The Shop of Shades and Secrets (Modern Gothic Romance 1) (32 page)

She dropped the bundle of dust rags that she’d been carrying and stood there, soundly rubbing the sore spot while moaning in frustration. “For crying out loud!” she groaned, glaring at the monstrosity of the desk on which The Lamp sat. “I should have moved your big butt much earlier instead of letting you block my aisle way.”

The pain ebbed and she stooped to pick up the rags. Just as she stood, she saw a flicker from The Lamp on top of the desk…and saw the fringe on its shade shift and sway as though someone had run a single finger through it.

As always, a prickle of coolness shimmered up her neck, but Fiona felt too annoyed and ornery to even care. Of course, it didn’t help that Gideon had been acting remote and distracted for the last few days, either. He’d been really busy with work, and they hadn’t seen each other since the morning she made blueberry muffins for him. She tried not to worry about it, so for now she focused her irritation on the lamp.

Thus far the ghost—or whatever it was—hadn’t caused her any harm other than a few startles, and she wasn’t about to let it start bothering her now—especially when she was going to have the mother lode of bruises on her thigh.

“What do you want?” she snapped at The Lamp. “I sure wish you’d do something other than flicker at me. If you’re trying to tell me something, why don’t you find some other way to communicate?”

Abruptly, everything went still.

The fringe stopped
in mid-sway
, every light in the shop went black—even the constant hum of the air conditioning ceased as though strangled into silence.

Fiona swallowed and looked above her, half-expecting to see some specter-like apparition hovering overhead—but there was nothing to see except the railing of the balcony above…and Gretchen—sitting in her spot, tail twitching, green eyes gazing coldly down at Fiona.

The room became cooler, and then the stillness began to soften as a faint whisper of rose-scented breeze brushed her cheek.

“What?” she whispered. “What is it? What can I do?”

She looked around, but there was nothing to direct her. Then, as though the spirit gave one last sigh and succumbed to the effort its activity had caused, the breeze disappeared and everything stilled once again.

Fiona remained frozen for a moment, but nothing else happened to stir the air. The lights remained dark and the shop silent. The heavy stillness was punctuated only by the sounds of slamming car doors and voices from out on the street.

She turned toward the back of the shop where the circuit breaker was and took two steps before tripping and stumbling into a heap on the hardwood floor. Even as she swore in an extremely lewd manner, she reached out to touch what had tripped her, and felt something solid protruding from the bottom of the mammoth desk. It was too dark in that small bend of the aisle to see what it was—but one thing was certain: it hadn’t been there when she walked by moments earlier.

A prickle danced up her spine. Ghosts couldn’t actually
move
things, could they?

Taking better care now, in the dark, Fiona pulled herself to her feet and limped toward the back of the shop. Fortunately, sunlight streamed through one of the back windows—the one, in fact, that had been smashed and since replaced when the burglar had broken in—enabling her to find and flip the correct switches in the circuit box.

Since she had by no means been certain that action would work and re-illuminate the shop, she breathed a small sigh of relief when the lights came back on and the air conditioner hummed to life.

Hurrying back toward the center of the store, under the balcony in that small cubbyhole where the desk sat brooding like the fat Scottish guy from Austin Powers, Fiona crouched at the spot where she’d tripped and saw that a small drawer had popped from the bottom of the desk.

“A secret drawer!” she squealed, looking up at Gretchen, who had deigned to descend several steps and now sat next to the desk, watching her with condescension.

She pried the drawer completely out of its slot and was elated to find a manila envelope stuffed inside with what felt like a small book. Just as she was tearing the paper to open it, the bells jingled as the front door opened.

Fiona shot to her feet, narrowly missing the lethal desk corner, and hurried out to greet her customer.

“Fiona!” greeted Iva as she started toward her, arms outstretched for an embrace. “I hope you don’t mind that I’m a little early. I wanted to browse a bit before we left for lunch.”

“No problem. You look marvy!” Fiona hugged the soft, sweet-smelling woman as a wash of grief for her own grandmother came over her. But she was too keyed up by her discovery to dwell on that thought.

“I just found a secret drawer in that big old desk,” she told her, knowing that the older woman would appreciate the story of her ghostly direction. They had talked about the odd happenings in the shop several times—out of the hearing of Gideon Senior and his grandson, of course.

Iva clapped her hands together, a little drawstring bag dangling from her wrist, and demanded to see the drawer at once. “What’s in it?”

Fiona produced the manila envelope, tearing it open as she spoke. “I banged myself on the desk and yelled at the ghost—and then the lights went out and this drawer popped open.” The envelope tore and its contents spilled onto the floor. She and Iva stooped, nearly bumping heads, to gather up the sheaf of papers.

Just then, a loud slam from the back of the shop had both their heads popping up.

“That’s just Dylan,” Fiona explained. “Now that he’s here, we can leave whenever you like.”

The older woman dimpled at her, and glanced at the manila folder that Fiona still held. “I think we should leave right away.”

Fiona smiled back, glad she’d read her mind. “Hi, Dyl,” she greeted the tall, blonde man when he appeared. “Iva and I are going to lunch.”

Brandishing his lambs wool duster, he looked like a feminine dream come true, with his handsome face, startling blue eyes, and the obvious intent of doing housekeeping. “Hi Fiona. What’s wrong with that desk back there?”

~*~

The manila envelope contained clues that would make Nancy Drew green with envy.

The two ladies had the contents of the mysterious envelope spread out on the table before the server brought their water.

Since it was one of her favorite cafes, Iva didn’t even need to look at the menu. She ordered while scrounging through a sheaf of papers that were covered with spindly writing that had faded so much it was illegible.

Fiona, too engrossed with some yellowed newspaper clippings, merely waved her hand and said, “Soup and bread, and herbal iced tea. You pick. No meat.” And then, as an after-thought, she added, “Some kind of muffin too, please.”

Smoothing down the curling corners of a newspaper article that had been shoved in an envelope with some kind of letter, Fiona began to read—then stopped cold. “Iva!” she whispered, prickles erupting over her nape. “Listen to this! ‘Woman’s Disappearance Still Unsolved.’ ‘Police still have no leads in the disappearance of Miss Gretchen Freudenhofer, 24, a recent immigrant from Berlin, Germany. Friends with whom she was staying reported her missing after she did not return from a shopping trip on August 25. The woman was last seen disembarking from a bus near Locust and South Street. If anyone has any further information on this woman’s whereabouts, they should report to the 153rd Precinct Office.’”

She raised her eyes to look across the table. “It’s dated August 31, 1948.”

“What were the initials on that bracelet?” Iva asked, her sharp blue eyes gleaming with interest.

“G…J…F!” Fiona smacked her hand on the table next to the teacup that had appeared without her notice. Hot tea sloshed onto her hand, splattering onto the carrot muffin she’d thus far ignored. “Gretchen! Our skeleton is Gretchen!”

The people at the next table turned overtly to look at her, and, giddy with her discovery, Fiona waved the small clipping at them. “We just figured it out!”

Then, suddenly, reality slammed into her. “If the skeleton is Gretchen, then….”

Iva was nodding sagely. “Yes, it would seem that your Mr. Valente knew about her…or possibly—quite probably—had something to do with her appearing in that store room.”

Unease flourished in her stomach. Could the old man have been a murderer? “Maybe…maybe something happened and she died in his shop, and he was too afraid to call the authorities, so he hid her body. Or…someone else could have killed her and forced him to hide the body, or even hid it there without him knowing….” Her voice trailed off as she realized she was defending a man she barely knew—and who could very well have been a murderer.

“Let me see. Is there a picture of Gretchen?” Iva reached across the table, her silver and sapphire charm bracelet jingling merrily.

She handed her the curling paper then broke off a piece of her muffin. Iva looked down and then back up at her. “Fiona, did you look at this picture?”

“Yes. Of course,” she replied, popping a small piece of muffin in her mouth.

Iva looked at her as if expecting her to say more. “Well, didn’t you notice, my dear? You are the spitting image of Gretchen.”

Fiona was astonished. “What?” She took the paper back and looked at the grainy photo. There was a resemblance. How had she missed that? And…how could she have forgotten? “That’s what Valente said in his letter! That I reminded him of Gretchen. And so that’s why he left me the shop. Guilt, maybe?”

“Stranger things have happened,” Iva told her, her face grave. “Being married to a male senior citizen, I’m constantly surprised at the way his mind works.” She took a sip of bergamot-scented Earl Grey. “What else is in that envelope?” She pulled out a piece of paper folded in thirds.

When Iva unfolded it, Fiona could see the impressions of a typewriter’s keys through the thin paper—the small dots where the sentences ended, an A and an F and other black marks as well.

As Iva read aloud, Fiona’s heart pumped faster.

“‘Hadn’t you better report to the 153rd Precinct, Mr. Valente? If not, you will leave $50,000 in unmarked bills in a plain paper-wrapped package under the stairwell on the third floor of 1473 Broad Street. Tomorrow, by 3:00. Come alone, or I’ll be contacting the precinct for you.’”

There was no need for either woman to speak when Iva was done reading. They just gaped at each other, unmoving, as the waiter set bowls of steaming soup in front of them.

Then Iva looked at the letter again. “The date on this letter is only fifteen years ago.” Puzzlement washed over her face. “Why drag up something like this so many years later?”

Fiona spread a good hunk of butter over her bread, the smell of the food having reminded her how hungry she was. Shaking her head, she replied, “Why indeed? Maybe they just found out about it?”

“Could be. What else is over there? Maybe we’ll have some other clues there.”

“Here’s another envelope—very similar.” Iva didn’t seem to be interested in eating. She pulled out another letter with a very small scrap of newspaper just large enough to depict a very old, yellow photo of a man with his name imprinted under it. “Josef Kremer.” Iva said his name aloud, pursing her lips. “That’s familiar to me, though I don’t know why. Josef Kremer. Hmmm…seems like I should know who that is.”

“What does the letter say?” Fiona asked, reaching to take the paper clipping. He was a young man, not bad looking, with a thin, Hitler-like moustache and heavy brows. The photo was of terrible quality, and that in combination with its age, left much to be desired in the way of details.

“‘Another missing person, Mr. Valente? Tsk, tsk. I’ll look for another package of $50,000 as always. Tomorrow. By 3 pm.’” Iva looked up. “Dated almost a year later than the other one.”