A Fatal Collection

by Mary Ellen Hughes

  “I heard. I’m sorry, but I can’t make it. I’ll be out of town.”

  “No! Can’t you postpone?”

  Callie drew in a breath. She could postpone, but she didn’t want to. Choosing between putting herself in the middle of the association fight where she was bound to offend somebody and a quiet, solitary drive to a quaint town to scope out vintage music boxes was a no-brainer. “I’ll call in my vote, Laurie.”

  “Well, okay. But I wish you could be there too. Wish us luck. Gotta go.”

  The call disconnected as Laurie likely moved on to contact other shop owners. Callie realized her headache had reappeared, and she wondered if Aunt Mel had kept any aspirin in her office. She was searching through desk drawers when she heard the shop door open.

  “Miss Reed!” an all-too-familiar voice boomed out.

  Callie groaned, grit her teeth, and went out to face her much-less-bearable next-door neighbor, wishing she could instead swivel and head out the back door.

  “Mr. Eggers.”

  “You need to move your car. Now.”

  “My car? Why? It’s not blocking your shop.” Callie knew she’d parked around the corner the previous day after coming back from the supermarket. It was on Eggers’s side of the street but definitely public, not private parking.

  “A delivery is coming. Your car is sitting where they have to park to bring my orders through the side door.”

  Callie sighed. A truck couldn’t park a few feet farther down? The delivery was presumably of model cars, not pianos. But she decided it wasn’t worth arguing about.

  “I can’t run out right now. But I’ll be bringing my car in front of my shop this afternoon before I leave for New Jersey. Can it wait till then?”

  Eggers glared. “New Jersey.” Callie watched his thick eyebrows dance as a keen look came to his face. “You’re moving?”

  Oh Lord. “I’m driving up for one day,” she said, emphasizing one. “My car will be out of your way for twenty-four hours.”

  “Don’t block any of the space in front of my shop before you go,” Eggers warned before turning his back and marching out.

  What next? Callie wondered as the door slammed shut behind him.

  But what came next was infinitely more welcome. Tabitha arrived, dressed in the tie-dyed shirt and bell bottoms that she’d been wearing the day she and Callie first met in the supermarket.

  “I wondered when you’d start repeating,” Callie said. “I was beginning to imagine a huge closet filled with a year’s worth of costu—um, outfits.”

  “Oh, I just mix and match by my mood. This is one of my favorites. Did you hear what’s going on at Kids at Heart now?”

  “You mean for tonight’s emergency meeting? What, has Laurie plastered her windows with posters about it?”

  “No, I mean what’s happening outside the shop. It’s being picketed.”

  “Picketed! What on earth for?”

  “A group of moms—I think—believes Kids at Heart has been selling real-looking toy guns. There’s a lot of sign waving and shouting. They’re mad!”

  “Are they? I mean, have the Harts sold authentic-looking toy guns?”

  “I never saw any. And Bill and Laurie swear up and down that they never have. But nothing they say seems to get through to the picketers. It’s like someone’s totally convinced those moms what the truth is.”

  “Someone?”

  “Don’t ask me who,” Tabitha said. “I tried to talk to a couple of the women marching up and down with their signs, but they wouldn’t stop chanting long enough to let me get a word in.”

  Another day of business disruption for Kids at Heart, Callie thought. And just as Laurie was working to gather votes for an audit on Duane Fletcher’s books. Coincidence? Callie doubted it. But proving it might be another thing. She rubbed at her throbbing temples.

  “You don’t happen to have some aspirin on you?” she asked. “I couldn’t find any in the office.”

  “Afraid not,” Tabitha said. “Got a headache?” She looked closer. “You look a little flushed, too.”

  “I’ll just run over to the cottage. A couple of aspirin and a tall glass of something cold should take care of it. Want anything?”

  Tabitha shook her head, and Callie turned toward the back but then remembered about moving her car. Might as well do it now. She went out the front door instead and around the corner to where she’d parked. But by the time she’d started the car up and pulled forward to the intersection, a black Land Rover had grabbed the space in front of her shop. She grimaced, having wanted her own car nearby to load her things for her trip, but there was nothing to do about it.

  She drove directly across the street and slipped into an empty spot just beyond the corner. The walk to her cottage in the scorching heat upped her fatigue and achiness, so that the ice-filled glass she was able to press against her face once she got indoors was a blessed relief. She downed her aspirin, slipped the bottle into her pocket, and topped off the glass to carry back to the shop with her.

  “That looks inviting,” she said to Jagger, who was dozing on the sofa. He barely lifted an eyelid before snuggling his nose deeper between his furry paws. She was on her own, he seemed to say. He had already claimed that cushion.

  Callie sank onto a nearby seat for a minute. She sipped her water, then pulled out her phone in case she’d missed a text from Tabitha. She hadn’t. But she did have a new email. It was from a Patty Wilkens, a name that sounded vaguely familiar. Then it hit her. This was the woman who’d organized Aunt Mel’s reunion, the woman who might know about the mysterious Tom! Callie opened the email with high hopes.

  Dear Callie, it began. I was so sorry to hear of the loss of Melodie. Thank you for letting me know. I do remember Melodie well and regret having lost touch with her over the years. She was a wonderful person. I remember Tom, her boyfriend, too. You could hardly see one without the other back then. We were all so sure they would eventually marry. I’ve written to Tom about your search for him. I’m sure he’ll contact you very soon. I’ll also put an announcement about Melodie’s death in our …

  The email continued, but Callie had stopped at I’m sure he’ll contact you. She’d asked Patty for information about Tom, not to have her request forwarded to him. She now realized it was foolish not to anticipate this. Patty Wilkens, after all, knew—or used to know—Tom, but she didn’t know Callie. What this might mean for herself, Callie didn’t know.

  She closed the email and stood, Patty’s words—I’m sure he’ll contact you—running through her head. She’d definitely need to think about that more, but later. Right then, she had to get back to the shop. She headed over, wearing a small frown.

  From the shop’s office, Callie could see Tabitha waiting on a customer as a second woman browsed. She drew a deep breath before joining them, offering assistance to the browser, which was declined, and then sank onto her stool. She sipped at her ice water and mulled over Patty Wilkens’s message, though Kids at Heart’s troubles and Duane Fletcher’s situation vied for her attention as well. None of it did much to improve her continued weariness.

  About an hour and several customers later, when things had quieted down, Callie admitted to Tabitha, “You know, I’m not feeling so good.”

  “I wondered.” Tabitha put a hand to Callie’s forehead. “You’ve got a fever. No way should you go on that drive to Mullica Hill.”

  “That’s what I was thinking.”

  “I bet you’re coming down with the same virus Brian caught.”

  “I hope not. That bug has put Brian out of commission for days.”

  “Maybe it won’t hit you as hard. But you should definitely go lie down. Right now. I was going to stay late today anyway, so I’ll close up. And I’ll be here first thing in the morning, like we planned. Don’t even think about dragging yourself out of bed tomorrow if you don’t f
eel well.”

  Callie nodded, not having the energy to protest. “You’re an angel, Tabitha,” she said.

  “So I hear,” Tabitha said, grinning. “Need any food? I could drop some off tonight, no problem.”

  “No, I’m good.” What Callie really meant was that food was the farthest thing from her mind right then. Bed, on the other hand, was the closest.

  She thanked Tabitha with all her heart and trudged off, confident that she was leaving House of Melody in good hands. Once inside the cottage, she closed her draperies, made sure that Jagger had what he’d need to survive, and dragged herself slowly up to her bedroom.

  She’d just laid her head on her pillow when she heard her cell phone ring. She’d unthinkingly left it on the end table near the front door when she came in and put her keys away. No way was she about to run back down to answer it. The call could go to voicemail.

  No sooner had the cell phone stopped ringing than the cottage’s landline began to sound. Callie groaned but again let it go, this time to Aunt Mel’s answering machine. She thought she heard someone leaving a message but couldn’t distinguish the words. Nothing that can’t wait, she told herself before drifting off to a welcome sleep.

  Twenty-Nine

  Troubling dreams disturbed Callie’s sleep. In the last one, she clung to the sides of Duane’s boat as he zoomed around the cove; she protested futilely over the roar of the motor that it made her seasick. She woke actually feeling queasy—aware, though, that it was likely due to her virus.

  She pulled herself out of bed to see if she had any ginger ale, remembering her mother’s antidote for an upset stomach, and found a bottle on the bottom shelf of the pantry. She poured herself a glassful over ice. That and a couple of soda crackers calmed her stomach enough to let her take a shower. She’d fallen into bed fully dressed except for shoes, and she’d been sweating. The tepid shower refreshed and soothed her, and the change to fresh nightclothes raised her hopes for a more restful sleep.

  When Callie climbed back into bed, Jagger jumped up to join her, though she warned him things might be a little bumpy. It wasn’t long before she proved that to be accurate, as her next dream had her running after Elvin as he zigzagged between trees on Duane’s ATV. When she woke from that one, Jagger had moved to the far corner of the mattress.

  She managed to fall into a deeper sleep after that until once again, her brain grew agitated. This time she traveled down a much darker road; she watched Aunt Mel come out of the guest bedroom, where she’d slept that final night, and, wrapped in her robe, head toward the stairs.

  “Don’t go down,” Callie pleaded, but her aunt shook her head and silently put her finger to her lips.

  Callie tried to rush after her, but she’d become so tangled in the bedclothes that she was in effect tied to the bed. She thrashed, trying desperately to free herself, and heard the cottage door downstairs close behind her aunt as Grandpa Reed’s music box played. “No!” Callie cried out in her dream, upset enough to wake.

  She found herself sitting upright, her sheets scrambled, blinking into the darkness. She continued to hear the music, though faintly. Was she still dreaming? Then she realized the sound came from inside the blanket chest, where she’d left the music box, forgotten as her illness took over. The muffled music stopped, much to her relief.

  Then she heard the noise.

  Was that Jagger? Had he gone downstairs and bumped something? But no. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she saw the large cat at the foot of her bed, not curled in sleep but on his feet and staring alertly toward her door. He had heard the thump, too.

  Callie held her breath. She hadn’t imagined it. But what had caused it? Maybe a tree branch had fallen onto the roof? She didn’t hear any wind blowing outside, but dead branches sometimes dropped of their own accord, didn’t they? She realized she was trying hard to convince herself that all was well. Then she heard the second noise. The creak of a downstairs floorboard. Someone was in her house.

  Callie patted frantically on the nightstand for her cell phone until she remembered she’d left it downstairs. Her heart sank. What could she do? At least, she told herself, get out of bed and not wait there like a sitting duck! She slipped out as silently as she could manage and grabbed onto the nightstand as a wave of dizziness swept over her. When that passed, she thought about what she could use to defend herself. The lamp over the nightstand had been clamped to the wall, and her tugs couldn’t release it. She eased over to the open closet, holding her breath that no floorboard squeaks would betray her. Was there anything heavy and weapon-like in the closet? Her mind raced, picturing the currently invisible contents. No crowbars or hammers, unfortunately. Nothing sturdier than a boot or a wooden hanger came to mind, and she wasn’t willing to stake her life on either.

  She grabbed the robe that hung on the door and wrapped it around her thin pajamas, an automatic action that only seemed to highlight how vulnerable she was. Then she remembered the can of pepper spray she’d bought back in Morgantown, for the nights she came home late from work. She’d last seen it in her winter purse, the one she carried when she wore her long puffy coat against the bitter West Virginia winds. But where had she left that purse?

  Callie reached for the closet shelf, trying hard not to accidentally knock something down and alert her intruder. Why hadn’t she organized her things by now? Nearly everything lay in the jumble they’d fallen into as she’d unpacked her many boxes, putting off doing a better job until later on. What was that procrastination going to cost her?

  Not finding the purse on the shelf, she lowered herself to the floor to run her hands through the heaps of shoes. Would the purse have ended up among them? She heard a scraping sound from the living room and froze. What was that? The downstairs closet? Was her intruder searching it for valuables?

  Knowing there was nothing worth stealing there gave her no comfort. He wouldn’t likely stop with one room. Did whoever it was believe the cottage to be empty, keeping lights off and moving quietly only to avoid alerting neighbors? She had planned to be away overnight. Who would have known about that? Too many people, Callie realized, but she didn’t have time to think about it. She needed to find her pepper spray.

  Her search on the closet floor turned up only shoes, a bag of yarn, and a small pocket umbrella, none of which were of any use. She leaned back onto her heels and scoured her thoughts. Where was that purse? Suddenly an image of a hook at the back of the closet appeared. Of course! She’d hung it there!

  Callie stood to reach between her hanging clothes, beneath the shelf. Her hand landed on a hook that had two leather straps over it. Jubilant, she followed the straps down to the top of the purse, recognizing the shape and feel as the one she’d been looking for. She eased the zipper open and slipped her hand inside. She immediately felt the bulge in an inside pocket and pulled out the small can. She clutched it in relief but knew she’d still need to think and act fast. And her illness was dragging her down.

  One worrying sign was the dizziness that had struck when she’d risen from the closet floor, causing her to reach out to steady herself. Something on her feet might help. She searched with her toes for the pair of slip-on, rubber-soled shoes that she usually kept near the front, and finding them, slid her bare feet inside. Then she considered her options of where to stand if—make that when— her intruder came into the bedroom.

  The closet was too cramped and stuffed to try to hide in. Behind the bedroom door would be better. She would wait there, Callie decided, letting him come all the way in before firing off the pepper spray. Firing too soon would mean he could block her escape. Cool though it all sounded, Callie trembled at the thought, keenly aware of all the things that could go wrong. Chief among them was her own lack of full control.

  She heard another sound come from below, which she identified as the lid of the roll-top desk being raised. She’d left it unlocked after moving Grandpa Reed’s mus
ic box and knew that little else of any interest remained there. Thank goodness her growing fatigue had caused her to forget about bringing the music box back downstairs. If she’d returned it to the desk, she doubted the flimsy lock would have held against much force.

  She began to hope that the intruder, not finding anything, would be discouraged and leave. Aunt Mel had no silver to steal or other items of obvious value. But then she saw a flash of light swing under her door, which could only mean one thing, and she braced herself as she heard the first footfall on the stairway. He was coming.

  Her eyes had adjusted enough to the darkness to see outlines of the bedroom furniture. She scoured the area for any signs of Jagger, but didn’t find any and assumed he’d hidden under the bed. A strong desire to join him arose, but Callie knew she was better off upright, ready to attack and to run. She drew a breath and waited.

  A step creaked, this one higher up, informing Callie he’d nearly reached the top. The light from his flashlight was stronger, and she pictured him only feet away in the short hallway. She heard him cover that distance in seconds, pause between the two bedrooms, and then put a hand on her doorknob.

  She watched the doorknob turn. There was a soft click and the door began to open. She raised her pepper spray and waited. A dark figure stepped into the room, preceded by the light from his flashlight. Callie stood motionless, afraid to breathe as he passed within inches of her. Then he turned slightly, and the brightness of the beam was enough to illuminate his features. Callie gasped and he spun around toward her, the light hitting her eyes.

  She pressed down hard on the valve of the pepper spray can, aiming blindly and not caring that it was Jonathan, the man who’d been to her home for dinner just the night before, the man who’d seemed to offer nothing but friendship. He’d broken into her home in the middle of the night, and that was all she needed to know. The can hissed weakly, then stopped. It was dead.

  Jonathan knocked it from her hands, keeping his flashlight aimed at her eyes. “You said you’d be gone!”