by Cate Price
She shrugged. “When I reminded her that she was, in fact, getting married next month, and assured her that the dress would be ready in plenty of time, she calmed down. But it was touch and go there for a while.”
“Wow.”
Eleanor picked up some changeable silk, or shantung, of raspberry and chartreuse woven together. “Feel this, Daisy.”
“It’s gorgeous.” There was an almost guilty pleasure to the sensual slide of the fabric against itself.
“Better than sex, right?” she murmured.
“Well . . .”
“No, you’re right. But better than chocolate?”
“Not sure about that either, but I can picture the stunning lady’s evening jacket this would make. And there’s only one person who could carry it off.”
“Martha!” we both said at the same time.
I held on to the beautiful material. “Eleanor, I have a proposition for you.”
“God, it’s been a long time since I heard those words. Makes me feel like I’m back in the sixties again.”
“Look, I’ll buy the fabric and you make the evening jacket. It could be our Christmas present to Martha. I’ve been wanting to do something for her for a while. She always brings treats into the store and never lets me pay her back.”
“What about you? You feed us coffee every day.”
“Well, yes, but it’s my store, and I benefit. A lively atmosphere attracts customers.”
I let the smooth silk slip beneath my fingers. Every time Martha moved there would be a hint of raspberry beneath the shimmery lemon and green.
It would be the perfect foil for her vibrant hair.
• • •
When we arrived back in Millbury, Eleanor hurried over to A Stitch Back in Time to brew up the tea to color the lace.
It was still only 4 p.m.
I stared at the psychic reader’s shop. It didn’t have the typical neon sign hanging outside. That would never be allowed by Millbury’s zoning codes. Instead there was an elegant purple and gold wooden circle: PSYCHIC ADVISOR, TAROT CARD, PALM READINGS.
There was also another sign, for Halloween, that said, WITCH PARKING ONLY, ALL OTHERS WILL BE TOAD.
At least this medium had a sense of humor.
What the heck. As if my feet moved of their own accord, I crossed the street and peered in the window, where silver stars hung from silver threads. Hippie tapestries were tacked to the walls, and I spotted a wine bottle where numerous candles had dripped down its sides, forming a colorful stalactite. It looked more like a dorm room from my college days than a retail establishment.
I opened the door and entered the dim interior. Candles burned on top of the bookshelves lining both walls and on the round table near the back.
“Hello?”
No one appeared, so I browsed through the books, which were mainly on witchcraft and how to read the tarot. More candles, mortar and pestles, and silver pentagram jewelry were displayed for sale on a table in the center, and cinnamon brooms were propped up against it, the spicy scent competing with incense sticks smoldering in a jar on the counter.
Talk about being back in the sixties again.
It was smaller than my place, but like Marybeth said, I probably didn’t need all the room I had now. With some consolidation and careful space planning, I could make this work.
Suddenly beads on a hanging curtain clacked together and a robust woman materialized, her face a mask of pancake foundation that was practically orange. Her head was wrapped in a tie-dyed bandana, but what little I could see of her hair was platinum blond.
She pointed a long purple fingernail at me. “You are here because you vant my store!”
“What?” I stifled a gasp. Was my avaricious intent so easy to read on my face?
“No? You have come for reading?” Her eyes, heavy with black eyeliner, almost disappeared as she squinted at me.
“Um. Yes, I think so.”
She motioned for me to sit at the table. Once we were both seated, she moved the crystal ball in between us and placed both her hands on top.
Here we go. What a crock.
She was silent for a few moments until slowly her hands moved across it, as if she were feeling each minute imperfection of the glass.
“I see a man, no, two men, surrounding you. Both have vhite hair. Both are loving you. One is larger than the other.”
Angus and Joe?
“Here is another man—a dark and dangerous man.” She paused, frowning as she stared into the ball.
I drew in a breath. That must mean Serrano.
“He lives his life in the shadows. But this is the one you really vant. Yes?”
My heart started tripping. It was true that I was attracted to the good-looking, tormented detective, but I was a happily married woman.
Wasn’t I?
“And a fourth!” She eyed me speculatively and then peered closer into the globe. “This man has long hair. Looks a bit like . . . Mick Jagger . . . ?”
I jerked my head up in time to see the twinkle in her eye before she burst into uproarious laughter.
“I’m just joshing with ya.” The semi-Russian accent was gone, replaced by a South Philly dialect broader than Tony Z’s. “I know who you are, and I heard about your troubles with that dirtbag landlord of yours. Figured it wouldn’t be too long ’til you stopped in.”
She held out a hand with its purple talons. “How’re ya doin’? I’m Ronnie. My last name is Polish, and no one can pronounce it, so I just go by Ronnie. Or Madame Ronnie, if you wanna be formal-like.”
“Jeez, you had me going there for a minute, Ronnie.” I grinned as I took her hand. “So you can’t really read minds, or see the future, then?”
She shrugged a plump shoulder. “I dunno. Sometimes I do get a feeling, sort of, but a lot of it is intuition and good old life experience. When you grow up on the streets, you learn to size up people and situations real fast.”
I nodded. It was as I’d always thought. These psychics were just clever students of human behavior.
“But seriously, what is it that you want?” she asked.
I stared into her eyes, so dark brown they were nearly black. I felt myself being sucked into their enigmatic depths.
“To stay in Millbury.”
“At any price?”
I nodded slowly. In that moment, I decided I’d do whatever I could to get Chip to agree to let me sign a new lease, but only for a year. If I was very careful, I could make it, even at the ridiculous rate he was asking.
I’d ride my bike more, drink cheaper wine, curtail Joe’s spending. It would buy me some time, in case someone else moved out and I could take his or her spot on Main Street. Or if nothing else, a year to adjust to the idea of moving to a different town.
Even if Chip went ahead with his bistro plans, he’d need time to get the zoning approval and apply for a liquor permit, and he would probably welcome another twelve months worth of significant rental income.
It was as if I could suddenly breathe again. Making a firm decision on what to do instead of all this uncertainty constantly buzzing around in my head felt like an elephant had stepped off my chest.
I pulled out my wallet. “Thanks, Ronnie. This is the best ten bucks I ever spent.”
She nodded and tucked the bill into her bra. “Who knows how long I can make it here anyway.”
Now she really was reading my mind.
“There’s plenty of people would like to see me fail. Brings down the standard of the neighborhood, they say.”
“I’m sorry. People can be so mean and thoughtless.”
“Tell you what, if I’m not going to renew my lease come July, you’ll be the first to know.”
“Thanks, Ronnie. I appreciate that.”
We shook hands again. Suddenly her fingers tight
ened around mine, so hard that I couldn’t break free.
My heart rate accelerated and I stared at her. “What is it?” I whispered, but she didn’t answer, her eyes unseeing and almost opaque.
The skin touching mine turned ice-cold. I knew she wasn’t faking it, and my heart beat even faster. She was silent for so long, my hand was freezing by the time she finally let go.
“What?”
Ronnie shook her head, looking as shaken as me.
“Something. I don’t know what. But you’re in danger, Daisy Buchanan, there’s no doubt about that. Watch your back.”
• • •
On Saturday, Angus held the auction for Harriet Kunes’s vast collection. We all agreed to help out because he could use the extra hands on deck.
Martha and Cyril volunteered to man the snack bar, Eleanor said she would check people in and assign bidder numbers, and I offered to help move merchandise up to the stage. Betty Backstead would be logging in the winning bids on her laptop.
Joe had promised to come, too, but on Saturday morning when I was ready to leave, he decided he was too busy with his miniatures. After a brief, tense exchange, I walked out of the house, slamming the door behind me.
The auction building was situated on three pastoral acres just outside of Sheepville, across from the Backsteads’ white stucco farmhouse. It was a low corrugated metal building, and I was glad the weather had turned cooler because there was no air-conditioning inside, only a few ceiling fans. With the way some auctions and some bidders heated up, it could get brutal in there.
As I pulled into the lot, I glimpsed Eleanor’s red Vespa zooming up behind me in my rearview mirror. Cyril’s pickup truck was already parked outside. Eleanor and I walked into the auction house together, past the reception area to the snack bar, where Martha was setting up two large slow cookers.
“I’ve brought my famous buffalo wings and spicy meatballs today. That should keep the men happy.”
“Oh, aye? Tha’s a right spicy meatball tha sen,” Cyril growled, appraising Martha from the rear as he turned the coffee urn on to brew.
Eleanor made the motion of sticking a finger down her throat, and I chuckled as I walked on through to the main auction space. Rows of wooden folding seats that Angus had salvaged from an old theater sat in the center of the concrete floor.
“Yo, Daisy!”
I turned around as I heard the familiar husky voice of Patsy Elliott. She and her daughter came rushing up to me, and I bent down to give Claire a hug. She clung to me, unwilling to let go. I sometimes thought that even though we weren’t technically related, these two meant more to me than some of my real family members.
Patsy was tall, with dark curly hair and blue eyes, and lean curves that generated lots of tips at the diner. The classic healthy freckle-faced Irish girl. Claire had dark hair and would be tall, too, when she grew up, but that was where the resemblance ended.
Her heart-shaped face and huge eyes under arched brows would almost be too exotic for Millbury when she eventually blossomed into womanhood. Angus had nicknamed her “Legs” because she had the longest legs compared with her nine-year-old body.
“Sorry I haven’t stopped in your store in, like, forever,” Patsy said. “I’ve been run off my feet with waitressing, and helping with the auctions. Plus, do you have any idea how much freaking homework they give kids these days? I’d like to smack some of these teachers.”
“Daisy used to be a history teacher, Mom.” Claire grinned at me, her dark eyes shining.
“Oh, God, sorry again. Forgot about that. And I haven’t gotten around to sending out invitations yet, but will you come to Claire’s birthday party? It’s the night before Halloween.”
I smiled at Claire. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“Mommy said we wouldn’t do it on my actual birthday, because all my friends would be trick-or-treating.”
“That’s true. And besides, you deserve your own special day. Can’t wait until you see what I got you. It’s a special present from me. And from Cyril, too.”
“Ooh! What is it? Can I guess?”
“Nope.” I exchanged a glance with her mother. Especially not here, surrounded by dollhouses. Too many clues. “You’ll just have to wait and see.”
Patsy winked at me. “You know, Daisy, Angus has been just awesome. I’m helping out more and more here lately. Thanks again.”
When Angus had been in prison, and then in the hospital, I’d suggested that Patsy step in and handle the bid calling in order to keep the business going. Betty Backstead was too nervous to get up on the stage herself, but Patsy turned out to be a natural auctioneer.
“In fact, I might be able to quit the diner one of these days and get that little place we’ve been dreaming of.”
“That’s wonderful.”
Patsy and Claire lived with Patsy’s sister at Quarry Ridge, in the same development as Serrano. They had the whole finished basement to themselves, but it wasn’t the same as having your own house.
Patsy put an arm around her daughter’s shoulders. “Well, kid, let me get you that soda I promised you before the action starts. See you later, Daisy.”
They headed toward the snack bar and I spotted Ardine Smalls making last-minute adjustments to some of the dollhouses on display. I went over to her, and we walked around together during the presale inspection. She seemed to have a story about each one. Which competition it had won, and in which year, or at which auction Harriet had outbid her to buy that particular house.
The hall was filling up quickly, so I told Ardine I’d catch her later. I recognized some of her gray-haired compatriots from the competition milling around. There was so much to be sold tonight that Patsy and Angus were going to trade off the auctioneering, an hour at a time. I brought Claire backstage with me. We’d be in charge of lining up the dolls in the correct order for the assistants to carry out to the podium.
Once the auction began, I started marking my catalog with the winning bids, but after a while I gave up, stunned by the huge amounts. They were already way over what I’d thought, and the reserve prices Angus had established. Although as he’d often told me, it’s the marketplace that sets the market value, not the auctioneer. Ardine had spent a fortune herself by buying five of the bigger dollhouses.
During a break in the action, I went outside for some fresh air. The lot was jammed full, with cars spilling onto the surrounding fields. There were license plates from New Jersey, Maryland, Delaware, even as far away as New York and Ohio.
As I passed the snack bar on my way back inside, there was a long line of men laughing and joking with Martha as she served up the wings and meatballs as fast as she could go. Cyril was glowering and pouring sodas and hot coffee.
He stepped out from behind the snack bar when he saw me. “Could I have a word?”
“Sure, Cyril.”
I summoned my meager supply of patience as he worked his way up to whatever it was he wanted to ask.
“It’s me cat,” he said finally. “Martha and I are going to a bed-and-breakfast, or some such nonsense next week.” He looked as morose as if he’d said he was going to Dottie Brown’s knitting class.
“Could you look after the little feller? He has a cat flap so he can take off whenever he pleases, but if you could stop in every other day or so and make sure there’s food and water down, that’s all ah ask.”
“Of course, no problem.”
“I’ll give tha a key.”
I nodded slowly. “Okay.”
This was a Big Deal for Cyril. As far as I knew, Martha didn’t even have a key to his place.
“Don’t you worry about a thing,” I assured him. “Just enjoy yourself.”
He grunted and went back to serving coffee.
The auction, which started at 1 p.m. and was supposed to end at 5 p.m., finally wrapped up around 6
:45 p.m., leaving us all exhausted and aghast at the fierce bidding. In addition to the packed auction hall, there had been lots of online action, which contributed to the astronomical winning prices.
I’d never seen Patsy Elliott cry in all the years I’d known her, but her eyes were full tonight as she ran over and gave me an even tighter hug than her daughter had earlier.
“Pats, what on earth’s the matter?”
She gulped in some air. “Angus told me before we started tonight’s auction that he was giving me a cut of the commission . . .”
Here she stopped and sucked down more air. “But I never dreamed we’d fetch prices like this. Those were crazy numbers. My God, Daisy, I think it’s enough for a down payment on a house. I can’t freaking believe it!”
As I hugged her, I felt tears coming to my eyes, too. Angus had confided to me that he was grooming Patsy to take over the place someday. There was a five-year survival rate for the type of tumor he’d had, and I hoped it was a hell of a lot longer than that, but you never knew.
“Why are you crying, Mommy?” Claire wrinkled her nose as she looked up at us.
“Because I’m happy.”
Claire shook her head at me and smiled. “Grown-ups are so weird sometimes.”
At that moment, I spotted Serrano at the entrance, so I excused myself and hurried over to him. Tonight he was in his casual, but chic mode. Black leather jacket, jeans, and white shirt.
“Are you here to bid on a dollhouse, Detective? Or perhaps a charming French bisque?”
“Very funny. I’m on my way home after my shift. Figured I’d stop in and see how things went. Where’s Joe tonight?”
I bit my lip. “It’s a case of ‘be careful what you wish for.’ I hoped he would find a hobby that he’d enjoy, but now all his time is taken up with making miniatures. He says he’s getting so many orders, it’s tough to keep up.”
I started to tell Serrano how amazingly well the auction had gone when his attention shifted to something behind me. I turned to see Bettina and Birch talking to Angus. They looked relaxed and happy, as Birch shook Angus’s hand and clapped him on the back. There was a brightness of spirit emanating from Bettina that even being around the wine club hadn’t tainted. They didn’t seem like guilty killers to me. Just a couple who were very much in love.