by Price, Cate
“Oh, yes. I remember when Angus got in a nasty fight when he was younger. He nearly beat the other guy to a pulp before the fight was stopped. That’s probably how come the police already had his fingerprints on file. Right, Eleanor?”
Eleanor shook her head. “I didn’t hang around with your crowd. You were in the cheerleader and jock contingent. I was one of the geeks, remember?”
“Oh, this wasn’t in high school, although he got in plenty of fights back then, too. This was when Angus must have been in his forties.”
I had no idea about Angus’s violent side until now. I’d certainly never seen any evidence of it.
“Daisy, it doesn’t look good,” Martha said, lowering her voice. “Angus was the last person to see Jimmy alive, and his fingerprints are all over the murder weapon. According to Ramsbottom, his big footprints are everywhere in and around that barn. And other than Jimmy’s and Reenie’s, his are the only strange footprints there.”
I bit my lip. Angus did have unusually large feet, and he always wore the same scruffy work boots.
“Betty has to special order his shoes on-line,” Eleanor said. “Or rather, she asks me to do it for her, and she pays me when they come in.” She wiggled her eyebrows. “You know what they say. Big hands. Big feet. Big—”
The doorbell rang again. Saved by the bell.
Chris Paxson came in, carrying his own mug. He was the cute thirty-something-year-old guy who owned the bicycle shop.
I gave him coffee, he politely declined Martha’s offer of one of her treats, and he wandered over to the back of the store where I’d hung a former post office sign that said MAIL, except I’d crossed it out and written MALE. Underneath sat a rectangular wooden toolbox that Joe filled with small treasures. Everything cost five dollars. Keep it simple for the men, he’d advised me.
The odd thing was that little box did a roaring business all by itself. Men who were hanging around while their wives shopped often poked through it. It was also an excuse for the single men in town to visit. After all, this was where the women congregated.
Currently it held things like an old silver belt buckle, a bag of vintage marbles, a pocket watch, a Victorian glass paperweight that looked like an eyeball, and sharpening stones for a straight razor. Chris selected a neat camping knife and fork combo set, and pulled a five-dollar bill out of his tight biker’s shorts.
“Well, I’d better get going. Thanks for the coffee, ladies.”
“Anytime,” Martha said.
We all watched him leave, his lean athlete’s body a welcome sight on a gloomy morning.
“I want to take that boy home and give him a large bowl of pasta,” Martha declared. “He’s too damn skinny.”
“What are you talking about?” Eleanor shook her head in disgust. “Look at that ass. He’s perfect.”
“Eleanor!” I exclaimed. “You’re old enough to be his mother.”
“Thank you very much for pointing that out, Daisy, but I’m not dead yet. I can still window-shop, can’t I?”
I smiled as I went to put on another pot of coffee. Joe sometimes jokingly called the three of us “The Coven,” which might be a bit unfair, but it was true that women over fifty did possess a certain indisputable power.
I grabbed one of the cheesecake squares while the going was good. Creamy luscious cheesecake filling, a crunchy, buttery graham cracker crust, and toasted toffee crumble topping made me moan in delight. “Oh, Martha, these are evil!”
More of the local ladies drifted in, including Debby Millerton, the librarian from Sheepville. All the talk was of the murder. This was the most exciting thing to happen in Millbury since the pastor’s wife had run off with a female parishioner.
Some actual customers arrived next, so I put Martha in charge of hospitality. The two clients wanted a closer look at the sewing station in the shape of a miniature rocking chair displayed in the front window. I turned it around to show them how the spools of colored threads sat on the little armrests, and the front had a pullout drawer for notions, with top slots for several pairs of scissors.
They asked me more about the store, so I explained that the idea was to offer “new” old stock. Vintage, but untouched. I gestured to the unopened packages of Lucky needles, flawless wax flowers for ladies’ hats still in their paper wrappers, and snaps, hooks, and fasteners on their original cards.
As the granddaughter of a milliner, and as a former teacher, I loved educating clients who might have a mild interest in sewing or antiques, and watch it turn into a real passion. The more people knew, the more enthusiastic they became.
Dimly I heard Martha across the room repeating my words. “Vintage and untouched? Heck, that sounds like me. I haven’t had sex in so long, I’m practically a virgin again.”
Eleanor snickered, and I hurriedly kept talking to distract my customers. Sometimes it was a good thing that my store was such a haven for gossip and camaraderie, making the store appear busy and alive, and sometimes it was a bit of a liability.
The ladies decided to purchase the sewing station, so I moved it out of the front window and set it near the register. They said they would look around some more, so I busied myself with filling the space in the window with a 1930s Beech-Nut Gum display case, a silk sample swatch book, and some pristine tatted linen hankies.
All the while I kept half an ear open for the gossip behind me. When the discussion turned back to Angus, I was shocked to hear a note of resentment in the voices of the locals. To hear how jealous people were of the Backsteads, who still operated a thriving business in spite of the downturn in the economy.
The depressed economic conditions had also helped me obtain a rock-bottom rent for my store space when I first opened, I thought, with a soupçon of guilt.
I’d built a successful business myself by word of mouth, and now sold not only to crafters, but to collectors, interior designers, antiques dealers, and treasure hunters, some of whom came from hundreds of miles away. Like Eleanor’s, mine was a destination shop. Our little village of Millbury was too far off the beaten track for the casual tourist. Although unlike me, Eleanor only opened her store when she damn well felt like it.
Once the customers and the other women had departed, I mentioned to Martha, Debby, and Eleanor that I thought I might stop and visit Cyril Mackey at his junkyard. I had a feeling that if anyone could come up with some information about the night of the murder, it might be Cyril.
Martha choked on her third cheesecake square.
“Why do you want to see that disgusting old fart? The man needs a haircut, a shower, and some clean clothes, and that’s just for starters. Last time I saw him in town, I offered to pay for a trip to the barber.”
I winced. “And what did he say to that?”
She sniffed. “Nothing I can repeat in polite company.” Noting the almost empty plate, she addressed Eleanor. “How many of those have you eaten?”
Eleanor shrugged. “Not sure. Five, maybe six. More?”
“How the hell do you stay so skinny?”
“Not sure. I eat like a pig. That is, when I remember.”
“See, Daisy, this is the kind of comment from her that drives me insane. How can someone just forget to eat?”
The doorbell chimed again, and I ran a hand through my hair. It was turning out to be a busy day.
On the doorstep stood a gorgeous young woman, long blond hair trailing across her shoulders. She wore a filmy gauze top and a full-length silk skirt, with a colorful Indian scarf tied expertly around her neck.
She flung her arms wide. “Hi, Mom. Surprise!”
Chapter Three
“Sarah! What on earth are you doing here?” I rushed over and hugged my daughter, and even managed to kiss her on the cheek before she strode into the store.
“Oh, you know. I’m sort of between films right now, so I thought I’d come home and chill for a while.”
Debby clasped her hands together. “Films! How exciting!” She was always going to the Ritz, an art
house cinema in the Old City district of Philadelphia that featured independent and foreign films and documentaries.
“Wow, it’s always like a party in this place. Look at these.” Sarah took the last of the cheesecake squares and smiled at Martha. “Awesome.”
“Thank you, darling. Glad there was at least one left for you,” Martha said with an arch look at Eleanor.
Eleanor was a former costume designer, and had worked on some of the same movie sets as Sarah. After one of her visits home, Sarah had told her about Millbury, and intrigued, Eleanor came to check it out. She saw the empty storefront across the street from me and that was it.
“Sarah, do you remember that last shoot from hell we did together? With Robert Malone, the crazed director on the Western debacle? I still have nightmares about that one.”
“He was a complete maniac. Overcoked and overbudget.”
“The man decided he needed two hundred extras at the last minute, all of them in period costume. I wanted to strangle him with a length of rickrack trim.”
Sarah laughed. “So I take it you don’t miss the movie business, E?”
“Not one bit, thank you very much. There’s not enough gin in the world to make it bearable. Besides, I’ve finally found my true niche in life. Just like your mother.”
“Oh, yeah. How’s biz with the dusty old sewing things, Mom?”
“Pretty good,” I answered. “Although I clean every item before it’s displayed, Sarah. I honestly don’t think they’re that dusty . . .”
I was drowned out by my group of friends as they peppered her with questions about her exciting career. She had Joe’s easy charm and ability to get along with anyone. I saw their expressions of delight as she turned her attention from one to the next. Like a beautiful butterfly landing on a flower beside you. You held your breath because you didn’t want it to fly away.
I felt like I’d been holding my breath around Sarah for most of her life.
I saw her gaze flick over to me and she smiled, but I hoped it wouldn’t turn out to be a “Mom Improvement Weekend.” I’d intended to color my hair yesterday, but other events took precedence and I prayed my roots weren’t showing.
I was wearing my usual outfit of a faded denim jacket, white T-shirt, and what she would disparagingly call “mom jeans,” my old boot-cut Levi’s. Hey, they were comfortable, and while I lugged boxes around and was on my feet all day, comfort was my main concern. My only jewelry consisted of the simple gold hoops Joe had given me when we opened the store.
“I must admit I do miss the breakfast burritos on set,” Eleanor said. “They were the best! How was your latest shoot?”
“The only good part about that movie was that I got to practice my fight-scene techniques. The standin was sick one day, so I filled in. All the stuff they taught us in film school finally paid off.”
Debby groaned as she looked at her watch. “I’m running late for my shift at the library, but I have to hear more insider tales of the film industry. Can we go to lunch soon? Please?”
“Sure,” Sarah said. “I’ll be around for a few days.”
Debby reluctantly said good-bye, and rushed off.
“Well, we must be going, too,” Eleanor announced. “We have to attend the monthly meeting of the Historical Society.” Eleanor was the president, and Martha was the secretary, in charge of taking the minutes at the meetings.
“Don’t you mean the Hysterical Society?” asked Martha. She winked at us as she followed Eleanor out the front door.
Sarah laughed. “Those two never change, do they, Mom?”
“No.” I grinned at her. “And I hope they never do.”
She wandered over to the store’s computer. “How’s the website coming along?”
“Great, thanks to you.”
She’d set me up with a site, and I knew enough to be dangerous. At least to fill orders that came in over the Internet and answer questions on certain merchandise. I’d even toyed with the idea of starting a blog, but I wasn’t quite there yet.
“Come on now, Sarah. What’s the matter?” As much as I knew she loved us, my daughter thought Millbury was insufferably dull. There had to be some pressing reason why she was here.
I narrowed my eyes at her. Sarah changed boyfriends every six months whether she needed to or not. Actually it seemed to coincide with the conclusion of each new film.
“How’s—um . . .” I struggled to remember the latest one’s name.
“Oh God. Please don’t mention Peter to me. I never want to see, hear, or speak to him ever again.”
“Okay.”
“Jeez, Mom, he had the nerve to break up with me at the wrap party. At the wrap party. With me.”
“But why?”
“I said I didn’t want to talk about it.”
“Okay.”
Apparently for once the tables had turned, and Sarah was the victim of the latest breakup. She’d come home to lick her wounds. I sighed inwardly. Sarah with a broken heart was a wealth of additional drama that I really didn’t need right now.
Sometimes I wished she had more of Joe’s sweetness and maybe more of my tact. It was typical of her lack of thoughtfulness that she would show up with no notice, but no matter. I adored her nonetheless.
A couple of hours later, she’d checked the website thoroughly, made some updates, and she sighed, too, obviously bored to death. The familiar anxiety rose up inside my chest as I worried about how to keep her happy and entertained.
“Do you want to sort some buttons for me?”
“Mom! I’m not a little kid anymore.”
But she followed me into the former dining room. The maple two-piece dovetailed workbench had a recessed portion in the middle for sorting and separating items. I poured out a bag of buttons I’d picked up at the last auction—a mix of wood, bone, Czech glass, jet, metal, silver, pewter, and mother-of-pearl. She slumped into a chair and began sorting them in a desultory fashion.
When I’d rearranged the front window display three times, and I hadn’t had a customer in over an hour, I decided my nerves couldn’t take it anymore.
“Sarah, I’m going to close early today, but I have to run a couple of errands before I go home. I’m sure you’re anxious to see Dad.”
“Oh, I already stopped to see Daddy on the way here.”
I squashed an irrational stab of jealousy. “Well, do you want to come with me, then?”
“Why not?” She sighed again. “There’s nothing else to do.”
I counted to ten, and then counted to ten again for good measure. I took the six-pack of beer and some other items out of the fridge and prepared my unorthodox care basket. Sarah raised a languid eyebrow, but didn’t comment. It was as if the energy had completely drained from her body.
A few minutes later, though, as we bumped over the potholes on the Kratzes’ driveway, she perked up. “Wow. Look at this place, Mom. It’s about as far from Manhattan as you could get, right?”
“Hey, you wanted a change of scene. Be careful what you wish for.”
We grinned at each other. Sarah slung her ever-present camera around her neck, and I hefted the basket out of the backseat.
I found Reenie in the kitchen, boiling milk on the stove. A collection of glass jugs stood on the counter next to her. The room was dark and cool because the window over the sink was almost completely covered by the creeping vine growing up the outside of the house.
Reenie unpacked the basket eagerly, grabbing the beer first, and stashing a pack of cigarettes in the pocket of her apron. Apples, bananas, yogurt, and granola bars didn’t seem to hold as much interest, and she held up a package of peanut butter crackers with a look of dismay.
“Peanut butter! Oh, Daisy, we can’t have these in the house. Jimmy’s allergic—or well—he was. I guess it don’t matter no more . . .” Her voice trailed off as her eyes filled with tears.
The two children crept in from the living room. The girl looked to be about six years old, and the little boy was a co
uple of years younger.
“You must be starting first grade soon, right?” I said to the girl, smiling at her. “Are you excited?” The child looked at me blankly. Reenie made no comment.
The younger one sniffed, his nose running. Reenie pinched the mucus from under his nose, and wiped it on her apron.
Sarah made a small choking sound. “Would you excuse me? I—um—need to get some air.”
“Want to go see our chickens?” asked the boy.
“Sure,” Sarah answered, in that same slightly jaded tone she used with me. She strode outside, and the kids followed, gazing up at her as if she were some kind of movie star.
Reenie turned the burner off on the stove and cracked open a cold beer.
“You want one, Daisy?”
I didn’t really, but maybe if we shared a drink together, she would talk. I’d gotten the feeling last time that there was something she wanted to tell me.
“Okay, thanks.”
Reenie handed me a bottle and then lit a cigarette with trembling fingers.
I took a tiny sip of my beer and waited.
She started speaking slowly, as if picking her words. “I think I know why Jimmy died. He had some kind of deal going on with this company that was hired to sell stuff from people’s estates.” She took a long drag on her cigarette. “I don’t really know much about it. To me, it was just another one of Jimmy’s crazy get-rich-quick schemes.” She laughed without humor and gestured to the kitchen around her. “You can see how well they worked.”
The Formica table with its fake gray marble surface was chipped, and the brown and white speckled linoleum floor was missing a few tiles. There were no cabinets, only makeshift open shelves. The fridge looked like something Jimmy had salvaged at one time because it was too small for the space it sat in, and the range had to be at least twenty years old.
The whole place needed gutting.
“But how was Jimmy involved?”
Reenie tipped the beer bottle up and took another swallow. It was already half empty.
“This company would send valuable things out from the city to a country auction like Sheepville, where they’d sell for a much lower price. They’d hire a local to go and bid on the items. He’d hand the merchandise back to them afterwards, and they’d sell the stuff for a much higher price somewhere else down the road.”
