by Morgan Brice
Meg laughed. “No, although for as much business as I did with Robert, he probably should have been. I’m actually on an extended vacation, but my nephew who’s taking over the business will bring it by. I had expected to just give Robert a heads-up. I do hope you can help us.”
“Happy to give it my best shot,” Erik said.
“Good. I’ll let him know. I hope you two get along as well as Robert and I always did. Thank you—and welcome to Cape May!”
Six
Ben
Ben told himself that he didn’t have time to take the clock to an antique shop. He thought about sending Sean, but his cousin seemed like an unlikely messenger. There were so many details Ben still needed to handle before Sean went back to Wildwood and left him on his own. And while his cousin would only be a phone call away, Ben wanted to show he could handle the job. He didn’t want to let Aunt Meg down.
Even if it was only for the summer.
He paused at the door. Trinkets had been a fixture in Cape May for decades. It sat on a tree-shaded street in an old Victorian house, not in the relatively new shopping district. Ben had a half-forgotten memory of riding bikes with Sean during one of his summers here and catching a glimpse of an old man opening up the store. But if the owner only just retired, then either he was immortal, or Ben’s teenage self had badly misjudged his age.
Ben glanced at the clock in the box he held. He had no idea how to explain how he found it since the truth sounded ridiculous. Only the knowledge that Aunt Meg had already called the new owner and told him to expect Ben kept him from turning around and going back.
What the hell? Won’t be the first time I looked like a fool. Probably not the last time, either.
Ben hesitated at the door. Should he knock? Ring the bell? Then he remembered that the house was really a shop, and he pushed the door open and walked in. His cop instincts worried when no one was in sight. Were people really trusting enough to walk away from the register and leave the door unlocked?
“Hello? Anyone here?”
“Sorry, I just stepped away—”
Oh, shit. The harried blond man who came around the corner from the back room stopped in his tracks, with a deer in the headlights expression that probably mirrored Ben’s.
Ben suddenly found himself tongue-tied, like he was fifteen again and trying to muster the nerve to talk to his first crush. “Oh. Hi. I’m Ben Nolan. We met—”
“Yeah,” the blond cut him off. “I remember. I’m Erik Mitchell, the new owner.”
The comments Erik had made at The Spike that night fell into place. “So—you took over for the old man?” Ben didn’t mean the comment to come out quite the way it did. Erik’s expression of disapproval was there and gone, but watching people closely had kept Ben alive for years as a cop, and old habits died hard.
“Robert. Never met him, actually,” Erik said, his tone all business. “Did everything long-distance. Still getting things sorted out.”
Jesus, Erik was even more attractive here in his element than he’d been at the bar. He wore a faded T-shirt and a ripped pair of jeans more suited to cleaning out the storage room than greeting customers, but then again, that’s probably what Ben had interrupted. Erik’s blond hair was mussed, he had a day’s reddish scruff, and whatever he’d been doing must have been physical enough to raise a sweat, because a slight sheen glistened on his forehead. He was exactly the height Ben had guessed at the bar, and while Erik had a slighter build, the damp T-shirt and short sleeves revealed defined pecs and strong arms.
Say something. Ben realized he was staring. More to the point, Erik was staring back. “Um…I understand. I’m new here myself.” He wanted to kick himself immediately, realizing he’d already said that at the bar. “I mean—”
“Your aunt said she worked with Robert quite a bit. I got the impression you’re taking over for her?”
“Maybe. I mean, I’m here for at least the summer. We’ll see how it goes.”
Another fleeting expression crossed Erik’s face, and Ben had the feeling he’d once again said the wrong thing.
“What can I do for you?” Erik’s tone sounded a little stilted. Almost…hurt. That didn’t make any sense. Erik had been at The Spike waiting for a hookup. He had no reason to care if Ben stuck around town. Did he?
Ben realized that Erik was watching him, and the gaze made Ben feel exposed. Or rather, made him wish he was exposed, because the intensity of that stare made his cock twitch and gave him all kinds of ideas that were definitely not suitable for work.
“Oh yeah. The clock.” Smooth, Ben’s inner voice chided.
“What clock?” Erik’s whole manner changed. His gaze was suddenly wary, and his body tensed.
Ben set the box on the counter. “I was doing a walk-through of one of our properties and had an accident—broke through the top of an old window seat that had been nailed shut years ago. And found…this.”
Ben lifted the clock out of the box. Erik caught his breath. When Ben looked up, Erik seemed a little spooked.
“You found this in a window seat?” Erik looked suspicious and intrigued.
“Aunt Meg just bought the house recently. Before that it had been owned by the same family, although it was used as a boarding house long ago.”
Ben had the feeling he’d become invisible, and that Erik hadn’t heard a word he said. The blond man took the clock out of Ben’s hands, then seemed to repress a shudder. For just an instant, Ben thought he saw fear in the man’s blue eyes.
“Was there anything else with the clock?” Erik asked, turning it one way and another and peering closely at the workmanship.
“No,” Ben replied. He had an unreasonable stab of jealousy at the intensity in Erik’s gaze as he stared at the clock. Especially since he seemed to have been almost forgotten.
On the other hand, he was at the perfect vantage point to appreciate how the slim fit of the man’s jeans clung to slender, muscular thighs and a tight, rounded ass. Did he top or bottom? Would he switch it up? Too late, Ben realized his cock had been paying full attention, and he needed to shift to relieve the pressure.
“No,” Ben repeated, fighting to keep his mind on the topic instead of on Erik’s perfect ass. “There was a lot of dust. I can’t imagine why someone would hide a clock like that. Is it valuable?”
Erik looked up. “Actually, it’s a fake. Old enough to be considered an antique, but not an original Ingraham. But it might have been part of something bigger. Maybe insurance fraud. Maybe…murder.”
“Murder?” Ben cursed himself. He might not be as smooth as Sean, but he usually wasn’t completely inarticulate.
“Do you know anything about the Commodore Wilson Hotel?” Erik’s blue eyes were focused on Ben now, taking his measure. Ben made himself meet that gaze and felt the tension of their showdown. Erik looked away first, but somehow Ben felt like he’d lost instead of won.
“The big old place they tore down like twenty years ago? Do you think the clock came from there?” Ben had to remind himself that he wasn’t a cop anymore. Fraud and murder weren’t his problem—especially if they happened before he was born.
On the other hand, he was still a licensed investigator. And he couldn’t resist the pull of a good mystery.
“Yeah. I was just over at the Arts Center. They’re doing a retrospective, and I saw the clock that should have been the twin of this one.” Erik dug out his phone and pulled up a photo. He handed it to Ben, who saw two identical clocks on a mantle, with a guy who looked like an extra out of The Godfather standing in front.
“They have another clock just like this one?”
Erik shook his head. “They have an authentic Ingraham. This is a fake. The gold leaf isn’t as thick, the numbering on the face of the clock is sloppy, the lion heads on the side are all wrong, and the box itself isn’t the same kind of wood.”
“Go back to what you said about fraud and murder.”
Erik shrugged. “Just a hunch on the fraud. The second clock
went missing. It’s not uncommon for collectors who get strapped for cash to sell a valuable item, try to report it stolen, and then double-dip with the insurance payout.”
Ben tried and failed to keep from going into cop mode. “And you know this, how?”
Erik must have picked up on the shift in tone, giving Ben a weird glance in return. “Because my job, for fifteen years, was dealing with fraud, theft, and forgeries. There’s more of that stuff than you’d think.”
Ben snorted in reply but didn’t say anything. Actually, you’d be surprised at what I think.
“If the switcheroo happened, it was before we were born. I don’t imagine there’s anyone around to arrest. Where does murder come in?”
“The guy in the photo I showed you. Cafaro. He bought the Commodore Wilson when it went through one of its many bankruptcies. Then a car bomb killed him. Probably the Mob. It was the fifties.”
“How is the clock involved? It’s just background for the picture.”
A strange look crossed Erik’s face as if he had a brief, silent debate with himself. He froze, staring over Ben’s shoulder, then roused himself from his daydream. Ben couldn’t help glancing in that direction but saw nothing. He’s holding back, Ben thought.
“Call it a hunch,” Erik replied. “An educated guess.” His eyes and his tone confirmed Ben’s suspicion that Erik wasn’t saying everything he knew.
“So what happens now?” Ben asked, because despite the conflicting signals Erik threw off, Ben found himself still very attracted to the man. And from the way Erik stood just a little too close, held his gaze a few seconds longer than necessary, and let his fingers lightly brush against Ben’s hand, Ben was willing to bet that the blond felt that pull, too.
“Probably nothing official,” Erik admitted. “As you say, too much time has passed, and most of the people involved would be dead by now. But I’ve got some resources from my old job I can use to see if a claim was ever filed and if so, what came of it. Maybe there’ll be a connection to Cafaro to back up my hunch,” he added as if he could read Ben’s skepticism.
This could be the excuse to get to know Erik better, Ben thought. He rubbed the back of his neck, then dove in. “I might be able to help.” At Erik’s raised eyebrow, Ben found himself defensive. “I used to be a cop. Still have my private investigator’s license. So if there’s anything out there on Cafaro—cold case file, that sort of thing, I might be able to get to it.”
“Why?”
Ben flashed what he hoped was a disarming smile. “Sounds exciting. The rental business is a little slower pace than what I’m used to.”
If Erik was curious about what led Ben to make the change, he didn’t press. “Sure. Can’t hurt to play a little Jessica Fletcher.”
“Speak for yourself. I’m much more the Magnum type.”
That won Ben a genuine smile, which softened Erik’s features and seemed to make him relax.
“So, did your friend show up the other night at The Spike?” Ben thought he knew the answer, but if Erik’s date actually had turned into something, it would be good to know that now.
Erik’s smile faded. “Ah…yes. But not really a friend—more of an unpleasant acquaintance.” He shrugged like it didn’t matter. “But it looked like you and your boyfriend were having a good time.”
Ben’s eyes widened. Boyfriend? Then he remembered walking back to Sean and his Wildwood friends, and how Sean had slung an arm around his shoulders. Ben hadn’t thought anything of the gesture—it was just the way Sean was, especially after a few beers.
“Um, not my boyfriend,” Ben managed. “Sean’s my cousin. Came down from Wildwood to help me move. Give him some alcohol, and he’s everyone’s best friend. Hell, you’re just lucky he didn’t start singing along with the band.”
The look in Erik’s eyes told Ben the other man had registered that intel loud and clear. Ben decided to plunge ahead before he could second guess himself. “So, you have plans for dinner? My aunt says there’s a good Greek place a few blocks down. Diner style—good food, great price. We could talk about the case. I mean, the clock.”
Erik hesitated, and Ben found he was holding his breath. He didn’t know why Erik’s reaction mattered so much to him—he barely knew the man—but there was definitely a spark between them, and Ben wanted to see where it would take them. At least until the summer ended.
“Sure,” Erik said, with a friendly smile that didn’t completely reach his eyes. “Sounds great. We’re not really open to the public yet, so I can go whenever.”
“How about if I pick you up here at seven?” Ben asked.
Erik nodded. “I’ll see you then. And maybe I’ll have more info about the clock by that time.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Seven
Erik
Erik wasn’t sure what surprised him more—having the missing clock show up just hours after his meeting with Jaxon or having the hot guy from the bar be the one to bring it to him.
Just his luck to get both a flash of insight from the clock and a sighting of its dead owner right in front of the man who’d been starring in his dreams for the past few nights and in his shower-time fantasies by day. He could still kick himself for picking the clock up without gloves. Something he would never have done if he wasn’t so distracted by the guy.
Still, his weirdness hadn’t stopped Ben from asking him out to dinner. Was it a date? Erik felt certain Ben sensed the attraction between them. But he’d said something about only being in town for the summer. So maybe he was just looking for a fling.
Still, Erik could do worse to get back into the dating game. If anything happened between the two of them, the relationship came with an expiration date. No pressure, no expectations. That should have made Erik feel relieved, but oddly, it stung. Lighten up, he warned himself. Sometimes dinner is just a meal. He might really be more interested in the clock.
Though from the surreptitious glances Ben had been sneaking, Erik figured the other man was interested in more than the antique. After all, Ben had brought up the situation at the bar, which had to have been a way to see if Erik was available. And Erik had to admit he was relieved to find out Ben didn’t have a boyfriend. Still, he refused to read too much into their dinner tonight. But his imagination suggested plenty of ways they could finish off the night other than dessert.
Erik locked the front door and made sure the sign read “Closed.” Then he grabbed a pair of cotton gloves to avoid handling the clock here in the main shop and carried it gingerly into the back room. The box of memorabilia took up his whole desk, so Erik took the clock to the small kitchenette.
The little room held a mini fridge, hot plate, coffee maker, and sink, as well as having room for a small table and a couple of chairs. Erik set the clock down and went to retrieve a set of jewelers’ tools from behind the counter.
Before he tried taking the clock apart, he wanted to get another read on it with his Second Sight, in private. He tugged the gloves off, steeled himself, and laid both hands palm-down on the rectangular box.
He saw an ornate foyer, with marble columns, a parquet floor, and domed skylights. The images came from the clock’s point of view, not any person or owner, so Erik couldn’t pick up emotions or conversation. He had the impression it was nighttime since the huge room was empty. Hands lifted the clock, and then everything went dark.
Erik gasped for breath as if he were coming up for air after a deep dive. The temperature in the break room had plummeted, and Erik shivered. The antique in his hands was no longer a window into a long-ago time and place. But standing between the table and the small counter was the ghost of the man from the photo, Vincente Cafaro.
Cafaro resembled his photograph. Average height, balding, and the kind of paunch that came with too much fine living. The deadness in his deep-set eyes had been there before a bomb blew him sky high, and Erik felt sure Cafaro had been a man with no compunctions about breaking the law or getting rid of anyone in his way. Except that, some
one had gotten rid of him, first.
Erik figured out years ago that he saw ghosts in more detail than many of the others who were sensitive to spirits. He couldn’t summon them or dispel them—at least, he’d never tried—and he couldn’t hear them speak, although Erik thought the ghosts might be able to hear him talk to them. He knew he didn’t have the same level of talent that his friend Simon did.
Some of the spirits were just repeaters, a faded memory strong enough to make itself seen, but lacking awareness. But others, like the dead mobster standing in front of him, seemed to cross the Veil with their sense of self intact. And right now, Vincente Cafaro fixed Erik with a gaze that chilled him to his core. He didn’t have to hear the ghost to get the message. Cafaro wanted Erik to find his killer—or else.
The fact that sixty years had passed probably wouldn’t work for an excuse.
“I’ll give it my best shot,” Erik said. “But you’ve been dead for a long time. The trail is cold.” Cafaro’s expression spoke eloquently, letting him know that failure wasn’t acceptable. Then the image shifted, from showing Cafaro as he appeared in the photo to the charred and shattered corpse he’d become. The ghost blurred, then winked out, leaving Erik alone with the clock.
“That was fun,” Erik muttered under his breath. He eyed the clock warily. It probably wouldn’t run anymore, but he couldn’t check since the key apparently hadn’t been hidden with it. That would make sense if someone had stolen it, since the key was probably entrusted to a hotel worker who minded all the clocks.
Up close, the forgery wasn’t hard to spot. In good light and under a magnifying glass, the problems were glaring. Erik frowned, thinking. Maybe the clock had never been meant to pass muster under expert scrutiny. Maybe it just needed to be seen in the background long enough after the original was sold to increase the chances of getting away with the switch.
