“Galadriel,” Tabitha corrected. “From The Lord of the Rings?” she added at Callie’s blank look. “One of the royal elves.”
Callie nodded then. “Right.”
“Of course, I don’t have Cate Blanchett’s fabulous hair. But I do what I can. So why are you changing the locks?”
Callie told about the almost-break-in of the previous night—or early morning—leaving out her strange dream. The locksmith, she figured, had enough oddities to deal with for the moment.
“Ohmygosh!” Tabitha cried. “Did they catch him?”
Callie shook her head. “He ran off as soon as he realized he was spotted. The police told me they put out an APB on him, but no success.”
“Yeah, I guess it would be easy to disappear in this town at night. Was he all in black?”
“Dark clothes, hiding in dark shadows. I can’t even say for sure that it was a he.”
“Bummer.” Tabitha scowled, her hands on her hips, looking much less ethereal and fairy-like than on her arrival. “Why here?” Her gaze roamed the shelves. “Is there a black market for music boxes somewhere?”
Callie shrugged. “The police thought he might be hoping to grab some quick cash—which I don’t keep around—or maybe the office laptop. Who knows? The puzzling part, and the reason I’m replacing the locks, is that the lock didn’t appear forced.”
“Really! Wow.”
“And before you ask—”
Tabitha held up her hand. “Wouldn’t even think it. I’ve seen how careful you are. You wouldn’t forget anything like that.”
“Thank you. I’m not sure the responding officers were convinced. For all I know, they suspect that what I saw was just shadows from swaying trees. They sent someone to dust for prints on the door and also took mine. But I washed down the outside of the door just the other day. Elvin had left dark smudges on the white paint.”
“Elvin?”
“He cut my grass on Sunday afternoon. When he was done, he must have tried to come in through the back door to let me know. But I’d left it locked, as usual.” Callie sighed. “So anyway, since the door was just washed, the only prints they’ll likely find are mine.”
“Because your burglar wore gloves.”
“Probably.”
The middle-aged locksmith packed up his tools and stood with a slight wince. “All done, ma’am. Front and back.” He locked and unlocked her door twice before handing over the new keys. “If you need more of those, I can duplicate them easily at my shop.”
Callie took them, along with his bill, and set about writing out a check. “Do you get a lot of people bringing in keys to get copied?” she asked.
“Oh, sure. All the time.”
“And you’d have no idea … never mind.” She’d wanted to ask if the key someone brought in could be verified as belonging to that person but realized that sounded pretty ridiculous. She handed over the check and thanked the man for his prompt service.
When he was gone, Tabitha wandered between the shelves of music boxes, her gown flowing lightly. “I don’t understand, Callie. There’s no good reason for someone to try to break in here.”
“What you said about a black market for music boxes made me wonder. Maybe I should be looking into those high-end ones in the glass cases? Could they be particularly rare?”
“I doubt it. Mel ordered almost all of her stock through the usual companies. You could check, though. What woke you?” she asked, getting back to the burglar. “Did he make some kind of noise?”
“No.” Callie grimaced, then told her about her vivid dream.
“Ahhh.”
“I know what you’re thinking. But it was just a dream.”
“Callie, I believe there’s no such thing as just a dream. You were getting a message. A warning.” Tabitha’s gaze rose over Callie’s shoulder. “Where’s Mel’s music box?”
“I took it back to the cottage, to be safe.”
“Well, there you go. That’s probably what Mel was worried about. That her family’s music box was in danger.”
“Or maybe that her entire shop was in danger. Assuming it was Mel waking me up, that is. Which we don’t know.”
Tabitha’s lips curled wryly. “Oh, we know.”
Callie smiled. No use arguing. If Aunt Mel really was looking out for her, why not just take it as a good thing? And if it was all simply coincidence and in Tabitha’s imagination, well, who did it hurt? Might as well just roll with it.
Movement at the door caught her eye. “Looks like we have a customer,” she said.
Time to move on to more worldly things.
Fourteen
By that evening, the stress of the previous night’s burglar, dealing with the police, and the subsequent loss of sleep caught up with Callie, and she thought longingly of her soft bed as she returned to her cottage. But the living room and much of the upstairs was still a cluttered mess, and bags from her grocery shopping sat on the counter, unpacked. She groaned and muttered “important things first” as she quickly fed her hungry cat. Then she dropped onto the blue sofa and kicked off her shoes, leaned her head onto the back cushion, and closed her eyes.
That’s when the phone rang.
It was Aunt Mel’s landline, the handset sitting on the end table near the door. Callie seriously considered letting it go but wondered if it might be the police, who had taken both her cell and the cottage’s numbers. She dragged herself up to answer.
“Hey, babe!” that too-familiar voice greeted her, prompting a second groan.
“How did you get this number, Hank?”
“It’s listed, babe,” he said, his tone strongly implying duh. “You haven’t been picking up on your cell. What’s she got there? One of those black rotary dials? Or is it hanging on her wall with a crank on the side?”
Callie ignored the question. How old did he think Aunt Mel had been? Ninety? “What do you want, Hank?”
“Just want to hear your voice again,” he said, and Callie’s eyes rolled. “Get your stuff okay?”
“Everything came yesterday.” It felt like weeks ago rather than a day. “You have the TV, right?”
“Yup. But I’d rather have you here.”
Somehow, Callie doubted that. “Look, Hank, I’ve had an awfully busy couple of days—”
“Thought I’d come down to see you.”
“No! You can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because I said so,” Callie said, knowing she sounded just like her mother. But wasn’t that what her relationship to Hank had become, parent and child? He, of course, being the child.
“Listen, Hank. No visits. It’s over. We’re done. Please, just let it go and move on.”
“But babe—”
“Goodbye, Hank. Enjoy your TV,” Callie said and hung up. As she stood by the phone, a short trill sounded from inside the roll-top desk, and Callie didn’t even flinch, having almost expected it. Had Tabitha’s convictions gotten to her? Callie shook her head. More likely exhaustion had hit her.
With hopes that dinner would perk her up, she headed into the kitchen. Her grand plans of actual cooking had flown, and she opened her freezer to pull out one of the heat-and-eat dinners she’d bought for emergencies. To her mind, this qualified. She peeled off the plastic and popped it into the microwave. Instant fuel, if not flavor, was on its way.
By the time she progressed to a healthy dessert of fresh cherries, Callie felt energized enough to put away the rest of her groceries. That done, she brewed a small pot of coffee and carried a mugful into the living room, thinking she might work at one of the boxes of books that awaited her. But first she’d enjoy her coffee.
As she relaxed on the sofa, sipping, her gaze wandered about before landing on the closet door, and she thought of the locked metal box inside. Organizing her books became much less important.
>
What might be in that box? How would she get into it to find out? Those questions and more ran through her mind as she stared at the door. She set down the coffee mug and went to retrieve the box, now pushed behind her own winter boots and partially covered by a long winter coat. She pulled it out and set it on the coffee table. She’d already checked all of the keys from the ring George Blake had given her with no success. Aunt Mel must have had a key to the box, but it hadn’t been on the key ring, nor had Callie come across any stray keys when sorting through her aunt’s things.
She thought of the locksmith who’d just changed the shop locks. Could he pick this one for her? She supposed he could, but did she want him to? She didn’t know what they’d find inside. How many sets of eyes would Aunt Mel have wanted to see it? The locksmith was out. Callie would break into the box herself.
She went into the kitchen, to the drawer that contained Aunt Mel’s small collection of tools. Pawing through them, she selected a screwdriver and a hammer and carried both back to the living room. She set the metal box on the floor, then knelt down and pried the screwdriver into the slit between the lid and the bottom half, just over the lock. She hammered at it, once, twice, several times, over and over. She was just about to give up when it broke.
Callie set down her tools and stared at the box for a few moments. Then she tried to lift the lid. The resulting dents from her hammering made it difficult, and she had to pry and jiggle. Finally it lifted, and she looked inside.
What she first saw were envelopes and loose papers, exactly what she’d heard when she first gently shook the box. She pulled them out and laid them on the floor next to her. At the bottom of the box was a clear plastic container with a corsage inside, the flowers long-dried and the pink ribbons holding them together faded. She lifted the corsage box out to examine. No label or note identified it, but she saw a pink plastic band attached to the flowers, making it a wrist corsage. It had to have been from a prom. She couldn’t imagine wearing a corsage of that type anywhere else.
Setting it aside, she picked up the largest envelope. It had her aunt’s name, Melodie, scrawled on it, and inside was a Valentine card covered with red hearts, lace, cupids, and bows. Inside, on a slightly yellowed page, a neatly rhyming verse offered sentimental thoughts, finishing with “I Love You.” That line was underlined three times with exclamation points added. It was signed, Tom.
Who was Tom?
The signature was only three letters, but the handwriting, with its carefully rounded letters, looked young, possibly teenaged. That fit with the corsage, to Callie’s mind, though there was no indication that they’d come from the same person. The verse, though, was simplistic enough to appeal more to a young person, along with the elaborate decoration. She opened a second envelope and found a birthday card, just as ornate as the Valentine card, with professions of love. It, too, was signed Tom.
From the yellowed condition of the paper and the similarity of the signature, Callie put the two cards into the same time frame. Possibly Aunt Mel’s high school years? It was a guess, but along with the corsage, she thought it was likely. Since they’d apparently been hand delivered and were undated, those small clues were all she had to go on.
The loose papers, with their ragged edges, looked torn from a large notebook and folded several times. Scribbled notes, possibly passed during class? These were unsigned, but had messages like Late practice today—will miss you! or Movie Sat. nite with Jake and Tina? There were dozens of these, and Aunt Mel had cared enough about them to save them. Callie smiled to herself as she realized that now these messages would be sent by text. Her aunt was fortunate to have the paper versions to collect and savor.
Callie had sorted through most of the notes before coming across one of a very different kind. This one was on actual stationary but still undated. It looked like something that would have been mailed, but its envelope was missing. The writing was more mature, but to Callie’s inexpert eyes, there were similarities to the teenaged scribbles. The note referred to a meeting with Melodie after so long and the happiness it had brought. It was brief and signed only with T. Tom, of course. It had to be.
Callie leaned back on her heels, absorbing what she’d just found. Was this the person that Delia suspected was secretly in Aunt Mel’s life? A high school romance revitalized years later? If so, why the secrecy? Because Tom was married seemed the most likely explanation, but that didn’t fit with the Aunt Mel that Callie knew or that all her friends knew. Callie just couldn’t see her aunt acting selfishly, in a way that would hurt someone—Tom’s wife. But Callie could vouch for the fact that love sometimes had a way of overriding a person’s better side. Still …
She wished she knew more about Tom. The notes told her nothing other than that her aunt had cherished them. Had love blinded her, though? Had Tom possibly used Melodie, convinced her that their relationship couldn’t be out in the open when in fact this was convenient only for him?
If Tom had a wife, had she been oblivious to the affair? Aunt Mel had obviously been cautious, but had Tom? If his wife had found out, what would she have done? Had there been a strong reason that convinced Aunt Mel to agree to the secrecy? Perhaps Tom’s wife was unstable enough to hurt him. That fit better with Callie’s knowledge of her aunt’s character—that she would want to safeguard him. But then why conduct the affair at all?
Or would Tom’s wife have come after Mel? Callie flashed on the vision of her aunt’s body, lying on the floor of the shop in a pool of blood, and her stomach clenched. Could a vengeful woman have caused that?
She glanced toward the roll-top desk. The music box inside was silent. What that meant, if anything, Callie didn’t know. Maybe, she thought, it simply meant that its playing at odd times was total coincidence.
She looked back at the array of papers. Was she making too much of them, or could she truly connect them to her aunt’s death? The secrecy troubled her. People sometimes killed to keep secrets from coming out. Might Tom, the person Aunt Mel seemed to have sacrificed so much of her life for, have decided he couldn’t afford the risk anymore? That struck Callie as a more horrible scenario than a vengeful wife. But in one way it was more credible. Tom could have asked Aunt Mel to meet him in the dead of night for whatever concocted reason, and she would have trusted him enough to do so. Callie pictured her aunt stealing silently down the cottage steps that night while her niece slept, then letting Tom into the shop for the supposed urgent meeting. When she happened to turn her back to him, he could have struck in a way that made Mel’s injuries appear accidental.
Callie hated the image she’d conjured but admitted its possibility. At this point, though, she was aware it was all imagination without a shred of proof. She suddenly flashed to her almost-burglary. Was there a connection? If Aunt Mel’s death was, in fact, murder, might her burglar have been the murderer, returning for some reason?
The thought was one that she knew had been lurking, deep down, but that she’d only now allowed to come forward. But was it true? It was one thing to conjure up speculations. What she needed was more information. That included finding Tom.
Fifteen
Callie spent the remainder of her evening searching through Aunt’s Mel’s bookshelves, which she and Delia had left intact in the guest bedroom. Though the room was small, the shelves covered much of the wall space and held an extensive collection. The search for a high school yearbook, which might have identified Tom, proved fruitless and gobbled up hours, some of that coming from being sidetracked too often by other books.
As she slipped wearily into bed, Callie considered the fate of her own yearbooks. She’d left them at her childhood home, assuming somewhere in the back of her mind that her room and its contents would be preserved museum-like, waiting for her to take the notion of reclaiming them. In fact, items deemed worthy of saving had been gradually packed up by her mother and moved to the attic. Would that have been the same for Aunt Mel’
s high school memorabilia?
Her aunt had inherited Grandpa Reed’s music box collection. She’d probably handled his estate, including contents of the house she’d grown up in. But if she’d left behind some of her own things years before, would they have survived? Only Aunt Mel and Grandpa Reed could answer that. If anything of Callie’s father’s had been sent to him at that time, Callie wasn’t aware of it, and his too-early death meant she couldn’t ask him.
She turned off her light and willed herself to turn off her overly active thoughts. They’d kept her going through her exhaustion for several hours, but she needed to rest. She was sure they’d be waiting for her in the morning, hopefully with fresh ideas.
•
Callie was right. Within seconds of opening her eyes the next day, she knew what to do: contact her mother. Easier said than done, though, because her mom was off on another trip. Where was it this time? Callie grabbed her phone to search through emails for recent ones from Elizabeth Reed Jablonski, her mom’s name since remarrying. She found one and was reminded that her mother and stepfather had flown off to Tahiti on their latest excursion.
Could she reach them? She had no idea where the pair might exactly be at the moment. Traveling through a mountain area with sketchy cell phone service? Nor did she know if either of them had adapted their phones to that location. Neither Elizabeth nor Frank worried much about keeping in touch when they were away, preferring to “immerse themselves in the experience” as they put it. All Callie could do was try.
She typed an email—her mother’s preferred form of messaging—and asked where her father had gone to high school, figuring Aunt Mel would have attended the same one. She added hopes that her mom and Frank were having a wonderful time and hit send. Then she headed for the shower. Time to get ready for a new day at House of Melody.
•
Tabitha arrived that morning dressed quite normally, something nearly as startling to Callie as her assistant’s first “Joan Crawford” appearance had been.
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