The Marsh Madness

I turned my attention to the background information Lance had sent and did my homework on the Kauffman family, skimming the articles and clicking the many links. I stroked the cat as I read.

Even though Summerlea was not that far away, the Kauffmans had never really participated in the life of Harrison Falls. Magnus Kauffman had done his best to avoid attention. But despite this, the family had made it to the national news from time to time: weddings and funerals, mostly. It was fun reading up on the Kauffman family, even though I found no juicy scandals or investigations. The Kauffmans hadn’t lent their name to a world-class university or concert halls. But there had been society weddings a few generations back, linking the Kauffmans with some of the really great American families. There had been grand European tours and expeditions to exotic locations. And there continued to be charitable activities and stylish fund-raisers. Magnus Kauffman had held the annual Summerlea Night’s Dream as well as a fall jazz festival and a winter cotillion. He had apparently enjoyed having his name and image appear in the society pages. In recent years, Magnus grew more reclusive, and the society fund-raisers appeared to be managed by Chadwick Kauffman on the grounds of his Country Club and Spa. Chadwick wasn’t one to seek the limelight, and while the big patrons and donors appeared grinning for the cameras, he rarely stuck his mug into the group shots.

Refreshing.

It didn’t take long before I felt I knew all about the Kauffmans. Chadwick was indeed the end of a scandal-free line. That was good, because I wanted to like him. And I wanted our visit to Summerlea to be perfect.


*

“JORDAN?”

I was glad to hear Tyler’s voice again. “I thought you were on duty.”

“I was checking out Flora’s Fanciful Flowers to find out who sent your dead roses.”

“And?”

“And there doesn’t seem to be a Flora’s Fanciful Flowers in Harrison Falls or anywhere else in the world.”

“Oh. But the label . . .”

“Trust me. There isn’t one.”

“A practical joke, then.”

“Yeah. And a creepy one.”

“Who would have done that?”

“I have no idea.”

“Do you still have the box?”

“It’s on its way to the compost. I could dig it out.”

“Do that and hang on to it. I’ll see if I can get any information from it.”

“It was a joke. Thanks, but does it really merit a police investigation?”

“Humor me. You know I want to be a detective when I grow up.”

“Never grow up, Tyler. I like you the way you are. Tell you what, I’ll drop the box off the next chance I get.”

“And I’ll see what I turn up.”


*

I FOUND THE box of dead flowers, fished it out and put it in a large plastic bag. The signora had been happy to provide the bag. The signora, small, black-clad and round, followed me. She kept clucking over the flowers, muttering in Italian and shaking her head.

“Sfortunata.”

Unlucky? No kidding.

“Thanks,” I said, “I hate them too.”


*

I REFUSED TO dwell on those flowers. Instead I focused on Craigslist for our area. I’d been watching all my online sources hunting Ngaio Marsh books for myself and also trying to locate suitable titles for Vera’s collection. I checked often. In my line of work, you snooze, you lose.

Today, I was a winner.

A couple who were downsizing and moving to one of the new riverside condos in the neighboring town of Grandville had given up their walls of bookcases in their sprawling suburban home. They were prepared to liberate boxes of mass-market reprints from the seventies. “Pristine,” they said, except for small labels on the inside front first page of each book. They posted photos of the covers and spines of hundreds of mysteries including many of the Ngaio Marsh titles I wanted.