Marigolds and Murder

Lacey 'Pink' Pinkerton has left behind a six figure job and her reputation as the million dollar nose—a nickname her super sense of smell earned her within the perfume industry. With her pet crow Kingston and a tabby cat named Nevermore, she is settling right into her new life in the small coastal town of Port Danby. With a flower shop opening soon and a full cast of quirky neighbors and friends, her new digs are exactly what she's been looking for. Away from the hectic hustle and bustle of the city Lacey has found peace and happiness. However, her heightened sense of smell proves to be of use once again when a Port Danby neighbor turns up dead. Lacey finds herself caught up in an unexpected murder investigation alongside the handsome local detective, James Briggs. She’s determined to find the killer and solve the murder mystery before any more bodies turn up.

I stepped back to admire my handiwork. I wasn't exactly Van Gogh, but I had to admit, the tiny flowers I'd painted on the rustic bench were charming. I'd found the old bench at a yard sale and had decided that it would look great under the bay window, still leaving enough room for me to roll out my flower carts and set up my portable "specials and deals" chalkboard.

Aside from falling in love with the eclectic charm of Port Danby, I'd fallen instantly in love with the small building I'd leased for my shop, Pink's Flowers. Like every shop on Harbor Lane, it was entirely unique with its Cape Cod shingles and deep bay window. While not exactly traditional for the Cape Cod style, I'd had the wood siding painted a blush pink because . . . well . . . it was Pink's Flowers. The thick window trim and the French door for the entry were painted bright white for a perfectly pleasing contrast. The unusual pink color had drawn a few judgmental glances from neighboring shop owners, but once everything was finished, people seemed to approve.

I dipped my paintbrush into the bottle of lavender paint, and as I pulled it out, my phone rang, startling me and triggering a small string of calamities. Pale purple paint dripped down my shin. I stepped sharply to the side to avoid more and kicked the paint bottle. It fell over and splashed across my sandal and foot. I flirted with the idea of not answering my phone, but I knew it was my mom. If I didn't answer, her head would fill with endless terrifying scenarios that might be keeping her daughter from answering the phone.
Standing with my knee lifted and my purple foot high off the ground, I managed to keep my balance as I picked my phone up off the window ledge. "Hey, Mom, can I call you back? I've got a purple foot."

"What? Why? Did you bruise it? Are you having circulation problems? Maybe your shoes are too tight." My mom was highly skilled at dashing off numerous opinions and unnecessary advice without needing to stop for a breath.

"It's purple paint, Mom. My shoes and circulatory system are fine."

"Well, why didn't you tell me? You gave me a fright." I didn't need to see through the phone to know she was placing her hand against her chest for added drama.

"I would have told you if you hadn't jumped right into your list of possible sources and solutions for a purple foot." I decided to give delaying the call another shot. "Let me call you back."

"I'm just calling to see how things are going with the little flower store." She couldn't have said the words with more disappointment if she'd punctuated each one with a sniffle. But I couldn't fault her for that. My poor mom, the eternal optimist and the woman who took huge pleasure in bragging to her book club about her daughter's successes, had suffered the trifecta of motherly letdowns. In the past few years, I'd quit medical school and walked out on a six-figure job in the perfume industry. But the last disappointment was the one that really had the poor woman reeling.

I braced my free hand against the window ledge to keep my balance. "The little flower store is fine. I open in two weeks. My right leg is getting tired. Can I call you back?"

"You need better shoes." I opened my mouth to remind her of the painted foot but decided it would be a waste of breath. "Lacey, have you heard from Jacob?"

I made sure to huff in annoyance loud enough that she could hear me. "Why would I hear from him? We aren't together anymore, and mentioning him in every phone call is not going to magically bring him back into my life."

Jacob was the third horse in the trifecta. He was like the Kentucky Derby of disappointing blows for my mom. He was rich and handsome and from a good family. Unfortunately, that good family forgot to teach him that if you were engaged to one woman, it wasn't good to date another woman. Jacob's family owned Georgio's Perfume, a multimillion dollar fragrance company, and for one year I had been employed as their head perfumer. I was born with hyperosmia, or in more crude terms, a heightened sense of smell. Sometimes I considered it a gift and sometimes it was a curse. In the matter of my ex-fiancé, it had been both. Jacob had hired me because I could detect the slightest aroma and even separate that microscopic odor into its basic parts, a skill that made me highly sought-after in the perfume industry. But the man had somehow forgotten that skill when he started showing up wearing hints of another woman's perfume on his shirts. And whoever she was, she wasn't even wearing Georgio Perfume.

"I just worry that you were too hasty in your decision to break it off. Jacob was such a nice man."

"He was seeing other women behind my back. How does that make him nice? If you like him so much, give him a call. I'm sure as long as you make sure Dad has new batteries in the remote, frozen entrees in the freezer and plenty of bait in his tackle box, he won't even notice you missing." I hopped toward the door of the shop to go inside and clean my foot.

"Lacey Sue Pinkerton," she said in her best angry mom voice.

"Uh-oh, the middle name is coming out. I'm in trouble." I opened the door and hopped clumsily inside. Kingston pulled his sharp black beak out from under his wing. He looked angry about having his nap interrupted.

"You sound funny. Are you exercising, Lacey?"

"Yes, Mom, I'm in the middle of an aerobics class."

"That's enough, miss smarty-pants." Apparently, we'd moved from middle name use to the good ole "smarty-pants" standby. I was twenty-eight, but a five-minute conversation with my mom and I was back in sixth grade.

"I'm sorry, Mom. I would love to stay on the phone and rehash all the crummy stuff that has befallen me lately, but I need to get back to work."

"Lacey, sweetie, I worry you'll get terribly bored in a small town like Port Dancy."

"Port Danby, and I won't be bored. I'll be running a business."

"Yes, a flower shop. It's quite a change from your life in the big city working with important people."

"It's a big change, Mom. And it's the change I wanted. Besides, I'm looking forward to living in a place where the biggest thing to happen is the neighborhood stray cat knocking over a trash can. There's something to be said for peace and tranquility." Her last words had gotten to me a bit. The notion of life moving too slowly in Port Danby had crossed my mind more than once. But I was determined to keep myself and my mind occupied.

The paint had dried on my foot, caking into a lavender patch on my skin. I lowered the foot to the ground. "I'll call you later, Mom. Kiss Dad for me."

"All right. Call if you need anything."

I hung up and glanced around at my shop. I couldn't help but smile. It was the first time in my working life that I'd gotten to make all the decisions, and I was pleased with the outcome. Cape Cod exterior aside, I went totally batty trying to decide whether to go modern industrial or Soho chic inside. As is often the case, I couldn't make up my mind, so I went with both and invented my own Soho Industrial Chic. Practicality played a big part, too. I left the exposed brick walls in place for the corner that was home to the steel rolling shelves I'd purchased at a factory sell-off. They were the perfect place to store vases, glassware and ceramic pots. A long antique potter's table took up more than half of the back wall. The deep porcelain basin sink left behind by Elsie, the baker, when she moved her kitchen next door was the perfect place for transferring plants and arranging bouquets.
For a change of pace, I covered the brick wall on the other half of the shop with smooth plaster and bright white paint. An array of wood crates were nailed, bottom side, to the wall to create geometric cubbies for some of the prettier baubles I had for sale. The center of the store held my prize find, a massive island with a black-and-white checked tile counter and rows of drawers to keep ribbons, tissue and all the small goodies needed in a flower shop. I'd painted the entire island in black chalkboard paint so I could write labels on the drawers.

Kingston, my pet crow, fluttered his large wings a few times, vibrating the ribbons hanging from spools on the wall. I grabbed a bag of sunflower seeds from the top drawer of the island and tossed a few into the dish on his perch. He busied himself with the treat as I stroked the silky black feathers on his head.

"Well, Kingston, the shop is almost ready. I think we're going to like it here. What do you think?"

Kingston flicked the empty shells out of the dish.

"Right, I guess you'll be happy as long as there are plenty of treats."