by Vicki Essex
She lowered the gun. “Sorry about your suit,” she said reluctantly. “You can send me a bill for the dry cleaning.”
“Not to worry. It was in need of a little color anyhow.” He got to his feet. “I’ll wait for the sheriff. I can give him a description of those guys who broke in.”
“That’s not necessary.” She didn’t want him there any longer than he had to be. “You can go.”
He looked around, lingering, as if waiting for an invitation to sit and have a coffee.
“You’re here rather late,” he remarked.
She stiffened. “I’m often here late.”
“The back door was open.” The almost-fatherly condescension in his tone irritated her. “Do you normally leave it unlocked?”
“It’s a tricky lock. Been like that forever.”
He frowned. “Maybe you should board the door up.”
Mira glared. She didn’t like to be told how to run her life. She held up the gun. “I think I have security covered.”
“Mira?” Arty’s gruff voice echoed from the back lobby. “Where are you?”
“I’m here. Everything’s fine.”
A moment later, Arty Bolton strode in, his sweater inside out, his graying hair flying in all directions. She could see him putting it all together in his mind as he took in the scene, and he sagged in relief. “Christsakes, Mira, that costume could scare the black off a zebra. What the hell is going on?” His gaze narrowed on the man from Sagmar. “Who’s this?”
“Shane Patel.” He wore his smile as readily as his ruined tailored suit. “We’ve had a misunderstanding. I was trying to rescue Ms. Bateman from some teens who broke into the building—”
Rescue? What a lying piece of—
“Mira, what have I said about barring and locking all the doors?” Arty glowered at her.
She glared right back, then realized he couldn’t see her face. She pulled away the cowl and unhooked the veil. “You know how that back door is.”
“And if it weren’t for this brave young man—”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Shane said modestly. Mira felt a flicker of appreciation for the correction, but Shane Patel wasn’t anywhere near the vicinity of her good graces yet. “She had me dead to rights. As you can see.” He gestured at his green-spattered suit.
The lines in the older man’s face deepened. He gave a put-upon sigh. “Mira...”
“Why are you mad at me?” she asked, irritated. “He was trespassing.”
“I was trying to do my neighborly duty, honestly.” He sounded sincere, but all Mira could hear was the slime beneath his words. And yet, he was winning Arty over. The older man’s expression eased with sympathy and gratitude.
Mira summoned her outrage. “Arty, this is the guy I was telling you about. The one who wants to buy the theater.”
“Oh.” He regarded him a moment, then held out a hand. “Arty Bolton. I own the Everville Grocery down the way.”
“I know.” He grinned. “I guess you don’t remember me, Mr. Bolton. My family and I used to come to Everville every summer when I was a kid. I came by the grocery store frequently to get bubble gum cards.”
“Wait a sec.” Arty squinted. Mira looked between the two, flabbergasted this intruder could have any possible connection to the man who’d been watching out for her since her grandfather had died four years ago. The grocer pointed. “I do remember you, I think. You were tiny, and you had huge ears. You were friends with the Latimers. Your parents used to stay at one of the big cottages by Silver Lake, right? I’m trying to remember... Ran... Ranjeet?”
“That’s my dad.” Shane’s face broke out into a brilliant grin.
“Well, hot dog. How is your family?” They got to talking about a past Mira knew nothing about. She was feeling steadily more and more uncomfortable. She hated being out of the loop, hated that strangers had been in her home, hated how she was simultaneously being ignored and made the center of attention. She rubbed her arms and huffed. Her personal space felt violated.
Sheriff McKinnon arrived a few minutes later. One hand rested on his service piece as he assessed Shane and listened to what he had to say. Mira then told her side of the story—she’d been working when the silent perimeter alarm she’d installed alerted her to the intruders. From there, she’d called him, put on her costume and taken up her post, initiating her “haunting protocol” program to play itself out.
The sheriff rubbed his eyes. “I don’t see why you can’t have a normal security system like everyone else,” he said. “Or a guard dog.”
“Those kids came in here looking for trouble.” She raised her chin. “I just gave them what they wanted.”
“Always one for theatrics, just like your grandfather,” Arty said with a touch of exasperation. “They could’ve been more than kids, Mira. It’s not safe for a girl on her own. You need to move out of here.”
She glared at Arty in warning. Not everyone who knew her knew that she lived in the theater. It wasn’t something she openly shared, especially not with the law or strangers like Mr. Patel.
The sheriff glanced around disinterestedly. “Is anything missing? Any property damage?”
“There’s a broken beer bottle in one corner—they were drinking. They were trying to pick a lock on that storage closet, too. Nothing in there of value, though.” She pointed to one corner. Ralph checked it out and declared it hadn’t been damaged.
The sheriff made a note on his pad. “Mr. Patel... I presume you won’t be pressing charges?” The question was a half warning.
“Not at all, Sheriff.” Again, that too-big smile. It gave Mira goose bumps.
“Mira?”
She shook her head reluctantly. No sense in causing more trouble or giving Shane Patel reason to sue her.
“All right. If either of you remember anything else about what you saw, call me. I’ll do a drive around the neighborhood—see if I spot those troublemakers. If I catch them, I might need you both to come down to the office and identify them for me.”
“I’m staying at the Sunshine B and B,” Shane said. “I’m here on business.”
“For how long?”
He slid Mira a lopsided grin. She met his stare head-on, her face fixed with stony dislike. “As long as it takes.”
CHAPTER TWO
IT WAS CLOSE to nine by the time Shane left the Crown. That he’d gotten off with only a stink eye from the sheriff was a point in his column. He’d have to be more careful when approaching Miriam Bateman.
And, boy, was he ever going to have to watch himself around her. He’d expected an older woman, someone as hard and obdurate as her refusals had been. He hadn’t thought she’d be so young and pretty. Even in that billowing pseudo-Dementor’s robe, those big blue eyes had glowed against her round, pale face, framed by that mass of dark brown hair. Girls like that spelled trouble for him, and not just because she’d shot him in the balls.
He winced, still feeling the burning ache. It’d been tough to smile in front of the sheriff.
He parked outside the Sunshine B and B. The house was a fairly ordinary-looking two-story Colonial off Main Street with a screened-in porch, a well-manicured garden and a short driveway. Exactly the kind of place a couple might get away to for a weekend while touring Upstate New York.
In the main foyer, an older woman with dyed blond hair and blue eyeliner greeted him cheerfully. “Nancy Gibbons,” she introduced herself. “You must be Shane. You’re the only one booked for the week...” Her face fell as she took in his state. “Oh my—what happened to you?”
“Had a run-in with some neighborhood kids and a paintball gun,” he explained, which was as close to the truth as he wanted to go. He was sure some version of that story would make its way around the small town eventually.
Nancy scowled. �
�Their parents must be mortified. I’ve been saying we need to give these kids more to do around here than cause trouble, but the town doesn’t have the money for those kinds of programs.” She sighed. “Back in my day, we had jobs to keep us busy. Now it’s hard enough to even keep the young folks in town.”
Shane nodded. This was the story in small towns everywhere. As factories and mines shut down or pulled out and the economy shrank, people lost their jobs and had to move on to find new opportunities. As a result, the towns collapsed.
“Your room is at the end of the hall, top of the stairs,” Nancy said, handing him a key. “Get out of that suit and I’ll send it to the dry cleaners in the morning. I’ll bring you supper.”
“And an ice pack, if you please.”
Nancy frowned. “Are you hurt?”
“Just my pride,” he said with a grimace.
After a stinging-hot shower, he applied the ice pack where he needed it most and sat down to his laptop, connecting it to the in-room Wi-Fi. In minutes, his inbox flashed nineteen new messages.
Typical. The partners at Sagmar had been hesitant about sending him as the rep because of what they perceived as a “soft heart” toward the town that had hosted him during so many childhood summers. “We need you to go for the jugular,” the senior project manager, Laura Kessler, had told him. “Companies will be swarming this place looking to buy up real estate for development as soon as they realize what a gold mine it is.”
Sure enough, there was an email from Laura, reminding him that the longer he took to convince Miriam Bateman to sell, the higher the price for the Crown would go. Rumors of a new high-speed commuter rail line hadn’t yet leaked to the general public, though, so the town’s property values hadn’t changed. And as long as Miriam Bateman remained in the dark, she couldn’t necessarily demand a higher price.
It wasn’t exactly all aboveboard as deals like this went, but the rail project wasn’t set in stone, which was the only reason Shane didn’t feel completely deceitful. It was a shady enough deal as it was, since the president of Sagmar received the tip off-the-record. Laura had told Shane they wouldn’t be prosecuted if the information was leaked, but he wasn’t reassured.
The rest of his emails were mostly minutiae from work. There was one from his parents in Brooklyn reminding him of his sister’s birthday next week. They knew he was working hard on this deal, but they didn’t know why: he had his heart set on buying one of the condo units so his parents would have a place to retire. They always talked about coming back to Everville for an extended stay, and Shane wanted them to have that. Besides, a new condo would be the perfect income generator and secondary leisure home.
He was certain he could convince Miriam to sell before Priti’s party. He just needed more information about the theater owner. It was why he’d come to Everville—he wanted to face Ms. Bateman and get a sense of who she was. Emails and letters didn’t cut it. He was a people person. Once he figured out what motivated Miriam and what kinds of dreams she had, he’d know how to get her to sell.
* * *
THE NEXT MORNING, he walked downtown, marveling at how much Everville had changed. Unlike many of the locations he’d scouted in Upstate New York, this town had managed to evolve, avoiding stagnation against all odds. Where there had once been feed stores and midsize department stores, there were now trendy cafés, galleries and boutiques. There were still lots of empty storefronts, though. He remembered how busy and vibrant Everville had been when he was a child, but the town hadn’t suffered nearly as badly as other places Sagmar Corp. had considered for the condo.
It was nice to see some things hadn’t changed: the local Chinese eatery, the Good Fortune Diner, was still thriving after all these years. It was the only place in the States he’d ever found sweet-and-sour chicken balls—he’d learned it was mainly a pseudo-Chinese staple on Canadian and British menus. He’d go in for a plate later.
He headed for the grocery store. He preferred to fend for himself rather than eat out all the time. He didn’t need much—as fancy as his suits were, instant ramen, microwave dinners and peanut butter sandwiches suited him fine. He’d save the fine dining to woo Miriam Bateman, if it came down to it.
As he was waiting at the checkout, Arty Bolton pushed a cart piled with boxes of groceries past. Shane paid and followed the older man to the parking lot, where he was loading a delivery van.
“Good morning, Mr. Bolton,” he greeted cheerfully. Arty was as good a source of information on Miriam Bateman as anyone. He was definitely some kind of guardian figure in her life—Shane’s research on her hadn’t turned up any family connections apart from the Crown’s previous owner, Jack Bateman. “Need a hand?”
Arty looked up and grinned. “Mr. Patel, good morning.” He stretched his back and winced. “My guy who usually loads the truck is off today. If you don’t mind...?”
“Just Shane, please.” He placed his own bags on the ground and hefted one of the heavier boxes into the van.
“And just Arty to you, young man.” The grocer craned his neck and spine with an audible pop. “Thing about getting older, you feel a lack of sleep a lot more keenly.”
The man had unwittingly provided the perfect opening for Shane’s queries. “Did Ms. Bateman have any more issues after I left?”
“Mira? Not at all. In fact, the sheriff tracked one of those kids down already. Local boy, barely sixteen. Ralph will probably be calling on you to ID him later.”
“How was Ms. Bateman after I left?”
“Mira’s tough,” Arty reassured him. “Gets it from her grandpa, God rest his soul. Stubborn as a mule. If I haven’t said it, thank you for rushing to her rescue.”
“It was nothing.” After all, he’d been the one who needed rescuing in the end. “I’m glad to hear she hasn’t suffered from the incident.”
Arty regarded him speculatively. “So you’re here ’cause you want to buy the Crown?”
“The company I represent has been pursuing Ms. Bateman the past six months, but so far, she’s refused all offers.”
“Yeah, she showed me the letters.” His tone revealed nothing of his opinion. “What’re you doing with the property once you get your hands on it?”
“I think you’ll like it. Sagmar has plans for a twelve-story living complex with ground-floor retail space, more than sixty family-sized units—”
“Condos,” Arty summarized with a frown.
Shane smiled tightly. For some reason, people reacted negatively to the term. “Well, yes, but—”
The grocer gave a dry chuckle as Shane handed him another box from the shopping cart. “You may have spent summers here, son, but clearly no one told you that you need to get to the point around these parts if you want to try to sell us anything.”
“My team has spoken at length with the mayor about redeveloping that vacant block. This project has been in the works for a long time.”
The older man shrugged. “I’m not sure people will welcome a condo as readily as you think. We’ve had a lot of change around here lately—all the water main construction, the wind turbines, the old businesses shutting down...it’s been difficult. Putting up condos, though, is another thing.”
Shane knew that. No matter where Sagmar built, they always faced opposition from not-in-my-backyarders—or NIMBYs—environmental groups, heritage preservationists, even religious groups. His specialty was answering questions, presenting facts and changing minds. It was why he was the top negotiator at the firm. His record for closing the deal was perfect; he wasn’t about to break that streak.
He finished loading Arty’s van. The grocer offered him a ride back to the B and B, and Shane accepted.
“I’d like to give Ms. Bateman a gift to apologize for my intrusion last night,” Shane ventured as Arty drove. “Would you happen to know what she’d like?”
Arty scra
tched his chin. “To be honest, I don’t know that a gift would get you out of the dog house. I did mention she’s stubborn, right?” He sent him a loaded though not unfriendly look. “But you can’t go wrong with flowers and chocolates. Women like those. Visit the Main Street Florist. Talk to Janice. She’ll take care of you.”
Shane suppressed a smirk. If he didn’t know better, he’d think the old man was trying his hand at matchmaking. Not that he wasn’t above a little flirting to grease the wheels on the deal—a smile and a wink could be just as effective as a firm handshake. “Main Street Florist. Gotcha. Thanks, Arty.”
* * *
“FLOWERS AND CHOCOLATES?” Janice Heinlein rolled her eyes. “Really, Arty, that’s about as subtle as telling him to buy her a diamond ring.”
“Don’t see what’s the big deal. And anyhow, I’m sending business your way. Can’t argue with that, can you?” He picked up the bucket of bouquets the florist had put together for his shop. Janice could have sent one of her boys to deliver them to the grocery store directly, but he liked to visit when he could and see her in her natural habitat—a rare orchid among dandelions.
Now that’s what you call maudlin claptrap, he scolded himself for his bad poetry. Jack would’ve laughed him out of the store.
“You know, if he gets here before you’re gone, he’ll know you’re up to something.”
“Up to something? Me?” He grinned. “Whatever could you mean?”
“Don’t play coy.” She gave him a lopsided grin. “You want Mira to find a man.”
Arty smirked, not denying her allegation. They’d both worried over Mira since Jack’s death. She’d had a rough start to life, and as much as she’d grown and matured, she’d never really come out of her shell entirely and had only seemed to retreat further since her grandfather’s death. Finding a man who’d look after her wasn’t out of the question, but he wasn’t entirely ready to push Mira out of her comfort zone, either. The girl was sensitive.