Written on the Wind

by Cate Dean

  “I don’t want you going back there,” Martin said. “Not alone, at any rate.”

  “No worries there. That is one creepy, run-down place. It must have been stunning at one time.”

  “Not since I can remember.” Spencer leaned on the counter. “I agree with Martin. I don’t want you going back out there. Arthur Cragmoor is more than a little crazy, and people know to stay away from him.” Spencer took her hand. “Why didn’t you come and get us before you went out there?”

  She shrugged. “I thought his reputation was exaggerated. Like most of the folklore around here.” She winked at Spencer, and Martin assumed it was a long standing joke between them. “I was wrong. This time.”

  “Next time, be wrong far away from the source.”

  “Yes, sir.” They smiled at each other, and Martin wavered between pleasure for Maggie and envy at their close friendship. “Okay—since I have temporary ownership of the book, I’d like to put it in my safe, just until I know what’s going on with Mr. Cragmoor. Rich was a little too eager to get his hands on it.”

  “You didn’t mention that,” Martin said.

  “I just remembered. I was so startled by Mr. Cragmoor’s reaction, I forgot that Rich offered to buy the book from me.”

  “Even more reason to keep it locked up.” Martin would never trust the boy again—not after he attacked Maggie. “I would like to take a closer look at it, before you do.”

  “Of course you would.” Her smile told him that she was teasing him. Martin found he liked it. “The box is still in the Rover. And yes, Spencer, I managed to park it behind the shop without adding more dents.”

  Her driving skills seemed to be legendary around here. Every time she mentioned driving, everyone in hearing distance flinched. Since Martin had been nearly sideswiped by her Land Rover before their first meeting, he understood completely.

  He and Spencer followed Maggie out to the back, Spencer staying in the back room to listen for any customers. Maggie let out a gasp when she opened the back door.

  Martin rushed forward, ready to step in front of her, protect her from any assault. He stopped when he saw the reason for her reaction.

  The passenger side window of her Land Rover had been shattered, the glass spread across the tarmac. Martin saw a figure disappear around the corner, and grabbed Maggie, pulling her back.

  “What—ˮ

  “We interrupted whoever broke into your car.”

  “Oh—the box—ˮ She pulled free and moved to her car, crunching over the shards of glass. Her sigh of relief told Martin what she was going to say next. “Fortunately, we surprised him before he finished.” She carefully reached in and produced the book. “Next time, I won’t make it so easy for him.”

  Martin told himself there wouldn’t be a next time. He would make sure Maggie stayed clear of any danger, long before that danger came calling.

  Four

  Before Maggie could finish processing what had happened, Spencer had his mobile out and was calling Ian Reynolds.

  “Stop frowning at me, Mags. I’m not taking any chances, not after what happened in June.”

  Even after two months, and the men responsible behind bars, Spencer still watched her like a hawk. She honestly couldn’t blame him—it had been close, for her and Martin.

  If not for the frankincense oil, and the fact that her knife throwing ability had allowed her to throw that oil into the eyes of their captors, things might have ended up quite different.

  Ian showed up inside five minutes. One of the perks of living in a village—everything, and everyone, was close by. It was also one of the disadvantages.

  He dusted for fingerprints, took samples of the glass, and stepped over to Maggie. “You have an idea of who did this.”

  “That obvious?”

  “Your cheeks are almost the color of your hair.”

  She laid one hand on her cheek, surprised to feel heat radiating under her fingers. “I was so angry, I didn’t notice. I think Rich may have had something to do with it.”

  “Rich Danner?” Ian didn’t look surprised. “Tell me.”

  Maggie gave him a quick summary of her visit out to the manor. “Rich didn’t look happy when I refused to sell him the book.”

  “And this book...”

  “Is safe,” she said. She’d put it in the small floor safe in the far corner of her back room while Spencer was still on the phone with Ian. “You can’t dust it for fingerprints—it’s worth too much, so stop looking at me like that. I’m sure you got what you needed off the Rover.”

  Ian surprised her by smiling. “Good to see you haven’t lost your fire, Maggie.”

  After Ian left, Maggie insisted on cleaning up the window glass herself. She was still so angry, she needed to do something physical—and punching Rich wasn’t an option at the moment.

  By the time she got all the glass swept up and in the trash bin, she had exhausted herself with her own emotional turmoil. All she wanted now was some alone time, and a nap. Instead, she went inside, and relieved Spencer in the front of the shop.

  “Go eat,” she said. “I know you’ve been stuck here.”

  “No need to worry, Mags. I’ve been sneaking food out of your fridge all day.”

  She laughed at his grin, feeling better for it. “Thanks. Now go—and take an extra long lunch. Boss’ orders.”

  “I hear and obey.” He saluted her and bounded out of the shop.

  Maggie knew he’d head straight for The Tea Caddy to beg some scones off Lilliana, and probably guilt her into making him a sandwich. Maggie was so lucky to have him as part of her life. There were times, when she had been growing up, that she wished Spencer was her brother, and not a friend who lived an ocean away.

  It took years, and a chain of unexpected events, but she finally got her wish—she had the brother she always wanted, a life she could call her own, and that ocean between her and her disapproving parents.

  Mr. Tucker walked past her shop—and gave her an idea.

  She wouldn’t be able to do anything about it until tomorrow, but the quiet bookshop owner just might be the answer to all the questions she had about her newest acquisition.

  ***

  After bribing Spencer with a dozen of Lilliana’s blueberry scones, just as he walked in the next morning to help her open, Maggie left him to cover the shop. She had the book wrapped in its damask and safely tucked in a tote bag, to keep it protected as she headed over to Mr. Tucker’s bookshop.

  She stopped outside his shop, smiling at the gilded lettering on the window. With a name like Only Old Books, he would be able to tell her a thing or two.

  A bell jingled over her head as she pushed the heavy oak door open. “Good morning, Mr. Tucker.”

  “Hmm?” He lifted his head, and Maggie had to stifle a laugh. He had a magnifier attached to his glasses, and his right eye looked huge. “Oh, right.” He took his glasses off and carefully set them on one of the piles that covered his desk. “What can I do for you, Miss Mulgrew?”

  Maggie was delighted that he remembered her. “I have a book I’d like you to take a look at, if you have time.”

  “Only if it is—ˮ

  “Old.” She smiled. “I know the name of your shop.”

  “Right.” He cleared his throat, and Maggie could have sworn he blushed. It was hard to tell in the dim light. “Bring it over.”

  She made her way through the tables of sale books—what he obviously considered too new to earn a place on his shelves. “I bought a box of items at the church charity sale yesterday, but I didn’t know the book was in the box I bought until I started unpacking it.”

  He held out his gloved hand, and Maggie carefully pulled the book out of the tote bag and gave it to him. She watched him put his magnifier-enhanced glasses on, then slowly unwrap the damask, careful not to touch the book itself.

  “Remarkable,” he muttered. “Did you open it?”

  “I did.” She rushed to explain when he narrowed his eyes at her. “I
didn’t know what it was until I opened it. I was very gentle with it, Mr. Tucker. I do own an antique shop, and I’ve been around them most of my life. My Aunt Irene—ˮ

  “Taught you well. I see no sign of oil from careless fingers on the leather.” He cupped the book in both hands, leaving the damask between his hands and the cover, and let the book open on its own. “A journal. Looks like—ˮ

  “Household duties. Sorry,” she said, when he raised his eyebrow. “I was just trying—ˮ

  “To help. I understand, Miss Mulgrew. Now please allow me to learn about the book on my own.”

  “Okay.” She tried not to fidget while he studied each page, slowly turning it to read the next. Maggie had a feeling he’d read the whole thing, right now, if she didn’t remind him that she was still here. “Mr. Tucker?”

  “Yes, my dear girl, I know you are here.” With a sigh, he closed the book. “This is an exquisite example of early nineteenth century workmanship. Done by an amateur, obviously. But a talented amateur.” He finally looked up at her. “You say you bought this at the church sale?”

  “Yes. And I tried to return it to the owner, but he wanted nothing to do with the book. He said—ˮ She hesitated, not sure Mr. Tucker would want to know.

  “What, Miss Mulgrew? All the information I can glean will assist me.”

  “He claimed the book was cursed.” She had left the letter back at her shop. Somehow she knew it had something to do with the curse Arthur Cragmoor was shouting about. For now, she wanted to keep it to herself, until she had more information. “I thought Mr. Cragmoor was trying to tell me something, without actually telling me.”

  “Cragmoor?” He took off his glasses and studied her. “Are you talking about Arthur Cragmoor?”

  She nodded. “He acted like he wanted me to have the book. I don’t understand why, since we never met before today. And the man selling for him at the church sale wouldn’t let me leave without the box.” She shook her head. “I’m sure that’s more information than you wanted. Thank you for your time, Mr. Tucker. I’ll take the book now—ˮ

  “Would it be all right if I kept it, just for the day? I would like to do further research. I guarantee it will be safe here, Miss Mulgrew. I have a vault in the back room for my more valuable items.”

  “Okay. On one condition.”

  His brow furrowed. “What condition?”

  “You call me Maggie.”

  His smile surprised her—and transformed his face. “I believe I can agree to that, since I have been acquainted with your aunt for so many years. Maggie.”

  She smiled back. “Thank you—and thank you for taking the time with my book. Bring it by the shop tomorrow when you’re done, and I can show you around.”

  “I—of course.” He looked startled at her invitation. Maggie had a feeling he didn’t get invited anywhere all that often. “Tomorrow then, Miss Mul—Maggie.”

  He bent over her book again, and she knew she’d lost him.

  After taking a few minutes to walk around his shop, and breathe in the scent of leather and old paper, she headed outside. Hopefully, by this time tomorrow, there would be one mystery solved.

  Five

  Maggie had been open less than an hour when Mr. Tucker appeared, carrying her book under one arm.

  At least, she assumed it was her book—the bundle was wrapped in layers of cloth.

  “Good morning, Mr. Tucker. Welcome to The Ash Leaf.”

  He took a minute to look around, nodding his head. “Irene would approve. You have done wonders with the interior, my dear.”

  “I—thank you.” His compliment left her stuttering. She cleared her throat and moved around the high counter, meeting him in the middle of the shop. “I noticed you had several letter openers on your desk. I have quite a collection here, myself. If you’d like to take a look, they’re in the drawer of the secretary in the corner.”

  “I would be delighted.” He handed her the bundle. “I learned a few details about the author of your journal. Let me take a look at these letter openers, and we can discuss it.”

  He was walking away from her as he talked, and she hid a smile at his enthusiasm. Collectors came in all shapes.

  She set the bundle under the counter, out of sight, in case any customers came into the shop while she was busy with Mr. Tucker. By the time she joined him, he had already pulled the drawer open and was examining each letter opener.

  “I love hunting for them,” she said, aware that he probably only half heard her.

  She was used to it, with people always in search of the perfect addition to whatever they collected. Once they latched on to their obsession, they fell into a zone, until they either found that piece, or came up for air. Either way, Maggie waited for them, to share their excitement, or steer them to something else if they were disappointed.

  “I always head straight for the office accessories,” she continued, her audience still engrossed in his hunt. “Every time I hit an estate sale, I...” Her voice faded, and she grabbed Mr. Tucker’s right arm when he started shaking. “Mr. Tucker—what is it?”

  “Where did you find this?” he whispered. He held up an ornate letter opener, one Maggie had finally put out last week, after an internal back and forth about keeping it for herself. As much as she loved it, the heavy, solid silver opener would have looked out of place with her simple desk accessories. “Where did you—ˮ He cut himself off and stared down at the letter opener.

  “I found it at one of the flea markets in London, my last trip up. You recognize it, don’t you?” It didn’t happen often, but so many family heirlooms were sold over the years, that people sometimes stumbled across them in shops like hers. “Did it belong to someone you knew?”

  “My great grandfather. The letter opener had been part of a set, and always sat on his desk. It was stolen by a servant, after my great grandmother fired her for—stealing.” He let out a raw laugh. “I never thought to see it again.”

  “It’s yours.”

  He looked up at her, his eyes bright with unshed tears. “I cannot—ˮ

  “It belongs to your family, Mr. Tucker. Now it can return to its rightful place.” Maggie rubbed his arm, her voice quiet, even. “You own the rest of the set, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” he whispered. “I inherited it, after his death. My grandfather promised that someday he would find the thieving wench and reclaim what had been taken. Thank you, Maggie.” He pressed the letter opener against his chest. “I will treasure your gift.”

  “Why don’t you take it home? We can talk later about my book.” She walked him to the door, not letting go until she was sure he was ready. “I’m so glad I was the one to find that for you, Mr. Tucker.”

  “Patrick,” he said, his voice soft. “Please, call me Patrick.”

  “It will be my honor, Patrick.”

  He smiled at her, and she felt tears sting her eyes. “Thank you, for bringing a piece of my great grandfather back to me.”

  He leaned in and kissed her cheek, leaving her shocked but smiling after him as he strode down the sidewalk, his head lifted.

  “That was kind of you, Maggie.” Martin’s voice swung her around. He stood near the nearly hidden door that led to his flat upstairs.

  “How long—did you—”

  “I saw enough.” He strode across the shop and swept her into his arms. “I find myself falling hard for you, Maggie Mulgrew.” He whispered against her ear, his voice low and rough. “You have a good heart. I hope there is room in it for me.”

  “Martin...”

  She didn’t care who was watching—she kissed him, in the doorway of her shop, in the middle of the day. This man had become so much a part of her daily life, she couldn’t imagine not seeing him, talking to him, laughing with him.

  When they finally came up for air, applause broke out. A busload of tourists stood on the pedestrian street—all older women, and all of them smiling. Maggie waved at them and pulled Martin back into the shop. She wasn’t embarrassed,
but she could feel the heat flushing her cheeks.

  “It looks like you are about to have a rush, Maggie.” Amusement edged Martin’s voice, and she turned around in time to see the women heading for her shop.

  “Spencer!” He ducked out of the back room, where she’d ordered him to sort out the inventory after he showed up late. Again. “I need you out here.”

  “Why—good lord, Mags.” His eyes widened as women poured into the shop. “What did you do—offer a half price coupon?”

  “No,” Martin said. Oh, no—he was going to tell Spencer. “She kissed me.”

  With a grin, Spencer leapt over the counter. “Good job.” He headed straight for the prettiest woman in the group, and poured on the charm. “Welcome, ladies. How can I be of service this fine morning?”

  When they giggled like schoolgirls, Maggie knew she was going to have a profitable day.

  ***

  Three more busloads of mostly American women bombarded Holmestead, and by the end of the day, Maggie needed more stock out front, and new feet.

  Finally, after the last bus finally trundled out of the village, she locked the door and sank into the nearest chair.

  Spencer had draped himself over the counter. “What just happened?”

  “Some special tour of villages along the coast.” Maggie kicked off her shoes and slid a stool over, groaning when she set her feet on the padded top. “Guaranteed shopping at each stop. I may be going up to London sooner than I planned. They cleaned me out of most of my decorative items.”

  Martin walked in the back door, and halted, raising his eyebrows when he saw the mess that had been her shop.

  “Did I miss the war?”

  “No,” Spencer said, lifting his head enough to glance at Martin. “Just three buses filled with women. Women on a mission.”

  Martin looked at Maggie, and she could tell he was fighting a smile. “It looks like mission accomplished.” He walked over to her, and held out his hand. “I was going to ask you to supper, but it looks as if you would prefer a nap.”

  “That depends. Where did you plan on taking me?”

  He laughed, and pulled up another stool, sitting at her feet. “The Anchor has a seafood buffet tonight.”