| |
Beverly knew she shouldn’t have tailed Adam Dutton. Even more so after she’d only had a couple hours of sleep after her unfruitful scavenger hunt last night. But when he’d headed toward Quechee, she couldn’t help herself.
Her smile at the endearing confusion on his face faded as she pulled up in front of her next target. The shop wasn’t at all like she remembered.
Dark trickles of slime and grime seeped down the white cast-stone facade like black blood on a Madonna statue. The sign that spelled out “Antiques” was loose from its mooring and clung desperately in a losing attempt to hang on. The store windows were broken in some places with BB holes in the center of tiny glass craters that branched out into spider-web patterns.
The door was open, thanks to a splintered lock. She poked her head in to take a peek. The miniature dollhouse town, the collection of seasoned cast-iron cookware, the old wax cylinder phonographs—all the things from years ago were long gone.
A scratching noise got her attention. She followed it toward the door in the back that led to the basement. As she approached, the door opened with such force, it slammed into the wall and pieces of plaster fell to the floor. Two young men strutted into the room, stopping when they caught sight of her.
The first, the taller of the two, wore a black beanie and had a beer in one hand and a crowbar in the other. He winked at the other youth and said, “Look what we have here. A city girl with a nice big purse.”
The shorter youth dropped a green pillowcase sack he was carrying. “Looks like pricey swag. A chick who can buy that must have a shitload of money.”
His friend laughed. “Yeah, a nice big purse with a nice big wallet full of nice big bills.”
Beverly pulled her purse off her shoulder as if getting ready to hand it over. But with a quick snap, she flipped it open and pulled out her gun. She slowly, and dramatically, clicked off the safety. “You forgot the nice big gun.”
The shorter boy looked to the other, who was chewing on his lip. He said, “Look, lady, we was playing around. No bigs, ’kay?”
Beverly kept the gun pointed at them and moved off to one side. “No bigs if you get out of here and don’t come back.”
The boys gave each other a quick look and a nod. Then they both took off running through the doorway. Beverly followed them, watching and waiting until they were out of sight before she put the gun back in her purse.
She walked over to the pillowcase bag on the floor and peered inside. A few copper wires, some coils, and other metal parts she couldn’t identify. Destined to be sold for scrap, but she doubted such a haul would bring much cash. But junkies needed all they could get, and judging by the boys’ bloodshot eyes and hand tremors, she guessed it was either potential drug or alcohol money lying in that bag.
Grabbing the bag, she headed outside and walked around the building, where she spied a staircase leading to the top floor. With one last look around to determine the young toughs were nowhere in sight, she climbed the stairs to the top. This door was locked. So, she knocked.
To her surprise, the door swung open to reveal a petite elderly woman dressed in a blue paisley dress with a purple felt cloche hat. She squinted at her visitor and said, “Beverly?”
Beverly smiled at her. “Mrs. Framm.”
“Agnes, dear. You’re old enough now to skip all those old-fashioned manner rules. Come on in. Let me get a look at you.”
Agnes looked her over and smiled. “Always knew you’d turn out to be a stunning woman someday. You’ve got your grandmother’s skin and eyes.”
“That’s the nicest compliment I’ve had in years.”
“Have a seat, rest your feet. I’m afraid I don’t have much in the way of refreshments. You should have called first. I would have made one of my famous mincemeat pies.”
“It was a whim of sorts. Grammie’s been on my mind lately. Since I was in the area, thought I’d drop by and see how her best friend is doing these days.”
Agnes motioned her over to some overstuffed, faded club chairs, which were like slipping into a pillow. That made her think of the boys’ pillowcase, which she showed to Agnes, telling her how she came by it.
Agnes settled back in her chair. “I’ve called the local police dozens of times. But those vagrant types keep coming back. Can’t afford private security. There’s not much to be done about it.”
“When did you close the store?”
“Going on five years now. Feels like yesterday.”
“Was it the Northeastern Antiquities League? Did they force you out?” Beverly realized her hands were balled into fists. She willed them to relax.
“You’re thinking of what happened to your grandmother. But no, it was more eBay. People don’t want to buy local. Just a few clicks on a computer, and whatever you want is delivered to your front door.”
“And the Forsythes didn’t pressure you?”
“I got a visit from someone who said he was from the state licensing board, but I knew better. He asked odd questions a board representative should already know if he were genuine. The shifty type. Had this eye twitch. He was nicely dressed, much nicer than a government employee.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That since my shop had a bakery and deli, it didn’t fall under that new law. That I’d asked around, and I was grandfathered in.”
“If that’s true, Grammie could have done something similar.”
“I don’t think so, dear. The way it was worded, it wouldn’t have applied to such changes after the law took place. They saw to that.”
Beverly closed her eyes for a moment. Images of her grandmother lifting her up for a better look at Agnes’s Christmas dollhouse display sprang to mind. Grammie had always loved Christmas.
The older woman’s voice gently got her attention. “Your grandmother was a wonderful woman, and she loved you to pieces. I know how you miss her, but she wouldn’t want you to be bitter. In fact,” Agnes paused for a moment as if choosing her words carefully. “Guinevere confided to me when she was ill there, toward the end. Said she was worried about you.”
“Worried about me? But why?”
“Feared you were losing your way, becoming colder, harder. She wanted me to tell you not to let those bastards win.”
No problem there, Beverly had no intention of letting those bastards win. Just not in the way Grammie intended. She swallowed her grief and anger to study her host. Agnes was about Grammie’s age, seventy-ish. Her orange hair must come from a bottle or salon, but along with white strands dappled through, it gave her the appearance of a ginger cat. “After you closed your store, why didn’t you sell it and move?”
“Not the best timing for real estate.” She held up two fingers, pinched together. “Got this close to a deal with a young couple to turn it into a used bookstore and live up here in the apartment, but it fell through. Bookstores aren’t in plentiful supply, either.”
“What about those punks? I hate to think of you here by yourself with their lot around.”
“You sound like my son. He wants me to move to Florida to be closer to him. I hate beaches. And I would miss the seasons. Vermonters are sturdy folks, and Florida is for wimps. But it would be nice to see more of him and his family.”
“You could open up an antique store down there.”
“The whole state is full of antiques. And I’m not talking about the stores. It’s the new Mecca for white-haired acolytes. If you’ll pardon the mixed-religion metaphors.”
Beverly felt more relaxed in Agnes’s presence than she had with anyone in . . . she couldn’t remember how long. Unless it was Harlan. Part of her longed to stay here, to swap tales about her grandmother and reminisce. But the bastards who’d sent her grandmother to an early grave were still out there and still a threat to others. They had the potential to do an order of magnitude more damage than those two young thieves could ever dream of.
She reluctantly gave Agnes a hug and a promise to return soon. But Beverly couldn’t keep putzing around armed with only a few old, cryptic documents and half-baked clues, tantalizing as they were. No, she needed to shake things up. And that meant sneaking into the lair of the monster himself.
