The Shop of Shades and Secrets (Modern Gothic Romance 1) (18 page)

There had been no more unexplained lights, no more cool breezes…everything seemed completely normal.

Dylan nodded in response to her comment. “Yes, it was nice to spend time pricing some of that inventory in the back and upstairs. Listen, Fiona, do you mind if I take off now? My headache is raging, and all I want to do is lie down and take some aspirin. I don’t mean to leave you in the lurch or anything, but do you mind if I go?”

“No, not at all,” Fiona said breezily, although a wave of panic washed over her. She quashed it firmly. What was wrong with her? She was too afraid to be alone in her own store? “Go ahead,” she said defiantly, in case anyone—or anything—was around to hear.

He looked at her strangely. “Are you all right? Is something wrong?”

“No, no,” she said hastily, her cheeks warming. “Please, go ahead on home. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

As Dylan left, Fiona realized that she
had
been alone in her shop since he’d started working for her. Not for long, and not at night as now, but she had been alone. That made her feel better, and after Dylan left, she hummed to herself as she cleaned up for the night.

She was sweeping along the back of the hall when she looked down in the place where that large walnut secretary had been sitting and noticed something yellow on the floor. As she crouched to pick it up, a breeze—icy cold—zinged across her cheek and over the nape of her neck.

Fiona tried to spin while on her haunches—as though there would be something behind her to see, even though she knew there wasn’t—and she tipped into the wall. The chill air stilled, but the temperature still felt low, and Fiona swallowed hard. Her heart raced madly, and her stomach twisted, turning into a big knot as she froze there, waiting, suddenly smelling roses.

Nothing happened.

After a long moment, she started to pull to her feet when she noticed the yellow object again. Now she was close enough to see that it was a feather—dusty, old and mangled, but a feather nevertheless. It looked as though it was stuck under the wall. Fiona reached to pull it out, but it wouldn’t come.

She frowned and, looking at the feather protruding from under the wall, Fiona began to stand, wondering how it had come to be there and why it wouldn’t come out. A sudden moaning breeze whistled through the shop, and one of the crystal chandeliers began to vibrate. The tinkling, rocking of the ice-like obelisks was at first gentle…then became more insistent, almost as though someone was violently shaking its suspension chain.

Fiona stilled, turning to ice, her stomach wringing inside her. The fringe on one of the lamps ruffled with the gasp of air, and she closed her eyes, terror seeping through her numb body as the chandelier jumped and clinked with  more urgency.

What is it?

Fiona looked at the feather, which was just in front of her face, and noticed—through her panic—that there was a space between the wall and the floor, and that the wall was more uneven than the rest of the shop. Prickles marched along her spine as she pulled into a sitting position and stared at the wall, wondering….

“Is there something behind there?” She spoke aloud to be certain she was heard.

Abruptly, the wind stopped. The chandelier quieted. All was still.

When nothing happened—no more breezes or moans—Fiona rapped firmly on the wall. She wasn’t sure if it made a hollow sound or not.

She sat back on her haunches and looked up—not quite brave enough to try and stand again. Her heart rate had slowed, but her stomach still felt as though it was on a roller coaster. Her gaze followed the line of the wall, and she realized for the first time that the partition could have been added to enclose the area under the staircase…that same staircase that felt so cold and forbidding on her first day in the shop. It couldn’t be some sort of closet, for there was no door—nor was there any other way to access the area in the shop.

“What was he trying to hide?” She tried that idea aloud to see if there would be any response from…whatever it was that made the cool breeze come.

Out of the corner of her eye, Fiona caught a movement behind her, and, stifling a shriek, she twisted around.

Gretchen, the cat, landed softly on the floor next to her and looked at her eyes that were very green, meowed, then rubbed her head along Fiona’s arm. Swallowing the heart that had leapt into her throat, she stared down at the introverted feline.

This was the first time the cat had made an overture toward her—usually, Gretchen stayed far out of everyone’s way. Her favorite perch was on the top of the stair railing that led to the small, dusty loft above. There she sat most days, her tail dangling, its end flicking as though disgruntled with the world.

“You like that idea, do you?” Fiona asked, reaching slowly to scratch Gretchen’s soft grey head. She felt more relaxed now—the cat was not reacting as though there was any sort of supernatural presence.

But she could hardly deny that there was
something
going on in this shop.

She looked back at the wall in front of her and thought that perhaps she had indeed stumbled upon something curious.

She gingerly pulled to her feet, ready to duck if something rushed toward her again, and walked, half-stooped, down the hall to the back room of the shop. Perhaps there was some tool she could use to get through the wall.

But in the back, Fiona only found a broom and a toolbox with hammers, screwdrivers, and wrenches much too small to be of any use.

She spoke to the room at large, just to let…whatever it was…know that she would follow through on this odd situation.

“Tomorrow I’ll bring a crowbar or something and get Dylan to help me pry that plywood away,” she said, hastily reaching for her keys and purse as she sidled toward the back door, just in case the…entity…was of an impatient nature. “And I’ll see what it is old Valente had to hide.”

~*~

Fiona  had no help from Dylan the next day—for he’d called, explaining that he had the unexpected chance to meet with an historian from Williamsburg about a topic in his dissertation. Her head began to swim when he went on to describe the details—something to do with the way the floorboards in Colonial homes were laid compared to those in England—and Fiona cut him off and told him not to worry about it.

But much as she wanted to, she wouldn’t wait for his return. Despite her nervousness, she was dying to know what was behind that wall…and aside from that, she felt as if she’d made a promise to whoever or whatever was in the shop.

Fiona locked the front door of the store so that any arriving customer wouldn’t surprise her, then she hurried back to the little alcove under the stairs.

Hefting the crowbar, she glanced around to see Gretchen watching her avidly from a step halfway down the stairs. The green eyes stared at her, and the cat looked interested, rather than sleepy or miffed as she usually did.

“Well, I hope I’m not about to make a fool out of myself over nothing,” Fiona murmured, shoving one end of the crowbar under the bottom of the wall.

She heaved and immediately felt the flimsy wood give. She heaved again and it cracked, splintering along near the floor. She found the seam between two thin pieces of plywood and shoved the crowbar between them. They came apart easily, splitting along under the thick paint job that hid the woodwork.

By the time she pulled a good chunk of plywood away, a dark hole yawned behind it and Fiona felt vindicated. There was some kind of room or storage area behind there, under the stairs, and obviously it contained something with a yellow feather.

Perhaps it was some old clothing—hats or costumes—and she might be able to sell it to a vintage clothing store. Or—she wrinkled her nose against the dust as much as from the thought—the feather could be attached to some victim of a taxidermist.

A rattling at the front door drew her attention from her task, and Fiona whirled around to peer toward the front. Sighing, she pushed a spiral of hair out of her face, tucking it back into the loose twist at the back of her head, and let the crowbar fall onto the floor. Dusting her hands over the jeans she’d chosen to wear today, she hurried to greet the customer at the locked door.

By the time she got to the front, though, no one was there, and she tsked in annoyance at the unnecessary interruption—and the loss of a customer.

She started back toward her project, pausing at the desk to grab a flashlight, and felt her stomach tingling. She couldn’t help but remember those Nancy Drew books she’d read growing up.

The titian-haired sleuth peered into the cavernous darkness, her flashlight beam glancing off the walls. The secret had to be there—the last clue to the Mystery of the Antique Light! Nancy’s pulse quickened when the flashlight illuminated a metal chest in the far corner….

Fiona smirked to herself as she thrust first the flashlight into the hole, followed by her head.

Then she screamed.

~*~

“Mr. Pettigrew, the contract can be revised,” Gideon repeated for the fourth time in fifteen minutes. He was able to keep his voice smooth, but the back of his jaw ached. “It’s not an unusual circumstance at all. It—”

A light tap on his door interrupted him, and, with an apologetic glance at the fussy, skinny man with him, he called, “Yes?”

Claire cracked the door and poked her silvery blond head in. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but Ms. Murphy is here. She says she needs to see you as soon as possible.”

Gideon felt his heart lighten, and he almost smiled. But, then, remembering himself, he kept his face placid. He wasn’t surprised that she’d come crawling back…only that it had taken her a week to do so.

“We don’t have an appointment, do we, Claire? If not, then I’m afraid she’ll have to wait until I’m finished with Mr. Pettigrew—or come back at another time.” It wouldn’t do to give her the impression that she had the ability to get him to drop everything to see her—even though that was precisely what he most wanted to do.

Did he imagine it, or did Claire—his ultra-professional, poker-faced assistant—give him a nasty look? “Mr. Nath, she appears rather…distressed….”

“She always looks that way.” Gideon waved it off with a casual gesture, but he felt a prickle of concern. He expected Claire to take that as a dismissal and to handle Fiona—as she did all of his other situations, but she did not.

“Mr. Nath, I apologize for belaboring this,” she cast a smile at the fidgeting Mr. Pettigrew, “but Ms. Murphy expressed her need to see you immediately…and if you weren’t available, she requested that I see her in to Mr. Nath, Senior.” The woman looked as though she’d actually tossed a trump card onto the table, a slight smugness playing about her face.

Gideon caught himself before he uttered the outraged exclamation that came to his lips. “I see.” Annoyance drew his brows together—she wasn’t there to see him on a personal note—unless she was using his grandfather as a way to get to him. No, Gideon dismissed that thought immediately, Fiona was completely guileless. She wouldn’t do that.

Now concern washed over him, and he stood behind his desk. “Er—well, Claire, I—”

“I can certainly see to Mr. Pettigrew’s last minute items,” she stepped in smoothly. “I believe your meeting was almost over anyway.” She turned the full force of her attractive smile at the man, and Gideon saw the fussiness drain from his countenance to be replaced by a dazed, hungry look.

He nearly snorted, but realized that wouldn’t be a smart thing to do to a client. God help him if he ever got that look on his face in the presence of a woman.

“Yes. Please, if that’s all right with you, Mr. Pettigrew?”

“What? Oh, yes, of course,” he stammered.