“A tea?”
“With Clover. Before we got the news you said you were going to have tea.”
Velveteen took hold of Gideon’s hand and avoided Charlie’s gaze. “Not now. I can’t leave him, Charlie.”
Now that Gideon was stabilized and he knew he would be okay, Charlie’s thoughts returned to the events of a few hours ago: the mysterious phone call, his wife’s caginess, the increasing distance, like a gulf, growing between them… He stepped closer and put an arm on Velveteen’s shoulder. “Of course,” he said. He couldn’t leave either. They’d both stay, together.
CHAPTER 20
Velveteen Price inched back the curtain. A bleached blond thirty-something woman with a kinky perm stood on the other side of the Toft front door examining her fire engine red fingernails: Sylvia Toft. The doorbell rang again. Velveteen pinched her cheeks, ran her fingers through her hair, smiled, and opened the door.
“I heard about your son. It is a tragedy the way the Blackwells keep the place – making money off the misfortunes of others. Soon they’ll have this whole town turned upside down and running rampant with tourists. How is he? Was it his neck he broke?” The local hair artist rambled on while holding out a mason jar full of what looked like chopped meats, beans, corn, peas, and bits of something Velveteen didn’t recognize.
“Thank you for asking about him. It’s his eye. He needed surgery, but Dr Toft says he should be up and about in a few days. It was so kind of you to stop by and check on him. Thank you, again.” Velveteen tried to close the door, but Sylvia stuck her foot inside.
“Do you like burgoo? I was going to make a lasagne, but I didn’t have time to run to the market for cheese. You can return the jar when you’re finished. No hurry. I have a whole cupboard stocked with the stew. We made it last Sunday at the family reunion. Everyone brings a can of whatever and we dump it right in – beans, peas, squirrel. How rude of me! I should have invited you so you could see how the real residents of Coraloo live. Do you know where I live? There’s a sign outside. It’s also my shop. I do wish you’d come by. I believe you are the only woman below the hill who has yet to cross my doorstep. And my sister says she has yet to see you in the boutique. Where do you shop?” Velveteen tried to speak, but could not start a sentence. “You must have your hair done in the city. I can’t compete with that. I do my own, of course. Pink one week, blond another.”
Velveteen glanced back. Charlie leaned against the kitchen doorframe with his hand over his mouth. She narrowed her eyes, furrowed her brow playfully, and tried to silently communicate. Not. Funny.
“I have a friend that lives in the city… What’s her name? Elizabeth! That’s it! Do you know an Elizabeth? It could be the same one. Wouldn’t that be something! Silly me. I’m not sure who she sees for her hair, but I believe I could have done better. I don’t have much formal training, mind you. But my mother, Nora Toft… Have you met my mother? She says it’s a gift.”
“It really was kind of you to bring us this soup –”
“Burgoo. It’s a stew. Lord knows what’s in it!”
“Right, burgoo. I will return the jar –” Velveteen tried again.
“You look exhausted. Your eyes are a bit baggy today. Do they feel baggy?”
Velveteen listened. She was exhausted, mentally and physically.
“I’ve got my kit right here.” Sylvia Toft bent down and picked up a black rectangular suitcase by the handle that looked like something Charlie would have brought home from the market. In gold stamped letters it read: Coraloo High School Cosmetology. “Let me give you a treatment and some color. I have just the shade for those lips – do you normally wear red? You really should or maybe coral. I can lift the eyebrows and add some contouring on the cheekbones. It’ll be on me.”
Charlie’s mouth hung open as Velveteen stepped back, allowing the frizzy-haired woman to buzz through the front door, across the living room, and into the kitchen. Velveteen could not believe what she was doing either.
Velveteen sat in the chair as Sylvia had instructed. She allowed her eyes to close as the woman explained each layer of application – oils, exfoliates, toners, lotions – as she wiped, smeared, and patted Velveteen’s face.
“I don’t know what you see in those Blackwells. They cause trouble. Think they own the town. They can stay up on the hill for all I care, but we own the valley. Stephen brought the lot of them back, you know. He’s a looker. I was sweet on him in high school; shame he’s a Blackwell. Not sure what he sees in that woman. I say, if you’re gonna leave, stay gone. We were doing just fine before they came back with all their artsy-fartsyness. The whole lot of them used to live on the hill right below the market. You know what houses I’m talking about, don’t you? Of course you do, they’re gorgeous! But Lord knows I’d never let you live in a Blackwell house! I still say they’re all cursed – not the houses, the clan. Everybody knows it. Can’t sit still long enough to save their lives. They’ve been coming and going for years, until one day, I thought sure of it, they were nearly all gone. They left Coraloo, so we took it back. Well, finders keepers is what I say. My cousin bought one of those houses, against my advice mind you. We disinfected it pretty good, but I swear there’s no way we got all the Blackwell out of it. Most of the rest of the houses were rented out.” Sylvia blabbed on. Velveteen fought to stay awake – she was beginning to find it difficult to hang on to the convoluted chatter of the self-proclaimed make-up artist. “We’ll be best friends, Velvy.”
Velvy? “Best friends?” Velveteen mumbled.
“I’ll leave you here to ferment –”
“Ferment?”
“It’s shop talk, honey. I’ve got to get back to Mom’s. She’ll be upset if I don’t let her dogs out. I’ll set the timer on the stove. When it beeps your face will be as soft as a baby’s butt. I’ll stop over in a day or two to check on you. Oh, won’t we be the talk of the town!”
Velveteen woke to the monotonous bleep of the kitchen timer. She yawned, wondering if she really had allowed some random woman to slap her down with highly fragranced facial products or if she had dreamed it all. She patted her cheeks, raised her eyebrows, and opened her mouth wide, moving her jaw from one side to the other in order to release the tightness in her face. She groaned. She’d allowed it.
“Charlie!”
No answer.
“Charlie?”
Charlie stared out over the sea of glassware, table settings, used toys, and outdated electronics. All the same. Today the aisles of anxious vendors did not look like an easy dollar – more like hawkers willing to shovel their wares into his already packed garden shed. Velveteen had kindly asked him to remove his purchases from the kitchen the night before the Blackwells came over for dinner, and had not given him the go ahead to bring the items back in the house.
Charlie was still buzzing from the successful sell of the French horn and was waiting for the other items to sell. Over the past week he had relished having extra money, enjoyed the freedom of having two months’ worth of bills covered, and now, his only concern was for Christmas gifts – even though it was two months away. He had his eye on a collector’s edition of Star Pirate he hoped to buy for Gideon. But his chances of finding another big win among the vendors seemed slim to none; he would have to find another way. Charlie had considered taking a risk on an online auction site – mostly returns, overstocks, and damaged packaging from large distribution houses and department stores. The items they mentioned were large and would turn faster, with much larger profits. But they would need a bigger house with more storage if he went this route. It was something to consider, possibly a house in the suburbs with a garage.
Gideon would hate the suburbs. He’d hate anywhere if it wasn’t Coraloo.
Since Gideon’s accident, the Toft house had been relatively uneventful, with the exception of a few neighborly visitors bringing sweets for Gideon and offering to help Velveteen around the house. How the neighbors received word of the incident was at first a mystery,
until Sylvia Toft stopped by to destress Velveteen with a free cosmetics consultation. Not only was Charlie shocked Velveteen had agreed, but he was even more surprised that the conversation between the ladies proved to be extraordinarily informative. As Velveteen tried not to nod off, he listened. Most of the town, including Sylvia Toft, eldest daughter of the infamous realtor Dr Toft, were direct descendants of Jonathan Toft, otherwise known by the Blackwells as “The Thief”. Dr Toft had filled the family in on Gideon’s unfortunate accident with the Blackwell boys. Mystery solved.
Charlie moved with ease among the vast tables of vendors, oblivious to the market’s real draw on the perimeter. As usual, the quaint shops were a mini-city of their own accord, serving a different clientele than the vendors in the interior. Occasionally, Charlie would see a family venture over to the tables, rifle through the wares, and watch the children’s faces light up with excitement over a Matchbox car, stuffed bear, or an outdated Barbie doll – new in the box, but no longer a collectible of any value. Velveteen kindly forbade Charlie to bring home anything stuffed, especially if it was once living. “Bugs, Charlie! Who knows what creepy-crawlies live on those things!” she had pleaded.
He reluctantly agreed. However, if he could find a mounted elk, and could get it for the right price, he had seen them resell as high as three thousand – that might change her mind.
There was a roar of laughter – the pirate must have asked for the shoes. Charlie craned his neck, hoping to catch a glimpse of Gideon. Dr Toft said Gideon would have to leave his eye covered for at least a month. Gideon was stir-crazy by his second day home from school; Velveteen was too. After much pleading and vowing he would never attempt to hang from a chandelier – whether acting or not – Gideon persuaded Charlie to allow him to accompany him to the market. Velveteen happily saw them off.
Through the crowd, Charlie could see the dim glow of Shug’s shop. A steady stream of customers moved in and out. Charlie turned his back and returned to the disorganized clutter of the vendors. He picked up a red metal toolbox, opened it up, and turned it over. He had sold vintage toolboxes before. They were typically an easy sell.
“How much?” Charlie asked. The fifty-something behind the table ignored him. “Sir, how much?” The man didn’t turn.
“How much for the set?” a woman standing beside Charlie asked.
The fifty-something turned and smiled. “For the set?” He emphasized the word set.
He wants her to think she’s getting a deal.
“Oh, I could take fifteen.”
The woman examined the cobalt blue jars and walked away.
“How much for the tool chest?” Charlie asked, trying to make eye contact with the vendor.
“It’s not for sale,” the man said, looking away. “I put it out by accident.”
“Are you sure? I’d like to make an offer.” Charlie had purchased many items that were not meant to be sold. He had read that everything has a price; you just have to be willing to figure out what the seller wants.
“No thanks.”
“Will you take ten?” Charlie pushed.
“Not for sale.” The man took the box from Charlie’s hold.
“Okay, no worries.” Taken aback, Charlie turned away. It wasn’t worth an argument.
He walked on. Many of the vendors he had come to know by first name, as well as what they sold and how far to push them – with the exception of a few newbies like the fifty-something.
“Hey Curt! Do you have anything new?” Charlie sorted through the merchandise of a vendor specializing in old tools and records.
“Not today, Charlie. I heard about Gideon. How’s he doing?”
“He’s fine. Already back playing with the Blackwell kids.”
“Do you get along with them? I mean, the Blackwells?”
“I think so. I haven’t met them all. We spend some time with Stephen and his brood.”
“No problems or anything?”
“I’ve had a run in or two with Shug.” Charlie spotted a hammer. The handle appeared to be solid wood, but unlike hammers he had passed over before, this particular one had three claws on the back. Charlie stepped away from the table, turned around, and went to his phone. He could easily get five hundred for the hammer. “What will you take for this?” Charlie asked, turning toward the vender with the hammer in hand.
“Price, you won’t get anything for that old thing.”
“I don’t know.” Charlie did know. “It’s old, and look at the claw on the back. What will you take for it?”
The man scratched what few strands of black hair time had left him. “I can’t sell it to you, Charlie.”
“Can’t sell it? Curt, you’d sell your belt for the right price. Come on, how much for the hammer?”
“I can’t do it, Charlie. Sorry.”
“You’re joking with me!”
The man puffed out his cheeks and then blew out a hard breath of air. He shook his head.
“Why not?”
“I’m not going to lie to you, Charlie. We’ve been doing good business these past months. But you see, it’s Shug. He told us if we sold to you, we’d lose our vendor’s license. With Christmas coming, and the market busier than it’s ever been, I could use the extra money. The next closest market is three hours south. The hour drive here is hard enough on me.”
Heat filled Charlie’s face. “I’ll buy everything you’ve got. Name your price.”
The man nodded toward Shug’s shop. “I can’t do it, Charlie. I really am sorry.”
“Who else did he tell? Did he tell that new guy down there too?” Charlie asked, pointing to the fifty-something.
“We had a letter about it on our tables when we came in to set up. Sorry, Charlie.”
“So, what you’re telling me is none of you are supposed to sell to me. Is that what you’re saying?” Charlie turned toward the shop of the antique dealer.
“Don’t do anything crazy! He’s a big fellow.”
Don’t let him skin you! Charlie could hear Velveteen’s plea in his ear, but in his anger he pushed it aside. He stormed toward the shop, ignoring every voice, sound, and smell around him. His eyes focused on the black wooden sign above the shop’s entrance that read in heavy block letters: Shug’s. Charlie pushed past a woman carrying a ceramic dog. He wanted to tell her not to buy it – she’d pay half online.
Shug stood occupied behind the once pub bar turned checkout counter. He looked up. They locked eyes. Charlie’s face burned with months of pent up frustration, humiliation, and even a bit of jealousy. Shug’s business was doing fine – the Blackwell didn’t have a Rooning to overcome, a former life to hide from, and a wife and son to make happy. Charlie didn’t wait for the words to escape Shug’s lips. He stormed around the high-top counter, clenched his fist, pulled back his arm, and punched Shug Blackwell directly in the jaw.
Shug didn’t move, but he didn’t take his eyes off of the smaller man before him either. His breathing was heavy and his lips pursed. Charlie’s hand hurt – but he wasn’t backing down. Shug reached down and grabbed Charlie by the collar of his button-up shirt, dragged him past the antiques out into the openness of the market, and shoved him to the ground.
“Get out of my market, Price!”
“You had no right!” Charlie shouted as he stumbled to his feet.
“It’s my market. I make the rules.”
“So what’s next? Are you going to start telling all these people that you decide who buys and who doesn’t? Are you going to start asking for identification at the door? How about a DNA test, Shug?” Charlie turned to a man carrying a bouquet of flowers. “Sir, are these flowers for your wife?” The unsuspecting gentleman nodded. “Do you have the proper identification to buy flowers at the Coraloo Flea Market?” The terrified man shook his head.
Stephen stepped into the crowd of spectators and put a warning hand on Charlie. “That’s enough, Charlie.”
“I have a right to be here, Stephen! Are you on his side? Do you thi
nk I should go?”
“Right now, I do. Come on, let’s go outside and cool off.”
What am I doing? Charlie followed Stephen away from the group, but Shug was two steps behind them.
“Didn’t I say you would cheapen my market? Well done, Charlie Price, well done. You’ve given our dear patrons their best show yet. Get out of here, Price. I don’t want to ever see your face in here again.”
Charlie turned around to face the giant of a man. With both hands, Shug shoved Charlie back to the ground.
“Shug, go back to your shop!” Granny’s voice hushed the whisperers. “Charlie, you need to go home for a bit.”
“He’s not welcome, Mom,” Shug said, wiping the bit of blood Charlie had drawn from the corner of his mouth.
Charlie fumbled to his feet again – his back ached, and it felt like he had sprained his wrist on the way down… the second time.
“Dad, I think we should go.” Gideon Price emerged from the crowd. “Let’s go home.”
Gideon’s eyes pleaded to go, to get away, to avoid further embarrassment.
What have I done?
His son wanted to go home. Home. Charlie wasn’t sure where home was anymore – the city, Coraloo, some unknown place in their future.
“Charlie,” Granny said, placing her hand on his back. “Everyone’s welcome at the mar –” She didn’t finish her sentence. Her eyes rolled backwards, and she began to sway.
“Mom!” Shug shouted as he ran to her side. The woman buckled at the knees and would have hit the ground had Charlie not been there in time to catch her.
CHAPTER 21
Velveteen straightened Charlie’s necktie. She had insisted he wear his suit, despite his insistence it was what had landed him in jail.
“Granny did say I looked best in these shoes.” Charlie sat down on the bed to tie the laces of his dress shoes.
Velveteen stood before the full-length mirror hanging on the back of their closet door, admiring her own shoes. She had rescued the black velvet high heels with the bow on the back and the black taffeta dress she had chosen to wear from her own “to be sold” pile… just in case. She had never imagined just in case would be a funeral.
The Death of Mungo Blackwell Page 17
