A Fatal Collection Page 5

  It was a good lesson in business practice, which Callie was glad to learn. She wondered if all shopkeepers did the same, or something similar, and thought that would be a good question to pose as she spoke with other Keepsake Cove shop owners. It might bring up other useful tips as well. She vowed to drop in on them all as soon as she could.

  Callie sent the list to her own phone, then carried Aunt Mel’s back to the living room. As she pulled the end table’s drawer open again, she noticed something tucked behind a group of cork coasters at the back. It looked like another phone. Surprised, Callie reached for it. It was another cell phone, but a prepaid, disposable type. She turned it over, wondering why her aunt would have it. Was it an old one, bought before her smart phone? Callie pressed the power button and it came to life, indicating it was nearly half charged. She checked Messages on the phone but there were, oddly, none at all. Contacts showed no names and numbers. The charged battery implied recent use, but for what? Did it actually belong to Aunt Mel?

  Curious, Callie returned the phone to the drawer, then went back upstairs to Aunt Mel’s laptop. She scrolled through her aunt’s inbox until she found what she was looking for: an email from Tracfone advising Melodie Reed that her pre-paid minutes were running low and she should buy more soon. It had been sent two months ago. The disposable phone, then, was hers. The question that remained was why? Why keep a second phone that apparently was being used but whose history appeared to be wiped clean? Callie leaned back in her chair and huffed, not having a clue.

  •

  The next morning, Callie set aside the phone puzzle to focus on the new day. After a good breakfast, she crossed over to House of Melody and raised the front door shade, feeling much more confident than she had twenty-four hours ago, and in charge—kind of. She knew she still had a ways to go, but the path ahead was definitely less foggy. She flipped her sign to Open without a trace of nerves, then settled behind the counter, confident that customers would arrive in good time, and that when they did she would be ready for them.

  Her customers wandered into the shop in ones and twos, that morning’s bunch mainly browsers and seemingly in search of conversation as much as collectibles. Callie was happy to provide that as well, since it often meant learning more about the specialness of her new surroundings. The Eastern Shore—always capitalized, as she’d picked up early—was unusual because of its separation from the rest of Maryland by the Chesapeake Bay. With access to the area so limited from Colonial days until modern times, many outlying areas developed their own cultures and even accents over the years because of their isolation.

  That changed dramatically with the construction of the Chesapeake Bay bridge, a graceful, four-mile-long span that Callie had driven over in awe on her first visit. The bridge had finally connected the Eastern Shore to the rest of Maryland in the 1950s and brought an influx of new residents to the long-established fishing and farming towns, as well as a flood of vacationers to the Atlantic beaches. Not surprisingly, this was viewed as a mixed bag by locals, and Callie heard differing opinions on the subject, though the input from her collectible customers tended toward the positive. Keepsake Cove, after all, wouldn’t have sprung up if shoppers hadn’t been able to travel there easily from Baltimore, Washington, and points north and west. The older towns remained picturesque, Callie was told, and she vowed to visit them soon.

  She took a break for lunch and a little “Jagger time” at the cottage, leaving Tabitha in charge. Her assistant had arrived that day looking mod, in a red, long-sleeved, mini-skirted dress and black boots. Less surprised this time, Callie had simply accepted the look without comment. She’d just returned from her break when a man dressed in tan khakis and a green polo walked into the shop. He stopped to study Tabitha.

  “Twiggy?” the man asked.

  “Mr. Harman!” Tabitha tsked. “Don’t you recognize Lieutenant Uhura? From Star Trek?”

  “Uhura!” He slapped his forehead. “I should have known.”

  “I admit I don’t match her look perfectly. After the hair, I didn’t have time to do a lot of makeup.”

  “The impression is definitely there,” he assured her.

  Tabitha smiled and turned to Callie, who’d been privately thinking Uhura? “Callie, this is Jonathan Harman, one of Mel’s long-time customers.”

  “How do you do, Mr. Harman?” Callie asked, stepping forward and holding out her hand. “I’m Callie Reed, Mel’s niece.”

  “Callie inherited House of Melody,” Tabitha informed him.

  “Did you?” Harman said, shaking Callie’s hand. “Let me extend my sincere condolences. I was unable to attend the funeral. But I was truly shocked and sorry to learn of Melodie’s untimely passing.”

  “Thank you,” Callie said. She was gradually getting used to accepting condolences, though they still brought a lump to her throat. Harman’s manner, while obviously sincere, was matter-of-fact enough to allow her to keep her cool, and she appreciated that. She released his hand and stepped back, assessing the tall man. By the moderate crow’s feet and the touch of gray in his hair, she judged him to be in his mid-forties, but a youngish, in-shape forties. “So you collect music boxes?”

  “Passionately,” he said, grinning. “Well, maybe not to that extent. But I’ve always had a thing for them. My grandparents liked them, and I enjoyed visiting their house once a year, where there was always a new music box to look forward to. I suppose they passed on their interest.”

  “It seems to run in my family, too,” Callie said. “Did you inherit their collection?”

  “No,” Harman said, shaking his head. “They fell on tough times while I was still in school—health problems—and sold most of them off before any of us were aware of it.”

  “That’s sad.”

  “It was. But,” he said, brightening, “I’ve been making up for it ever since.”

  “You certainly have,” Tabitha said, tucking in a loose strand of the long hair that she’d somehow managed to twist and pin into a reasonable facsimile of the space ship character’s hairstyle. “Mr. Harman must have bought at least a dozen music boxes from Mel, that I’m aware of anyway.”

  Harman shrugged. “What can I say? It becomes an addiction. Well,” he said briskly, glancing around, “I wish I had time to shop today, but I was passing by and saw you were open. Just thought I’d stop in and say hello. But I’ll be back.” He smiled. “You can count on it.”

  “We’ll look forward to that,” Callie said, walking him to the door.

  Harman suddenly stopped. “Where’s the music box? He was staring at the high shelf behind the counter.

  Callie, puzzled, looked to Tabitha.

  “Oh!” Tabitha said. “You mean the skater?”

  “Yes. Mel always kept it up there.”

  “Why did she do that?” Callie asked, realizing which one they meant. “It was my grandfather’s music box. It wasn’t for sale.”

  “Oh, I know,” Harman said. “Mel told me all about that. She just liked having it on display, didn’t she, Tabitha?”

  Tabitha nodded vigorously enough to have to grab at her hair. “She loved having that box around. She’d bring it down to show if someone asked about it. And she’d wind it up to play for people.”

  “You didn’t sell it, did you?” Harman asked.

  “Oh, no. It’s just as special to me as it was to my aunt. It’s at the cottage.”

  “Why not bring it back here?” Tabitha asked. “It was a good conversation piece. I’m surprised no one else has asked about it.”

  “Maybe I will,” Callie said, thinking that though the mysterious music playing had stopped, she’d found herself listening for it a little too much. Bringing it out of the cottage and into the shop, where she’d be much busier, could put an end to that.

  “Well, I’m off,” Harman said. “Best of luck on your new venture, Miss Reed.”

 
“Not Miss Reed, please. Callie.”

  “Callie, then. And I’m Jonathan.” Harman smiled, lifted a hand to Tabitha, and left.

  “It’s great to see Mel’s customers returning,” Tabitha said after the door had closed. “You two seemed to hit it off,” she teased. “First name basis right away.”

  Callie shook her head. “It’s just because of our mutual interest. He does seem very nice, though. Does he live around here?”

  “Somewhere outside of town, I think. Not too far. He works at home, but I’m a little vague on at what, exactly. Something financial?” Tabitha grinned helplessly.

  “Not that important,” Callie said. Tabitha’s cell phone dinged, which reminded Callie of something that was of more interest to her. After Tabitha dealt with her text message, Callie asked, “Tabitha, do you have any idea why my aunt would keep a second, disposable cell phone around?”

  “Disposable? An old one she never tossed?” When Callie explained about it being charged, Tabitha shrugged. “Maybe as a back-up? In case she lost her iPhone?”

  “Except there’s nothing on it—no contacts, no messages, nothing.”

  “Well, that’s weird. Unless maybe she just got it and hadn’t gotten around to doing anything with it?”

  That wasn’t the case, Callie knew, as the Tracfone email sent two months ago made clear. She decided not to get into that and only asked, “So you never saw her using it?”

  “Uh-uh. But who checks out anyone else’s cell phone?”

  Nieces, Callie thought, who are poking through things that are probably none of their business. She let the matter drop.

  Six

  That evening, as Callie was finishing her dinner, she realized she was starting to feel at home in her new surroundings. It was a good feeling, and she savored it. Then she got a call from Hank. She groaned when she saw his number on the display and briefly debated answering. After two more rings, she picked up.

  “Hey, babe.” Hank’s rich baritone, probably the only thing about him that she still appreciated, rolled out.

  “Hi, Hank.”

  A long pause followed, and Callie wondered what Hank was waiting for. A rush of gratitude over his call? A confession of having finally come to her senses? She let the silence run on until he finally broke it.

  “Been missing you.”

  “How’ve you been, Hank?” she asked, politely rather than solicitously. He seemed not to have noticed, as she heard a deep sigh.

  “It’s been rough.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Was there a reason you called, Hank?”

  “Just … wanted to hear your voice. You okay?”

  “I’m fine. By the way, I’ve arranged for a company to pack up my things and transport them here.”

  “You’re letting strangers pack up your stuff?”

  “Saves me a trip back. I’m pretty tied up here, what with all the things I’m trying to learn about the shop.”

  “So you’re really keeping it? The shop?”

  “Yes, Hank. As I told you.”

  “Yeah, but … I figured you’d change your mind. I mean, a music box shop? What’re you going to get out of running something like that?”

  Callie didn’t like the put-down in his tone. She could have, in turn, pointed out the increasingly seedy places he’d been performing in lately, along with his steadily decreasing income, but she rose above it.

  “I like the shop,” she said simply and changed the subject. “I’m not having any of my furniture sent on. You can have whatever you want before Goodwill picks it up.” It wasn’t much of an endowment, she knew, since most of the things she’d acquired over the years were a mishmash of secondhand and cheap.

  “So you’re really staying there?”

  “I am.” There was another long silence. Callie, losing patience, broke that one. “Hank, it’ll be fine. This will be a good move for both of us.”

  “I don’t see how it’s any good for me. I’m hurtin’, baby!”

  He was beginning to sound far too much like one of his Country-Western lyrics. To forestall any breakout into song, Callie asked, “Got any new gigs lined up?”

  “One or two. Still waitin’ to hear about the county fair, one.”

  “Hope it works out. Well, I’ve got to go, Hank. Take care.”

  “So you don’t want the TV?” Hank hurriedly asked.

  Callie hadn’t even thought about the big screen TV she’d been talked into putting on her credit card some months ago, until I get a little cash from my next gig. She hadn’t held her breath on that and had always considered the thing a tacky eyesore. Hank, however, loved watching his games on it.

  “It’s all yours, Hank. Enjoy,” she said and hung up, fairly sure that holding on to his beloved TV would significantly soothe whatever “hurtin’ ” Hank might really be going through.

  Callie spared perhaps twenty more seconds thinking about him before putting it behind her. With her personal items heading to Keepsake Cove soon, she knew she had some work to do. She’d been living out of her suitcase since taking over the cottage, treating the place as a museum of sorts for Aunt Melodie and not moving a thing. But it was time to be practical and start packing up her aunt’s clothes.

  The more Callie thought about it, though, the more daunting the project became. Aware that she needed a push, she picked up her phone.

  “Delia, remember that offer to help if I needed it?” Callie barely spoke ten more words of explanation before Delia said she’d be right over.

  When Callie welcomed her in, Delia had several cardboard boxes in tow. “Luckily I had a few deliveries to the shop today. I thought we could sort Mel’s things into what you’d like to keep, what to donate or toss, and what to think about a little.”

  “How about a fourth category?” Callie suggested. “Things you might like to have.”

  “That’s very sweet, Callie,” Delia said. “We’ll see.”

  They got busy in the upstairs bedroom, pulling out items from the closet and laying them on the bed. Aunt Mel had been taller than Callie and slimmer than Delia, so dresses and skirts went immediately into a donation box. Callie kept a few blouses that were particularly nice and could be tucked in or have their sleeves rolled to fit. Shoes went into the charity boxes.

  When they came to purses and scarves, the sorting slowed.

  “I remember Mel buying this at a craft fair in Baltimore,” Delia said, holding up a colorfully embroidered bag.

  From the look on her face, Callie could see that it brought fond memories. “Please keep it,” she said. She did the same with several scarves that were definitely Delia’s color, and her neighbor accepted them with minimal protest. They attacked the dresser drawers, then the closet in the second bedroom, and within an amazingly short amount of time—at least to Callie, who’d feared a days-long project—all had been cleared.

  “Well!” Callie said, standing up and rubbing her hands after closing the flaps on the last box. “We’ve accomplished a lot! There’s some very nice items to be donated and not all that much to be tossed. Aunt Mel must have been really organized, never letting things pile up.”

  “‘Something in, something out’ was her motto,” Delia said. “It helped that the closet space in these cottages is so limited.”

  “I hope it’ll help me,” Callie said, knowing she’d have to pare down her own wardrobe to essentials unless she wanted to rent storage space somewhere.

  Delia helped her lug the boxes meant for charity downstairs and recommended places in the area that Callie might consider. She declined an offer of coffee, saying it was getting late, and headed to the door.

  “Thanks for these, Callie,” she said, holding up the items she was taking with her, obviously touched. “It’s nice to have something of Mel’s, something tangible.”

  “I’m sure she’d want you to have
them,” Callie said, holding the door for her. She heard a muffled trill come from inside the roll-top desk where Grandpa Reed’s music box was still locked up. Delia heard it too, and she glanced around the room, looking for the source.

  To head off questions she couldn’t answer, Callie quickly thanked Delia for her help. “I couldn’t have done it without you,” she insisted, to which Delia laughingly answered, “Pshaw!” and wished Callie a good night.

  As Callie closed the door, she turned in the direction of the corner desk. “That does it. You’re going to the shop, which is apparently your proper place. At least if you start playing there, you’ll be simply one of dozens of other music boxes, and it won’t be so unnerving.” She unlocked the desk, pulled out the square wooden box, and marched it across the way to House of Melody. There, she set the music box on its shelf behind the counter, stepped back, and waited. Hearing nothing beyond her own breathing, she turned and went back to her cottage.

  •

  Later that night, wrapped cozily in her terry-cloth robe after a relaxing shower, Callie fixed a mug of cocoa and plopped on the sofa. Jagger immediately jumped onto her lap, and she stroked him idly as she sipped, enjoying the quiet time. As she stared absently toward the small coat closet, she said aloud, “We forgot about that one.” Jagger’s ear twitched.

  “I’ll ask Delia for another box in the morning. It shouldn’t take me long to fold up the things in there.” She imagined herself doing so during her lunch break, and tried to remember exactly what was stored inside. She’d glanced into the closet only once, not having needed a jacket on the warm days she’d been in Keepsake Cove.

  Curious, she set down her mug, eased a reluctant Jagger onto the adjacent cushion, and went over to open the closet door. Two coats—a black wool and a tan, lightweight trench—along with jackets for winter and spring hung there, nearly filling the narrow space. A couple of empty hangers waited for visitors’ coats. The shelf above held a tidy assortment of knit hats, scarves, and gloves.