It certainly didn't take a sixth sense or clairvoyant skills to know something was amiss at Dandelion Inn. Flashing red lights splashed glowing shadows over the property, causing the Victorian style house to look more sinister than delightful. An ambulance waited, its rear door wide open, at the top of the driveway. The remainder of the curbside was taken up by a fire truck, a paramedic truck and two police cars.
I pulled past the chaotic scene and parked my jeep in front of the next house. Curious and stunned neighbors had wandered out from their houses, some in pajamas and robes, to see what was happening. I walked past one woman who had pulled a snow parka over a pair of pink pajamas. She was holding her cat. The animal didn't seem the least bit frightened of all the activity.
"Do you know what's happened?" I asked her.
"No idea." She stroked her cat's head. "I'll bet that terrible ghost has been up to no good. I hear she likes to play tricks on the guests. Maybe someone had a heart attack from fright," she suggested. It was plain to see that she was making up a scenario as she went.
I forged ahead. As a reporter, I'd learned that if you appear confident, emergency personnel tend to assume you belong at the scene. I strode up the driveway past several firemen talking on the front lawn. They looked my direction.
"Evening," I said calmly and kept walking right up the front steps and through the open front door. I was immediately met with a distressing sight. Rex and Jamie were doing their best to console Angela, who was bent over with sobs.
"How can it be?" she groaned between sniffles. Her face was red and wet from crying. "We were just finishing up with his latest blog post. It's not possible."
Jamie spotted me in the foyer. "Miss Taylor? When did you arrive?"
Angela peered up from her hunched over position just long enough to see me. She immediately covered her face and crumpled into sobs again.
Jamie left his position at her right side, allowing Rex to take over for him.
"I came back to see how the research was going," I said. "What's happened?"
He leaned over to speak quietly, although whatever it was he had to tell me I doubted it was a secret anymore. "Kenneth fell down the stairs. Hit his head."
I peered up at him in question, waiting for him to finish.
"He's dead," he whispered.
A shadow loomed in the glow from the outside lights. "Now you're even beating me to the scene," Detective Jackson's familiar deep voice drawled from behind.
Jamie straightened and spotted the shiny badge on Jackson's belt. "They certainly have sent a lot of people out to an accidental fall," Jamie said brusquely.
Jackson nodded. "We like to be thorough. If you don't mind, I'd like to borrow Miss Taylor for a moment." He took hold of my elbow and moved me along. "Bluebird, why are you always around when people end up dead?"
I stopped and pulled my arm free from his grasp. "Maybe I'm just a really good journalist." I squeezed a grin at him.
"Or maybe you're just drawn to trouble." He motioned for me to follow him.
Three medics were huddled around the last few steps on the staircase, the infamous stairs where Lauren Grace met her tragic end. Blood smears stained the floral wallpaper lining the walls along the staircase. Dark stains marred the oak banister as well. It seemed it had been quite a violent tumble.
One of Kenneth's black leather loafers was sitting on the second from the top step. The other one was still on his foot. From my vantage point, with the shield of medics surrounding him, I could only see his trousers and feet. His legs were splayed at odd angles as if he had died quickly from a blow to the head and then bounced down the rest of the stairs like a rag doll.
A medic, a young woman with tattoos on her neck, heard us approach. "Detective Jackson, we need you to second our opinion that the victim is deceased." She stood up, revealing the rest of the grisly scene.
Kenneth Applegate's head was in a pool of blood. His mouth was open wide as if he'd been frightened before falling, but that was probably just the natural reaction of someone who had passed the point of no return in a fall down a flight of stairs. Blood coated his beard and glued his hair to his forehead. He must have sustained a violent blow to the head on his way down.
Detective Jackson pulled on a glove and performed the unpleasant task of feeling for a pulse. Although he wasn't the last word, a doctor was required for that, he had the authority to call the coroner to the scene. He removed the glove he was wearing and dropped it into the biological waste container the medics had carried inside. He nodded to let me know he was dead and pulled out his phone to call the coroner.
A tiny voice squeaked behind me. "Psst, Miss Taylor."
I turned around to find Kitty Bloomfield hiding behind the edge of the doorway. It seemed, rather than hiding from the tragic sight on her staircase, she was trying to avoid seeing what was going on. I couldn't blame her. Death was never something anyone was anxious to see, and poor Mr. Applegate had had a terrible and messy accident.
Kitty's pinkish-blonde pile of curls was drooping down the side of her head and several hairpins were sticking out. She was pale white with worry. I could only imagine the terror and confusion in her home when this all took place.
I walked over and immediately grabbed hold of her shaky hands. "How are you doing, Kitty?"
"Not so good. I don't understand how it happened but then I suppose it wasn't the first time someone fell and died on those stairs."
I creased my brow in question.
"Lauren Grace," she whispered. "Which brings me to something important." She looked past me to Detective Jackson. He was checking out the banister and stairs. "I noticed you were friendly with that nice looking policeman. He's not in uniform. Is he a detective?"
"Yes, I'm sure he was called only because the accident resulted in death."
She pulled out a linen, embroidered handkerchief from the pocket of her sweater and wiped her brow. "Yes. But I should talk to him."
"Yes, of course. Did you witness Mr. Applegate's fall?"
She shook her head and one of the dangling hairpins came loose. I pulled it the rest of the way out and handed it to her. She quickly jammed it right back into her pile of curls. "I didn't witness it. I don't believe there was anyone with Mr. Applegate when he fell, but Wilma pulled me aside a few minutes ago. She's quite shaken." She looked past me again to Detective Jackson. "She really should talk to the detective. I don't want to mess things up by trying to retell what she heard."
Jackson just happened to glance our way. I waved him over. He said something to the medics and joined Kitty and me at the doorway.
"Detective Jackson, this is Kitty Bloomfield. She owns the Dandelion Inn." I turned to Kitty. "Kitty, this is Detective Jackson."
She smiled demurely up at him. "Oh my, you're tall."
"Kitty, you mentioned something about Wilma," I reminded her before she floated off in a school girl blush-worthy daydream.
"Yes," she cleared her throat. "Detective Jackson, I think you should come have a talk with my housekeeper. She's quite shaken about something she heard just before Mr. Applegate fell."
"Of course. Can you lead me to her?" Jackson asked.
"Right this way."
We followed Kitty into the dining room. Lauren Grace, with her ethereal smile, gazed down at the room from her gilt frame over the mantel. Both Wilma and Lucy, the chef, were sitting at the table, clutching glasses of water and seemingly consoling each other.
"Wilma, this is Detective Jackson," Kitty said as we entered. "Why don't you tell him what you told me."
Wilma looked at Lucy. They both exchanged nods. Wilma turned back to us. "It wasn't just me. Turns out Lucy was in this room and heard the same thing I heard from the parlor." She stared up at Detective Jackson. "That man didn't just fall," Wilma said. "Someone or something pushed him."