by Fiona Grace
“Who?”
“One of her sons.”
Tom’s eyes widened with intrigue. “One of her sons?”
Lacey nodded. “They barged into Penrose Estate yesterday because the will says they’re entitled to take anything from their childhood playroom. But then there’s this whole complicated business about Iris having the wording of her will changed to make sure they couldn’t exploit a loophole and take a grandfather clock. Nigel was terrified they’d come back with a locksmith in the night and steal it anyway, so he begged me to store some things here for safekeeping.”
“Huh,” Tom said, contemplatively. “So he might well have been right about the children breaking in. Only he offloaded the danger onto your shoulders.”
“He was desperate,” Lacey explained, hearing the accusation in Tom’s words. “We didn’t think the children knew where my store was located, but I guess it’s easy to get hold of any information these days online.”
Tom was silent for a moment, in quiet consideration. “If the sons were the ones to break in, and they did pass loads of other valuable items, what do you think they were trying to get hold of specifically?”
“They jumped out from behind the safe, so maybe the jewels…” Her voice trailed away as she was hit suddenly by a thought. “Which was next to the grandfather clock! The much disputed clock. That’s what they wanted. It was all they cared about back at the manor, and obviously the thing they honed in on here.”
“I can’t imagine it would be easy for one person to steal a grandfather clock on their own,” Tom mused aloud.
Lacey paused. “You’re right. It would be impossible to move on your own.”
“The brothers were working together?”
Lacey shook her head. “There was just one burglar. A lone wolf.”
She’d hit a wall. Drawn a blank. She couldn’t help but sigh with frustration.
Tom reached across the counter and patted her hand. “It’ll be okay, Lace. I know this is stressful right now but it will all blow over.”
Lacey froze beneath his touch. Lace. David had been the only person to call her Lace in her entire lifetime. She wasn’t sure how she felt about hearing the pet name come from Tom’s lips.
He must’ve noticed her tense because he removed his hand from hers.
Just then, the door swung open. Lacey flinched with shock—she’d gotten so used to having no customers it was a surprise to hear the bell tinkle again. She looked up to see Taryn waltzing in.
At the sound of her stilettos clacking loudly on the floorboards, Chester raised his head and grumbled. Like Lacey, he was not a fan of the boutique owner next door. In fact, Lacey would quite like to growl at her as well, but social convention meant she’d have to make do with glaring.
Taryn marched toward the counter and slapped the police warning notice down in front of Lacey.
“This is your doing,” she said. “Attracting burglars to the area. We were a quiet town before you came along. Now it’s all murder and break-ins! If you’re not directly responsible for it, you sure are good at attracting criminals.”
Tom frowned. “Taryn, have you forgotten about your break-in a few years back? None of us stormed your store and blamed you for it. If I recall, we rallied around to help you. Perhaps you might want to extend the same courtesy to Lacey?”
Taryn looked at him coldly. “Well, Thomas, I think you’ll agree that things change.”
Lacey picked up on the veiled tone, Taryn’s passive-aggressive suggestion that things between her and Tom had changed. Did the two have history? Lacey wondered.
Tom, on the other hand, seemed oblivious.
“And when it affects my business, I have every right to get involved,” Taryn finished.
She spun on the spot and marched away, Chester growling until she was out of sight.
Lacey picked up her teacup and looked over the lip at Tom.
“It’ll all blow over?” she said ruefully, then took a sip.
*
After Tom left, everything at the store became very quiet. Lacey busied herself by doing valuation research online and speaking to her antiques contacts in London for their expert advice, a task that absorbed her almost entirely. Though not enough to distract her from the sound of hammering coming from next door.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Lacey muttered, looking over at her adjoining wall with Taryn, from which the hammering noise was coming. “DIY? Really?”
She was about to go next door and find out what was going on when she was interrupted by her cell ringing.
She looked down at the flashing screen. Her first surprise was to see that it was her mom calling her. Her mom hated phone calls. She said they frayed her nerves. She only ever joined in on them when Naomi insisted. The second surprise was the fact that—she made the calculation on her fingers—it was only 6 a.m. in New York!
Filled with panic that there was some kind of emergency, Lacey quickly answered the call.
“Mom? Is everyone okay? What’s wrong?”
“Wrong?” her mom squeaked. “What’s wrong is my daughter is the victim of crime in a foreign country! I’m going out of my mind with worry!”
“Oh. That.” Lacey’s chest sank. She always regretted keeping her family up to date on her life events. They weren’t very good at being supportive. It almost always ended up with Lacey having to reassure them, something she suspected would happen this time, too.
“Yes, that!” her mom exclaimed. “What on earth made you think you can just send me a couple of lines on an app about something like that? ‘Got burgled. Everything’s fine.’”
Lacey cringed as she heard her mom read her own words back at her, adopting a nonchalant voice that made Lacey sound like a beach bum, and couldn’t be further from reality.
“Everything is fine,” Lacey said.
“No, it’s not! England is dangerous!” her mom wailed.
Lacey looked out at the cobblestones and the gingham bunting and Tom’s pastel-colored macaron display. So dangerous…
“I’ve just had some bad luck,” Lacey said.
“Bad luck? A murder? A break-in? That’s not bad luck, Lacey, that’s a sign from God or the Universe or whatever it is you believe in these days! It’s time to stop this silly fantasy now. You had a good life here! A good job. A nice husband.”
Lacey could endure much of her mother’s ramblings. But claiming David was a nice husband? No way, that was where she drew the line.
“Nice husbands don’t use ultimatums to pressure their wives into having children when they’re not ready. David left me, remember? Not the other way around.”
“David loves you and wants a family with you. What’s so bad about that? All you have to do is say you’ll have a baby one day and he’ll forget all about the divorce debacle in an instant.”
Lacey ground her teeth. How had a conversation about the burglary descended into an argument about David?
“He said forty was too old,” she said, bitterly, David’s harsh words ringing in her ears, the taste of that Merlot echoing on her tongue.
“You’re thirty-nine.”
“Not for long.”
“I don’t know what on earth makes you so opposed to it!”
Lacey raised her eyebrows. Beyond her mom’s neurotic parenting style? Beyond the fact Dad walking out had emotionally scarred her for life?
“If you don’t come back he’ll marry that awful Edda woman,” her mom continued. “I should say girl really, she’s barely legal.”
Lacey frowned with confusion. “What are you talking about?”
There was a pause on the other end of the line. It was practically the first time her mother had drawn breath this entire conversation.
“You didn’t hear?” she said, finally. “David’s seeing someone new. The daughter of a nail salon empire, or something silly like that. They’re engaged.”
Engaged. The word hit Lacey like a punch in the stomach. Even her jaw dropped like she’d been
winded by a blow.
But before she had a chance to say anything in response, the bell above the door tinkled. Lacey looked up to see Superintendent Turner and DCI Lewis coming into the store.
Great, that’s just what I need, she thought, her stomach tensing.
Still reeling from the news of David’s engagement, Lacey quickly spoke into the cell phone. “I’m sorry, Mom, I have to go.”
“Lacey, don’t hang up on your mother just because you don’t like hearing hard truths—”
“Love you. Bye.” Lacey ended the call and looked up at the two detectives striding toward her. “Can I help—”
But rather than stop at the counter, Superintendent Turner marched straight past it. “I need to take another look at the crime scene,” he said as he disappeared through the back door.
“—you?” Lacey finished pointlessly, addressing the empty space he’d once occupied.
DCI Lewis reached the counter. “Sorry about him,” she said. “He’s a good detective, but his bedside manner leaves a lot to be desired.”
Lacey shrugged. She’d taken too many blows now to feel anything but numb. “I’ve got nothing to hide,” she murmured.
“Did you get the back door secured?” DCI Lewis asked, propping her elbows onto the counter. She gave Lacey a small, sheepish smile of concern.
Lacey nodded. “Yes, the contact you gave me was very fast. They were here within the hour with plyboards to board it up. Glass repairs are coming tomorrow. Thanks for the recommendation.”
“No problem. Happy to help.”
It occurred to Lacey then that DCI Lewis was actually attempting to be personable. Lacey wondered whether this might be an opportunity to get some information out of the officer, without her dragon of a partner breathing down her neck, and while she was in a pleasant enough mood.
She quirked her head to the side. “Did you follow up on the brothers?”
DCI Lewis nodded. “Yeah. Henry and Benjamin were in the Coach House last night at the time of the break-in. Brenda the barmaid provided a witness statement.”
“They were here? On the high street?” Lacey gasped. She’d tuned out the bit about the witness—people were notoriously wrong about times, after all—and honed in instead on the fact they’d been placed barely a hundred feet away from the location of the break-in.
“Yes, but—”
“What about dog bites?” Lacey interrupted. “Did you check their legs?”
Beth’s lips turned into a straight line. “They have an alibi, Lacey. We have zero grounds on which to conduct a body search.”
“But how can you be so certain Brenda’s statement was accurate?”
“Because,” the detective said, her voice sounding weary, “the pub was showing the footie match. Arsenal versus Wolverhampton. The brothers were seen there from kickoff to final whistle. We have a witness statement and the superintendent has been working on all the alibis personally. I’m sorry, Lacey, but your hunch was wrong. The Archer brothers had nothing to do with the break-in.”
Lacey felt at a total loss. How could she be wrong? Who else would have broken into her store if not one of the brothers?
Maybe she’d been barking up the wrong tree by thinking the intruder had been heading for the grandfather clock after all. Maybe it really was just a local trying to drive her out of business. Targeting her, specifically, to run her out of town.
She sagged. Her mom was right, after all. Perhaps the time had come to admit her dream of living an idyllic seaside life was over.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
Lacey maneuvered her laptop so the webcam was pointing at the footstool, oblong with rounded corners covered in golden paisley fabric. On the screen, beamed in live from Mayfair, London, was Percy Johnson, Lacey’s favorite bumbling valuer. He squinted through his thick-rimmed glasses, the lag in the connection making him judder.
“Ah, yes,” he said in his plummy accent. “That’s a lovely piece indeed. So, what is your assessment?”
“Well, it’s an ottoman, with a lifting lid. I’d say with that fabric we’re talking Victorian. And the feet are mahogany.” She paused. “The other Victorian ottomans we’ve seen were worth about a thousand pounds.”
“Yes,” Percy said, drawing out the word as if to indicate she was only half correct. “Your average Victorian ottoman fetches around a grand at auction. But the one you have there is certainly rarer. I’ve seen ones like that sell for twice that, if they’re in good condition.”
Lacey whistled and jotted down the information. Then she tapped into her calculator to convert the figure into dollars—her mind could more easily comprehend worth in her familiar currency—and saw $3,100.
“Wow,” Lacey said. “Okay. And there are at least five of them here.”
“That estate is a treasure trove of delights.”
“You can say that again.”
Lacey was at Penrose Manor, in one of the myriad guest bedrooms at the top of the house. With the auction on hold for the foreseeable future, she’d decided to keep busy valuing the rest of the items Nigel wanted appraised, and Percy was providing her with invaluable support and guidance. Lacey was proud of how quickly she was absorbing everything he taught her. Her eye for Victorian furniture in particular was getting sharper and sharper, thanks to the abundance of pieces the manor contained.
Her plan was to go from room to room—skipping over the contentious playroom, of course, the door of which had remained securely locked ever since the three little piggies had left—working methodically through each one. It was a long task and Lacey was loving every second of it. It really helped her take her mind off her troubles with the police and the store, which was ironic considering she was in the house of the dead woman who’d started this whole thing in the first place.
“Lacey, dear, I must end the call now. Karen is calling me to tea. She’s a little exasperated by the amount of time I’m devoting to this. I don’t think she’s coping well with my hobby taking longer than hers for once.”
He said it in good faith, but Lacey still felt guilty. She hadn’t even noticed the sky turn dark during their call.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Lacey exclaimed. “Thanks for all your help. Please apologize to your wife. I won’t take up any more of your time.”
Percy chuckled. “Not at all. I’ve lost two hours a night for the last thirty years to her French horn practice. It’s about time she learned what it feels like when the shoe is on the other foot.”
He laughed and they bade one another farewell before exiting the video chat.
Lacey turned to Chester. “Just you and me now, boy. Shall we see if there’s anything interesting in the drawers?”
She went over to a dresser, but before she had a chance to pull open a drawer, something peculiar caught her eye. The bottom drawer was partially open, as if someone had pushed it shut in a hurry. In any usual room, that wouldn’t pique Lacey’s curiosity, but in the pristine guest room, where everything else was meticulously organized, it certainly did.
She sat down cross-legged and tugged open the bottom drawer.
Inside, it was mostly empty. A small hand towel was folded up in one corner. Lying in the middle was a copy of the Bible, a beautiful copy with a red leather cover. She took it out, wondering if, like everything else Iris Archer owned, it was some ancient relic that would be cherished by the right owner if they could find them.
She’d just opened up the cover and began to leaf through the tissue paper–thin pages when something fell from inside and clattered to the ground.
Lacey frowned and picked up what looked like a ring fashioned out of copper wire.
She turned her attention back to the Bible, flipping the pages again until she saw that the ones in the midsection had been cut, as if with a scalpel, to create a small rectangular space. Inside appeared to be an array of handmade jewelry—a necklace made of dried macaroni, woven friendship bracelets made of colorful yarn, and earrings made from milk bottle tops. Clearly the hand
iwork of a child.
Then Lacey frowned as she saw something wedged at the back of the cut space, like some kind of decorative backing. Was it a photograph?
She turned through the neatly cut pages and the picture that had been inside became dislodged. It fluttered to the floor, landing face down beside her right knee.
Chester made his whining noise.
“I know,” Lacey told him, as she reached for it. “How curious.”
She flipped the paper and saw it was indeed a photograph. The grainy quality of the image made Lacey think it was taken in the 1990s.
“Oh, look, it’s Iris!” Lacey told Chester, recognizing the woman instantly from her distinctive eyes. That sparkle of mischief and intelligence was unmistakable, even in eyes that were twenty-five years younger.
Iris was sitting in an armchair like it was a throne, a martini glass in one hand, a delighted smile on her face. The photographer had caught her in a candid moment of genuine laughter. She was wearing a simple black satin dress, but she’d accessorized it with some distinct gold pieces, including a pair of studded earrings in each lobe, and a delicate chain around her neck with a key pendant that hung just past her exposed clavicle. Her hair—brown, but with streaks of gray—had been twirled into a sophisticated updo, and she was wearing heels that made her crossed legs look long and shapely.
“Wow,” Lacey said aloud. “Iris really took the phrase ‘aging gracefully’ to its glamourous extreme!”
If Lacey herself had the energy to be even half as put together as Iris looked at that age, she’d be thrilled. But she knew in her heart she was more likely to go the way of her mother by reaching for a comfortable chunky knit cardigan and giving up the battle with gray hair before it had even begun.
Lacey’s eyes roved over to the other two people in the photograph, two men standing either side of Iris’s shoulders.