by Gayle Roper
"I've got to tell you, this is the most unusual case I've ever worked." Rog peered at the ornaments, wondering if Nan had any idea of the value of the items she held.
"Really?" Mrs. Truscott looked at him in surprise. "I thought cops saw all kinds of weird things."
"Oh, we do, but they're usually terrible, sad, nasty. This is—" He searched for a word.
"Nice?" Mrs. Truscott suggested.
Rog laughed. "I guess you could say that."
"No, you couldn't," Nan said. "I'm just waiting for someone to come along and accuse me of stealing."
Mrs. Truscott patted Nan's hand but spoke to Rog. "I keep telling her this is a store. She should just sell whatever shows up if she doesn't want to keep it. Consider it extra inventory. Or if she likes some things, she can keep them. Consider them grace-gifts."
"Grace-gifts?"
"You know," Mrs. Truscott said. "Like God's grace. Undeserved. Unearned. Freely given. Like His love, His acceptance, and His salvation."
Nan spread her arms wide in the classic I-can't-believe-it gesture. "But they aren't mine!"
"I don't know who else's they'd be," Mrs. Truscott said. "They're presents for you. Presents for Present Perfect."
Nan's finger stabbed the air. "Gifts come from someone you know, and you know why you got them, even if it's just because the giver felt like giving. But these? Who knows?"
Mrs. Truscott pursed her lips. "I see what you mean. Well, I haven't an answer unless it's what you said. The giver just feels like giving."
Rog frowned. "I don't know, Mrs. Truscott. There's got to be a reason someone is leaving these things."
The old lady resettled her red bag on her shoulder. "Isn't just because a reason? I like to give things just because."
Really? Just because? Every gift he'd ever given or received was for a specific reason—like birthdays or Christmas. He'd never gotten one just because, nor had he given one just because. He suddenly suspected that was a guy thing, and he'd just stumbled on another of the myriad ways women were different from men.
Mrs. Truscott waved her hand like she was waving aside the leavery discussion. "Before I forget why I came, Nan, my sweet, I'm inviting you for dinner."
"Oh. How nice." There was a noticeable hesitance in Nan's voice, which surprised Rog.
Mrs. Truscott heard the caution too—and laughed. "I'm not cooking. I'm sending out."
Nan smiled and said with wholehearted enthusiasm, "I'd love to come."
"She thinks I can't cook," Mrs. Truscott told Rog with no rancor.
Nan laughed. "You can't. Even Aunt Char said so, and she never said mean things about anyone."
Mrs. Truscott lifted a tree ornament from its box and spun it by its gold thread hanger.
Nan grabbed the ball. "Careful! When I give it back, I don't want it chipped."
Mrs. Truscott's eyes widened. "You're going to give it back?"
"It isn't mine."
"It's a gift."
Nan rolled her eyes and put the ball and all the other products of leavery under the counter. "What time for dinner?"
"Let's say six-thirty."
Nan kissed Mrs. Truscott's wrinkled cheek. "Fine. Both Ingrid and Tammy will be here to cover the store. I'll be up at six-thirty."
A young woman in those shin-length pants Rog found a mystery—they were neither shorts nor slacks, so what was the point?—and a royal blue shirt with Present Perfect in gold script over her heart slipped behind the counter.
"Good, Tammy. You're back. Right on time." Nan looked at Rog and swung an arm toward a door in the back. "We can talk in my office."
He followed her as she came out from behind her counter and walked across the rear of the store, glad he was finally going to get her undivided attention. He practically walked up her heels when she stopped suddenly.
"Oh, no! A Royal Doulton Toby mug." She picked up a large china cup that bore a remarkable likeness to Winston Churchill's bulldog face, a ceramic cigar jutting from his mouth.
"Another leavery?"
Nan nodded, her shoulders slumped.
"Valuable?"
"Probably. I'd have to look it up."
"Char wouldn't stock something like that." Mrs. Truscott had come over to investigate what they were looking at. "Too masculine."
Nan ran a hand across her forehead as if rubbing at a headache. She turned to Rog, her expression pleading. "Fix it! Please!"
Rog's heart tripped, and he wanted nothing more than to fix it for her. Lori, he reminded himself. Lori, Lori, Lori. "I can check the database, see if any of these items was stolen."
"Yes!" Nan looked so relieved that Rog didn't have the heart to tell her he expected to find nothing.
"Very fine thinking," Mrs. Truscott said. "I can see why you're one of Seaside's finest."
Rog raised an eyebrow at her, and Mrs. Truscott grinned. He couldn't help but grin back. He liked the feisty old lady.
"And while I have your attention, young man," she continued, "I'd like to invite you to dinner this evening too."
Taken by surprise, Rog managed a very articulate, "Uh."
Mrs. Truscott beamed. "Wonderful! You can pick Nan up."
"Aunt Bunny!" Nan hissed, her face turning a charming pink.
"Push tush." Mrs. Truscott waved her protest away. "You need someone besides an old lady to talk to. I'm just helping you meet people your own age."
Rog looked at Nan and shrugged. Truth be told, a dinner he didn't microwave sounded wonderful, especially with Nan as a companion. Lori, Lori, Lori.
"Where do you live, Mrs. Truscott?" he asked.
She pointed vaguely down the boardwalk. "Nan knows."
"Mother!"
The loud voice made Nan and Mrs. Truscott jump. He watched as Nan's face took on a guilty look while Mrs. Truscott's went completely blank.
"I should have known you'd be here." A well-preserved woman of fifty or so halted in front of Mrs. Truscott. "Honestly, Mother."
The newcomer couldn't quite keep the pique out of her voice, and Rog knew that if he heard the barb, Mrs. Truscott certainly did, too.
"Hello, Alana," Nan said politely but without welcome. "The answer is still no."
Alana looked displeased. "What if I'm no longer asking when you finally decide to say yes?"
"I don't expect to ever say yes."
Alana sniffed, then turned her back to Nan, which angered Rog. Ridiculous he'd have that reaction. Still, he cleared his throat.
Alana seemed to notice him for the first time. She scowled at him, then at her mother. "What have you gotten yourself into now?"
There was no attempt to hide the pique this time.
Mrs. Truscott opened her mouth, but Nan spoke first. "He's here to see me."
"Huh." Alana made the one word sound as if Nan had just fulfilled every bad expectation she'd ever had.
Again Rog felt his hackles rise. How did someone as cheery and personable as Mrs. Truscott have a daughter as graceless as Alana?
"Come on, Mother. We have an appointment, and you need to change." She took Mrs. Truscott by the elbow and turned her toward the front of the store. Mrs. Truscott went without protest.
Rog glanced at Nan, who was watching the mother and daughter with a distressed expression.
Just before they left the store, Mrs. Truscott pulled Alana to a halt.
"Come on, Mother." Alana's voice was abrupt and condescending. "You don't want to be late."
"I don't even want to go."
Rog had to smile at the touch of rebellion.
"Of course you do," Alana said with absolute certainty.
Mrs. Truscott angled her body so she faced Nan and Rog. The twinkle returned to her eyes, and she gave them a sly wink.
"Six-thirty," she mouthed.
Chapter Three
Nan spun on her heel and walked to her office, Officer Eastman following.
"Is she always like that?" he asked.
"Unfortunately, yes. After Aunt Bunny's husband
died about a year ago, Alana seems to have decided her mom's not capable of caring for herself."
"Is she?"
Nan frowned as she walked behind Aunt Char's big desk. "Of course! She's more than capable. She's sharp as can be."
"How old is she?"
"Seventy-five."
He sank into the old padded folding chair across from the desk. "Not that old these days. My grandparents are all in their late seventies, and they're hardly ever home. They love to cruise."
"The way Alana tries to control Aunt Bunny, you'd think she had money."
"She doesn't?"
"Wait 'til you see her apartment." Nan grinned and gave a mock shudder.
"What did her husband do for work?"
Nan shook her head. "I don't know. I never met him. I know Aunt Bunny because she was Aunt Char's best friend, but we're not really related. The aunt is a courtesy title, but she's decided she takes it seriously. She's taken me under her wing since I moved here last month, taking me up and down the boardwalk and introducing me to people. She's a one-woman support system, an expert encourager."
Officer Eastman held his pen over his tablet. "If you're new to Seaside, then the list of possible leavers can't be all that long."
"I've met several people, but I don't really know anyone except Aunt Bunny, and I wouldn't say I know her well. I know she's a widow, her husband was Joe, and her daughter"—she motioned toward the front door—"you've met. Grouchy Alana. Aunt Bunny's nice, she loves the Lord, and she can't cook. But that's about all I know. And with the season ready to start, the shopkeepers along the boardwalk are all too busy for socializing. And I'm too busy to have much time for anything but church."
He studied her thoughtfully. "This has nothing to do with anything but my curiosity, but where do you go?"
"Seaside Chapel."
He grinned. "Me too."
She smiled back. "It's where Aunt Char went, so it's where I've gone the past few weeks. I like it."
He nodded. "So how'd you end up in Seaside? And where did you come from?"
"I've lived in New York City for the past six years. I worked at Pizzazz." She saw his blank expression. "It's a women's magazine. I've been here in Seaside a little over a month."
"New York publishing to a boardwalk gift shop. That's quite a career change."
She told herself she wasn't offended that he sounded as if he thought she'd been fired and landed here by default. He wasn't the only one who viewed Present Perfect as a come-down. "You have no idea how excited I am to have this shop. My great-aunt left it to me."
She ran a hand over Aunt Char's desk, crowded with laptop, printer, catalogues, and stacks of papers she hadn't had time to look at yet. Boxes to be opened lined one wall, and a small bathroom in the corner held a For Staff Only sign. "I think I'm going to like being in retail, though at the moment, I'll admit I'm a bit overwhelmed." She shrugged. "Okay. A lot overwhelmed."
Not that anyone seemed to believe her about liking retail, especially her mother. After the reading of Aunt Char's will, Mom had looked at her as they stood on the sidewalk outside the lawyer's office. "Nan. Dear."
When her mother said Nan dear like it was two separate sentences, Nan knew something had displeased her. But she couldn't be in trouble with Mom. She hadn't done anything yet, though she knew she was going to. Aunt Char had posthumously answered her prayers.
"Nan. Dear," Mom repeated. "I know just the realtor to handle the sale of that boardwalk shop for you." Mom said boardwalk shop as if uttering dirty words. "With the proceeds, you can get a nicer apartment in New York. We'll keep Aunt Char's Vero Beach house for wonderful winter vacations, though why Char left it to you is beyond me."
"She liked me?" Nan suggested. A business in New Jersey and a residence in Florida.
"Well, she liked me too." Mom sounded annoyed. Sure, Mom and Dad had gotten money and some jewelry, but Nan had gotten the bulk of the estate.
Nan hugged herself. She was an heiress! An heiress whose prayers had been answered!
"I'm not selling Present Perfect, Mom." It was a wild and perhaps foolish decision, but something in her knew Present Perfect was her calling. For the first time in a long time, she felt excited about the possibilities. "I'm not selling."
"Nan. Dear." The pause between the two words was extra long. "You can't keep the shop with a job as demanding as yours."
"You're right." The very thought of handing in her resignation made her heart leap with delight. She and publishing were not a good match. She hadn't felt either job satisfaction or inner peace for some time, and Aunt Char had given her the way out.
"I love you, Aunt Char!" Nan spun in a circle on the sidewalk while her mother looked acutely uncomfortable at the inelegant display of emotion. Nan would have thrown her arms around Aunt Char's neck and given her a big kiss on the cheek if she could have.
"Nan. Dear. Please. Show some decorum."
For once, Nan was too happy to be bothered. "Oh, Mom, this is my chance!"
"Pizzazz is your chance. Why, young women all over the country would give anything for your opportunity."
Mom was probably right, but that didn't change Nan's mind. Her job meant way more to her mother than it did to her.
"My daughter's the editor at Pizzazz, you know," she loved to say, as if Nan ran the show. That she was really a lowly assistant didn't faze her mother. She worked at a prestigious women's magazine, one that featured celebrities and set style, and Mom took full advantage of the bragging rights.
"So you'll just leave New York? Leave the magazine? For the boardwalk?"
The scorn and disbelief made Nan cringe, but she stood firm. How often did a person get an inheritance that allowed for a real life change? Practically never, that was how often.
"I could kill Aunt Char for this," Mom said. "If she weren't already dead."
So here Nan was, in Seaside, New Jersey, taking over Present Perfect. Between the excitement and terror that gripped her, she wondered if she'd ever take a full breath again.
She looked at Officer Eastman. "When Aunt Char left me the store, I jumped at the chance to try something different."
"Won't this be seasonal?"
"I haven't figured that part out yet," she said. "But I needed to get out of the pressure cooker that was my job, a job I didn't enjoy. I'm young, single, and unencumbered. Now's the time to try." She shrugged. "October and closing for the winter are several months away." She didn't tell him that Aunt Char had not only left her Present Perfect but the apartment on the upper floor as well. She could live there all year round if she decided not to keep the Vero Beach condo.
"I want to take pictures of your found items," Officer Eastman said. "I can compare them with info in the databases. Not that I think I'll find anything. If someone stole these things, they wouldn't be leaving them lying around. They'd be fencing them."
"I know. That's what's so strange!"
"The footage from your surveillance cameras will be a big help."
She made an I'm-sorry face. She'd been expecting the request for the disks or tape or whatever was in the cameras. It was always one of the first things Kate asked for on Castle. "I have a guy coming next week to get the cameras up and working. The place was closed for several months due to Aunt Char's illness. Sea air, you know?"
Officer Eastman didn't look happy, but he just nodded. "Corrosion." His cell rang. He held up a finger and pulled the phone out. "Eastman."
In a few seconds he hung up. "Gotta go." He stood and turned toward the store.
"You can go out back here," Nan said. "Save you fighting the aisles."
He managed a quick smile through the frown that had appeared with the phone call. He paused halfway out the back door. "See you at 6:30. I'll call if I'm held up."
Nan felt herself color again. "You don't have to come. Aunt Bunny will understand."
"And miss a meal I didn't nuke myself? Not a chance."
The office seemed very empty when he was gone, so she walked
the store, aisle by aisle, looking carefully for any unexpected items. She found none, a great relief. Maybe there would be no more, but she was afraid that was too much to hope for.
She smiled her brightest as she sold a Seaside plaque, paper napkins covered with fancy seashells that never littered the Seaside beaches, two watercolor prints of Adirondack chairs sitting on the beach, and a set of bright orange and hot pink plastic dishes she privately thought atrocious. When she went to the back room to meet the UPS man, Tammy took over the register.
As Nan opened boxes of new inventory, her mind wandered to the Wedgwood ornaments. There were twelve days of Christmas. Her culprit had left only three of the days. Did that mean nine more were to come?
At least she'd have an excuse to call Officer Eastman if they showed.
She scrunched her eyes as the thought flew past. No. No men, not even handsome ones with dark chocolate eyes and great smiles. She'd promised herself. Just good hard work and sea air. Tyler had taught her that no matter how good a man looked in person and on paper, he couldn't be relied on.
Chapter Four
Happy he got off his shift on time, Rog let himself into his place, the second floor of an old Victorian that had been converted into a two-bedroom apartment. Judging from the light and TV noise that met him, Mooch had made himself at home.
Rog walked into the living room and found the young man slouched on the sofa watching Firefly.
"How many times have you watched this show?" Rog asked.
Mooch turned and smiled. "Not enough." He clicked the screen black.
"When'd you get here?" Rog dropped into a chair—brown, serviceable, not uncomfortable. He glanced absently around his living room. The sofa wasn't too bad, even if the green and brown plaid was a bit eye-curdling. The lamps had obviously seen many years of service, and the shades were a dingy beige.
He shrugged. It all came with the place, didn't require anything of him, and didn't make his back hurt. What more could he ask of furniture?
"And more importantly, how'd you get in?" Rog gave his guest the evil eye.
Mooch grinned. "I have a key."