Going Through the Notions (A Deadly Notions Mystery)

by Price, Cate

  “Why do old ladies always cut their hair so short, Mom?” she asked as she played with my long dark brown locks.

  I smiled at her. “I don’t know, Sarah.”

  “Promise me you’ll never cut yours?”

  “Well, I’ll have to cut it sometime,” I teased.

  Even today I kept it shoulder length, but now I had to dye it to achieve that rich chestnut color. Coloring my hair every month was such a production. It was something, like my period, that I wouldn’t mind not having to go through anymore. One of these days I’d let it go all gray. But not this week.

  I sighed. Damn it, when was I going to find the time to do my hair?

  “You have a lot of clients in this database.”

  Sarah’s comment broke my reverie.

  I straightened up. “Yes, the store has really hit its stride. And with interest in crafts on the upswing, it should turn a nice profit again this year.”

  “You seem to have lots of friends in this town, too. Are you happy here, Mom?”

  “Yes, I am,” I said carefully, camera hanging down, not quite sure where she was going with this.

  “That’s good.”

  I wanted to broach the subject of how to make Sarah happy, too. I opened my mouth, but before I could find the right words, the doorbell rang and our token male on the street, Chris Paxson from the bicycle shop, walked in.

  After I introduced him to Sarah, I apologized for the state of the MALE box. It was sadly depleted from Martha’s shift the day before.

  “Actually I’m looking for a gift for my mother,” he said.

  Sarah hopped down from her stool. “Here, I’ll show you around.”

  Chris followed her, transfixed. I think he’d have bought the phone book if she’d shown it to him. I was poised, ready to step in, but as I listened, it sounded like she was doing fine. Maybe she’d absorbed more knowledge about the store than she’d realized.

  I peeked at the computer screen. The flyer was perfect. A collage of the photos of children’s accessories for sale, superimposed over a watermarked photo of the store, featuring a Raggedy Ann in a rocking chair, who seemed to welcome guests in. The font she’d selected was an antique child’s picture book style, but still easy to read. I shook my head at her innate creativity. I’d have wrestled with this all afternoon.

  I looked out of the store’s front display windows to see Martha trying to parallel park. She drove a white 1977 Lincoln Continental that was about half a city block long. The backseat with its opera lights in the corners was so expansive you could stretch your legs all the way straight out, and then some. I’d ridden in it once, but only once. That was enough.

  The unfortunate neighbor who lived opposite her house had a mailbox that had started off normal size but, after the number of times Martha had backed straight out of her driveway and plowed it down, was now about two feet off the ground after numerous replantings. The mailman was threatening not to deliver mail to it anymore.

  After several tries Martha finally left the car angled halfway up on the sidewalk.

  Chris chose the inlaid rosewood sewing box, which would have been my first choice anyway. It really was a beautiful piece. I added a packet of vintage needles and a silver thimble as a treat. He chatted with Sarah while I rang up the purchase and put it into one of my signature shopping bags with its peacock blue grosgrain drawstring.

  “Nice parking job,” I called out as the door crashed open and a wild-eyed Martha strode in.

  “Good God, that doll gives me a funny turn every time I come in, it’s like a steam bath out there, where the hell were you this morning, did you get the scones?” She sucked in a long shuddering breath.

  “Yes, thank you,” I said meekly.

  “Can you believe this horrendous humidity? I hope it improves by the weekend. That auction house isn’t air-conditioned, you know. Just a few stupid ceiling fans.”

  Martha glared at the three of us. “I’m telling you right now, that poky little snack bar will be hotter than the inside of a pizza oven. I’ll be sweating like a hooker in church.”

  Chris Paxson, intelligent male that he was, quickly said his farewells, and with one last longing look at Sarah, he left.

  “Martha, forget about the heat for a second,” I pleaded. “I have news.”

  I explained my brilliant theory about the oil change and the truck, and going to see the detective. “And the worst thing is, are you ready for this, the guy that Angus beat up was Ramsbottom’s father.”

  “No!” Sarah and Martha exclaimed in unison.

  “Angus is screwed, then.” Martha lifted her heavy mane of red hair and stood in front of the vent blowing cold air, moaning in relief.

  “This is a family store, thank you very much. Watch the language.” Eleanor appeared as if by magic.

  I poured Eleanor a cup of coffee. “Apparently Ramsbottom Senior hit his wife across the face when they were coming out of the movies one night. Angus saw that and just lost it. The guy was never quite right afterwards, and had a terrible accident with a combine harvester a few years later. And while it might not be fair, I think Ramsbottom blames Angus for his father’s eventual death, too.”

  Eleanor gracefully accepted the cup with her long slender fingers. She could drink coffee all day long and sleep like a baby. “Wonder if the father beat Junior as well?”

  I stared at her. “You know, I didn’t think about that, but I should have. When I was teaching, I’d suspect some students had abusive parents. I’d want to help, but the odd thing was, if the police ever got involved, the kids were ready to defend the parents to the end.”

  “Like a weird sort of Stockholm syndrome thing?”

  “I guess so.”

  The door bell jangled and Cyril Mackey marched into the store.

  Chapter Seven

  We stood there, frozen in place, as he came up to us.

  “I brought tha plate back,” he announced, thrusting it at me.

  “Um, thank you.” It was actually Martha’s plate, but I wasn’t about to correct him.

  “Them treats were champion,” Cyril growled, turning to her.

  Martha simply nodded, hands still raised above her head holding her hair, her cheeks flushed. She had always been outspoken, and now with Teddy gone, she usually said whatever she damn well felt like saying, but this was the first time I had ever seen her rendered speechless.

  “Ay, up.” Cyril observed her with interest for a few moments, and then looked around, sizing up the store. “Freezing in here.”

  With the body-hugging Lycra wrap top Martha was wearing, it was easy to see what he was getting at.

  Silence reigned as we all struggled to form a sentence.

  He focused on me again. “How’s Angus, then?”

  “He’s okay. I visited him this morning.” I cleared my throat with an effort. “Um—we’re going to help Betty with the auction this weekend.”

  Cyril nodded. “Just as well. That old biddy couldn’t organize a piss-up in a brewery.”

  “Good God, man, there are ladies present!” Martha exploded, finally finding her voice, hands collapsing to her sides, and her hair falling down in red waves.

  I fought the urge to close my eyes, but Cyril merely put up a hand as if to calm a skittish mare. “Now then, simmer down, lass.”

  Martha looked like an apoplectic goldfish as she opened and closed her mouth.

  Cyril shrugged. “Thought you women would be nattering on in here. Always heard it were like a party or summat, but nowt much happening, far as I can see.”

  I hurriedly wrapped some of the shortbread in aluminum foil and pressed it into his hands.

  “Much obliged.” He tipped his cap at us. “Afternoon, ladies.” And with that, he was gone.

  There was another minute of shocked silence until Martha spoke.

  “Good God. Who does that man think he is anyway?”

  She turned on me. “And why the hell did you have to give him more treats? It’s like feedi
ng a stray cat. You know it’ll be back for more.”

  I handed her the clean plate. “I don’t know. I couldn’t think of anything else to do at the time.”

  “I think he fancies you,” Eleanor said to Martha.

  Sarah burst out laughing, and after a moment, I joined in.

  Martha slammed the plate down so hard it was a miracle it didn’t break. “Don’t mess with me today, woman. It’s too stinking hot. If I wasn’t so old, I’d think I was having hot flashes.”

  She twirled her hair up into a thick knot, grabbed a jade hairpin from a glass jar, and stabbed the whole mass with it. “Maybe I have a brain tumor or something. That’s one of the symptoms, you know.”

  “Too much self-diagnosis on the Internet is dangerous to your health.” Eleanor drained her coffee cup.

  I brought over the pot for a refill and grinned at Sarah. If laughter was good for the heart, I should live to about a hundred and fifty after spending time with these two.

  Business in the store picked up after Eleanor and Martha left, and I was busy for the rest of the afternoon.

  “Tell Daddy I’ll be late,” I said to Sarah as she headed home around four o’clock. “You guys go ahead and eat dinner without me. I’m going to help Betty after work.”

  *

  “All down the twisting River Road, houses in a gamut of styles rose up along one side with stone walls appearing to catch them from sliding right down into the water. Some were cottages cramped together, with tiny front doors no more than a few feet from the road, and flowers spilling over window planters. Some were exuberant Victorians painted aqua, rose, and peach with the Stars and Stripes flying proudly on their porches. And some were breathtaking properties with curved stone archways and pillars, mullioned windows, Tudor markings, and garages that looked like barn doors set into the side of the rock.

  The Delaware River was sluggish in this heat, its wide brown expanse of water dappled with patches of green. River Road crossed over the canal, so as I headed toward Sheepville, the river was always on my left, but sometimes the canal was to the left, sometimes to the right. Masses of Queen Anne’s lace and goldenrod grew in unfettered abandon along its banks.

  White onion-shaped finials on a fence overlooking the river surrounded a blue-shingled house with a white sign that read, HOME-AT-LAST.

  Betty was busy cataloging items when I arrived, including the coveted dollhouse.

  It might be a good birthday present for Claire. Her birthday wasn’t until Halloween, but I knew she’d appreciate it.

  “Hi, Betty. Good news! Patsy’s agreed to be the auctioneer on Saturday.”

  Betty clapped her hands together. “Oh, that’s wonderful. Now I just hope I can get ready in time.”

  “Hey, did you ever find out where those pens came from?”

  She shook her head. “I went through everything for the police, but I couldn’t find any records. They’re probably filed in some strange place, but they have to be here somewhere. They’ll turn up sooner or later.”

  I looked around the crowded office with its haphazard piles of papers covering the desk, with more stacked in the corners and on top of the filing cabinets.

  Maybe later rather than sooner.

  “It’s strange that no one from the company has contacted me for insurance purposes. Anyway, I’m making sure all the paperwork is correct for this auction,” she said with a firm set to her mouth.

  I hid my surprise as I followed her out to the main floor. Angus had always been the one in charge. Guess meek and mild Betty was taking over now.

  She gave me the job of labeling the box lots.

  I checked the description next to the numbers on my list as I attached the stickers, noting items I’d like to bid on with one part of my brain, while random thoughts skittered through my head. Cataloging all the things I had to take care of: Trying to save Angus, run the store, plan the open house, help with the auction, not to mention the mess at home, which didn’t even feel like mine anymore.

  We’d dropped right back into the same old patterns as when Sarah was a teenager—leaving her breakfast dishes in the sink instead of the dishwasher, damp towels across the floor of the bathroom, shoes wherever she happened to kick them off, and clothes strewn everywhere.

  Oh, and not to mention Jasper.

  I felt like I had to keep an eye on him all the time because no one else did. This morning he’d chewed the cord off the vacuum cleaner while I was taking a shower.

  Why did I always have to be the responsible one? My upbringing had centered on following rules and doing the right thing. At school, I was always the one to organize birthday celebrations for the other teachers. I was the one who bought the card and got everyone to sign it. I was the one who stopped at the bakery early before school to pick up the cake.

  Why was it always me, damn it?

  I slapped on another sticker. Just once, I’d like to do something wild. That’s why hanging out with Angus was so much fun. He made me feel like a kid again. Sometimes we laughed so hard that my stomach literally hurt by the time I got home. Not to say that Joe and I didn’t have fun. But with Angus, he was so irreverent and exuberant, it was a whole different experience—the overflowing joy of simply being alive.

  Around nine o’clock, I was exhausted, and so was Betty. I told her I’d be back the next night to help her again.

  “Hi, babe,” Joe said as I walked into the kitchen to find him playing cards with Sarah. “We had Chinese. Want me to heat some up for you?”

  “In a minute. Right now I need a hug.”

  Joe quickly got up and folded me into his arms. I breathed a sigh of relief and held on to him, raising my face up for his kiss.

  “Aw, cut out the sappy stuff, you two,” Sarah mock complained, like she did when she was a kid.

  Joe and I laughed and we broke apart. He squeezed my shoulders one last time.

  I saw a shadow cross Sarah’s face. No doubt she was thinking of her recent ill-fated love affair. For the hundredth time I hoped that one day she’d find the same happiness I’d found with Joe.

  *

  “The next morning, the temperature was already rising when I got up and let Jasper out into the yard. It would be even hotter and more humid than yesterday, if that was possible.

  I hadn’t slept well, and the thought of another long day at the store and another night with Betty was overwhelming me before I’d even begun. A wave of exhaustion, no, more like a tsunami, crashed over me. I hadn’t been this tired since I quit teaching. That schedule of long days and even longer nights spent grading papers and going over lesson plans was a killer. Somehow I’d done it then, but I was out of practice.

  “Oh, no!” I exclaimed out loud as I brought the dog back inside. I’d forgotten about my appointment with the designer to see the children’s merchandise. “I can’t believe I did that.”

  I was usually so organized. I must be losing my mind. Suddenly I had a glimpse of how Angus must feel. A brain like a cotton ball, tired, worried, and emotionally wrung out to boot.

  “What’s the matter?” Sarah wandered into the kitchen.

  “I’m double booked. I have an appointment to meet someone tonight, and I also promised to help Betty again.”

  “You look tired, Mom,” she observed, head to one side.

  I breathed out slowly. “Thanks.” Were my wrinkles showing more than usual? God knows my gray roots were. I looked sharply at her, but I could only read concern in her eyes.

  “Look, Dad and I can go and help Mrs. Backstead. Why don’t you concentrate on the store?” Sarah held up her ever-present camera. “I’ll take the pictures and keep it all under control.”

  Joe came in at that moment. “And I’ll be the grunt man. You just tell me where you want things.”

  I hesitated a moment too long.

  “Jeez, Mom. I think I can handle it,” Sarah snapped. “You have no idea of what I deal with on a film set. It’s crazy. Everything is shot out of order and it takes some heavy-
duty organizational skills to keep it together. Give me some credit.”

  Let it go, Daisy.

  I forced a smile. “Okay, I’ll take you up on the offer. Thanks.”

  That night I met the designer, and when she mentioned she was searching for an antique christening gown, I handed her one of Eleanor’s business cards. In a small town like this, the store owners had to stick together, and we often recommended one another to clients. The designer was delighted with her purchases, praising me on my eye for the unusual, and for the quality of the merchandise, and I knew I’d made another good connection.

  Sometimes I wished Sarah could be a fly on the wall at those moments, and see me when I was at my best.

  When I got home, Sarah and Joe were watching a movie on our new flat-screen TV in the library. Joe offered to fix me some dinner, but I had passed the hungry stage a couple of hours ago. Besides, I didn’t want to disturb him. He was relaxing on the chocolate-colored leather couch, his feet up on the old steamer trunk.

  I kicked my sandals off and snuggled up next to him.

  “Hello, stranger,” I whispered. “I feel like I never see you anymore.” I wanted to ask them how things were going at the auction, but Sarah made a shushing noise, so I leaned my head on Joe’s shoulder and tried to follow the story line of the film. The next thing I knew, it was two hours later, and he was carrying me off to bed.

  Joe pulled me next to his large body, spooning me, and I think if I’d had the energy to turn over, we might have made love, but somehow sleep seemed more enticing.

  Friday flew by, too, in a blur of appointments, phone calls, and website sales. In addition to this weekend’s auction, at which I planned to do some major bidding, I would need to get to some more auctions and estate sales soon and replenish my stock, but I’d hardly had a moment to breathe.

  I fretted that we’d be ready for Saturday, but when I got home that night, Joe assured me that Betty and Sarah had everything well in hand. We ordered pizza for dinner as even Joe was too tired to cook.

  Finally, at 9 p.m. on Friday night, I colored my damn hair.