by Bailey Cates
“Do you mind staying here?” I asked. “I don’t know what the protocol is for dogs in antique stores.”
He grunted and rolled over on his back on the club chair. I gave him a belly scritch, and his eyes drifted closed. I didn’t think he’d be mysteriously showing up in my car this time.
Before I left the office, I called Declan. He answered with a mumble.
“Sorry I woke you,” I said. “Rori is here.”
“Mmph. Yeah. I see I got a text from her. Is she okay?”
“Yes. But she’s insisting we take the music box Tucker gave her to some friend of his to see how much it’s worth.” I told him what she’d said.
“A friend of Tucker’s? I don’t like that.”
“He owns an antique store, so it’s not like we’re meeting him in some back alley.”
“Yeah, okay. Listen, I’m going to make some calls, see if I can find out anything from my friend at the medical examiner’s office.” I wondered whether he had the same friend that Steve did. “Call me when you find anything out.”
“I will. Oh, and Deck? I heard back from the wedding officiants I e-mailed. Neither are available.”
“Hmm. Maybe we should have your mother bring her guy down from Fillmore after all.” My mother actually had offered to pay for Pastor Freeman to fly down to Savannah to marry us.
“Very funny,” I said. “I like the old guy well enough, but it seems so . . . I don’t know.”
“Like your mother getting her way.”
I made a face even though he couldn’t see it. “I hate to say it, but yes.”
“Don’t worry. I’m working on my idea.”
“What is it?”
“I have to check into a couple of things first. Then I’ll tell you.”
“Okay,” I said reluctantly. But I trusted him, and when we hung up, I felt better.
* * *
* * *
Prater’s Antiques was near the intersection of Victoria and Bull. We passed a Popeyes fast-food restaurant, and soon turned into a small parking lot. I parked the Bug, and we got out. The only other car in the parking lot was an ancient Buick Riviera.
The door was glass, but so dirty you couldn’t really see inside. Rori pushed it open, and we entered a hoarder’s paradise. Furniture was wedged into every conceivable space, leaving a maze of narrow aisles for customers to navigate. On top of the breakfronts and dining tables, dressers and buffets, upholstered sofas and well-worn chairs, smaller furnishings were stacked along with everything from tea sets to metal advertising signs, paintings to dishware. In the back, I spied a rack of clothing, and wondered if that was where the smell of mothballs originated. The odor mixed with what I thought of as granny-attic smell—a combination of weathered ink on paper, dust, and mysteriously hidden mildew. The humidity didn’t help the smell, and the laboring air conditioner didn’t help the humidity. Or the heat, for that matter.
I grabbed a thin book of piano music from the cluttered harpsichord by the door and fanned myself with it as Rori and I ventured farther into the warren. When we reached the middle of the maze, we discovered a man I was pretty sure must be the owner of the Buick in the parking lot. He lounged in a tattered armchair beside a counter that held an old-fashioned cash register, a rack of postcards, and a credit card reader. The light from the cell phone he was looking at illuminated his lined face, pale eyes, bushy white eyebrows, and bald pate.
When he saw us, he struggled to his feet, a smile already playing on his face. “Hello, hello, ladies! Welcome! Are you looking for anything in particular?” His arm swept wide, taking in the contents of the store. “Because, believe it or not, I know where everything is in my little paradise here. Just say the word.” His head tipped to the side as he studied me. “Ah, I have just the thing for you, my dear. Come with me.” He turned toward the back of the store.
It might have been an effective technique with some customers, but I wasn’t in the mood for a hard sell. I didn’t budge. “Um, sir?”
He stopped and whirled back to face us.
“Mr. Prater?” Rori asked. “Do you remember me?”
His eyes narrowed in speculation. “Should I?”
“You knew Tucker Abbott, didn’t you?”
“Tucker! Well, Lord yes.” He squinted harder. “I do remember you! We only met a couple of times, though. I don’t remember your name.”
“Rori McCarthy. I was Rori Abbott back then.”
He smacked his hands together, and I jumped. “Of course.” His thumbs went to the waistband of his faded jeans, which were held up by red suspenders. “But hang on there, gal. Did you refer to ol’ Tucker in the past tense? Or was that just because he’s past tense to you?” He chuckled.
She shook her head. “I’m sorry to have to tell you, but Tucker died.”
His mouth opened in surprise, while that hung in the air for a few beats. “Well, I’ll be. Saw him not too long ago. Looked healthy as a horse. What happened?”
“He was, um . . .” She trailed off.
“Tucker was killed last night at the Spotlight Motel,” I said.
Hudson Prater looked gobsmacked. “You don’t say.” The words were almost a whisper. “Killed?”
I nodded.
He tsked.
The sound of the door opening and closing reached our ears.
Maybe this isn’t the best place to talk.
But Rori either didn’t hear the noise or didn’t care. She stepped over to Prater and took a ball of white tissue paper out of her large purse. “I remember him telling me that you do appraisals for people. He said you really knew your stuff, that you were so good you could be one of those guys on the Antiques Roadshow.”
Prater beamed. “Tucker said that?”
“He did.” Her head bobbed to emphasize her point. “And I have something here I was hoping you could tell me about.” She finished unwrapping the music box and held it out to him.
He took it in both hands. “Well, well. Let’s take a look, then.” Holding it up to the meager daylight that somehow reached this far into the store, he turned it this way and that, then carried the music box over to the counter and turned on the green-shaded banker’s lamp on the corner. We followed and leaned against the counter as he worked.
“Mm-hm.” He pulled a pair of reading glasses out of his shirt pocket and put them on, then turned the box over to examine the maker’s mark on the bottom. “Mm-hm,” he said again. He wound the base and set it on the counter. A few plaintive notes of “When You Wish Upon a Star” played, and then the music box fell silent.
Rori looked at me with wide, hopeful eyes, then swiveled her head to watch him again.
He returned the glasses to his pocket and turned off the light. I could feel Rori’s eagerness as she waited for the verdict.
“Where did you get this?” he asked.
“It was a gift,” she said. I silently applauded her discretion.
“Did the person who gave it to you indicate its worth?”
I suppressed a sigh. This guy was taking the whole Antiques Roadshow reference a bit too seriously.
“Not specifically,” Rori said, bouncing a little on the balls of her feet.
“Well, now, don’t get too excited, hon. I’m real sorry to have to tell you this, but it’s a piece of junk.”
Rori stilled and stared at the antique dealer. “Junk,” she repeated weakly.
“Oh, I’m sorry I called it that. It’s a nice enough little knickknack, if you like that kind of thing. And you do, am I right?” He beamed at her again and handed the music box back to her. “So you keep that there on your dresser or wherever and just enjoy it.”
“It’s not worth anything?” she demanded.
“Maybe twenty dollars. In fact . . .” He fell silent as he thought. “A few days ago, someone was in here looking for a ceramic bird
house music box. He was real specific about what he was looking for. The way he described it, could have been this very one.”
Alarm klaxons went off in my head. “Could you put us in touch with him?” I asked.
“Sorry. I didn’t get his name. He was blond, in his early fifties.” He snapped his fingers. “I’ll tell you what, Miss Rori. If you really don’t want this little piece, you can leave it here in case he comes back in. I won’t even charge my usual forty percent commission on consignments. Let’s say twenty-five percent.”
Rori was already shaking her head. “Thank you, but I’m going to keep it.”
“All righty, then. You enjoy it.”
She nodded and offered him a small smile. “I do so appreciate you taking a look and giving me your honest opinion, Mr. Prater.”
“Don’t give it another thought. Now.” He looked at me. “You sure you don’t want to take a look at—”
I made a show of looking at my watch and broke in. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to come back another time, sir. Bit of a time crunch right now.”
He wasn’t fooled, but he didn’t seem to mind. “I understand.”
“May I leave you my phone number in case the man who was looking for a music box like this one returns? Even if Rori wants to keep it, I’d like to talk with him.”
Suspicion flashed across his face then was gone. “I see. Sure—go ahead and leave your number.” He reached over on the counter and tore off the top page from the daily calendar by the register. It was from the week before. He handed it to me along with a pen, and I flipped it over and jotted my cell number on the back.
“Thanks,” I said. “We appreciate—”
The sound of a ringing phone echoed back from the front of the store, then was suddenly cut off.
“Oops, I’d better check on that customer. Look forward to seeing you again, ladies.” He hurried off toward the front of the store.
We followed behind, heading for the exit. As we rounded a hulking china hutch, I saw Prater walking toward a woman about forty feet away. She wore a sundress, strappy sandals, a wide-brimmed hat, and sunglasses.
The sunglasses made me think she must have just come in, but she still hadn’t taken them off by the time we reached the door, even in the dark interior of the shop. Plus, I’d heard someone enter the store earlier. Puzzled, I turned and looked back as we went out the door. She was blatantly watching us. She turned away as Prater approached her.
“Brr,” Rori said, rewrapping the music box in its white tissue paper as we crossed the parking lot to the car. “I just got the strangest shiver. I hope I’m not coming down with something.”
“I hope not, too,” I said, still distracted.
We walked around the crossover SUV that was now parked by the Buick and got in my car.
“Can you believe the nerve of that guy?” Rori said.
“Because . . . ?”
“Saying my little music box isn’t worth anything.”
“You don’t believe him?”
“Why should I? Tucker said he needed to sell it.”
I didn’t say anything.
“And at Wisteria House, he said it was valuable,” she insisted. Then she sighed and sat back in the seat. “I can’t believe I said that. Tucker lied to me. Of course he did. Tucker always lied.” Suddenly she slapped the dash. “And I fell for it all over again.”
“Did Tucker tell you how much it was worth?”
She shook her head.
“Maybe he wasn’t talking about money, then. Maybe he was talking about a different kind of value.”
She snorted.
“Can I see it?”
Rori handed me the music box and then turned to stare out the window, a look of disgust on her face.
Tentatively, I reached out with my senses, alert for any evidence that the knickknack held some kind of magic. Any kind of power at all. I traced the edges of the little flowers, ran my finger along the painted ribbon, pushing and prodding, hoping to trigger a secret compartment. I turned it over and looked at the bottom again. I wound it up and listened to the notes that tinkled out.
Nothing. Nada. Zilch.
The gift Tucker had given Rori wasn’t worth money, and it was as magically dead as a doorknob. But someone had come to Prater’s looking for something exactly like it. Could there be another music box like it? One that actually was worth some, as Rori put it, coin?
Sighing, I reached over and lightly rubbed the sprigs of holy basil and lemon balm in the bud vase on the dash, hoping the scent would help my brain cells and Rori’s mood. “We’ll keep looking into it.”
Chapter 11
“You’d better get going,” Lucy said.
I looked up in surprise. The pre-lunch rush had died down, and I’d grabbed a towel to give the bistro tables a wipe.
“To Vase Value,” she said. “Mimsey’s expecting to go over the arrangements for the wedding a final time.”
Doing a mental face palm, I put down the towel and reached to untie my chintz half apron. “Thanks for reminding me.”
Of course, we’d worked out the flowers a couple of months ago, but part of wedding planning seemed to be going over everything at least twice—catering choices, fittings and refittings of dresses, a preview of hair and makeup, and now, revisiting the flowers.
“Iris, can you take over for Katie?” Lucy called.
She two-stepped over from where she’d been rinsing off muffin tins to put in the dishwasher. “Sure thing. What’s up?”
Handing her the towel, I said, “I forgot some wedding stuff I need to tend to. Can you wipe things down?”
“No problem,” she said and sashayed out to the front of the bakery.
“Right. And then you can mix up the sourdough if you want. Give me a shout if you have any questions,” Lucy said to her. “I’ll be in the office.”
Our helper waved her agreement and got to work.
“My supposedly low-key wedding sure is taking me away from the Honeybee a lot lately,” I said to Lucy. “I’m so sorry that I keep leaving you in the lurch like this.”
She waved away my apology. “Please. This is your wedding, Katie. Good heavens.”
“The wedding didn’t take me away this morning.”
“It’s okay,” she said. “You know you always have Ben’s and my support, as well as that of the spellbook club. This mess with Declan’s little sister is just awful. You do what you have to do.”
“You’re the best, Aunt Lucy. And again—the unpacking you all did last night? And that closet . . .” I shook my head in wonder. “I’m going to guess you charged the herbal sachet with a little extra spell work, too.”
“With a little help from our friends, dear.” She gave me a wide, warm smile.
I gave her a smile of my own. “I’ll hurry.”
Mungo hopped right into the tote as soon as he found out we were going to Vase Value. He adored Mimsey, of course, but for some reason he seemed to enjoy hanging out with Heckle, too. The parrot was often rude, but Mungo didn’t seem to care a bit. Probably a familiar thing.
It was a short way and a spate of rain had moved through and cooled things down a bit, so I walked the few blocks to Mimsey’s shop. Soon, the canvas awning of Vase Value came into view. Shaded beneath, wooden crates were stacked to showcase a myriad of houseplants and tropicals in full bloom—gardenia, anthurium, hibiscus, and bromeliad among them. Trailing ferns framed the entrance, and on each side, clusters of cut blooms basked in galvanized tubs filled with chilled water.
Pushing the door open, I could see the register, and behind that Mimsey’s office and the area where Mimsey and her assistant, Ryan, created their stunning floral arrangements. However, to get there you had to traverse what I had come to think of as the gauntlet of temptation. A single aisle led from the entrance to the counter at the back
of the store. Each side was filled with flower and garden-themed gift items jammed onto the shelves and arranged on tables, all interspersed with tiny bonsai trees and herbal topiaries in pots. I steadfastly marched past adorable gardening aprons, unique gardening tools, rubber clogs, gloves, hats, and floral embossed kneeling pads. I managed to ignore the birdhouses made from gourds and old boots and turned away from blown glass hummingbird feeders. Wind chimes and plant markers had no effect. I’d almost made it when I saw something tucked in behind the fairy garden supplies. I had to stop and look.
Now, I don’t think of myself as a cutesy kind of woman. Fairy gardens are not my thing. I mean, I get the appeal of the miniature tableaus, the idea of the wee folk visiting my gardens. But I was acquainted with the spirit of an actual leprechaun, albeit a missing one at the moment, and somehow the tiny plastic bridges and wire lawn furniture paled in comparison. No, what had caught my attention was tucked in behind a miniature replica of an Airstream trailer.
It was a sundial, six inches in diameter. When I picked it up, I found it to be much heavier than it looked. The surface was aged copper, and among the lines that indicated the hours, Celtic knots and swirls rose from the surface in subtle bas relief. A green patina graced the edges as if air-brushed on. Even Mungo leaned out of the tote to sniff it, then looked up at me as if to ask why I hadn’t already purchased it.
Shaking my head at myself, I carried the sundial back to the counter. Ryan was wrapping green tape around a carnation boutonniere as I approached. His work area was cluttered with wires, different shapes and sizes of vases, decorative ribbons, and cutting tools. My friend’s assistant was in his mid-twenties, had a shock of corn-colored hair, brown eyes behind red-framed glasses, and according to Mimsey, possessed an otherworldly talent when it came to flower arranging. She said he was always eager to learn more about his craft, and if the stark Ikebana art piece of cherry blossoms and a single sprout of bamboo on the counter behind him was any indication, his skill was only improving.
He looked up and grinned as I approached, then stuck his half-finished arrangement in a block of floral foam and wiped his hands with a towel.