Lola circled behind her table and started writing prices on little yellow stickers. "Do you see the veritable antique gold mine happening next door," she muttered quietly.
"She does have some nice things," I admitted. "But so do you." I opened the brass latch on the six sided box. The exterior was covered in embossed leather, rich and dark with age. The brass hinges and latch contrasted nicely with the rustic, yet intricately pressed leather. The interior was lined with green velvet and large pieces of tarnished jewelry. I picked up one brooch, a circle of pearls set in dark yellow gold. The center contained a vivid blue stone. "I thought the box was the treasure, but it's filled with all kinds of goodies." I lifted the brooch up and held it out in the sun to see it sparkle. The sparkle never came.
"Those are what we in the antique jewelry world call paste. Pretty worthless, even with the aged patina and vintage design. Your first instinct was right. The box is the treasure. It's an early nineteenth-century jewelry box that my mom found in Spain. It's been sitting in the shop for two years. People look at it. And even though I'm selling it with the custom jewelry, there just doesn't seem to be a big demand for leather jewelry boxes."
I rubbed my fingers over the geometric designs etched into the leather. "That's a shame. It's interesting that the previous owner purchased a jewelry box that took a great deal of skill and time to make and then filled it with as you say 'paste'."
"No, it's not that unusual. Even back then, people didn't leave their good stuff in the jewelry box. Too obvious for a thief. They kept valuable jewels hidden in unexpected places, like humidors on a bookshelf or even in the children's nursery, in toys or dolls." Lola lifted the box to show me the bottom and pointed out a tiny black latch. "Here's another trick." She pulled open the latch and a small trap door opened, reminding me of the battery compartment on a television remote. Only this compartment held a brass skeleton key. "A lot of old trunks and boxes have secret keys."
"See, add little stories like that to your antiques and people will walk right past Fiona's display."
"I suppose I could add little note cards on some of the more interesting items."
There was an empty fold out table next to Lola's. "Why don't you spread your things out too," I suggested. "You've still got all this space."
"No, that is Elsie's table. She asked me to save her a spot. She sells her cupcakes at the flea market."
"Yes, she mentioned that to me. I just hope she can manage with a sore back."
"Guess it's good she's so tough."
Chuck somehow managed to make loud foot stomps on the grass. His arrival startled the puppy out of his nap, but instead of jumping up to greet the new person, the dog stayed under the table. Animals were always excellent judges of human character. It seemed Briggs' puppy was no exception.
"Hey, Lo-lo," Chuck crooned. "I'm going to head out. Troy and Ben are heading over to Chesterton for some burgers. And I'm bored of moving all this old, dusty junk around."
"That's fine," Lola said with forced politeness. "I wouldn't mind if you brought me back a burger. I'm going to be stuck here all day setting up."
"Yeah, I would." He rubbed his square jaw. "But I'm not making a special trip back here just to bring you a burger. I'll call you later." He walked away, leaving behind a strained quiet between Lola and me.
A few more seconds of silence passed before Lola broke it. "I know what you're thinking, but he did help me move a lot of stuff out here."
"I wasn't thinking anything." I added an innocent head shake. "Nah, that's not true. I was thinking all kinds of things, but I know you don't want to hear any of it so I'll keep it locked up." I used the skeleton key on my lips and then handed it back to her.
"You're right. I don't want to hear it so just keep that key turned tight."
"Yep. Sealed lips. I've got to get back to the shop. Let me know if you need any help. Or I could send my extremely chivalrous, polite and handsome shop assistant. I know he would love to lend a hand."
"You're sure interested in my love life considering you and Detective Heartbreak over there fidget around each other like two lovesick penguins just waiting for the other to make the first move. Now run along. I've got note cards to write." Lola waved me on, not giving me a chance to respond. Not that I had a response.
Briggs finished his conversation with Mayor Price. The mayor of my town refused to even glance my direction, which was more than fine by me. It was a nice, beautiful morning, and I didn't need his dark scowl to cast shade on it.
When the puppy caught sight of Briggs, he bounded toward him, nearly knocking him off his feet with a big, wet hello as if they'd been separated by oceans and years instead of yards and minutes.
Briggs tried not to return the exuberance but in the end broke down and gave the dog a hearty rub and hug. He caught me admiring the moment of affection and straightened abruptly. He shot me one of those 'don't even say it' looks. It seemed none of my friends wanted to hear my opinions or thoughts this morning, so I would keep them to myself. In the end, I was sure everything would turn out just as it should . . . and just as I predicted.
Chapter 5
After seeing Marty Tate add cheer to his garden with colorful, velvety stocks of snapdragons, I decided my front yard could use a dose of cheer too. Since the spring equinox had brought our fair little town closer to the sun, it meant longer hours of light. The warm spring day had stretched into a lazy, cool spring evening with the bonus of a few extra hours of daylight. It was the perfect time to fill my garden with color.
Ryder and I had brainstormed some ideas while we cleaned up for the day. In the end, I'd decided on purple asters, which were demure and understated and the perfect partner for ostentatious, showy pink cosmos. And not to overwhelm the eye with hot colors, I purchased a flat of papery white sweet alyssum. They would add a layer of peace and serenity to the flowery montage.
Kingston's talons click-clacked along the roof shingles as he watched me from above. For Nevermore, kneeling down anywhere was an invitation for the cat to curl up around my feet. He occasionally took the time to bat at my heels or the hem of my shirt with his paw. Couch potato that he was, that was Nevermore's idea of play.
I slipped an aster plant out of its plastic pot, ran my trowel edge through its bound roots to loosen them and lowered the purple cluster into its new home in my front garden. Heavy dog breathing temporarily pulled Nevermore up to his feet, but the cat dropped back to its haunches when he realized it was only Dash's dog, Captain. Captain sat next to me and stared with interest into the holes I'd dug for the flowers.
"He's probably hidden a few bones in your garden," Dash said from behind.
I twisted around and used the side of my hand to shade my eyes from the deep orange setting sun. Most of Dash's features were blotted out by the bright light, but his tall, impressive physique made for a nice silhouette against the dusky sky.
"I figured he was more interested in long lost rawhides than in my transplanting technique."
Realizing the setting sun was too harsh for me to stare up at him, Dash circled around and sat himself on the bottom step of my porch. Nevermore decided the porch steps looked more comfortable than my feet and joined Dash. The cat circled between his legs and rubbed his head against the rough fabric of Dash's jeans.
We were still months from summer, but Dash's blond hair was streaked with pale yellow and his skin was already a rich brown tan, two delightful consequences from his job fixing boats in the marina. His skin tone made his green eyes stand out like vibrant jewels.
I scooted my rubber knee pad over to the next set of holes and pulled the flat of sweet alyssum closer.
"I suppose I should plant some flowers in front of my house now that the porch is finished. It's just I have so many other things to do in that wreck of a house, taking time to spruce up the garden seems sort of silly." Dash was one of those rare men who was perpetually positive and happy. But his mood seemed to be off this evening.
"Everything al
l right?" I asked. "Or is that house just getting to you? It is a lot of work, and with a full-time job on the boats, I imagine you don't have much free time these days."
"Yeah, it's the house and the lack of free time." He sighed, a sound I rarely heard from him. "I noticed you had some spare time today."
I sat back and looked up at him, not sure where he was heading with his comment.
Dash reached down and pretended to be busy scratching Nevermore's ears.
I jammed my trowel into the dirt and picked up a plant. "I did have a very nice walk down to the lighthouse this morning, if that's what you're referring to." I couldn't help but answer with a touch of snip. It was a natural response to his somewhat judgmental tone.
"I didn't mean anything by it, Lacey. It's just I saw you with Briggs, and I guess I was feeling a little jealous. You guys looked as if you were having a good time. And what's with the big dog? Don't tell me Briggs finally grew a human heart and got himself a dog."
I dropped the alyssum into the hole and sat back to give him a stern look.
He lifted his hands in surrender. "Sorry, that's two for two. I probably should have stayed at home with my sour mood. I think I just had too much sun today."
"So now you're blaming the beautiful weather for your grumpiness?"
"I guess so." He stood up from the porch.
I pulled off my gardening gloves. "It's all right, Dash. Everyone lands in a bad mood. I'm just not used to seeing you in one. I'm sure being out on the water in the hot sun all day would wear down anyone's mood."
"Thanks for being understanding. And I promise, next time I'll stay in my wreck of a house and growl at the peeling plaster and warped floor boards instead of you." As he spoke, a convertible Mustang filled with high school kids zipped up Myrtle Place to the Hawksworth Manor. "How are you doing with solving the Hawksworth murder mystery?" The new topic had erased some of his frown. And mine.
"I haven't had much time lately, but after my last visit to the library, I'm convinced that the murders had something to do with the Hawksworth shipyard."
"You mean the shipyard that never happened?"
"Yes. And it never happened because Mayor Price, Harvard, not Harlan, squashed the whole idea in court. It had to be devastating for Hawksworth. I have no idea how the events are connected, but I'm working on it."
His smile had returned. It was extra white in his suntanned face. "I'm sure you'll figure it out. You seem to have a knack for finding killers." The last turn in topic inadvertently took us back to my friendship with Briggs.
I worked up a few seconds of courage to question him before he walked away. I figured Dash was far more likely to talk than Briggs, who was always more reserved.
"I met Ms. Dean, your high school art teacher, on the walk."
Dash scrubbed his hair back with his fingers. "Yeah, I ran into her on the pier."
"She mentioned that you and James were friends in high school."
A small muscle flexed in his cheek, reminding me of Briggs whenever Dash's name was brought up. He nodded without looking directly at me.
"Exactly what happened between you two?" The question shot out before I could stop it.
Dash paused and seemed to be considering his answer. A thread of adrenaline pumped through me as it seemed I was finally going to have the mystery solved. Then his answer came, and it couldn't have been more cryptic.
"Let's just say there were some mistakes and some misunderstandings and a good deal of regret."
"I see. That tells me absolutely nothing, but like I've told James and now you, I enjoy your company and I enjoy his company. So whatever happened between you, it has nothing to do with me."
"Good point. And I'm glad you enjoy my company because I enjoy yours." He patted Captain's head to push him along. "I'll see you later, Lacey."
"Have a good night, Dash. And don't give those warped floor boards too hard of a time."
Chapter 6
"How does she keep this place so spotless?" I asked Lola as we walked into Franki's Diner. The chrome counters were polished to a blinding gleam and the red vinyl seats were so shiny they looked wet. And all the while, dozens of plates of corn beef hash, gooey cheese omelets and syrup coated pancake towers were being pushed through the cook's window and carried out to the diners. Lola and I stepped into the line waiting for the next table.
Lola rubbed her stomach. "Darn, there's a wait. I knew I should have had a pre-breakfast breakfast this morning."
I looked at the old fashioned analog clock on the wall. "It's six in the morning. What time is pre-breakfast?"
"The second I get up. I'm always hungry as a bear in the morning. Especially after moving antiques the day before."
Franki swirled past her anxious, hungry line of customers and handed each of us a small paper plate with a fresh sample of coffee cake. "While you're waiting. It's my new recipe." She stopped and pushed her piled high bee-hive, the hairdo she wore for the diner, back off her forehead. "Just a warning for those of you with lactose intolerance, it contains both sour cream and cream cheese." With that announcement, she dashed off toward the dining room.
Lola pushed her coffee cake sample into her mouth. "Hmm, now I want more. That was just a tease."
I was still marveling at the woman. Franki was raising four teenagers on her own while running an incredibly successful business. And she still found time to treat waiting diners to a special cake sample. "If there were a contest for Port Danby Super Woman, I think it would be a toss-up between Elsie and Franki. They both have popular food businesses that need a revolving door just to keep up with the flow of traffic, yet their floors, kitchens and counters are spotless. If I make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, I practically have to drag the garden hose inside to rinse off the kitchen counter."
Lola hadn't heard a word I said. She was busy staring at my sample. "Are you going to eat that?"
I could have been a good, generous friend and handed her the sample, but it smelled delicious, like a sugary confection of cinnamon and love. And Franki had mentioned something about sour cream and cream cheese. Two of my favorite forms of cream. I picked it up and pushed it into my mouth. "Ye—p," I stuttered over the bite of cake. "What time do you have to open up the booth at the flea market?"
"There is no set time. You can set your own hours, but I'm heading straight over after I eat." She stretched up to get a glance into the dining room and grunted as she dropped back to her feet. "Everyone is just taking their sweet time eating this morning."
"You really are hungry." I was feeling a twinge of guilt for not handing over my cake sample. Then again, it was delicious and probably worth the loss of good karma points.
"I didn't have dinner last night. Chuck was going to pick me up and take me to dinner but . . ." She stopped, seemingly deciding not to tell me how the story ended. She knew she didn't need to provide me with any more reason to dislike the man.
"I'm going to assume that you didn't eat because you didn't go to dinner because Chuck never showed up."
"Assume what you want." Lola lifted her chin and looked away. "I think I'm going to get the French toast with a side of bacon."
"He's not worth it, Lola. You'll see that soon enough." Sometimes it was just too hard to hold my tongue, a trait, or perhaps weakness, I'd obviously inherited from my mother.
Lola swung around to respond but was cut short by the restaurant door opening behind us. "You just don't know him like I do," she blurted and turned back toward the dining room.
"Hey, boss." Ryder forced a smile as he looked past me at Lola, who was busy pretending not to see him. The pretty artist, Denise, was with him, which may or may not have been the reason for Lola's rude behavior. Two more of the artists were with them.
"Everyone, this is the wonderful flower shop owner I was telling you about. Lacey, this is my friend from high school, Denise."
Ryder moved on with his introductions to a thirty something woman with baby fine blonde hair and skin so fair it
was almost transparent. I'd taken special note of the woman the day before, not so much for her fairness but because her canvas showed she was an extraordinary artist. "This is her artist friend, Scarlett," Ryder continued. The tips of her long, white fingers were stained with color.
"Letty, actually. That's what most people call me."
Ryder nodded. "Right. Letty. I forgot."
As the nickname was being discussed, the fourth member of their party, a forty something woman, looked irritated by it all. She seemed agitated as if she'd had too much coffee, but something told me it had more to do with Letty and her cute nickname. She stuck her hand out. "Hello, Greta Bailey, I understand you have hyperosmia. Very interesting. I suppose that makes you sort of like a human version of a bloodhound."
I sucked in a breath. "Uh, yes, I hadn't really thought of myself that way, but I guess I can see the analogy."
Sweet little Denise gave me an apologetic head tilt. I winked back to assure her I wasn't upset. She moved closer. "Ryder thinks you are a wonderful boss. He loves working at the shop."
"I'm lucky to have him," I grinned up at Ryder, but his attention had been diverted to my rude breakfast mate.
"Hey, Lola, thought you'd be out selling antiques already," Ryder said cheerily.
"Can't very well stand out there all day if I haven't eaten," Lola answered back coldly.
I knew Ryder was hurt by her response, but he was always smooth. He brushed it off and went right back to a conversation with his artist friends. I joined in their chat, deciding Lola needed a cooling off period. Or maybe I needed it. Either way, I wasn't in the mood to talk to her after her needlessly curt response to Ryder.
Tulips and Trouble Page 3
