Adelaide Upset

by Penny Greenhorn

  It came to me then, mid-groom, the reason why Dusty Antiques rang a bell. It was a little shop on St. Simons. I scrubbed my brain, trying to recall more. It was something I’d noticed when I first moved to the island, but I had never actually ventured into the store. And I had a vague impression that it was somewhere near the lighthouse. Near Nancy’s Parlor, which was convenient, because I’d already been planning a trip in that direction.

  Five minutes of driving downtown and I was ready to quit. I had all the windows down, but I couldn’t get a good breeze going because my progress was minimal. All the streets were punctuated with stop signs and stop lights, clumps of people waiting at every corner, skirting in front of my car if they got the chance. I was melting, the faux leather trim on my bucket seat sticking to my skin. I peeled myself away, sitting forward, but it wasn’t an improvement. I still had my cotton T-shirt to deal with, the cloth glued to my sweaty back. Georgia was nice and mild in the winter, but she turned into a relentless bitch all summer long.

  I circled around the neighborhood, scoping out the place, but I didn’t see a sign for Dusty Antiques. I gave up rather quickly, parking at the first place I could find, just wanting to escape my oven of a car.

  I walked to the Parlor, threading through the tourists. I used to consider this therapy—the exposure to emotions, testing my ability to keep control, to mask my reactions. That was before Reed made things complicated, before Percy’s ring and the ghosts. With so much change in my life, so many challenges, this task seemed simple now. Easy. A cakewalk.

  The easel was out, the Parlor open for business. But when I walked down the dusty hallway no one was waiting at the reception desk. I shrugged and continued back, familiar with the way to Nancy’s upstairs apartment. She answered my knock looking harried, her messy hair messier than usual and a drip down the front of her blouse.

  She looked at me for a moment, and then a blast of worry took over. “Is everything okay?” she more or less demanded, remembering her ominous predictions. “Has something happened?”

  “A couple of things actually,” I said. “But only one of which I’ve come to talk about. Is this a bad time?” I glanced at the food still clinging to her breast.

  She followed my gaze, swiping at the blotch in a preoccupied manner. “Jam,” she muttered. Then, “Come in. Come in,” waving a hand to flap me through the doorway.

  “I didn’t see Eclipsys downstairs,” I said, following her into the kitchen. “I let myself up.”

  “It’s her day off. I’m supposed to be watching the shop, but I didn’t even hear the bell ring when you came in. I’ve been so busy, distracted...” Her voice trailed off as she began to clear the table, piling up papers before making tea.

  “What’s all this?” I asked, my eyes skimming the stacks.

  “Preparations for this year’s conference. Do you remember?” Nancy asked. “I told you about it once.”

  “Yeah, I remember. It’s for gifted people.” Then I added irreverently, “Or people that wish they were gifted. I didn’t think it was ‘til October.”

  “It’s not, but I have to start planning months in advance.”

  “You’re stressed about it,” I said, relaxing into my chair, letting the cool, airy kitchen tranquilize me. “Why? if you don’t mind me asking.”

  Glancing over her shoulder, Nancy smiled at me with a sort of tired good humor as she stood over the sink, filling the kettle with water. “I forget how insightful you are with that gift.” She sighed, moving to the stove. “The event traditionally takes place at the Crowne, but their conference rooms are being remodeled. I thought I might use Sleeping Oaks Country Club this year, but they only loan out space to members. Even if I could get a sponsor, I’m not sure if we’ll have many participants. Every year the numbers dwindle. Percy was the real draw, he had connections all over...” She stopped talking, thoughts of Percy making her sad.

  So she needed access to the country club and something to spark interest... or maybe someone. “I might have a solution for your problem, give me a few days and I’ll get back to you.”

  “Thank you, Adelaide,” she said with utter trust. “I’ll be happy for some help. Now,” she said, shaking away her sorrow. “How can I help you?”

  “I want to know if your abilities ever changed, like... got stronger, maybe?”

  She absently drew the sponge across the counter, wiping while she thought. “Yes and no. My ability never changed, but I have honed my skill.” She waved a hand, struggling to explain. “When I was younger, looking into the cards, I saw nothing but disjointed images. The stories come easier now, experience helping me interpret what I see.” Looking at me, she asked, “Does that help?”

  I didn’t like telling people things, but this was important. “My boyfriend, Lucas, he doesn’t— I can’t feel his emotions, I never have. Now his ex-girlfriend is in town, and she said—” I took a breath, hating the halting quality of my voice. “Well, she makes it seem like something is wrong with him, that he needs help, as if only she can fix him or something. He’s estranged from his family, but I don’t think that’s what she’s talking about. And she mentioned something else too, a curse.” I watched Nancy. “Do you know anything about curses?”

  “No,” she said, taking a seat at the table. “I suppose you would know better than anyone if she was trying to deceive you.”

  “She wasn’t,” I said, totally sure. “I think she believes he’s cursed.”

  “But what do you believe?” Nancy asked, reaching around to pluck the kettle off the burner when it started to whistle.

  “I want to believe that she’s full of shit, but I’m pretty sure she’s not. And I think she knows I’m an empath. She said something vague about Lucas being ‘wrapped up in my feelings.’”

  My words sat heavy in the air, both of us ruminating over their meaning. Nancy methodically dipped the tea bags before eventually pouring us both a mug. I hated tea, but she never had anything better to drink. I wrapped my hands around the warm ceramic, waiting for her to speak.

  “Since you asked me if my abilities ever changed, I suspect you think your empathy may be affecting Lucas differently.”

  “He’s supposedly cursed, right? And I’ve never been able to feel his emotions, yet his ex-girlfriend knew I was an empath. How did she know? She saw us together, and on those occasions I would get upset, and then Lucas would get upset...”

  “You think he’s cursed to feel nothing, but somehow your empathy is reaching him?” Nancy asked, following my thought process.

  “I think my feelings are reaching him,” I admitted. “It’s never happened before, I mean, I would have noticed by now. Not that it happens all the time with Lucas, just when my emotions run high.”

  “Adelaide, it sounds as if you’ve figured this out for yourself. You don’t need me,” Nancy said, sipping her tea.

  “It all sounds far-fetched and ridiculous,” I replied, not wanting to believe it. “I’d like to know if you think it’s possible.”

  “Yes,” she said simply. “But I think you should test your theory before you do anything rash.”

  She might not be an empath, but she could sense my disquiet. If it was true, if Lucas never felt anything for me that I didn’t feed him... No, I couldn’t think about that. I wouldn’t, it was too distressing.

  There wasn’t much to say after that. It was only on my way out the door that I remembered to ask, “Oh, Nancy, have you heard of Dusty Antiques?”

  “Sure,” she said. “Leslie Hopper’s old place.”

  “So it’s out of business then?”

  “He closed the store... two years ago, I think. You wouldn’t know it from looking through the window though. He retained most of his inventory and still collects as a pastime,” she explained.

  “You know him well,” I said, feeling her fondness.

  “He’s been a neighbor for years.”

  “It’s more than that,” I said, gauging her emotional response. Not the feelings of
a casual neighbor, but a peer. “Wait. Is he— Does he have a gift?”

  She clicked her tongue at me, it was the first time I’d ever really annoyed her. “Don’t expect me to answer. I don’t go sharing other people’s business, some things are meant to be private.”

  “But you told me all about that woman and her abusive husband,” I said, trying to work out her convoluted logic.

  “Oh that’s different,” she declared, flapping a hand at me.

  I smiled at her frown, the both of us knowing she’d already answered my question. “Does he live nearby?”

  “Above the store,” she ground out. “But what business could you possibly have with him?”

  “Ghost business,” I answered. “Being a neighbor and all, I assume he’s close by, just point me in the right direction. That would be great.”

  * * *

  Nancy believed the ghost gift was meant to facilitate its possessor in helping the ghosts complete their unfinished business and move on, toward the light or whatever. Apparently that was what Percival spent his life doing, the overachiever. So hearing I was on ghost business had thawed Nancy out quite a bit, and she’d pointed me in the right direction.

  Leslie Hopper had a place much like Nancy’s, narrow and stacked with his apartment above the closed antique shop. No wonder I hadn’t found the store on my own, the sign had been taken down. The hooks remained, jutting over the large rectangular window. I peered through the glass, cupping my face to block out the light. Nancy was right, the store might be closed but it was still here, the space brimming with junk.

  Around back there was a wooden staircase, bleached gray from the sun. I climbed the steps, avoiding the banister because it looked like a splinter factory. I knocked and waited, hearing shuffling from inside.

  The door was opened by an old man. He looked to be Ben’s age, but that was probably the only thing they had in common. Ben, tall and whiplike, was quick and energetic, with a wiry beard and bad attitude. This man was small and round, clean-shaven and unhurried, his emotions easy and relaxed.

  “Leslie, right?” I inquired. “Leslie Hopper?”

  “Yes,” he agreed, opening the door a bit wider. His hair was snowy white, even on his arms where it dusted over his age spots, and his eyes showed crystalline blue through his round, gold-rimmed glasses. Despite being sans beard, he reminded me of Santa Claus.

  “I’m a friend of Nancy Bristow,” I said, thinking she probably wouldn’t like me dropping her name to get a foot in the door. “Can I speak to you for a bit?”

  “Nancy, hmmm,” he said, squinting at me. Curiosity was a mix of thoughtful excitement, and he was like that now, slightly pensive and eager. With Nancy as our connection he must have come to the same conclusion, wondering what my gift might be.

  Those with divination were gifted from birth, and, according to Raina Thompson, a dime a dozen. Whether your predictions came from bird calls or spilled salt, the ability was ultimately the same. But other gifts, like mine, were individual, tied to some event in life when it was made manifest. I didn’t want to be a snob, and I certainly didn’t want to agree with Raina, but such gifts were more fascinating in that they were unique. Whatever Leslie had, I hoped it was awesome. He looked like the type of guy that could talk to animals, all nice and grandfatherly.

  “Best come in then,” he finally said. “Mind the mess.”

  The house resembled his shop below, packed full of crap, though this lot seemed well tended, no dust or must. The hall was lined with antique furniture, every surface filled. My eyes flitted over it all as he led me deeper into the apartment. Bowler hat. Bust of an eagle. Brass phonograph. Old sewing machine.

  He gestured for me to sit, but the settee looked Victorian with an oval back and spindly legs. Did he really want me to put my butt on it?

  Sensing my hesitation he chuckled. “It’s a reproduction, I can assure you.”

  “Oh.” I dropped down, letting my messenger bag flop at my feet. “What else is a reproduction?” I asked, no longer impressed.

  “Only the things I use,” he said, seating himself across from me. “So the chairs and the teacups. Speaking of, can I get you something to drink?” he inquired, already sitting forward to get up again.

  “No,” I said, turning sour at the thought of another cup of tea. “How about I just get to the point.”

  He leaned back, twining his fingers together over his gut.

  “You know David Smith.” It wasn’t a question.

  “No,” he answered. “I don’t believe I do.”

  He wasn’t lying, so why the hell had Smith sent me here?

  “He’s tall. And spar,” I added, hoping to jog his memory. “Nice features, messy brown hair, wears flannel, is any of this ringing a bell?”

  “No,” he repeated, shaking his head. “I don’t know anyone like that.”

  “You wouldn’t know him now,” I explained. “He’s been dead for ten years. Maybe you knew him from before?”

  “Miss, ah—”

  “Graves,” I supplied.

  “Miss Graves, might I inquire as to why you believe I know this man?”

  “He left me your name. Well, actually it was the name of your store, Dusty Antiques.”

  “In a last will and testament, you mean?”

  “Something like that,” I agreed.

  “If this is regarding an antique—”

  And then I knew, blurting, “The watch! He had this old watch, a pocket watch.” Why would he bring it here? Oh, shit. “He didn’t sell it did he?”

  Leslie watched me, looking puzzle, and then all of the sudden he blinked. He was amazed, amazed and excited. Tipping off the couch, he skirted a peeling saddle and studded trunk on his way to the upright desk. It rolled open, revealing pigeonholes, where he gently untucked a small velvet case. He showed it to me with reverence, opening the box like a clam, the timepiece inside his little pearl treasure.

  I shrugged. “That’s it?”

  “I’ll refer to my records,” Leslie said, “and confirm that the young man who left this in my care is your David Smith.”

  “Why did he bring it to you?”

  Leslie sat down again, still staring into the box. “The hinge needed a replacement pin. I wasn’t in the repair business, but the watch was lovely, is lovely. Such history,” he said to himself.

  “So he left it with you to be fixed and never came back. Why didn’t you try contacting him?”

  Amy and Stephen had thought Smith was a deadbeat dad for the past ten years, all because of this watch.

  “I gave him my card and a receipt. Honestly, I should have asked for his information, but it never occurred to me that he wouldn’t be back. Who could forget such a piece?”

  I took the box from his hands, afraid he’d start muttering about his precious. “It belongs to his son now.”

  Leslie reached over, pulling it back. “Not until I check my records. You must understand, Miss Graves, that this is a very significant item. Its history is remarkable, and I won’t turn it over to just anyone.”

  “You aren’t keeping it,” I stated.

  He mistook it for a question, rushing to reassure me. “Oh no, of course not! I’ll deliver it to his son myself, in fact, I’d be happy to. It’s a shame I never got to tell his father of its legacy.”

  “I wouldn’t mind hearing about it,” I said, offering up a shallow smile to cover the lie.

  The long and short of it was that Smith had descended from an earl, but hearing the intricacies of his ancestry made my mind wander and I didn’t hear much of what Leslie said after that. Instead I thought about something Reed’s cook, Betsy Cross, had once told me. She believed it was no coincidence that her divination through flour coincided with her love for cooking. As if gifts were tailored to our personalities.

  I carried that theory over to Leslie Hopper, thinking whatever his gift, it would have something to do with antiques. “But how did you know that the pocket watch originally belonged to an earl
?” I asked, interrupting him.

  He was a little flustered by the question, having enjoyed my silence for so many minutes. “Well, I— I researched it.”

  “You’re a terrible liar,” I said, watching him shift uncomfortably on the stiff chair. “What’s your gift?”

  He hadn’t thought I’d come right out and ask. It was awkward there for a minute until he burst out laughing. “The cheek of you young people today,” he observed. “Well, Miss Graves, it’s not something I advertise, but since you claim to be a friend of Nancy’s, I’ll tell you.” He straightened up, sobering a bit. “My gift is psychometry.”

  Chapter 30

  “Psychometry,” I repeated. “Is that some sort of divination?”

  “Not quite,” Leslie said, and I could feel him happily preparing for another lecture. The man sure did love to talk. “Divination is centered in the future, while my gift is all about the past. When I touch an inanimate object I see, well, I can see many things. Who touched it, owned it, where it’s been, maybe how it got damaged, or the events transpiring around it.”

  “Is it like watching a movie?”

  “With a movie the viewer retains their own thoughts, but psychometry is more personal than that. Here,” he said, turning to point at something on the wall. It was a spoon, the design intricately carved with a delicate heart wrapped in twisting wooden lines. “It’s a Welsh lovespoon. A few hundred years old, though I couldn’t tell you the exact date of its creation. When I touch it I see a young man, he’s whittling it at night, by the fire. His hands hurt from hard labor, but he’s set his eye on a girl and he wants to please her. It was a tradition in Europe,” Leslie said, his emotions all soft.

  “So you don’t just see things,” I said, and unlike most conversations I found this one quite engaging. “You feel the owner’s emotions too?”