If they don’t like you for being yourself, be yourself even more.
—Taylor Swift
GEORGIA GILDER STOPPED right in front of me and tossed her salon-glossy highlights. Index finger brushing her pointed chin, she appraised me with critical green eyes.
“Well, Penelope, you certainly clean up well. But of course, one is only as good as the company one keeps.”
“Excuse me?”
“I understand you’re still associating with the fussy scholar and the peculiar postal carrier.”
“If you mean my good friends, respected professor J. Brainert Parker and Jeopardy! champion Seymour Tarnish, then, yes, I am, and proud to be.”
She scowled the haughty scowl I’d seen thousands of times through my adolescent years.
“I’m surprised you and Sadie Thornton are still hanging on. I thought by now e-books would have finished this quaint throwback to the nineteenth century.” She tilted her head and sniffed theatrically. “Funny how quickly printed paper mildews. I could never stand that smell.”
Tell the dame she’s one to talk. She’s doused herself with enough perfume to pickle a red-light cathouse.
For once, I didn’t tell Jack to pipe down. In fact, I bit my cheek to keep from laughing.
My barely suppressed smile clearly wasn’t the response Georgia had hoped for. As her face flushed with fury, I became suspicious. Was she trying to provoke me? With all these people around, any angry or unprofessional outburst from me (including giving in to the overwhelming knee-jerk urge to kick her out of my store) was sure to be the talk of the town. But why would Georgia want that? What would she gain by making me look bad in a public scene? And putting my shop at the center of ugly gossip?
One thing you’re good at, doll, playing cards close to your vest. Keep it up.
Jack was right. I had no clue what Georgia was up to, which is why I remained on guard as she pursed her peach-glossed lips and leaned in close (so close my son would have described it as “getting in my face”). And, wow, was Jack right about the perfume!
Of course I was right. That cloud of flower juice could choke a horse.
“So, where is this treasure?” Georgia demanded.
“And by treasure you’re referring to . . .?”
“Don’t deny it. Half the town knows about the mailman’s big find, and the other half probably married their cousins.” She rolled her eyes.
“Follow me. I’ll show you the portrait.”
As I led the way to our very own Mona Lisa mob, Georgia kept carping—
“I can’t believe that schlub scored something with such regional value, a painting that could hang in the local courthouse or a Newport museum. But what I really want to know is why Tarnish is allowing amateurs like you and your aunt to sell it.”
As we crossed to the portrait, Georgia silently scanned the other paintings on display. When she came face-to-face with Harriet’s portrait, she blinked in surprise.
“That’s certainly different from the other McClures I’ve seen. Are you sure it’s authentic?”
“Has anyone ever forged a Harriet McClure?”
“Stranger things have happened.”
“Look closely,” I said, pointing.
“Yes. I see the top of Harriet’s signature, if it is her signature. But what is all this other nonsense?” She stepped back for a better look. “I can’t understand any of it except that bar of music. It’s Brahms’ ‘Lullaby.’”
“Is that so? What do you think it means? Is it a message?”
She threw up her French-tipped fingers. “It’s a bar of music!”
Georgia stepped close again and appraised the portrait much the same way she’d evaluated me.
“How much money are you asking for this?”
“We’re not selling it. Seymour Tarnish owns the work, and he’s not willing to part with it.”
As per usual, Georgia continued to speak as if I hadn’t. “He’d be a fool to sell it through anyone who isn’t an experienced broker.”
With a sharp turn, she locked eyes with me. “What’s really going on here, Penelope?”
“It’s not hard to decipher, Georgia. This is an exhibit to promote the art history book displayed on the podium right there in the middle of the room.”
“An exhibit? Really? With price tags on every painting? This doesn’t look like an exhibit to me. It looks like commerce.”
Before I could explain Walt’s tags, she turned on her high heels. On her way to the exit, Georgia called over her shoulder.
“Stick to peddling old books and silly stories, Penelope, and stay out of my art and antiques business. Gilder’s has been working that trade for decades, and I’m now cultivating a high-end clientele, which you know nothing about. I’m going to be the destination store for Newport, Boston, and Greenwich antiquing. If you try to compete with me, I will make sure you regret it!”
A sudden, inexplicable draft blew Georgia’s skirt up to her elbows. With a yelp, she batted the material back down and ran out of the store.
“Thanks, Jack,” I whispered.
Believe me, it was my pleasure.
I don’t doubt it, especially with that peek at her French underwear.
As Jack and I shared a silent chuckle, Sadie hurried to my side.
“I overheard that woman’s threat. What nerve!”
I shook my head. “Some people never change. Georgia was a bully in high school, and she’s stayed true to form.”
My aunt considered my words. Then her eyes twinkled, and she leaned close. “What do you think about a bigger sign? To promote the art show and the Palantines’ appearance, as well as Harriet’s painting?”
“I don’t know . . .” The idea was a good one for our business, but I couldn’t help fretting over it. Setting aside the whole Harriet curse, there was still the issue of Walt’s unnatural end.
I asked the ghost what he thought.
Cat’s out of the bag, no getting her back in now.
“But where will the cat lead us? That’s the question.”
“I don’t understand,” Aunt Sadie said. “What cat? Are you talking about Bookmark?”
“Uh, no . . . sorry, I was talking to myself . . . about the situation we’re in.”
“What situation?” Sadie replied. “Look around you! Thanks to Harriet McClure, our business has never been better. You’re not going to let Georgia Gilder intimidate us, are you?”
“You know what? You’re right. The cat is out of the bag. Harriet is already drawing customers in large numbers. And I don’t give a fig about Georgia’s threat. Let’s make that window sign really big. In fact, let’s put out a giant sandwich board on the sidewalk, too, so people can read it from all the way down the street—or at least as far as Georgia Gilder’s antiques store.”
As Sadie happily ran off to get things started, Jack laughed.
That should drive your perfume-soaked peach to distraction. And make your big-mouth blabbering pal Seymour puff up with peacock pride.
“Shoot, that reminds me—” I checked the store clock. “It’s time for me to pick up Seymour and drive him to the garage.”
Say hello to the art lover for me. I’ll just hover here and watch the gawking rubes until you get back.
“Oh, no, you don’t. I’ve got your lucky nickel tucked in my . . . ahem, let’s just say close to my heart. You’re coming with me, Jack Shepard. Like it or not.”