"That's true," said Skye. "I think she let things go as she got older. The place got worn out and ratty looking. She had a good reputation. Interior Designers and antique dealers would stop by to find unique items, but I don't think she made much money over the last few years of her life. I think she survived from one big sale to another. After her stroke she couldn't poke around in the salvage shops and consignment stores anymore. That's where she'd found her best treasures, the most profitable things she sold."
"I wouldn't know an antique or collectible if I saw one," I said.
"There are books that could help you but studying them would take a lot of time," suggested Skye. She wiped her fingertips delicately on a paper napkin. One lone cucumber seed stared up at us. "And then there is MJ."
"Okay, I give. All roads seem to lead to MJ. How do I get in touch with her?"
Skye handed me her phone. "When she stopped by Pumpernickel's yesterday, I asked her for her number."
MJ listened to me introduce myself and then cut the chitchat short with, "Of course you need me. I'll meet you at the store in half an hour."
"See?" said Skye. "You'll have The Treasure Chest up and running in no time. I bet lots of Essie's old customers will be eager to buy from you."
"Speaking of which..." and I shared with her what Brad Houston had told me about the Highwaymen paintings.
"That's right!" Skye snapped her fingers. "I remember reading about the theft. See, there was this big exhibit of their work a couple of months ago, and the local paper ran an article about the Highwaymen. The reporter dug up an old interview with Essie and referenced it. I overheard a couple people talking about it in the restaurant. Wow. Can you imagine? How on earth did she lose track of all those paintings?"
I shrugged. "I'm wondering why her son, Irving, didn't do a better job of keeping track of them himself. Okay, so Essie had a stroke. Still, he wouldn't have been at her bedside every minute of the day. Why didn't he keep an eye on the store, considering how valuable those paintings were?"
"That happened when? Twelve years ago?"
I nodded.
"That would be around the time that Irving Feldman's wife was diagnosed with MS. Irving and Evelyn still come into Pumpernickel's once in a while. He pushes her wheelchair. It's the cutest thing. He's so sweet to her. I've heard she's gotten worse. A lot worse."
"You must think I'm an insensitive bore," I said. "I didn't know about his wife."
"Not at all. How would you know? You haven't been living here."
"I wonder if MJ could have stolen the paintings. Maybe she's sitting on them, planning to sell them, and the police don't know it."
"Not likely," said Skye. "If she had the paintings, she would never need to work another day in her life! Besides, she was like a daughter to Essie. No, from what I've heard MJ is as baffled by their disappearance as anyone."
36
When Skye drove us back to The Treasure Chest, we discovered a pink Cadillac in one of the spaces next to Black Beauty. The owner climbed out, gave a nod to Skye, and offered me her hand.
"Mary as in the Virgin. Jayne as in Mansfield. Austin as in Texas," said the woman. I judged her to be fifteen years my senior.
"You got here in a hurry." I tried not to stare at her outfit. Pink ribbons tied up MJ Austin's blonde pigtails. Thanks to a pink and white gingham blouse tied under her bust, she looked like she was dressed for an Elly May Clampett costume party. However, the ornate crucifix nestled in her décolleté was definitely not part of the original Beverly Hillbillies storyline.
"I was planning to work in my garden," she said, "but you need my help. Desperately."
I unlocked the back door. We stepped inside, walked to the front, and she looked around. "This place is a mess. There's no way that you could know what's valuable and what's not. But I do. I also know all the workmen that Essie used. I know what they're good at and what they charge. I have a Rolodex with a list of her best sources."
Talk about getting to the point!
"Should we discuss your compensation?"
"Here's my last pay stub." She wiggled dragon-lady red nails into a back pocket of her skin tight jeans.
I glanced at the paper. The woman had been paid a pittance.
"I need to go and do my shift at the deli," said Skye, hoisting her purse over her shoulder. "Seems like you two have everything under control."
Although MJ owed her employment to Skye, she didn't seem to realize the waitress had done her a good turn. I made a mental note to mention it later. Meanwhile, I had my own debt of gratitude to repay.
"Skye, I can't thank you enough," I said, but she held up a finger to interrupt.
"Yes, actually you can. I have a favor to ask. Something for you to consider at least. You told me you planned to rent out the second apartment. I'd like to be your tenant. You don't have to answer right now."
This came out of nowhere, but it warmed my heart. Skye had proven herself to be my friend, and I needed a renter. She hadn't even looked the place over though, so I offered to take her upstairs and show her around.
"Sure," she said. "I can spare five minutes, but I can't imagine that I won't like it."
"I'll start sorting through the papers on Essie's desk," said MJ.
"That's fine but don't toss anything. I want to look over everything.
MJ raised an eyebrow. "Of course."
As she headed for the old desk in the back, Skye and I climbed the stairs. "I thought I'd take the unit on the left, but if that doesn't work for you, we can swap.”
"In case I have some sort of left-phobia?"
"Ha ha," and I steered us to the right. After opening the door, we stared into the dark and empty space. The overhead light didn't do much to improve the situation since the windows were boarded over.
"Ever watch House Hunters International?" I said.
"My favorite show, next to the High Low Project! Even when the place is a pile of sticks, I can see the potential."
"That's good," I said. "Because this isn't much better than a rundown shack.
“Yes, but it’ll be a shack with a view of the water,” she said.
“Once we get the boards torn down.”
"That would be nice, but right now I'd settle for a poster of the beach. My roommate, Terra, and her boyfriend are back. They are driving me bonkers."
I turned to her and grinned. "Are they having what my son would call wild monkey sex?"
"It's worse than that. They've caught an exotic variation of the decorating bug. She's decided to carpet the entire apartment in pink shag. I'd rather stick a pencil in my eye! If you'll let me paint and decorate this place, that's all I ask."
"I hope you have furniture," I said, as we continued our tour. "Although the place does come with a metal bed frame, a TV tray table, and a plastic lawn chair."
"Just my style," she said with a chuckle. "Seriously, I love fixing up old stuff. Furnishing this will be a blast."
I knew that I should check her credit references and ask for a deposit, but how could I when she'd taken me in off the streets? Not to mention the fact, she'd been there for me during every crisis since I’d hit town? So although I visualized my father shaking his index finger at me in annoyance, I asked, "When do you want to move in?"
"Tonight? Is that too soon? Do I appear too eager?"
I laughed. There was something breezy and effortless about Skye, as though she didn't have a care in the world. Her happy personality was joyfully infectious. We were going to make good neighbors. "Fine by me."
37
Before Skye left for her shift at Pumpernickel's, I exacted a promise that she'd return at six with carry-out.
"Anything you don't eat?" she asked.
"Liver."
"That makes two of us." She threw her arms around my neck and gave me a hug. "Thanks a heap for letting me move in so quickly. I appreciate it. I promise I'll be a great renter—and I'll help with the store as much as I can."
"You've already done a
lot."
With a grin, she waved goodbye and fairly pranced out of the front door, leaving me to MJ's steely glance. For someone who dressed like a TV sitcom character, MJ didn't seem to have any sense of humor. It was almost as if the woman hated me on sight.
Dad always said, "There are warm and fuzzy people, and there are people." Maybe she was just a "people." All righty then. This was a business relationship, and if she did her job, that was what mattered, wasn't it?
"I've sorted the mail into stacks," she said, putting a blood red fingernail on the papers. "These are bills, accounts payable, correspondence, requests, and miscellaneous."
"I didn't buy the business," I explained. "Just the building. The business died with Essie Feldman, or so I assume."
"That's right, but you might still want to look at what's here. If you want to, you can pick up where she left off, although you won't have the obligations she incurred. I brought with me the profit and loss statements from the past five years. That will give you an idea of how her business faired financially. You could start with customer requests since those would be low hanging fruit. No doubt many of those customers would have found what they were looking for, but you might be able to salvage a few salable items from the mess out there."
"That's perfect. I want to make whatever money we can as fast as possible because I'll have a lot of expenses right off the bat."
She picked up a pile of paper. "Why not let me handle calling old customers? I can identify what we have or what we can round up. Essie had a good network of suppliers. It can be difficult to find exactly those items that people want, but we can try."
"Back up a second, please. Let's start from ground zero. Did she do a good business? Give me a state of the union address about The Treasure Chest. If it were your business, would you run it as she did?" I dragged over an ancient metal folding chair that had been propped up against a wall. With some effort, I popped it open and sat down. It wasn’t comfortable, but it held me up while MJ stayed in the office chair behind the big oak desk.
Her eyes widened in surprise at my question. She pursed her lips and went silent. I kept my mouth shut because I didn't want to interrupt her thought process. Dad always said that God gave us two ears and one mouth for a reason, although most people used these orifices in the wrong proportion.
"I don't want to speak ill of the dead," she began, "but for years I thought that Essie should change focus—and I told her as much. Yes, antiques are nice, but unless you want to be a dedicated antique store, sales can be sporadic. The company is dependent upon what can be scrounged up or what can be purchased at estate sales. To be successful, it's necessary to find someone to be your bird dog, chasing down leads, sifting through dreck to find desirables, and buying them at a reasonable price."
That made sense. If I followed that path, I'd have to hire a person to be my scout—and a person with that expertise wouldn't come cheap. The scout would also need a bankroll of ready cash, because there would be situations where forking over the dough on the spot would be necessary. That would mean that I'd have little or no control over a chunk of change.
MJ continued, "The antique buying market in southern Florida basically disappeared after Bernie Madoff stripped so many people of their wealth. The tanking of the economy dealt a final blow to the many of the remaining collectors. Even when we bought up antiques for a pittance, which we were often able to do, it took a long time to turn them. That meant that Essie's capital was tied up. There's one other trend that she refused to consider. More and more baby boomers downsize and move to Florida for the tax advantages. They've already had expensive antiques and nice furniture. Now they are planning to be comfortable and to welcome their grandchildren into their homes. So they aren't buying antiques like they once did."
"I can tell you've given this a lot of thought. What changes would you recommend?”
"I suggest we offer fewer antiques, ones in a reasonable price range. I like items that would appeal to a broader market and that would turn faster, with higher margins. Nothing exotic. If we found a rare piece, of course, we should buy it. But it would be more profitable to sell it quickly. That way the capital wouldn't be tied up as long."
"Okay," I said, "I think I understand how the antiques figured into the business mix, but what kept the lights on and brought in a steady cash flow?"
"That's my point. There wasn't a steady cash flow. In my opinion, you need to find a balance by selling rarities and offering a supply of goods that will appeal to snowbirds. Plus décor items for snowbirds who decide to move here permanently."
"Snowbirds" was a term for Northerners who "flew" south seasonally to avoid the snow.
"What do you think our snowbirds would want to buy?"
"They are wild about beach-themed goods at reasonable prices. I realize that's a pretty loose description, but if I were you, I'd aim at a sweet spot. Think of a cross between HGTV and Coastal Living Magazine. Are you familiar with both of those?"
"My favorites!"
"You and the rest of the baby boomer generation. You want to be surrounded with comfortable, unique, and inviting things." MJ scrawled those three words on a small yellow legal pad. "Throw in a dash of handmade, and you'd nail it."
I reached over, grabbed the pen, and added a headline: "Beach-themed."
"That's right. Are you planning to change the name of the shop?" she asked.
"I'd rather not." I tapped the pen against my teeth. "That would be a hassle and a half. I have always liked the name 'The Treasure Chest.' I think it's in keeping with its location, the Treasure Coast. People enjoy dreaming about the ocean even when they can't be close to the water."
"I agree," she said. "That's a specific quality we can offer. Anyone, anywhere, could sell antiques, but if you concentrate on pieces that echo that love of the seashore, I think your merchandise will have more appeal."
MJ and I studied the yellow paper pad. Slowly she turned her gaze toward me.
"If that's your intent, this place needs a total transformation. You'll need to change it from a dark, dusty cave into a bright, welcoming environment. Someplace sunny and bright—like the beach. How do you propose to start? Do you have a plan?"
"I’ll put one together." For the first time, I thought she and I might make a good match. She wasn't endearing, but she was no-nonsense, and I liked that. "I don’t know a lot about this particular business, but I do know a lot about running a business in general. As for décor, I was in charge of decorating and stocking our family restaurant. Several friends asked me to help them decorate their homes and places of business. While I lack the training and credentials of a full-fledged interior designer, I do have a bit of experience. Especially in doing it on a budget."
Her eyes narrowed. "While you wrap your head around the changes that need to be made, I'll call every customer who made a request before Essie died and see if they still are interested in specific items."
"Sounds like a plan," I said. Feeling both energized and hopeful, I hopped to my feet.
38
I'd no more than finished my conversation with MJ when my cell phone rang. It was Walter Pujoli, the man who was buying our restaurant on contract.
"Cara, I hate making this call, but I have a problem. We had a bad storm here in St. Louis, and the power was knocked out. The old generator went down."
"How many coolers did you lose?"
He hesitated. "All of them."
I did a quick mental calculation. The cost of lost food would be staggering. It was on the tip of my tongue to say, "I warned you," because I had. I'd told Walter when he bought the place that he should replace our old back-up generator, but he'd laughed off my suggestion. Walter was a nice enough man, but he never showed me any respect. To him, my dad was the boss, and I was my father's pesky little sidekick.
"I need a little time to recoup my losses," he said. "This month's check will be late."
As I mentally counted to ten, he dropped his voice to a whisper. "There's anot
her problem. Cash has been disappearing from the till. When are you coming back?"
When was I coming back?
He expected me to solve this problem for him? From Florida?
Huh, not likely.
I heard my father’s voice in my head. "Cara, everyone learns differently. Men generally need to be hit over the head with a two-by-four to change their minds. Be nice."
"You need to hop on that fast," I said to Walter, as I tactfully ignored his attempt to rope me into his problems.
"How?" whined Walter.
"Call Detective Chad Detweiler and tell him I sent you. He'll steer you in the right direction."
As quickly as I could, I ended the call. If Walter became dependent on me, he'd never gain the confidence he needed to run Cara Mia's. Besides, I didn't want him to realize how upset I was about the late payment. I'd counted on that steady flow of cash to help me as I put money into The Treasure Chest.
All I could do was double-down and get to work.
It is absolutely amazing what you can accomplish when your back is to the wall. Mine was, because I desperately needed to get this show on the proverbial road. Powered by panic, spurred on by worry, I shifted into high gear. Every delay in opening our doors to the public was costing me money. MJ, bless her heart, seemed to realize my predicament, too. She worked her way through the phone calls like a telemarketer while I walked around (as best I could, given the piles of junk in my way) and thought about the look I wanted for the store.
"Hey," I said to her. "I’m thinking that we need to both blend in and stand out. I'm going to take a quick stroll through downtown Stuart. I want to get a feel for the other successful businesses."
"Good idea," she said.
The breeze from the Intracoastal would do me good. My head was buzzing with questions. What did I need to do first? How could I redecorate on a dime? How on earth was I going to turn The Treasure Chest into a profitable retail business given my limited capital and lack of cash flow?
Kiki Lowenstein Books 1-3 & Cara Mia Delgatto Books 1-3: The Perfect Series for Crafters, Pet Lovers, and Readers Who Like Upbeat Books! Page 77