Chapter 4
Olivia must have overheard him. “Need to color? That’s a peculiar thing to say.”
Nolan seemed a little bit embarrassed. “I’m under a lot of stress. My doctor prescribed coloring. The jerk actually wrote it out on a prescription pad.”
“Don’t most people just take a pill or something?” asked Priss.
“Hah! That’s what I thought. I should probably change doctors. He thinks people take too many pills. So I joined this coloring group in an attempt to bring my stress level down.”
Olivia raised an eyebrow. “But you don’t color! All you do is chat and drink coffee.”
“Don’t you think that’s the point? To get out and talk about something other than real estate?” Nolan smoothed his hair back.
Olivia clucked at him. “I thought you were smart. They’ve done studies that show coloring lowers stress and anxiety. There’s something about it that is healing for your brain. It calms you.”
Nolan shrugged. “If I sell Dolly’s house my stress level will be just fine.”
Priss’s eyes opened wide. “You can’t do that!”
“Priss, stop it.” Olivia appeared annoyed.
“And why not?” asked Nolan.
Olivia snapped her fingers at him. “She’s worried about where we’ll live. We’ve been there for nearly twenty-five years. It’s our home, too, you know.”
Nolan studied the two of them for a moment. “I don’t suppose I could interest you two in a condo?”
Olivia snorted. “We work from home tutoring online. If we could afford a condo in Washington, we would have bought one years ago. Maybe you could find us another rental.”
Nolan nodded. “Sure.”
Olivia appeared relieved and they returned to the coloring group.
“It’s hard to find a reasonably priced rental in Georgetown. I looked for years,” I said. “If Professor Maxwell hadn’t offered me his carriage house, I would still be on the hunt for a place to live.”
“I know.” Nolan sighed. “I don’t do rentals. They’re not worth my time.”
He returned to the coloring table. I watched as he picked up a fancy green pencil. Sitting up straight, he made several tiny strokes with it as though he was thinking about something else.
When they left around four in the afternoon, the members of the coloring club were all still talking about Dolly’s discovery of The Florist. A few of them were pondering what they would do if they received a monetary windfall.
Veronica waved to Dolly and Zsazsa as they left together. When the door closed she asked, “Will Dolly really be wealthy?”
“I don’t know. I hope she won’t be disappointed. There’s no telling what it might sell for.”
Veronica strode toward me. “Maybe we should hang with Dolly more often. I had no idea you could find such valuable things at those yard sales. Did you see the gorgeous purse she was carrying?”
“I wouldn’t count on getting that lucky.”
At five o’clock, Dolly phoned Color Me Read. “Florrie, would you be a sweetheart and check to see if I left my handbag at the store? I’m at the Blackberry Tea Room with Zsazsa, celebrating. I was so excited about The Florist that I think I left my bag behind.”
While Veronica looked for it, Dolly babbled excitedly. “You wouldn’t believe how much attention my Facebook post about The Florist has received! Zsazsa says it’s going viral. I guess a lot of people dream of something like this happening to them.”
I wished she hadn’t posted anything. It would only draw attention to her. I didn’t want to put a damper on her fun, though.
Happily, Veronica discovered the purse behind a chair in the parlor.
“We have it. Veronica can bring it up to the tea room.”
“That’s a relief. But don’t bother bringing it up here. Zsazsa is picking up the tab today. We’re having champagne to celebrate! Would you mind dropping it off at my house on your way home?”
“Not at all.” I was still on the phone with Dolly when Ms. Dumont entered the store and marched up to the desk where I stood.
I smiled at Ms. Dumont, and said to Dolly, “We’ll see you then.” I hung up.
“May I help you?” I asked Ms. Dumont.
She wore the same earpiece she’d had on in the morning. “That’s not funny.” She paused and stared at me. “I saw you earlier today.”
“Yes. At the yard sale.”
“Estate sale,” she corrected. She looked straight at me and shouted, “Kansas! What’s it doing in Kansas? Call them right back and tell them I expect them to hire a courier at their own expense and deliver it to New York today. I don’t care what time it is. So help me, if they don’t get it to New York, I will have their jobs. Get their names. I would like the address of one Dolly Cavanaugh.”
I assumed she was now speaking to me. “I’m sorry but I can’t give out customer information.”
“Why is everyone so difficult? Look, on very poor advice, I hired a colossal idiot to run the sale of my grandfather’s estate. He assured me that there was nothing of value, but it turns out that my grandfather was in possession of a valuable coloring book which the idiot sold by mistake.”
How could she know that already? There were so many things I wanted to say to her. After all, she was the one who had hired Percy. In my opinion she most certainly had a legitimate beef with him. But that was something she should take up with Percy. She may have wished she had kept the book and sold it privately, but Dolly had bought it fair and square. Dolly had rescued the book. If Dolly hadn’t recognized it as valuable, it would have landed in the trash and been lost forever.
Most of all, though, it really wasn’t my problem. I wasn’t responsible for Percy, or Dolly, or anything that had happened.
I said simply, “I don’t think you would like it if I handed out your address to strangers.”
“You don’t have my address. And I am not a stranger. I am Lucianne Dumont. Perhaps you have heard of me.”
Since her grandfather had been an ambassador, I assumed she was related to the infamous Dumonts. But I didn’t really care who she thought she was. “I’m sorry. I can’t help you, Ms. Dumont.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You know where the book is, don’t you?”
I didn’t respond.
“Apparently you don’t realize that I have connections in very high places. Am I making myself clear? The most important people in this country take my phone calls. I can have you fired from this store in two seconds.”
I was beginning to understand why the professor loathed confrontations so much. She was acting like a bully. It was mean of me, but I couldn’t help saying it. “Good luck getting that package to New York.”
“I demand to speak to your superior.”
I was fairly certain the professor was not upstairs in his office. But that didn’t matter. Ms. Dumont’s problems weren’t his concern, either. “I’m sorry. He’s not here at the moment.”
“Angie, take this down,” she spat. “What’s his name?”
“John Maxwell.”
“Maxwell?” She looked around. “This is Maxwell’s bookstore? I had no idea. Well, I’ll be having a word with him about you. I am a very close friend of Maxwell’s.” Her eyes narrowed. “Miss . . . ?”
I couldn’t help grinning. It was tempting to give her a fake name. But at that moment, Helen barreled through the front door, asking, “Florrie, can I switch days with you?”
Ms. Dumont, for whom I no longer felt sorry, even if she did appear to be exhausted again, said in an evilly smooth tone, “Florrie. Did you get that? How would I know how to spell it? Can’t you do anything on your own?” She turned and left the store, still muttering to poor Angie.
Helen’s mouth dropped open. “Was that Lucianne Dumont?” she whispered.
I nodded.
“What did she want here? I would love to work for her.”
I seriously doubted that but kept my opinion to myself. I pulled out the work schedule to see if I could accommodate Helen’s changes when the phone rang.
“Good afternoon,” said a voice with a British accent. “This is Frederic van den Teuvel. Have I reached Florrie Fox?”
Who on earth? “Yes. Speaking.”
“Wonderful. I hope I have not phoned you at an inconvenient time, but I felt the need to reach you as soon as possible. It is my understanding that you have a copy of The Florist?”
“Actually, I am not in possession of the book.”
“No? Oh my! I apologize. I was told that you have a newly discovered copy.”
“It . . .” For absolutely no good reason, my wariness antennae shot up. I felt like they were glowing red with alarm. “How may I help you?”
“Now I am confused. Do you have the book?”
“Not in my possession. Are you interested in acquiring The Florist?”
“Very much so. What is the price which you are asking?”
Why did I feel so suspicious? “May I have your name again?”
I grabbed a periwinkle-blue pencil and a notepad. I wrote as he spoke. Frederic van den Teuvel.
“Your phone number, please?”
He gave me his number as well as an address in Aachen, Germany. “I am representing an interested party.”
“I see. You are an antiques dealer?”
“Something like that. When can I see the book?”
“It hasn’t been authenticated yet, but I will be happy to call you when the owner is ready to sell it.”
After a long moment of silence, Frederic said, “I shall only be in Washington for a matter of days. Perhaps we can arrange a time for me to view the book?”
Why did I feel pressured? I didn’t like this Frederic guy, but that wasn’t fair to Dolly. For all I knew he was representing someone who would pay more than our wildest dreams. “Perhaps you could telephone me tomorrow. At this point, I am not able to schedule a viewing.”
His tone grew testy. “But you do have the book? It seems that you are unsure.”
Hadn’t I already explained that? Maybe his English wasn’t as good as it sounded. “I do not have it in my possession. I am not the seller of the book, so I cannot make any representations at this time.”
“Very well. I shall phone you in the morning to arrange a viewing of the book.”
He hung up, and I was confused. I stared at the book a customer handed to me. How had Ms. Dumont and Frederic van den Teuvel already heard about The Florist? Was it a more valuable commodity than I had imagined?
I forced myself to concentrate on customers. Saturday night diners, moviegoers, and revelers kept us busy through the dinner hour and beyond.
It was after ten by the time we had rung up the last sales of the day and shooed everyone out of the store. Veronica and I split the floors, each of us doing one last sweep, to make sure no one lingered behind. We turned off lights as we went. We finally flipped the sign on the front door to Closed, set the alarm, and locked up.
It was a beautiful summer night. Veronica and I admired the gorgeous historic homes as we walked. Lights shone in Victorian-style turrets and bay windows, depending on the architecture of the house.
Dolly lived in a brownstone, a tall old building that stood out by virtue of its unusual shade of cream. The front door was recessed. The first and second floors, as well as the basement, were built out a few feet in a rather boxy construction. Light beamed from the large arched window that graced the first floor. The matching glass arch over the front door shone, too. Outdoor lights on each side of the front door illuminated the concrete steps that led up to the stoop.
A wrought iron picket fence and ornate gate marked the tiny front yard of the property. The leaves on the tree just inside the fence were completely still in the balmy night. The second floor, where the Beauton sisters lived, didn’t appear to be quite as glamorous, but lights shone in a sizable square window that faced the street, where I imagined their parlor must be.
The top floor was actually an attic, and the roof took a steep angle. The blue slate fish scale tiles appeared to be black in the dark of night. I had noted before that they interestingly matched the roofs on several homes on the street as though they had all been installed at the same time. The tall dormer window at the top of Dolly’s house was dark.
The gate swung open easily. I carried Dolly’s purse up the stairs. While I knew that the front door was generally unlocked during the day, I expected it to be locked given the late hour. I rang the bell, but Veronica tried the doorknob. The door swung open.
I cringed. “I hope the doorbell didn’t wake anyone.”
A narrow passage was now the foyer of what had once been a single-family home. Four robin’s egg blue mailboxes that resembled tall birdhouses were mounted on the wall in a row over a narrow table. An old-fashioned chandelier with sparkling prisms added a touch of glamour. Matching well-worn red oriental runners covered the floor. One ran from the entrance to the foot of steep stairs. The other ran alongside the stairs to the door of Dolly’s apartment on the first floor.
Dolly’s door stood open a few inches, as though she expected us. I rapped a knuckle against the door and called out, “Dolly! It’s Florrie and Veronica with your purse.”
She didn’t respond, but I peeked inside anyway. “Dolly?”
And then I saw her. She lay on her side on an oriental carpet, one hand outstretched.