“Karl?”
“Karl Eggers. He owns Car-lectibles, the model car shop.” She turned toward the window and pointed. “It’s on that side of House of Melody. He and Mel didn’t get along so well.”
Callie remembered her aunt hinting at a strained relationship, but she hadn’t shared details. Taking the seat across from the rocking chair Delia had settled into, Callie asked, “What was the problem?”
“Karl wanted Mel’s shop.”
“What?”
“Well, not the music boxes. Just the shop. The premises.”
“Why?”
“He wants to expand—to add collectible model trains to his business. Karl has a nephew who’s in need of a job and would have run it for him. But Karl wanted the train shop close by—to be an extension of the model car shop, but also so he could keep a close eye on things. Mel’s place fit all his requirements.”
“But Aunt Mel didn’t want to sell.”
“Right. And with Car-lectibles being on the corner, hers is his only neighboring building.”
“Well, that’s unfortunate for him, but he can’t expect someone to sell just because he wants them to,” Callie said. Jagger padded over and looked ready to jump into her lap. She lifted her mug safely out of his way.
“Most people would agree with you. Karl, however … ” Delia shrugged and downed a swallow of coffee.
“I don’t think I’ve met him. Was he at the funeral?”
Delia made a face. “Nope. That’s how badly he holds a grudge. You should be prepared for your first encounter, which is bound to happen soon and is sure to be unpleasant. But however poorly he behaves toward you, Callie, don’t take it personally. On the other hand, if you should change your mind about staying, you’ll have a ready buyer.”
Though the tone of Delia’s last comment was neutral, Callie caught the hint of apprehension. “I won’t change my mind,” she assured her new neighbor. “Once I made my decision, I knew it was the right one.” She gave Delia the short version of having decided to end her long-term relationship and received a warmly sympathetic response with no questions, which she appreciated. When she got more used to the idea, Callie was sure she’d feel like talking about it more, but not just yet. “So you see, I’ve burned my bridges. Aunt Mel made it possible for me to start my life over. I’m going to try my darnedest to do it right this time.”
The mysteriously playing music box nudged into her thoughts, but she didn’t mention it. Why jeopardize a budding friendship by sounding wacko from the start? There surely was a good explanation for what set the music off. A slip in the mechanism? A minor earthquake—which nobody in the entire area happened to register? She grimaced inwardly. Whatever.
“Well,” Delia said, getting up, “I should head over to my shop. I’m expecting a shipment of salt and pepper shakers with a Christmas theme and need to make room for them.”
“Christmas?” Callie asked as she followed Delia to the door, thinking summer had just begun.
“Oh, yes! They’ll be big sellers. We get a lot of beach traffic, you know, since we’re just a quick jog off Route 50. Vacationers love to shop, and they love to shop ahead for Christmas. You’ll have to keep that in mind with your own place.”
“My first bit of helpful advice,” Callie said. “Thanks!”
Delia grinned, then grew serious. She took hold of both of Callie’s hands. “I’m truly delighted you’re going to stay and continue Mel’s business. I didn’t know what was going to happen to it and confess I was a bit worried. Now it’ll feel like Mel’s here in spirit, although I’m sure you’ll put your own stamp on the shop, once you get going.”
“Thank you, Delia. That means a lot to me.” Callie watched as Delia headed down the brick walkway to a well-worn footpath that ran between the two properties. It cut through an opening in the thick bushes that hid Delia’s cottage from her own except for the roof and chimney. Knowing she had such a welcoming neighbor and potential good friend was a comforting start to her new life.
As she stood at her doorway, Callie heard a door slam and caught movement to her left. A man had come out of the back door of Car-lectibles and stopped at the opening of a tall wooden fence to stare in her direction. He was fifty-ish and burly, and Callie realized this glowering man was most likely the person Delia had just told her about. Thinking she might as well introduce herself, she took a deep breath and stepped forward.
“Hello! I’m Callie Reed. Are you Mr. Eggers?”
The man, dark-haired and sporting a full beard, stared a moment longer, then nodded. “I am. Reed? You’re related to her?” His head jerked toward House of Melody.
“Melodie was my aunt,” Callie said, hearing her voice catch and wincing. Though she’d just had a comfortable chat about Aunt Mel with Delia, something about Karl Eggers brought back her feelings of loss.
Eggers glanced toward the cottage. “Clearing out her things?”
“Actually, I’m settling in. My aunt, it turns out, left everything to me.”
“Everything? What about the shop? Will you be selling?”
Callie shook her head. “I plan to keep House of Melody running.”
“Then we have nothing more to say to each other,” Eggers growled. He slammed back into Car-lectibles, leaving Callie standing, open-mouthed. Despite Delia’s warning, his reaction stunned her. She’d run into her share of rudeness, but nothing as blatant. But Delia had also advised against taking it personally, so Callie turned back to her cottage, repeating that mantra to herself several times. Jagger met her at the door and she scooped him up to stroke his soft fur and concentrate on good thoughts. When she felt calmer, she released the cat and went about picking up the coffee mugs and tidying up in the kitchen. Time to move forward.
She began by checking her supplies. They were limited to anything in a can, bottle, or box, so Callie made a list of fresh items to run out for. A meow at her feet reminded her to add cat food to the list—was Jagger able to read minds? Then she grabbed her purse and car keys and headed out the door.
The supermarket was a few blocks outside of Keepsake Cove, in the “other” part of Mapleton. As she drove, Callie couldn’t keep her thoughts off her encounter with Karl Eggers. His ongoing anger over not getting what he wanted was too disturbing. She hadn’t said anything to Delia about questioning the “accidental” ruling of Aunt Mel’s death—George Blake certainly hadn’t encouraged any thoughts in that direction. But Callie was unable to put them aside, and having met the person who continued to hold such bitterness against her aunt magnified them.
Could Eggers have had something to do with Aunt Mel’s death? Had he thought her death would make the music box shop available to him? Callie grimaced. That seemed like a weak motive for murder.
Murder! It was the first time she had actually formed the word, after days of skirting around it. She hated even thinking it. But if it wasn’t accidental, murder was exactly what Aunt Mel’s death had been.
The supermarket loomed ahead, and Callie turned her focus toward navigating the parking lot without mowing down pedestrians. After that, she concentrated on finding her way around the store. She gathered the food items she wanted—milk, bread, fruit, a few frozen entrees—and then remembered that all she’d brought with her from Morgantown were enough toiletries to freshen up with before the funeral, so she picked up a few more. She would need to shop for clothes, too, to tide her over until she could retrieve her own things. And she needed to call her former bosses, of course. Callie could recommend a replacement, but should probably check with the person first about whether she wanted the job.
Her head began to spin with all these must do thoughts. “One thing at a time,” she cautioned herself, not realizing she’d said it aloud until a woman with her back to her turned around.
“Huh?”
“Oh! Sorry. I was talking to myself.”
The y
oung woman, who had long chestnut hair and a sixties-style beaded headband, nodded. “I do that a lot. Especially when I have a lot on my mind, like you must have. I mean, having just lost your aunt.”
Callie looked more closely at her. The woman looked vaguely familiar, though Callie was sure she hadn’t been wearing a tie-dyed shirt and flower-embroidered bell bottoms when they’d met. “You were at the funeral?”
“Yup. Tabitha Prosser. Don’t feel bad about not remembering. There were a lot of us there.” Tabitha paused, then asked, “Will you be re-opening the shop soon?”
Callie blinked. “How did—?”
Tabitha shrugged. “Deductive reasoning. I knew you were Melodie’s only relative—I’ve worked with her, off and on—so I figured you’d inherit the shop. And here you are, still in town and stocking up on supplies.” She grinned. “Plus, I’m psychic.”
Callie grinned back, but she wasn’t totally sure her new acquaintance was joking. “I remember your name now. Aunt Mel mentioned you, but you weren’t at the shop during my visit.”
“I worked for Mel part time. I make and sell beaded jewelry the rest of the time, but the sales for that have been somewhat unpredictable.”
Callie bit back the comment that perhaps a psychic should have foreseen that. Instead, she studied the younger woman thoughtfully. “I could really use someone who knows House of Melody better than I do. Would you be interested in coming back?”
Tabitha grinned. “I knew there was a good explanation for my sudden craving for rice-milk chocolate. I just hadn’t put my finger on it. It must have been so we could run into each other. I’d love to be back at the shop. How soon? Tomorrow?”
Callie paused, thinking, why not? “Yes, tomorrow would be perfect.”
“Great! See you then.” Tabitha took off, carrying her rice-milk chocolate to the checkout counter as Callie mused once again about how quickly things seemed to be falling into place. It was almost as if—no, she wasn’t going to go in that direction. One “psychic” in the music box shop would be more than enough.
•
When she got back to the cottage, Callie put away her groceries, then headed upstairs to the guest room where Aunt Mel’s second laptop sat on the small corner desk. It occurred to Callie that she’d hired someone that she knew very little about, and she hoped she might find something in Aunt Mel’s records that would tell her more.
She booted up the laptop and was immediately asked for a password. Uh-oh. Callie thought for a moment, then remembered her aunt had grabbed a folder when she’d wanted to show Callie an unusual music box she’d recently ordered from an online wholesaler. Melodie had needed a password to enter the site, and she’d checked a printed sheet inside a folder.
A wire desktop organizer filled with papers and folders sat beyond the laptop. Callie fingered through the collection, looking for the dark blue one she remembered Aunt Mel holding. Of the three dark blues, only one was unlabeled. Inside was a printed sheet of passwords. Hooray!
Callie typed in the laptop’s password and watched with satisfaction as the screen colors changed and Welcome appeared. The menu page offered many familiar icons, and Callie clicked on Quicken. A few more clicks pulled up employee information, and Tabitha Prosser’s name was there. Two more names were also listed, but the dates of their employment were much earlier. Tabitha had begun working for Aunt Melodie eighteen months ago, part time, and her most recent paycheck had been only three weeks ago. So she seemed to have been an employee in good standing, which reassured Callie. She also saw Tabitha’s salary, which answered her other question.
She closed the program and opened up Word, interested to see what files her aunt had stored. Hopefully plenty of in-depth information on music boxes, which she could certainly use. She browsed through the titles of saved documents. Many did deal with music boxes, one way or another, and Callie resolved to read through them later on. But at the moment she felt herself drawn to another section of her aunt’s computer. She left Word and opened up her aunt’s emails.
Fighting off guilty feelings of snooping—she was, after all, the heir to her aunt’s estate, and the more she knew about it the better—Callie clicked on several received emails. Many of them had to do with shop business, so she read through them. One recent message came from a customer who’d asked Aunt Mel to find him “the music box we discussed.” Callie checked the sent box and, finding no response to that email, made a note to contact the man for more information
She then noticed that a message was stored in drafts. She opened it, expecting to find an email to the customer. She was surprised to find instead the draft of an email addressed to her.
Dear Callie, it began. I’ve debated about writing to you about this, not wanting to unnecessarily worry you. But something has come up lately that I think you should know about, in case anything happens.
The message stopped there and had no signature. Aunt Mel had typed it a few days before Callie’s visit. What had she intended to share? Why didn’t she finish? Had she perhaps decided to talk to Callie instead, in person, during her time there? Callie stared at the screen until she began to hear a familiar sound. She turned slowly toward the doorway.
Grandpa Reed’s music box, still downstairs and inside the roll-top desk, had started to play.
Four
Callie left her cozy cottage the next morning with a stomach full of butterflies, carrying a mug of chamomile tea she’d fixed for its soothing properties. After setting Aunt Mel’s mysterious draft email aside to mull over later, she’d spent a portion of the previous day on the phone with her now-ex employers—the lawyers in Morgantown—who were wonderfully understanding about her sudden resignation after hearing about her unexpected inheritance. Surprisingly, most of the office was also pleased to learn of her split from Hank. Jubilant, in fact. Though she was glad for the reassurance, Callie wouldn’t have minded hearing a word or two from them a bit earlier, when she could have used a nudge in the right direction. But she accepted everyone’s good wishes and promised faithfully to keep in touch.
The rest of that day, and much of the night, she’d spent studying Aunt Mel’s shop records and music boxes in general. Today she would open House of Melody for business for the first time, and she really didn’t want to mess up.
What could go wrong? Callie asked herself in an effort to calm the butterflies as she unlocked the rear door of the shop. The music boxes were tagged with prices; she knew how to ring up sales; and, if questions from customers came up, there was a handy reference book sitting behind the front counter to help her out. Plus, Tabitha would be showing up to resume her part-time job. That last fact gave Callie the most confidence. If she found herself floundering, at least she knew reinforcements were arriving.
Setting down her mug, she raised the shade on the front door, turned the lock, and flipped on the lights. Done! She was now officially open for business. All she needed was a customer.
Callie looked up and down the sunny street and saw little activity—not surprising, she supposed, for nine a.m. Except that the Keepsake Café across the street seemed to be bustling. She saw two women exit the Café and pause to glance her way. Callie felt her heart beat a little faster. Her first customers? She watched through her window as they consulted a list. Then the one in green pointed down the street, and the two took off in that direction. Callie’s pulse slowed—whether in disappointment or with relief, she wasn’t quite sure.
She turned from the window and picked up her mug to take a sip, telling herself to be patient. She wasn’t, after all, offering fast food or quick-sale souvenir T-shirts. She’d be dealing mostly with specialty collectors, who would likely arrive in dribs and drabs. She’d better know what she had to offer, especially if she wanted them to come back. Callie carried her mug with her as she wound among the tables and shelves, studying, memorizing, and occasionally playing the tunes of the quainter music boxes. She smiled when
she wound up a Winnie-the-Pooh globe and heard a tinkley “Happy Birthday” song, and when she lifted the top of an Elvis box to hear “Love Me Tender,” minus the King’s rich baritone, of course. The variety seemed endless, and she wandered about enjoying each and every music box. Then a very different tune startled her. The jingle of her shop door opening.
“Good morning!” a middle-aged woman with a cap of brown curls and an eager face called as she entered. “I saw your shade up and came right over. I’ve been coming here for years and was so sorry to hear that the previous owner passed away. She was really a lovely woman with a wonderful shop. I hated the thought that it might be gone. Are you the new owner?” she asked, glancing around and obviously expecting a more mature person, perhaps, to step forward.
“I am,” Callie answered, and watched the woman’s eyebrows jiggle in surprise. Callie introduced herself and explained her relationship to Melodie Reed. “I’ll be continuing my aunt’s business with her same love of music boxes, and I’m working hard to reach her level of expertise.”
“Oh, how exciting! And aren’t you lucky!” The woman caught herself. “I mean, of course, I’m so sorry about your loss. But to be handed a shop in Keepsake Cove! They’re highly prized, you know. The Cove has an amazing reputation among collectors, and shop space is limited.”
Thinking of Karl Eggers and how he coveted House of Melody’s premises, Callie nodded.
“Now”—the woman rubbed her hands together and looked around keenly—”what new items do you have that I would like?”
“Um … ” Callie said as panic began to rise in her throat. “I, that is—” As the stammers threatened to paralyze her, the shop door flew open and a 1940s version of Joan Crawford swept in: shoulder pads, open-toed shoes, pompadour and all.
“Hi!” the Ms. Crawford look-alike called out cheerily, then focused on Callie’s customer. “Mrs. MacDonald! How’re you doing?”
A Fatal Collection Page 3