A Fatal Collection

by Mary Ellen Hughes

  “I don’t think I’ve come across that.”

  “I remember her using it to hold down all the paperwork that was piling up from the committee she was heading.”

  “For the association?”

  “Right. It was for Memorial Day weekend, to, you know, draw the crowds. Mel arranged for all the outdoor decorations like flags and flowers, an artist to do charcoal sketches, strolling musicians, and advertising, of course. And she had to keep track of the bills to hand over to Duane.”

  “Uh-huh.” Callie was glancing around for a safe place to keep her new paperweight for the time being. It wasn’t going to be put to work anchoring papers, that she knew.

  “But you know how organized she was,” Tabitha said. “She scanned them, too.”

  “The bills? Did Duane ask her to do that?” Callie settled on the empty spot where Grandpa Reed’s music box had been.

  Tabitha shook her head. “She did it for herself. She said she didn’t want to take a chance that any of it got lost. Which, frankly, I considered a waste of effort, because, you know, if someone didn’t get paid, they’re going to be sure to send a second bill, right?”

  “Right.” But Callie had formed another interpretation of what her aunt did. A customer walked in, and she let Tabitha take care of it as she followed her train of thought. By “got lost,” was Aunt Mel concerned about something else once the bills were in Duane’s hands?

  When Tabitha was free again, Callie asked, “Did Duane know that my aunt had scanned all the committee’s bills before she turned them over to him?”

  “Duane? I don’t know. She never said.”

  Callie strolled over to straighten a music box that had been shifted out of place. Then she asked, “So Mel volunteered for a lot of committees?”

  “Lots, mostly for holidays. She headed one around Easter, and another for Small Business Saturday right after Thanksgiving. For, you know, Christmas sales.”

  “And scanned the bills?”

  Tabitha shrugged. “Don’t know. I only remember that last one, Memorial Day.”

  They both grew busy then as a group of women, apparently all friends, flooded in, resulting in much chatter and several satisfying sales.

  •

  Later on, after Tabitha had left and things had grown quiet, Callie went to the back office to do a search through the laptop there. It didn’t take her long to find what she was looking for. Mel’s photo files for May of that year held several scans of committee expense reports, saved as jpegs. Callie studied them briefly, then looked for scans around Easter but found none. She then checked each month’s photo files, going back to December, but there were no other scans.

  Aunt Mel had apparently started the practice only on her last committee job. Why? Had she begun to notice a discrepancy between what she thought had been spent on behalf of the association and what Duane claimed to have paid out? Delia had told her that things had become tense between Mel and Duane. Might that have been due to more than just her aunt’s proposal to set term limits for the treasurer? If so, what had it led to? Violence?

  A vision of her aunt being struck and killed in the middle of the night came to her. Callie found it far easier to picture a faceless Tom in that position than someone with whom she’d just had a pleasant face-to-face encounter. But if in fact it was Duane who’d struck, his purpose for being in the shop could have been to destroy Aunt Mel’s saved scans, couldn’t it?

  The laptop, though, had been locked up in the secretary desk. Callie had watched her aunt do it that evening as she’d closed up the shop. Duane, if it had been him, might not have expected that and might have been unprepared to break into the desk. That would then have provided a reason to try to break into House of Melody a second time, but with more tools. Could Duane Fletcher have been the burglar? Callie tried to think whether the shadowy figure she saw from her window had Duane’s rounded shape, but she couldn’t say for sure.

  She shook her head, knowing that, as with Tom, this was all conjecture. She was able to come up with motive but no actual evidence for either of the men, which meant there was nothing she could do beyond carefully filing it all away.

  Her concentration was suddenly broken by shouts out front. Recognizing Karl Eggers’s voice, Callie hurried to her front window to see Elvin cowering under a barrage of threats, and she grabbed for the door. As soon as she stepped out, Eggers turned his wrath on her.

  “You! You’re part of the reason this bum hangs around here. The other part is Greer over there, handing out free food.” Eggers glared across the street toward the Keepsake Café.

  “Don’t call Elvin a bum,” Callie said. “He’s a hard worker and earns his money.”

  “At what? Jobs a ten-year-old could do in half the time? You hire him for things like that and he’s always around, scaring away my customers. I won’t have it!”

  “You have nothing to say about it, Mr. Eggers. I’ll hire exactly who I want. If you’re losing customers, it’s more likely because of you causing a scene like this.”

  Eggers glared at her. “You’re no better than your aunt. Trouble-makers, both of you.”

  Callie felt steam rise at that comment, but before she exploded, Jonathan pulled up and jumped out of his car, asking Callie, “What’s the problem here?”

  “This—” Eggers began, but Jonathan cut him off.

  “I asked her.”

  “My neighbor doesn’t approve of my choice of handymen,” Callie said, still struggling to control herself. “Or my genes either, it appears.”

  “Your ge—?”

  “I won’t have derelicts loitering around my place,” Eggers said, shaking a fist. “I’ll get the police to take him off if he comes around again.”

  “No police!” Elvin cried, suddenly backing away.

  “There won’t be any police,” Brian called as he burst out of his café and strode across the street, a white apron tied at his waist. “Eggers, leave this guy alone. He’s not hurting anyone’s business by being here.” He put a calming arm around Elvin’s shoulder.

  “Then take him into your café,” Eggers challenged gruffly, “and see what happens.”

  “No problem.” Brian turned to Elvin. “Want a chicken pot pie? I’ve got plenty.”

  Elvin looked back and forth uncertainly between Karl Eggers and Brian and finally nodded. Eggers spun around without further comment and stomped back into Car-lectibles.

  “Thank you, Brian,” Callie said.

  “Good going,” Jonathan added, and Brian’s gaze shifted from Callie’s face to his in surprise, as if he’d only just realized Jonathan was there.

  “Don’t let Eggers scare you,” Brian said to Callie. “He can be loud, but it’s a lot of bluff and bluster.” He gave Jonathan a single nod before turning Elvin toward his café. “C’mon. Let’s go get that pot pie.”

  Jonathan watched for a moment, then said to Callie, “Glad I happened by.”

  Callie smiled, though aware that Brian was who’d gotten the situation under control.

  “Was he right, though?” Jonathan asked. “I mean, does this guy Elvin hang around a lot? He was skulking in your back yard the other night.”

  “Just that once. He does come around looking for work, but not just here. For other shops, too.”

  Jonathan looked uncertain. “I heard about the incident you had here the other night. The break-in?”

  “No actual break-in. Just someone attempting it, I think.”

  “Yes, well, could it have been Elvin? I mean, I see he’s got problems, but … ”

  Callie shook her head. “No, it wouldn’t have been Elvin. Why would he … ” She stopped herself. Why wouldn’t it have been him? She had no real basis for ruling the man out.

  “Did you see anything to help identify the person?”

  “No, it was way too dark. But Elvin would have
no reason to break into my shop.”

  “None that you know of,” Jonathan pointed out gently. “I’m just saying maybe you should be careful. Just because Eggers is a jerk doesn’t automatically mean you can totally go the other way with trusting this guy.”

  Callie wanted to say But Brian likes him, yet she didn’t. She knew that Jonathan—and Tabitha’s Tarot cards—each had a point: Be cautious. That meant no picking and choosing.

  Seventeen

  That evening, Callie got the email she was waiting for from her mother. Although understandably puzzled over why Callie would be asking about her father’s high school, she produced the name of it: Warfield.

  Can’t tell you how I happen to remember that, she wrote. Robert B. Warfield High, to be precise. The older I get, the more I find I’m able to pull up odd things from the past but can’t for the life of me remember where I put something important the day before. She went on to report on her trip experiences and the beautiful scenery, of which she intended to send photos later.

  Callie shot off a thank you along with a promise to explain all, soon, and immediately began an online search for the high school. With the full name, the school’s website popped up quickly, and she was excited to see a link there to past yearbooks. She’d calculated that her aunt would have graduated thirty-five years ago, so she pulled that year up first. To her dismay, the graduating class was a large one—over 300 members. Approximately half were male. After sifting through nearly 150 names, Callie had found 38 boys named Tom. She looked at her list, leaned back in her chair, and groaned, especially when she realized Tom might be a year or two older, or even younger, and in another class.

  Callie wished mightily that Grandma and Grandpa Reed had been able to afford a small exclusive school to send their children to, or that Tom’s parents had been vastly more imaginative when naming their son.

  What to do? Callie then remembered that one of the notes from Tom had mentioned late practice, but was it football, baseball, or something else? He hadn’t specified, because of course Mel would have known. Scouring through multiple team photos, therefore, wouldn’t be of help.

  Then Callie saw a link to the person who had organized the class’s twenty-fifth reunion: Patty Wilkens. The link was at least ten years old, but it was something. Callie clicked on it and typed out a message explaining that she was the niece of Melodie Reed, who had recently passed away. She hoped Patty Wilkens remembered Melodie from their high school days, since Callie was trying to get in touch with Melodie’s good friend, Tom. If Patty could help, would she please respond?

  She sent the email off with crossed fingers, hoping first that it was a working address, and next that she would hear back. Emails from strangers, even one containing the name of a former classmate, were too easy to be suspicious of and deleted. After browsing a few more minutes through the yearbook site, Callie checked her email to see if her message had bounced back. It hadn’t. Good. Now she could only wait and hope for a response.

  •

  The next morning, while opening her shop, Callie saw Brian outside his café, lowering the awning against the morning sun. She stepped out and crossed the street, calling out a greeting as she approached. He turned and looked pleased to see her.

  “Might have to replace this thing pretty soon,” he said as she drew near, pointing to a worn area above him that looked ready to tear.

  Callie looked at the spot and nodded solemnly. “Appears so.”

  “Sun damage,” Brian explained. “That and wind.”

  “A deadly combination,” Callie agreed, which produced a smile from Brian.

  “Come in for coffee?” he asked.

  Callie shook her head. “I just wanted to say that I thought it was very nice of you to come to Elvin’s rescue the way you did yesterday.”

  Brian shrugged. “I wouldn’t call it a rescue. Elvin probably would have been okay with you there, and that guy with you, uh … ”

  “Jonathan,” Callie supplied. “Jonathan Harman. He’s a music box collector. And he wasn’t actually with me.”

  “No?”

  “He just happened by and stopped when he saw the commotion. But I thought you calmed things down beautifully. I liked that you stood up to Karl’s challenge and took Elvin into your café.”

  Brian grinned. “Karl didn’t like it much, did he?”

  Callie glanced over at Car-lectibles, half expecting to see Karl Eggers’s bearded face at the window, glowering at them. “I don’t understand why he gets so vehement over Elvin. Yes, Elvin is scruffy. But I don’t see anything threatening about him.”

  “Well … ”

  “What?”

  “There was an incident, once. But it was some time ago.” Callie waited as Brian hesitated. “I guess you’ll hear about it eventually,” he said, “so better from me than Karl.”

  “What happened?”

  Brian checked for anyone possibly heading their way, then said, “Elvin was walking down the street after he’d finished trimming Mel’s backyard bushes. It was a hot day, and I’m sure he was tired. A couple of kids, twelve-year-olds on bikes, thought it was a great idea to harass him, zipping around too close, popping wheelies and grabbing at twigs that were stuck in his hair. Elvin doesn’t handle being startled well. I’m sure it was that, plus being tired to begin with, that brought it on.”

  “Brought what on?”

  “He went ballistic. Started whirling around and shouting. Scared the kids half to death, not that they didn’t deserve it, but also scared several strolling shoppers. Somebody called the police, which only made things worse. I was back in my kitchen and didn’t know what was happening until it was too late, or I would have run out to help.”

  Where did it happen?”

  “In front of Christmas Collectibles.”

  Callie pictured Howard Graham quaking at his shop window filled with breakables. He would have been one of the first to press 911 on his phone.

  “The police did a good job of calming Elvin down. I’ll give them credit for that. But they handcuffed him and took him off, which I was extremely sorry to see.”

  “Was he charged?”

  Brian shook his head. “No, thank God. No one had been hurt, only shaken up. They did see that Elvin got a medical evaluation, and I believe he’s continued with some sort of outpatient care—meds, perhaps. Most people who know him understand that Elvin wasn’t to blame for the incident, and that he was acting defensively, not offensively.”

  “But not Karl.”

  “Apparently not. But Karl’s not exactly a broad-minded person.”

  “I got that impression, too.”

  Callie and Brian silently contemplated that for a moment before realizing that Keepsake Cove traffic was picking up and they needed to tend to their businesses. Callie thanked Brian for telling her, then trotted back to House of Melody without throwing a glance toward Car-lectibles, whose proprietor she wasn’t in a particular mood to see.

  But once back in her shop, she mulled over Brian’s story. She felt sorry for Elvin, of course. But it had shown a side of the man that she might need to be wary of. Tabitha’s Tarot card warning came to mind, and, much as she privately scoffed at such things, the warning had stuck with her. Brian had stressed that it was an isolated incident and that Elvin, with treatment, was now beyond that kind of behavior. But how could he be sure?

  Jonathan’s suggestion that Elvin might have been her intruder had also stuck with her, little as she liked it. Though she couldn’t think why Elvin would want to break into her shop, she also couldn’t totally dismiss the idea. Did someone with Elvin’s difficulties act with the same reasoning as everybody else? Could he, for instance, have decided he wanted a special music box and thought that was the only way it could be his? Had he done it once before and in the stress of the situation become violent with the person who tried to stop him?

&
nbsp; As she had previously with both Tom and Duane, Callie pictured Aunt Mel coming across an intruder in her shop that night, but this time the face on the intruder was Elvin’s. Possible? She had to admit it was, but probable was something else.

  A customer approached her door, and Callie pushed the thought to the back of her mind to deal with later.

  •

  Tabitha had returned to her preferred style of unusual dress, though less startlingly, wearing a 1980s-style shoulder-padded top and tapered pants that Callie thought might still linger in many closets. It was the poufy hair that made the look, and that hairstyle could still be seen around as well. She and Tabitha were chatting about whether the shop should carry musical dolls, as a customer had suggested, when Jonathan walked in.

  “What do you think, Mr. Harman?” Tabitha asked. “Would you buy a musical doll if Callie carried them?”

  Jonathan, dressed casually in polo shirt and jeans, which signaled he was working from home that day, looked puzzled. “Musical dolls? Uh, no. I didn’t know there was such a thing.”

  Tabitha whipped open a catalogue to show him several pages of mostly porcelain dolls, dressed in elaborate gowns or ethnic costumes. There were a few baby dolls, which apparently played lullabies.

  “I’ll pass,” he said with a grin. “But I guess they’d appeal to plenty of others.”

  “I’m just not sure I want to go in that direction,” Callie said. “I’ll think about it.”

  “I stopped in today on behalf of a client of mine.” Jonathan pulled out a clipping of a music box that had two galloping horses pictured on its lid. “She asked for my help finding this for a niece who’s crazy about horses. Think you can get it?”

  “No problem.” Tabitha reached for another catalogue and began paging through it.

  As he waited, Jonathan noticed the butterfly paperweight on the shelf behind the counter. “Pretty,” he said. “You moved Mel’s music box?”