She’d forgotten she was holding a mug of coffee until it went crashing to the floor.
Two
Delia came running within moments of Callie’s screams. White-faced, she checked for signs of life in her friend, then hustled Callie out while calling 911.
“There’s been a bad accident,” Callie heard her say. A few more words of explanation, then a shaky, “No, I don’t think so.” Callie understood what that meant. Aunt Mel was dead. She sat numbly in the back of Delia’s shop, motionless except for her shivers, and waited.
There were sirens, of course, followed by streams of countless people, both official and onlookers, then endless questions from all. Finally, after what seemed like hours, everyone around her seemed satisfied.
“Accident,” they all concluded. It was all so overwhelming that Callie wasn’t able to think, so she nodded automatically without really agreeing. Aunt Mel was dead. That was all she knew for sure.
Eventually things around her calmed. Delia’s shop emptied, and she asked Callie if she’d like to stay with her that night. “I imagine you’ll want to go home for a few days before the funeral.”
Funeral! Callie hadn’t even thought that far. “ I don’t know. Everything’s been so … ”
“Yes, it has.” Delia squeezed her hand sadly. “But there’s nothing for you to worry about. Mel pre-arranged everything long ago—the service, the reception, everything—something she urged me endlessly to do. I’ve never been as organized”—Delia paused, smiling sadly at Callie—“or as considerate as your aunt. All you need to do is show up.”
Callie nodded. That was some small relief, at least. What did she know about arranging funerals? But then, that was Aunt Mel, she thought with a wince. Considerate to the end.
•
The service, Callie felt, was beautiful. The mourners were numerous, and she shook hands with so many Keepsake Cove shopkeepers, customers, and friends of Aunt Mel’s that faces and names quickly blurred. Brian Greer, however, was one whose face and name became familiar. Part of Aunt Mel’s pre-arrangement was for the Keepsake Café to handle the food for the reception, held in the church hall. Callie had been surprised at their first meeting, having expected a motherly, or perhaps a grandmotherly, person to be the Café owner. Brian was definitely male and, she guessed, in his early thirties, not your usual cozy café proprietor. But his food, which was simple—sandwiches, cut-up veggies, assorted cookies—was tasty and clearly enjoyed by all.
“I rounded up a few helpers for Brian,” Delia told Callie. “Ladies from the church. Brian doesn’t have the staff. But he was determined to do his best for Mel.”
Callie made a point of seeking Brian out as the reception wound down. “Everything you provided was wonderful,” she told him sincerely and saw his face light up in appreciation.
“Mel was a special person,” he said. “We’re all going to miss her. I didn’t have a chance to say so earlier, but I’m so sorry for your loss.”
Callie had heard those words at least a hundred times that day, but they sounded particularly genuine coming from Brian. His face, not quite handsome but definitely pleasant, was filled with sympathy and understanding. Quite a contrast to Hank, who, unsurprisingly, had found an excuse not to come back with her. “Hey,” as he’d so artfully said, “it’s not like your aunt will know!”
Swallowing the lump that threatened to rise, Callie said, “Thank you, Brian.”
They were interrupted by a woman who came over to say goodbye, and Callie walked her to the door, learning as she did that the woman owned Stitches Thru Time, a vintage sewing shop just two blocks down from House of Melody. As she left, Callie glanced around and saw that her new acquaintance, Dorothy, had been the last. She spotted Delia gathering up the sympathy cards and went over to thank her for all her help and support.
“Would you like another cup of tea before you meet with George Blake?” Delia asked, referring to Aunt Mel’s lawyer, who had asked Callie to stop in immediately after the funeral.
Blake had apologized for the timing, explaining that he had to leave town that evening for several days. “There are things that need to be settled before I go,” he’d said.
Callie knew Aunt Mel had made a will and assumed Grandpa Reed’s music box had been left to her, as her aunt had mentioned. Perhaps Mr. Blake intended to hand it over right away, which would save a little trouble later.
She turned down the tea. “I should head on over,” she said. She’d decided to leave for Morgantown right after the meeting, and it was getting late.
They hugged, shed a few more tears over the special person they’d lost, then waved goodbye. Callie drove to Blake’s law office in the center of Mapleton, only a ten-minute trip. She found a parking spot across the street, in front of the red brick bank, and crossed over to the office, remembering the brisk, efficient manner with which the white-haired lawyer had paid his respects earlier.
“Ah, you’re here,” he said when his assistant ushered her in. He took her hand, offered a few more words of condolence, then waved her to a seat.
Callie glanced around the tidy office as he shuffled the papers on his desk. She was looking for Grandpa Reed’s music box but snapped back to attention as Blake cleared his throat.
“Your aunt, Melodie Reed, died, as you know, without issue,” he said.
Callie blinked, then realized the lawyer meant Aunt Mel had no children. She nodded.
“Nor were there surviving siblings.”
“Yes,” Callie said, also aware that her late father was Aunt Mel’s only brother, as she was his only sister.
“Ms. Reed therefore named you as her sole heir.”
Callie stared for several moments. “You mean … ?”
“It means you inherit all your aunt’s material goods and wealth, which includes House of Melody, her cottage, and all their contents. Plus any and all funds left after outstanding bills are paid. Oh, and her cat.” He held out a copy of the will. “It’s all there. There’ll be paperwork, of course, but as her executor I will handle most of it. I’m also authorized, since you’re here, to hand over the keys to her property immediately, if you’ll simply sign these papers.”
He pushed the papers forward to the edge of his desk along with a pen. Callie, however, had become frozen. “Me?” she squeaked. “Everything?”
Blake nodded and edged the papers a little closer.
“I … I thought I was getting one music box. Not the entire music box shop!”
“And the cottage, as I’ve explained.” He glanced at his watch.
“But … Aunt Mel never said anything about this. I had no idea!”
“Your aunt, I’m sure, expected to survive much longer than she did. Her sudden death was a shock to us all.” He paused to look properly somber. “Perhaps she intended to tell you in time. Now if you would … ?” He held out the pen.
Callie took the pen, still struggling to believe what she’d heard. “Everything to me?”
Blake nodded, a bit impatiently this time. “As I said. Now, I really have to be going … ”
“Of course.” Callie scribbled her name on the line with an X next to it, plus on a few more that Blake pointed out, after which the lawyer gathered the papers and stood.
“Here are the keys,” he said, holding out a ring. “They’re all labeled and should be in good order. If you have any urgent problems during the next week, you may call my office manager, who can get in touch with me. After that I’ll be back and happy to answer any questions.”
He stepped around his desk, ready to usher her out, but Callie, who had automatically started to follow his lead, suddenly stopped.
“I do have a question, Mr. Blake.”
The lawyer pulled up. “Yes?”
“My aunt’s death. Did it seem right to you?”
“Her death? You mean the fall?”
&nb
sp; “Yes, it was ruled accidental. Did that make sense to you?”
The lawyer’s thick eyebrows pulled together tightly. “There was nothing to suggest foul play, if that’s what you mean. Is it?”
“I don’t really know what I mean,” Callie said. “It’s just … my aunt, you know, wasn’t that old. She was strong and healthy. Why should she slip and fall so catastrophically? What could have caused that?” Callie realized she was voicing for the first time thoughts that had slipped in once she’d recovered from the shock of finding Aunt Mel. She’d agreed, at the time, that her aunt had taken a terrible fall. But she’d developed reservations the more she’d thought about it.
“The report didn’t mention anything like water or objects on the floor that would have triggered a fall,” Blake said. “But it was late at night. Your aunt could have merely stumbled in the dark.”
That was another thing Callie was having trouble with. Why had Aunt Mel gone to the shop at three a.m.? They knew the time of her death by the musical clock that had been broken during her fall. Aunt Mel had been in her night clothes and her bed had been slept in. But Blake didn’t look like he had any answers. He’d clearly accepted the official conclusion of an accidental death. Obviously Callie needed to do so as well.
“Thank you, Mr. Blake,” she said. “The news of this inheritance has been pretty overwhelming. It’ll take me a while to get used to it.”
“Understandable. As I said, I’ll be back in a week. I’ll have more papers to go over with you at that time. In the meantime, your aunt’s cottage is now yours to stay in, if you wish. Take some time to decide if you want to sell it and the shop.”
Sell House of Melody? The idea sounded shocking to Callie. But the idea of keeping the shop was just as staggering. She shook George Blake’s hand and left, a ring of keys in her hand and a million thoughts buzzing through her head.
She climbed back into her car and somehow got herself safely to House of Melody, considering her minimal focus on the traffic. After she pulled up in front and switched off the ignition, she simply sat and stared into space. The shops in Keepsake Cove had all shut down for Melodie’s funeral, and the area was quiet—no pedestrians strolling and few cars driving by. Callie’s phone dinged, signaling a text. It was from Hank.
Bought a great guitar! U on UR way back?
Callie sighed. She pocketed the phone, then noticed evening had fallen and climbed out of the car, clutching the ring of keys George Blake had given her. She found the key for the shop’s front door and unlocked it.
Stepping into the dim, empty shop felt eerie. She hadn’t been in it since returning from Morgantown, and she felt like a trespasser. The figurines on the music boxes seemed poised, as though waiting to see what she was going to do—something Callie didn’t really know herself. She wound slowly between the tables and shelves, her fingers gently brushing the beautiful collectibles. Aunt Mel had put so much thought into choosing these special things. What was she going to do with them?
She entered the little office at the back of the shop, passed the file cabinets and desk, and opened the back door. The fairy-tale cottage looked even more magical in the fading light. Callie followed the brick walkway to the rose-covered trellis, where she again shuffled through the keys to unlock the front door.
Jagger came running toward her as she stepped inside. Delia had been looking after him, so he hadn’t been neglected, but the gray cat wound through Callie’s ankles with such joyful purring, as if to say “At last! You’re here.”
Callie scooped him up, and the cat rubbed his cheek against hers with rumbling purrs. Though she knew he must have been lonely, his enthusiastic greeting seemed to come from more than that, as though he understood Callie and his late mistress’s relationship and felt he’d been properly transferred. Callie smiled at the thought but felt a similar affection spring from her, aware as she was of her aunt’s fondness for the large cat.
Could she take Jagger with her to Morgantown? How would Hank react? Callie suddenly realized she didn’t care. She’d been living her life according to Hank’s choices for so long and had too rarely considered what she herself wanted. But she was no longer a starry-eyed, naïve girl. She’d grown up.
She set Jagger down gently and wandered through the downstairs, the cat at her heels. She left the living room and climbed the narrow stairs to the second floor. Callie glanced into the guest room first, with its pillow-plumped single bed, small desk, and calico-covered chair. She then crossed the hall to Aunt Mel’s lovely room, the one she’d spent one night in, wrapped in its cozy warmth. She sank, now, onto the pale green and white bed and pulled out her cell phone to press in a familiar number. She counted the rings.
Hank picked up after four. “Hey, how’d it go? Get my text?”
“I did. The funeral had an amazing turn-out. Aunt Mel had a lot of friends.”
“Yeah, I figured I didn’t need to show. You heading back now?”
“No, I’m not.”
Hank was silent for a few seconds. “Yeah, okay. That Delia woman should be willing to put you up, right? No use wasting money on a motel. Get an early start tomorrow. I’ll call your office, let them know you’ll be in late.”
“Hank, I’m not coming back at all.”
“Huh?”
“Aunt Mel left her place to me.”
“No kidding! Hey, great! Sure, stay a while. Grab onto some good real estate people. Tell them to get top dollar for it. Hallelujah! At last! The windfall we’ve been waiting for.”
“No, Hank. No windfall. I’m not selling. Not the shop nor the cottage. I’ve decided to keep it all and stay here.”
There was a long pause as Hank digested this. Then Callie let him have his say, feeling she owed him that much. But she held firm. Their relationship was over. She intended to move forward with her life.
When she’d had enough, Callie said goodbye in the middle of an increasingly nasty rant and disconnected. Then she turned the phone off and sat holding it in silence.
Had she made the right decision? What did she know about running a shop? What did she know about music boxes other than that they were charming and beautiful? Come down to it, what did she know about Maryland’s Eastern Shore in general and Keepsake Cove in particular? Had she just gone crazy, or had she become crazy-smart?
Jagger jumped onto the bed, and Callie scratched his head absently as those questions worried through her head. At some point she became aware of a faint tinkling, and she turned, listening. What was it?
Jagger’s ears had perked, and Callie stood, pinpointing the sound. She realized it was coming from downstairs and followed it, gradually recognizing the tune as she closed in. The music came from inside Aunt Mel’s roll-top desk in the corner of the living room. Callie went over and curled her fingers under the lid to lift it, but she couldn’t. It was locked.
Aunt Mel, she remembered, had unlocked the desk with a key from the ring George Blake had handed over. She retrieved the ring from the end table where she’d dropped it, then fingered through the bunch to find the right one. There was one unlabeled key. Callie slipped it into the small lock, which turned easily. She lifted the roll top to find Grandpa Reed’s music box, whose Skaters’ Waltz continued to play. Callie stared in bewilderment.
The music box had been silent when she’d first entered the cottage. It had been locked inside the desk and would need to be wound in order to play. Who, Callie asked herself as she continued to gape, had wound it up?
Three
Callie spent a restless night in the cottage due to an ongoing flood of worrisome thoughts. She was standing a bit groggily in the kitchen the next morning when she heard a tap at the door and answered it to find Delia on the doorstep.
“I came to feed Jagger,” Delia Hamilton explained, “but then I saw the light on. So you stayed over? I’m glad. Yesterday must have been draining.”
“You could say that,” Callie said, smiling weakly as she pushed a limp strand of hair from her face. “I’ve just made coffee. Want some?”
“I’d love a cup.” Delia stepped inside, looking ready for her work day in an ankle-length dress similar to the one she was wearing when Callie first met her. Her light brown hair was pinned to the top of her head with an enameled barrette. “If I’d known,” she went on, “I would have brought over some breakfast things. Brian whips up a mean omelet at the café, among other things, if you’re hungry. He opens early.”
“I’ll have to stop in and say hello,” Callie said. She pulled out an extra mug from an upper cabinet, having already found a jar of powdered creamer as well as a partially filled sugar bowl. “But I’ll probably head to the supermarket and stock up first.”
“Stock up?”
“Yes.” Callie drew a deep breath, not sure how Aunt Mel’s friend would take the news that she herself was still struggling with. “George Blake informed me yesterday that I’ve inherited everything—the shop, this amazing cottage, everything.”
“And you’re staying?”
When Callie nodded, Delia threw her ample arms in the air. “How wonderful!” She grabbed Callie in a tremendous hug then stepped back, grinning. “Welcome to Keepsake Cove!”
“Thank you—I think. I’ve never run a shop before, so I’m not really sure what I’m getting in to.” Callie poured out two mugs of coffee and handed one to Delia.
“What did you do before?” Delia added sugar to her mug before carrying it into the living room. Callie followed, guessing that morning coffee in Aunt Mel’s cottage had been a familiar routine for her neighbor.
“I’m an administrative assistant at a small law firm.” Callie paused. “Was.”
“You’ll do fine,” Delia said, flapping a hand. “Anyone who can handle lawyers can probably handle anything. You can ask for help from any of us, except”—Delia paused to take a sip—“probably not Karl.”
A Fatal Collection Page 2
