"Except for a little trouble getting to sleep last night, I've never been happier. At least, not since I was fifteen."
And he smiled.
71
Detective Lou Murray stopped by the copy shop promptly at nine, which according to the sign on the door was when it opened. The door was locked. He sat in his car and waited. At nine-thirty, he walked over to Pumpernickel's and bought a cup of coffee to go.
By ten o'clock, he was seriously irked. He tried the phone number on the front window. He called the Chamber of Commerce to try and track down the owner. He called the store only to discover the answering machine couldn't take any more messages.
Finally, at quarter after ten, a black-clad figure unlocked the front door. Lou hopped out of the car and entered the shop. The clerk had disappeared into a back room.
"Hello?" He knocked on the counter.
Out came a teenaged boy wearing smeared eye makeup. The kid's hair was dyed an impossible shade of black, highlighted by red stripes. His face had been pierced so many times that he clanked as he walked to the counter. A surly look told Lou this was not going to go well.
“Forget handcuffs. You could drag him in at the end of a strong magnetic,” Showalter said. “Why would anyone do that to himself?”
"Is the owner here?" Lou showed the kid his badge.
The boy reached into his back pocket and withdrew a plastic badge that said, "Sid." He pinned it on.
"Sid? I'm talking to you. Where's the owner?"
"In the Bahamas."
"Look. I need information and I need it yesterday."
"Okay." Sid's expression didn't change.
"You've been shipping a bunch of packages out of here for a man named Hal Humberger," Lou said, as he leaned closer to the counter, moving into Sid's personal space. He got a good sniff of why Sid was so calm. The kid smelled like he'd been smoking dope.
"Yep."
"Any idea what was in them?"
"Yep." Sid didn't in a hurry to share, but he didn't seem reluctant either.
"What are they?"
"They're aerial photos. Mr. Humberger had a friend who had a helicopter, and they'd fly over people's houses and take aerial photos. Then he'd offer them to property owners. Get them framed and charge them a bundle. "
"How do you know that?"
"Because I did the packaging for him. Wrapping them so they'd arrive without breakage."
"How often did these go out?"
"Um," now Sid had to stop to think. "At first, not often. He didn't know anything about selling on the Internet. I showed him a few tricks with SEOs. Google words. Facebook ads. He got the hang of it. Then he started sending things out three times a week. Sometimes more."
Sid might as well have been talking Greek. Lou tried to act like he understood, but the confusion must have shown up on his face.
"What do you mean? In English?"
"I showed him how to market his photos on the Internet. Then his business picked up."
"Did Mr. Humberger bring these photos in himself?"
"No. They were charged to his account, a special one he opened. But he didn't bring them in. Told me he didn't want his wife to know what he was doing. So he had Mr. Potter running errands for him. That guy over at the Gas E Bait." Sid paused and cracked his knuckles. His fingernails had been painted blue. "At least Mr. Potter did it for a while. Then they got into a fight. After that Mr. Humberger started to bring in his own stuff."
"You're sure about this?" Lou pressed the point.
"Can you trust a boy who wears blue nail polish?" wondered Showalter.
"Yes, I'm sure. I was here when they got into it with each other. Mr. Potter went ham on Mr. Humberger.”
“Went ham?” Lou wondered if English was a second language for Sid.
“Went ham. That means he got up in his face. Got all angry. Said something about Mr. Humberger breaking his promises. He looked like he wanted to kill Mr. Humberger."
72
Lou rapped politely on the door of Dick Potter's hospital room. In response, Dick yelled, "Yeah?" over the sound of the television. It was exactly the sort of welcome Lou expected from the old man.
"Brought you today's paper and a McDonald's Double Cheeseburger." Lou set the peace offerings on the bedside table.
"Thinking you'll loosen my tongue with that?" Dick Potter's hair stuck up in clumps and he needed a shave, but a healthy pink color had returned to his face.
"Hope to."
"You're a sly demon, Detective Murray." Dick clicked the volume down on the remote while Lou pulled up a chair.
"I remember when I was here getting my gallbladder removed. I would have killed for a burger from McDonald's."
"I didn't do it," groused Dick Potter.
"Figure of speech."
"Right."
"I need to ask you one question."
"If I decline to answer are you planning to grab this and run?" Dick took a big bite of the burger and chewed it happily.
"No. That would be cruel and unusual punishment."
Dick snorted and took another bite of the sandwich.
"They told me at the copy shop that Hal Humberger had you dropping off photos for him."
"So what?" Dick took another bite of his burger.
"Hit him with the hard question," Showalter suggested.
"Why would you do something like that for Hal Humberger? I didn't know the two of you were such good pals."
"We weren't."
"You don't seem like the errand boy type," said Lou, in an attempt to push Dick's buttons.
It worked. Dick's jaw tightened and he turned angry eyes on Lou. "It started as a favor. I was taking car parts over to be shipped out anyway. So I figured, why not? Besides, Hal said he'd help me."
"With what?"
"Hal said he could help me get money to clean up those leaking gas tanks. Federal money. Said he knew the right strings to pull. I thought, sure, I'd scratch his back if he'd scratch mine."
Lou pursed his lips. "What happened? I heard you two got into a nasty fight."
"He kept stringing me along. Saying he'd look into things, but nothing happened. He was full of hot air. Meantime, I was taking those photos over every other day. Come to find out, he was sneaking around behind Philomena's back! That's when I told him he could do his own dirty work."
"Did you kill Hal Humberger? Did you get mad at him? Did it happen accidently? Did you lose it because he didn't keep his end of the bargain?"
"Visiting hours is over," said Dick, as he pushed the nurse call button.
73
Creativity buzzed like an electric charge inside the Escalade. On the way back from the beach, we'd stopped at a nautical salvage store and made a few more purchases. I bought an entire bucket of sea glass pieces for twenty bucks. MJ suggested we snap up several ropes with old buoys on them. "We can hang these on the wall for ambiance."
I found an old wrought iron patio set, two chairs and a table in good shape, but with peeling black paint.
"Those can be repainted with a wonderful textured spray that looks like sand," suggested MJ. I nodded. Fabric remnants never cost much. With cushions—and I knew how to sew these since I'd made all the seat cushions in the restaurant—the set would be darling.
Cooper pointed out an old pilot's wheel from a boat, and I instantly imagined it with a glass top and a pedestal as a table. Skye moved a bunch of knickknacks piled high on a shelf to uncover a painting by the son of a Highwayman.
"At least it will give the store the right atmosphere," MJ said approvingly.
“Not bad for a knock-off.” Cooper studied the work.
I dickered a while with the clerk and bought the piece. The price wasn’t as low as I’d hoped, but my friends assured me I could sell it for a fair profit.
"Can we make one more stop?" asked Skye. She directed Cooper to our local Ace Hardware. We loaded a cart with sandpaper, more masking tape, paints, and wire. Skye suggested that I purchase a variety of adhesives
and glue guns. That made sense because we had a lot of projects going at once. MJ reminded me we needed an OPEN sign announcing our hours.
By the time we had everything in the Escalade, my stomach was growling. There was one more stop to make. At a local pet shop, I bought Jack a crate and bedding for when he was downstairs on the sales floor. I didn't want him to get underfoot, and I knew he liked being a part of the action.
At my direction, Cooper managed to get his Escalade through the local Kentucky Fried Chicken window without ripping off the overhang. I bought two buckets of Kentucky Fried Chicken, a half dozen bottles of cola, plus extra sides for the boys, who were finishing up at the store, according to a text message from Officer Dooley. We arrived as the boys were washing out their paint brushes. The place had been absolutely transformed by the first coat of white paint, and the second added depth to the finished look.
Jack limped over to me.
"He missed you," said Officer Dooley. I picked up my dog and stroked his ears.
MJ and Skye put out the food on our new display table, an old six-paneled door nailed onto two sawhorses, one of Bobby's more innovative ideas. To my delight, he'd suggested painting it with what I now considered our "all purpose" blue paint. We could use it to display our new merchandise.
"Come see what else I did," he said. Following Skye's instructions, Bobby had fitted wooden grids inside the empty drawers. He then added hangers on the backs to create nifty display cases with lots of small cubbies.
"There are three sets of keys on your desk," he told me. "All the locks have been changed."
"What are you planning to do with all those seashells and sand," Bobby asked Skye, as she set down a plastic bucket filled with findings from the beach.
"I'm going to make room dividers from those old windows sitting in the corner," she told him. "Can you add hooks and chains to them so they can be suspended from the ceiling?"
"Sure," he said.
After the teenage boys devoured the KFC, Officer Dooly directed them to help Cooper unload his car. While they did that, I inspected the painting. They'd done a fantastic job. I thanked Officer Dooley and each of the boys as they headed out the front door. Bobby was also finished for the day. He left through the back door.
Cooper had been looking around. "Cara Mia, I have to tell you that I had my doubts when you told me your plan. After seeing all this, I think you will do well. I had a great time today, ladies. Anytime you need a chauffeur, I'm your man."
I walked him to the front door, feeling shy and happy all at once. When we stepped outside and into the darkening night, he pulled me close.
"It'll all work out," he said, after we kissed. "I just need a little time."
Once I was back inside the store, MJ handed me a file folder. "Here's the paperwork you wanted. The stuff from twelve years back, around the time the paintings disappeared. Actually, there’s nothing here but trash. Old receipts. Lists. It should have been tossed five years ago. Good luck with it."
Disappointment surged through me. I’d been hoping for a fatter file, something to answer my questions. Eagerly, I took a second to flip through the papers. Bills. Statements. All official looking. MJ was right. Nothing of interest. At least not on the surface. What a letdown! I thanked her and stopped to take a look around at our progress. "We've done what we set out to do, ladies. Everybody gets a set of keys. This place is looking like a real, live store. We've turning trash into treasure. That said, we'll need signage and tags to explain what we've done, because it's the stories that matter here. Otherwise no one will know how extraordinary all this is."
"What do you mean?" MJ stared at me.
"Stories?" Skye cocked her head as she stood over the wood planking she'd been sanding.
"A customer might not realize those particular planks had washed up on a local beach. Or that we've repurposed these odd drawers found her in the abandoned building into display shelves. Unless we tell people the stories behind these items, our customers won't understand why our merchandise is so special. Everything we have here has been given a second chance."
"A second chance," echoed Skye. "I like that."
"Me, too," said MJ.
So did I.
I mentally crossed my fingers and hoped that the people of Stuart and the snowbirds who came here annually would give The Treasure a second chance. Otherwise, all our hard work would be wasted.
Of course, all this was predicated on customers giving us a chance. I sent up a silent prayer that Lou would track down Hal Humberger’s killer. While the murderer was at large, a dark cloud of suspicion would hang over all our heads.
74
After making sure that MJ was safely in her car and on her way, Skye and I decided to call it a night. We left on all the outside lights, as Detective Murray had suggested. I carried Jack under one arm as we climbed the stairs. When we reached our apartments, Skye turned to me and said, "This was not a good day."
"It wasn't?"
"Nope. It was a great one!"
That made me smile.
Tommy had text-messaged me, but I'd missed it because I'd left my phone in Cooper's car while we were at the park. His father had arrived. I was glad that Dom hadn't let Tommy down, but I was sad that I wouldn't be spending Parents' Weekend with my son.
I'd managed to call Poppy from Cooper's car, after our walk on the beach, but the nurse told me he was with his doctor. The infection in his foot wasn't any worse, and it wasn't any better.
Alone in my ugly apartment, I had an attack of the creeping doubts. Were Tommy and I going to grow apart? Would Dom be a constant presence down here? Would Poppy ever recover? Would Lou ever find Hal Humberger's murderer? Would I be able to open the doors of The Treasure Chest and make enough money to survive?
A shower with sandalwood soap relaxed me. Of course, I was also bone-weary, but even after I crawled into my sleeping bag, my mind kept me awake. I tossed and turned. Half the time I thought about the store, and the other half I wondered about Cooper. How much time would he need—and what Jodi would do to try to keep him? I didn't think she'd give up on him easily.
A little past two in the morning, I gave up on shut-eye. I grabbed my flashlight, admiring the steady beam produced by its new batteries.
"Sh," I told Jack as I walked past his cardboard box. "Don't wake up Skye."
I crept down the stairs. Switching on the light in the back room, I went to the desk where I'd set down file that MJ had pulled for me. The manila folder was light as a whisper. Pinning any hopes on it seemed silly. Was it even worth a second look?
Maybe.
A slender stack of bills were inside. One was from Hal Humberger Construction and signed by Robert Gander, supervisor. Stapled to the back was a detailed invoice from a local lumberyard, listing a variety of supplies: linoleum, Formica countertops, nails, insulation, tiles, grout, maple paneling, cabinets, two enamel sinks, light fixtures, paint, and sandpaper. Nothing remarkable.
Nothing that answered the question, “Where had the paintings had gone?”
I tended to agree with MJ. Remembering how cruel Essie could be to Irving, I was convinced that he'd sold the paintings. Maybe out of spite. Maybe to cover her medical expenses. Maybe because he thought she’d never recover enough to know. Rather than face her wrath, he'd kept his mouth shut and let her think they'd been stolen or misplaced. A sad solution to the question, but one that made sense given the problems between mother and son.
I turned on the computer, hoping that Tommy might have used his Facebook page to post photos of him and his dad.
Nada. Not one picture. Drat.
Tommy must have been too busy to post photos. He was probably having a good time with his dad.
That was fine.
Or was it?
I had mixed feelings. I wanted nothing to do with Dom, and yet my son deserved to have a relationship with his father. Consequently I did my best not to complain about Dom, who had a knack of showing up in Tommy's life during the good times. Of
course, he was never there for the tough ones.
Before we married, my mother had called Dom "a lightweight." She had been half right. He was a lightweight when it came to family responsibilities, but a heavy when it came to keeping his wife in line. Maybe if Mom hadn't been so controlling, I would have discovered Dom's faults before I married him.
Maybe if Essie hadn’t been so hard on Irving, her paintings wouldn’t have disappeared.
The building suddenly pressed in on me, filled as it was with emotion and sadness. I needed to see something upbeat, and that meant looking at the sales floor. I switched on the overhead lights. The place was really shaping up. I marveled at what we'd accomplished.
The hum of the fluorescent bulbs was a little annoying, and they still didn't give out enough light. I walked over to the chandeliers I'd rescued. They were sitting on top of a bunch of newspapers. What a cool find! When they were installed, they would add a lot of light. Would they have the right vibe? Their brassy finish was chipped in places, and the metallic finish was too posh for our shop. In their current state, they wouldn't look good.
After taping off the bulb sockets, I grabbed a can of the sand-colored texturized paint and spray painted the light fixtures. In seconds, the surface took on a natural look. Tomorrow I would string seashells on wires and wrap them around the arms of the fixtures. In my mind, I imagined the finished product. It would look good. Really good.
I paced the sales floor of The Treasure Chest. My perambulations brought me full circle. Leaning against one wall was the second generation Highwayman painting that Skye had found at the nautical salvage store. Cooper had praised it. Although it was second generation, and not worth as much as an original, he'd given it his stamp of approval.
He was a collector. He had also been friendly with Essie. He and Philomena had planned to open a Fill Up and Go franchise. Franchises cost a lot of money. Cooper hadn't seemed worried about the leaking gas tanks, but from what I'd read, fixing them would have cost a bundle. Jodi said that he had a lot of irons in the fire. Hal Humberger had implied Cooper lived a wonderful, exotic lifestyle. The Escalade was brand new. That was one expensive vehicle.
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 89
