Kiki Lowenstein Books 1-3 & Cara Mia Delgatto Books 1-3: The Perfect Series for Crafters, Pet Lovers, and Readers Who Like Upbeat Books!

by Joanna Campbell Slan

  “As you can see, these photos offer a broad representation of the people and vistas that make up a vanishing Florida,” I said. “Most of these photos are black and white. Surely you remember the Brownie camera that reached the zenith of its popularity in the 50s and 60s? That little gizmo made photography affordable for the masses. To enhance each picture, we’ve matted and framed them simply, letting their unique features take center stage.”

  A woman in the front row asked, “What about the frames? Are they recycled?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said, warming to my topic. “None of them are new. You wouldn’t believe the shape they were in when we found them. We carefully cleaned them, sanded them, and repainted them.”

  The reporters scribbled notes on legal pads we’d provided in their press packets. Taking this as a sign of interest, I continued, “Because we want people to have time to view these pictures, and to enjoy this educational opportunity, none of these pictures will be sold for the next thirty days. That isn’t to say we won’t take deposits, because we will. I am, after all, a businessperson.”

  A few soft chuckles assured me that they’d picked up on my attempt at humor.

  “But by leaving this display in place for thirty days, we hope to encourage tourists and locals alike to stop in and view and rediscover Florida’s history.”

  A hand flew up. I nodded to a man wearing a bright Tommy Bahama shirt. “How would you describe these photos? In your own words?”

  “We have landscapes showing the St. Lucie River, the sea coast, and the interior of the state where there are cattle ranches. A few pictures show the old drawbridges, before they were upgraded. There’s a picture of the Apollo School in Hobe Sound. You can see families on their porches fanning themselves, a reminder of our lives before air conditioning. The ubiquitous fishermen feature prominently in photos, both in boats and on the sand. With and without their catches. As you can also see, we have a few groupings of people. It’s fun to see how clothing and hairstyles have changed, isn’t it?”

  “What happens at the end of the thirty days?” another reporter asked, his pen poised to write down my answer.

  “We’ll change out all of these, because we have more photos that aren’t on display. Those will be curated, and then we’ll put up a new set of pictures. This wall will function like an art gallery with changing exhibits. We hope that you and your readers will mark your calendars and stop in frequently to see what’s on display. We can promise you an interesting selection—and to sweeten the deal, I’ll keep supplying the coffee, tea, and biscotti.”

  “Your biscotti alone is worth a visit to the store,” murmured a man in the front row.

  “Why thank you,” I said, as a few happy nods of agreement echoed the compliment.

  “Is it correct, Ms. Delgatto,” asked a woman reporter about my age, “that you ran a restaurant before you re-opened The Treasure Chest?”

  “Please call me Cara, okay? Yes, my parents owned a restaurant in St. Louis that they named after me. My earliest memories are of helping out in the kitchen. I love to feed people, can you tell?”

  This provoked more laughter because they’d fallen like a hungry hoard on the hors d’oeuvres and pastries I’d prepared. In fact, it had been hard to pry them away from the food table long enough to come and sit down for my presentation.

  “Where did the pictures come from?” asked a young woman in the back, a reporter for the Shoreline News. She hadn’t taken off her vinyl raincoat, a garment printed to look as if it were made of newspapers.

  “If I told you, I’d have to kill you,” I said, in my best imitation of Jimmy Cagney. When the chuckles died down, I added, “Seriously though, we don’t reveal our sources out of respect for the privacy of the individuals involved.”

  “Do you know the names of the people in your pictures?” asked Adrian Green. He’d introduced himself as the editor of the Shoreline News. His English accent made him easy to remember.

  “No,” I said. “They’re all strangers to us. It’s a bit sad, isn’t it? Someone loved these people, took their photos to remember them, and here they are…anonymous.”

  “How did you get the idea to do this, Cara?” asked a woman in the second row.

  We were back on firm footing. “My grandfather is Dick Potter, who owned Dick’s Gas E Bait, the old gas station right behind this building. The spot where they’ll put a new gas station and convenience store. As a kid, my parents brought me to Florida every summer to spend time with Poppy. But I hadn’t been back to the Treasure Coast for almost twenty years when I moved here last summer, so I wasn’t prepared for all the changes. That got me thinking about how much history I’d already missed. One thing led to another, and the Old Florida Photo Gallery was born.”

  “Tell us about your VIP Event,” said a man at the very back.

  “You are getting the sneak preview, but this Friday we’re officially unveiling the Old Florida Photo Gallery at a VIP Event. We’ve already sent out invitations. That said, I’m new in town, and I might have overlooked someone. Therefore, if your readers or viewers or listeners want to come, we’re accepting RSVPs over the phone. We’ll gladly accommodate people as long as we have space.”

  The reporters wrote furiously in their notepads.

  “This is all in your media packets,” I said. “You also have my cell phone number in case you have questions when you’re on deadline.”

  From her spot behind the group, MJ gave me two thumbs up. Our message had been received, loud and clear. With any luck, the media coverage from this evening’s event would encourage a throng of people to visit our store.

  4

  ~Cara~

  "Looks like we've got a success on our hands," MJ said in a soft voice while the reporters filled their plates with food.

  "I sure hope so," I whispered back.

  Her hair was twisted into a sophisticated chignon and she looked fabulous in her hot pink sleeveless dress.

  From across the room, Skye Blue winked at me. She wore a cream colored asymmetrical sweater that picked up the abstract floral print of her gauzy skirt. Brown boots gave the outfit an edgy vibe.

  My style falls somewhere between the two. Since tonight was a special evening, I had changed earlier into a Lily Pulitzer shift trimmed in the Florida designer’s signature sun-soaked colors of lime, coral, lemon yellow, and pink. On my feet were a new pair of high heels in pink patent leather. My shoes were killer, and I would have the blisters tomorrow to attest as much.

  While MJ is an expert saleswoman, Skye is a crafting genius. Give her any old piece of junk and she’ll transform it into an object of desire. She’s absolutely amazing. Both women put the “treasure” in The Treasure Chest. I was lucky to meet them. Luckier still when they agreed to come work with me.

  The Treasure Chest is my "baby." The building was an abandoned tear-down when I bought it on impulse. Since then, I have revitalized the business. Not only did I redecorate the sales space, I also revised the merchandise theme. Whereas The Treasure Chest was once known as an antique store, I’ve broadened our stock to include all sorts of “green” merchandise. If something has been cast-off or broken down or thrown up on the sand, we’ll turn that trash into treasure. We pride ourselves at looking at the world differently, seeing possibilities that other people overlook.

  Judging by the eager questions from our guests, the reporters appreciated our eco-friendly merchandise. A few even said as much.

  “Must run,” said Adrian Green, offering me a handshake of goodbye. “Things to do back at the office. Love the store concept. Glad you didn’t let them tear down this old building. You Yanks are so eager to raze over your history. Not at all like us in the UK.”

  I nodded. “It’s a dilemma, isn’t it? We want to move ahead, but we shouldn’t forget our past.”

  “Right,” he said, thoughtfully. “Your phone number is in the packet? Perhaps we could grab a coffee and chat sometime? I think you’d make a good feature for our paper.”
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br />   “I’d love it,” I said, as a blush crept up my neck.

  “Are you sure you can make time for me in your diary?”

  “Diary?” I repeated, sounding as clueless as I felt.

  He laughed. “I forgot. You people call it your calendar or date book.”

  Was he flirting with me? By golly, he sure was. My cheeks flamed hot. The words were out of my mouth before I had time to censor myself. “I think I could squeeze you in.”

  “Glad to hear it.” Adrian cocked an eyebrow and gave me a quick continental peck on the cheek.

  “I am such a sucker for a man with a British accent,” I said to MJ, as we watched Adrian part the crowd and head for the front door.

  “Sherlock Holmes can move into my place anytime,” said MJ. “I’m sort of a fan of men in general. But Benedict Cumberbatch? Whew. That English reserve of his makes me hot.”

  I giggled and turned my attention back to the crowd.

  By eight o’clock, almost of our guests had picked up their press packets and thanked me for an enjoyable evening.

  Two reporters, a middle-aged woman and the guy in the Tommy Bahama shirt, walked over to me, expressed their appreciation and headed toward the door. As I held it open, a sprinkle of rain blew in my face. “Hang on,” I said. “We keep a big umbrella just for this. Let me walk you to your cars.”

  “Good luck getting rid of Kathy Simmons,” said the man, as he slipped behind the wheel of his car. “She’s the gal in the funky raincoat. She has a tendency to overstay her welcome. You might have to toss her out on her ear.”

  “Thanks for the tip,” I said. “Drive safely.”

  Raindrops came down harder now, in slanted streaks of silver. The glow inside The Treasure Chest was a warm amber and the night was a slate gray. As I picked my way around puddles, I was glad we’d told everyone the evening would end at eight. I didn’t think my feet could take much more.

  But just as Mr. Tommy Bahama had warned me, Kathy Simmons wasn’t in any hurry to leave.

  “Cara, I want to buy that picture,” she said, pointing to a photo in the middle of the wall. “And I want to take it home tonight.”

  Her finger directed me to a black and white of an older man with his arms around two scrawny young boys.

  I wondered, “Did she not hear anything I said?”

  “You are welcome to buy it, but it has to stay up there for thirty days,” I repeated myself.

  “But why can’t you sell a picture now?”

  “I could certainly sell it now, but the picture would have to stay here on the wall until next month,” I repeated patiently.

  “Couldn’t you just replace it?”

  “That’s not the plan,” I said.

  “But you have more pictures in the back. Just exchange one of those for this." Kathy pushed a strand of hair out of her eyes. Her split ends stuck out like miniature bottle brushes.

  "It’s more complicated than you think,” I said, trying not to get annoyed. “To make a harmonious display, we’ve curated a pleasing mix of images. We can’t just throw up anything willy-nilly. Besides, it takes time to mat and frame the pictures.”

  The real reason was much more commercial. My plan was to hold the pictures for thirty days to build interest in these old photos. My father had been a very successful restaurateur. He taught me everything I knew about salesmanship. Dad believed in "selling the sizzle not the steak." That might sound odd, considering that he was a fabulous chef, but his point was valid. Presentation has a definite impact on taste appeal. So does ambience. I'd tried to put his lessons to practical use with our Old Florida Photo Gallery.

  “So you only have one of each picture?” Kathy asked.

  “Yes, each picture is a one-off,” I said.

  “But could you have two pictures that are alike? Do you have any more like that one?”

  “No, we don’t.”

  “My mother has a birthday this weekend. She would love that photo. I have to get it for her,” said Kathy, “and I need it tonight.”

  “That photo is definitely a one-off, and it’s staying right where it is for thirty days,” I said. In an attempt to change the subject, I asked, “Aren’t you on deadline? Doesn’t the Shoreline News come out tomorrow? Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays? When would your story run?”

  “I’m turning in my article tonight. The deadline is eleven, but it shouldn’t take long for me to write it up. Speaking of stories, Cooper Rivers is an old boyfriend of yours, right?"

  A warning shiver ran up my spine. “Years and years ago. Why do you ask?”

  "Is it true that he's engaged to your sister, Jodi? That she started as his secretary?" Kathy's gaze was as intense as my discomfort.

  "As far as I know, he is and she was." I swallowed my emotions and looked away.

  I am still in love with Cooper. It had nearly killed me when he and Jodi had shown up arm-in-arm here in the store during an event. The memory upset me so much that I kept obsessing over it while planning this evening. Ridiculous really, since our guest list was restricted to members of the media. But I kept telling myself that Jodi might show up.

  I wouldn’t put anything past her.

  She was my parents’ love child, the daughter they’d given up for adoption because they were too young to get married. I came along later. After their wedding.

  Although Jodi had known about me for years, I had no idea that I had a sister. But I’d always wanted a sibling—so I was thrilled to learn that I wasn’t an only child!

  But she did not feel the same about me. Not to put too fine a point on it, Jodi hated me. She blamed me for her adoption. And that hurt. A lot.

  “Have you kept up with Cooper’s career?” Kathy asked. “He’s been really successful. His architectural firm is top-notch.”

  “I don’t see what Cooper has to do with this event,” I said.

  "I’m trying to get a sense of who you are and why you came back to Stuart,” she said with quick smile.

  "I came back to Stuart because my grandfather lives here. Dick Potter, who owned Dick's Gas E Bait. Cooper and Jodi have nothing to do with the Old Florida Photo Gallery."

  "Right," she said. “But they’re well-known around town. They’d make great background. I love sharing tidbits that readers might not know. Or that they’ve forgotten. For example, my readers might not remember that you found a dead body here the same day that you bought the building.”

  Okay, the last thing I wanted dredged up was how I’d stumbled over a fresh body and become the prime suspect in a murder investigation. I struggled to stay calm as I said, “I don’t see what any of this has to do with the Old Florida Photo Gallery.”

  “Maybe nothing, or maybe everything,” said Kathy. “Of course, if I could buy that picture I want for my mother, I’d probably forget all about those other topics. The dead guy. Cooper Rivers. Your arrest for attempted murder up in St. Louis.”

  5

  ~Cara~

  My mouth dropped open, and my face flamed hot. “Excuse me? You could not have possibly said what I thought you said.”

  “I think you heard me just fine. Here’s the deal: I can write a nice story about your upcoming event or I can dig into your dirty laundry. Is it really worth the hassle for you to hang onto one picture? Why not sell me what I want, pocket your profit, and let us both go away happy?”

  I was so angry that I literally saw red. A veil of crimson colored my field of vision. My hands itched to reach out and slap Kathy. My voice climbed an octave higher. “You are trying to blackmail me!”

  “Hardly,” she said with a laugh. “I want to buy a photo. You want to sell it. You can sell it now and have my word that my story will be glowing. Or you can wait and take your—”

  “I think I’ll call Adrian Green right this minute and tell him—”

  “Cara?” MJ came up behind me and tapped me on the shoulder.

  “Not now, MJ,” I said through clenched teeth.

  “Cara!” MJ took me by the elbo
w and gently moved me a distance away from Kathy, so we could speak privately. “What are you doing?”

  “That girl is trying to blackmail me into selling her a picture!”

  “So what? Sell her the picture! That what we do. We sell things, remember?”

  “But she’s trying to blackmail me! She brought up Cooper, and the dead body we found here in the store, and my ex-husband!” I said.

  “I repeat: So what? This whole evening is about making friends with the media, Cara. Not creating enemies. Sell her the picture. Who cares if it’s now or later?”

  Giving me a tiny shake, MJ added, “Get a hold of yourself.”

  I took a deep breath. “Okay, okay…you’re right. I’m just tired.”

  “I know you are,” said MJ. “We all are. I’m going to pack up the food. You sell her that picture.”

  MJ turned loose of my shoulders.

  “But she’s being so obnoxious!”

  “Have you ever met a reporter who isn’t obnoxious?” asked MJ. “Quit acting like an idiot.”

  “All right, all right.”

  I squared my shoulders and walked to where Kathy Simmons stood studying our photo display. She tilted her head this way and that, taking them all in.

  Summoning my last ration of energy, I said, “Okay, Kathy, you win. I’ll sell you that picture. Does Skye know which one you want?”

  “I think so. I pointed it out to her earlier.”

  “Don’t worry, Cara. I can easily fill the space,” said Skye. She dragged our ladder over, climbed up, and unhooked the photo. The empty space yawned like a missing tooth.