“Prepping for a grand opening means additional expense,” I said.
“Right,” said MJ, “but it also means even more revenue.”
“Just so you know,” said Skye. “I plan to convert most of what is already here, on the floor, into saleable stuff. I've been looking through the piles. By repurposing these odds and ends, we won't waste very much. MJ is right about the flea markets. I'd love to come along. You really don't want to miss this opportunity, Cara. The Art Fair will mean all sorts of foot traffic.”
I still wasn't convinced.
“Here's the deal,” said MJ, circling the date on her calendar, “even if we simply call it an open house, we could at least re-introduce The Treasure Chest to the public.”
She had a point.
Both women stared at me expectantly. They believed we could pull this off. MJ, the planner, and Skye, the crafter. I was the only naysayer in the bunch. They were right. At least, we'd make a party out of it. At best, we'd put some money in the till.
I had Cooper's permission to keep this building. No obstacle stood in my way, except my own fear of failure.
Staring me in the face was a chance to prove that I was my father's daughter. My dad, the entrepreneur who opened a restaurant, started a catering business, and flipped houses for a hobby. He taught me to read a balance sheet, negotiate with suppliers, run spreadsheets, adapt pricing, add new products, advertise, work with customers, and run a business.
Dad would be proud. He’d definitely make things work. I know he would.
“Woof!” Jack weighed in, adding his vote to the “aye” column. That was the first time I'd heard him bark. We all burst out laughing.
I smiled at my friends and said, “Jack has spoken. Let's go for it!”
CHAPTER 59
Skye told me that she was leaving for her shift at Pumpernickel's.
“Since I plan to buy lunch for everyone, how about if I walk with you? We can talk on the way there. I want to hear your ideas on how to come up with more merchandise. Small stuff that we can turn over fast.”
“Sure,” said Skye, as we stepped out into the sunshine. “There's so much you can do. All kinds of things you can make.”
“Food I can make, but I'm not sure I can contribute any crafting help,” I said, as we stood on the corner and waited for the light to change.
“Of course you can,” Skye said. “Cara, you believe in us. How come you don't believe in yourself?”
“I don't have as much imagination as you do.”
“Of course you do! You just haven't tapped into it yet.”
“Phooey,” I waved her off. “You don't have to butter me up. I'm a fan.”
“I'm not buttering you up. Look at those chandeliers you nabbed on their way to the dump. Don't forget, you had the vision for how to brighten up the interior of the store. Even with only half the tiles down, it's clear that's exactly what the place needed.”
“Yes, but crafts are different. I'm not an innovator. I can copy, but I can't create.”
“Of course you can!”
“You have too much faith in me,” I said.
“No, I don't,” she said. “When you first came into Pumpernickel's, I could see your aura. You were totally blocked. Totally. Now there are sprigs of orange and yellow energy spiking out all over.”
I was “totally” not into this metaphysical stuff, but I nodded and gave her a hug. We continued walking into Pumpernickel's together.
A few minutes later, loaded down with sacks full of deli sandwiches, sweet potato chips, and rugelach, I made my way back to The Treasure Chest. As I trudged along, I worried. Skye might see signs of my burgeoning creativity, but my major emotional state was confusion. Was I doing the right thing? Especially since it was clear that somebody didn't want me to stick around? I could still clean up The Treasure Chest and flip it. Was it better to cut my losses and move on?
If Detective Murray could arrest someone for Hal Humberger's murder, the cloud of suspicion would be lifted from me and from The Treasure Chest.
Was I wrong to trust the cop? He didn't seem in a hurry to clear Poppy. Or me.
In my limited experience, some law enforcement officials were good, some were mediocre, and some just plain incompetent. Other than Skye's worshipful accolades, and his decision not to press charges against Poppy for assault, I had no way of telling which category Detective Murray fell into. What if he was kind to her, but not as kind to everyone else? What if he was a good person, but an inept cop? Was solving Hal Humberger's murder a high priority for him? Would he blame my grandfather just to get a conviction?
Standing at the intersection and waiting for the light to turn, I came to a conclusion as I juggled the bags of food. There was no way around it. I needed to make my own efforts toward solving the murder. I couldn't leave everything to Detective Murray.
Of course, my priority was to get the business up and running, but that wouldn't stop me from paying attention to any detail that might help the investigation. After all, the murder had happened in The Treasure Chest. The deed had been done right after I'd signed the purchase papers. Only a fool would ignore the possibility that Hal Humberger's death was linked somehow to Essie's shop.
With that decision made, I stepped into the crosswalk. I felt more settled until a seagull flew overhead. Its squawk reminded me of the beach, and the beach reminded me of Cooper.
Last night I'd dreamed about him and awakened feeling heartbroken all over again. He hadn't called me since Jodi walked in on us. I wondered what he'd said to her. How he'd explained our kiss. A part of me felt I owed her an apology. The other part didn't care: He was mine first.
Why did Cooper have to go and fall in love? Darn it. He might be engaged, but you'd never know it by how fervently he'd kissed me. Were my feelings for him real? Or was I still, at heart, a hopeless romantic? A teenager who hadn't outgrown her first love?
A dark thought bought me to a total standstill outside The Treasure Chest. Wasn't I doing the same thing to Jodi that Alicia had done to me? She'd made nice to my face and gone behind my back to betray me.
There were two major differences: I'd been married to Dom and pregnant at the time.
But wasn't being engaged almost as important? It was still proof of a promise, wasn't it? A commitment? By kissing Cooper, hadn't I interfered with that pledge?
I decided right then. It wouldn't happen again. I vowed to concentrate on my store.
My store.
I liked the sound of that.
CHAPTER 60
The Treasure Chest bustled with activity. Jimmy and his crew were in the midst of shifting stuff from one side to the other, so they could continue to lay the flooring. Even with the job partially done, you could see how much brighter and more appealing the place looked.
“I can fix just about anything,” said Bobby, as he opened the waxed paper on his turkey breast sandwich. “But some of this stuff is badly dinged up. I'm not a real cabinet man, and I can't do expert refinishing. Only simple fixes. For more complex problems you need Don Able. He's the best in town.”
MJ looked up from her tuna salad on whole wheat. “Don charges two arms and a leg for his time. I already checked with him. He's all booked up. We could put stuff out and mark it 'as is,' although that will bring down the value considerably.”
“How many pieces are we talking about?” I sipped my Diet Dr Pepper.
“At least six,” said MJ. “Three end tables, a dresser, and a breakfront.”
I followed her around as she pointed out the various items and the damages. Most were dark wood, so the chips and dings stood out in stark relief. I sighed.
“I have another project for you,” I told Bobby as I sat back down. “The windows upstairs are boarded over. Can you pry the wood off?”
“Is it just on the outside?” His face scrunched with thought. “No? Inside too? I couldn't do the outside without one of my tall ladders. Those are on my truck. I drove my Camaro today. How about if we go and t
ake a look-see?”
Together we climbed the stairs to the apartments. When we walked into my place, I was struck anew by how empty it was. The good news was that without any furniture, I’d been able to make short work out of sweeping and mopping all my floors.
“I remember building these out when I worked for Hal Humberger,” said Bobby. “He was in construction before he went into real estate full time. That man couldn't estimate a job for love nor money. That's why he had to get out of the business. But his wife and Miss Essie had been friends for years. When Miss Essie had her stroke, her son encouraged her to split the one big apartment into two rental units so she'd get the additional income. They hired Hal to do the job.”
Like a lot of workmen, Bobby was a gregarious sort, and the chance to engage a customer in conversation didn't come often enough. As he pulled aside the blinds, he kept talking about how he'd installed the bathroom and kitchen fixtures. Done all the tiles and flooring. He'd framed everything in. The windows had been covered inside and out with small sheets of plywood. Leftovers, probably.
“Can't tell from this angle if any of the glass under this needs fixing,” he said. “Give me a day or two. I'll come back with the big ladder and poke around.”
I gestured toward the ugly maple siding. “That stuff makes me claustrophobic. I suppose we could paint it, but I'd love to get rid of it. Could you tear it down and put up drywall?”
He widened his eyes and turned to stare at the unappealing maple.
“Sure,” Bobby said. “It’ll make a big mess though. You'd have to move out for a couple of days. I don't know if there are proper studs back there. Can't remember. Hal was always cutting corners. Toward the end of this job, he ran out of money. Finished it himself. He probably had that siding from another job and slapped it up to save money.”
“Is that why there aren't any electrical outlets along the wall? Was he trying to economize?”
Bobby rubbed the back of his neck. “Durned if I know. But I bet that's it. More of Hal's skimping.”
“I guess I better call an electrician.”
“For what?”
“To have outlets added. I want to put a sofa against that wall and a lamp so I can read.”
“Don't call an electrician. Let me handle it.”
“You sure?”
“No need to get someone else involved,” he said with a wink. “Might as well keep it in the family.”
CHAPTER 61
After everyone finished lunch, we went back to work. MJ continued calling old customers and taking note of what they wanted.
“How's it going?” I asked, when she stood up to take a break.
“Too bad we don't have those Highwaymen paintings,” she said. “Everyone wants to own one of those. Ever since they were inducted into the Florida Artists Hall of Fame in 2004, they've been hot, hot, hot.”
“Could we dig up a few and resell them?” I'd been creating a spreadsheet for tracking the cost of utilities. By my calculations, air-conditioning this building was going to cost me a bundle.
“I wish,” she said. “We might stumble over an under-valued painting or two when we're out and about, but that's unlikely. Most of the owners know what they have. The price has gone up tremendously on the landscapes.”
“What do you think happened to the paintings? The ones that Essie owned?” I'd been meaning to ask MJ. This seemed like as good of a time as any.
“All I can figure is that Essie loaned them out to someone, and never got them back. She probably forgot about doing the paperwork. That had happened before. You see, she'd been having small strokes all along before she had that big one. I didn't realize it at the time. I chalked it up to stress. She and Irving were angry with each other nonstop. It's possible that the paintings were gone before I took my trip to Michigan, and I didn't even know it.”
“That must have been a shock when you got back.”
“I can't even begin to tell you. We had always kept the storage closet locked. I had no reason to check on the paintings. They were her babies, and that would have been overstepping my bounds.” MJ sighed and shook her head. “I didn't know her doctor had warned her about her blood pressure. If I'd known then what I know now, I would have hustled her into the hospital a lot sooner.”
“It wasn't your fault,” I said.
“I still feel guilty. I should have paid more attention to Essie, but I was too focused on my mother. Mama was turning ninety-five, and she was making noises about this being her last birthday. I figured I better get up there and see her. She was looking forward to it. Then when Essie had her stroke, I said I wouldn't leave, not with her in the hospital. But she became agitated and insisted that I go. Her doctor suggested that if I didn't provide a distraction, it might be easier for her to recover. August was always our slowest month. Bobby offered to loan me money so I could fly to Michigan rather than drive. And my mother was so excited about my visit that I couldn't let her down.”
“So you visited, came back, and discovered the paintings were missing.”
“All eighty-five of them. Vanished into thin air. I can't imagine how the thief did it. My best guess is that Essie loaned them out and forgot about them.”
“Why would she do that? Loan them out? You're talking about a lot of artwork.”
“Essie Feldman was a shrewd businesswoman. Loaning out the paintings was a smart way to drum up interest in Highwayman art. You have to appreciate the timing. Essie had heard whispers that Jeb Bush was going to name the Highwaymen to the Florida Hall of Fame. She knew that event would increase their value. She had a network of people who kept their ears to the ground for her. Bird-dogs, if you will. That's one reason she could usually come up with whatever furnishing or accessory her customers wanted. She'd point them in the right direction, and they'd flush out the game. Unfortunately, she rarely shared their names with me.”
I paused to stretch the muscles in my shoulders. Essie's computer was an older model but it had a nice big monitor. Even so, sitting behind it for hours made me stiff. “I'm still at a loss as to how these paintings suddenly became so popular. Is it because Jeb Bush inducted them into the Florida Hall of Fame? Was he governor at the time? What's the big deal?”
“There's no money in obscurity. Think about an unknown actor. Suddenly his face is on the cover of multiple magazines. He appears on television. And his price goes up. That's how it happened for the Highwaymen, too. First the governor created this registry. Next there was an hour-long TV documentary, an NPR segment, and several books. The right people talked up the paintings. Originally people sneered at them because the Highwaymen were these untrained painters who literally painted while standing on the side of the road sometimes selling artwork with paint that was still wet—but suddenly they were being hailed as outstanding examples of outsider art. Of course, all this came with the realization that the painters themselves were getting older. A couple had died. Scarcity adds value.”
Her explanation made sense. “You're thinking that a gallery simply kept all those pieces? Heard about Essie's stroke and decided to wait and see if you tracked them down?”
“I don't know. It's as good of an explanation as any.”
“Did you call around?”
“Of course I did.” She sounded ticked.
“Sorry. I'm simply trying to understand all this. Is it possible someone took them out under the cover of night?”
“No.” She sounded impatient. “There were security cameras trained over the front door and the back. When the recordings were reviewed, there were no breaks in the time sequence.”
“But there are no security cameras now.”
“Since they didn't stop the theft of her paintings, Essie called the company and made them give her a refund. You should have heard the fuss she kicked up.” MJ paused. “Are you asking all these questions because you think I have something to do with the loss?”
“No. I'm not blaming you, MJ. I'm simply puzzled.”
“Yeah, yeah, I
know. Here's the thing,” and she frowned. “You can't imagine how bad I feel about those paintings. It keeps me awake at night. Essie and I worked together for years. We had a system. I can't understand what went wrong. It doesn't make any sense. I know—or knew—most of the gallery owners. I can't imagine any of them ripping her off like that.”
I understood guilt all too well. “Did you ever read Sherlock Holmes?”
“I've watched the movies. Why?”
“He said, 'When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.'“
MJ studied me, thoughtfully. “Hmmm.”
“Hmm?”
“I'll need to think about that.”
CHAPTER 62
“That lazy lump of ugly fat,” Showalter sneered at the spectacle of Ollie Anderson stuffing his face with donuts while printing out paper from his computer.
“My wife loves me.” Ollie gave Lou a lopsided grin.
Showalter had been a “boots on the ground” type of detective, but Ollie liked to sit behind a desk and eat rather than burn through shoe leather. However, that didn't mean that Ollie wasn't helpful. With his knowledge of computers and the Internet, Ollie had managed to get a full accounting of Hal and Philomena Humberger's worldly wealth. He'd also poked around on Hal Humberger's hard drive, which Mrs. Humberger had gladly offered them without a search warrant.
“Anything,” she'd said, “if it will bring Hal's killer to justice! You're welcome to take all the papers in his desk, too.”
“Hal Humberger socked money away?” asked Lou, as he studied the papers that Anderson had smeared with chocolate icing.
“Yep,” Ollie spoke around a masticated éclair.
“But we don't know where or how much.”
“Nope.”
“And he's been really active on eBay.”
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