I picked up my phone and selected my brother-in-law’s contact. He answered on the second ring. “Juni?” he asked.
“Hey. When you get a minute, can you swing by the shop? It’s business.”
“Sure thing. Be there in fifteen?”
“Great.” While I waited, I busied myself around the shop. Maggie had done almost too good of a job cleaning—not that I would expect anything less from her—which left me with little to do. I checked our online orders and saw several waiting for me. I pulled the requested stock and set it aside to mail out after I verified the payments and printed the labels.
One of the orders had come through email instead of the website. It was from a local artist inquiring about buying a few dozen junk records. I replied that we could easily accommodate them, advising them to swing by anytime.
Very loosely speaking, I mentally categorized records as either collectables, playables, or junk. Junks were the records we picked up at garage sales and thrift stores for practically nothing. They were scratched, warped, or missing labels. We’d pick through them and make sure nothing of value was hiding in plain sight and then sell them to upcyclers.
Back in my grandparents’ day, if a record got scratched it would get tossed in a landfill. Now they were in high demand by artisans who used them for everything from wallpaper to creating unique artwork like the vinyl clock on our wall. It certainly beat tossing old albums in the trash.
The front door opened and J.T. stepped inside. He took off his cowboy hat and ran a hand over his hair. “You needed something?” he asked.
My brother-in-law was what I consider the quintessential Texan. Brash. Loud. Always ready with a friendly smile and a helping hand that was true to his personal life but belied his killer instinct as a lawyer. His scruffy beard was cultivated to put clients and juries at ease. “Look at me!” it screamed. “I’m just like you!” He was an absolute snake in the courtroom, one I was glad to have in my corner.
“I wanted to show you something and get your opinion.”
“Sure thing,” he said. He came around the counter and stood behind me, hovering over my shoulder. He ruffled the hair on top of my head like he’d done for as long as I’d known him. There was a significant age difference between me and my sisters—five years between me and Maggie, and another two between Maggie and Tansy. I was an awkward fifteen-year-old when J.T. entered the picture, and like the rest of my family, he still treated me like a kid, even though I was all grown-up now.
“You see this guy?” I asked, playing the footage for him.
“Yup. Any idea who it might be?”
I shook my head. “None. I was hoping you might know. To be honest, I didn’t recognize half of the guests, and that’s when I could see their faces. All we’ve got here is the top of some dude’s hat.”
“The angle’s all wrong. I can see cars driving past the alley, but we wouldn’t see who’s walking in the back door unless they paused and looked up at the camera. Want me to help you adjust it?”
“I wouldn’t turn it down.” J.T. had helped us hang all the cameras initially because he was good with a power screwdriver and wasn’t afraid to stand on the top rung of a ladder. But he was no cinematographer. I propped open the back door as he dragged the ladder out of the supply closet. I ran back and forth from the computer monitor a few times, until the angle was better.
“Thanks, you’re an absolute lifesaver,” I told him as he brought the ladder back in and propped it against the wall.
He swiped his forearm over his forehead. “Was the back door locked during the party?”
“I doubt it,” I said. “We were pushing pretty hard to make sure everything was ready for the grand opening, and we were in and out the back door so much we weren’t terribly vigilant about locking it.” I stopped and tried to think back to Friday night. “When we were cleaning up after the party, I took the trash out and the door wasn’t locked then.”
“So anybody could have come in the back door,” he stated.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “Pretty much. Do you think this will help exonerate Uncle Calvin?”
He glanced back at the computer monitor, where the image was frozen on the mystery man. “I’m sorry, but there’s not much to go on with this footage. For all we know, it’s just a customer who stepped out to take a phone call or sneak a smoke.”
“Yes, but then we would see him walking out, and we don’t.”
“Parking was crazy that night. He could have been taking a shortcut.”
“But it casts reasonable doubt, don’t you think?”
He put his hands on my shoulders. “Juni, I know how much you care about your uncle. And this store. And your sisters. We all do. But leave this to the pros, okay? Don’t go sniffing around and causing more problems for your uncle. And don’t you dare go talking to Beau about anything without me present, hear?”
“I don’t think that’s gonna be a problem,” I told him. To be fair, I was referring specifically to his moratorium on hanging out with Beau. I couldn’t make any promises about the snooping bit. Not with as much as was on the line.
“Good deal,” he said, taking one last glance at the monitor before heading to the front door. “You know how to reach me if you need anything.” Then he settled his hat on his head and let himself out.
I stared at the screen after he left, more as a distraction than anything else. Did the man in the video look familiar or had I just been looking at it too long? I couldn’t be sure. At least half the men at the party had been wearing cowboy hats. Some, like Beau, took them off as soon as they got inside. Others left them on. I might recognize the hat or its shiny silver band if I saw it again, but no matter how hard I squinted, I didn’t recognize the man wearing it.
A customer walked into the shop. I minimized the security footage and turned to greet him. “Hi, how can I help you?” I asked in my most pleasant customer service voice. “You looking for music or coffee? Our special of the day is…”
The man interrupted me. “Need to talk to Calvin.” The rancher had a weathered look about him that could have been a very well-preserved seventy, a hard fifty, or anything in-between.
“Sorry, but he’s not here,” I told him. I wasn’t about to give this stranger any additional information. If my uncle’s possible connection to the murder and his sudden disappearance hadn’t made its way to the grapevine yet, I wasn’t going to be the one to spill the tea. Mentally, I pantomimed locking my lips and throwing away the key. “Can I take your name and number?”
“Name’s Jed. And my number is five thousand. As in dollars. That’s how much Calvin Voigt owes me.” He slapped a piece of paper down on the counter. Near as I could tell, it was covered in nonsense, written in my uncle’s scrawl. “You have him call me. Sooner, rather than later, you hear?”
I nodded. “I’ll pass him the message.”
The man turned and stormed out, all but colliding with Tansy.
“Excuse me!” she exclaimed, hopping out of his way.
He grunted at her and barreled through the door.
“What was that all about?” she asked as she approached the counter. “Was he upset because we don’t have pumpkin spice? I know it’s only March, but I really do think we should keep it in stock because it’s so popular.”
As soon as the angry rancher was gone, Daffy appeared, right on cue. He batted at the sheet of paper on the counter, and I rescued it from him. “He wasn’t upset about our coffee flavors,” I told her. I held the page up to the light, as if maybe it would make more sense when viewed from a different angle. It did not. “Or at least I don’t think he was. He said that Uncle Calvin owed him five thousand dollars, and left this.”
“Well, he can get in line,” Tansy said. She poured herself a latte and added a flourish in the foam. I could make a lopsided heart with the foam, but that was the extent of my skills so far. Tansy, always the overachiever, had quite the knack for it already. I was getting pretty good at mixing drinks, but I really needed to practice my latte art.
Tansy had always been the artistic one in the family. Drawing, painting, ceramics, you name it and she was good at it. Maggie outshone us both in math, which is why she kept all the books for Sip & Spin, as well as Taggart and McGibbons, J.T.’s law firm. Me? I was a whiz with languages; whether it was coming in first place at the spelling bee or learning a new programming language, that was my jam. Which may have been why I was so fascinated with the paper Jed had left.
“What’s that?” Tansy asked, noticing the page for the first time.
“Beats me.” It wasn’t simple mirror writing. I’d mastered that in fourth grade. There was no sign of stains that might have indicated the presence of invisible ink, and there were obvious breaks between words and sentences instead of one long string of text. “A code of some sort.”
I opened Google Translate and typed the first few lines into the search box. A language suggestion popped up—Croatian—but the result was nonsensical. “‘Wrote it along the way to a friend dropped his own letter himself.’ Does that mean anything to you?” I asked my sister.
“That makes no sense,” she said. Daffy, bored now that I’d taken his new toy away from him, jumped off the counter and meowed up at my sister, demanding her full attention.
“I agree. Besides, when did Uncle Calvin start sending out IOUs in Croatian?”
The door opened with a pleasant jingle, and the cat was off like a shot before Teddy even stepped inside. I slid the odd note under the computer’s keyboard as he called out, “Juni! Tansy! Lovely day, isn’t it?”
“It is,” Tansy agreed. “Got anything for us today?”
Teddy stepped around one of the big central record displays to approach the counter. That’s when I noticed his outfit. He wore sensible black shoes instead of his usual cowboy boots, with white socks, long dark blue shorts with a pinstripe running down the side that showed off well-defined calf muscles, and a light blue polo shirt with the United States Postal Service logo above the pocket.
“You’re a mailman?” I asked, surprised that I didn’t know this.
“Postal worker,” he corrected me. “And yeah. It’s a sweet job. I work outside, get plenty of exercise, and talk to everyone. It’s pretty much ideal. Plus, there’s a union and a government retirement package.”
“That does sound sweet,” I agreed. My last job had a 401(k), but it evaporated, along with my employment, when the company closed without warning and the owners disappeared. And now owning a small business meant my future—not to mention my present—was entirely in my own hands. It was a lot of pressure, but it was exciting, too. “Can I get you a coffee? On the house, of course. Friends in Mocha Places is getting rave reviews.”
“Thanks, but can I get a plain black?”
“One Got My Mind Set on Brew, coming right up.” That was an order I could handle with ease. It was simple drip coffee, no foam art required.
While I prepared his drink, Teddy put a package on the counter, along with a small stack of mail all rubber banded together. “Got anything going out today?” he asked.
I glanced over at the stack of records I’d pulled but hadn’t had a chance to do anything with yet. “I’ll have some for you tomorrow.” I made a mental note that from now on I’d process internet orders early in my shift so they’d be ready when Teddy came by. “Who’s the package from?”
“Return to sender,” Teddy said.
I looked at Tansy. “We haven’t sent out any packages yet.”
Teddy shrugged and took the offered coffee. “Don’t know what to tell you. Hey, when did you get a cat?”
“You saw Daffy?” If the skittish cat was curious enough to stick his head out with a stranger in the shop, I hoped that he would eventually learn to accept, and maybe even like, our customers.
“I saw a flash of orange-and-white tail just now. Daffy? As in Duck?”
“As in Daffodil,” I clarified.
Teddy chuckled. “You Jessups and your flowery names. Is it too late to name this place Flower Records?”
I shook my head. “I tried. Maggie and Tansy outvoted me. But I’m glad they did. ‘Sip & Spin’ has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”
“Sure does. Well, I gotta get going, but thanks for the coffee. How about I pay you back by taking you out to dinner sometime this week?”
“You bought me pizza Friday,” I reminded him.
“Pizza isn’t dinner.”
“So what is it?” I asked.
“It’s pizza. See you around,” Teddy said before he left.
“I think Teddy Garza just asked you on a date,” Tansy said as soon as the door closed behind him.
“Don’t be silly. He’s Teddy. One of my oldest and dearest friends.”
“Uh-huh,” my sister said skeptically. “Hey, what’s the ladder doing in the hallway?”
“J.T. came by here earlier to adjust the security camera by the back door,” I explained. “He mounted it too high last time. I’ll take care of it.”
I moved down the hall, then hesitated with my hand on the doorknob of the supply closet. I really didn’t want to open the door. Last time, it hadn’t been pleasant.
“Want me to do it?” Tansy asked.
“Nah, I’m good.” I couldn’t avoid the supply closet forever. What if I was the only one working and the bathroom ran out of toilet paper or we needed more coffee cups? I gathered my courage and opened the door.
The supply closet was empty. Well, not empty empty. The shelves were neatly arranged and logically ordered with supplies—or at least to Maggie’s logic. But there was no dead body. Good thing, too. I didn’t think I’d be able to handle finding more than one murder victim in a week. Or a lifetime.
The light flickered and I reached up to tap the bulb out of habit. The space we were leasing had gone through a lot of updates over the years. Back when my grandparents, and later my parents, ran the record shop, we didn’t even have central AC. We just propped open the front and back doors and set up fans in the corners on hot days. The building was well maintained, but some things never changed, I supposed. Like the shoddy wiring inside the supply closet.
When I was little, I spent untold hours in this shop. Before I was old enough to go to school, I would go to work with my parents. After I started school, the bus dropped me off here instead of at home. I could still picture me and my sisters sitting on high stools pulled up to the checkout counter, doing our homework between customers.
I knew every inch of this place. Every tile. Every crack in the sidewalk out front. I couldn’t have been much older than four or five when I discovered the loose panel in the fake-wood siding of the storage closet walls. If I pushed on it just right, it slid aside, revealing a small, dark cubbyhole.
All that had been inside was a cheap wooden box with a flimsy lock. But in my head, I’d discovered a lost pirate chest. I tried for days to pick the lock with no luck. Eventually, I gave up but brought one of my favorite Beanie Babies from home—Scorch the dragon, with shiny red wings and a row of green felt scales down his back—and left him in the cubby to guard the treasure.
I wondered if Scorch was still there after all these decades. Surely, by now someone else would have discovered the hidey-hole, but curiosity got the best of me. I pushed on the panel, and it moved. I knelt in front of it and slid it open. When I was a kid, I would have stuck my hand inside without hesitation, but I was older and more cautious now. I pulled out my phone, turned on the flashlight app, and shone it into the hole.
Scorch was still there, covered in cobwebs. His tail had been ravaged by tiny rodent teeth. His shiny wings were intact and caught the light of my phone.
But the box he was supposed to be guarding was gone.
In its place was a perfect rectangle etched into decades of dust. I ran my finger over the empty space where my pirate treasure should have been and it came away clean. Whoever had removed the wooden chest had done so recently.