Killed With a Kiss

by Fiona Grace

  It seemed to Lacey as if everyone in the country knew about Wilfordshire’s famous horse festival, apart from her.

  The woman looked at Chester. “And who is this gorgeous fellow?” she gushed, coming out from behind the counter to pet his head. She was, quite appropriately, wearing jodhpurs.

  Chester barked hello.

  “This is my trusty companion, Chester,” Lacey said. “We just had some frozen dog treats on the beach.”

  “It’s lovely down there, isn’t it?”

  “I’ll say. As much as I adore Wilfordshire’s wild, craggy beach, I am partial to the feel of warm sand between my toes.”

  Belinda smiled. “I suppose you’ll be wanting to see my antique stock?”

  She led Lacey to the items she’d set aside for her to peruse. There were bits, bridles, stirrups, and spurs galore. Lacey immediately began inspecting them for any hidden gems.

  “I must say,” Belinda said as Lacey worked, “I’m glad there’s an antiques store in Wilfordshire again.”

  “Again?” Lacey asked, somewhat absentmindedly, since her attention was on the task at hand. She’d found some very interesting bridles and bits for infantry mounted officers and military cavalries.

  “There was one years back,” Belinda continued. “Must’ve been twenty or so now. It was run by this beautiful, glamorous woman. I think she was a countess, or baroness, or something similar. There was some blue blood in her, or at least that’s what the rumors say.”

  “How interesting,” Lacey murmured, putting down the pair of nineteenth-century Latin American spurs she’d been inspecting and moving on to some fifteenth-century Gothic ones.

  Belinda continued her story. “She was disowned by her family for choosing to work and falling in love with an ordinary man.” She sounded wistful at the romance of it all.

  “She sounds like quite a character,” Lacey said, discovering a rare pair of silver French spurs with a unique phoenix design. She looked up. “These are all fantastic. I’ll take them all.”

  “Really?” Belinda asked, sounding surprised. “I’ve had some of these for years without even a hint of interest from customers!”

  Lacey smiled. This was the game of antiques, the thrill of it. One trader may be holding on to goods for years without a market to sell them to, only for another seller confident in their customer pool to turn a profit for both parties. Most of Belinda’s stock were low-ticket items, the type that could sit around for years gathering dust, only to sell in dribs and drabs for twenty to thirty pounds. But as companion pieces to a themed auction they could help push up the price of the higher-ticket items. The pair of unique silver French spurs could fetch hundreds of pounds if the right bidder was present on auction day. Lacey wouldn’t usually take such a big risk, but she felt confident it would pay off—provided that Gina’s claims that a whole bunch of rich horsey people were about to descend on Wilfordshire were accurate. And by offering to take the entire lot off Belinda’s hands, she got a much better deal overall.

  Lacey left the Bournemouth store with a big box in her arms and a big smile on her face, thrilled that her treasure hunt had gotten off to such a good start.

  *

  The next stop on the whistle-stop tour of Dorset was Poole, just a twenty-minute drive along the coast. Turned out the van had actually been a very good idea after all. It was already far more full of stock than Lacey had anticipated, and she’d only been to one store so far! There was still the specialist leather store and the art store to visit.

  In the rearview mirror, Lacey assessed the amount of bits, bridles, stirrups, and spurs she’d just bought, excited by her haul, before her gaze flicked to Chester. He was sitting straight backed and self-important in the back seat, the wind ruffling through his ears.

  “Have I gone a little over the top?” she asked him.

  He tipped his head to the side, as if she was talking nonsense.

  “Are you sure?”

  He barked.

  “You’re right,” she said, reassured. “This is way lower risk than if I was just buying up a bunch of themed stuff without the customer base. In fact, it’s hardly a risk at all if Gina and Tom are to be believed.”

  She paused at the mention of Tom. He should be the one on this trip with her, really, reassuring her over her purchases rather than a dog, as wonderful as Chester was at it. But instead he was completely consumed by work. He had Paul, the hapless intern, to help lighten the load somewhat, but after Lucia left for a new job at Suzy’s guest house, he hadn’t hired anyone new. Why he hadn’t hired another staff member to help out for the rest of the busy tourist season, Lacey just couldn’t comprehend. Especially considering he was well aware of the upcoming Summer Equestrian Festival. It was almost as if he was sabotaging their relationship.

  “Did I tell him I loved him too soon, Chester?” she asked her confidant. “Does he think he can rest on his laurels now because he’s got me?” She started to grow more and more anxious. “Are we already in a rut? It’s only been a few months. This is supposed to be our honeymoon period, where we’re giddy and everything feels perfect! But here I am playing second fiddle to a patisserie!”

  Chester whined.

  Lacey pursed her lips. “Okay. Maybe I’m projecting a bit.”

  He whined again.

  “All right, okay, I get it. I’m expecting Tom to be like David, even though they’re nothing alike. That’s why I fell for him, because of how different he is from David. I’m just dissatisfied because I want to spend more time with him and I can’t.” She reached over and petted Chester’s velvety ears. “Thanks for being such a good listener, boy.”

  Half an hour later, Lacey coasted the van over the crest of a hill, and the sea opened up before her. Down below she saw Poole Harbour, which was nothing like what she’d been expecting. To her, a harbor was a man-made construction. Poole Harbour, on the other hand, appeared to be naturally occurring; the estuary for several large rivers. The water was extremely shallow, and there were land masses dotted around within it. Yachts, cruise boats, and large passenger ferries trawled through the waters.

  “Keep your eyes peeled for the leather shop,” Lacey told Chester.

  She followed the road that ran parallel to the harbor. It was lined with cool seafront eateries and restaurants, their outside seating areas completely full of weekend revelers soaking up the last few weeks of the summer sun in anticipation of it giving way to fall.

  Fall. Lacey’s favorite season. She was excited to see what England looked like once the leaves turned orange, red, and brown. Wilfordshire would most certainly look stunning, and if the High Street marked the change in season with bunting (as it had with both spring and summer), it would be even prettier. Lacey’s mind went into a romantic flight of fantasy as she pictured enjoying bonfires and toasted marshmallows with Tom, sipping on warm spiced cider and munching on roasted chestnuts.

  If he can spare a moment for me, that is, Lacey thought glumly, her romantic picture shattering in her mind like a cracked mirror.

  She couldn’t help but feel dubious about Tom’s claims he’d be more available once the busy summer tourist season was over. After all, there were three holidays to get through—Harvest Festival, Halloween, and Guy Fawkes’ Night—before they headed into the busy Christmas season preparations. People would want cakes and cookies for every one of them, not to mention some elaborate macaron window display. If there was one thing Lacey had learned about celebrations in the UK, it was that there was always an associated dish, and Tom would feel compelled to create a unique version of it to put on sale. She could already imagine the amount of work he’d put into his Halloween-themed gingerbread men after having witnessed his Easter gingerbread bunnies and the Equestrian Festival’s gingerbread horses. Knowing Tom, he’d probably construct an entire gingerbread haunted house! And he wouldn’t settle for selling his usual croissants and cakes, either. Tom was too dedicated to his craft for that. He’d toil away for hours creating new recipes fo
r cinnamon spiced apple Danishes and pumpkin muffins. It was highly unlikely he’d find any time for her at all.

  Suddenly, Chester started barking, and Lacey snapped out of her anxious ruminations to see the leather store was upon them. She’d almost driven right past it, she’d been so lost in her thoughts.

  “Thanks, Chester,” she said to her pup.

  He barked proudly.

  She pulled the van to the curb and cut the engine. Then she and Chester hopped out into the glorious sunshine and headed inside the leather store.

  It was much larger inside than Lacey had been expecting. A set of steep wooden stairs to her left indicated there was a whole other floor of goods in addition to the floor she’d entered into, which seemed to stretch back forever. A quick glance around showed Lacey that the store stocked both new and vintage leather, everything from cowboy boots to Moroccan sandals imported straight from Marrakech. The smell was a little overpowering—Lacey preferred the dusty, metallic smell of antiques—and it was very dark. The narrow aisles were absolutely crammed with leather goods. Purses hung from the ceilings, and there were numerous racks stuffed with jackets and the sort of skin-tight pants Lacey was certain had gone out of fashion in the ’80s. It was so crammed in the store, Lacey didn’t even know where to begin looking for the antique items she’d come for.

  She squeezed her way through the aisles, negotiating her way past a mannequin display of a man in a suede suit and a woman in a dominatrix outfit (complete with whip), before finding herself at the raised counter behind which stood the clerk. He was an older guy with a long gray beard and black, tassled leather waistcoat over a white T tucked into pale blue jeans. Lacey imagined him as a motorbike-riding, guitar-wielding rock star. Or a retired one, at the very least.

  She looked up at him. “Could you show me where to find your horse riding equipment? It said on your website you also sell vintage sandwich cases, canteens, and hip flasks.”

  “If it’s made of leather, we’ll have at least one somewhere,” he said in a voice that was far more gentle than his appearance would suggest. “Come with me.”

  Lacey followed the man, who was shorter than her once he’d stepped down from the counter. He moved his skinny frame deftly through the aisles. Lacey had to hurry to keep up. He obviously knew the store very well, and Lacey guessed that he was the owner.

  They reached the steep wooden staircase and ascended. It creaked under them. Lacey discovered the next floor was just as full of stock as the ground floor.

  “You have an impressive range of stock,” she said as she surveyed the room in front of her.

  “I’ve been here for thirty years now,” he replied. “I’ve accumulated a lot in that time.”

  “I can tell.”

  He led her toward the back of the store.

  “So are you a rider?” the man asked as they went.

  “Motorcycles?” Lacey asked, assuming he was referring to his garb.

  He laughed. “No. Horses.”

  “Oh!” Lacey laughed too. “No, I’m an antiquer and auctioneer. I’m holding an equestrian-themed auction, hence the interest.”

  “Cool,” the man said. “I’m into vintage, as you can probably tell, but I’m kind of clueless when it comes to antiques.”

  They reached the section of the store devoted to horse-riding and Lacey saw that all the new and vintage pieces were mixed up together. He was right when he’d said he was clueless; most of the handwritten labels said such undescriptive things as old bag. It was going to take a very long time to work her way through it all.

  “Is this the sort of stuff you were looking for?” he asked.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Are you sure? Because you look really disappointed.”

  “I’m sorry,” Lacey said. She softened her features, realizing as she did just how hard she’d been frowning. “I’m just thinking that it will take me a long time to find everything I’m looking for.”

  “I can help,” the man said. “You can teach me a thing or two about antiques as we go.”

  “Okay,” Lacey said, taking him up on his offer. “Thanks.” She got out her cell and showed him the photographs of the types of items she wanted. “These are sandwich cases, or saddle canteens. They clip onto the saddle, so the rider can bring lunch with them.”

  “I’ve got about a million of those,” he said, before disappearing down another aisle.

  Lacey looked at Chester and shrugged. Maybe this wasn’t going to take that long after all, with a helper.

  The man returned a few moments later pushing a large trolley labeled various satchels, then tipped it up and dumped the entire contents on the floor, in a mound of leather.

  “You weren’t kidding,” Lacey said, feeling giddy, like a child who’d just been surrounded by toys. She sat down on the floor next to the pile ready to begin hunting for treasure. “The next thing I’m looking for are saddle flasks, like these.” She handed him her cell phone for the reference picture and off he went.

  Lacey started rifling through the mountain of bags, setting aside the ones that were in poor condition and the ones that were knock-off remakes, in the hopes of finding a few that would be suitable for her auction. Then she found just the thing: a dark tan, Swaine-Brigg sandwich case with the original silver tin inside. Both bag and tin were in perfect condition, and Lacey was confident she’d fetch a few hundred pounds for them at auction. She placed the bag in her keep pile and continued sifting. Next, she found a curved sandwich case. Inside, stamped on the doeskin lining in black ink, it read, “James Dixon & Sons, Sheffield,” with a date: 1879. And, once again, this one had its original silver sandwich tin in pristine condition. She added it to her keep pile.

  Next she found a Champion & Wilton sidesaddle case in tan leather, complete with flask and sandwich tin, swiftly followed by a horse rider’s shoulder bag, curved to fit comfortably against the body with matching curved sandwich tin and hip flask.

  “Chester, this is like Christmas,” Lacey gushed as she added it to her pile.

  Chester lifted his head sleepily from his paws and yawned.

  “I’m glad you’re having fun,” the store clerk said, returning with a large box.

  “Are those all flasks?” Lacey asked, surprised.

  “I could only find a couple of flasks,” he said. “But I thought you might want to see these.” He pulled a boot from the box.

  Lacey leapt up. It was very distinctly a WWI-era cavalry riding boot. “Please tell me you have the matching boot in there?” she said, her excitement increasing.

  He grinned. “There are about ten pairs in here.”

  He lowered the box so Lacey could see inside. Ten pairs of riding boots, all in a saleable condition.

  “You’re right,” she said, smiling. “I did want to see these!”

  As Lacey inspected the boots for wear and tear, the clerk took a seat. “So what made you specialize in riding equipment?” he asked. “If you’re not a horse rider.”

  “I’m holding an auction for the Summer Equestrian Festival,” Lacey explained. “I’m from Wilfordshire.”

  “Wilfordshire?” the man asked with an air of recognition. “I knew an antiquer from Wilfordshire.”

  “Was it the countess?” Lacey said with a chuckle as she recalled Belinda’s story. “I’ve heard some interesting tales about her.”

  “No, it was a man,” he replied. “An American, actually like you. Come to think of it, he looked a bit like you, too.”

  Lacey felt the blood drain from her face instantly. “Was his name Frank?”

  “That’s it! Frank the Yank!” He clicked his fingers and grinned. “Do you know him?”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Lacey tried to compose herself. She was overwhelmed by the urge to fire a million questions at the leather store clerk, but didn’t want to stress the man out by revealing that he may be talking about her long-lost father. She tried to play it casual, as if Frank was just a contact they shared.

  �
�I know Frank through work,” she said. “You?”

  “Same,” the leather store man said. “Frank toured around the country for his stock. London. Poole. Wilfordshire. But am I right in thinking his store was located in Canterbury?”

  “Yes, I believe so,” Lacey said, breathlessly.

  Canterbury. There it was again, the lead Xavier had discovered. The lead that had been tangentially confirmed by the message written in the front pages of The Canterbury Tales from a man named Frank to his lover. Add to that Lacey’s own memories from her childhood summer vacation in Wilfordshire, where her mother refused to come and Naomi broke a statue in an antiques store run by a beautiful woman, and it was all starting to build a coherent picture.

  Her heart started pounding. “I don’t suppose you’re still in touch with Frank, are you?” she asked.

  The man shook his head. “I think he moved away quite recently. Last I heard, his store had closed down.”

  Lacey felt a sudden, sharp pain in her chest, like she’d just jumped into the icy ocean. “He’s not there anymore? Are you sure? I know his New York City store shut down, but I didn’t realize his one in Canterbury had as well.” She swallowed the hard, panicked lump that was forming in her throat.

  “Yeah. Real shame. He was a lovely bloke. I wonder where he is now.”

  He paused, leaving the question Lacey had spent many years agonizing over lingering between them.

  Then, “I’m surprised you know Frank from work,” he said. “You look far too young to be a work acquaintance! I wouldn’t have put you a day over forty.”

  Lacey forced a smile. What good would come of her telling this man that he was right, that she was too young to have known Frank in a work capacity because she was his daughter, not a business associate, and that he’d abandoned her as a child?

  “I don’t suppose you know where he went?” Lacey asked. She was doing her absolute best to remain calm, but she could hear that her voice was trembling.