A Fatal Collection

by Mary Ellen Hughes

  “I don’t know,” Callie answered truthfully.

  “You didn’t lift the lid or anything?”

  Callie shook her head. When the silence lingered, she admitted, “It’s been doing that once in a while. Just playing on its own for no reason that I can come up with.”

  “Really?” Tabitha’s eyes widened as she stared at the music box in question, reminding Callie of the look Jagger assumed when a squirrel or bird paused outside a window he’d been monitoring.

  Callie told her about the first time it had happened, which was shortly after she’d broken up with Hank over the phone. “The box was locked inside the roll top desk, then.”

  Tabitha digested that for a few moments. “When else?”

  “When I came across an email that Aunt Mel had started to write to me but hadn’t finished.”

  “What did it say?”

  Callie took a deep breath. “It said there was something she wanted to tell me. But the email ended there. She’d apparently begun it just before I called her about coming to visit. She might have decided to tell me in person.”

  “And did she?”

  Callie shook her head sadly, thinking of the things left unsaid between them because of her aunt’s death.

  “The next time I heard it play was as Delia was leaving the cottage. I’d given her a few of Aunt Mel’s scarves. That’s when I decided to bring the music box back here. It was starting to unnerve me. I thought if it played here, it would just blend in with all the others.”

  “It didn’t blend in for me.”

  “I know.” Callie paused, thinking in for a penny. “There was one other time it played. Last night. I was packing up Jonathan’s new Swiss music box when Karl Eggers stormed in, upset over having to deal with misdirected mail and about my customers parking in front of his shop.”

  “Oh, Karl,” Tabitha said, flapping a hand dismissively, but she stared thoughtfully at Callie. “You’re getting messages. From Mel.”

  “No, it can’t be,” Callie said, though she’d wondered the exact same thing.

  “Think about it. The unfinished email? There was something important she didn’t get a chance to say. She’s trying to say it now, maybe in the only way she can.”

  “But how—assuming you’re right—am I supposed to understand what the message is? It’s musical notes, not words!”

  “Yes, but that music box meant the world to Mel, you know that. It makes sense that she’d gravitate to it. Oh! This is so exciting! Messages from the other side, and happening right here in Keepsake Cove!”

  “Hold on, Tabitha. That’s quite a theory, and I’m not at all sure I go along with it. For all we know, it’s just the mechanism of an old music box slipping.”

  Tabitha shook her head decisively, so Callie begged, “Until we figure this out, one way or another, please let’s just keep it between you and me, okay?”

  “Oh, absolutely. Mum’s the word. But will you let me know if it happens again when I’m not around?”

  Callie promised, glad when a customer’s appearance brought the subject to a close. Had she done the right thing by sharing what she did with Tabitha? She’d come to like and respect her helper on all things shop-related, despite the psychic claims and talk of Tarot cards. Which, of course, should have predicted the response she’d gotten. Still, Callie found it a great relief just to talk about the strange happenings of the music box. Bringing it out into the open made it feel much less mysterious. Perhaps she’d soon be able to laugh the whole thing off.

  With that vague hope, she tried to keep busy for the rest of the day and her mind off the music box. It helped that she had the Keepsake Cove Association meeting to look forward to that night.

  •

  Callie had expected that the walk to the meeting would give her time to discuss things with Brian, like the controversial association treasurer. But the dark clouds that gathered during the late afternoon threw a wrench into her plans by dropping a deluge minutes before it was time to leave.

  Her phone rang as she stared dismally out the cottage window. “How about I pick you up out front in my car in ten minutes?” Brian asked.

  Callie agreed and looked around for an umbrella. Her own things still hadn’t arrived from Morgantown, but she discovered a folding umbrella of Aunt Mel’s on the closet shelf. Soon she was holding it opened over her head just outside House of Melody, realizing that she didn’t know what kind of car to look for. Not that she’d be capable of picking out a Ford or a Buick, but if Brian had said black SUV, she’d recognize that. On the other hand, a van made more sense for a café owner, so she watched for that.

  To her surprise, the toot of a horn alerted her to a two-toned vehicle making a left turn onto her street. The long red car with a dark convertible top pulled up next to the street light, with Brian behind the wheel. Callie collapsed her umbrella and scooted in, sliding onto the black leather bench seat.

  “Quite a car,” she said.

  “Like it? I got it for a steal.” Brian watched Callie buckle herself in, then shifted into drive.

  “How old is it?”

  “1967. A genuine antique! But in great running condition. All I had to do to it was … ” and Brian began ticking off the various repairs and replacements he’d done to the car, most of which flew over Callie’s head. She did pick up that what she was riding in was a Chevy Impala that had been in someone’s relative’s garage for years before being hauled out and offered for sale. Brian, it seemed, had only recently discovered a passion for refurbishing ancient—make that classic—cars, which was what he talked about the entire drive to the library.

  Callie couldn’t fault the guy, since he had no idea she had another topic in mind to bring up. Plus the ride was short. So she simply nodded and offered positive-sounding murmurs when they seemed appropriate, then climbed out once he parked in the library’s lot.

  They trotted together under Callie’s umbrella to the front door, then headed to the meeting room. Callie picked up sounds of a gathering crowd.

  “Oh, good, you made it!” Delia cried from the coat rack where she was hanging up a dripping rain slicker. “It totally slipped my mind to mention tonight’s meeting to you. I needed a last-minute appointment with the dentist.” She rubbed her jaw. “Cracked molar. If I talk funny, it’s the novocaine. I promise, I haven’t been tippling.”

  Callie grinned. “You sound fine. Sorry about the molar. I actually learned about the meeting from several people and hitched a ride with Brian in his amazing car.”

  “Oh, so you got the top fixed?” Delia asked Brian, straight-faced.

  “Yup! It closes all the way now. Good thing on a night like this, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Absolutely. Of course, you did have an umbrella with you, Callie, right?”

  Callie shook her head, smiling, then watched as the two continued in the same vein, Delia teasing Brian over the climbing costs of refurbishing his “bargain” car, and Brian predicting he’d make a million from it some day.

  “As if you’d ever part with it,” Delia said.

  “People, let’s get settled,” a woman’s voice sounded through a microphone. “We have a lot to cover tonight.”

  The three headed toward the lined-up metal chairs, Callie leading the way to a back row where she could get an overview of the group.

  The woman waiting at the podium looked to be around fifty, with the overhead light picking up strands of silver in her otherwise dark bob. Bill Hart had mentioned the association president’s name as Krystal Cobb, and from the name as well as her sparkling jewelry and even the bright dots on her jacket lapels, Callie pictured her managing a glass collectibles shop. Then Delia whispered that Krystal sold collectible dolls.

  After her mild surprise, Callie’s first thought was that competition existed with Kids at Heart, which she remembered also carried dolls among their t
oys. But she supposed that some overlap might appear in several shops, and expected she’d come across musical items as she wandered about Keepsake Cove.

  Krystal Cobb asked the association secretary to read the minutes of the last meeting, and a tiny, elderly woman stood up in the front row to do so in a querulous voice, the top of her gray head barely visible to Callie. After the long, barely understandable report, Krystal then called on the treasurer, and Callie perked up. A heavyset man in his mid-forties rose from the end of the same first row.

  “Well,” he said, “we placed ads in the Eastern Shore Gazette to the tune of … ” He listed the amounts and ticked off other expenses that came out of the association’s checking account, which totaled up to significant numbers. He mentioned membership fees paid, investment dividends, savings account dividends, and more, talking rapidly as though he realized his report was tedious and uninteresting to most. Callie, in fact, found her attention wandering, until when he came to the end Laurie Hart called out from her seat a couple of rows back from Duane, “Will there be a link to that report on the website?”

  “Of course,” Duane answered. “In the Members Only section.”

  “Along with receipts for the expenditures?”

  Murmurs sounded among the group, and Callie caught a quick stiffening of Duane’s spine before he smiled genially. “I have the receipts, of course. I could scan them, but it will take a while.”

  “Waste of your time, Duane,” a male voice called out. “You’re doing enough as it is. A great job.”

  “I’m just saying … ” Laurie began, but Duane interrupted.

  “As I said, I have the receipts for everything, absolutely everything, which I’ve kept for years. Anyone is welcome to stop by and look them over. I’ll warn you, though,” he chuckled, “it’s a lot. Load up on caffeine and clear your calendars for the following week.”

  Many laughed, but Callie saw Laurie and a few others frown. What would Aunt Mel’s reaction have been, she wondered. Mumbles among the members followed until Krystal Cobb rapped her gavel to quiet things down. Callie thought Krystal would comment on the point, but she simply moved on, asking for ideas on a proposed Keepsake Cove collectibles festival.

  Thoughts were offered, seconded, or rejected as Callie listened. At one point, Brian objected politely but firmly to the idea of bringing in outside food vendors, for obvious reasons, and he got many nods of agreement on that point, especially when he pointed out the number of locals he and other restaurateurs of the area would hire as temporary help. Delia suggested adding fun things for families, such as face painting and games, and volunteered to look into the possibilities.

  Finally, the discussion, having gone as far as it could go at that early stage, started to repeat itself, and Krystal called the meeting to an end. “Patty and Jack handled our refreshments tonight, and they’ll be highly offended if you don’t finish them up,” she said with a smile, and chairs scraped as members rose without further urging to head toward the food table.

  Brian and Delia made sure to introduce Callie to several shopkeepers as she sipped lemonade from a paper cup and nibbled at cookies. Pearl Poepelman breezed by to squeeze her arm and say she was glad to see here there. Callie was chatting at one point with Dorothy Ashby, who owned a vintage sewing shop, when Duane Fletcher wandered over.

  “Duane,” Dorothy asked, “have you met our association newcomer, Callie Reed?”

  Fletcher was only two or three inches taller than Callie, though his heavily padded frame might have made him more than twice her weight. He smiled genially and held out his hand.

  “Welcome! What kind of collectibles are you offering?”

  “Music boxes. Melodie Reed was my aunt.”

  “Reed!” He slapped his forehead. “Of course. I’m an idiot. Forgive me. I did hear that a relative had taken over House of Melody. We’re delighted to have you. Though,” he said, “we all miss Mel terribly.”

  “Thank you.” Callie looked for any sign of insincerity, but Duane Fletcher’s statement appeared genuine, from his furrowed brow to the slight catch in his voice. Perhaps he’d never taken Aunt Mel’s move to replace him as treasurer personally?

  Dorothy excused herself and Duane launched the usual getting-to-know-you questions, asking Callie where she’d moved from and what sort of work she’d done previously. She was used to getting polite nods to her mostly brief replies, but her answers to Duane were met with surprising interest. His follow-up questions and knowledgeable comments invited her to elaborate as his eyes rarely left her face. She found herself feeling like the most fascinating person this man had encountered in quite a while, which, of course, she rather enjoyed, especially after being around Hank for so long. When Krystal Cobb joined them, Callie experienced a spurt of annoyance that shook her out of the pleasant cloud that had begun to envelop her.

  Krystal chatted only a minute before apologizing to Callie for needing to draw Duane away for something. Callie saw Krystal take his arm and continue to hold on tightly as they walked away, her head tilting toward his. The man, despite his lesser physical attributes, had a definite magnetism, and it seemed not only with women. As Callie watched the two wind their way through the crowd, a few men turned to speak to Duane, slapping his shoulder amiably. The feeling, though, clearly wasn’t universal. Laurie Hart was unaffected, and apparently others who’d agreed with Aunt Mel about regularly refreshing the office of treasurer.

  The lights of the room suddenly blinked. “The library closes in fifteen minutes,” a stout woman at the door warned, her hand at the light switch.

  Refreshments were quickly gathered up and chairs folded and stacked against the wall. Callie met up with Brian at the coat rack and the two walked through the parking lot at an easier pace, the rain having slowed to a light drizzle.

  “Meet enough people tonight?” Brian asked as he turned the ignition and nudged his car toward the growing exit line.

  “Quite a few, thanks to you and Delia. I got to talk to Duane Fletcher near the end.”

  “Ah, Duane. What did you think of him?”

  Callie turned in surprise, hearing the precise question she’d been planning to ask Brian. “He’s very personable,” she said cautiously.

  “And?”

  “And I don’t know. We only spoke a few minutes.”

  “You didn’t fall under his spell?”

  Callie laughed. “I admit he has great charisma. You’ve noticed it too?”

  “Me?” Brian paused to check traffic before making a turn onto the street. “Not so much,” he said, “though I admit the guy has a way with people. He’s probably the most successful shop owner in the Cove, so his customers obviously love him.”

  “What does he sell?”

  “Glass thingamajigs. You know, old perfume bottles, glass animals, things like that.”

  “Which is what I first thought Krystal Cobb sold. I wouldn’t have guessed Duane for that kind of shop. How do you know he’s so successful?”

  “From his spending. He recently did a major remodel of his cottage, I mean, top to bottom from what I hear. He must have a dozen cell phones by now, since he always has the latest model in his hand. He took a nice trip to Hawaii last winter. And he … ” Brian stopped, staring at the hood. “Hear that?”

  Callie shook her head. All she heard was the usual running motor sounds.

  “Hmm. I thought I heard the carburetor … ” Duane Fletcher’s personal luxuries were dropped as Brian’s interest and speculation turned to his car and its possible problems.

  Thankfully for Callie, they’d neared House of Melody. As he pulled to a stop, Brian made a move to get out but Callie held him back.

  “Don’t bother. I’ll go through the shop and out the back to my cottage.”

  “You’re sure? There’s no danger of another Elvin scare. But Elvin isn’t any danger at all, you know.”

&n
bsp; “That’s what I’ve come to realize. Poor guy. Well, thanks again!” Callie climbed out, her shop key in hand. Once inside, she waved one hand out the door to Brian before closing and locking it.

  As she wound her way through the shop by the light from the street, she paused a moment in front of Grandpa Reed’s music box.

  All remained silent, and Callie continued on.

  Eleven

  Cream and sugar?” Delia called from her kitchen. She’d invited Callie to her cottage for late-morning coffee, since Keepsake Cove shops didn’t open until noon on Sundays. It was Callie’s first visit to Delia’s cottage, and she was fascinated with the different look it had from her own, despite the similar construction. Delia favored a Victorian style, which she’d expressed through things like camel-back loveseats, fringe-trimmed lampshades, and curio cabinets filled with many kinds of collectibles, including, of course, salt and pepper shakers. She also had a Victorian-style bird cage, inside of which hopped her parakeet, Pete.

  “Just cream, thanks. Or milk. Whatever you have,” Callie said. She stood next to the ornate, white-wire cage, where she’d been addressing soft greetings to Pete.

  “He doesn’t talk much,” Delia said as she carried a tray into the living room and set it on a mahogany drop-leaf table. “Yet,” she added as she raised one leaf of the table. “We’re working on it.” She handed Callie her coffee in a delicate china cup on its saucer, saying, “I know. It’s small. But I brought the pot along for refills.”

  “It’s lovely,” Callie said, meaning it, as she sat on one of the loveseats to take a sip. “And the coffee’s great.”

  Delia held out a plate of cookies and tarts, leftovers, she explained, from the association meeting, and then settled on the opposite loveseat. “My cups may be fragile, but my coffee’s always strong. What did you think of the meeting last night?” She took a swallow from her own cup that drained half of it before looking over for Callie’s answer.