingers. The puppy finished his treat and jumped up on Briggs with massive front paws.
"I think he's already decided that he belongs to you, name or not. I think you look good with a dog."
Ryder came back in from lunch. "A puppy!" He made a beeline for the dog. "Man, what a cool dog. What's his name?"
"Detective Briggs isn't going to name him because he doesn't want to give the pup false hope."
"Do you need a dog?" Briggs asked Ryder. "He's really friendly and only eats certain flavors of furniture."
Ryder laughed. "I'd take him in a heartbeat if I wasn't living at my mom's. She's got three yappy little dogs. I don't think they'd be too happy to see this guy walk through the door." Ryder lifted one of the dog's paws. "According to this, your new buddy is going to be gigantic."
"Yep, that's why I've got to find him a new buddy. My house isn't that big."
Ryder patted the pup again. "Too bad. A dog like this is a total girl magnet. Not that a guy like you would need a wingman," Ryder added quickly. "I'm going to start on that window display, boss."
I turned back to Briggs. The puppy was gnawing on the leash. "Are you sure you want to get rid of your big, fuzzy girl magnet?"
"That's what my motorcycle is for," he said, dryly. "And it doesn't chew up my furniture." He glanced over at Ryder, who had set right to work on the tulip display. "Actually, I was hoping you'd have time for a walk down to the beach. I find that the puppy causes less destruction if he's tired."
I smiled politely, keeping up a cool facade, even though my heart had jumped ahead of its usual pace. "I've got time. A walk to the beach would be nice."
Chapter 3
Detective Briggs and I had danced shyly around each other during the first half of the walk, chatting amicably about innocuous things like how fast the grass in the town square was growing now that spring had returned and the tasty new pickle relish at the marina hot dog stand. It seemed it always took us time to get comfortable with each other after we'd been apart. Although comfortable wasn't really the term. We'd been relaxed with each other almost from the first moment I stumbled into his murder case when Beverly Kent was found dead in her pumpkin patch. Ironically, it seemed that as our relationship turned the corner to something more than a working friendship, we grew less at ease with each other.
It was a little ghoulish to think it, but it seemed we needed a murder in town to help melt the ice again. I decided, instead, to settle for the girl magnet trotting ahead of us with his tail curled high in the air. Animals were always the best ice breakers, and puppies were at the top of the list for conversation starters that led to something other than a discussion about growing grass or tasty relish.
The puppy loped along just a few inches ahead of his floppy ears and on paws that were the size of Elsie's jumbo blueberry muffins. Ryder was right. He was going to be a big dog. "I think you should call him Axl. It's a tough, cool name, fitting for a detective's dog."
"Not keeping the puppy, Lacey. I don't have time for a dog."
The puppy looked back, his tongue dangling out the side of his mouth.
"Look, he knows we're talking about him. And he's smiling at you." The dog turned back around and barked at several gulls perched on the railing of the pier. Seasoned gulls that they were, they barely flinched or twittered a feather. They seemed to understand that the big, slobbering monster was attached to a tether, which was, in turn, attached to a human.
Briggs looked sideways at me. "That wasn't a smile. He's always wearing that same big, goofy expression. Even when he's sleeping. The only time he isn't wearing it is when the leg of my kitchen chair is in his mouth."
I laughed and secretly patted myself on the back for breaking us out of our stilted conversation. "You need to buy him some chew toys. Otherwise, a dog his size could take down a house faster than a swarm of termites. Tom and Gigi carry a lot of dog chew toys in the Corner Market. Maybe Gigi could even knit Axl a sweater. Blue and gold, something with a sort of law enforcement vibe to it." I looked ahead at the dog. "Now that I've used the name in a sentence, it's not working for me. He needs to be a little more edgy looking if he's going to be called Axl."
"Edgy? I had no idea dogs could be edgy. Lacey, I'm not keeping the dog."
"You're just a big ole doggy pooper." I laughed. "Wow, that came out in all kinds of wrong. Harley is a cool name for the dog of a guy with a motorcycle, but the sweater would have to be orange and black then, or—"
"Lacey," Briggs said sharply.
"Right. Sorry. No dog for Detective Briggs and his collection of fine furniture."
"I never said it was fine. I just prefer my kitchen chairs to have four equal legs when I sit down to breakfast."
Just as Ryder had mentioned, a group of five budding artists were sitting in a half circle, a wooden easel in front of each of them as they dragged long brush strokes of oil paint along white canvases. Even from the distance, I could see that several of the painters were highly skilled. It was easy to spot Ryder's friend, Denise, because she was the youngest of the group. She was a pretty girl with dark, curly hair and almond-shaped brown eyes. Maybe a new girl in Ryder's life would shock Lola out of her relationship with Chuck. Or maybe that was just my wishful thinking.
I stared up at the pointy black hat on the top of the spire. The large glass eye of the lantern gazed out over the catwalk and across the rippling emerald sea. "That lighthouse is wonderful on any day, but it always looks especially picturesque when the white spire is contrasted by a bright blue sky."
"I never noticed that, but you're right."
We stopped to let the puppy sniff and roll on the grassy hill leading up to the lighthouse. Briggs lifted his sunglasses to get a better look at the group. "I know that woman up front, the one who seems to be in charge. Ms. Dean used to teach art at Chesterton High."
I looked over at him. "You took art?"
I shrugged. "Just don't see you with a paint brush and painter's smock. Were you any good?"
"Nope. But I had a choice for my elective class—fine arts with Ms. Dean or home economics with Mrs. Groffett. I figured splashing some paint around a canvas would be way easier than baking muffins."
"And was it?"
"Nope. I should have gone for the muffins. I thought I would just get to hang out, watching the kids who were skilled make pretty pictures, while I messed around with my friends and flirted with cute girls. I almost failed the class and nearly didn't graduate because of Ms. Dean."
"How'd you squeak through?"
"Ms. Dean liked me well enough to let me turn in some extra credit."
"Then we should walk over and say hello to the teacher who saved your high school graduation." I started the hike across the lawn, but Briggs seemed less enthusiastic about the idea.
Fortunately, the puppy decided for him. Without warning, the dog jumped up to its thunder-paws and loped after me, pulling the reluctant detective along behind him.
Not wanting to cut through the group and interrupt the view or their concentration, and, at the same time, wanting to avoid any potential calamity that might follow a clumsy, rambunctious puppy into a circle of easels, I carved a path around the art group, a path that took the three of us along the green hedge bordering the lighthouse keeper's garden fence. Marty Tate, the man who had been in charge of the lighthouse for decades was knelt down in front of his powder white house planting a fiery display of orange and yellow snapdragons. It was rare to see Marty out and about. No one seemed to know how old he was, but I'd met Marty on a horse and carriage ride at Christmas and found him to be extraordinarily charming. Seeing him reminded me that he had pictures and stories about the Hawksworth Manor, the infamous site of a century old family murder, that I desperately wanted to see.
"Hello, Mr. Tate," I called as loudly as possible. The constant churn of the sea below and the relentless on-shore breeze swallowed my voice. He didn't notice us until we were in his side view.
Marty looked up from his task. I waved and Briggs said good morning. Marty pulled off his gardener's gloves and moved to stand up. I held up my hand to stop him. "No, please don't stop on our account. We just wanted to say good morning."
Deep lines crisscrossed Marty's forehead and cheeks as he smiled. "Good morning. If you're interested, I'll have the lighthouse open for visitors this weekend."
"Interested?" I said excitedly. "Of course, I am. Thanks so much for letting us know. Happy planting." I turned back to Briggs. "Now the gardening bug has bit me. I'm going to have to plant some colorful perennials at my house."
"James Briggs," a voice called across the way. Briggs sort of froze. He pushed a smile up on his face, a smile that took some concerted effort, before he turned to face his high school teacher.
Ms. Dean had been walking around, commenting on her students' work when she spotted us standing at Marty's gate.
"Ms. Dean." Briggs stepped forward to meet her but was beaten to it by the puppy. The art teacher was slightly taken aback by the outgoing dog but then reached to pet his head. Briggs yanked on the leash to pull the dog back. "My apologies. How are you, Ms. Dean?"
"Please call me Jodie. I'm no longer a teacher, and you're no longer a student." She glanced my direction and nodded.
"Excuse me," Briggs said hastily. "This is my friend, Lacey. She owns Pink's Flowers in town."
We smiled politely at each other. Jodie Dean was a fifty something woman with short, unruly hair that she had trained back with clips. Her shorts and blouse were a few sizes too small, and she kept tugging at the hems. She had a deep, commanding tone, and I could easily picture her in front of a class of twenty high school students instructing them on the proper techniques of sketching.
"James Briggs," Jodie said with a pleasant grin. Her tone indicated that she hadn't lost her fondness for her former student. "You're the second Chesterton Tiger I've seen today. I'm sure you remember your football teammate Dashwood Vanhouten. In fact, when I think back to those days, you two were friends."
Briggs' already perfect posture straightened more at the mention of the name. "Yes, I remember him." He was literally answering through clenched teeth as if it pained him to admit that he knew Dash. And now it seemed they had been more than just two guys on the same team. They'd been friends, according to Jodie Dean. I still hadn't discovered the reason that Briggs hated my neighbor, Dash, and I wasn't sure I would ever know. Or that I wanted to know. I admired and enjoyed the friendship of both men, and I dreaded finding out something that might cause me to dislike one or both of them. So I kept my head in the sand about it and refrained from asking either of them any details. I also worked hard not to bring up one in front of the other. Briggs had an especially hard time hearing about anything that had to do with Dash, and it seemed Jodie Dean's mention of him had just soured the lovely morning walk.
"Your students seem to be doing a wonderful job capturing the romantic mystique of our town's lighthouse," I said quickly, hoping to save the afternoon.
"Thank you." Some short curls popped free of her clips as she turned back to glance at the ring of canvases. "Some better than others. But they are all very dedicated. Letty, the young woman wearing the green smock, is new to the group. She is already showing great promise."
"So you left teaching in a classroom to teach out on location," Briggs said. The puppy had collapsed down at his feet for an impromptu nap.
Jodie laughed. It was a strong, somewhat rehearsed laugh. "I only teach part-time. I also work as an art dealer. Well, I should get back to my students. It was good seeing you again, James." She winked. "I mean Detective Briggs."
We turned back toward the marina and toward town. The momentary anger from hearing Dash's name had thankfully vanished. The puppy hopped up from his quick snooze, refreshed and energized. He bounded ahead of the leash, only to quickly be reminded of its existence. But that didn't stop the dog from galloping across the grass like an excited horse.
Briggs shook his head. "Now that's what I call a power nap."
Chapter 4
As we headed back, our insistent four-legged tour guide led us toward the activity in the town square. Sellers were arranging their goods and wares for the annual flea market. Mayor Price had used part of the sellers' fees to have a temporary chain link fence constructed around the tables so that the items could be safely set out ahead of the market. This was my first early spring in my new town, so it would be my first Port Danby Flea Market. I was looking forward to it. From what I could see, Fiona Diggle wasn't the only person to haul out attic relics. Rusty toy wagons, bicycles that looked as if they'd seen many miles, faded movie posters, old books and every size and shape and color of glassware cluttered the sellers' tables.
Lola had given a vivid, snippy description of her main competitor, Fiona Diggle, but instead of a craggy, ancient old woman standing behind century old attic finds, a tiny woman with snow white hair, a radiant smile and the cutest frilly yellow work apron was carefully lining some antique dolls up on her table. But Lola had not exaggerated about the attic treasures. I didn't know much about antiques, but it seemed buyers were going to swarm Fiona's collection. She had some truly lovely and aged items.
Lola was bent down, her upper body parallel to the ground as she pushed with all her weight on a large steamer trunk. The cumbersome, unwieldy chest barely moved on the roughly mowed grass. And as she pushed and grunted and turned red in the face, her block-headed boyfriend stood ten feet away in the shade looking at his phone.
Briggs handed me the leash and hurried ahead to help Lola move the trunk.
Lola wiped the sweat off her brow as she thanked Briggs for his help. She shot Chuck an angry scowl and tried, unsuccessfully, to wash it away before I caught it.
"I guess you could have used some extra hands after all," I said as I looked deliberately in Chuck's direction. The oa
f was still reading his phone, completely oblivious to everything happening around him.
Lola wriggled slightly from head to toe, trying to assure me she didn't mind that he was in the shade on his phone while she pushed heavy objects in the hot sun. "He's just taking a break."
"So I see." Stop, Lacey, I told myself. Let Lola figure this out on her own. She's an adult. I focused my attention on her collection of antiques and, in particular, a hexagon shaped box when a terse, familiar voice shot across the town square. My shoulders bunched up around my ears.
"Detective Briggs," Mayor Price said even louder after Briggs ignored the first bellow.
Briggs leaned his head closer to me. "The guy never thinks I have a day off."
"Briggs, I need to talk to you.” Mayor Price with his angry red complexion and combative demeanor marched toward us.
"I was going to tell you to ignore him, but I'd rather he didn't come over here. He gets even more red faced and belligerent when he sees the irritating flower shop owner," I said quickly.
"I'm sure he wants to ask about parking for the flea market."
"It seems this town can't function without you, Detective Briggs." Our smiling gazes met and locked for a quiet moment. They were silent exchanges that happened occasionally and unexpectedly, and I always looked forward to them. "I'll keep an eye on your new best friend."
The puppy dropped down to rest under the shade of Lola's table. Briggs walked reluctantly toward the mayor. I was relieved not to have to come face to face with the man. Our last meeting was inside the flower shop, when he stopped in to buy Valentine's Day flowers for his wife. I'd bravely forged ahead with a few questions about some of his relatives, namely his great-grandfather Harvard Price and a great aunt named Jane. It seemed Jane Price had acted as Port Danby treasurer for a short time before leaving town suddenly. The current Mayor Price turned beat red and let me know that he didn't appreciate my digging into his family's past. He shut down my inquiry in his usual brusque manner. His abrupt reaction only increased my insatiable need to learn more about the Price family and its long legacy in Port Danby.
Tulips and Trouble Page 2