by Tim Myers
It was hard to believe that it was suddenly all mine, mortgage and all.
Mr. Young stood beside me as I took in my new surroundings. “It’s something, isn’t it? Your great-aunt did a wonderful job holding it all together, no matter what the difficulties. Now where would you like to start?”
I gestured to the cafe, with its inviting bay windows and a welcoming sign that said, the crocked pot in carefully carved wooden letters. “Let’s get some coffee first, and then we can take the grand tour.”
We walked in and found a cluster of folks gathered at one of the large tables in back. I was more interested in the architecture than the people at the moment, though. The dark hardwood floors, once scarred and stained from the hard work that had gone on there long before, were now polished to a high sheen, though the integrity of the old wood still shined through. The ceilings were a maze of exposed rafters, pipes and ducts, giving an urban, industrial feel to the place.
We approached the lady at the counter and I said, “We’d like two coffees, please.”
The plus-size woman had gentle gray eyes, soft brown curls and a disposition made for smiling. She laughed softly at my order. “Oh, you’ll have to do better than that. We haven’t served plain coffee here in donkey years.” She gestured to the board behind her and it looked like Starbuck’s had invaded.
Mr. Young said, “Allow me to make the introductions. Millie Nelson, this is Harrison Black. He’s all that’s left of Belle’s family.” What a way to introduce someone.
Millie came out from behind the counter, her smile gone as she took my hand in hers. “Of course. Harrison, I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“Thanks, Ms. Nelson, I appreciate that.”
“Please, call me Millie.” She grabbed my arm and led me to the table where a group of people were clustered. “Everybody, this is Harrison Black. He was Belle’s great-nephew.”
“I don’t know how great I was,” I said with a slight smile, a joke that Belle and I had shared all our lives. Nobody at the table seemed to get it. So much for a good first impression.
Mr. Young stepped up and announced, “Harrison’s more than Belle’s kin. He’s inherited River’s Edge.”
I looked around the table, trying to conjure up my best smile as Millie introduced me to them.
As she gestured to a thin young blonde dressed in a billowing tie-dyed dress, Millie said, “This is Heather Bane. She owns The New Age.” I nodded, and Heather returned my greeting in like fashion. “Next, there’s Pearly Gray, he’s the general handyman around here.”
Pearly, an older fellow with a head of hair that matched his name, shook my hand hard enough to nearly break it. “Good to meet you, Harrison. Sorry about Belle. She will be truly missed.”
The handyman’s voice was rich and cultured as the words flowed from his lips.
“Thanks. Man, you must have had a tough time growing up with a name like Pearly.” Too late I realized that I probably should have thought before I spoke, but Pearly just laughed.
“My real given name is Parsons, but I seem to have acquired the name Pearly as the luster of my hair started to fade. It’s actually the name I prefer now.”
“Pearly it is,” I said.
Millie next turned to a man nattily dressed in a three- piece, charcoal-gray suit with a Phi Beta Kappa key hanging down from his vest and said more formally, “May I present Gary Cragg, our resident attorney.”
Cragg shook my hand as he nodded to Mr. Young. “Delighted. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m due in court soon.” He was nearly to the door when he turned and said, “We need to speak later, Mr. Black. There are things most urgent we must discuss.”
“I’ll be here,” I said to his departing back.
Millie turned to the last woman still without an introduction.
“And finally, Harrison, I’d like you to meet Eve Pleasants. She worked with Belle.”
As I offered Eve my hand, she looked at it as if it were contaminated, then said gruffly, “If you’ll excuse me, it’s time to open the shop.”
I said, “That’s a great idea. I can’t wait to get started.”
Eve shot me a withering glare as she said, “I’m perfectly capable of running the candle shop without your uh ... assistance. Why don’t you finish your tour?”
There was nothing welcoming in her words at all, but I decided to deal with that later. “Thanks, I appreciate that. As soon as I get settled in, I’ll be over.”
As she huffed off, Millie said softly, “Don’t take it personally, Harrison. She and your great-aunt were quite close.”
“To be honest with you, I’m glad to know someone misses her,” I said.
Millie patted my shoulder as she said, “Oh, she’s missed all right, but the show must go on and our stores have to open. Belle was most clear about that, she left letters for each of us. Now let me get you that coffee. What kind would you like?”
Her smile was infectious. “Surprise me.”
She nodded as Mr. Young touched my arm. “We need to go upstairs and start our tour.”
“Coffee first,” I said. Millie declined my offered payment, then Mr. Young and I ascended the stairs to the second floor. He said, “The tenants with storefront shops have the lower level, while the upper area is reserved for businesses and your residence.”
“I had no idea the place was so big,” I said as I studied the second-floor directory.
“Oh, yes, Belle did her best to keep the building occupied at full capacity. That’s odd,” he said as we entered the hallway.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
He gestured to the door at the end of the hall and said, “That’s Belle’s apartment. I inventoried her belongings earlier this morning, and that door was firmly locked when I left it.”
I looked closer at the door in question and saw that it was pushed open a few inches, as if someone had been in too big a hurry to shut it behind them.
Chapter 2
As I started toward the door, Mr. Young touched my arm.
He said, “Shouldn’t we call the police and let them investigate this?”
“If you’d feel better staying out here, you’re welcome to do just that, but I’m going in.”
He didn’t have much choice after that but to follow me in.
Someone had wrecked the place, tearing books from the shelves and dumping every drawer in the apartment. I spotted a two-foot-tall candle lying on its side and picked it up, since it was the closest thing there was to a weapon in sight. I couldn’t believe how heavy it was in my hands.
There was no need for defense, though. There wasn’t a soul around.
“I take it the apartment wasn’t like this when you left it this morning,” I said as I surveyed the damage.
“I assure you, it was in pristine condition,” Mr. Young said. “I’m sorry, but we simply must call the police now.”
“Fine by me,” I said, “but I don’t even know if anything’s been taken. You said you just did an inventory. Why don’t you take a few minutes after you call and see if anything’s missing?”
Mr. Young nodded, and after he telephoned the police, he took a quick survey of the place. As he scanned the mess, I picked up a photograph lying facedown on the floor. The glass had been broken in the frame, but the picture itself was unharmed. It could have been the static electricity in the air, but I felt a shock as my fingertips touched it, a framed copy of the photograph I’d been looking at earlier that morning of Belle and me together. I felt a lump forming in my throat, and barely heard Mr. Young’s next comment.
“I don’t understand this. Nothing of value seems to be missing.”
Seeing her things violated like that appalled me. I waited until I couldn’t take it anymore. It was obvious we were a low priority for the police. I said, “Listen, do you mind hanging around here and taking care of this? I need to get down to the candle shop.”
“You really should stay for the police,” Mr. Young said in an officious manner.
“What can I tell them that you can’t? This is the first time I’m seeing this place. You can tell them what it was like when you left. If they decide they need to talk to me, send them down to the shop. I’m not going anywhere.” I’d deal with the disaster at Belle’s place later. For now, I just had to get out of there.
As I hurried downstairs, I couldn’t help wondering what the thief had been looking for, though. And more importantly, had they found it, or was there still something they wanted hidden in Belle’s room?
Eve was ringing up a customer’s order as I walked in, so I decided to start my tour of Wick’s End without her. The main body of the shop was divided into two spaces, with the lion’s share taken up by row upon row of shelves sporting waxes, wicks, molds, racks of tools, boilers, pots, and vials of oddly-colored potions. There were powders, decals, globs of weird gels and sheets of honeycombed wax dyed in hues that rainbows hadn’t even dreamed of. But most of all, there were candles.
Short and fat, long and tapered to slender points, round candles, candles in jars, in mugs and even in small teakettles. There were candles with twists and braids that belonged in a Salvador Dali painting or an Edgar Allan Poe nightmare, candles that floated in water and some that seemed to be a part of the water itself.
Eve found me gawking at the array after her customer left.
“I’ve got to tell you,” I said, “I never imagined there were this many different types of candles on Earth.”
She tried to hide her satisfaction with the compliment. “We don’t have a tenth of the candles that we make on display right now. In fact, our inventory’s been dropping recently.”
“Any reason in particular?” I asked.
She didn’t want to answer, that much was obvious, but finally Eve shrugged and explained, “Belle’s been too distracted to do much original work lately. You know about the offer, don’t you?” Before I could say a word, Eve said heatedly, “You can’t sell River’s Edge, Mr. Black. This was Belle’s home.”
“I have no intention of selling,” I said, neglecting to mention that Mr. Young had already informed me that it wasn’t an option.
Eve said, “Do you mean that?”
“I’d like things to stay just the way they are around here, at least for now. I’m smart enough to realize that I don’t know enough at this point to decide what changes might need to be made, but I’m staying.”
“I can’t tell you what a burden you’ve lifted from me. I naturally assumed that from the moment I found Belle on the floor that the building would be sold. It’s callous to think that way about a friend’s passing, and she was my friend, believe me, but I don’t know what I’d do without At Wick’s End in my life.”
“You don’t have to worry about that,” I said. “Tell me about how you found Belle.”
I spotted a lone tear creeping down her cheek. “Must I? I’ve been trying to forget the sight ever since I found her. There was simply no sense in it. I’m no spring chicken, you can be assured of that, but I didn’t mind in the least going up and down ladders around here, and she was never shy about asking me to do so. I don’t know if you’re aware of it, but Belle grew to hate heights over the last few months. Why, it even made her nervous living on the second floor, and she was surrounded by all that mortar and brick up there.”
“So what could have possessed her to climb a ladder in the storeroom?”
Eve wrung her hands together. “That’s what I don’t understand. There was a box of golden beeswax sheets near her body on the floor, but when I checked the shelves out front we had plenty! It just doesn’t make sense.” As she said the last word, she began to cry in earnest.
I never know what to do in those situations. We had just met, so I couldn’t very well offer her an embrace unless she initiated it. Nor did I feel comfortable just standing there until she cried it out of her system. I finally settled for touching her shoulder lightly. “It’s probably too soon for you to be working,” I said. “Why don’t you go home and I’ll take care of the shop myself.”
She swabbed at her damp cheeks and said through the snuffles, “You must think I’m a fragile old woman, falling apart like this. I’m so sorry.”
“What I think is that you just lost a very dear friend,” I said gently.
“Thank you for that, Mr. Black,” as she touched my hand.
“It’s Harrison,” I said.
“Not Harry for short,” Eve said, trying to lighten the gloom in the air.
I smiled. “You can call me whatever you want to, but Harrison’s the only name I’ll answer to.”
She nodded. “Harrison it is.” As she wiped the last tear from her face, she said, “Why don’t we get started.”
“What are we going to do?” I asked, suddenly curious about this turnaround in her behavior.
“Why, I’m going to teach you all there is to know about making candles,” she said as she headed for the back room. “Give me a minute to get things set up. Just keep an eye on the front door. If anybody comes in, call me.”
I was standing by the display of books on candlemaking that we stocked, selecting a copy of each for my supplemental education, when the bell over the front door chimed.
An older woman walked into the store, draped in fur and the smell of money. “May I help you?” I asked, hoping she knew what she needed, since I wouldn’t have a clue to the answer of the most basic of questions.
“I’m here to see the proprietor,” she said airily.
“You’ve found him,” I said. “What can I do for you?”
“I was passing by and saw the wonderful display of candles you have here. I understand this is a place for instruction as well as purchasing, is that correct?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said.
“Very well, I’d like to learn to create my own candles. It’s always best to start at the beginning. After all, one must have a foundation in the basics before one’s imagination can take control. Are you free for instruction now? I have some time available.”
“I’m sorry, but my schedule’s pretty full at the moment,” I said. I wasn’t about to admit that the only thing I knew about candles was how to burn them. “However,” I added, “we’ve got a woman on staff here that is most adept at candlemaking, and I’m sure she would be glad to help you today.”
Her gaze tightened slightly. “What is your name, sir?”
I gave her my name, and she said, “Mr. Black, I work with proprietors, not with their staff.”
“I could try to work you in, but I’m not making any promises,” I said, hoping she’d take the hint and allow Eve to teach her.
The woman looked at me steadily for a few seconds that felt like days. “As I said, I expect the owner to assist me. I suggest you find the time for me. I trust you’ll be able to give me an hour on Thursday. Let’s say ten o’clock, shall we?” She handed me an elegantly printed card as she left. I hadn’t lied to her, but I wasn’t about to confess that I was the rankest amateur either.
Eve was standing in the wings. “Harrison, if you don’t mind my saying so, you’re going to need to work on your people skills if you’re going to run At Wick’s End. That woman was ready to spend a fortune, and those customers are rare enough to be treated like royalty when they come in.”
I studied the card. Mrs. Henrietta Jorgenson was all it said, in raised letters that looked handcrafted. “Can you believe this? She actually gave me one of her calling cards.”
Eve asked for the card, and I handed it over. She said, “Mrs. Jorgenson! She’s a legend around here in the craft circles. Wilma Martin runs the needlepoint store in Three Corners. She told me one time Mrs. Jorgenson paid for her Alaskan cruise with two purchases from her shop! Belle and I used to dream about her coming by At Wick’s End.”
“So all our money problems are over,” I said, feeling slightly better about the payments looming over my head.
Eve frowned for a moment, then said, “Not necessarily. Anne Green at Crewel World said something to offen
d her, quite by accident, I’m certain, and suddenly Anne was blacklisted at all the craft shows. It nearly put her out of business. So what did Her Highness say?”
“She wants me to teach her how to make candles,” I said. “And she wants to start Thursday.”
Eve looked grim as she said, “Then you’d better get your first lesson right away.”
We moved to the smaller working area in the back where it was obvious the regular classes were taught. There were six benches around the room, with enough space for twenty-four students. Sinks and storage took up the rest of the tight quarters. I picked up a chunk of translucent wax and said, “Let’s get started.”
Eve took it from me and put the wax back on the counter. “We don’t have time to go into dipping or pouring just yet. Hmmm, I suppose sheet rolling would be the best place to start. Let me collect some materials and we can get started.”
I followed her to one of the shelves near the front and saw an array of honeycombed sheets in a variety of hues, along with wicks, knives, straight edges and cookie cutters. She chose a packet with sheets of golden-yellow wax a little narrower than a piece of notebook paper but quite a bit longer. I picked up a pack myself so I could get a closer look. The wax had a definite raised imprint throughout. “This is neat. It’s like a soccer ball.”
Eve took the packet from my hand and said, “It’s a hive pattern. We only need one for now,” she added as she returned mine to the shelf behind her.