Ryder was running late due to a flat tire, so I was alone in the shop. Naturally, it was a busy morning. Two separate pairs of customers were browsing my centerpiece portfolios. One pair needed something elegant for a winter social, and the other needed flowers for a sixtieth wedding anniversary. Both pairs were still deep in discussion and debate, so I took a moment to pull our sidewalk chalkboard outside. It was a reminder for people to order their Thanksgiving table centerpieces early. I positioned the chalkboard so that people driving along Harbor Lane could read it.
My gaze inadvertently swept toward the beach. I just happened to catch Heather, the photographer, hurrying across the street to Franki's Diner. Her camera was around her neck, and she clutched her camera bag in her hand. Both objects were somewhat cumbersome, but she managed to get across quickly.
I walked back inside. My customers were still perusing the portfolios. I considered that a good sign. I offered a plethora of beautiful choices, so many that it was hard to choose.
I headed over to the potting station to plant some tiny lavender into pots. I was elbow deep in potting soil when the door opened. "Be right with you," I called.
There was no answer, but I felt a warm presence behind me. I spun around. "James, I wasn't expecting you this morning." I reached for a towel and wiped my hands. "Any news on the latest murder?" I asked as quietly as possible.
Briggs looked around at the customers browsing my bouquet notebooks and motioned for me to follow him outside so we could talk more freely about murder and gunshots.
"It seems we're looking for one killer. The same gun was used to kill Glenda Jarvis. Still no sign of the weapon. Here's more craziness to make this a harder case. Just like with Lionel Dexter, we can't seem to find any family or previous existence of Glenda Jarvis. They both appear to have just popped spontaneously onto earth."
"What about Marco Plesser, the owner of the boat? It seems like he might be key in all of this," I suggested.
"Yes but he's a dead key."
"What? You mean there's a third victim?"
Briggs glanced around as two women strolled past. He nodded and smiled hello, then returned to our conversation. "Marco Plesser died in 2007."
"A stolen identity?" I asked.
The woman who seemed to be taking the lead on the sixtieth anniversary popped her head out the door. "Sorry to interrupt, but we've made a decision."
"Wonderful. I'll be right there." I turned back to Briggs. He had a nice amount of dog hair on the front of his coat. I brushed it off. "Someone got a Bear hug this morning before he left the house."
"And a slobbery kiss to go with it. I'm just glad my neighbor has offered to have Bear over during the day to hang out with his dog. I was starting to feel guilty about leaving him home alone so much. Now he can't wait to head over to the neighbor's house."
"I'll bet he loves it. I've got to head inside. Before I do, I'm going to tell you my new theory, in light of this new information."
He smiled. "Looking forward to hearing it."
"Lionel Dexter was one of those terrible men who preyed on vulnerable women, pretending to be in love with them so he could take them for everything they had. Just not sure how Glenda or, whatever her name was, fit into his scheme."
Briggs glanced around and leaned forward for a quick kiss. "Good theory. I think we're both on the same page. If that's the case, he probably had a lot of enemies. I'll let you go sell flowers. See you later. Maybe dinner tonight if I can break free."
"Sounds good. Have a nice day, Detective Briggs."
"Same to you, Miss Pinkerton."