Considering all that had happened that morning, I was surprised to see we still had five minutes until the store opened.
“Where is Sid?” I asked, talking more to myself than to MJ.
“Late again, I guess,” she said. “You did see these, didn’t you?”
She handed me laminated copies of the article that Kathy Simmons had written about The Treasure Chest and our upcoming VIP Event. “Sid highlighted the best parts in yellow. I think he did a nice job.”
“He did,” I admitted. “But he’s still late.”
Kathy had quoted me as saying, “We want to reach out to as many VIPs as possible, but we’re new here in town. If we’ve missed someone who should be on our VIP list, we urge them to call us. As long as we have room, we’ll gladly accommodate more guests.”
My ploy had worked. Once the article appeared on Tuesday, the phone had never stopped ringing. Of course, other reporters had also produced nice pieces, but Kathy’s was by far the most glowing.
"I’ve been thinking,” said MJ. “With all these people planning to attend the VIP event, we are definitely going to need more help. Sid’s going to have his hands full acting like a server. Skye will be doing her upcycling demo. That leaves just you and me working with customers. If nothing else, we need another pair of eyes to make sure merchandise doesn’t walk off."
“Maybe we should cancel the demo.”
Skye was planning to show our guests how plastic bags could be melted together—carefully—using an iron. The resultant new material could be used to craft wallets, purses, and stronger tote bags.
“No way,” MJ shot back. “It will get people talking. We want people to see us do our magic in action. Besides, the demo drives home the point that we specialize in recycling and repurposing goods.”
She was right. The goal was to create a psychological link between the ubiquitous plastic bags and our store. With any luck, customers would think of us each time they came across a plastic bag.
I made one more last ditch effort to downsize MJ’s expectations. "You're assuming that all of these people on our list will actually come, and that they'll really want to buy something. I’d be happy if half this number shows up.”
"Oh, they’re coming all right. This place will be packed. Standing Room Only. People keep telling me how Kathy Simmons's article really piqued their interest. One woman even asked me to set aside two Highwaymen paintings, sight unseen. She specifically wants one of a Poinciana tree and another of the St. Lucie River."
“What are you suggesting?” I often deferred to MJ’s years of retail experience.
“I’ve asked Honora McAfee to drop by. I think you should hire her.”
“MJ, I just added Sid to our payroll. Now you want me to add another person? Where’s all the money to pay them going to come from?”
“Sid is going to pay for himself when he gets the website up and running. Honora, well, she knows absolutely everybody on the Treasure Coast. She’ll only be part-time because she’s retired and can’t jeopardize her Social Security. But she’ll more than pay for herself, and she’ll take care of another problem we have.”
“Which is?” I rubbed my temples. I needed to rein MJ in and fast. Some days she acted like money grew on palm trees. I was worried about how I’d keep the store in the black during the off-season, when the “snowbirds,” our visitors migrating from the North to escape the cold weather, weren’t here to swell our population. Adding more people to the payroll was the exact opposite of what I needed to do to keep my fixed costs in line.
“We’ve sold a lot of big pieces,” said MJ, gesturing toward various furniture items. “That hutch, the wicker set, and the bookshelf by the front windows. Those pieces are still on the floor because the delivery service is picking them up later today. For the VIP Open House, we need to have this place packed with stock. You’ve put time, effort and money into this event. If we don’t have tons of stuff to sell, the return on investment could be less than optimal.”
She was right. Since we hadn’t gotten a good inventory system up and running, I’d relied on the physical look of our store to tell me whether we were low on goods or not. That had been a mistake.
Worse yet, our items were all OOAK, or One of a Kind, so they couldn’t be replaced by picking up the phone and calling in an order. Once Sid got our inventory system installed, it would be easier to track what we needed. But that wouldn’t solve our immediate problem.
“It’s a little late to do anything now,” I said.
“It might not be,” said MJ. “I’ve asked Honora and her daughter EveLynn to bring along merchandise. They’re willing to sell it on consignment. Subject to your approval, that is.”
“Eve-Lynn? Do you mean Evelyn?”
“No, it’s Eve and Lynn put together, because Honora’s mother was Eve and her husband Frank’s mother was Lynn,” explained MJ.
“I assume that their goods are recycled, upcycled or repurposed?”
“Yes,” said MJ. “Honora will be perfect for helping us with the sales floor. She doesn’t want an hourly wage. Instead, she needs somewhere to work on her crafts. I told her we could find a workspace for her here.”
“Whoa,” I said. “We don’t have a lot of extra space in the back room.”
“You’re in luck,” said MJ, with a half-smile. “Honora thinks small.”
CHAPTER 15
11 a.m. on Thursday
The Forensic Lab in Fort Pierce, FL
~Lou~
Because the DB had been thoughtfully wrapped in a big piece of black plastic like gardeners use to line flower beds, removing the corpse from the car had been surprisingly easy. Once the body and the liner had been carefully vacuumed for trace evidence, the corpse had been transferred to the morgue. There Dr. Faraday would joyfully do "his thing."
Faraday’s cavalier attitude, his weak attempts at humor, rubbed Lou the wrong way. He'd said as much to his boss, Captain Davidson, and promptly been told, "Dr. Faraday’s patients are dead. He doesn't interact with their next-of-kin, so I'm not concerned about his attitude. The man's a genius. Nothing slips past him."
After slipping on Tyvek protective gear and a face shield, Lou steeled himself to join the good doctor in the morgue.
While listening to strains of the Grateful Dead, Faraday moved efficiently around the girl's body, which was still fully clothed. As the morgue assistant, or diener, aided the doctor, Faraday took a variety of swabs and examined the corpse. Lou took a spot by the door, not too close and not too far from the action. His notebook was a crutch, giving him a focus away from the proceedings, but keeping him close enough to stay alert.
The diener helped Faraday remove Kathy's clothing. "Interesting," said Faraday, as he turned the woman over.
That got Lou's attention. "What’d you find?"
"I can confirm that she had soiled herself. Not surprising, but I’m pretty sure this crime happened over a lengthy period. Maybe days. This rash on her buttocks supports my theory. Ms. Simmons has diaper rash. A full blown case."
“Diaper rash?” Lou frowned at Faraday. "What are you telling me?"
"This explains part of that smell that hit us when you discovered the car. This girl was sitting in her own mess for a while. A long while," said Faraday, as he went back to his assessment of the naked body.
"Young female, age mid-twenties, above average height and weight," droned Faraday.
Faraday continued to weigh, measure, and visually inspect the body while it was propped up by a body block that had been slid under the victim's chest.
"Notice the tattoo," and Faraday gestured for Lou to come closer. The supporting block caused Kathy Simmons' arms to fall away from her torso. On the inside of her right forearm, blue ink proclaimed: Darcy+Kathy4Ever.
Lou jotted the phrase in his notebook.
Faraday’s eyes brightened behind his mask.
"Her body temperature taken along with the ambient temperature of her surroundings, in conjunction with the p
hysiological signs that accompany post-mortem decay tell me that she died around eight o'clock last night, give or take an hour or two. But these vestiges of internal activity might tell me a different story all together."
Gritting his teeth, Lou used his most polite voice. "I'm afraid I don't follow. You'll have to dumb that down for me."
"No problem," said Faraday cheerfully. "I suspect that she was held captive in this curled up position for one or possibly two days before she died. Maybe even more than that."
A chill moved through Lou's body. "You're telling me she might have been in that trunk for, maybe, sixty-plus hours? And then killed?"
"That's what it looks like to me. I’ll be able to tell better when I examine her stomach contents and do a few lab tests for concentrations in her blood. Here’s another thing," and Faraday reached for her hands. They'd been covered with paper bags and then cinched with rubber bands to retain any forensic evidence. He carefully removed one of the bags, the right one, and examined the fingertips carefully. "She's probably right-handed. I'll check the left hand, too, just to be sure. But there are no signs of a struggle. Her nails aren't broken. There's nothing lodged beneath them. I don't think she fought being held captive."
"And that means…"
"That suggests that she could have been drugged, put in the trunk, and kept there for two and a half days. We've had unusually cool weather so she didn't suffer heat stroke. I imagine she was dehydrated, and I can verify later, but I doubt that the lack of water killed her."
"Then what did?"
Faraday moved up to her face. Using a metal instrument, he gently rolled back her eyelids. "Petechiae. Burst blood vessels. Just as I suspected. She was suffocated to death. But not strangled. There are no marks on her neck. No bruising from pressure."
Prying open Kathy's mouth, Faraday peered inside with a light. Using a pair of long nosed tweezers, he plucked a foreign object from between her teeth.
"Brown plastic, like the kind they use to make a grocery bag. This'll go to the lab, but I’m willing to bet it’s our murder weapon. The killer pulled a plastic sack over her head and suffocated the victim."
"What kind of a fiend keeps someone locked up in a car trunk for two days and then suffocates her?"
Faraday paused his examination to stare at Lou. "Someone who is very, very sick and needs to be behind bars."
CHAPTER 16
~Cara~
I tried to put my awful morning behind me, and mainly I succeeded, although every once in a while, I would remember Kathy’s blank eyes. So I kept myself busy, moving from one task to another. I was alphabetizing VIP name badges when a jingle of the front door averted my attention. Walking toward me was a diminutive woman who must have been in her eighties. A straw hat was perched on snow white hair. Flowers and papier-mâché cherries circled the crown, as did a navy-blue ribbon. Her matching navy shirtwaist dress was of a crepe material with white polka dots. The wrinkles that puckered her face reminded me of an apple-head doll that I once made in Girl Scouts. Dressed as she was, my visitor might have been a character right out of a Mary Engelbreit greeting card.
“Excuse me. I’m here to see Cara Mia Delgatto,” said my small guest.
A second woman straggled along behind the older woman. What a strange pair they made! The younger woman’s face suggested she was about my age, but her posture pegged her as much, much younger. She seemed to sprawl, taking up a lot of space as she moved. Her eyes roamed the building, as though she was unable to focus. Not once did she look directly at me.
There was a family resemblance between the two women, but it seemed fleeting.
“I’m Cara Mia Delgatto. You must be Honora and EveLynn.”
Honora took my hand, a shake that felt firm against skin that was cool. EveLynn, however, did not offer a greeting of any kind.
Honora was pulling a blue cart behind her, while EveLynn was dragging a humongous rolling suitcase. Without a word to me, EveLynn opened her container, withdrew a variety of pillows, and set about adding pillows and throws to our displays. I opened my mouth to protest, but stopped because I had to admit, the soft goods brought warmth and color to our sales floor.
“EveLynn is a supremely talented seamstress,” said Honora, proudly. “Many of the fabrics she uses are cast-offs. Bolt ends.”
“So I see. I’m a little in the dark about what it is exactly that you make, Honora. MJ was going to explain it to me, but she got busy taking phone calls.”
Honora laugh was rich and musical, like a carillon playing. Out of her rolling box, she pulled a watering can and set it on the counter.
Why would I want to sell an old watering can?
Next, she pulled out a sand pail and an old bread box. The odd mix confused me. I was staring at the items, trying to figure out why I’d want them in my store when MJ joined us.
“You’re looking at these from the wrong side,” MJ said, rotating each item around. Now I could see that each container had a small viewing window. When I looked inside, I could see a miniature scene, a tiny view into a Lilliputian world.
In the watering can was a tiny potting shed, complete with flowers, pots, and gardening gloves. The breadbox contained a miniature bakery shop. The sand pail housed a tiny beach scene, complete with sand, beach blanket, umbrella, sunscreen, and a paperback book.
“Miniatures?” I marveled at the tiny world. “We don’t sell toys. Not really.”
“These are not toys!” Honora’s chin quivered with indignation. “They are art pieces for collectors to own and admire.”
I apologized and added, “Our store is all about recycling and repurposing.”
“Just so,” she said proudly. “My work is primary made of cast-offs. This old watering can was found in a trash pile. The bread box came from a thrift shop. The sand bucket was sitting on the side of the road. All the tiny pieces inside are handcrafted from findings that would otherwise go into the trash, like Popsicle sticks and paint stirrers. You didn’t think your generation invented recycling, did you?”
“No,” I said quickly. “Of course not. People have been recycling and repurposing for centuries, making do with what they’ve had. My generation and the one before us invented disposability.”
“Quite so,” she said, as she nodded in approval. “I also have several small seasonal items that would fit nicely in your store.”
She reached down and brought out a hatbox with a Valentine Day’s scene inside, complete with bouquets of roses and boxes of chocolates. Next she produced a cheerful yellow picture frame that formed the viewing window for a display box. Inside was a tiny Easter scene, a hutch filled with all sorts of Easter goods.
“I also create individual items that your tourists will love,” she said, handing me a Gucci shoebox. Inside I found a trio of Adirondack chairs with matching footstools and tables.
"All made from tongue depressors and leftover paint stirring sticks," she explained.
“These are terrific.”
“They will go perfectly with your store’s theme.”
As we talked, EveLynn continued to put out more soft goods. She was positioning table runners across surfaces that formerly had been bare. I had to admit the additions looked great. “We’ve only been open a short time—”.
MJ turned away from me, but I could see she was smirking.
“I know.” Honora’s wire-rimmed glasses enlarged a pair of shrewd eyes. “You’ve done pretty well for someone without any retail experience. But things will go more smoothly now, because I’m here. Fortunately for you, I can start right away. You need help, and you need merchandise. This place isn't stocked properly. Your shelves look skimpy. Besides that, I can run a cash register, and I’m familiar with Old Florida pieces.”
I chewed the air, trying to take in everything Honora was throwing at me. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed MJ fighting the urge to laugh.
“Yes,” said Honora, with a loud sigh. “You really, really need me. I can see I’ve arrived just in time.
”
CHAPTER 17
~Cara~
The phone rang. MJ excused herself and headed for the back room.
“EveLynn?” Honora called out to her daughter. “When you are finished displaying your merchandise, you are welcome to go on home. I shall call you when I need a ride.”
“All right.” The younger woman still didn’t look me in the eyes, nor did she look at her mother. Instead, she finished what she was doing and walked out of the store without saying a word. My jaw dropped at her curt behavior.
Honora smiled at me, but there was a sadness in her eyes. “My daughter has Asperger’s. You are familiar with the syndrome? She has no people skills.”
“I’ve heard of Asperger’s, but I don’t know much about it.”
“It’s an autism spectrum disorder. Fortunately, those who have it are considered to be high functioning. EveLynn is blessed with an extremely high IQ, but she has difficulty with social interactions. She has trouble forming friendships. Her range of interests is extremely narrow. My daughter has a need for schedules and predictability. Our visit here today stressed her out, because this is a new place and a new situation for her.”
“Oh,” I said, taking all this in. “That must have made parenting a challenge.”
“Yes. Isn’t it always? Do you have children?” Honora’s voice was kind, not nosy, but curious.
“A son. Tommy. At University of Miami.”
“What a lesson our children are to women like us. From what MJ has told me, you are determined, ambitious, and intelligent. You keep your own counsel. You are accustomed to being in control, and therefore, successful in everything you do. But a child brings women like us to our knees. It took me years to accept that I can’t change EveLynn. I can’t fix her. I expected a loving baby who would coo to me and throw her arms around my neck and smother me in kisses. Instead, I got EveLynn, who gives me little or no indication that I matter.”
Second Chance at Life Page 5