Detective Murray clumsily patted my shoulder. "Yeah, those mud-covered numbers on the license plate is making it hard for us to find that jerk. But we’ll keep on it. As you can imagine, a murder investigation takes precedent.” He stopped and did glance around the store. “You know, this place is definitely coming around. Everything is going to be okay."
I laughed softly. "Is that a promise?"
His brown eyes regarded me steadily. A half-grin lifted the corner of the detective's mouth. "Sure. Why not? Yes. That's a promise."
58
After getting my signature on an incident report, Detective Murray left. I ran upstairs, grabbed a grateful Jack and let him out. He hobbled over to a bush and tried to lift his leg, but the metal cast was too heavy. The little dude toppled over. I set him back on his feet. This time, he managed to pee successfully, showering a tiny lizard in a yellow rainstorm.
I’ve never owned a dog so small. Each time I picked him up, I realized what a tiny tyke he was. His bug eyes were bright and seemed to be happy for the company. Rather than taking him upstairs, I put him in a cardboard box on the sales floor. That way he wouldn't get underfoot but he could see and hear all the activity. Skye bounced over, as enthusiastic as a child with a secret.
Jack followed her with happy eyes. In a moment of exuberance, he stood on his hand legs and put both front feet against the side of the box. It promptly tipped over, with him in it. He tumbled out. His water dish rolled onto the floor, spilling its contents everywhere. Although Jack looked a bit dazed and confused, he shook off the moisture and began to bark happily.
"Oh, ho, ho," I said, picking him up. "An escape artist. We need to get you a bigger box or a crate, little buddy."
"He must be feeling better," said Skye. "He's learned he can put pressure on his cast and stand on it. Isn't that cute?"
"Yes," I said, cuddling Jack. "That's what we'll have to call you, Mr. Wet and Adorable."
"We were working while you were checking on your grandfather," said Skye, "and I can't wait to show you what MJ and I have gotten done!"
Carrying Jack in one arm, I followed her to the sales floor.
"Skye can go first," MJ said. "By the way, Bobby is outside cleaning off the graffiti."
"We couldn't let him tackle it until Lou stopped by," explained Skye. "Otherwise, it would already be gone. Sorry that you had to see that."
"I understand. You did the right thing. Detective Murray needed to get photos. Especially given what happened with Mr. Humberger."
"Come on over here," said Skye. She showed me how she had turned three of the spare drawers into display bins of varying heights by adding a turned spindle at each corner for legs. The finished bins were painted with a bluish-grayish paint. Skye had removed, polished, and then reattached the existing hardware. The effect was totally charming.
While the paint was drying on the bins, Skye had glued strips of burlap around empty glass jars of all sizes. "Another trash run to Pumpernickel's?" I asked.
"You betcha," she said, showing me several of the finished jars. Her expertise obscured their humble origins. After securing the fringed burlap, she glued on clusters of seashells. Twine was wrapped around the mouth of the jars. Inside them she dropped a tiny battery-operated votive. The final product would sell like hotcakes.
MJ had been busy, too. Her report was delayed while she supervised two men who carried a large dresser toward the back door. I stepped out of their way.
"This piece is going to Mrs. Sarhadi on Jupiter Island. Look at the profit margin." She handed me a sheet with neatly written figures on it.
I stared in amazement. If her figures were correct, the piece had been purchased for practically nothing shortly before Essie died. We were selling it for a nice amount.
"Bobby fixed the minor scratches and re-glued the drawers with a fast setting adhesive," she explained. "Mrs. Sarhadi is actually getting a very good deal. We bought it right.”
“That’s terrific.”
She continued, “But the best part is how our new floor is coming along. I don't think you really stopped to look at it, because you were so upset."
MJ was right. I'd been distracted by the vandalism and paid no attention to all the progress being made all around me. On one side of the show room floor were large pallets stacked with the white wood-grained tiles I'd ordered. Half the floor had already been laid!
"Jimmy will be done in no time," said MJ. "He can move fast, because there aren't any corners to round. This room is one big rectangle. After he lays the tiles, he'll slap down the grout. As he works, he's been consolidating stuff as much as possible. He seems to think that he can do most of the surface today."
"Looks great.”
"Did you see what Skye did with the fluorescent fixtures?" asked MJ.
The new frosted patterns were dazzling. I could see how they would transform our current lighting by softening it.
"Now that you can see the progress we're making, we want to discuss a date for a grand opening," said MJ, interrupting my appraisal. "Let's go to my desk so we can look at a calendar."
I started to say, “Your desk?” because I thought she’d poached the old desk Essie left behind. She hadn’t. Skye and I followed MJ to her new "desk," a door balanced on two low file cabinets. Somehow that smart cookie had also salvaged a broken lamp to illuminate her workspace. I smiled to myself. I loved how flexible my new friends were proving themselves to be.
"There's an Art Fair in downtown Stuart two weeks from now. I called Eddie, the guy in charge of special events, and he says he can still get us into the printed program, if you want."
"While I'd love to generate some cash, I don't see how we can possibly get merchandise in time." I stared at the date highlighted by MJ’s red fingernail.
"There's a huge flea market every Sunday in Stuart," said Skye. "The locals know about it, but the snowbirds don't. We can buy bits and pieces to fill in. I bet folks would even sell us merchandise on consignment."
"Tomorrow we could hit the resale and thrift shops in the area," said MJ, looking to me. "A lot of them don't know what they have, or they don't have the tourist traffic to get top dollar. Essie and I always found one or two nice pieces that we could turn for a profit."
"Prepping for a grand opening means additional expense," I said.
"Right," said MJ, “but it also means even more revenue."
"Just so you know," said Skye. "I plan to convert most of what is already here, on the floor, into saleable stuff. I've been looking through the piles. By repurposing these odds and ends, we won't waste very much. MJ is right about the flea markets. I'd love to come along. You really don't want to miss this opportunity, Cara. The Art Fair will mean all sorts of foot traffic."
I still wasn't convinced.
"Here's the deal," said MJ, circling the date on her calendar, "even if we simply call it an open house, we could at least re-introduce The Treasure Chest to the public."
She had a point.
Both women stared at me expectantly. They believed we could pull this off. MJ, the planner, and Skye, the crafter. I was the only naysayer in the bunch. They were right. At least, we'd make a party out of it. At best, we'd put some money in the till.
I had Cooper's permission to keep this building. No obstacle stood in my way, except my own fear of failure.
Staring me in the face was a chance to prove that I was my father's daughter. My dad, the entrepreneur who opened a restaurant, started a catering business, and flipped houses for a hobby. He taught me to read a balance sheet, negotiate with suppliers, run spreadsheets, adapt pricing, add new products, advertise, work with customers, and run a business.
Dad would be proud. He’d definitely make things work. I know he would.
"Woof!" Jack weighed in, adding his vote to the "aye" column. That was the first time I'd heard him bark. We all burst out laughing.
I smiled at my friends and said, "Jack has spoken. Let's go for it!"
59
S
kye told me that she was leaving for her shift at Pumpernickel's.
"Since I plan to buy lunch for everyone, how about if I walk with you? We can talk on the way there. I want to hear your ideas on how to come up with more merchandise. Small stuff that we can turn over fast."
"Sure," said Skye, as we stepped out into the sunshine. "There's so much you can do. All kinds of things you can make."
"Food I can make, but I'm not sure I can contribute any crafting help," I said, as we stood on the corner and waited for the light to change.
"Of course you can," Skye said. "Cara, you believe in us. How come you don't believe in yourself?"
"I don't have as much imagination as you do."
"Of course you do! You just haven't tapped into it yet."
"Phooey," I waved her off. "You don't have to butter me up. I'm a fan."
"I'm not buttering you up. Look at those chandeliers you nabbed on their way to the dump. Don't forget, you had the vision for how to brighten up the interior of the store. Even with only half the tiles down, it's clear that's exactly what the place needed."
"Yes, but crafts are different. I'm not an innovator. I can copy, but I can't create."
"Of course you can!"
"You have too much faith in me," I said.
"No, I don't," she said. "When you first came into Pumpernickel's, I could see your aura. You were totally blocked. Totally. Now there are sprigs of orange and yellow energy spiking out all over."
I was "totally" not into this metaphysical stuff, but I nodded and gave her a hug. We continued walking into Pumpernickel's together.
A few minutes later, loaded down with sacks full of deli sandwiches, sweet potato chips, and rugelach, I made my way back to The Treasure Chest. As I trudged along, I worried. Skye might see signs of my burgeoning creativity, but my major emotional state was confusion. Was I doing the right thing? Especially since it was clear that somebody didn't want me to stick around? I could still clean up The Treasure Chest and flip it. Was it better to cut my losses and move on?
If Detective Murray could arrest someone for Hal Humberger's murder, the cloud of suspicion would be lifted from me and from The Treasure Chest.
Was I wrong to trust the cop? He didn't seem in a hurry to clear Poppy. Or me.
In my limited experience, some law enforcement officials were good, some were mediocre, and some just plain incompetent. Other than Skye's worshipful accolades, and his decision not to press charges against Poppy for assault, I had no way of telling which category Detective Murray fell into. What if he was kind to her, but not as kind to everyone else? What if he was a good person, but an inept cop? Was solving Hal Humberger's murder a high priority for him? Would he blame my grandfather just to get a conviction?
Standing at the intersection and waiting for the light to turn, I came to a conclusion as I juggled the bags of food. There was no way around it. I needed to make my own efforts toward solving the murder. I couldn't leave everything to Detective Murray.
Of course, my priority was to get the business up and running, but that wouldn't stop me from paying attention to any detail that might help the investigation. After all, the murder had happened in The Treasure Chest. The deed had been done right after I'd signed the purchase papers. Only a fool would ignore the possibility that Hal Humberger's death was linked somehow to Essie's shop.
With that decision made, I stepped into the crosswalk. I felt more settled until a seagull flew overhead. Its squawk reminded me of the beach, and the beach reminded me of Cooper.
Last night I'd dreamed about him and awakened feeling heartbroken all over again. He hadn't called me since Jodi walked in on us. I wondered what he'd said to her. How he'd explained our kiss. A part of me felt I owed her an apology. The other part didn't care: He was mine first.
Why did Cooper have to go and fall in love? Darn it. He might be engaged, but you'd never know it by how fervently he'd kissed me. Were my feelings for him real? Or was I still, at heart, a hopeless romantic? A teenager who hadn't outgrown her first love?
A dark thought bought me to a total standstill outside The Treasure Chest. Wasn't I doing the same thing to Jodi that Alicia had done to me? She'd made nice to my face and gone behind my back to betray me.
There were two major differences: I'd been married to Dom and pregnant at the time.
But wasn't being engaged almost as important? It was still proof of a promise, wasn't it? A commitment? By kissing Cooper, hadn't I interfered with that pledge?
I decided right then. It wouldn't happen again. I vowed to concentrate on my store.
My store.
I liked the sound of that.
60
The Treasure Chest bustled with activity. Jimmy and his crew were in the midst of shifting stuff from one side to the other, so they could continue to lay the flooring. Even with the job partially done, you could see how much brighter and more appealing the place looked.
"I can fix just about anything," said Bobby, as he opened the waxed paper on his turkey breast sandwich. "But some of this stuff is badly dinged up. I'm not a real cabinet man, and I can't do expert refinishing. Only simple fixes. For more complex problems you need Don Able. He's the best in town."
MJ looked up from her tuna salad on whole wheat. "Don charges two arms and a leg for his time. I already checked with him. He's all booked up. We could put stuff out and mark it 'as is,' although that will bring down the value considerably."
"How many pieces are we talking about?" I sipped my Diet Dr Pepper.
"At least six," said MJ. "Three end tables, a dresser, and a breakfront."
I followed her around as she pointed out the various items and the damages. Most were dark wood, so the chips and dings stood out in stark relief. I sighed.
"I have another project for you," I told Bobby as I sat back down. "The windows upstairs are boarded over. Can you pry the wood off?"
"Is it just on the outside?" His face scrunched with thought. "No? Inside too? I couldn't do the outside without one of my tall ladders. Those are on my truck. I drove my Camaro today. How about if we go and take a look-see?"
Together we climbed the stairs to the apartments. When we walked into my place, I was struck anew by how empty it was. The good news was that without any furniture, I’d been able to make short work out of sweeping and mopping all my floors.
"I remember building these out when I worked for Hal Humberger," said Bobby. "He was in construction before he went into real estate full time. That man couldn't estimate a job for love nor money. That's why he had to get out of the business. But his wife and Miss Essie had been friends for years. When Miss Essie had her stroke, her son encouraged her to split the one big apartment into two rental units so she'd get the additional income. They hired Hal to do the job."
Like a lot of workmen, Bobby was a gregarious sort, and the chance to engage a customer in conversation didn't come often enough. As he pulled aside the blinds, he kept talking about how he'd installed the bathroom and kitchen fixtures. Done all the tiles and flooring. He'd framed everything in. The windows had been covered inside and out with small sheets of plywood. Leftovers, probably.
"Can't tell from this angle if any of the glass under this needs fixing," he said. "Give me a day or two. I'll come back with the big ladder and poke around."
I gestured toward the ugly maple siding. "That stuff makes me claustrophobic. I suppose we could paint it, but I'd love to get rid of it. Could you tear it down and put up drywall?"
He widened his eyes and turned to stare at the unappealing maple.
"Sure," Bobby said. "It’ll make a big mess though. You'd have to move out for a couple of days. I don't know if there are proper studs back there. Can't remember. Hal was always cutting corners. Toward the end of this job, he ran out of money. Finished it himself. He probably had that siding from another job and slapped it up to save money."
"Is that why there aren't any electrical outlets along the wall? Was he trying to economize?"
&n
bsp; Bobby rubbed the back of his neck. "Durned if I know. But I bet that's it. More of Hal's skimping."
"I guess I better call an electrician."
"For what?"
"To have outlets added. I want to put a sofa against that wall and a lamp so I can read."
"Don't call an electrician. Let me handle it."
"You sure?"
"No need to get someone else involved," he said with a wink. "Might as well keep it in the family."
61
After everyone finished lunch, we went back to work. MJ continued calling old customers and taking note of what they wanted.
"How's it going?" I asked, when she stood up to take a break.
"Too bad we don't have those Highwaymen paintings," she said. "Everyone wants to own one of those. Ever since they were inducted into the Florida Artists Hall of Fame in 2004, they've been hot, hot, hot."
"Could we dig up a few and resell them?" I'd been creating a spreadsheet for tracking the cost of utilities. By my calculations, air-conditioning this building was going to cost me a bundle.
"I wish," she said. "We might stumble over an undervalued painting or two when we're out and about, but that's unlikely. Most of the owners know what they have. The price has gone up tremendously on the landscapes."
"What do you think happened to the paintings? The ones that Essie owned?" I'd been meaning to ask MJ. This seemed like as good of a time as any.
"All I can figure is that Essie loaned them out to someone, and never got them back. She probably forgot about doing the paperwork. That had happened before. You see, she'd been having small strokes all along before she had that big one. I didn't realize it at the time. I chalked it up to stress. She and Irving were angry with each other nonstop. It's possible that the paintings were gone before I took my trip to Michigan, and I didn't even know it."
"That must have been a shock when you got back."
Kiki Lowenstein Books 1-3 & Cara Mia Delgatto Books 1-3: The Perfect Series for Crafters, Pet Lovers, and Readers Who Like Upbeat Books! Page 85
