Going Through the Notions (A Deadly Notions Mystery)

by Price, Cate

  “That’s not all,” I said. “Some crazed woman called Fiona Adams showed up at the auction house this morning, claiming the pens belonged to her dead father. His new wife sent them here instead of auctioning them off in New York. The whole thing seems very strange to me.”

  I handed Martha a cup of coffee.

  “Thank you, Daisy. The plot thickens, eh? And now I hear Vikki, the bartender over at the pub, is trying to backtrack, saying Angus wasn’t that drunk. Probably worried about the liability. Too bad she already told everyone how smashed he was. That woman can’t keep her mouth shut about anything.”

  Eleanor rolled her eyes at me, and I hid a smile. I loved Martha, but she couldn’t keep anything to herself either. I’d learned the hard way not to tell her any deep dark secrets. Those I reserved for Eleanor.

  “Look, guys, Betty is still going ahead with the auction this weekend,” I said. “We have to help her out. I’m going to ask Patsy to do the bid calling, and Joe will move the heavy stuff, but we’ll need someone to run the snack counter like Betty usually does, because she’ll be busy overseeing and—”

  “Snack counter! I call the snack counter.” Martha raised an arm in the air.

  “And I’ll take the cold hard cash.” Eleanor drained her mug. “Good coffee as always, Daisy. You know how I like my coffee. Like ah like my men. Hot, black, and strong,” she murmured in her best Mae West imitation, garnering a few interested glances from the men over at the dice game.

  Martha nodded toward the bistro table. “I was thinking we could put a mini television over there, volume on low, of course, so the men could watch the baseball games and—”

  “Jiminy Cricket, don’t make it too comfortable for them,” Eleanor protested. “How are we supposed to gossip about the male population of this village if they’re hanging around here? Besides, they have Tony Z’s.”

  I turned off the coffee machine. “I’ve always wondered how Tony stays in business at ten dollars a person. I don’t think he’s changed his prices since 1970.”

  “Yes, but think about how often guys need a haircut,” Eleanor pointed out. “Some of them come here every single week.”

  “True. And I guess he’s such a character that he has a loyal clientele who make it a point to travel to see him. It’s like the men’s own version of Sometimes a Great Notion.”

  “Exactly. So they don’t need to horn in on our spot.”

  After Martha and Eleanor left, and the men disappeared, I called Detective Ramsbottom. “A woman named Fiona Adams was at the auction house today, claiming the stolen pens belong to her.”

  “Yeah? That nutcase tortured me for the best part of Sunday. So what?”

  “Well, have you checked out her story?”

  “There were no high-heeled footprints in the mud around Jimmy’s barn, if that’s what you’re getting at. Oh, wait. You think she whacked him to death with her diamond ring?” He laughed until he started coughing.

  I wanted to smash the phone against the counter. “And another thing. Apparently the Perkinses are very angry about a sale that Angus handled for their grandmother’s estate about a year ago. Jimmy was the one that recommended Angus for the job. Perhaps you should consider looking into their whereabouts on the morning of the murder?”

  “You think those boys killed someone else to get revenge on Backstead?” I could hear Ramsbottom eating. Perhaps a foot-long meatball hoagie with an extra large side of fries.

  At the thought of French fries, my stomach grumbled.

  “I don’t know. Sounds like you’re clutching at straws, Mrs. Daly.”

  “Buchanan.” Even as I corrected him, I sighed. My theories sounded pretty weak to me, too, once I voiced them out loud.

  Ramsbottom said he had to go, and hung up abruptly. I slammed the phone down and went in search of sustenance.

  The store had a real kitchen, seeing as it was once a home, so there was no excuse not to eat healthy food. I pulled a container of Joe’s homemade split pea and ham soup from the freezer and put it in the microwave, but I only had a chance to eat a few bites before the phone started ringing. One call was from an interior designer looking for vintage curtain panels for a child’s room. I had several in stock, plus some antique toys to accessorize the shelving. I promised to meet her after work on Thursday evening because she couldn’t come during store hours.

  As soon as I had a moment to breathe, Cyril Mackey’s words came back to me. Was there another way of looking at this whole thing? Even though the Perkins theory sounded weak, maybe he had a point.

  One thing was for sure. I’d need to keep my mind, ears, and eyes open to every possibility.

  I remembered one of the first jobs I had as a teacher. There was one little boy who simply could not sit still, and it was nearly impossible to get him engaged in the lessons. Until the day I sat the kids in a circle on the floor instead of at their desks. I told them the story of Paul Revere, and he was transfixed. I’ll never know whether it was the change of location or the delivery, but either way I had him, and knew that was my “teaching moment.” It also taught me to think outside the box and not be afraid to approach a problem from a new direction.

  Sarah finally drifted in during the early afternoon.

  “How’s the puppy doing?” I asked.

  “He’s okay. I let him run around in the backyard for a while before I came over.”

  I made a mental note to check around the yard when I got home. I had visions of going out into the grass in my bare feet one morning and finding that she hadn’t bothered to clean up after the dog.

  I took a deep breath. “You know we love having you here, Sarah, but don’t you have to go back to work sometime? When’s the next film?”

  Sarah shrugged and clicked through some messages on her cell phone. “No idea.”

  The condo in New York was in a full-service, door-attendant building. Even though she’d bought it from us for way below what we could have sold it for on the open market, it was still a decent-sized payment for a single woman. I knew she made good money on films, but it wasn’t consistent income, and she’d just spent a fortune on remodeling and new furniture.

  I swallowed and tried again. “I worry about you making your mortgage, that’s all.”

  “Something will come along soon,” she said, not looking up from the phone. “Don’t worry so much, Mom.”

  I gritted my teeth. If one more person told me that I worried too much today, I’d have a stroke.

  I’d seen the kids whose parents didn’t pay attention, who didn’t worry, and who didn’t come to parent-teacher meetings. Those were the parents who left teenagers home alone when they went to their beach house on Long Island, and were surprised when the police came calling on Monday night.

  Joe and Sarah were definitely peas in a pod with their laid-back attitudes to life. It was all very well to be so loosey-goosey, but it was because of my drive that we’d bought the condo, and had been able to afford her college education. Now we had this store that provided a nice income for Joe and me.

  Although Joe would probably be content to live in a tent at the bottom of the yard.

  I shook my head, even as I smiled. He’d still be a great cook, even on a propane camping stove.

  Some customers came in looking for ribbons and trim. As I showed them around, I watched Sarah out of the corner of my eye. Occasionally she laughed, and then frowned at the phone, her fingers moving lightning fast. I wondered if she was networking or chatting with her friends. The film business was like any other business. You had to stay in the game and be seen, not sequestered away in some Bucks County backwater. Although with the way everyone was connected via the Internet these days, I supposed it didn’t matter so much.

  “Yo, Daisy! Wazzup?”

  The boisterous yell resounded through the store as it did every day about this time. Patsy Elliott, the waitress from the Last Stop Diner, usually came in after her shift to chat before she picked up her daughter from school. Her raspy
barroom voice sounded like she smoked a hundred cigarettes a day, but she didn’t. It was a stark contrast to her clear skin, bright blue eyes, and dark curly hair, all glowing with good health.

  Today her leggy nine-year-old daughter, Claire, was with her, hanging behind her mother, dark eyes shining. Arched eyebrows framed her huge brown eyes, and she would be a stunner when she grew up.

  Claire was the one who usually helped me sort the buttons. I bent down and she gave me a tight hug. I clung back for a moment, cherishing the feel of her little arms around my neck.

  Sarah glanced at us, an unreadable expression on her face.

  “Patsy!” I hugged Patsy, too, for good measure. “Just the person I wanted to see. How would you feel about bid calling the auction on Saturday night? Betty will pay you. Probably a couple of hundred bucks for a few hours’ work?”

  “Hell, yeah. Sounds like fun. The diner has been slow lately. I can definitely use that kind of money.” Most people might have balked at being asked to do something they’d never done before, but not Patsy.

  “Oops! Mommy, you swore.” Claire held out her hand. “You owe me a quarter.”

  Patsy sighed and fished a coin out of her waitress apron. “After church I promised to give her a quarter each time I said a bad word.”

  Claire beamed at us. “I have two dollars and seventy-five cents so far, and it’s only Tuesday.”

  Sarah and I laughed. To say Patsy’s language was salty was an understatement. I cringed myself sometimes at her brash speech.

  “At this rate, I’ll be broke before the weekend. That’s why the auctioneer gig will come in handy.” Patsy settled her slender form into one of the bistro chairs. The diner uniform was hideous—a brown polyester dress with puffed sleeves and an orange and white checked apron—but Patsy could make a garbage bag look like designer couture.

  The customers brought their ribbon lengths to the counter and I rang them up, and thanked them for visiting.

  “Now, what about this chanting thing?” Patsy said after they left. “I can never understand what the hell those guys are saying.” She automatically reached in her pocket and held out another quarter to Claire.

  I smiled. “At first I couldn’t understand what they were saying at auctions either. But Angus told me that it’s really about the numbers. The rest is just filler. The main thing is to create a sense of excitement and urgency to drive the price up and keep the pace moving.”

  “But how do I learn how to do it?”

  “Well, you can practice counting pairs of numbers like one, one, two, two, three, three, and so on. Then try it backwards. Or count up in increments of fives or tens. Or practice tongue twisters. I’ll see Angus tomorrow. I’ll ask him for some pointers for you.”

  “Five, ten, fifteen, twenty. Twenty, fifteen, ten, five.” Claire smiled at me. “One, one, two, two, three, three—”

  “Jesus. Thanks a lot, Daisy.” Patsy groaned. “See what I’ll have to listen to for the rest of the week?”

  For all that I thought I’d had it rough in New York sometimes, it was nothing compared to the life Patsy had led, but she’d survived, flourished even. It had made her somewhat hard, though, and to say that she practiced tough love with her daughter was an understatement. No candy except on special occasions, no TV during the week, and a long list of chores to complete for her pocket money.

  Although perhaps I should have taken a page out of Patsy’s book. As a teenager, Sarah was constantly losing things like her cell phone, but instead of making her save up her pocket money for a new one, Joe bought her a replacement. We’d paid the full ticket to put her through college so she wouldn’t be encumbered by loans, but I wondered if Sarah appreciated how much Joe and I had sacrificed to give her that gift.

  The door bell rang, and an elderly woman stepped into the store. She wore a black wool coat in spite of the heat, and clutched a white paper shopping bag. Thanks to gossip queen Martha, I knew Mary Willis was recently widowed, and her husband had died with no life insurance. They’d spent everything they had on his medical bills.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to interrupt,” Mary murmured, hovering at the entrance.

  “Please, come in.” I waved to welcome her in. “How can I help you?”

  She held out the bag. “I hope I’m not wasting your time . . . but I was wondering . . . would you be interested in buying some of these?”

  It looked as though there was a pile of neatly folded linens inside. I smiled at her. “Why don’t we go into the prep area, where we can take a better look?”

  I switched the light on in the former dining room, and we spread them out on the maple workbench.

  There was a set of white Irish linen damask dinner napkins, some place mats with beautiful embroidery and cutwork featuring flowers and butterflies with a scalloped edging, and an exquisite Madeira organdy and cotton tablecloth with twelve matching napkins.

  “These are beautiful, Mary.” They were all in very good condition with no tears or stains. The lacework was finely done, and I did a mental calculation of the total value.

  In the background I could hear Claire still softly practicing her chant, and Patsy chatting with Sarah, occasionally barking with laughter.

  “What were you thinking?” I asked. First lesson in negotiation. See what the other party has in mind. “How much do you want for them?”

  “Fifty dollars?” she whispered as she clutched the empty bag, worry rumpling her thin features.

  “For everything?” I exclaimed in shock. “Oh, no, Mary. They’re worth far more than that.”

  The fact that the organdy tablecloth still had its matching napkins greatly enhanced the value, and I would ask about four hundred dollars retail for the set. The Irish linens alone would fetch well over a hundred dollars.

  Patsy gave me an arch look from across the room, but I ignored it. Even though I was two decades older than her, I often felt as though she was the wise woman and I was the naïve one.

  But one of the first lessons I’d learned from Angus was to cultivate good karma. You never wanted to hurt someone, because it could come back to bite you one day. And the people that you played fair with, well, they could suddenly remember an old treasure in the attic that they were now inclined to sell, and you just hit picker pay dirt.

  “How about five hundred dollars for the lot?”

  “Really?” Mary touched the edge of the tablecloth with fingers that shook. Fingers that were mottled with age spots, the knuckles swollen with arthritis.

  “Yes, really. That’s a fair price, Mary.”

  “Oh my Lord, yes, it certainly is, but I never expected . . . you know, I’ve never even used them. My mother-in-law gave them to me years ago. I was saving them for a special occasion.”

  As I counted out money from the register, I thought about how after Teddy Bristol died, Martha took her diamond earrings out of the safe and announced she planned on wearing them every day. She used her crystal and best china for every meal now, too. An image also popped into my head of Cyril Mackey eating breakfast off his Limoges plate.

  Poor Mary Willis had saved her linens for so long, waiting for the special occasion that never came.

  “I have more things at home. Would you like to see them?” Mary ventured, with a little more color in her face now as she carefully placed the bills in her wallet.

  “Yes, sure, and anything else you think might sell. Sewing notions, children’s toys, any small antiques—bring it over!”

  “You know, I don’t know how many times I’ve thought about coming in here, but I never had the nerve to. I’m glad I finally did.”

  I smiled. “Me, too. See you again soon.”

  I watched her leave, hoping that now she might be able to afford some prescriptions, or her electric bill, or some such thing.

  The door had barely closed behind her before Patsy said, “Well, folks, there’s a lesson in how not to make money.”

  Sarah smiled and shook her head. “Yeah, you’re too
soft, Mom.”

  “No,” I murmured, “you’re wrong. It’s not always about the money.” They chuckled, but I ignored them as I laid the linens out on display. I felt Claire’s small hand slip into mine and I squeezed it tight in gratitude.

  Patsy slowly unfolded her long body out of the chair. “Hey, Sarah, if you ever want to hit the town one night, let me know, and I’ll ask my sister to babysit.”

  “By town, you mean . . .”

  Patsy stared at her. “Sheepville. There’s a great band at the pub on Friday nights.”

  I held my breath.

  Sarah smiled as if it was the most exciting offer she’d ever had. “Awesome. I’d love to.” Her smile encompassed me, and I thanked her with my answering grin. I knew Sheepville was not Sarah’s idea of civilization, but it was all we had. Of course, there was Philadelphia, but I’d run into many people who had lived around here all their lives and never ventured into the city. It was like asking them if they’d ever traveled to Mars.

  “Patsy, do you know the Perkins family?” I asked. “Sounds like they don’t get along with Angus. I thought I might pay them a visit.”

  Patsy shook her head. “Be careful, Daisy. You don’t want to mess around with that crowd. They’re a bad lot.”

  “I heard they run a farm supply and feed store outside of Sheepville?”

  “Yeah, the Perkins boys own it. Well, they’re not really boys anymore—they’re in their late twenties—but we’ve always called them that. They were a couple years behind me at school. I could tell you some stories that would curl your hair.”

  Patsy glanced over at Claire and arched her back.

  “Ow. Come on kid, let’s go practice. Five, five, ten, ten, twenty, twenty. Daisy, see you later. Sarah, I’ll call you about going out.”

  Chapter Five

  That night when we got home, Joe was putting the finishing touches to a bouillabaisse, a traditional French seafood stew full of cooked fish and vegetables. A wonderful feast, but not a cheap dish to make, by any means.

  As I dropped my bag on the kitchen table and kicked off my shoes, I tried to stop adding up the cost of the ingredients in the giant cooking pot. One whole lobster, a pound of shrimp, sea bass, and some fresh mussels and littleneck clams. That must have cost a pretty penny.