Ghost of a Chance

by Cate Dean

  She no longer felt guilty about selling her antiques for what they were worth, despite Enid’s less than subtle complaining about her prices. Maggie gave value for the money, a story to go with the object, and a good memory of the buyer’s trip to England.

  Aunt Irene would have been proud of her.

  Maggie’s aunt had been a shrewd businesswoman, but she’d also cared deeply about the antique furniture she sold on consignment, so much so that Maggie remembered seeing her refuse to sell more than once when the potential buyer rubbed her wrong.

  Aunt Irene had always trusted her intuition, and taught Maggie to do the same. Trusting that intuition led her back to the place she had loved as a child. A place she could call home.

  Her great aunt’s connections had also opened doors for her, making it easier than it should have been to apply for resident status. Six months after stepping off the plane, she was now a part of the everyday life in Holmestead.

  She tucked a stray strand of hair that kept escaping her messy bun behind her ear. Thank heavens her great aunt had been an upstanding member of the village—and cursed with the same wild red hair. Maggie’s hair, and her clear blue eyes, gave the villagers all they needed as physical proof that she was related to Irene Mulgrew.

  That still didn’t give her an in. She was a Yank, an outsider, and people like Enid Phillips never let her forget it.

  She shrugged off her thoughts, determined to enjoy the day, and kept perusing the tables. There were a few more things she added to her list before she wandered inside for the auction.

  The expansive foyer halted her. A marble checkerboard floor gleamed under her feet, reflecting the crystal chandelier over her head.

  That chandelier has to be worth—

  She stopped the calculation in her head. If she kept this up, she’d turn into Aunt Irene, who had put a price on everything—including the worth of the people around her.

  “Just savor it,” she whispered, moving forward to take a closer look at the mural that filled one long wall. It was exquisite; a detailed replication of the estate and the grounds, circa 1920. “This is incredible.”

  “I agree.” The deep voice spun her. She knew she wasn’t alone, but she hadn’t felt him behind her. His smile calmed her nerves. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to startle you. I am Edward. Edward Carlisle.”

  He held out an elegant, manicured hand. Maggie took it, not surprised by the soft skin. He was obviously upper class; she knew the look, and the accent.

  “Maggie.” She extricated her hand when he held it longer than a simple handshake called for. “I should get inside.”

  “Of course.” He took a watch out of the pocket of his tailored trousers, and pressed the decorative crown, opening the front of the watch. “It is time.”

  She tried not to stare at the watch. It was a Patek Philippe, and she had seen a similar one—in a museum. She managed to keep from drooling, and smiled up at him.

  “It was nice meeting you, Edward. Good luck in the auction.”

  “Oh, I will hardly need luck. I intend to win the one thing I came to bid on.”

  He bowed to her and strode into the dining room, where the auction would take place. Maggie followed him, wanting to get a good seat. From the looks of the crowd wandering around outside, it was going to be packed.

  She spotted a seat in the third row, and made her way to it. Once she was settled, she looked at the sheet listing the order of the items. Her box was third on the list. She stomped down her nerves, took a deep breath and waited for the auction to start.

  Three

  Professor Pembroke Martin was furious—and he wasn’t afraid to show it to the person who happened to be the cause.

  “You did what?”

  “I needed the money.” Ken’s whining did nothing to tamp Martin’s anger. “It was just a jar, Professor—”

  “It was just a jar I have spent the last three years searching for.” His deadly quiet voice had Ken flinching. “Consider yourself booted out of my class, at the very least.”

  “Professor—”

  “As for the rest of your school career, you will be answering to the Vice-Chancellor for that.”

  “Please—”

  “At least she will give you a chance to be heard.” Martin’s anger faded, leaving him simply exhausted. “I need to be able to trust my students, Ken. I no longer trust you. Now, please get out of my sight.”

  He watched Ken slouch out of his office, taking the time to slam the door. The glass shook in its frame, but it held. Martin let out his breath, and ran one hand through his hair, beyond frustrated.

  The boy had sold the apothecary jar, and it had found its way into an estate auction—an auction too far away for him to arrive in time to stop the jar from going under the hammer.

  Perhaps he could call the auction house in charge of the estate.

  Martin opened his mouth to shout for Ken, and cursed under his breath. He would need to find a new assistant. This time, that assistant would not be a student. As much as he wanted to help one of his own, he had been burned one time too many by students who put themselves first every moment.

  He thought giving them responsibility would help with the self-involvement. Lord knew he could have used some at their age.

  With a sigh, he reached for the phone on his desk. At least he had pried the name of the auction house from Ken, using hints of expulsion as extortion.

  He did plan to go through with his threat to remove Ken from his class; he refused to have a student who had stolen from him anywhere near the artifacts he kept in his classroom for lectures.

  Whether Ken would have the chance to stay in university was up to the Vice-Chancellor. Martin never wanted to see the boy again.

  After a frustrating phone conversation, which led to another frustrating phone conversation, Martin hung up and leaned back in his chair, pushing his glasses up to rub his eyes. Every curse word he could think of ran through his mind, some of them in several languages.

  The jar had already been entered into the auction, and it was too late, without visual proof, to remove it.

  He stood, refusing to give up without a fight.

  “You know where the auction is taking place,” he muttered. “Follow the trail, old man.”

  Hope surged, along with the excitement of the hunt. Martin had been addicted to it since his first dig as a young boy.

  His father had been to blame. The Earl sent his youngest son to Egypt in the hopes of breaking him out of his bookish ways. He accomplished it—but not in the way he had most likely anticipated.

  Martin had fallen in love with the past. In university, his interest turned toward unusual artifacts. Growing up in a haunted castle, and sharing a bedroom with a ghost, had shaped his beliefs.

  The objects he hunted for now always had a story, or a legend attached to them. He loved the idea that a person’s spirit infused their belongings, sometimes clinging to those belongings even after death. The apothecary jar was just such an object, with a rich, enticing ghost story attached to it.

  Martin had spent the better part of three years tracking it, in between other projects. His passion was one he pursued after his obligations as a teacher and mentor were met. Someday, it would be his only passion.

  He may be the son of an Earl, but money was not overflowing from the family coffers.

  Today was his last day of term, so he could head to the auction site. If the jar had been sold by the time he arrived, he would track the buyer down, and hopefully convince them to sell. It pained him to pay for the jar again—especially if he had to ask the university to buy it for him—but he wanted the jar back badly enough to do so.

  He searched through his desk until he found his car keys, then stuffed his papers into the scarred leather satchel he carried everywhere with him. If he needed any other papers from his office, he could print them from his cloud account.

  Right now, he had a jar to retrieve.

  Four

  Maggie
won the pretty jeweled knife, which no one seemed to want, and a huge lot of figurines that would easily sell in her shop. The next item up for bid was the box, and her heart pounded as the man displaying the auction items set the box on the table.

  Tanner, the auctioneer, and owner of the auction house, started his spiel. “Up now is a wood box, being sold as you see it.” He waved at the unsmiling man, who picked up the box again, showing it to the crowd. “Not much to say about this.” He shuffled through the papers on the podium. “This came as a last minute addition to the auction, and according to my notes, it was not part of the estate. Let us start the bidding at ten pounds.”

  Maggie kept herself from shooting her paddle into the air. She waited, to see if anyone else showed an interest. After a few seconds of silence, and no movement, Tanner cleared his throat.

  “No one willing to part with ten pounds?” Maggie lifted her paddle, casually, like she didn’t care whether she won the box or not. Her heart pounded so hard she was afraid everyone around her heard it. “And we have ten pounds from the lady in the third row. Do I have twelve? Twelve pounds for a soundly constructed box?”

  Maggie kept facing forward, no matter how much she wanted to scan the crowd for any sign that someone else might bid. An endless minute later, Tanner spoke again.

  “And we have a final bid for ten pounds, going once, going twice—sold for ten pounds to number 238. You may settle at the table just outside the door.”

  Maggie nodded, and clutched the edge of the chair to keep from jumping up and down. Ten pounds! Even if there wasn’t a beautiful, decorative box under all that dirt, she could still sell it for twice what she paid. Worst case, she could use it at the shop for display, or storage.

  Once she composed herself, she started to stand—and sank back to the chair when she saw the next item up for bid.

  Her heart nearly lodged in her throat when she recognized the distinctive brown and cream of the jar. It was larger than the two she had seen in a private collection, and if anyone else here knew what it was, she would be out of the race before she even stepped up.

  Tanner spoke, and she could tell by his reverent tone that he knew exactly what the man set on the display table with such care. “Up next is another late addition to the auction, which is why you will not find it in your catalogs. A Sayer & Brown apothecary jar—and I must tell you, ladies and gentlemen, this is the finest example of their extremely rare large jar I have ever been privileged to see. We will start the bidding at two thousand pounds.”

  Gasps filled the room. A familiar, cultured voice rose over the din. “Five thousand pounds.”

  Maggie turned around, and saw Edward, his gaze on the jar as he raised his paddle. Gone was the cool and confident aristocrat. He stared at the jar with an intensity that startled her.

  “Five thousand pounds,” Tanner said. “Do I have six?”

  “Six thousand.” A second man joined in. Maggie recognized him; it was Giles Trelawney, the antiquities curator at the museum in Holmestead.

  How did he know this was going to be here? The seller must have contacted the museum—probably to try and start a bidding war. It only took two determined parties to send the price rocketing up.

  “We have a bid of six thousand. Do I have seven?”

  “Seven thousand.” Edward didn’t look as confident.

  Giles didn’t even wait for Tanner. “Eight thousand.”

  “Eight thousand,” Tanner said, raising his eyebrow at Giles. “Do I have nine thou—ˮ

  “Twenty thousand pounds.” Edward was on his feet, clearly irritated.

  Tanner looked calm, but Maggie could see his hand gripping the edge of the podium. “Twenty thousand pounds from Sir Edward Carlisle. Do I have—ˮ

  “Twenty-one thousand,” Giles said, staring at Edward.

  “I have twenty-one—ˮ

  “Twenty-five thousand.” A new bidder joined in.

  Maggie almost fell out of her chair when she turned around. The newest bidder was Angus Fitch, a local historian, and one of the most unpleasant men Maggie had met since moving to Holmestead.

  The one time he came into her shop, he practically sneered at what she had for sale, then asked where the real antiques were. If Spencer hadn’t been there to step between them—Maggie still didn’t know what she would have done.

  Punched him was the most likely response.

  Now Tanner did look strained. He cleared his throat. “I have a bid of twenty-five thousand, and before anyone else shouts out another number, as if we are at a cattle sale, I will warn you, gentlemen—one more interruption, and the jar will be removed from the auction.” He waited until each man nodded before he continued. “Very good. Now, I have a standing bid of twenty-five thousand pounds. Do I have twenty-six?”

  Everyone in the room looked at Edward. His nostrils flared, but he sat, crossing his arms.

  “Twenty-six,” Giles said, flashing a smile at Edward. To his credit, Edward didn’t take the bait.

  “I have twenty-six thousand pounds bid for this Sayer & Brown apothecary jar.” Tanner was obviously making them wait before the next chance to bid. He cleared his throat, took a sip of water, and straightened the lapel on his black jacket, just in case they didn’t get the message. “Do I have twenty-seven?”

  “Forty thousand pounds.” Angus Fitch glared at Giles after bidding.

  The curator turned an interesting shade of red, then sat, shaking his head.

  “I have forty thousand pounds,” Tanner said. “Do I have another bid?” He looked at Edward and Giles. Both men shook their heads. “All right—forty thousand pounds going once, forty thousand pounds going twice, and—sold for forty thousand pounds!”

  Applause erupted in the room, bouncing off the glossy, wood-lined walls of the dining room. Tanner leaned against the podium and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief.

  “Sir, you may settle up with the young lady at the table just outside the door. As soon as possible, if you please. Now, if we are all recovered,” laughter floated around Maggie. “Shall we have the next item up for bid?”

  ***

  Maggie stayed until the end, and spent her allotted budget, plus a little more. But she acquired quite a haul for the shop, and most of it would sell for a nice profit.

  She made her way out of the dining room, and joined the queue at the table to pay for her items. Edward walked past, and she waved at him. To her surprise, he detoured, heading over to her.

  “I’m sorry about the jar,” she said.

  “No harm done, my dear.” He smiled at her. “It was a spirited bout, wasn’t it? I did not expect to have competition for the jar, as it was such a late addition. I only knew because the young lady at the payment table is an acquaintance.” He winked at Maggie.

  “I love Sayer & Brown wares, but I don’t think I’ll ever be able to afford one.”

  Edward studied her. “You know your jars. I saw what else you bid on, Maggie. You have a keen eye for quality.”

  “Thank you.” And there was the hated blush. Every time someone complimented her, she turned red. “I think it was inherited, from my great aunt. Plus, it comes in handy when I buy stock for my antique shop.”

  He looked at her hair, then met her gaze. “What is your surname, Maggie?”

  “Mulgrew.”

  “Not Irene Mulgrew?”

  Maggie nodded. “She was my aunt. I inherited her house, and her consignment shop, when she passed. It’s an antique shop now, though I do take furniture on consignment.” She pulled out one of her business cards, always ready to pass them out. “Here.”

  Edward stuck the card in his shirt pocket, then took her hand. “I was saddened to hear about her sudden death. She was fierce, but when she cared, it was with the heart of a lioness.”

  Maggie blinked, tears stinging her eyes. “I miss her. My happiest childhood memories were with her, in her drafty house.”

  He squeezed her hand before he let go. “You are aware that drafty house is h
aunted?”

  “Like the shop?” The change of subject helped her stomp down the grief. “I don’t believe in ghosts, Edward.”

  His smile had her blushing again. He was a fine looking man, even if he was too old for her. “Give it time, Miss Mulgrew. I guarantee you will become a believer.”

  She seriously doubted it, but she smiled at his comment. “Looks like I’m next. It was nice meeting you, Edward.”

  “The pleasure,” he bent over her hand and kissed her knuckles, “was entirely mine. Perhaps I will visit this antique shop of yours. What you bid on today tells me I will be pleasantly surprised by your inventory.”

  “Thank you—I think.”

  With a smile that made her heart jump, he freed her hand. “It was a compliment, I assure you. I am quite picky, and if I did not expect to find an item or two that appealed to me, I would not have given your shop more than a passing thought.”

  Maggie knew there was an insult in that flowery sentence. She decided to ignore it, since she wouldn’t see Edward again. “Have a safe trip home.”

  With a final nod, he strode through the foyer and out the front door. Maggie watched him leave, aware that she was staring after a throat cleared behind her.

  “Sorry.” She stepped up to the table, pulling her wallet out of her bag. “Number 238, please.”

  “Your total is eight hundred seventy-five pounds. How will you be paying today?”

  “Cash.”

  Maggie had learned the hard way about setting budgets and sticking to them. One enthusiastic auction bid had cost her more than she could afford at the time, and she ended up maxing out her credit card to pay for her purchases. She had vowed right then never to put herself in that position again.

  When she walked outside, she saw Edward with Angus Fitch. Edward didn’t look angry, so he was probably congratulating the historian. She waved when he glanced over at her, and headed for the Rover.

  It had been a long day, and she was ready to go home.

  Five

  Martin swerved into the temporary parking lot—and nearly collided with a Land Rover trying to exit on the wrong side.