A little bell jangled as she opened the door and stepped inside. Natalie was greeted by a ginger cat peeping out of a Victorian baby carriage. She gave the cat a pat on its fuzzy head and looked around. She and Bella used to come in here after school to ogle the historical witchcraft section, a locked cabinet full of ancient spell kits and handmade poppet dolls. Nowadays the store was mostly stocked with colonial paintings and high-end antique furniture—valuable things that Ned Bertrand found in people’s attics, things they took for granted until he put a price on them.
The first floor of this beautiful old building was so crammed with antiques, it felt like a firetrap. Whenever she came in here as a kid, Natalie’s eyes would glaze over after staring at so much wonder—heaps of rare books, a china bowl full of eighteenth-century reading glasses, a doctor’s kit crammed with murky test tubes—treasures from all periods of history. Walking into the shop was like stepping back in time.
Twenty-eight-year-old Justin Bertrand—son of Ned, lean and tall—was fussing with something behind the register. Everybody in town knew that Justin had taken over the family business while Ned was recuperating from his stroke.
Hearing the bell jingle, Justin glanced up. “Sorry, we’re closed.” Then his eyes slowly focused. “Hey, Natalie. Long time, no see. I mean, Detective. Should I call you Detective?”
“Sure, that’d be great.” She smiled warmly at him and walked up to the counter where they kept glass jars full of old marbles—tigers, chinas, crystals, bumblebees, agates. Justin was two years behind her at school. When she was a senior, he was a skinny sophomore riding his skateboard in the courtyard during lunch period. Now he looked like one of those young adults who lived in their parents’ basement—a distracted, spiky-haired intellectual who dwelled in his own little world and didn’t change his clothes often enough.
“How’s your father?” she asked.
“As well as can be expected.” Justin sat perched on the stool behind the cash register, just like his father had done for thirty years. “His physical therapist says he’s seen some improvement lately. Anyway, I gave up smoking after Dad had his stroke. Want a piece?” He offered Natalie a stick of spearmint gum. “It’s a halfway decent substitute for cigarettes.”
“Nah, I’m good.” She smiled.
“I can’t wait for him to get better,” Justin went on. “Running the show all by yourself is a lot harder than I thought. Electricity, gas, phone, internet, advertising, part-time employees. Our profit margin’s surprisingly slim. You can have a good streak, but then all of a sudden nobody’s buying. Winter’s a slow period. Spring is better, but summer and fall are good for tourism. That’s when we do best. I hope Dad will be ready to come back to work in the spring. Although his doctors are skeptical.”
“Really? I’m sorry to hear that,” she said sympathetically.
“He can’t walk or talk yet, but he’s doing okay. I knew something was wrong when he started to shake, right here behind the register. He looked really scared, and his mouth was all crooked. They said it was a major hemorrhagic stroke. There was brain swelling and everything. Dr. Swinton took good care of him in the ER, otherwise he might not have made it. Dad was in rehab for months before they let him come home. We’ve got a day nurse now who makes sure he’s comfortable, gives him his meds, and helps him do his exercises. Just moving his fingers is exhausting for him. I can tell he’s frustrated, but they’re working every day on mobility, energy, and endurance.”
“Glad to hear it,” Natalie said. “I’m sure he’ll get there soon enough.”
“He’s on the mend,” he said optimistically.
She remembered visiting Joey in the hospital—it was horrible to see him looking so weak and thin. No more tests. No more treatments. Tears ran down the sides of his face. His body was shutting down, and yet he was awake and conscious. “Be the strength I need,” he told Natalie.
It killed her that there was nothing she could do to help him.
“I’m worried about you,” he whispered.
“Don’t worry about me, Dad. I’ll be okay. I love you.”
He closed his eyes and never opened them again.
Now Justin Bertrand picked up the cat that was lacing itself around his legs and told her, “You used to come in here after school with your friends, didn’t you? And now you’re a famous detective.”
“Oh God—famous? I hope not.” Natalie felt herself blushing. She hated it when people asked her about the Crow Killer. How did you tell people you were happy you’d shot a man, but at the same time that killing another human being had stripped your soul bare? That you had to learn to live your life all over again? That your misery was all tangled up with the death of your sister and your family’s fall from grace?
“My friend Bella and I used to head straight for the glass case full of poppet dolls and talismans. Whatever happened to them?”
He shuddered. “Oh, that. Bad karma. I got rid of the last of it after Dad had his stroke. I won’t keep old curses in my store. I refuse to sell anything that’s supposed to be haunted, not in my store.”
“So you’re superstitious?” she asked with mild amusement.
“Of ancient occult curses from Burning Lake? Hell, yes. Aren’t you?” He laughed. “We used to have a Victorian embalming table, too, but we sold that to a rich guy with peculiar tastes.”
Natalie had a flash memory of Justin as a scrawny teenager working in his dad’s store. “You gave me a marble once,” she said.
“I did?” He frowned. “I don’t remember.”
“Yeah, one day after school. Bella and I were in junior high, and you were here working with your father, and you gave us each a cat’s-eye marble. You told us they were cat’s-eyes, that’s how I remember, since I know nothing about marbles.”
“Well, I hate to break it to you, but that’s an old sales trick. I was probably flirting with you, too.” He laughed. “But the truth is we give away marbles and other inexpensive items for free. Advertising doesn’t work. Word of mouth is how people find out about us. We’re in a prime location. We get plenty of foot traffic. But the whole trick is to get people to come back. Repeat business. My dad says, if you give away something for free, most folks will develop a sense of loyalty. It’s like winking while you give the customer an extra donut … you know, baker’s dozen.”
“Is that how that works?” Natalie said.
“Yeah, unfortunately. You have to use a few tricks, or else you’re toast. Things can be good, and then wham. If the economy’s bad, it affects sales. We have to buy reserves in advance to get through the hard times. That’s why we’ve got a space in back for storage and furniture restoration. We own the second floor, too. It’s jam-packed with inventory.”
“Well, you’ve done a good job.”
He shrugged. “It’s a living. Like my dad says, we have done respectably well.” He put down the cat. “Are you here about the woman they found in the dumpster?”
She nodded. “Did the police talk to you about it?”
“They’ve been in here a couple of times already,” he said, closing the register drawer. “Detective Labruzzo wanted any surveillance tapes we might have, but I told him my father never installed a camera. We have a burglar alarm instead.”
“Did you see Morgan that night around, say, ten or eleven o’clock?”
“No. Sorry. I closed up early. Six o’clock. Traditionally, we never stay open on Halloween, since we can’t afford to have a bunch of drunken tourists or kids on a sugar high in the shop. You know. Bull, china. Too much breakable stuff.”
Natalie nodded and said, “I noticed the violin in the window.”
“Yup.” He smiled. “That’s a fake.”
“Really?”
“A very valuable fake … made in 1895 to look like a Stradivarius.” He held up a set of keys. “You want to see it?”
“Sure.”
He walked over to the display window, unlocked the antique cherrywood cabinet, and plucked the violin and bow off its stand. “People don’t realize the value of the things in Grandma’s attic.” He turned the violin horizontally. “If you look inside through the f-holes, you can see a label glued to the back of the violin. Can you see it?”
She leaned forward and took a peek. “Yes.”
“Anything before 1850, and the label should be made of paper. Not just any paper, mind you. It’s called ‘laid paper,’ which is made from rags using a special process. The printing would’ve been done by hand with lead type. Anything after 1850, and you’ll get ‘wove paper,’ which is made of wood pulp. Also, if it’s pre-1850, the label should be the same shade of brown as the wood, with no curling around the edges. Otherwise you’re looking at a counterfeit.”
“And this one is a counterfeit?”
“A very rare counterfeit,” he said, eyes lighting up. “It’s worth a lot more than you’d think. Ironic, isn’t it? That a fake can have real value?”
She nodded toward the front of the shop. “I noticed an appraisal sign in the window. Morgan Chambers was considering selling her violin. But you said she never dropped by. So she didn’t see the violin or the sign in the window, and come in here asking for an appraisal of her violin? Not at any point between say … last Thursday and the weekend?”
“Nope. Sorry.” He put the instrument back in the cabinet and locked it. “We haven’t had any requests for appraisals in a couple of weeks, at least. Besides, I’m pretty good at remembering faces, and I’ve seen her picture in the news. We sell a number of antique musical instruments due to our proximity to the conservatory in Chaste Falls, so I would’ve remembered her for sure. But it’s rare to get a walk-in. Most of our inventory comes from estate sales, auctions, and other dealers. Sometimes you get people who are looking to downsize. Yard sales, garage sales. It’s all about finding inventory and transporting it back to the shop, then renovating, cataloguing, and researching it before you place it for sale.”
“Sounds like a lot of work.”
He grinned. “Yeah, but I like old stuff. I like buying and selling it. Once a year, Dad and I took a trip to the southwest or someplace like that, looking for inventory. He started this business thirty years ago. I’d call that a success, wouldn’t you?”
“Totally.” Natalie glanced around the shop. “By the way, who bought the Victorian embalming table?”
He smiled. “Ha. You wouldn’t believe it. We have a few high-end customers who are always on the lookout for, shall we say, unique items. That historical witch collection you mentioned? I sold the entire lot to the same buyer.”
“Really?”
“He paid a small fortune for it.”
On a hunch, she said, “Hunter Rose showed me a German Stradivarius-style violin he acquired through a New York dealer.”
Justin blushed. “Well, yeah … he got that from us. We’ve worked with his dealer for years now. Mr. Rose has a passion for old things. We’re lucky to have a handful of serious local buyers, but I’d prefer to keep their transactions confidential. Do you mind me asking … what has this got to do with Morgan Chambers?”
“Don’t worry,” she assured him. “These are routine questions. Has anyone else purchased an antique violin from your store recently?”
“Sure. We get people in here all the time looking for that sort of thing. We also sell old flutes, trumpets, electric guitars, xylophones, you name it.”
“Has anyone shown any interest in the fake violin in the window?” Natalie asked.
“A few people.”
“Like who? Mr. Rose?”
“And Dr. Swinton, of course.”
Natalie was taken aback. Russ had never mentioned an interest in violins, although now that she thought about it, he never talked about his private life. He knew more about Natalie than she knew about him. “Why do you say, ‘of course’?”
“He collects them. Violins. He wanted that German Stradivarius you mentioned, but Mr. Rose snatched it up first.” Justin nervously combed a hand through his hair. “Look, I don’t want to get anybody in trouble.”
“You won’t. Dr. Swinton collects violins? I didn’t know that.”
“Yeah, his family has a number of classical musicians in it. His sister used to be a violinist before she died in a car crash, so he set up a scholarship in her honor.”
“The Maldonado scholarship?”
“That’s the one.”
“Elyssa Maldonado is Dr. Swinton’s sister?”
“Maldonado’s her married name, I guess. She and her husband both died in that crash. Icy roads in the dead of winter.”
Natalie had known Russ for years, but they’d always had a professional relationship. Doctor-patient. Detective–medical director. She’d never thought to ask him anything personal about himself, because she’d sanctified him as her physician. Now it sat uneasily on her shoulders. He obviously had a whole rich, textured life she knew nothing about, whereas he knew her body intimately.
“Thanks for your time, Justin.” She turned to leave, but he tapped on her arm.
“I’m always on the hunt for new inventory, Detective, so if you ever clean out your attic, give me a ring. Here’s my card. I’ll make you a good offer.”
“Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.” She pocketed his business card and headed for the door.