Murder on the House: A Haunted Home Renovation Mystery (Haunted Home Repair Mystery) (34 page)

“Opals aren’t necessarily bad luck,” I said to the girls, unable to contain myself. I’m no gemologist, but opals are a very special kind of stone . . . and I hated for people to misinterpret old legends. “They’re almost alive, and like any living thing they need proper care and respect.”

Both girls’ attention was diverted as a buff young man ducked through the massive blue curtains that cut off the show floor from the staging area. He was tall, large, and extremely fit, with short blond hair, a prominent nose, and light ice-blue eyes.

Impressive biceps bulged as he carried what appeared to be heavy cardboard boxes, one under each arm.
“Wo?”
he asked Griselda.

She gestured to a spot on the floor next to the half-unpacked one.

He grunted with the effort of setting down his burden.

“
Danke
, Johannes.” She then asked him to bring in the rest of the boxes, as it was the last day of the faire. My German vocabulary consists of all of ten words, but I caught the gist of what they were saying.

The girls fell silent, shy and smiling in the presence of the handsome young man. He nodded in their direction and said something else in German to Griselda, who waved him off.

“You two lookin’ for something special?” It wasn’t as though there were hordes of customers pushing their way to the front, but some merchants hold a special disdain for browsers.

“I’m looking for a tiara for my sister,” repeated Marisela. “It’s her
quinceañera
. But mom doesn’t want to buy a brand-new one; she wants an old one that looks like the one passed down through the family. It was stolen.”

“How about a nice pendant?” suggested Griselda, holding out a shallow tray filled with a mishmash of tangled chains and medallions. “I got plenty with no opals. Or what about a ring?”

“It has to be a
tiara
, for a
quinceañera
.”

“Don’t even know what that is.”

“You don’t? Seriously?” asked Marisela. “It’s, like, an awesome party when a girl turns
quince
, or fifteen. I had mine last year. It was awesome.”

Akin to a “sweet sixteen” birthday,
quinceañeras
are a rite of passage common in many Latino cultures, a celebration of a girl becoming a woman.

“I have a couple of tiaras at my store,” I said to the girls, handing them each a business card. “They might be rather poor replacements for a family heirloom, but they’re pretty, and definitely not brand-new.”

Marisela studied the business card I handed her.

“Vintage clothes? Cool. Hey, do you have any formal dresses that would work for a
quinceañera
? I still haven’t found exactly the right thing yet, and it’s, like, a week away.”

“I do, yes.” I smiled, thinking of the scads of taffeta, netting, and silks and satins hanging from the racks at Aunt Cora’s Closet.

“Cool. Maybe we’ll come check it out if we don’t find what we need here.”

“I look forward to it.”

“Those rings look good on you,” Griselda said to Shawnelle. “You have nice hands for rings. Men like that.”

“I like this one,” said Shawnelle, looking down at a large turquoise piece that sat in a setting of tarnished, worked silver. “But . . . I guess I should save my money.”

Griselda snorted and, once again sensing she wasn’t going to make a sale, turned her attention back to her unpacking.

Now that the object of their admiration had ducked back behind the blue curtains, the girls’ enthusiasm had waned. They wandered off.

“Could I see the opal medallion, please?” I asked.

Griselda looked up from her unpacking, a decidedly skeptical look in her kohl-lined eyes. Though thousands of people mobbed the aisles, we were, for all intents and purposes, alone here in the corner.

She straightened, picked up the piece, and laid it in my outstretched palm.

I cupped the medallion in both hands, sharing my warmth with it. And feeling . . . not much. I really was at a loss when it came to most jewelry. But opals held water within their depths, which was one reason they were so fragile. I wasn’t kidding when I said they were alive. There was a slight, tiny shimmer . . . like when I tried to scry by looking into my crystal ball. Almost . . . but not quite.

“You have some lovely items here. At my shop, Aunt Cora’s Closet, I specialize in vintage clothing, primarily for women. I’m here hoping to score some nice vintage stuff. But your prices . . .”

“What’s wrong with ’em?”

“I was just wondering whether you might consider a wholesale rate—”

“This
is
wholesale.”

“Maybe a bulk rate?”

She smiled again. “You’re a bargainer, huh? Tell you what, you come back later today, once the hungry crowds have been through, and maybe I’ll make you a deal.”

I handed her my card. She returned the favor and passed me a bright purple, shiny one with sparkles.

“Hey, you’re on Haight Street?” she asked, perusing me again. “I’m staying at a bed-and-breakfast right over there.”

Just then Johannes returned with another two boxes, one under each brawny arm. One was decidedly beaten up, and
Mull
had been written on it in black magic marker.

“Why do you bring this one?” Griselda chastised him. “It’s junk—says so right there on the side.”

“You want I put it back?”

“
Dummer Junge
 . . .
Ja
, put it—” Griselda stopped midanswer and appeared to reconsider. She looked at me out of the corner of her eye. “Unless you’d like to buy it. Give you a good price. You say you’re looking for inexpensive items for your shop. There are some good pieces here.”

Johannes still held the box, tilting it toward me. Griselda opened one of the top flaps so I could peek in to see the contents: a heap of tangled chains and medallions, rings, and beads. When I reached out to touch, she yanked it back out of reach.

“Fifty dollars for the whole thing, so I don’t have to take it home.”

“Thirty.”

She frowned at me. “Forty, and I’ll throw in the piece you were just looking at, with the opal. I think it likes you.”

I smiled in return and peeled off two twenties.

Griselda quickly snatched the bills, gesturing to Johannes to hand me the box. It was heavy. Luckily the muscles in my arms and back were toned from the hours I spent washing vintage clothing—nothing like hand washing and twisting and hanging wet clothing to develop a little upper body strength.

Still, though I was sure I could make it out to the car with my burden, I didn’t feel like walking around the Gem Faire with it. I considered asking Griselda if I could leave it with her, but her attention had already been diverted by a group of older women who were poking through her collection of antique school rings.

Sale completed, she had no more use for me.

I glanced down at my watch; I was supposed to meet Bronwyn and Maya at the refreshment stand in half an hour anyway.

I was anxious to paw through the contents of my mystery box. As likely as not, it was a bunch of plastic junk not worth five dollars, much less forty. But I slipped my new medallion around my neck, looked into the bright depths of the blue-green opal, and figured it was a good enough deal.

Might as well go grab a cup of coffee and take a gander at what I had.

As I made my way down the aisle, I could hear Griselda saying to the women: “Those are gen-u-ine sweetheart rings, all of ’em given to their girlies when the boys went off to war. . . .”

I had to smile; I imagined Griselda had a dozen romantic tales to tell for every piece in her possession. What a character.

Also by Juliet Blackwell

HAUNTED HOME RENOVATION MYSTERIES

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Dead Bolt

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A Cast-off Coven

Hexes and Hemlines

In a Witch’s Wardrobe