“Lauren Brandenburg tells a delightful tale of redemption with playful twists and turns of phrase that draw you through a story of riches-to-rags… to something more valuable than riches. This story weaves lessons of simplicity and hope through the tale of Charlie Price, the warring Blackwells and Tofts of Coraloo and their mystical market, where some trinkets carry greater value than their cost.”
David Rawlings, author of The Baggage Handler and The Camera Never Lies
“Charming, eccentric, and truly heart-warming, The Death of Mungo Blackwell is a breath of fresh air. From laugh out loud hilarity to deeply authentic moments of fear and anxiety in the wake of devastating financial loss, Brandenburg weaves a lush, entertaining story. A delightful tale about family, marriage, friendship, and macarons… you can’t go wrong, and I can’t wait for the sequel!”
A.C. Williams, author of Finding Fireflies
“A cast of delightful and eccentric characters bring to life this heartfelt story about discovering real friendship and what’s truly important in life. If only Coraloo were a real place we could all visit!”
Claire Wong, author of A Map of the Sky
“They say there’s nothing new under the sun – oh yes, there is! Fun, quirky, and totally original!”
Amy Willoughby-Burle, author of The Lemonade Year
“Lauren H. Brandenburg has created a classic. She’s woven a story that mixes real life with mystery. Her witty unassuming demeanor and personality come to life on the pages. You instantly fall in love with the characters and her.”
Gigi Butler, founder of Gigi’s Cupcakes, speaker, and author of The Secret Ingredient
“Hilarious and entertaining, a fantastic story for anyone who has had a hiccup in life.”
Danny Gokey, recording artist and author of Hope in Front of Me
“Lauren’s characters are relatable, lovable, and engaging, captivating the reader’s interest immediately. You’ll find yourself thinking about them without the book in hand, wondering what turn the story takes next!”
Nina Roesner, Executive Director of Greater Impact Ministries and author of The Respect Dare
Text copyright © 2019 Lauren H. Brandenburg
Illustration copyright © 2019 Sarah J. Coleman
This edition copyright © 2019 Lion Hudson IP Limited
The right of Lauren H. Brandenburg to be identified as the author and of Sarah J. Coleman to be identified as the illustrator of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Published by
Lion Hudson Limited
Wilkinson House, Jordan Hill Business Park
Banbury Road, Oxford OX2 8DR, England
www.lionhudson.com
ISBN 978 1 78264 291 6
e-ISBN 978 1 78264 292 3
First edition 2019
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
For Jamie
How boring my life would be without you. I love you.
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Acknowledgments
Reader’s Guide
Author Interview
CHAPTER 1
Tofts were not welcome at the renowned Coraloo Flea Market. The Blackwells made certain of that. On the brick wall, the sign outside the once prosperous shoe factory proclaimed, NO DOGS OR TOFTS – GRANNY BITES! Reading these words, Charlie Price scratched his thinning blond hair, musing over the long-standing rivalry he had read about between the Tofts and the Blackwells. Today was Thursday; the market was closed, but there was nothing stopping Charlie from exploring. The scent of old leather and lavender lured him – as it did countless others – through the stone archway into the still, quiet building, carrying with it the promise of unearthing a hidden treasure or memorable trinket. Inside, the shops, each specific to their wares – antique books, hand-dyed ribbons, flowers, freshly pressed olive oils, leather goods, and an occasional antique dealer – lined the perimeter like tiny homes. These, Charlie knew, belonged to the Blackwells. The center, reserved for paying vendors and hungry shoppers dining on Granny’s delicacies at hand-hewn tables, was empty today.
He peered through one of the storefront windowpanes. In front of a faux mantel, two armchairs were arranged in such a way the shop almost looked livable. Charlie moved on. The next shop appeared promising – less orderly, no décor. He spotted a French horn, dented and in need of a polish. Music is money – a mantra he heeded when considering a purchase. He’d come back and make an offer in the morning, but he would have to arrive early if he wanted to turn a profit – especially at the Coraloo. Pickers arrive early.
Nestled at the top of a rolling green hill in a picturesque town with stone inlaid streets, overlooking curving rows of carefully maintained cedar-shingled rooftops not yet touched by the deluge of tourists or modern construction trends, sat the Coraloo Flea Market. Wayfaring magazine called the market one of the country’s hidden wonders – known for its charm, history, food, and peculiar owners. The writer described it as a place where peace and simplicity dine with the eccentric – a trove for modern-day treasure hunters – keeping watch over a quaint commonality held together by deep ancestral roots and rivalries.
It’s why Charlie entertained the thought of moving his family two hours and forty-one minutes southeast of the big city – to start over, to live simply, to shop the Coraloo. He shined his flashlight into the shop – an antique globe perched on a wooden pedestal caught his eye. He doubted they would take less than the asking price, but it was worth a try. Beside it, sitting on top of a pile of yellowing maps, a gold rimmed teacup sat chipped and out of place. It wasn’t valuable anymore. Somebody had probably tossed it out during a spring clean, along with broken picture frames and melted candles. But regardless of its worth, it had a story. The cup once had an owner – possibly a fan of Ceylon orange pekoe or Earl Grey. Had the vessel been a gift or a souvenir from an unplanned road trip? Had the owner been forced to part with this fragment of everyday life to make room for simplicity?
No… that was his story. With his hands in the pockets of his slacks, Charlie slumped down on an old church pew outside the market shop. Had life really come to this? Had four years at university and a career with a six-figure income dwindled down to sorting through the discarded wares of others? He had been good at his job and never doubted his instincts. He was meticulous, thorough – except on the day the proposal landed on his desk.
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br /> A balmy August breeze crept into the brick edifice, bringing with it the sweet aroma of freshly hung tobacco from a farm on the other side of the hill. Charlie closed his eyes and inhaled distant days – memories of a life absorbed by legality and expectation, before the whirlwind of the past year wreaked devastation on his once predictable life.
He remembered the loan. How could he forget? An equipment loan three times what the proprietor needed. His university roommate and colleague, Carl Rogers, had pulled him aside. “This guy is a pal of mine. Everything’s here. Just sign and you’re done.” That should have been his first red flag – slow down, look closer. The plan seemed solid, the client a chef and former restaurant owner. It was a lapse in judgment. A missing document. He should have caught it. With the fragile state of the financial world, there was no room for error. On a wider scale, the newspapers swarmed with rumors of a crumbling economy in response to banks’ overlending to house-hungry newlyweds. Pair that with this class-action lawsuit of press-worthy proportions, and the bank would take a healthy loss, leading to some very unhappy shareholders.
He had called Velveteen. She had said she was mid-foil at the salon and could not meet him for another two hours. He had packed up his office and walked out the front doors of Heritage Financial without looking back. He had needed time to strategize, to carefully word how he was going to tell his wife of eleven years that he was unemployed – not just unemployed, but most likely blackballed from every bank, accounting firm, and food truck in the city.
Stupid food trucks. Charlie let his head fall into his hands, vowing to never eat at a food truck again. The fragmented events leading up to this moment entered his mind, overshadowing the potential of Coraloo.
His rear end was sore from sitting for so long, and he wasn’t sure he could swim in his own guilt and self-loathing much longer. He raised his eyes at the click clack of high heels.
Velveteen Price arrived with the latest Melba DuMont novel peeking cautiously over the edge of her handbag. He stood and kissed her – a quick peck on the lips. Whenever he kissed her in public, he pretended all of the other men around were jealous. He loved every inch of her, inside and out, and dreaded telling her their life would drastically change. He sensed she already knew something – regardless, Charlie had wanted her to hear it from him, so explained every detail, from how Carl, despite being a known idiot, had insisted his street food truck client was an easy underwrite to the fact that when it fell apart, Charlie took the fall. At this Velveteen informed him her friendship with Carl’s wife, Mary Beth Rogers, was over.
“I’m done with that woman. I really am!”
Charlie had laughed – he used to laugh more.
“But I’m proud of you, Charlie Price.”
“For what? Losing my job?”
“No, for making it this far. It’s not over, you know. You’ll find something better. You were almost VP of the country’s largest bank! Somebody will see the value in that… Somebody will see your value! What about Standard? I’m sure they would hire you. I’ll call Rebecca, her husband is pres –”
“I’ve already started putting in applications.” He held up two fingers.
“Two applications already! See! You’re a fighter, Charlie!”
“Two rejections.”
“Today?”
“I applied and they denied. Two, right after I left the office. Nobody’s hiring in this economy. Homes, cars, anything financeable – banks are calling in notes left and right. They’re losing money. There’s not a chance they’ll take a risk on a man deemed responsible for a hunk of the city’s employees being forced to take sick leave.”
“They can’t blame you for poor immune systems, Charlie. Besides, God never intended for us to eat from a truck.” She cringed.
He brushed a lock of hair away from her dark eyes. “What about the truffle truck or the cupcake truck on 7th?”
“Dessert is always an exception, Charlie.” She glanced down at her heels – most likely a recent purchase. Even with the added two inches, the top of her newly quaffed hair barely reached Charlie’s chin. “Charlie, are you trying to tell me we will lose everything?”
“Not everything. We have each other and Gideon. There’s enough in savings and a few side investments to get us by until I can find work, but we might need to cut back… to be safe.”
“Will we have to cancel the Christmas party? I think we should appear as if life is carrying on as normal, don’t you agree? If we cancel the party, everyone will start talking, and before long, Jennifer will be telling that gossip Mary Beth we are headed for the poor house. If we can swing it, we must have the party.”
Velveteen started planning in July for their annual Christmas Party – lining up caterers, researching tree farms, and spending hours at the stationery shop on the corner of 9th and Canary picking out invitations. Hospitality was her gift, her art form. She studied it, practiced it, and paid so much attention to every detail of her craft he was quite sure she even prayed about it. The party was her event, her personal year-end final examination – a night culminating in the glitz, greenery, and glamour at the invitation of his best friend and wife, Velveteen Price. He couldn’t have denied her.
“Only if we invite the Rogers,” he joked.
He used to joke more too.
“You’ve got to be kidding, Charlie!”
“You were friends with her this morning.”
“Be serious! This is important. If we don’t have the party, I’ll need to work on our excuse, or our guests will think we’ve abandoned them! That would be horrible, Charlie! Maybe we can make up a story about an aunt who passed away or tell everyone the Duke of Such and Such has invited us to spend Christmas in Europe.”
“You’re related to a duke?”
“I wish!”
“We can have the party, if…”
“If what, Charlie?”
“If you invite your long-lost relative the duke.”
That year was the last party in the townhouse. There was nothing he could have done to stop their downfall. Without his six-figure salary, their savings were quickly depleted, and with that, the lifestyle Charlie’s job had afforded them slowly slipped away as the funds disappeared from his bank account. He feared he might even lose his sanity. The word failure loomed over him, a dark cloud so heavy he no longer heard his wife sobbing in the closet.
Velveteen’s car had been repossessed on a Wednesday. As she very rarely drove the vehicle, it took them until Friday to realize it was gone. Their ten-year-old son, Gideon Price, had found his mother in the closet crying that day. Except for the loss of the car, however, Charlie took on any work he could find to make sure Velveteen’s life carried on as close to normal as finances would permit. And Velveteen did her part as well. She had her long brown tresses highlighted and trimmed every four weeks instead of two and learned to shop online using coupon codes. But her small sacrifices were not enough.
Charlie had cancelled his membership at the Gentleman’s Hall and the gym – working out twice a week did not appear to help his middle-aged middle anyway. He had refused to buy a new suit even when Velveteen insisted he have one for an interview. And when his personal finder had called to tell him he had located the elusive 1894 leather-bound first edition of Rudyard Kipling’s The Jungle Book that had occupied his every spare thought, Charlie had declined the purchase. Velveteen had nearly fainted with disbelief. He loved books and read often – at least until The Rooning, after which time seemed to speed up and a veil of debt collectors and fear masked the joys they tried to find in their everyday.
Charlie shook his head. Coraloo would not know what hit them when Velveteen Price graced the door. She could hold her own, of that he was certain.
Four months after the Christmas party, during Velveteen’s Tuesday book club, the doorbell rang and she was served the foreclosure papers on her five thousand square foot dream home. Before the foreclosure agent exited, Velveteen had asked him if he would like a macaron. He h
ad no idea that his answer – a baffled “Yes, please” – would incite such rage in his wife as to go down in Price family history as The Rooning. She had sauntered her petite frame back to the ladies, grabbed the sterling silver tray of brilliantly colored treats and began throwing the meringue confections at the man’s forehead. The man scrambled for the door, fumbling to pull it open. But Velveteen didn’t stop. Another one hit him on the back of the neck. He turned and faced her. “Crazy woman! I’ll take your house and your stupid macaroons!”
At this, the fire already stoked in Velveteen turned into a full-on inferno. She gritted her teeth, arm cocked with the delight in hand. “They’re macarons, not macaroons, you imbecile! One ‘o’, not two.” The man was gone before she had fully settled on throwing the tray. From that day forward, the family of three had nicknamed their financial misfortune The Rooning.
“Before The Rooning” became such a common phrase in their house they often forgot its dark implications. But Charlie knew the truth. It was just an easier way to say, “Before we lost everything.” Following The Rooning things had moved quickly.
On his way home from his seventh interview – desperate and knowing any day they would receive notice their home was going to auction – Charlie had spied a royal blue fountain pen – a Waterman – in the window of a pawnshop. He had two just like it at home and was certain he was reading the price incorrectly. He had stepped inside and confirmed the briarwood pen was rare and grossly under-priced. At that moment an idea took root. If it worked, he could double his money. If it didn’t, they would be eating bacon and eggs for dinner for the rest of the week. He purchased the pen, did a bit of research on selling over the Internet, listed the pen for a three-day auction or best offer, and waited.
Before the day was over, the interested party had offered him twice what he had paid for it. That night Charlie Price listed his collection of fountain pens and took the family out to dinner. The rush of the deal made him feel powerful and in control, like during his days working at the bank. The next day he had listed everything he could think of that might make an easy profit – gold cufflinks, a vintage telescope he had never used, calculators, three watches, and a pair of binoculars. Soon, almost every object in their home promised an easy dollar. But he wanted the thrill of the Waterman. He started spending his days scouring pawnshops and digging through donated goods at church rummage sales. In the evenings, he diligently researched asking prices and resale values before listing every purchased item on the online auction site.
The Death of Mungo Blackwell Page 1
