At the Corner of King Street (22 page)

“Enter us,” Margaret said. “Aren't you going to ask me who were the other two goodwives who examined Faith?”

“Who?”

“Patience McDonald and Sarah Goodwin.”

“My Sarah? I'm connected to two women in this sordid tale.”

“I'm still digging into Sarah's life, but I do know she and her husband came from Scotland.”

“History has a way of repeating itself. We've met Rae McDonald and today will meet Lisa Smyth, the woman who lives in the Prince Street property.”

Margaret rubbed her palms together, her rings clinking against each other as they moved back and forth. “I love this stuff. Love it!”

“So tomorrow works for you?”

“Yes. I have to work at the center today and the bakery tonight. We have a big mail-order shipment going out, and they need all hands on deck. You should come by and bring the kid. I know Rachel and Daisy are crazy for babies, and they'd love to see her.”

“Won't you be busy with packaging?”

“Yeah, but we can spare a moment. Hey, you can park the kid in the front pack and lend a hand. Lots of labeling from what I hear.”

“What're you shipping?”

“Pies. Thousands and thousands of pies.”

“Sure, why not. It's been a while since I saw your sisters. And I owe Daisy a big thank-you for helping with Carrie.”

“You'll have a blast. Well, in a working kind of way.”

*   *   *

With Carrie tucked in the front pack, freshly fed and diapered, she and I strolled down Union Street toward the bakery. The day cooled from the high temperature, which hit ninety, to a respectable eighty.
Weather was forecasting a cold front, which would keep temps lower for a few days. That suited me just fine. Packing and moving boxes from a basement was hot, sweaty work and weather that cooperated made everything easier.

Midsummer was the height of the tourist season and the streets were filled with folks dressed in shorts and T-shirts and sporting rosy tans that hedged toward sunburns. There was a lot to do here and if you loved the trails, the water, or history, you could get lost in Old Town Alexandria.

When I lived here as a kid history held little of my interest. I didn't take one tour or read a book about the town when Grace offered me the job and I accepted what I thought was a temporary situation. Surely, I'd have a real job by the fall. But real jobs weren't as easy to come by, so summer turned to fall, and then spring.

We took a lot of demo jobs in those days. As I remembered, we went from one site to the next collecting old architectural treasures that we resold for a nice profit. I rented a small room north of Washington Street on King. I wasn't fancy, but it was my place. For the first time in my life, I controlled the space where I lived. With no crazy mom or sister who discarded clothes and trash on a whim, I kept the place so neat and clean that Grace accused me of being OCD. But it was important to me after a lifetime of chaos to come home each night to neatness and order.

I might have stayed in Alexandria longer, even figured ways to grow the salvage business, but then Janet stormed into town, a whirlwind of fun and adventure. Janet's smile and bright laugh promised a life filled with endless highs.

Now I was back here, at the warehouse, without my little sanctuary apartment. I was in the heart of the storm, once again trying to shore up a leaking dam ready to release a wall of water that would flatten all of us.

I should have been pissed. Terrified. Resentful. I sure was when I arrived in town last week.

However, as much as I hated the chaos, there was a rightness to being back on King Street. No made-up pasts here. No made-up family. No thinking twice before I answered a simple question about myself. Just the truth.

Tragedy, trouble, and drama remained, but here, I had no secrets. Everyone knew where all the skeletons were buried, and it felt good to shed secrets that I wore like a too-tight skin.

When I reached the bakery that night, there was a handwritten sign on the front door.
Addie, come on in
.
Everyone else, we are closed
.
Margaret
,
The
Management.
I pushed through the door and bells jingled overhead. The front of the shop was painted a pale yellow and the walls decorated with old pictures of the bakery taken through the years. They were enlarged to eleven by fourteen and mounted. Orderly. That was Daisy's doing. The front display cases were empty, but the glass and shelves glistened.

“Addie, is that you?” Margaret's voice boomed from the back.

“Yes!

“Through the swinging doors.”

Carrie and I moved around the display case and pushed through the swinging doors to find Margaret standing at the head of a long stainless steel table. On one side were trays of shrink-wrapped pies and at the other end were pink boxes that read
Union Street Bakery
. Stickers and yellow twine were heaped in the middle.

“Looks like an assembly line,” I said.

“As of this moment, I am the line. We have one hundred pies to box and ship.” Margaret stood in front of one boxed pie labeled with a crooked sticker. The twine wrapped around the box should have
been a bow but looked more like a knotted mess. She rubbed her forehead with the back of her hand. “I'm in hell.”

“Where are Rachel and Daisy?”

“Rachel is MIA. Sick kid. Daisy is on her way. Feeding baby. I'm to start this show, but I can't get the damn stickers to go on straight and the twine knots up. It is possessed. Help me.”

Laughing, I moved behind the table. “If you don't mind Carrie hanging around.”

She blew a lock of hair out of her eyes. “Can she stick labels?”

“Sorry, no.”

“Will she sleep?”

I patted Carrie on the bottom. “As long as I'm standing and moving, then she'll be fine.”

Margaret reached for an open beer a table behind and took a deep drink. “I can guarantee you'll be standing and moving.”

I studied the layout of the table. “Pies in boxes. Boxes sealed with a sticker and then boxes tied with twine.”

“That's the plan.”

“Right.” I moved the boxes to the center of the table, and put the stickers and twine on the far right. “How about you put the pies in the boxes, and I'll seal them and tie bows.”

Margaret put her palms together in a silent prayer of thanks. “I can put a pie in the box.”

Laughing, I picked up a strand of twine and ran my finger over the rough surface. “I'll do the rest.”

“You are a goddess.” Margaret pulled the first pie from the tray, put it in a box, and pushed it toward me. The sticker went on easy enough, but it took me a couple of tries before I secured the twine right. Margaret kept filling boxes with pies and shoving them my way, and there was a moment or two that I fell behind and felt a little like Lucille Ball
in the chocolate factory. Finally, I found my rhythm and within minutes I was caught up to her. We worked quickly and easily, and by the time the front bells on the shop jingled forty-five minutes later, we were nearly finished.

Daisy pushed through the saloon-style doors, her gaze harried, and her dark ponytail tangled and askew. “I'm sorry it took me so long. The baby would not settle calm. Gordon tried to walk him, but the kid only wanted me.” She was reaching for an apron when she realized the job was nearly done. “Holy crap. Have I stepped into an alternate universe?”

Margaret beamed as she plopped a pie in a box and pushed it toward me. “Told you I could handle this. You worry too much.”

Daisy's gaze shifted to me. “Addie Morgan.”

I tied off the bow and looked up. “The one and only. Good to see you in the flesh, Daisy.”

“You're the genius behind this.” Her voice still carried the rusty quality I remembered from that long-ago summer.

“Hey!” Margaret said.

I carefully labeled the next box and reached for a string to tie around it. “Margaret was a huge help. She got the party started.”

Daisy moved toward the pile of finished boxes. “I just might weep.”

“Least I could do. Thanks for helping with the baby the other night.”

“No worries.” She moved to the standing trays filled with boxed pies and studied one. “This is great. I don't think any McCrae has done a better job.”

“I've labeled a few bottles of wine in my time.”

She picked up a box and studied the packaging. “You put the label on differently. Off to the side instead of center. I like it.”

Margaret pushed a boxed pie toward me. “I'm a helper, too.”

Daisy shook her head. “Thank you, Margaret. And thank you, Addie.”

Carrie fussed, forcing me to sway back and forth as I reached for
the pie box and carefully closed it. I peeled off a label from the roll. “I thought it was easier to read the label with it tucked in the bottom corner instead of centered.”

“It works. It really works.”

I stopped my swaying and positioned the label on the bottom right corner. Carrie began to fuss again. Label fixed, I swayed.

Daisy smiled. “She's a strong-willed little girl. Gets that from her aunt.”

“We Morgan women are stubborn.”

“Stubborn is good.” Daisy heaved out a breath, releasing an invisible weight from her shoulders. “I have the shipping boxes already assembled. If we can keep this up for another half hour we'll get out of here at a decent time.”

“I don't have to feed the kid for another forty-five minutes,” I said. “As long as I can sway, she'll let me work. You have me until then.”

Daisy's eyes glistened as if she'd cry with joy. “Thank you.”

Thirty minutes later, the pies were housed in shipping boxes and labeled. Daisy loaded the boxes onto her stainless steel cart and pushed the entire order into a large refrigerator. “They get shipped in the morning.”

Carrie fussed and I knew my time here was fading quickly. Cinderella's party ended at the stroke of midnight. Mine ended when the baby began to fuss. “Great. I have to get the kid home sooner rather than later.”

Margaret shook her head. “Kid blows a gasket when she's hungry.”

“I get it,” Daisy said. “Thanks, again.”

“Sure.”

As Daisy undid her apron and stretched her back, she rolled her head from side to side. “I hear you two have a salvage job tomorrow.”

“We do,” I said.

“Cleaning out an old basement,” Margaret added.

Daisy laughed. “A dream come true?”

Margaret pulled off her apron. “I can't wait. I'd rather watch paint dry than work in the bakery. No offense, Daisy.”

She smiled. “None taken.”

Margaret held up her hands. “But give me a dirty basement or attic . . . I'm in heaven.”

Over the years, I forgot the pure excitement I felt when Grace and I readied for a salvage job. Always felt a little like a treasure hunt. “Who knows, maybe we'll go three for three and find another witch bottle.”

“What's that?” Daisy asked.

“Kind of like a protection spell,” I said. “Margaret tells me women made them to ward off evil back in the colonial times.”

“I like the sound of that,” Daisy said. “I'll take good luck any day.”

“We've found two in the last week,” Margaret said. “So, so, rare.”

Daisy pressed her hand into her lower back. “Can they bring luck?”

“The newer versions do,” Margaret said. “I've also heard them called Wish Bottles.”

“We should make bottles for ourselves,” Daisy said. “Kind of a girls night out. Wine and witch bottles.”

“I've been reading up on them,” Margaret said. “People still make them.”

Daisy laughed. “Gordon's gone with a bike tour Friday night. Want to do it then?”

“I'm game,” Margaret said.

Chase away evil. Evil did include curses, right? Even if it didn't, I liked the idea of wine. “I've got Carrie.”

“And I've Walker, and Rachel has the girls,” Daisy said. “The more the merrier.”

“Sure, I'm in.”

I met Mistress Smyth at the market today. Mistress Smyth looks well and we spoke of my child and the babe in her belly. We blessed God for our good health.

When Faith passed us by, I whispered that Dr. Goodwin believes it's a sin to relieve labor pains given to virtuous women for the sins of Eve. He suspects she practices magic. Mistress Smyth attached great interest to my words and asked me to explain. I mentioned Faith uses herbs but I didn't dare mention that Faith did the same for me, or that my connection to Faith extends as deep as blood.

U
p early the next morning, I made a half dozen bottles for Carrie and left a stack of diapers and clean clothes by the crib. By the time Grace rose, the baby was also fed, changed, and sleeping in her crib, and I was excited and grateful for a hard day of labor away from this place.

“If you need me, Grace, I'm only blocks away and will have my cell phone.”

She cradled a cup close to her chest, drawing comfort from the warmth. “We survived when you went to that vineyard place. We can survive a day here.”

“She should sleep for a couple of hours.”

“You told me.”

“Plenty—”

Grace held up a hand. “I know. Diapers. Bottles. Clothes. Got it. Go. I'm curious to hear what you find in the house on Prince Street. I suspect it will be good. The back of my head is itching.”

A half smile tipped the edge of my lips. “I forgot that. How your head itches before a demo.”

“Not any demo. Just the really good ones. Now you better get going. That Margaret will be champing at the bit. Girl's got a thing for all this.”

“She does. She knows it better than I could ever hope to.”

Grace sipped her coffee. “You're better at this than you're willing to admit.”

“I noticed the stones are gone from the truck. Where are they?”

“Zeb found a buyer,” she said. “They came by last night while you were at the bakery.”

“That's awesome. Who?”

“Couple in Loudoun County wants to build an outdoor grill. They loved the idea of history.”

“Well, it's kind of being repurposed for a use that's historical. The stones held plenty of fires and cooked lots of meals.”

“They've promised to send pictures when the project is done.”

“I want to see them.”

“Why?” Grace fished in her pocket and pulled out a wad of bills.

“I like it when an old item gets a new life.”

Grace grunted. “This is the money from the sale. You can pay Margaret and her helpers.”

The roll of bills felt dense. “How much did the stones earn?”

“Enough to pay off Margaret, the guys, and a little extra for formula.”

“Formula.” Laughter rumbled in my chest. “Good-bye, disposable income.”

Grace grunted. “Better get going.”

“Right.” I shoved the money in my pocket and hurried to find Margaret leaning against the truck, arms crossed over her chest, eyes closed, and her face tipped toward the sun.

“Sorry, I'm late.” I jerked open the driver's side door.

“I'm trying to look calm. Not scream, ‘Hurry up!'”

I slid behind the wheel and shoved my keys in the ignition. “You're doing a good job.”

“It's hard. Believe me.” Bracelets rattled as she opened the door and hopped into the front seat. “Hey, what's that hanging from your key ring?”

I glanced at the ring and noticed the key hanging on the chain. “I found it here at the yard. I tucked it in my pocket thinking I'd ask Grace about it but I forgot. When I realized I took it, I just kept it.”

She leaned over and fingered the key. “Very old. I'd say eighteenth century.”

“I never really thought about the age.” I studied the irregular heart shape at the end of the key. “I was just drawn to it.”

“Totally cool.” She settled back in her seat. “I wonder what it opens.”

“I have no idea.”

I fired up the engine and backed the large truck out of the space. As the crow flies, the trip to the jobsite was less than a half mile, but it took a few passes around the block before parking opened up on the street, and I was able to edge the truck into two spots fifteen paces from the house.

“My guys should be meeting us here,” Margaret said as she typed on her phone's keypad. “Parking.”

“Great.” I reached for my go-bag, filled with essentials including a camera, measuring tape, duct tape, hammer, screwdrivers, and trash bags. A little careful prechecking meant less damage to the items during removal. Nothing sadder than seeing a hand-carved piece of trim splinter when ripped from the ceiling.

We made our way down the cobblestone street to number seven. It was a three-story brick town house with a black wrought-iron hand
railing. The front door was solid mahogany with inlaid handblown windows at the top. A large door handle was set below waist level.

“I'm a geek,” I said.

Margaret rested her hands on her hips. “How so?”

“Because I noticed that that doorknob is brass, handmade, and period eighteen hundred,” I said. “And it's also much lower than the modern-day doorknobs because people were shorter then.”

“I'm grooving on the handblown glass windows and this front door. It's stunning,” Margaret said.

“Think it's original?”

“If it's not, it was made very close to the time.”

I ran my hand over the railing. “How much would this house cost today?”

“Million and a half. More.” She touched the lacquered front door. “I can only dream about living in a place like this.”

I watched as her gaze swept over the house, much like a woman in love looked at a lover. “Do you need a moment alone?”

Her gaze danced with laughter. “Just a few.”

A retort formed on my lips when we heard footsteps in the main hallway and the door snapped open. Standing before us was a young woman with white-blond hair, pale skin, and a petite frame. She was dressed in a black cotton sleeveless top, dark pants made of a light fabric, and red flats. Her clothes were simple but she possessed an elegance that, honestly, made me feel a tad clunky.

“Hi, I'm Addie Morgan with Shire Salvage. And this is Margaret McCrae. We're here to look at the items you have in your basement.”

The woman's gaze skittered between the two of us and then settled on me. “Yes. Right. I'm Lisa Smyth.”

Lisa couldn't have been more than thirty-five, which led me to wonder how she came to own such an old and expensive home.
Family money? Internet sensation? Inventor of one of those gadgets you see on late-night television? Sold soul?

“I understand you're renovating the basement,” I said.

“I'm house-sitting for my aunt,” Ms. Smyth said. “She is going to be putting her house on the market soon and I'm here to take care of the details.”

Her smooth, angled face suggested a family with money, but a glance at her shorn nails and slightly discolored fingertips suggested a different twist to her story.

“If you'll show us the way we can have a look,” I said. “A couple of our guys are right behind us.”

“Wonderful. If you'll follow me.”

Wiping the bottom of my tennis shoes on the mat, I entered the foyer. The front hallway was long and carpeted with a handmade Oriental runner that extended from the front door toward a kitchen gleaming with stainless steel and white marble in the back of the house. Directly in front of us was a staircase with a bullnose banister that swirled around like whipped cream. To our left stood a set of open pocket doors that looked onto a front parlor. As much as I wanted to gawk in the room, I could only glimpse the marble fireplace, lush leather furniture, and another handmade Oriental.

We passed a collection of black-and-white images framed in white mats and ebony frames leaning against the wall. I wanted to linger and study each print, which captured everyday faces in exotic ways. I could see that the images were shot with a bellows camera and developed with a wet-plate process. I didn't quite understand the entire technique, but knew it dated back to the Civil War. Photographers in those days needed strong muscles to carry the large camera around. They also needed a delicate touch when handling the large glass negatives and chemicals.

“Love the pictures,” I said.

“Thanks. I took them.”

“Wow,” Margaret said, inspecting them closer. “Wet-plate photography?”

“Yes.”

“Very nice,” Margaret said.

With no more explanation, Lisa clicked on a light and we moved down an old staircase that looked more period than any other part of the house. The stairs were rickety and the railing was coming loose from the wall. Suddenly, one of those horror movies flashed in my mind. People did know where we were, and Grace would sound the alarm if I didn't return, right?

A flick of another switch and a brighter light popped on, illuminating a long, narrow room that stretched the length of the house. The basement room was filled with all kinds of boxes, old doors, furniture, and who knew what else.

“So what exactly would you like us to haul away?”

“My aunt's attorney wants the room completely cleared out.”

Ah, the luxury of having someone else oversee the cleanup job. Scott left oversight of everything to me, and by the time the last contractor left the property, just the thought of paint chips, wood samples, and excuses over delays made me cringe. “Do you want us to save anything?”

“No. Your company hauls away junk and that's what all this is to the owner.”

Hauls. Away. Junk. I raised a finger to explain that, no, we were a salvage company and that we saved history, but Margaret poked me in the ribs with her elbow.

A glance at Margaret's you-shut-up expression told me to hold my comments. She saw an item that piqued her attention, and I trusted her eye for history. “We can haul it all away. What plans do you have for the space?”

“It's going to be a media room. Wide-screen television, surround sound, and theatre chairs,” Lisa said. “Plans look pretty amazing.” She hugged her arms around her chest, warding off a cold shiver. “Do you need me? This room has always given me the creeps.”

“Nope. We'll clear out the space.”

Margaret's phone pinged. “Our guys are at the front door.”

“Great.” Lisa glanced toward the top of the stairs toward the light. She didn't like this space, whereas I felt an attraction.

“If you'll just let the boys in,” I said. “We'll get to work.”

Lisa smiled, her relief visible. “Be glad to. Call if you need me.”

As her steady steps echoed up the stairs, I glanced at Margaret, who wandered over to a set of three doors stacked against each other by the west wall. Dust and particles rose up and danced in a beam of sunlight shining in from the street-level windows.

“So, what do you think?” I asked.

“I think these doors will make the entire trip worthwhile. I can't believe someone would just store them in a basement.”

Resting hands on hips, I surveyed the room. “So, we just take it all and sort it at the warehouse.”

“Exactly. I'm sensing lots of buried treasure here.” She clasped her hands together. “This is paradise to me. I could rumble around dark scary places all day long.”

“Well, we've got about eight hours, so let's get to work,” I said. “And to ensure we get out of here on time, no looking or inspecting. We're hauling and moving. We can dig through all the treasures at the warehouse.”

Margaret traced her finger along an old dusty chest with a brass lock. “No peeking?”

“None. Search and rescue. Study later.”

Her gaze skittered over the stacked boxes, old picture frames, lamps, and doors. “Fine. But when we're back at the warehouse—”

“You can dig and catalogue to your heart's content.”

Lovingly, she touched a dusty trunk. “This is the best part-time job, Addie. The best.”

And so it went. We spent the next eight hours, along with our two male helpers, Alex and Joey, hauling items from the basement and loading them on the salvage yard truck. By four o'clock in the afternoon, the basement was empty and the truck full. I paid Margaret and the guys with the cash from Grace. Margaret offered to treat us all to a beer and, though the guys readily accepted, I declined. Carrie and Grace were waiting.

As the truck rumbled over the cobblestones toward Union Street, I realized I no longer craved sunsets and cool wine, but long naps. That day was only weeks behind me, but it might as well have been a thousand years. I pulled onto King and into the side alley behind Shire Salvage, where I parked.

Up the front stairs, I found Grace sitting in the living room, rocking in the old chair. Its wooden bones creaked and groaned as the runners moved back and forth. Her eyes were closed and she hummed a tune I vaguely remembered from my summer here as a child. Without opening her eyes, she asked, “How did the job go?”

“We cleaned out the basement. All the goods are loaded in the truck, and I'll unload and sort tomorrow.”

“Margaret a big help?”

“She was. I like her.”

“Hmmm. Nice family. They've been on this street for generations.”

“Where's Carrie?”

“Sleeping. There's cold beer in the fridge.”

“Bless you.” Quietly, I moved to the fridge, grabbed a beer, and, popping the top, sat on the hearth across from Grace. I needed a shower and
was too dirty to sit on the furniture, but I was too tired to move. The beer washed away the dryness and cooled my throat. “How did it go today?”