Going Through the Notions (A Deadly Notions Mystery) (7 page)

Next door to Tony’s, Eleanor’s shop was still dark. A pair of mannequins dressed in exquisite antique wedding gowns posed together in the shadowy front window.

I entered Sometimes a Great Notion to the sound of the cash register ringing. It was an ornate brass National model from 1914, and Martha was stuffing it with five-dollar bills, looking like the Cheshire cat who’d swallowed a gallon of cream.

The store was full of men. One man was poking through the
MALE
box, and two others were drinking coffee and chatting.

Two more sat at a bistro table that Martha must have moved from the sewing room upstairs. They were playing Shut the Box, a vintage dice game.

Eleanor was there, too. “Have you lost your
mind
, leaving this one running the place?”

I grinned. “It looks as though she’s handled everything pretty well.”

She raised an eyebrow as if to say she begged to differ. “I guess Sarah wasn’t around to watch the store?”

“It was easier to ask Martha.” I looked into Eleanor’s dark gray eyes and knew she understood.

She nodded. “So how long will Sarah be staying?”

“No idea.” I set the squirrel down on the floor. Eleanor was right. It was ridiculous that I was afraid to ask my own daughter to do me a favor. “And it seems as though I can never say or do the right thing when she’s around, as hard as I try.”

“Maybe don’t try so hard?” Eleanor laid a hand on my arm. “We all have our blind spots, Daisy. It’s okay.” In contrast to her mannish appearance, her hands were beautiful. Feminine and elegant, the nails painted a pale pink.

I sighed. “Sarah gets along so well with her dad, but when I talk to her, it’s like my timing is always off. When all I want to do is help her find the same purpose and joy in life that I’ve found with this business.”

Eleanor smiled. “
And
you worry too much.”

“I know. It’s part of my DNA. I can’t help it.”

I went over to hug Martha. “Thanks. Nice touch with the table, by the way.”

“Hey, I know what men like.” She winked at me. “Just call me large and in charge.” She bustled off to ring up another purchase. The
MALE
box was almost empty.

Eleanor poured herself a cup of coffee and looked around. “What? No treats this morning?”

Martha sniffed from behind the cash register. “Well, I
did
make oatmeal cherry cookies, but someone gave them away.”

“Relax. I have some of your shortbread in the kitchen.” Before things turned violent, I hurried into the back and retrieved a tin of buttery shortbread fingers.

“So what did you find out from the evil troll down the lane?” Martha asked.

I quickly told them about the Perkins family and the estate sale where they felt they had gotten robbed.

“That’s just the luck of the draw. It’s not Angus’s fault. They could have chosen to have a regular auction if they wanted.” Martha trailed her fingers over her upswept hair, where a few red tendrils were escaping.

Eleanor plucked a biscuit from the tin. “That grandmother was an old hag. Bet they couldn’t wait to get rid of her, and her stuff, too.”

“That’s not all,” I said. “Some crazed woman called Fiona Adams showed up at the auction house this morning, claiming the pens belonged to her dead father. His new wife sent them here instead of auctioning them off in New York. The whole thing seems very strange to me.”

I handed Martha a cup of coffee.

“Thank you, Daisy. The plot thickens, eh? And now I hear Vikki, the bartender over at the pub, is trying to backtrack, saying Angus wasn’t
that
drunk. Probably worried about the liability. Too bad she already told everyone how smashed he was. That woman can’t keep her mouth shut about anything.”

Eleanor rolled her eyes at me, and I hid a smile. I loved Martha, but she couldn’t keep anything to herself either. I’d learned the hard way not to tell her any deep dark secrets. Those I reserved for Eleanor.

“Look, guys, Betty is still going ahead with the auction this weekend,” I said. “We have to help her out. I’m going to ask Patsy to do the bid calling, and Joe will move the heavy stuff, but we’ll need someone to run the snack counter like Betty usually does, because she’ll be busy overseeing and—”

“Snack counter! I call the snack counter.” Martha raised an arm in the air.

“And I’ll take the cold hard cash.” Eleanor drained her mug. “Good coffee as always, Daisy. You know how I like my coffee. Like ah like my men. Hot, black, and strong,” she murmured in her best Mae West imitation, garnering a few interested glances from the men over at the dice game.

Martha nodded toward the bistro table. “I was thinking we could put a mini television over there, volume on low, of course, so the men could watch the baseball games and—”

“Jiminy Cricket, don’t make it
too
comfortable for them,” Eleanor protested. “How are we supposed to gossip about the male population of this village if they’re hanging around here? Besides, they have Tony Z’s.”

I turned off the coffee machine. “I’ve always wondered how Tony stays in business at ten dollars a person. I don’t think he’s changed his prices since 1970.”

“Yes, but think about how often guys need a haircut,” Eleanor pointed out. “Some of them come here every single week.”

“True. And I guess he’s such a character that he has a loyal clientele who make it a point to travel to see him. It’s like the men’s own version of Sometimes a Great Notion.”

“Exactly. So they don’t need to horn in on our spot.”

After Martha and Eleanor left, and the men disappeared, I called Detective Ramsbottom. “A woman named Fiona Adams was at the auction house today, claiming the stolen pens belong to her.”

“Yeah? That nutcase tortured me for the best part of Sunday. So what?”

“Well, have you checked out her story?”

“There were no high-heeled footprints in the mud around Jimmy’s barn, if that’s what you’re getting at. Oh, wait. You think she whacked him to death with her diamond ring?” He laughed until he started coughing.

I wanted to smash the phone against the counter. “And another thing. Apparently the Perkinses are very angry about a sale that Angus handled for their grandmother’s estate about a year ago. Jimmy was the one that recommended Angus for the job. Perhaps you should consider looking into their whereabouts on the morning of the murder?”

“You think those boys killed
someone else
to get revenge on Backstead?” I could hear Ramsbottom eating. Perhaps a foot-long meatball hoagie with an extra large side of fries.

At the thought of French fries, my stomach grumbled.

“I don’t know. Sounds like you’re clutching at straws, Mrs. Daly.”

“Buchanan.” Even as I corrected him, I sighed. My theories sounded pretty weak to me, too, once I voiced them out loud.

Ramsbottom said he had to go, and hung up abruptly. I slammed the phone down and went in search of sustenance.

The store had a real kitchen, seeing as it was once a home, so there was no excuse not to eat healthy food. I pulled a container of Joe’s homemade split pea and ham soup from the freezer and put it in the microwave, but I only had a chance to eat a few bites before the phone started ringing. One call was from an interior designer looking for vintage curtain panels for a child’s room. I had several in stock, plus some antique toys to accessorize the shelving. I promised to meet her after work on Thursday evening because she couldn’t come during store hours.

As soon as I had a moment to breathe, Cyril Mackey’s words came back to me.
Was
there another way of looking at this whole thing? Even though the Perkins theory sounded weak, maybe he had a point.

One thing was for sure. I’d need to keep my mind, ears, and eyes open to every possibility.

I remembered one of the first jobs I had as a teacher. There was one little boy who simply could not sit still, and it was nearly impossible to get him engaged in the lessons. Until the day I sat the kids in a circle on the floor instead of at their desks. I told them the story of Paul Revere, and he was transfixed. I’ll never know whether it was the change of location or the delivery, but either way I had him, and knew that was my “teaching moment.” It also taught me to think outside the box and not be afraid to approach a problem from a new direction.

Sarah finally drifted in during the early afternoon.

“How’s the puppy doing?” I asked.

“He’s okay. I let him run around in the backyard for a while before I came over.”

I made a mental note to check around the yard when I got home. I had visions of going out into the grass in my bare feet one morning and finding that she hadn’t bothered to clean up after the dog.

I took a deep breath. “You know we love having you here, Sarah, but don’t you have to go back to work sometime? When’s the next film?”

Sarah shrugged and clicked through some messages on her cell phone. “No idea.”

The condo in New York was in a full-service, door-attendant building. Even though she’d bought it from us for way below what we could have sold it for on the open market, it was still a decent-sized payment for a single woman. I knew she made good money on films, but it wasn’t consistent income, and she’d just spent a fortune on remodeling and new furniture.

I swallowed and tried again. “I worry about you making your mortgage, that’s all.”

“Something will come along soon,” she said, not looking up from the phone. “Don’t
worry
so much, Mom.”

I gritted my teeth. If one more person told me that I worried too much today, I’d have a stroke.

I’d seen the kids whose parents didn’t pay attention, who didn’t worry, and who didn’t come to parent-teacher meetings. Those were the parents who left teenagers home alone when they went to their beach house on Long Island, and were surprised when the police came calling on Monday night.

Joe and Sarah were definitely peas in a pod with their laid-back attitudes to life. It was all very well to be so loosey-goosey, but it was because of my drive that we’d bought the condo, and had been able to afford her college education. Now we had this store that provided a nice income for Joe and me.

Although Joe would probably be content to live in a tent at the bottom of the yard.

I shook my head, even as I smiled. He’d still be a great cook, even on a propane camping stove.

Some customers came in looking for ribbons and trim. As I showed them around, I watched Sarah out of the corner of my eye. Occasionally she laughed, and then frowned at the phone, her fingers moving lightning fast. I wondered if she was networking or chatting with her friends. The film business was like any other business. You had to stay in the game and be seen, not sequestered away in some Bucks County backwater. Although with the way everyone was connected via the Internet these days, I supposed it didn’t matter so much.

“Yo, Daisy! Wazzup?”

The boisterous yell resounded through the store as it did every day about this time. Patsy Elliott, the waitress from the Last Stop Diner, usually came in after her shift to chat before she picked up her daughter from school. Her raspy barroom voice sounded like she smoked a hundred cigarettes a day, but she didn’t. It was a stark contrast to her clear skin, bright blue eyes, and dark curly hair, all glowing with good health.

Today her leggy nine-year-old daughter, Claire, was with her, hanging behind her mother, dark eyes shining. Arched eyebrows framed her huge brown eyes, and she would be a stunner when she grew up.

Claire was the one who usually helped me sort the buttons. I bent down and she gave me a tight hug. I clung back for a moment, cherishing the feel of her little arms around my neck.

Sarah glanced at us, an unreadable expression on her face.

“Patsy!” I hugged Patsy, too, for good measure. “Just the person I wanted to see. How would you feel about bid calling the auction on Saturday night? Betty will pay you. Probably a couple of hundred bucks for a few hours’ work?”

“Hell, yeah. Sounds like fun. The diner has been slow lately. I can definitely use that kind of money.” Most people might have balked at being asked to do something they’d never done before, but not Patsy.

“Oops! Mommy, you swore.” Claire held out her hand. “You owe me a quarter.”

Patsy sighed and fished a coin out of her waitress apron. “After church I promised to give her a quarter each time I said a bad word.”

Claire beamed at us. “I have two dollars and seventy-five cents so far, and it’s only Tuesday.”

Sarah and I laughed. To say Patsy’s language was salty was an understatement. I cringed myself sometimes at her brash speech.

“At this rate, I’ll be broke before the weekend. That’s why the auctioneer gig will come in handy.” Patsy settled her slender form into one of the bistro chairs. The diner uniform was hideous—a brown polyester dress with puffed sleeves and an orange and white checked apron—but Patsy could make a garbage bag look like designer couture.

The customers brought their ribbon lengths to the counter and I rang them up, and thanked them for visiting.

“Now, what about this chanting thing?” Patsy said after they left. “I can never understand what the hell those guys are saying.” She automatically reached in her pocket and held out another quarter to Claire.