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Beverly Laborde ran her hand along the cracked beadboard walls, barely avoiding a splinter. When she’d arrived in front of the building, the dirty white facade stained with streaks of mold told her this was no candidate for Architectural Digest. The sign spelled out, “ANT. . .S,” the “I,” “Q,” “U,” and “E” missing. And the interior wasn’t doing anything to dispel her first impressions of the place.
Her companion, Agnes Flamm, picked up the broken remnants of a wooden captain’s chair and carried them over to a trash pile. She smiled at Beverly. “I’ve got a local handyman coming ‘round later today to patch up that beadboard and paint it all yellow. This place will look much cheerier after.”
Beverly had spied a few rats outside the building and hoped they weren’t going to be her friend’s new shopmates. “Still not sure why you decided to turn this into a wine and gift store instead of antiques like you had before.”
Agnes grabbed a broom and started sweeping the whitewashed, pickled wide-plank flooring, which looked to be in good shape. “As they like to say today, been there, done that. Too many memories, I suppose. And I thought it could be fun to try something new.”
“Like a wine shop?”
“Seems less fusty than a tea shop, don’t you think, dear?”
“You never did like doilies.”
“Hate them with a passion. A tea shop would only bring in wrinkled prunes like me, while a wine shop, well. Lots of younger customers, laughing, smiling, full of life. Besides, aged wines are sort of antiques, aren’t they?”
Beverly smiled at that. “True. I’ll bet Gregory isn’t too thrilled with your idea.”
“My son wants me to move to Florida to keep an eye on me. I hate sand almost as much as doilies.”
“I doubt he bought into that argument.”
“Oh, he means well enough. But he has too much of his father in him. The controlling, manipulative part.” When Beverly shot her a surprised look, Agnes added, “I know, I know. Shouldn’t speak ill of the fruit of your own loins, but there it is.”
“What’s the real reason, then? Why a wine shop, why now? You’ve lived above your empty antiques store for, what, ten years?”
“Eleven. And it’s all your fault.”
“My fault? Whatever do you mean?”
“When you came to visit me in October, I started thinking about the days when your grandmother and I each had a thriving antiques business. And how much we loved finding that perfect bowl or statuette we just had to have. How much we enjoyed the customers, even balancing the books. So empowering for two old, single broads. Then there’s the history of it all.”
Beverly side-stepped a board with a nail sticking out and made a note to find a hammer. “You mean wine history? Or something else?”
“I’m tired to death of people casting away their heritage, their local history. We’re one big throwaway society. If it’s not bowls and paintings, it’s kids, families, land, culture, pride.”
Screw the hammer. Beverly picked up a rock and banged the nail into place. “Like those two young toughs I ran into last time, in this very room?”
The older woman nodded. “Who knows what their home life’s like? Divorce, death, drugs, detention. You said they were after copper they could sell for cash. Cash to buy alcohol or drugs. Kinda makes you feel sorry for ‘em, in a way.”
“Didn’t feel sorry for them at the time. As I recall, they threatened to rob me. Have you seen them hanging around since?”
Agnes laughed. “They’re too afraid of you, the crazy lady with the gun.”
“Maybe I should buy you a gun, too. In case they return.”
Agnes leaned on her broom. “I’ve been meaning to ask you. Was one of those boys fourteenish? With shoulder-length floppy hair?”
“You know him?”
“Seen him around. Think it’s Denny Morland’s son, Blaine. Blaine’s mother was killed when a tree fell on her while she was riding her bicycle in a storm. A freak thing, you know? Denny spends most of the time when he’s not at work in the sawmill or Cold Creek Tavern. The boy pretty much fends for himself. Kinda like you do.”
“You mean that I’m an independent, self-sustaining modern woman who doesn’t need anyone to take care of her? Then, I take that as a compliment.”
Agnes set the broom aside and put her hands on her hips. “You needed help when you went after Reggie Forsythe, didn’t you?”
“That was different, I had to get other people involved to take that scumbag down.”
“Other people like that handsome detective, Adam Dutton, you mean. You told him you’re back in town yet?”
No, she hadn’t, and Beverly wasn’t sure why she hadn’t. After she’d sent him that note in the form of a telegram offering to be his “partner” going after more of the corrupt members of the Northeastern Antiquities League, she hadn’t written or called since. She’d started to—several times—but never followed through.
Agnes looked in her direction. “You look like a cornered animal ready to take flight.”
Beverly chewed on her lip. “Guess I have a hard time settling down in any one place. Even for a few days.”
“You know, you left town so fast last time, I never got a chance to tell you I’m sorry, Beverly.”
That took Beverly by surprise. “You, sorry? For what?”
“For what it must be like to get involved with the Forsythes. To see your own kin murdered and turn into murderers. Estranged kin though they were.”
“To be honest, I’m still not sure how I feel. One day, I’ll stay still long enough to dissect it—the case, the murders, my feelings—all of it. Just not today.”
Agnes appeared to take Beverly’s hint to change the subject and walked over to a wall next to an archway. She patted the wall. “This is where I’m going to put one rack of wines, next to a display of chocolates. I’ve got the racks being delivered tomorrow, and the chocolates and wines the day after that. I’m keeping it as local as possible. The wines, meads, and ciders are primarily from Vermont and New Hampshire. And the candies are things like Vermont maple almond brittle and artisan truffles.”
Beverly pointed toward the room beyond the archway. “What’s going in there?”
“That is going to be a little cafe, with more wine racks, some tables and chairs, a small stage area, and a counter that’ll sell coffee, soup, sandwiches, and pastries. Simple fare, but all homemade.”
“You can’t do this all by yourself. You’ll need help.”
Agnes peered at her over her eyeglasses. “Are you offering?”
“I’ll be happy to help you get set up. I mean, there’s bound to be a lot of cleaning and arranging and planning and staging, and then there’s all the merchandise to load in, and there will be flyers and a notice in the paper because you’ll have to do some advertising—”
“Beverly, dear, you’re babbling.”
Beverly chuckled, trying to cover up her embarrassment. “Like a brook?”
“Like someone who always has one foot out the door. Look, dear, there’s no pressure from me to do anything. Come or go as you please. Besides, I admire an independent, self-sustaining modern woman.”
She winked at Beverly, who felt her shoulders relax a fraction. That lasted for all of ten seconds when Beverly’s cellphone rang, and she heard the familiar deep-tenor tones of her friend, the ever-mysterious “Mr. X.”
His words put her mood into a plunge. “I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings, Beverly. Your friend Harlan Wilford was arrested for murder.”
“Murder? That’s insane. Harlan wouldn’t hurt a cockroach. In fact, I once saw him putting out a dish of sugar for a cockroach. Whoever arrested him made a mistake.”
“I’m afraid the whoever would be Adam Dutton.”
Beverly gritted her teeth and counted. Thousand-one, thousand-two, thousand-three. . .
Mr. X’s voice tolled in her ear, “Beverly? Are you still there?”
“I’m here all right. But you bet I’m going to have a word or two with Detective Dutton.”
“If you don’t end up killing the man and winding up in jail, yourself, you might stop by later and say hello to Yin and Yang.”
“How did you know I was in the area again?”
When he didn’t reply right away, she smiled. “Right. Mr. X knows all and sees all. Or should I say, ‘don’t ask, don’t tell?’”
She could hear his grin over the phone as he said, “Dutton isn’t all bad. Do kill him gently, won’t you?”
