Going Through the Notions (A Deadly Notions Mystery)

by Price, Cate

  “Sure, Mom. Leave me here with the dusty old sewing things. That’s just perfect.”

  I tried to ignore her sigh of annoyance as she folded her finely sculpted arms and crossed one long tanned leg over the other. I hurried out the door, fighting a ridiculous sense of guilt.

  After all I’d done for Sarah, was it really too much to ask? I blew out an irritated breath, in a faint echo of hers.

  I opened the doors to the Subaru to let the blazing heat that had built up inside escape, but the steering wheel still scorched my hands. I took the familiar route up to River Road, down Sheepville Pike, and then past the town of Sheepville to turn right on Forty Acre Road. This road was less densely populated than most, and that was saying something in these parts.

  A split rail fence was the rustic marker between the narrow road and acres and acres of open fields and gently rolling hills. Sometimes the only hint of a house anywhere near was a mailbox, or a homemade sign saying, HONEY or FIREWOOD FOR SALE.

  Through the trees, I spotted the ruins of an old building. A corner of a fieldstone wall and the blackened remains of a fireplace were all that was left of someone’s long-ago home.

  The entrance to the Four Foxes was marked only by two fieldstone pillars. The Subaru trundled over a short Belgian block entranceway, and then the road smoothed out as it wound through the cherry trees toward the lovely stone and stucco colonial house that had been added on to extensively to make it a luxury getaway destination. I pulled onto the white gravel of the courtyard and parked in front of the garage doors of what had once been a horse barn.

  I didn’t have much of a plan in mind, other than trying to convince Joy to let me poke around Fiona Adams’s room if she was out. I winced at the thought. Joy was a professional innkeeper, and I knew it would take a vast amount of fast talking to get her to agree to this harebrained scheme.

  I stepped out of the car and also sidestepped a couple of the free-ranging chickens who provided fresh eggs for the guests’ breakfasts every morning. Joy raised sheep, cattle, and turkeys on an adjoining organic farm, which supplied the Michelin three-star restaurant.

  As I walked through the brick archway that led to the back gardens, patio, and pool, my heart skipped a beat as I saw the familiar hawk-like figure of Fiona Adams bearing down upon me.

  Chapter Eleven

  “You!” She pointed one long finger in my direction, holding an even longer cigarette, and looking a bit like the Grim Reaper, except one that was dressed in summer sandals and shorts. She was so thin that her knees looked too big for her bony legs.

  I looked around desperately for Joy, or the gardener, or anyone for that matter, but the beautiful landscaped grounds were deserted.

  “Come with me,” Fiona said. “I want to show you something.”

  With no other viable options, I trailed after her, following a cloud of smoke, past the PLEASE, NO SMOKING sign on the patio wall toward the Rosemary Suite, which overlooked the pool and herb gardens. The intense heat bore down, relentless, sapping my resistance.

  At first I was glad to duck into the air-conditioning of the expansive guest quarters. But once inside, Fiona locked the door behind us, and the dreaded sweat started prickling up my back. How had I gotten myself into this?

  In the living area, two cotton twill armchairs sat in front of the unlit wood-burning fireplace, where a vase of fresh yellow daylilies stood in place of the flames of winter. A Persian hand-knotted silk rug softened the green and gray slate floor.

  In the small kitchen area, I knew the mini refrigerator held a bottle of champagne, wine, some beer, bottled water, and local artisan cheeses to welcome guests.

  Upstairs in the bedroom would be a king-sized high feather bed, with luxurious linens, facing a fieldstone wall with a fireplace and flat-screen television. A stunning marble and travertine bathroom, complete with whirlpool tub, two-person shower, heated towel racks, and complimentary bathrobes provided the ultimate pampering experience.

  The spacious two-level suite was an inviting paradise for world-weary travelers looking for an escape, but not wanting to get too far from civilization. High-speed Internet access and a state-of-the-art fitness facility were also included. There were only four rooms and two suites here, but all were lavishly appointed.

  Rustic done upscale, as Joy liked to call it.

  I jumped when Fiona gestured toward the round table in the alcove near the window. A tray was set out with a pitcher of iced tea, some glasses, and tiny dishes of sugared lemon slices and fresh mint leaves.

  “Please. Sit down.”

  We sat down on the upholstered high-backed chairs, surrounded by ficus trees and bromeliads. She carefully poured and garnished two glasses of tea for us, and I stared across the table at her, wondering what the heck she wanted.

  “Your klutzy friend must help you win a lot of merchandise,” she said, but there was a twinkle in her eye.

  I cleared my throat. “Oh, I’m sorry about that, but don’t worry, Martha will pay you for the dry cleaning.” Or the replacement, I thought.

  Fiona waved a hand impatiently. “It doesn’t matter.” She bent down and pulled a photo album out of a tote bag on the floor and put it on the table. “Look, this is what I wanted to show you.” She swiveled the album toward me and started flipping pages. There were beautiful color photographs of a variety of fountain pens, in close-up detail.

  The missing collection.

  She went rapidly through each page, explaining to me why they were all so valuable. “This is a vintage Parker Duofold Lucky Curve in mandarin yellow. It’s a first edition from the 1920s, has a solid fourteen-carat gold nib. Yellow is the most rare and therefore the most sought after.” She flipped a page. “Here’s a duo pen set by Krone called the Forbidden City. Highly detailed hand-painted pens.”

  I leaned closer and peered at the photograph. The pens looked like a tiny emperor and empress with exquisite faces and detail.

  She showed me a lapis blue Pelikan 101, a Waterman safety pen with gold filigree overlay from the 1920s, and a Montblanc sterling silver Lorenzo de Medici pen, with its octagonal hand-engraved sterling silver body.

  “They’re incredible,” I murmured, and I meant it.

  Fiona’s diction was perfect, as if she had undergone years of speech training. And in spite of the harsh persona she liked to project, there was also an air of fragility about her, especially when her voice softened as she described the history of the pens.

  She traced a finger across the photos of her treasures, lingering over her favorites. It made me think of that gorgeous peacock fabric I’d sacrificed to pay my bills and keep the store afloat in the early days. As a lover of vintage things, I could see why these beautiful pens were so collectible, and suddenly I felt an unexpected connection to this odd woman.

  I took a sip of my iced tea. “Fiona, let me ask you something. There was—um—a rumor about an estate liquidation company that contacted Jimmy Kratz.”

  I’d protected Reenie long enough. Now I needed some answers. “Let’s say there was a crooked deal going on whereby Jimmy was supposed to bid on the pens, buy them for a low price, and then this company would get them back to resell them in a bigger market and—”

  Fiona waved her hand again. “I already checked into the company the bimbo used. They seem legitimate, and all recent transactions have fetched a fair market price. Completely clueless, though, just like her. They hadn’t even known the pens were stolen or filed the insurance claim until I contacted them.”

  “But why send them to this auction house? Why not one in New York or Philadelphia?”

  Fiona blew out a breath. “She says it was for sentimental reasons. As if that gold-digging bitch has a sentimental bone in her whole body. Her grandfather was born in Sheepville, so supposedly that’s why she sent them here.”

  I chewed on a piece of sugared lemon. Damn it. The estate company theory sounded like a dead end, and the clock was still ticking for Angus. And the police were doing nothing to
search for the pens or Jimmy’s killer. So now what?

  Fiona tapped the current page of the album to bring my attention back. “Here’s a Conklin Durograph pen. They were only made for about a year in 1923, so again, very collectible.”

  Next came a Maniflex pen with a gorgeous tigereye casing, two Parker pens, a Sheaffer, and a Wahl pen with a Greek key pattern.

  “These pens must be kept out of sunlight under climate-controlled conditions. If someone else uses them, they can be ruined for the owner because of the way the nib adapts to their particular writing style. I hate to think of how they might be being treated as we speak.” Fiona shuddered. “They’re easily damaged by heat and can fade or discolor. That’s why I cringe when I see them in glass cases at outdoor markets. They’re completely compromised by then.”

  “Did it bother you that your father left all his money to his new wife?” I asked.

  It was a blunt question, but what did I have to lose?

  Fiona narrowed her gaze at me. “No. I’m a very wealthy woman in my own right. I didn’t need any money from the estate, but my father did promise me the pens.”

  “But he didn’t specify in his will?”

  “I guess he expected his wife to honor his wishes. Ha! We know how that worked out.”

  I suddenly knew who Fiona was. She was one of those lost souls walking the earth. I saw them all the time. Oh, they looked like successful, professional people, but inside was a sad, neglected child. The pens signified a link to the past, her only connection to her father, and I understood now why she was so desperate to get them back.

  “I think I like this one the best.” I pointed to the last page of the album.

  Fiona grinned at me, showing her slight overbite. “You have good taste. That’s a rare Montblanc Magical Black Widow Skeleton pen.”

  I marveled at the exquisite pen encased in a web of white gold, with its filigree spider and black diamonds on the clip.

  “It’s a limited edition,” she said. “The last one sold at auction for well over twenty thousand dollars.”

  “Wow. Thanks for showing these to me, Fiona. I can see now why the fountain pens are so important to you. They’re truly magnificent.”

  I thought I detected a slight pinkening of her cheeks, but maybe it was only from the sun beating through the windows.

  “Trust me, I’ll do everything I can to get them back.” As I stood up and saw the time on the clock in the kitchen, I was surprised to find that almost an hour had gone by. Even more surprised to find that I’d thoroughly enjoyed myself.

  After I took my leave of Fiona, I walked back the way I had come in, past the koi pond with the sounds of frogs calling like out-of-tune plastic guitar strings, toward the dramatic two-level patio. Joy was at the poolside bar area, where overflowing mossy flower-filled baskets hung overhead. She was serving frozen margaritas to two bikini-clad guests.

  “Daisy! What are you doing here?”

  “I was—um—visiting a friend. Fiona Adams,” I said, suddenly glad I was sure now Fiona hadn’t had anything to do with the murder of Jimmy Kratz. She was a strange bird, but she’d been given the short end of the stick as far as I could see, and I hoped the pens would be recovered, not only for Angus’s sake, but for hers.

  “Would you like something to drink?” Joy asked.

  “Thanks, but I can’t stay. I have to get back to the store. Although that pool does look very inviting.” It was so hot, I was tempted to throw myself in, clothes and all.

  “Guess who else we have staying here?”

  I smiled and shook my head.

  “Robin Tague! The famous violinist and composer! He’s playing some concerts in Philadelphia, but he picked the Four Foxes because he wanted the peace and quiet to compose.”

  “I can’t wait to tell Debby Millerton. She’s a huge fan.” I nodded toward a deeply tanned guy with an impressive athletic physique lying on one of the chaise longues by the pool. “Is that him?” I whispered.

  “Oh, no!” Joy laughed. “That’s the driver for your friend, Fiona Adams.”

  Damn. Just as I was ready to discount Fiona as a suspect.

  This guy wasn’t big, but he was solidly muscled, and he could certainly have done the dirty deed on Jimmy.

  *

  “On the way home, I decided to stop at the Perkins Feed Supply Store. Sarah was already pissed off at having to watch Sometimes a Great Notion. What difference would another half an hour make?

  The business was right on Sheepville Pike, which was zoned commercial. Down a long driveway behind it was their house and surrounding farmland.

  I’d heard Patsy’s dire warnings about the Perkins boys, but this was a retail business on a main thoroughfare where they served the public. I’d be perfectly safe. Hey, I’d faced up to Fiona Adams today and survived. Besides, I needed to check them out for myself.

  But what excuse would I give for being here? I know, I could say I’d come to buy dog food for Jasper. In addition to cattle feed, a sign outside said they also sold bags of dog, cat, and rabbit food.

  When I got out of the car, the oppressive heat was like a hand shoving me in the chest.

  God, it was hot today.

  The store was deserted except for one bored-looking girl at the register, who didn’t look up when I opened the glass and chrome door. The place smelled of fertilizer and sawdust inside. I stepped out into the heat again and wandered around to the back parking lot, past a forklift truck, and over to a huge shed.

  I peeked into the shadowed interior. A young man stripped to the waist was perched atop a pile of feed sacks, throwing them up onto a shelf near the rafters. They must have weighed at least fifty pounds each, but he tossed them around like packets of potato chips.

  He gave no sign of noticing me in the doorway. His tanned back gleamed with sweat, and I stood transfixed for a moment, watching the smooth muscles work together in perfect unison.

  Another man sauntered across the lot toward me, holding a plastic cup. He looked to be slightly older than the first one by a couple of years. He was also bare-chested, furry-chested actually, with a pelt that narrowed to a dark brown line that disappeared under the edge of his belt. Like his sibling, he was all finely toned flesh, the ridged stomach evidence of a life spent outside doing physical labor.

  “Can we help you, Mrs. Buchanan?”

  “Oh!” My laugh sounded nervous, even to me. “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage. You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”

  He didn’t answer, but tipped the cup up to his lips, took a mouthful of whatever was inside, and chewed. His dark eyes regarded me, sullen and angry. If he’d been a dog, he wasn’t wagging his tail.

  The younger, blonder brother slid down off the pallet of feed sacks and came over to us. “I’m Bobby Perkins and this here’s Tom. What can we do for you?”

  “Well, the reason I’m here is—”

  Tom Perkins spat a few hulls onto the ground, one by one. Sunflower seeds. “You’re the lady who’s friends with Angus Backstead, right?”

  I nodded, wary.

  “He’s the bastard who bought our grandmother’s estate.”

  A bead of sweat trickled down between my breasts. “I heard you got a fair price and—”

  “Fair price, my asshole.”

  I stiffened my spine. He had no business speaking like that to anyone, particularly to a woman old enough to be his mother. “Look, Tom, you decided to sell the whole house. No one forced you into it. You could have consigned the merchandise at auction.”

  “Yeah, well, I seen you making out pretty good at that there auction, too, scarfing up a lot of our grandmother’s stuff. Like that quilt she made for us. Grave robbers, all of ya.” He spat a couple more hulls for emphasis.

  “Hey, I didn’t know what the arrangements were.” My jeans were sticking to my legs, and the available oxygen in the air was nearly obliterated by the burning dust. “I simply went to an auction.”

  “Leave it, Tommy. It
ain’t her fault.” Bobby frowned at his brother as he raked his hair back with both hands against the sweat running down his forehead, making it stick up. His hair was light brown, bleached to blond in places by the sun. As he lifted his arms, the muscles in his chest tightened, and I had to force my gaze away from all that golden skin and taut, youthful six-pack.

  An image sprang unbidden into my head of tangled bedsheets on a hot summer night, feverish caresses, and the frantic urgency of rough, screaming-out-loud sex. How long had it been since it was like that for me?

  A flush spread across my body that had nothing to do with the ninety-degree weather.

  “Was there something you wanted, Mrs. Buchanan?” Bobby asked.

  I exhaled as evenly as I could. “Um, you know, I was going to get some food for my daughter’s dog, but silly me, all of a sudden I can’t remember what brand, and I don’t want to buy a thirty-pound bag of the wrong one.”

  I wasn’t fibbing. I didn’t know what kind Jasper ate.

  Tom Perkins took a step closer to me. Too close. The ripe man smell of him was overpowering. If he’d used deodorant this morning, it had stopped working a while ago. I had to steel myself not to take a step backward.

  “It’s not a good idea to change food suddenly on puppies,” he said softly. “You have to introduce a new food slowly and mix it in with the old.”

  I nodded, heart pounding, staring deep into his cold, dark eyes. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “And in my opinion, Angus Backstead should rot in jail. Keep that in mind, too.”

  A white cat came around the side of the shed, and Tom Perkins knelt, picked up a stone, and in one graceful motion hurled it at the animal. The stone clanged against the metal siding and the cat darted away. Unharmed, I hoped.

  I decided to do the same. I walked as fast as I could to the Subaru without breaking into a run. The car was an inferno inside, but I wasn’t about to wait for it to cool down. I gunned it out of the parking lot, and as soon as I hit Sheepville Pike, I stomped on the gas and opened the windows. I scraped my damp hair off my neck up into a haphazard ponytail with one shaking hand, and blasted the air-conditioning.