In the course of his work he had to dive into the chimney with his entire upper body, and Vicky shrank inwardly imagining how claustrophobic that would be. But Mortimer didn’t seem to have any problem with it, humming contently to himself.
Progress made was now tangible, and Vicky couldn’t wait to show Michael the changes to the store that he had deemed unsalvageable. Maybe she could invite him over for a quick look around and they could drink a glass of wine at her place afterwards? Just to toast to her future success.
But suddenly Mortimer collected his tools and got up. “Need something at the hardware store,” he mumbled and was out of the door before Vicky could urge him not to stay away for half an hour.
Ms. Tennings had warned her that Mortimer could be pretty free with the time his customers paid for. “When he worked for me, his lunch break took over forty minutes,” the elderly lady had complained, “which is a bit much to eat a sandwich, if you ask me.”
Vicky agreed completely. Better keep an eye on him then.
Through the window Vicky saw Mortimer cross the street, put down his toolbox on a bench and check something in it. Some sheet it seemed. Then he pulled out his cell phone and punched in a number.
Hardware store, right… He was probably placing some personal call. On her time.
What was that guy thinking? They were all working like crazy to stay on schedule, and he just…
Determined to clock exactly how long this personal business took, Vicky kept watching him.
Mortimer paced up and down, waiting for the other party to answer. When that person apparently did, Mortimer talked fast, making hand gestures. He seemed upset about something, and insistent.
Always tuned in to any movement in the street, Mrs. Jones came out to restock her With Love From Glen Cove postcard rack in front of the general store. Mortimer noticed her presence nearby and at once moved away into the other direction, still flushed and agitated.
Mrs. Jones dropped all pretense of actually doing something to her card display and stared after him in disappointment. Her expression suggested she had expected to learn something worthwhile.
Oblivious to this, Mortimer pushed down the street, almost bumping into Everett Baker, who managed to steer away at the last instant and called something after him. Mortimer didn’t seem to hear. Everett shook his head and continued to collect his car from the parking lot. As usual he was rushing, probably late for some kind of appointment with prospective buyers for the new houses north of town.
Marge asked her something about the furniture delivery and Vicky tore herself away from the window. “They’ll be here before six, they assured me. If we’re lucky, Mortimer will be out by then. We have to keep the sideboards away from the walls of course until they are completely dry, but we can at least see how the dimensions work. I hope it doesn’t feel too full. That would be a shame, you know.”
But Mortimer Gill didn’t return from his supposed errand at the hardware store at all.
Vicky tried his cell phone, but he didn’t answer. She didn’t have his home number and decided to ask for a phone book at the Joneses. She could of course try looking for Mortimer’s number online, but the phone book would give her an excuse to see Mrs. Jones.
Maybe Mrs. Jones could tell her what Mortimer had been so upset about that he had run off.
The general store smelled of cardboard and plastic inside, and of hot hamburgers. Mr. Jones was baking them for an eight-person family who wore shorts and baseball caps. Mrs. Jones was telling the father that it was a great idea to take a boat out for an afternoon. “You can rent one yourself or go on a tour. Harry’s Tours is really good. You can’t miss the sign in the harbor.”
One of their kids bounced a soccer ball around that missed Mrs. Jones’ chocolate display by a hair. The mother called her son back and apologized, but Mrs. Jones had barely noticed as she served a local customer who was looking for really good sandpaper to treat a chair that had been in her family for generations. “I want to polish it and then repaint it. Probably lilac. That goes much better with my new carpet.”
Vicky thought it was rather ironic that she was going to a lot of trouble to remove everything lilac from her store, while somebody else exerted herself to make something lilac.
When the woman had left with her purchase, Vicky asked Mrs. Jones for the phone book. “Or Mortimer Gill’s home number if you happen to know it by heart.”
Mrs. Jones wanted to say something, but Mr. Jones cut in. “His service was disconnected because he failed to pay his bills.”
Mr. Jones gave Vicky a cold look. “He only uses his cell these days. Very unprofessional if you ask me. I would never hire someone who didn’t have a phone in his offices.”
The silence said it all. By hiring Mortimer Gill to work on her store, Vicky had disqualified herself in Mr. Jones’ book.
Jones continued, “Or what he calls his offices. You should see his place. A junkyard!”
Vicky sighed. She could hardly claim that Mortimer was a paragon of virtue. “He just walked out on the job. The mortar is hardening, and I can’t get a hold of him.” She hoped for Jones to come round as he saw her difficult situation, but the man simply turned his back on her to help another customer.
Vicky was stunned a moment, then decided she wasn’t going to stand there snubbed. She had to find another way to contact Mortimer.
As she was halfway out the store, Mrs. Jones popped up behind her and touched her shoulder. She spoke in a low conspirational tone. “Mortimer walked off half an hour ago. Was on the phone. He was raving mad. I couldn’t overhear anything specific though.”
She shrugged. “I suppose he is having trouble with non-paying customers again. Every small business owner does. In a town like this you can’t afford to treat people too harshly. You are all dependent on each other. But you do have to make a living, you know.”
She looked Vicky over. “You won’t be offering any food at that gift shop of yours, will you? We’re already competing with the diner and the bakery. He’s also selling honey and candles, supposedly because he has the bees to think of. But it just undercuts our sales.”
“I might go sell some preserves or something homely, but no food to eat on the go, no.” Vicky conveniently ignored the scented candles she planned to carry. “I do want to cooperate with you to draw attention to all of our stores. If we put in a communal effort, it need not cost a lot of money, and we will all benefit.”
Vicky flashed an encouraging smile. “Now do you have any idea who Mortimer was talking to on the phone? If he went to see this person, I might catch him there and ask him to come back and finish the job.” She looked hopeful.
Mrs. Jones shook her head. “I wouldn’t know really. His van sped by later. Maybe he went home? Must be those birds again. Feeding time, or taking them out to fly them. He only cares for them. Doesn’t see people, just birds.”
Vicky exhaled. “Great. He lives too far away for me to walk. I’d have to get my bike at my cottage or borrow a car.”
Mrs. Jones lost interest now that there was no sale to make or gossip to gather and asked a nearby woman in a blue dress what she was looking for.
Vicky turned away. “Thanks anyway.”
Outside in the bright sunshine she considered a moment. She had to get out to Mortimer’s house, but she’d rather not confront the arrogant mason alone. Maybe she could ask Michael to drive her out there and exert some pressure on Mortimer? She bet Mortimer listened better when two people appeared. And the drive out to Mortimer’s place would provide the perfect opportunity to talk to Michael one on one and gauge his feelings about last night and the team going through the rubble at Perkins’ place.
Vicky walked over to the Gazette’s offices, close to the old harbor. Boats bobbed on the water, their white sails contrasting with the blue skies. Tourists had just returned from a boat trip, their excited voices carrying up to her. A little boy was waving a toy seal.
The newspaper was still produced in the
same building where it had all begun over a hundred years ago. Outside there was an information sign with black-and-white pictures of the ancient printing presses and the way the covers had looked decades ago. It also had a rare picture of a WWII pilot holding a Glen Cove Gazette just before he took off to the UK to fight for freedom. Scanning his young expectant face, Vicky was glad that Michael had come back to save a newspaper with this impressive history.
Claire might believe Michael had only done it to have a vehicle for his article about Celine, but Vicky didn’t believe that. Michael loved what he did and the idea of this old paper just dying had been unacceptable to him.
The door under the lintel engraved with 1908 stood open invitingly. Inside a phone rang, and keyboards rattled. Michael stood in the back, leaned over the desk of a young man, a college student apparently, to explain something to him that they were looking at on-screen. As he heard her footfalls, he looked up and smiled. “Vicky! Just the person I need to talk to. Come on in.” He gestured in the direction of his private office, grabbing his coffee mug.
She followed him and watched as he shut the door. He looked serious, almost worried.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
Michael clanked the mug on his desk. “I’ve phoned Cash Rowland twice today to make sure he is looking into the possibility of arson. He is stonewalling me with blablabla about an ongoing police investigation and not being able to share information with the press. In the meantime I’m worried important traces will be lost or even deliberately erased.”
Vicky frowned. “I was at the scene this morning. The area is sealed off with tape and there is a team looking through the rubble. It looked pretty serious and professional. They were actually gathering items that they felt were out of place. Perkins is upset about it, but that hasn’t slowed them down. Why would you think Cash is erasing traces?”
Michael looked her over as if considering how much he could share with her. “Remember Cash said he was late to the action because he had helped out at a bad bar fight in another town?”
Vicky nodded. A cold feeling ran up her back as she remembered her own skepticism about bar fights early in the evening. Cash’s excuse just hadn’t seemed to add up.
Michael said, “Well, I rang around. There were no bar fights anywhere last night. And no police station called for assistance from Glen Cove. Our good sheriff lied about it. And I wonder why.”
Vicky stood motionless. If the police, the people you’d turn to for help, could not to be trusted, what could you do?
She tried to laugh it off. “Marge suggested Cash didn’t want to admit he had been playing cards with his deputy. Maybe it was something innocent like that?”
“No, absolutely not. I called the sheriff’s office and asked the dispatcher if she could confirm the sheriff and his deputy were there, at the station, when the fire was reported. They were not. They were out and they arrived much later on the scene than should be warranted from their approximate location at the moment they were informed about the fire. I bet they were someplace else. I wonder why they kept that fact from their own dispatcher.”
Vicky frowned. She had to admit it was odd, and worrying, but she didn’t want to jump to conclusions about Cash right away. “The best way to find out would be to ask Cash about it.”
“Cash wouldn’t give me the time of day.” Michael turned his back on her, taking a few deep breaths. The tightness in his stance made her heart clench.
Michael said, softer, “Why are you here anyway?”
“I’m having some trouble with Mortimer Gill.”
“I told you not to hire him.”
Vicky sighed. “Well, yes, I let Everett talk me into it. And Marge also said Mortimer was a good guy. She called him pretty solid.”
Michael made a disbelieving sound.
Vicky hurried on, “He did a good job at first, working fast and neat. I don’t know what suddenly came over him. He just walked out on me while he was only halfway done with the fireplace. He had some lame excuse about needing some part from the hardware store, but he never went there. He made a call and then he vanished. Mrs. Jones thinks he went to his house to feed his birds. Said he’s pretty obsessed with them. I just want to go see him at his home and ask him if he intends to come back tomorrow and finish the job. To be perfectly honest, I could use some support to convince him that he has to do it. He’s rather pigheaded, it seems.”
She hoped Michael would want to help her. He had warned her about Mortimer and she had not listened, so maybe he would just refuse?
“Sure I can drive you out to his place,” Michael offered at once, “on the condition you’ll come to dinner with me afterwards. You’re working way too hard for that store, and I could also use some downtime.”
Vicky exhaled with relief that he didn’t blame her for getting herself into this trouble with Mortimer. And dinner sounded wonderful. Just what she needed to get her mind off the store’s many challenges.
Michael checked his watch. “I have a kid here whom I’m showing the ropes. He is in charge of the front page tomorrow, so I’d better make sure it looks half decent. But that should be done in about an hour. What do you say I pick you up at…six-thirty?”
“Fine.” Vicky smiled. “But make that seven. I’m still waiting for a furniture delivery.”
Michael arrived at seven on the dot, tapping on the glass pane in her door. Vicky was just through admiring her newly delivered shiny cherrywood sideboards and cozy leather armchairs. She ran for the door.
Michael had slipped into a black leather jacket over his white shirt. He had taken off his tie, and three buttons of the shirt were undone at the top. He looked younger and ready for a nice evening out.
Vicky gestured at her new purchases. “How do you like it? I’m really happy with the warm color of the sideboards. And the chairs are just the right size—don’t take up too much space. I intend to bring a few items from my own cottage over here tomorrow to create atmosphere. Over time I collected quite a few typically British items. They won’t be for sale of course, just to dress up the place.”
“You’re really excited about this, aren’t you?” Michael’s eyes were soft. “I wondered when you first told me if it would work. If the reporter inside you would really like this sudden change.”
Vicky looked down to avoid his probing gaze. She enjoyed working on the store, but it was true she kept thinking about stories like she had for so many years. She forced herself to say lightly, “The reporter inside me has had her chance to shine for ten years. It’s time for something new.”
Michael smiled. “Looks like you’re off to a great start. Now all we have to do is get this unpleasant business with Mortimer out of the way and then we can enjoy a nice quiet dinner. You have to tell me all about your London years.”
“And you will tell me something about what you’ve been up to?” she queried.
He held her gaze. “I thought you knew all about that.”
Her cheeks grew hot as if he had been able to see inside her shoe box with clippings. “I just heard something about prizes you won here and there. It’s not like I had a window on your life or something.”
She brushed a bit of imaginary dust off the gleaming sideboard. “Shall we go now?”
Mortimer Gill’s house, five miles away from town, was surrounded by an unruly patch with tall weeds and several wooden sheds with attached chain-link fenced cages that housed his precious birds. It all looked rather shabby. Mortimer’s old van, rusty and dented in the back, was in the driveway, suggesting he was indeed home.
The ocean wind tore through the group of trees at the back, and the rub of the branches against each other sent shivers over Vicky’s spine. Something about the desertedness of this place gave her the creeps.
She inched closer to Michael and put her hand on his arm. “It’s dinnertime so he’s probably in his kitchen. What do we do? Knock at the front door or go round back and surprise him?”
“Offense is always the b
est defense, I say. So go for it.”
Michael went ahead down the trodden path beside the house. Long trails of blue wisteria hung down from broken trellises, catching in Vicky’s hair like fingers arresting her. She untangled herself with difficulty, even pulling out a few hairs, and hurried after Michael. Her footfalls crunched on the dirty gravel.
Water from last night’s rain had pooled underneath it and sloshed up around her shoes. It sent the scent of wet earth and rotting leaves into her nose.
At the back of the house a patch of unkempt grass lay full of old stuff. Lawn mower parts, decaying logs that would never catch fire anymore, rusted chainsaw blades and rolls of barbed wire. Vicky wondered if Mortimer’s household had deteriorated after his wife had left him or whether he had always been so messy and Gwenda had had her reasons to complain. She whispered to Michael, “Doesn’t that guy notice clutter?”
Michael looked in through the kitchen window beside the door. “I don’t see him,” he whispered. “But the door is open so let’s go in.”
He pulled open the screen door, careful not to jog the old cowbell that hung on it. Then he moved the back door, which opened with a creak.
In the kitchen the stench of burned potatoes was strong on the air. Michael went to the stove and looked. “Ugh.” He turned off the stove, lifted a black frying pan and deposited it in the sink, then turned open the tap. The water hissed as it ran down onto the hot metal. “Doubt this will help any for the pan. The contents are burned to a crisp like Mortimer forgot all about his dinner. He’s actually lucky the whole thing didn’t catch fire. Could have.”
“So Mortimer is probably not even here,” Vicky said. Were they breaking and entering now? Her unfinished fireplace suddenly didn’t seem to be worth the fuss.
Cuckoo!
Vicky yelped as the little colorful bird popped out of the wooden clock on the far wall. She exhaled and pushed a hand to her chest. “Nearly gave me a heart attack.”
Dead to Begin With (A Country Gift Shop Cozy Mystery series, Book 1) Page 9