“You’re finally going to spring for an alarm?” Martha said as she gathered up the dessert plates.
Eleanor smirked. “Yeah, won’t moths fly out when you open your wallet?”
I slung my pocket book over my shoulder and made a face at her. “Isn’t it time you opened your store?”
She shrugged. “Suppose so.”
“Oh, one more thing, Laura, before I forget. Again.” I went behind the counter to grab a box of odd lot jewelry that I’d bought for eight dollars. Apart from a few items I’d taken out to sell, the rest was mostly junk, like broken necklace chains, one earring missing a mate, and brooches without the back clasp.
“Here you go. Work your magic on these.”
“Thanks so much, Daisy.”
As I reached for my keys, we bumped into each other and the contents of the box spilled onto the floor. I still wasn’t used to having to maneuver around someone else behind the counter. Laura apologized profusely, her pale face flushed under her freckles, as she picked everything up.
Martha and Eleanor were busy fixing another pot of coffee.
Nothing like leaving the kids home alone.
I said a prayer for the well-being of my business and walked back to the house. I grabbed the large box containing the beaten-up dollhouse and put it in my Subaru station wagon.
When I got to the end of Main Street, I crossed over the intersection with Grist Mill Road and drove down the dead-end road that led to the salvage yard. The fence surrounding the property was overgrown with weeds and vines, and dotted with rose of Sharon flowers and shiny tendrils of poison ivy.
I parked the car as far inside the enclosure as I could before the piles of rusty junk blocked my way. Among chrome shower doors, radiators, and barbecue grills, I spotted an old carnival wheel with most of its colored paint missing. The kind that you grab the pegs and spin to take a chance. I picked my way through, carrying the cardboard box.
Past a pink octagonal pedestal sink, a portion of ornamental iron fencing, and a copper weather vane in the shape of a horse, a four-by-six-foot Coca-Cola porcelain sign was propped up against the side of the trailer.
The door banged open and Cyril Mackey stood there on the stoop. His hair was straggly and he wore a white T-shirt and gray sweatpants. “Hell’s fire! Can’t a person eat his jam and toast in peace of a mornin’ wi’out someone mithering him?”
“Jeez, Cyril, seems like you’re a bit down in the dumps today.” I grinned at him. “Cheer up. I’ve brought you an interesting conundrum.”
He snatched the box from me, still grumbling, and marched back inside. I followed him into the sunlit kitchen. He acted like a rabid dog, but I’d felt his bark and bite before and survived. Cyril was originally from Yorkshire, England, and had followed a twisting journey over the years through the coal mines and junkyards of Western Pennsylvania to end up here, getting more ornery by the mile.
He’d obviously been working on the day’s crossword puzzle in the newspaper, but quickly shoved it aside.
“Need any help with that last clue?” I inquired politely.
“No, ah bloody don’t!”
I sat down at the spotlessly clean breakfast table and told him the story about Harriet and the intruder. “Look at this dollhouse, Cyril. It needed a little work before, but it’s all messed up now.” I blew out a long sigh. “And I so wanted to give it to Claire for her birthday.”
“Don’t get yer knickers in a twist,” he muttered. “We’ll make it right as rain.”