Page 108 of The Case of the Missing Love Stone

“Honey cake isn’t fruit.”

“It contained emotional nourishment.”

Honey points at Roman. “He’s right.”

Scarlet looks around the kitchen. “This alliance has become oppressive.” Her complaint carries no real hostility. She takes the fork and eats.

I set my phone beside Roman’s tablet. “Tom wants us at Cypress Kiss in an hour.”

Scarlet studies the photograph again. “You think the booth and the rental complaint might be related?”

“Possibly.”

“Because of the word relief?”

“It’s possible,” Roman says.

I hand her a marker. “Show me the route.”

She takes it, her fingers brushing mine, and the contact lingers naturally before she turns toward the town map.

“The old post office sits behind the festival overflow lots,” she says. “Tourists walk past it from Cypress Kiss Rentals when they head toward the square. An unregistered booth there could catch people before they ever reach the official vendor rows.”

We leave the house after Honey extracts promises that none of us will forget lunch. The rain has eased by the time we reach the old post office.

The booth is gone.

Junie saw it yesterday afternoon, so that doesn’t necessarily mean we missed them by minutes. They may only work the heavier tourist hours, or they may have cleared out before the official vendors began setting up this morning. Either way, a booth selling unregistered bond relief has disappeared before we could question anyone running it.

Four square marks remain on the damp pavement where table legs recently stood. Pink tape clings to a lamppost, and trampled petals collect in the rain gutter below it. Scarlet bends toward the crushed blossoms without touching.

“That one isn’t local,” she says.

Roman photographs the gutter. “Do you know what it is?”

“Not damaged like that.” She straightens. “Could come from any florist or grocery supplier. I can’t tell from what’s left.”

We photograph the table marks and collect loose petals separately.

Behind the post office, half-covered by wet cardboard near a trash bin, we find a wooden crate. The label is torn, but enough of the printed name remains to read clearly.

Magnolia Event Florals. A smaller sticker below that reads Sample Stock. The word before sample has been smeared away.

Roman crouches beside it. “That confirms the crate came from Magnolia.”

“But not if the booth used it,” I reply.

“Or what was inside when it arrived,” Scarlet says.

I photograph the crate before touching it. Inside are broken dried stems, white thread, grit from cheap stone charms, and damp cardboard carrying a faint sweet chemical odor that sits below the wet wood and old rain.

I bag each material separately.

Across the alley, a woman raises her phone and appears to be recording.

Scarlet sees her. The muscles in her shoulders tighten, but she doesn’t shrink or cover her face. I step beside her rather than in front, close enough to block part of the camera angle without pulling her out of the scene. My knuckles touch the back of her hand, and she links her smallest finger through mine for one second before releasing me and turning back to the evidence.

“Let them see me working,” Roman says. He holds up a sample vial. “Which petals first?”