by Lisa Wingate
“We might be interested in the davenport, as well.” Tandi was already moving back to the box. She drew out the ruby brooch, unwrapped it. “Oh, look at this. This is beautiful! And it’s made in the form of the Benoit crest. This is definitely a family piece. Possibly a wedding gift to your grandmother. We have photos of the wedding, but they are in storage right now. The ceremony happened right here on the property and was quite the grand affair. Reports on the bridal showers and whatnot made the newspapers as far away as Richmond and Charleston. It’s possible that we’ll find this brooch in one of the photos. It’s older than that, though. I’m not an expert, but just comparing it to some other things in our collection, I’d guess that it might be early eighteenth century. It was most likely something that had been in the Benoit family before their emigration from Europe in 1736. I have no idea of the value, I’m sorry. But I know we’d be interested in it for the museum.”
“That’s good.” Once again, it was and it wasn’t. If these items were that old, their price alone might buy Bella Tazza’s way out of impending disaster and allow us to continue the fight against Tagg Harper. There was nothing in the world I wanted more than that.
Except … range hood money. Today.
So far, that wasn’t looking promising. “There are a couple more things down in the bottom of the box. Could you look at those?” Based on Kellie’s reaction in Manteo, I had a feeling the answer on the carved pieces would be much the same—Probably valuable, but wait and see. No money today.
Was there still time for me to make it all the way back to Roanoke, tear the storeroom and the salon apart, and see if I could find anything else to quickly sell off? Maybe I needed to break down and have the antique store owner come look at what was left of the furniture on the second floor … including the davenport desk.
The idea left me hot and nauseated. I wanted to keep the desk, to retain that small connection to my father’s history.
Tandi lifted a stained hotel towel from the bottom of the box, set it on the counter and opened it carefully, then hitched a breath. “Oh. Oh my word! These are incredible.” Grabbing a magnifying glass from the drawer, she leaned over the necklace. “We’re working on a special exhibit… . We’ve been given a small grant for it. There’s been a lot of interest in these necklaces over the past year, and since we found one among the Benoit brothers’ hidden treasure trove, we’re diving into the mystery of whether these are related to the Lost Colony survivors. I’ll have to send this and the scrimshaw to the University of North Carolina to have them looked at.”
Her brows rose hopefully as she set aside the glass and turned back to me. “If you’re willing to leave them with us, we’ll keep them secure and handle them carefully, I promise. We haven’t even seen anything as large as this scrimshaw piece, so that makes me wonder about authenticity … well … that and the condition. For sixteenth-century items, these seem in awfully good shape.”
“I don’t think these could be fake, or at least not recently made, anyway. Someone must have put them in Benjamin Benoit’s davenport desk over twenty years ago … before my grandmother died.”
Carefully picking up the necklace, she studied the center pendant. “Please don’t take it as my doubting your story, but we have to verify everything. Our funds are so limited, we can’t afford to make mistakes.” Pulling off one glove, she pinched a small brass peg between her fingernails, carefully wiggled it loose, and opened the back of the pendant, revealing carvings inside. “This one is amazing. We’ve only seen one other that has the relief carvings of Mary and Jesus inside—one other authentic piece, I mean. These increase the necklace’s value if it’s real, but they also make it more suspect. Fakes, especially the fancy ones, are hot items in the tourist stores around here.”
The door burst open, zinging inward so fast that it struck the wall and bounced back. Lily skidded into the room, looking red-faced and panicked. “Mr. Muggins sneaked into the house and got in the food! The caterer’s cussin’ a blue streak. The people are still upstairs, but I don’t know where Mr. Muggins went.”
“Oh no.” Tandi closed the pendant and pushed the holding pin into place. Her attention shot from the jewelry to Lily to the door. “That stupid cat. One of these days, he is going to find himself on a slow boat to … someplace else.” Bracing her hands on the counter, she took a breath. “Okay … all right … Lily, go back in the house and try to talk the caterer off the ledge. See if he knows for sure which platters of food the cat got to. If there’s no way to tell, we’ll have to remove it all. He won’t have time to go back up to Rodanthe for more food. I’ll call Sandy’s Seashell Shop and Boathouse Barbecue and see if they can help.”
“Yes, ma’am. I got this. I’m gone.” The intern spun around and dashed out the door, her footsteps clattering across the porch.
“I really hope you’re all right with leaving these here with us?” Tandi reached for her cell phone. “I’ll put them in the safe, I promise. As soon as I’m able to get assessments on them, I’ll let you know. Most of this, we can probably have wrapped up by early next week. On the carved pieces, it could take longer. Those are more complicated.”
I vacillated between doing the right thing—agreeing to her terms—and doing the desperate thing. If the museum was this interested, other people probably would be too. “Okay. Yes, that’s fine.”
“Thank you. You had me worried for a minute there.” Carefully, she began wrapping the pieces and placing them back in the box. “I’m so sorry you caught us on a crazy day. I’d love to talk with you more about your grandmother and what else is in the Excelsior building. Maybe we can do that next week.”
Grabbing a business card from my purse, I laid it on the counter. The picture of Bella Tazza underlying the text was a quick and stark reminder of the real purpose of my visit here. “My cell number and e-mail are on there. Can you call or message me as soon as you know anything? I have some ongoing business issues in Michigan, and I’m just not sure—” how I’m going to pay the massive bill that’s due tomorrow—“how long I’ll be here on the Outer Banks. I need to wrap things up quickly.”
“Absolutely.” Tandi whisked away down the hall, the box of my grandmother’s treasures in hand. “If you’ll trust me to send you an acknowledgement of receipt on these items a little later, I’d really appreciate it. I’ll text it to your cell.”
I agreed, and we were out the door in a few short minutes, Tandi locking the cottage behind us. I didn’t bother asking her how far it was to Sandy’s Seashell Shop. I figured I could find it easily enough. Hatteras only had one road in and out. The store couldn’t be too well hidden.
I dialed Denise’s number on my way down the island, the prospect of the phone call spoiling the view of sleepy soundside harbors, craggy live oaks with hanging curtains of Spanish moss, salt-weathered homes dozing in the sun, and fish markets with colorful stacks of crab traps, kayaks, and inner tubes piled out front.
The scenery should have been a nice diversion, but as soon as I heard Denise’s voice, the beauty was overshadowed by the reality of what I had to do next. I started out with, “How’s the afternoon looking?”
“A little slow. I think we’ll end up slightly below average today.” That wasn’t good news. I’d been hoping for a phenomenal report—one that would yield about a thousand dollars that could be used to pay the rest of tomorrow’s repair bill. “We can’t do steaks with the range hood like it is, so the grill is down, of course. Most of the customers are being good about it, but you know, there are always those few stinkers. Had a guy think we should give him a discount or a free meal for his trouble. Seriously. People sometimes!” I could almost see Denise’s blonde bangs poofing upward as she huffed. “It’s like dealing with third graders again. Anyway, so fifteen hundred showed up in the bank account. What are we doing for the rest of it? How’s the cash hunt going?” She was trying to sound laid-back, but her edginess was unmistakable. She needed good news from me.
I didn’t have it.<
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“On the upside, the museum is seriously interested in the rest of the stuff from the desk, and it sounds like we could come out with enough to catch up on the bills and float Bella Tazza 2 until our hearing. That’d make Tagg Harper shake in his loafers, wouldn’t it?” Just the mental image was delicious. I savored it a moment before dropping the bomb. “But … on the downside … the museum has to authenticate everything, and that takes time. Several days, maybe a week. It doesn’t help that today is Friday.”
Denise groaned. “I’m sorry, Whit. I know you’re doing the best you can. Maybe I can talk to a couple of the girls … see if they’ll wait a few days for payroll.”
The air in the car thinned, losing oxygen. I rolled down the window. The breeze was cool, perfect, scented with sand and salt and sun, but it burned my throat. “No. Denise. They’re already sacrificing enough.” Somehow we had to solve this problem without making things any harder on our employees. “Listen, I want you to go to my cabin. I’ll call Mrs. Doyne and tell her to let you in. I need to talk to her about the rent, anyway. On the dresser by my bed there’s a little heart-shaped trinket box. There’s a ring in there. A white-gold diamond solitaire. Take it and do what you need to with it.” I swallowed hard, biting back emotion. Maybe Denise wouldn’t remember where the little solitaire had come from.
But I heard it in her horrified gasp. She knew. “No, Whit, that was your mother’s engagement ring. You are not selling that. I’ll figure something out.”
“Mom wouldn’t care. You know she hardly ever wore her jewelry.” Now I couldn’t help wondering if the ring my father gave her meant anything to her at all. Perhaps when they’d made hasty promises to one another, she was still dreaming of Clyde. Maybe that was why she’d never worn my father’s ring after he was gone, yet she’d continued to wear Clyde’s cross.
“I am not selling that ring.” Denise’s answer was the steely rebuke of a girlfriend trying to save you from yourself. “If you want to sell it when you get home, fine. I’ll find another way for now.”
“Just go get it. Do not ask the employees to wait for payroll. The ring is just a hunk of rock and metal. A thing. People come first.” If Denise didn’t sell the solitaire, I knew whose pay she’d hold out first. Her own. She or Mattie or Grandma Daisy would go without something that was needed while a diamond ring sat by my bedside.
Stubborn silence held the other end of the phone, which was typical of our arguments. Wherever she was right now, Denise was standing with her head tipped upward and her pointy little chin in the air.
“Promise me you’ll take care of it.” I’d never been good at playing the silent game. Denise was a master. “Denise? Denise, cut it out, okay? I need to go. I just pulled into Sandy’s Seashell Shop. I’m supposed to pick up some things for the woman in the jewelry store at the Excelsior.”
“I’m not selling the ring.” Her singsong voice made my teeth grind.
“Yes, you are.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Are too.”
“Not happening, and you can’t make me.” She hung up, leaving me to growl into a dead phone.
The Outer Banks had a magical ability to be a place apart, a haven where other problems couldn’t reach. The women of Sandy’s Seashell Shop seemed to understand that allure. While they were getting Kellie’s box ready to go, they gave me a chai latte on the house and invited me to browse the merchandise or sit on the deck and enjoy the view of Pamlico Sound. Lulled by the effects of the chai, I could almost put the day’s strange events out of my mind.
“So, Kellie says you’re from Michigan.” A fan of wrinkles creased Sandy’s round cheeks as she finger-brushed spiky salt-and-pepper blonde hair. Her remark came with a curious look that said either Kellie or Tandi had talked to her about me. Sandy seemed particularly interested in figuring me out.
“Yes, I am. Not too far from the Upper Peninsula.”
“That’s a pretty area. I’m from Bay City, myself. Came down here twenty years ago on an empty-nest vacation. My husband and I saw this little house for sale, and we fell in love and decided to turn it into a seashell shop. Been here ever since. Sometimes your heart just takes a turn and the next thing you know, you’re headed in a whole new direction.”
“That’s nice.” I did my best to make innocuous conversation. But Sandy was clearly the type to work her way into other people’s business. Here in her shop, she not only spun out a great cup of chai but created beautiful stained-glass art and spent time chatting with whoever came through the door. I liked her immediately, but I could also tell that an assessment was under way. She’d probably be reporting back to Kellie as soon as I was gone. Was there no place on the Outer Banks where the local info network didn’t reach?
Despite the soothing atmosphere of the building, with its well-loved sofas, old lamps, and wall art bearing phrases like Sand castles or seashells? That is the question and Sandy feet always welcome, I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. As soon as the box was ready, so was I.
Driving Highway 12 up Hatteras Island, I felt the whispers about me traveling along, trailing me all the way back to Roanoke Island as the shadows grew long, the sun slowly leaning toward the sound, the dunes casting shade over the road. I turned on the radio and cranked it up loud to block out the gossip, real or imagined.
A six o’clock news brief interrupted the music as I turned toward Manteo. The gathering at Mark’s place would be happening soon, the party-slash-planning-meeting getting started in a little over half an hour… .
I pictured him in the backyard, his bare feet deep in the lush grass by the shore as he stoked an outdoor kettle, preparing for a New England boil. I had the strangest urge to turn off the road, go by and see what these people were all about. What if they really could come up with the funds to take over the second floor of the Excelsior, start a charity, do renovations, pay rent? Should I write them off so quickly, just because I was in a hurry to solve my own problems?
Something I couldn’t explain drew me toward the idea. What difference would it have made in my life, if I’d had a place to go when I was a teenager—somewhere I felt accepted and understood? The question seemed to come from both outside and inside all at once. It came from the person I wanted to be—someone who tried to do the best thing for the most people.
Passing the turn to Mark’s house, I glanced in the mirror and confirmed that, after working all morning and driving all afternoon with the windows down, I was a wreck. Aside from that, I hadn’t checked on Clyde in hours, and Ruby undoubtedly needed a walk. I could go by the Excelsior, take care of things there, clean up, and then … see if the urge to go to Mark’s party was just a passing thing.
Maybe I’d get over it.
But the idea of seeing where he lived, of untangling the seemingly unrelated threads of who he was, held an undeniable fascination. Why would an athletic, good-looking, fortysomething guy who still owned at least part of a business on the mainland and was obviously making a lot of money, suddenly decide to cash it in and move to the Outer Banks to open a surf shop?
Business failure? Divorce? Premature midlife crisis?
The lure of a girlfriend, maybe? Did he live alone in the Captain’s Castle? He’d referred to it as my house, not our house. Hadn’t he?
I’d made up my mind by the time I hit downtown Manteo. I was definitely going to the party. It’s research, I told myself. If the things you took to the museum are as valuable as Tandi indicated, any number of possibilities might open up for the future of the Excelsior. You need to be looking at the potential options.
But I felt a little like a high school girl with an unexpected invitation to the prom—sort of giddy and strange. What did I have in my suitcase that would look good for a waterside yard party? Nothing, but at least I’d finally done my laundry.
Should I take food to the party or arrive empty-handed? I hadn’t asked whether the guests were bringing anything.
I had ham and cream cheese in the kitchen. I cou
ld whip up ham rolls and throw together a platter. I’d bought a bag of spinach at the grocery store. It would do as a garnish. I could leave ham rolls and a salad for Clyde. He wouldn’t thank me for it, but it would be gone when I came home.
The idea was just starting to jell, to seem like an interesting possibility, when I rounded the building to park in the alley and my little fantasy blew away like smoke. A gold BMW convertible sat along the curb on the side street, and I knew instantly whose it was.
I had the urge to drive right on by, which didn’t make sense, really. Casey and I had shared a nice dinner and a pleasant chat last night. We had a lot in common. He hadn’t been pushy, businesswise or romantically. At the end of the evening, he’d held my hands in his and given me a chaste kiss on the cheek, with a warm smile afterward and a look that said he’d like to do more. He probably wouldn’t be nearly as friendly tonight, if he found out I was contemplating going to a party at Mark’s house.
I circled the block and sat in the alley parking space a moment before getting out and walking around the corner.
Oddly, the stairwell door was hanging open a smidge, swaying slightly in the breeze. I’d locked it before leaving. The store owners had keys so they could get to the industrial vacuums, floor polishers, and extension poles for changing lightbulbs, all of which were kept in the porter’s closet Old Dutch had used for luggage.
Casey Turner wouldn’t have a key to the stairwell door. How had he gotten in, and why was he here?
I heard him on the stairway as I moved closer. He was whistling as he came out the door. When he spotted me, his smile was quick, friendly, and familiar. Genuine. Not guilty of anything. “Well, just the woman I was looking for. It’s not every day a girl bolts to get out of a dinner date.” The words ended in an expectant pause, as if he were waiting for an explanation of where I’d been today and what I’d been doing.
“Dinner?” I didn’t have to pretend to be confused. I was.