by Jane Elzey
Amy glanced at the bill. Benjamin Franklin glanced back.
“Now I remember what I was going to tell you. Genna said she’s on her way in. I just saw her at the bank. She’s all atwitter about some magazine that wants to do a story on the Cardboard Cottage women of Bluff Springs.”
At that very moment, Genna burst through the front door and sent the bells jangling again.
“Gawd,” she said, marching to where Amy and Rian stood in the hall. “The traffic! It took me four loops around the block to find a parking spot. I had to park in the loading zone, and I only have fifteen minutes before the traffic cop writes me a ticket. He’s always looking to make trouble for me.”
“Breathe,” said Rian.
“You breathe,” Genna snapped. “I’ve got things to say!”
Genna tossed her head, swinging strands of a long silver ponytail fastened at the nape of her neck. Genna was as tall and thin as a reed at the water’s edge but unlike anything she had ever seen wild in the woods. Genna didn’t flaunt the old money and bright promise she came from. Even though it shone through anyway like Sunday silver pulled from its velvet-lined box. Amy envied Genna’s confidence. She would love to have a bit more of that herself, even if Genna was a bit too stubborn if you got in her way.
Genna hugged Amy and they walked back toward Tiddlywinks. “I have the most amazing news . . .”
The door jangled again. Zack Carlisle moved past them. “Where is she?” he demanded, stomping all the way to Zsa Zsa Galore’s.
Amy watched from the door of Tiddlywinks as Zelda stepped from the doorway of her shop, her hands on her plump, curvy hips.
“Where is she, who? She has a name, you fool.”
Zack rushed toward her, and Zelda took a step back from him. He reached out and grabbed her shoulders, and Amy held her breath. Zack pulled Zelda into a hug.
“My wife,” he said. “That’s her name.” He held Zelda at arm’s length, smiled at her, and then turned to smile at the audience standing in the hallway behind him. It wasn’t a large hallway, long or wide, and sound traveled easily through the wood walls. No need to strain to hear from where she stood.
“Zelda, I need to get some papers out of the safety deposit box. I can’t find the key. Do you have it?” His voice escalated with the accusation. “Did you hide it?”
Zelda stepped back and his arms dropped to his sides. They were standing at the wagon outside her shop door, a family of shoppers squeezing by them, hoping to escape the now-crowded hallway and the discomfort of eavesdropping on a family squabble. Zack didn’t even seem to notice them now.
Zelda picked up a bright pink pillow and held it to her chest, her hands nervously massaging the silk material. “Why do you need to get into that box? What are you doing? What are you after?”
Zack’s shoulders tensed and he took a step toward her. “It’s cell tower business. Nothing that concerns you. I can promise you that.”
“I don’t know where the key is,” Zelda said quietly, her eyes trained on his. “I haven’t been in that box since we added your name as a titleholder. Can’t we do this later? In private?”
His face flushed with anger. “No!” he hollered. “Where is that key? I know you’re hiding it from me! I know you are!”
“I am not. Why would I?”
Amy heard the fear and frustration in Zelda’s voice. She had found it easy to see why Zelda was first drawn to this man with his dark hair and eyes the color of estate-aged bourbon. Even when they first met, he reminded her of the cad on the cover of a bodice ripper romance she read that winter when there was nothing to do but wait for the snow to melt. As that story unfolded, the shy but simmering teacher on vacation in Prague fell for the man whose heart seemed as gray as his gaze. Amy had fallen in love with the bandit long before the heroine did, all the while knowing he was danger with a capital D.
Zack was a capital D.
Amy stepped forward, her hands balled into fists at her side. “Stop it!” Her breath felt hot and angry. “Our customers don’t need to listen to this. Neither do we.”
Zack grabbed the pillow Zelda was holding and flung it against the wall. Then, turning abruptly, he strode past Rian and Genna, then past the customers in line at Crumpets and Cones. Just as he reached the front door, he turned to Amy.
“Mind your own business, bitch.”
Zelda’s face flushed and her eyes filled with tears. Retrieving the pillow from the floor, she plumped it back into place, turned on her heels, and returned to the interior of her shop. Zack stood on the sidewalk outside, looking as if he wasn’t sure which way to go. A beefy hand reached out and clasped Zack’s shoulder in a not-so-gentle grip, and she recognized Sammie’s boyfriend, Beau. She couldn’t hear what was being said, but judging by the angry red seeping up Zack’s neck and face, Beau wasn’t asking for the time.
Good for Beau. Zack needed to be dropped a peg or three.
Inside Tiddlywinks, a group of tourists was just starting a game at one of the tables. Once satisfied they were content, she slipped back down the hall.
Genna had her arms around Zelda and rolled her eyes at Amy.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes,” Zelda mumbled, her voice thick with tears. “No. No, I’m not okay. I’m tired of this. And it’s getting worse. He’s so . . .”
“He’s so angry,” Amy interrupted.
“And aggressive,” Genna added.
Zelda groaned. “He’s a beast. And I’m stuck with him. I don’t know what to do.”
Genna hugged her friend. “This will make you feel better. Almost as good as a new pair of shoes. I pulled strings with the editor at Belles & Bloom magazine. They are going to run a feature story on us. On the Cardboard Cottage & Company, and how we’ve turned an old building into a thriving women’s business co-op.”
Amy cleared her throat but let the comment go. There was no I in the word team. They all played a part in the Cardboard Cottage & Company success.
“Here’s how it works,” Genna added, her voice rising with excitement. “They’ll set up a photoshoot in all of your shops after closing. The lighting will be ideal. Just think of it! Pages of glossy photos. Maybe we can get Sammie to share her Irish family recipe for crumpets or something.”
“This is wonderful news!” Amy said, beaming at Genna. “We can plan an open house and—”
“Here’s the thing. They’ll be here Wednesday.”
“This Wednesday? But today’s Monday!”
“Oh, my,” Zelda said as her hands flew to her hair. “That’s not much time to get ready. I need a haircut and a pedicure and a new pair of shoes.”
“They aren’t going to take pictures of your toes, Zelda, and your hair is impeccable as always. Look, my dears, this is an opportunity we can’t let pass us by. Who knows when they will have another opening. This one only came about because a writer bailed on a feature planned for this upcoming issue.
“I will write the story, of course,” Genna continued. “Who else is as qualified to write about four sexy fifty-year-old women who turned a ho-hum building into a booming business co-op?”
“Booming may be a bit of a stretch,” Amy argued. “I’m making the mortgage on this place and a little profit to put in the bank, but if anything happened to any of us, I would be up the proverbial creek.”
“And I’m not yet fifty,” Zelda said stubbornly. “So don’t say I am.”
Amy and Genna laughed. Zelda might go kicking and screaming into her fifties. Amy was right there behind her, but Genna might stay in her fifties for at least another twenty years.
Genna flipped her silver ponytail with a quick flick of her wrist. “It will be perfect, you’ll see. Don’t you worry ’bout a thing. Not a thing. Actually,” Genna added with a glance toward the door, “I’m a little worried I have a ticket on my car. Ciao,” she added and left them grinn
ing ear to ear.
Don’t you worry about a thing! Humming the Stevie Wonder song, the rest of the afternoon flew by, and she let the day’s drama fade with it. How exciting! Free publicity for the Cardboard Cottage & Company could be a big boost to business. It’s what she needed to get her finances back on track. She was still humming when she locked the door and climbed the stairs, Victor in her arms, to the quiet of her apartment.
Chapter Four
Amy lurched awake. Panic crashed over her and left her wet with sweat. Though expecting the swirl of emergency lights to blaze across her eyes, she discovered the night was still thick around her. Lying still, eyes closed, she anticipated the sirens to resume their ear-splitting wail.
Silence surrounded her as she listened in the dark. Only the gentle hum of the refrigerator and her own quickened breath were sounds she recognized on this side of the dream.
Forcing her eyes open, the faint green glow of the bedside clock and the night-light in the bathroom were the only lights in the room. There was nothing flashing. No blasting sirens outside.
It was just a dream.
Her warm breath brushed her arm as she sighed with relief and realized her arms were crossed tightly at her chest. She let go, let her shoulders relax. Her fists uncurled, opening to let her fingers drag slowly to her side.
Just a dream. Relief flooded over her in a new wave.
Pushing at the images caught in her mind, she felt the dream still circling on the edge of her wakefulness. With eyes closed, she saw the lights from an emergency vehicle flash across a plaid shirt and a dark head of tousled hair. Despite the red glow of the lights from the ambulance, the face was pale with death.
She knew that face.
The feeling spread, unwelcome. A foreboding crept from her center like a cold, intrusive hand, drawing her even further from her sleep, beckoning her with silent fingers as if it held something secret in its grasp. She shivered involuntarily. This secret she didn’t want to know.
She knew that face. It was Zack Carlisle.
And this Zack Carlisle was dead.
It couldn’t be true. Too much ice cream before bed. Too much talk about husbands and bodies. Too much.
Vamoose!
Amy dragged herself from her bed and stumbled to the bathroom. Splashing cold water in her face, it slapped her awake like a hostile hand.
In the dim light of the bathroom mirror, she looked at herself, her nose inches from the glass. Freckles, now faded with age, were scattered across her nose and cheeks. They shared a familiar space with a slightly lopsided smile. Her hazel-brown eyes shone eerily bright even in the darkness of the mirror.
What had she just seen?
A face pale with death.
Was it real?
She patted her hair. On a good day, her curls spiraled out from her head like something crazy unless she belted them down. After tossing in her sleep, they had gone wild. Tugging at the copper-colored curls, she knotted them at her neck.
Still looking in the mirror, her fingers traced the burn scar on her forehead that ran just below her hairline. It didn’t hurt anymore. It was just a scar. But scars didn’t always heal on the inside the same way they did on skin. She brushed a stray curl from her cheek.
“Telepathetic,” she hissed at her reflection.
She didn’t have special sight, even though she wanted to. She didn’t have gifts that foretold the future, even though she had hoped they would emerge over time. A secret family gene passed down, skipping a generation now and then, had obviously skipped hers. She had intuition like any woman and vivid dreams that sometimes seemed to come true. But she wasn’t gifted in that way.
She splashed her face once more, determined to ignore the sick feeling of dread that rose within her. Yes, sometimes the dreams did come true.
Reaching for the stone that hung from her neck, she fingered the Celtic knot inlaid with peridot and tiny diamond, yearning for the familiar texture of warm stone and cool silver along with the ache of remembering someone long gone.
She rubbed the stone. Peace flooded over her.
Grandmother. They would always be connected by an invisible thread.
Victor purred when she pulled him to her and snuggled back beneath her lavender-scented sheets. His sleepy, questioning eyes blinked and then closed, his mittens kneading the folds of the duvet bunched around her neck.
The veil of night was beginning to thin through the curtains now. Dawn was not too far ahead. Cinnamon drifted up from the bakery kitchen below, and closing her eyes, she hoped for a little more sleep.
The sirens woke her yet again. This time they were real.
Chapter Five
After throwing back the covers, Amy ran to the window overlooking the street. Two patrol cars were pulled to the curb, lights splattering the morning calm. Her heart lurched. Grabbing her robe from the hook behind the bathroom door then throwing it around her, she ran down the stairs, hoping, wishing, praying for anything other than a dead Zack Carlisle.
The front door of the Cardboard Cottage & Company stood open to the morning air, and glass shards lay scattered on the sidewalk.
“Watch yourself,” one of the officers said, pointing to the ground.
She looked down at her bare feet, still white from winter, bright painted toes poised to step on broken glass.
“What happened?”
“Break-in,” he said simply. “This is your place, right? Amy Sparks?”
Amy nodded. “Anybody hurt?”
He shook his head. “Not that I can see. Maybe the fool who broke the glass,” he added under his breath. “Go get some shoes on,” he ordered. “You can’t go inside without shoes. You’ll cut your feet.”
As she ran upstairs, her mind filled with questions. Who would do such a cruel thing? What were they after? What did they get? The same questions looped through her mind as she raced back down the stairs, now in jeans, a T-shirt, and sneakers, her hair again pulled tight at the back of her neck.
“We’ve already secured the property, Ms. Sparks. It’s safe to go inside. Although I don’t think you’re going to like what you see.”
They entered over the crush of glass. The front door of Tiddlywinks was now a gaping hole that once held beautiful, antique stained glass. Shards lay scattered over the dark wood floor of the hallway and the interior of the shop.
When she flipped the light switch, her breath caught in her throat.
The shelves, once so organized and welcoming, were a disheveled mess. Boxes were dumped to the floor, boards and game pieces were strewn like leaves in a fall wind. Puzzle pieces lay scattered across the room as if someone had swept an arm across the table in a broad swipe of anger. Or revenge. Her heart pounded as she struggled to comprehend the cruel mind behind the rage. Her eyes filled with tears.
The curio cabinet door hung open. Glass glittered against the black lining on the shelves. Empty velvet told her there were pieces missing. Confused anguish filled her.
“Why?” she asked. “Who? When?”
“I don’t know why or who,” the officer said softly, “but when is pretty clear.” He glanced at the notebook in his hand, an old-fashioned metal spiral with a stub of a pencil jammed into it from the top. “Sammie Walsh at the bakery called in at six fifteen. How come you don’t have an alarm?”
“I didn’t think I needed one.” She rubbed the tears from her cheeks. “Is Sammie okay?”
Sammie used an outside door to the bakery kitchen on the other side of the building. The backdoor led to an alley where the trash pickup and deliveries were made. Sammie parked her car right outside the door, so she wouldn’t have seen the damage until she came to the front of the bakery. She wouldn’t have noticed the glass on the ground until she readied her shop to open.
“Is she still here? I hope she wasn’t in the kitchen when this happened. She usually
gets here before five.”
The officer shrugged. “I didn’t see anyone. My guess is that this happened in the dark of night. Cowards don’t do this kind of thing in the light.”
“Cowards?” Amy asked.
“Burglars. Thieves. Punks. They don’t do their dirty business where people can see them and know them for who they are.”
Amy nodded absently then crunched her way to the shelves. Tears streamed down her face in hot, heavy drops.
This wasn’t burglary. These weren’t punks. This was revenge.
Zack Carlisle’s parting comment came to her mind.
Mind your own business, bitch.
“Come on,” the officer said and put a warm hand on her shoulder.
It was a welcomed touch. A gesture of this kind was common in a small town, compassion that so many people in big cities never knew could be shared, even among strangers.
“Nothing you can do here now. I’ll drive you to the station where you can make your report. You’ll need to take inventory later to determine what’s missing. And we’ll keep an officer here to prevent any further theft. You have insurance?”
Amy nodded. “But not enough.”
“You can never have enough insurance. I know that for a fact. My wife sells the stuff, and I can tell you I’m insured to the hilt.”
Smiling weakly, she accepted his arm, grateful to have his warm support. Then, glancing back at the bakery, she felt for Sammie, too. The doors to Crumpets and Cones were closed and the bakery was dark. This would have frightened Sammie more than most. Conversations over tea had given her but an inkling of the violence Sammie knew firsthand as a youth. Though a brave woman bold enough to leave Ireland and start a new life here, she had lived under the strain of fury that pitted neighbor against neighbor. That reality would always haunt Sammie. Ireland may have called it the troubles, but it was a civil war. For Sammie, violence on the doorstep of her bakery would have been too close to home. Amy’s heart ached with that knowledge, and she hoped Sammie had Beau’s strong arms around her now.