“Sounds exhausting. I’m sorry I didn’t think to stop. Let me make it up to you by taking you to dinner.”
“But … ” Callie waved toward her cartful of food.
“It can all be stowed, right? Don’t tell me you feel like cooking tonight?”
Callie grinned tiredly. “Not in the least. But I’m also a mess.” She had showered but thrown on the first things she could dig out—rumpled shorts and a tee. Her hair, though freshly shampooed, had been simply tied back.
“Don’t worry about it. The only dress code at Dino’s Diner is shirt and shoes, and the menu is full of comfort food.” Comfort food sounded great to Callie. Her weak protests having been swept away, she agreed.
Jonathan followed her to House of Melody and helped carry her bags into the cottage, where she quickly popped several items into the refrigerator and freezer. She left her car behind, then, to climb into his.
Callie felt a moment of awkwardness as Jonathan pulled away from the curb and passed Brian coming from the other direction, both cars moving slowly enough for Brian to spot her perched in the passenger seat. It would be the second time he’d seen her with Jonathan, and she hated to think he might misinterpret the situation, especially after she’d turned down his initial tentative overture. Jonathan had been very clear that these dinners were strictly platonic, which was perfect for her, but there was no way she knew of to explain that to Brian without embarrassing them both.
Thankfully, she was soon able to think of other things as they arrived at the diner and were quickly shown to an orange-seated booth. She accepted a huge laminated menu and began to study it.
“They’re open till the wee hours,” Jonathan said. “I sometimes stop in when I’ve been working late.”
“Do you cook much for yourself?”
“I do when I feel like it and have the time, which doesn’t come up that often.”
Callie knew the feeling, though she’d stocked up that evening on ingredients for actual cooking at the cottage. No more opening cans of soup. Well, at least less of it. She should probably fix a nice dinner for Jonathan sometime soon, to thank him for his thoughtfulness. But perhaps invite Delia or Tabitha, too, just to avoid sending the wrong message.
She decided on macaroni and cheese, which brought back cozy childhood memories, and asked their waitress to add a salad to it. Jonathan chose beef stroganoff.
“They have really fast service,” he said, “which probably means very little is fresh. But I figured you’d want to turn in early and not dawdle.”
“You were right. This is so nice of you.”
Jonathan shrugged. “Everyone in Keepsake Cove is nice,” he said with a grin.
Callie nodded, her thoughts flying to the three helpful people of that afternoon. But then she remembered Karl Eggers. And Duane Fletcher had come across as nice, but at least some people had reservations about that.
“Do you happen to know Duane Fletcher?” she asked.
“The glass-collectibles guy? I’ve met him.”
“But don’t really know him?”
“No, other than that he clearly likes his luxuries.”
“I’ve heard comments on that. Would you say his shop does well enough to support them?’
“Hard to say. The couple of times I was in the shop, it was quiet, but it could have been just an off-time. He also might draw income from other sources, such as investments.”
Yes, that could be it, Callie thought, glad to have a reasonable explanation.
“However,” Jonathan went on, “when I threw out a few investment terms, he didn’t seem familiar with them.” He shrugged. “Who knows.”
Yes, who really knew? But Callie found herself wondering, along with Laurie Hart and possibly Aunt Mel, if the association should be checking up more on its treasurer.
Their food arrived, and Jonathan asked if Callie found the books he’d given her at all helpful. She admitted she’d only had a chance to skim a few chapters but that they looked quite interesting.
“I’m feeling less overwhelmed now,” she said, “and should be able to really study them. It’s amazing what having your own things around you again can do to one’s frame of mind.”
“You must feel less like a visitor and more like a real resident.”
“Exactly. I’ve finally started to put down roots. I like it.”
“Well, here’s to the future success of House of Melody under the management of Callie Reed!” Jonathan lifted his water glass as a toast and Callie tapped hers against it, smiling but also ruefully thinking that, wonderful as it was, she’d still willingly give it all up to have Aunt Mel back, alive and well.
Deep down, Callie knew that her aunt would have helped her improve her life in other ways by giving her the needed advice and encouragement. They had just started to move in that direction when Aunt Mel died. It shouldn’t have happened. Something was so wrong with the way her aunt died, though Callie didn’t know what. The best way to thank Aunt Mel for all she’d received from her would be to find out the truth, whatever it turned out to be.
The macaroni and cheese worked its magic, and when Jonathan suggested dessert, Callie had to fight off a yawn while she shook her head. She passed on coffee, too, feeling more than ready to head on home, though she tried to cover it and urged Jonathan to order coffee for himself.
Jonathan claimed to have a busy day ahead, probably picking up on Callie’s weariness, and asked for the bill. Within minutes they were heading back to her place. As they rode, Callie mentioned her encounter with Elvin Wilcox after he’d dropped her off the last time.
“He was in your yard?” Jonathan asked, shocked.
“He was hiding from your headlights, which apparently bothered him. I got the impression he felt comfortable at my aunt’s place. She must have been good to him.”
“But at night? That sounds like lurking to me.”
“Brian Greer talked to him about it. I don’t think it’ll continue. And I plan to get motion-sensor lights.”
“Good idea.”
Jonathan pulled up in front of her shop, and, after turning off his ignition, reached for his seat belt. “I’ll walk you back,” he said.
“No, please, that’s not necessary,” Callie insisted, regretting that she’d brought up the incident, which Jonathan probably took as a plea for protection. “I’ll be fine. I’ll flick my outside lights to confirm that, once I’m inside. Okay?”
“Well … ”
Before he could say more, Callie jumped out, thanking him, and hurried to the path along the privacy fence. Once in her cottage, she clicked her lights as promised, then heard the sound of Jonathan’s car restart and drive away. She glanced into her kitchen, which still had unpacked bags of cereal and canned goods and considered putting everything neatly away. But she veered toward the stairs instead, picturing the soft bed waiting for her.
Jagger apparently thought that was a fine decision, as he followed along closely at her heels.
The woman behind Callie in the check-out line kept poking her. Stop that, Callie wanted to say, but she couldn’t get the words out. Poke, poke, poke; the sharp finger jabbed against Callie’s shoulder, even though it was clear there was no way Callie could move forward. How could she, when she was blocked in front by a huge … bear! The bear turned and said …
Callie woke with a start. What was that? She sat up, blinking. What had wakened her? As her eyes adjusted to the faint light seeping through her sheer curtains, she realized Jagger stood at the end of her bed, his back arched. A deep, warning growl rumbled from his throat as he stared at the window.
“What is it?” Callie whispered. Was it Jagger’s movement that had wakened her? She threw back the covers and eased out of the bed, noting that the cat didn’t turn his head her way. His posture and stare remained frozen, pointing toward the window.
Fully awake by then, Callie
crept toward the dormer window, every nerve on edge. She leaned on the small window seat and pulled back the curtain, at first seeing very little. Her yard and the back of her shop were dark, cast in shadows as the light from a partially covered moon angled over her shop toward the cottage. Then movement caught her eye. Jagger’s, too, as he instantly leaped from the bed toward the glass.
The sound of the large cat bumping against the window with a piercing yowl caused whoever was at the shop’s back door to whirl, swinging a hand-held light toward Callie, who instinctively jumped back. But she caught herself quickly and lunged for the sash, unlocking and throwing it up.
“Who are you? What are you doing there?” she shouted.
The flashlight went dark, as did the yard. Callie could barely see the dark figure anymore, but she heard footsteps running.
“Stop!” she cried, but the steps pounded faster.
Thirteen
Callie ran downstairs and hit the switch to her outside lights. Adrenaline on high, she yanked her front door open. The shock of chilly night air against her skin stopped her. Was she crazy? She closed the door and called the police.
The siren and flashing lights had barely reached House of Melody when her phone rang.
“Callie, it’s Delia! Are you okay? What’s going on?”
“A burglar. Trying to get into my shop, I think. The police are here. I’ll call you back.”
Callie had no sooner pressed end than her phone rang again. It was Brian.
“Do you need help?” he asked, adding he could be there in seconds.
She repeated what she’d told Delia. “Gotta go,” she said. Wrapped in her trench coat, her feet jammed hurriedly into clogs, Callie opened the door to the two approaching patrolmen and described what she’d seen. Though she assured them all was well in the cottage, they insisted on checking that for themselves before moving on to the shop. She watched through the cottage window as they did so, having been told that others were combing the surrounding area for a fleeing suspect.
After what seemed like hours, a young patrolman reported back. “No sign of anyone, ma’am. The back door to your shop, however, was slightly ajar. You said you’d left it closed and locked. Are you sure about that?”
“Yes, absolutely!”
“Because sometimes people forget,” he said. “It happens. They have other things on their mind, or they get distracted.”
“No, I’m sure I locked it.”
He looked annoyingly unconvinced but asked her to come with him into the shop and check for any signs of disturbance. She did so, going over every inch of the shop, and saw nothing missing or out of place.
“Which probably means I stopped him before he got inside,” she said, still assuring the officer that the door had been locked.
“Yes, ma’am. We’ll send someone to dust for fingerprints,” the patrolman said. He looked young enough to have been in elementary school when Callie finished high school, but he still managed to project a superior air of authority. She also detected in his tone an implication that further investigation would, of course, be a waste of time, but that they’d go through the motions. Had he been one of the responders after she’d found Aunt Mel dead? She didn’t like to think so but couldn’t really say.
She thanked the man, then watched as he returned with his partner to their patrol car. Delia hurried over within seconds from her side of the shrubs, a long jacket thrown over her nightgown and her hair, free of its pins, hanging below her shoulders. She’d obviously been watching and waiting until all was clear. Brian arrived as well, and Callie told them everything in detail, gratified to see no signs of skepticism in either face.
“The guy—I’m assuming it was a man, though I can’t be sure—somehow got my shop’s back door open, though nothing on the door or its window was broken.”
“Better get your locks changed,” Brian said. “Maybe your burglar was an expert lock-picker, but I’d guess someone with that kind of skill generally heads for more lucrative prey.”
“Brian’s right,” Delia said. “You’d better change them. Mel might not have been super careful with her keys. I’ve had one to her cottage for looking after Jagger when she was away, but not to her shop. Maybe Tabitha does, I don’t know, and I wouldn’t suspect her for a moment of anything shady. But who knows where it might have been mislaid for someone else to get their hands on it?”
“I can give you the name of someone in town who replaces locks fast and reasonably,” Brian said.
“And I’ll return the cottage key,” Delia said.
“Don’t be silly,” Callie said. “You’re probably the person I trust most in this whole town. And you’re a very close second,” she said to Brian. Then she looked over at Karl Eggers’s house, which had remained dark and silent during the entire episode. She didn’t say it out loud, but she couldn’t help thinking that her neighbor on that side would have to be a very sound sleeper to have missed all the commotion. Delia and Brian gazed in that direction as well but kept their thoughts to themselves.
“Would you like to stay at my place for the rest of the night?” Delia offered, pulling her jacket tighter as a chilly breeze stirred her hair. “My spare bed is always made up.”
“Thanks, but I’ll be fine. No one’s likely to try anything again tonight.” Callie had a sudden thought that gave her a shiver. “But first I’m moving something.” She hurried back into the shop and carefully lifted Grandpa Reed’s music box off of its shelf. When she carried it outside, Brian and Delia were still waiting.
“Just to be on the safe side,” she said, patting the music box.
She sent them both off, apologizing for the disturbance that cost them a good night’s sleep. Both Delia and Brian waved that off, as if responding to a neighbor’s screams in the middle of the night was as normal as, well, helping her unpack and handle her copious belongings. Callie realized how extremely fortunate she was to have them in her life.
She closed and locked her cottage door, then returned her treasured music box to the roll-top desk, carefully locking that up, too. Instead of heading back to bed, she found the box of chamomile tea that she’d opened for her first morning in the shop, wanting its calming actions once again. Though she’d managed to hold it together well enough in front of the others, the truth was the entire incident had shaken her thoroughly. Now that she was alone, she knew there was no way she was going to simply fall back to sleep.
Callie carried her steaming mug to the living room, wrapped a cozy throw around herself, and settled onto the blue and white sofa. She curled her feet under the throw just as Jagger jumped up. He offered his head for scratching, and Callie was glad to oblige.
“If it weren’t for you,” she said, “I might never have awakened, and that burglar would have gotten away with whatever.” As she said it, though, she remembered the dream that she’d had. Someone was poking her. It had felt so real.
“Was it you?” she asked the cat, but she couldn’t picture that. Jagger had been poised stiffly at the end of her bed when she woke, not by her side. She took a long sip of her tea. She knew what Tabitha would say. That it was Aunt Mel. Callie shook her head, but there, in the pre-dawn hours of her dim living room, the idea didn’t seem that fantastic.
•
“Miss Reed! I heard about what happened last night. Is everything okay?” The thin, older man, not much taller than herself, popped into House of Melody within minutes of Callie opening her shop. His appearance struck her as quite mouse-like, with a near-total grayness that began at his sparse hair, continued through a colorless shirt and slacks, and ended in somewhat-scuffed Hush Puppies. His agitated manner accentuated the image. He thrust out his hand. “Howard Graham. Owner and operator of Christmas Collectibles. We’re across the street from Shake It Up.”
Callie shook his hand, addressing him as Mr. Graham.
“Howard,” he corrected
quickly. “I would have dropped by when you first moved in, but my wife had surgery—knee replacement—and I haven’t been in all week.”
“I’m sorry. I hope she’s recovering well?”
“Yes, thank you. Painful, but she’ll be fine soon.” His glance bounced around the shop as he spoke. “Our niece was able to keep the shop running for us for a few days. We don’t live here in the Cove, so I didn’t hear about your break-in until this morning.”
“An attempted break-in,” Callie said.
“So nothing was taken? And no damage? That’s been our fear, ever since we opened. Our collectibles are so fragile. Glass ornaments, you know, and such. If vandals broke in, it would be a disaster!” He fairly shook at the thought.
“I imagine several shops are in the same boat.” Callie thought of Delia’s salt and pepper shakers and, of course, Duane Fletcher’s glass collectibles. Her music boxes might not be as delicate, but they would certainly suffer. She had to admit she’d been thinking of her burglar mostly as a thief, not a vandal, and glanced at the shelf that had held Grandpa Reed’s music box. She doubted any thief would consider it valuable enough to steal, but how awful would it be to find it smashed!
“We thought of installing an alarm system,” Howard said. “It’s expensive, so we’ve put it off. But now … ” He looked at Callie rather accusingly, and she wondered if he held her responsible somehow for that added cost. But then he shrugged. “Well, that’s the way it goes.” He stepped toward the door. “I’d better get back. I just wanted to say I’m sorry about your scare. Let’s hope the police catch the culprit and that’ll be that.”
By the time Tabitha arrived, the locksmith Brian recommended was already at work. “What’s up?” Tabitha asked, looking puzzled as she eased by the man and his tools. She was dressed that day in flowing chiffon, and she clutched the edges of the material carefully to herself. The locksmith looked just as perplexed at the sight of her as she was with him but said nothing.
“Replacing the locks,” Callie explained, then examined Tabitha’s costume. “Ophelia?” she ventured, flashing on a familiar film version of Hamlet.
A Fatal Collection Page 10
