The Curious Case of the Cursed Spectacles (Curiosity Shop Cozy Mysteries Book 1)

by Constance Barker

  "I suppose it does." I was curious.

  "Among other things, he said if anything happened to him… well, he said when something happened to him, I was to give you the keys to his house. he expects you to stay there." He handed me an envelope. "They are in this envelope along with some cash."

  "He wants me to have money?"

  "He wanted to reimburse you for the cost of coming here. He suspected that you might need it."

  It was a welcome gesture, if surprising. "I'd like to be noble, but he is right, I do need it."

  "Mason asked me to tell you, right up front, before the will is read, that he intends to leave everything to you. When he passes, whether they get him this time or not…" he looked at me and winked. "His words, not mine, you understand… when he passes you'll get the house and the shop, which is the same as everything other than some insurance money and whatever is in his bank accounts."

  I took the keys out of the envelope. "Four keys?"

  "I think that two are for the shop and two for the apartment, but I might have it wrong."

  "He left… is leaving me his antique shop? What on earth am I going to do with an antique shop?"

  Wiggens grinned as if the question amused him. "Well, legally once he dies you can do whatever you like, Ms. Parish. When your uncle dies it will be entirely yours and then you can run it or sell it, or let it sit. Please yourself. In the meantime, he's asked you to care for it." He glanced at me again. "He didn't exactly say what he meant by that. Clarence usually manages it for him though."

  "Clarence?"

  "Clarence Copperfield. I think you know the boy."

  "I've never heard of him."

  "Mason hired him right after you left then. I know he's been working with Mason for years now, keeping the shop open when Mason goes off on a buying trip or whatever it is he does on his trips. He's a good boy, Clarence… just a little… odd." He laughed.

  "Odd?"

  "Too quiet, which makes him seem secretive. He's a very serious young man, and he's been a big help to Mason over those years, though. Reliable. Steady. That's Clarence. Seems to like the old stuff that Mason fills the shop with."

  I remembered Clarence then. I'd met him briefly before I left. He was a customer then, not an employee. He'd worked in the second-hand bookstore. He was a quiet guy, about my age, maybe slightly younger. I remembered him as a bookish sort, not unattractive but prone to wearing ugly and archaic plaid bowties. Every time I'd seen him, standing in the background, he'd worn a blazer and circular framed glasses. I couldn't recall ever hearing him speak.

  Uncle Mason's apartment was over his shop, as you'd expect. His home was accessed via outside stairs from the alley that led to a separate entrance that gave him a lot of privacy. Wiggens drove into the alley and stopped the truck. We got out and he carried my bag up the steps for me, setting it down at the door. He shook my hand. "I hope Mason recovers. I still haven't managed to beat him at chess."

  I suppose if you have to have reasons for things that wasn't a bad one. "You could play him at the hospital."

  "If I won he'd use the bum ticker as an excuse and if I lose I'd be worse off than I am now. Besides, I can't abide hospitals. Nah, I'll wait. Call me if any legal questions come up."

  "Legal questions?"

  "There could be issues with the hospital. That Wright is a stickler for details. Or maybe someone could come in the shop making claims about his things… I don't know."

  I had a hunch that Jeff Wiggens knew a lot more than he was telling me but when you see someone playing dumb it's probably not a good idea to push too hard. "You mean someone might question how he came by this or that object that he's selling?"

  Wiggens shrugged. "It's possible. There's always that danger when you are reselling items and Mason wasn't great at keeping paperwork. His affairs have always been what we legal professionals refer to as messy."

  "That's what we lay people call them too. What a coincidence." I held out my hand. "Thanks, Jeff."

  "My pleasure. Mason is my only client who ever has me do anything different." Then he grinned, went down the stairs and drove away.

  I stood by the door, watching him leave and then letting it sink in that I was really back here in Destiny's Point. Things had happened fast, too fast for me to process it all and I had a nagging sensation that the real problems weren't about Uncle Mason's heart attack or the hospital. I was sensing a sinister undercurrent in that cool onshore breeze.

  After a bit I shrugged my uneasiness off, unlocked the door and stepped into a familiar, musty room that reeked of an unfamiliar musty silence. For the briefest of moments that room took me back in time, back five years, but then I returned. When I did, I realized I was alone. Uncle Mason was conspicuous by his absence. I shook my head at the surreal situation...of being alone in Uncle Mason's home while he was in a sterile hospital fighting for his life.

  Chapter Three

  As I was a little woozy after my long trip and dealing with the hospital, I left my bag sitting just inside the door. I'd deal with unpacking later.

  The place was the usual clutter and mess that Uncle Mason always preferred. I decided I'd face the bedroom another time. For now, I headed straight for the overstuffed couch in the living room. I knew it was reasonably comfortable and it welcomed me. I stretched out and quickly drifted into a deep sleep. It was more like passing out than falling asleep and some time later I woke from jumbled dreams of train rides to nowhere and hospital visits that seemed to come more from watching too many doctor shows on television than my recent visit. In one part of my dream I had a brain tumor and when I woke my head hurt.

  I opened my eyes to find a bright light streaming in the room. I glanced at an ancient clock on the wall that had always been accurate, but now it claimed this was afternoon. I got up and dragged my bag into the guest room, tossing it on the bed. Then I got in the shower to wash, then put on clean jeans, a pullover, and sandals.

  Somewhat refreshed, I made my way to the tiny kitchen.

  I've always had a weird, unspoken kinship with Uncle Mason that went beyond being his niece. Not that we were close buddies, but we understood each other pretty well. Despite the difference in our ages, he always seemed to know a lot of what went on in my head and managed to let me know it without prying or interfering in any way. He did things that let me know, like with the knickknacks he'd sent me over the years. They were nothing that I would ever go buy for myself, but the moment I saw them, I liked them. He always acted certain that he'd known I'd like them. It was a gentle way of reading my mind that didn't seem intrusive—more reassuring, showing me that we were alike in certain ways.

  Another thing we shared was a love of good coffee and although most of the things that Uncle Mason owned were from previous centuries, his coffee machine was state of the art. He kept the beans in the freezer so they wouldn't get bitter. Craving my coffee I got them out, put four scoops into the grinder, and let her rip. Generally, I don't like noise, but the sound of coffee beans becoming a powder that would soon magically become a cup of strong, hot coffee was music to my ears.

  I found bagels and a good Cheddar cheese in the fridge. I put two bagels in a toaster that I was sure dated from the sixties. Modern coffee and retro toast. It did a nice job of toasting them evenly—it certainly worked a lot better than the digitally-controlled new one that I'd paid far too much money for in the city. Memo to self: don't turn your nose up at old tech unless you've tried it.

  Here it was, late afternoon and I was just finishing my breakfast and a second cup of coffee. I liked that. Uncle Mason's situation had turned everything upside down so why shouldn't time be collateral damage? Why shouldn't meals be out of whack as well? If breakfast was one of the most important meals of the day, did it matter when you ate it? I know...I make my own logic.

  When I finished I decided to go down to the shop. I didn't know what hours it was open, and this was Saturday so all bets were off. If possible I wanted to catch Clarence before he clo
sed up. It was only civilized that I say hello, and let him know I was in town. He'd probably want to know how Uncle Mason was doing. I probably owed him that and I didn't know if anyone had told him much of anything. I found it ironic, in an age when privacy was becoming a thing of the past, hospitals had gotten even more uptight about sharing information with anyone who didn't have a clear, legal right to know. Mr. Wright hadn't even been willing to talk to me about details over the phone and it was likely they would refuse to tell Clarence anything.

  I put the dishes in the sink and went down the back stairway and in through the shop's back door. That was the way Uncle Mason always came and went, but it was locked. I realized that Clarence would come in through front door. He wouldn't have any reason to unlock the back and silly me had left the keys upstairs. I walked around to the front and found the shop open. The bell on the door rang as I walked in. Naturally, it was the old-fashioned kind of bell, tripped by a mechanical device on the top of the door. With the bell announcing my arrival, three men turned and looked at me. One had been in conversation with Clarence who tugged at his bowtie as he talked; the other was looking at the room. Strangely, he seemed more interested in the room itself than anything for sale. I saw him stare up at the ceiling and then along the wall, peering behind the shelves. I wondered if he was an architect.

  At my intrusion, both men said something to Clarence and left abruptly, heading past me, going out the door.

  "Sorry if I broke up the party," I said. He gave me an odd look. "Cecelia Parish," I said.

  He cocked his head. "No, he was looking for something we don't have." Then he stopped. "Cecelia Parish?"

  "In the flesh. Mason Parish's niece."

  He came over and held out a hand. "Oh, sorry. It's good to see you. Can you tell me how Mason is doing? The hospital won't tell me anything or let me see him. They did tell me that they'd called you, and Jeff Wiggens told me I should expect you."

  "I was there this morning. He was awake briefly but then the zombie drugs they have him on kicked in. The doctor isn't optimistic. They were supposed to run checks today, but the prognosis isn't good. The valves in his heart are failing, or maybe failed already."

  "Can they operate and fix them?"

  "They don't recommend it. He isn't a good candidate for surgery and probably would need a new heart. They don't think he'd last long enough for them to get him another one. At his age he'd be at the bottom of the list."

  Clarence sighed. "So that's it, then?"

  I shrugged. "I have no idea. They said it's a matter of time, although they have no idea how much time he's got. I'll have them put your name on his visitor list so that you can visit him if you like."

  He gave me a steady look. "I appreciate that. That was very considerate. I'm not sure I want to see him this way though…"

  "He might like to see you."

  "You'll see him tomorrow, right?"

  "Yes."

  "If he asks for me, tell him I'll come in if he wants me to."

  "Fair enough."

  He looked around the shop. "If they are right… if the worst happens, what happens to this place?"

  "I haven't talked to Uncle Mason about that."

  "But you talked to Jeff."

  "Yes. He picked me up at the hospital this morning. According to him, Uncle Mason wanted me to know that he's leaving me everything… such as that is." I saw a flicker in his eyes. I don't know how you can tell those things, but I knew instantly that it was disappointment. Apparently, Clarence had nurtured a hope that he might get it. Perhaps as a reward for valued service. "I doubt I'll keep it."

  "You'd sell it?"

  He seemed even more distressed by that idea so I hedged my bets. "That was my gut response. Before this morning the idea that I'd inherit anything at all, much less the shop, never occurred to me. Now that it's a possibility, I don't know for sure what I'll do."

  "It's an institution in this town,"

  "Possibly. But keep in mind I didn't grow up in the business. I've no idea what's involved in running a shop like this. Any attachment to it, or to Destiny's Point for that matter, is purely sentimental. I've spent the last few years building a life for myself in the city."

  But what life had I built there? Once I could at least point to a steady job, but now what did I actually have there besides an apartment I couldn't afford? When the severance pay ran out I'd lose my apartment. I needed to find a new job. I knew that my tenure at the magazine had done nothing for my resume. One year of sorting mail while aspiring to be a journalist had the same value as sitting home watching soaps. And my reference said I was a great cleaning lady. Boo-yaa...

  After a bit, Clarence took a breath. "Well, it's about time to close the shop," he said. "I need to ring out the register."

  "Fine. I'll just poke around the place while you do that."

  Clarence locked the front door, turned the 'open' sign around to say, 'closed,' and went to the register.

  While he did whatever one does when they ring out a register, I looked at all the items displayed on the shelves. The shop didn't seem to have a high turnover because I remembered a lot of the things. They had been sitting right where they were now as long as I could remember. I'd seen some of them when I was tiny and my parents brought me in amid admonitions not to touch anything. There were some porcelain dolls, far too fragile for a real child to play with, that I remembered well. One had bright red hair, made of nylon threads. She had a bald spot where I'd yanked out some strands when I was maybe six. When the hair came out I'd stuck the doll back on the shelf hoping no one would notice. I guess I'd gotten away with it. I doubted it had been touched since.

  Obviously antiques were not a high-volume business and I wondered how Uncle Mason had managed to make a living, much less pay Clarence a salary. Maybe part of the messiness Jeff referred to was off the book sales, items bought and sold on consignment. I wondered if inheriting the business made me liable for back taxes on things like that.

  As I prowled, I noticed a place I wasn't familiar with. I didn't remember it being there before. In the back of the shop was a large, heavy, mahogany door. I wracked my brain but I couldn't remember ever being in there. That made me curious about what was in it. There being no time like the present, I went to the door, but it was locked.

  "What's in here?" I asked.

  Clarence looked up from the ancient ledger book he was recording the day's receipts in. "I have no idea. I've never been in there. Ever since I started here Mason has kept it locked."

  Ohh, a secret that we needed to explore. "Do you have a key? I'd love to see what he's squirreling away."

  A light came on in Clarence's eyes. So he wanted to know too. "Mason has the only one that I know of."

  I figured it must be on the ring that Jeffrey Wiggens had given me. "I have some upstairs. Jeff Wiggens gave them to me. Tomorrow I'll bring them down and we can find out," I said.

  A little concern darkened Clarence's face. "Do you think we should go in there? Besides, tomorrow is Sunday."

  "Then we don't have to worry about customers waltzing in while we are digging into whatever is in there."

  "I don't know…"

  "You don't have to join me if you have reservations about it. I figure that if he's going to go play sick and scare us, then he deserves to have us poking around in his secrets."

  "I wouldn't mind finding out," he said. "He's never even gone in there when I was around." He slid a ledger book into its place beside the register. He adjusted his bow tie and picked up his key ring. "Shall we lock up for today then?"

  As we stood outside and Clarence locked the door, I thought about inviting him for a coffee at the diner, but then thought better of it. I glanced down the street and saw a car parked there with two men in it. They looked familiar. I was still a little off kilter from twisting time all around so it took a moment to recognize them as the same men who'd been in the shop when I came in. They seemed to be waiting for something. Or someone.

  Wel
l, I had enough of my own business to attend to without speculating about theirs.

  As Clarence said good evening and set off home, I walked down the streets of Destiny's Point, reacquainting myself with the place. I stopped in at Martha's, a small diner a few blocks away, and had homemade meatloaf that tasted really nice. I'd been eating far too much packaged and processed food in the city, telling myself that I was a working woman and that I deserved the convenience. Eating Martha's food reminded me how much taste I was giving up.

  When I finished, I headed back. I was tired. Even though I'd slept through much of the morning I was sure I'd be able to get back on schedule. As I got to the shop I saw that the men were gone. The street was empty. I went down the alley, going back around the building and up the stairs.

  I walked into a room that was filled with a heavy quiet that I found disturbing. I needed to break it up, lighten things. I went to Mason's corner… a special part of the room where he kept his record player and a collection of old jazz records, yet another passion we shared. I got out my favorite…. Benny Goodman and his sextet. The group had made the recording with a very young Billie Holiday. I put it on and soon the soft clarinet flooded the room.

  With the music wafting around the place it started feeling a little more homey. I went to Uncle Mason's desk and opened his big bottom drawer. I pulled out his bottle of Jameson's whiskey and held it up. It was three-quarters full. The drawer held a couple of glasses. I poured a shot into one and raised the glass. "To you, Uncle Mason, and whatever time you have left."

  He didn't answer, which I thought was a good thing. I poured more whiskey, giving myself a healthy glass this time, and curled up on the couch and just absorbed the place.

  I felt warm and cozy for the first time in ages. My apartment in the city was convenient and all I needed, but never cozy. I had to admit that I felt at home here in ways I never felt at home anywhere else. Certainly I'd never felt at home anywhere my parents had lived.