They ended up buying five boxes of Depression glass and a dozen pieces of blue willow china from a woman holding a going-out-of-business sale in her stall. Judging by the prices, which were already well below retail and still heavily negotiable after that, it wasn’t a marketing ploy—she really was going out of business.
“Why are you getting out?” Arabella asked, genuinely curious. She guessed the woman to be in her early sixties. Her braided salt-and-pepper hair, multi-layered prairie skirt, peasant blouse, along with the Birkenstocks she wore lent her the look of an aging hippie.
The woman gave them a sad smile. “I’ve been in the business most of my adult life. I still remember when antiques were red hot. You could sell anything if it had a bit of age on it. Nowadays, that’s not the case. I guess I’m just too old to keep playing the ‘one day things will turn around’ game. Besides, I’ve made my money over the years, and I live a simple life. It’s time to make it simpler.”
Arabella nodded. It made sense. She’d almost forgotten why they were here when Emily piped up.
“We were hoping to find a rebellion box. A friend of ours in Lount’s Landing owns a pub, and she has one on display, but she won’t sell it.”
“Your best bet is to ask Walker Lawrence. He’s a Canadian history nut, always going on about early politics.” She pointed to a booth that had been curtained off with thick white canvas drapes. “That’s his booth over there, but he’s closed for the weekend. He’s totally into Elvis and what with the Elvis Festival going on in Collingwood…”
The crushed look on Arabella’s face must have tugged on the woman’s heart, because next thing she was saying, “Tell you what, give me your card. I’ll ask Walker to give you a call—no promises.”
Arabella fished out a business card out of her wallet and handed it over. “Thanks, I’d appreciate that.”
“The Glass Dolphin, 97 Main Street, Lount’s Landing. Arabella Carpenter and Emily Garland, proprietors,” she said, reading it aloud. “Which one of you is Arabella and which one is Emily?”
They made their introductions, and found out the woman’s name was Heidi Jacobs.
Heidi suits her, Arabella thought.
“I might have a few more things to sell you, back at the house, if you’re interested,” Heidi said. “I promise to leave plenty of meat on the bone for you to make a profit. How long are you ladies planning to stay in the area?”
“We’re only here for the day,” Arabella said. “We have a friend looking after the shop for a few hours. We’re closed Mondays, though. We could come back. It’s not a far drive.”
“You know, that would work out just fine,” Heidi said. “I’ll invite Walker over at the same time. He’s expressed interest in a couple of my things, and that way you could meet him as well. Why not come around noon, I’ll make us lunch. Nothing fancy, though I do make a mean vegetable lasagna, all the veggies fresh from my garden, plus the cheese is from the local dairy.”
Arabella couldn’t believe their luck. She looked at Emily and could tell she was thinking the same thing.
“We’d love to.”
“Good, then it’s settled.” Heidi wrote down her address on the back of a business card and handed it to Arabella. “Be sure to stop by the local orchard first. Thornbury is apple country, and they make the best apple pie you’ll find anywhere. Walker loves apple pie. I’ll supply the vanilla ice cream. Homemade, of course.”
Homemade vanilla ice cream, market-fresh pie, antiquing, and a chance to meet Elvis. Life didn’t get much better than that. Arabella slipped the card in her wallet and shepherded Emily out of there before Heidi had a chance to change her mind.
26
Arabella and Emily stopped in Collingwood on the way home to take in a bit of the Elvis Festival. “These would be perfect for Betsy,” Arabella said, holding up a pair of olive green potholders. The potholders had an image of a young Elvis doing the twist in black pants and a tight tee shirt, along with an “authentic” recipe for fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches. Emily laughed. “Just as long as she doesn’t add fried PB and banana to the Noose’s menu.”
Arabella laughed, even though a part of her really wanted to try the recipe. She loved peanut butter and had been known to eat it by the tablespoon right out of the jar. She justified her mini-addiction by only eating all natural, no sugar added peanut butter. Surely Elvis used the kind with added sugar, which made her version healthier. Didn’t it?
The drive back was uneventful, although traffic heading in the other direction to cottage country was slow and solid. It was typical for a summer Friday night with folks trying to escape the city for the Muskokas and beyond.
They arrived at the Glass Dolphin shortly after seven to find Caitie waiting inside for them. She set aside a book on antique clocks and pointed to an empty wooden shelf.
“I sold the black marble clock,” she said, a big grin on her face. “The one made in France.”
Arabella had to admit she was surprised. It wasn’t like clocks were flying off the shelves these days, and the marble clock had gilt pillars, which made it more ornate than was currently in fashion. It was also something you’d never sell online. It weighed a ton.
“That’s fantastic,” Emily said. “Who was the customer?”
“His name was Windsor Scott,” Caitie said. “He told me that he’d been in here before and had bought a couple of things, and that’s when he noticed the clock.”
“I remember him,” Arabella said. “He bought some end tables and a kid’s rocking chair, a lot different than a marble shelf clock.” She wondered what Windsor Scott’s home looked like and what he did for a living. Caitie interrupted her thoughts.
“He said he’d been thinking about it ever since he saw it. I found your book on French marble clocks and we read about it together, and then I searched the Internet and we did some price comparisons. We found a clock that was almost identical—at least from the pictures, but that was in the UK. Mr. Scott felt that your sticker price of five hundred and fifty dollars was fair, but asked if there was any flexibility. I told him I could knock off twenty-five dollars without calling you. Next thing you know, he was pulling out his wallet. He even paid cash.”
It was a good sale, Arabella thought, and much needed.
Caitie might dye her hair odd colors—today she had it streaked with neon pink—and her wardrobe was an eclectic mix of cowboy boots, black jeans, rock band tee shirts, and a flurry of colorful scarves. But the fact that she’d taken the time out to fully explore Windsor Scott’s interest and was able to get him involved in researching said something about her business potential. She’d do well in a shop of her own.
“That’s incredible,” Emily was saying. “I’ve got to try that approach.”
Arabella knew that Caitie worked at the local gym weekdays until eleven, and that she taught Pilates at Chantal’s studio three nights a week. The rest of the time, she was working on building up her jewelry business. Given her performance here today, she deserved that shot, and someone had to give it to her. She looked at Emily and the two of them had an unspoken conversation. Emily nodded, smiling.
“Maybe you’d like to work here one afternoon a week, just until you get your own shop,” Arabella said. “It would help us out, and you could learn more about running a retail operation. Trust me, there are a lot of quiet days where the only person walking in is looking to use the restroom.”
“Seriously? I’d love to.” Caitie looked as if she was about to jump up and down. “I know you’re closed on Mondays now. Why don’t I try opening from noon to six to start with? That way we can gauge if there’s any interest, and I can learn gradually.”
“It’s a deal,” Arabella and Emily said at the same time.
“We’ll have to get you your own key,” Arabella added. “I’ll have one made for you tomorrow. That way you can open and close without worrying about us. Emily and I are heading to Thornbury on Monday. We met a woman who’s getting out of the antiques
business and she’s invited us to her house. We bought a few boxes of stuff from her booth today. Sorry to say that I didn’t notice any jewelry, but you might try the Thornbury Market sometime. It’s not that far to go.”
“Thornbury,” Caitie said. “I almost forgot to tell you. A man came in just after you two left. He said that Betsy Ehrlich told him about the Glass Dolphin. He wanted to talk to you, Arabella, something about a box. He has a booth in Thornbury, specializing in Canadiana.” Caitie pulled a card out of the pocket of her jeans. “He told me he’d been in Toronto for a meeting, and that he was on his way to the Collingwood Elvis Festival. I guess that’s why he was dressed like Elvis.”
Arabella took the card and laughed when she read the name: Walker Lawrence—Canadiana Antiques & Collectibles, Thornbury, Ontario, Canada.
27
The Glass Dolphin was unusually slow for a Saturday. The few folks who’d come in were browsers rather than buyers, and Arabella had been antsy all morning. So had Emily. Monday seemed a long way off.
“Stop pacing and have a shortbread cookie,” Emily snapped. “No more cookies. My jeans are starting to get snug.”
“If you did a bit more than walk to and from the store every day, you could eat more cookies. Why not go to a yoga class with me? Chantal’s classes are quite good.”
“I’ll consider it.” She went back to pacing, then picked up a feather duster and started brushing non-existent dust off the assorted glassware.
“Why don’t you give Levon a call? You could go out and keep him company. Tell him what we’ve learned so far.”
“He doesn’t need babysitting, he needs to have his name cleared. Besides, we haven’t really found out anything yet.” Arabella didn’t tell Emily that she’d already called Levon. He had been polite, but distant.
She’d put it down to some unease over their evening together when she heard Gilly Germaine’s voice in the background. She’d hung up, embarrassed, before he could make up some sort of story, or worse, apologize. That would be the ultimate humiliation.
“I’m going out for dinner and drinks at the Noose with Luke tonight,” Emily said. “Why don’t you come along?”
“Because three’s a crowd.”
Emily gave Arabella an appraising look. “Why don’t I ask Luke if Hudson can join us? It will be good for us to get out and have some fun.”
Arabella considered the offer. A part of her—a bigger part than she cared to admit—really wanted to see Levon again and not just to chat, Gilly Germaine be damned. But she couldn’t go down that road again.
Could she?
No, she couldn’t. “I’d love to. See if you can set it up.”
Unlike the last time Arabella had been in the Noose for lunch, the place was packed, every barstool taken, and only a couple of booths left, both with “Reserved” signs on the table. Betsy was behind the counter, pouring drinks and chatting up the regulars. She saw them come in and waved.
“Relax,” Luke said, obviously noticing Arabella’s worried expression. “I reserved a booth for us.
I know how busy this place can get on a Saturday.”
A female server wearing a short black skirt, black nylons, black stilettos, and a blood red V-neck blouse, her fingernails painted to match, seated them. She introduced herself as Lindsay and ran through the specials.
They ordered burgers with sides of Caesar salad and an order of fries and onion rings to split. Emily got a veggie, while Luke, Arabella, and Hudson went for the beef with Swiss cheese. Draft beer—whatever was on tap—for Luke and Hudson, house white for Emily and Arabella.
The drinks were served promptly. Lindsay told them the food would take thirty to forty minutes, due to the crowd tonight, and only Nina on as chef. She left them a plate of bruschetta with a dish of assorted pickles and olives to share—on the house, she assured them.
Hudson started the conversation by regaling them with a story about his latest bookstore signing. “So here I am in the bookstore, and there’s a lull, the sort of lull that makes an author feel alone, exposed, and rather pathetic. You can almost imagine a capital letter L for loser tattooed on your forehead. I’m thinking, ‘please, someone, anyone come by the table.’ I even found myself hoping for a wannabe author looking for free advice without any intention of buying a book.”
“People do that?” Luke asked.
“Oh yeah. Probably the same way people go to the Glass Dolphin looking for advice on their antiques without any intention of buying anything in the store. Am I right, Arabella?”
Arabella nodded. “It happens all the time, although I like to think those people might come back and buy one day. What did you do, Hudson?”
“I tried to hand out bookmarks. It’s amazing how many people will avoid eye contact just to avoid taking a free bookmark. Finally, an elderly Asian woman comes in and starts walking over to my table, and there’s real purpose in her stride. Not my typical target demographic, I grant you, but who am I to judge?” Hudson grinned. “When she got to my table, she pulled out her smartphone and showed me a picture of a Chinese-English dictionary. ‘Where find?’ she asked, pointing to it.”
They all laughed, and Hudson said, “I did what any self-respecting author would do. I took her over to the reference section and helped her find the dictionary. Then I went back to my table and hoped that karma would kick in.”
“Did it?” Arabella asked.
“I did end up selling a few books after that. So yeah, maybe. But here’s the kicker. I was just about to start packing up when who walks in but Trent Norland.”
Arabella sat up straighter. “The hole in one insurance guy.”
“One and the same, although thankfully he was wearing jeans and not those god-awful plaid pants.
He said that he lived in the area and heard I’d be there.”
“Nice of him to stop by,” Emily said.
Hudson nodded, but a frown furrowed his brow. “Maybe, but I got the distinct impression he wanted to tell me something. He made a stab at small talk, bought the first book in my series, and left. I’m probably reading more into it than there was.”
Or maybe it had something to do with Marc Larroquette, Arabella thought. She glanced at Emily, who seemed to be oblivious to everything but Luke. She’d talk to her tomorrow when her head was out of the clouds, and get her to call Trent on some pretext.
“What do you think he wanted?” Arabella asked. “Why wouldn’t he come to see Luke, or stop into the Glass Dolphin?”
“I don’t know,” Hudson said. “I put it down to my writer’s instinct, but it’s probably my overactive imagination. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“Here comes Lindsay with our dinner,” Luke said. “Let’s forget about that day on the golf course, at least for tonight.”
If only I could, Arabella thought, and took a generous sip of her wine.
28
The evening turned out to be a lot more fun than Arabella imagined. Hudson was handsome and charming, and it was obvious Luke and Emily were totally into each other. She hoped, for her friend’s sake, that Luke was the real deal. She knew Emily was still hurt by the way Kevin had broken up with her. Meeting him in Toronto hadn’t helped, and her infatuation with Johnny Porter last year had ended badly.
When it was time to leave, Emily whispered to Arabella that she was going to Luke’s for a nightcap. “If all goes well, I’ll be late tomorrow,” she said with a grin.
Hudson and Arabella decided to stay for another drink, Hudson promising to walk Arabella the few blocks home.
“What about your car? Will you walk back here to get it?”
Hudson shook his head. “It’s not worth the risk of driving over the limit. I’ll call a cab to pick me up from your place.” He caught her panicked look. “Don’t worry, I’m planning to call for one before we leave here. Luke can drive me back down tomorrow morning. I figure he’ll be driving Emily back anyway.”
They both chuckled at that, a bit awkwardly, but the momen
t passed soon enough. “What’s it like being an antiques shop owner in a modern world?” Hudson asked.
“It can be challenging to earn a living,” Arabella admitted, “especially in a small town like Lount’s Landing. The historic Main Street angle helps, and Emily is really good with the online stuff. We probably sell half of our smalls through eBay, and we’ve had a few sales of larger items through Craigslist. She writes up the best descriptions. They’re filled with all sorts of facts and trivia. I think, sometimes, she misses working as a journalist.”
“What about you? Anything you miss?”
“I’ve wanted to run my own shop for as long as I can remember. It really is a dream come true for me, corny as it sounds. Of course, it would be nice to be making more money.”
“It doesn’t sound corny to me at all. I’ve always believed if you do what you love, the money will follow.”
Arabella smiled. That’s what she believed, too. The money hadn’t quite followed her, not yet, but it would. She just had to stay true to the dream.
“What about you, Hudson? What’s it like being an author of medieval mysteries in the twenty-first century?”
“Probably not a lot different than being the owner of an antiques shop. I’ve been very fortunate with my series, but there are plenty of talented authors with great books who are lucky to earn a thousand dollars on a book.”
“How can that be?”
“Let’s say a book retails for ten dollars. The distributor takes a commission on every sale—the percentage varies depending on the format, i.e. e-book or paperback, as well as the individual distributor, but let’s use forty percent as an average. Now, you’re down to six dollars.”
“Okay.”
“Every publisher is different, but some publishers take as much as ninety percent off net sales. Ninety percent, if you can imagine that. Most fall into the thirty to fifty percent range for digital, and fifty to seventy percent for print. Let’s be optimistic and say that the author’s publisher splits the net in half. That means on a ten-dollar sale, the author is getting three dollars per book. Sell a thousand books, and you’re still only looking at three thousand dollars. If the author has an agent, she or he will have to pay them fifteen percent of that, or four hundred and fifty dollars. And the reality is that very few books sell a thousand copies. Of course, there are exceptions, the Stephen Kings of the world. But for every Stephen King there are a thousand authors trying to keep the lights on so they can keep on writing.”
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