Ruthie shook her head. She leaned forward with her elbows on her knees, looking out into the field, one age-spotted hand holding her wine. “Sophie never married and didn’t have any kids. Everything would have gone to her brother, but he and his wife died in a car crash about a month before Sophie herself passed away. Terrible. Her nephew got everything. The whole kit and caboodle.”
Jasper came over to me now, panting, his ribs heaving, mouth open in a wide grin. He hadn’t stopped running for a second since we arrived at the park.
I ruffled the fur on his ears. “Hey, boy. Did you have a good time with all those other dogs?” I made a mental note to bring a bottle of water and a dish for him next time.
Ruthie smacked her lips after draining the last of her wine. “There was a stepdaughter, too, but no one really knew her. Strange girl. Took off after her parents were killed. Supposably to join the Peace Corps. But no one has heard from her since.”
“What did Sophie die of?” I asked.
“Overdose of insulin. Diabetic.” Ruthie shook the last drops out of her plastic glass and tossed it in the backpack. “Accident or suicide, who knows, but she was real tore up by the loss of her brother. Some say it’s the grief that killed her.”
Ruthie mumbled that it was time for her to go and I helped her fold the blanket and put everything away. She gave me a little wave and staggered off toward the gate. Even the dog stumbled.
I watched them for a minute to make sure she wasn’t going to get into a car, but a couple of minutes later, she trudged up the driveway of an old stone Colonial not far from the park entrance.
• • •
I opened up Sometimes a Great Notion early on Monday morning. According to Laura, last Friday had been an unusually busy day, and I’d need to replenish some of the displays. I slipped a Pink Martini CD into the sound system and started the essential pot of coffee.
For a few moments, I leaned on the ten-drawer seed counter, manufactured by the Walker Bin Company, breathing in the store’s familiar smell of furniture polish and soothing lavender, and perhaps a hint of wash day from the crisp linens and well-laundered tablecloths and aprons.
The counter had glass-fronted loading bins that housed all manner of sewing notions, ribbons, and hair accessories. Thanks to my recent assistance with a criminal investigation, it now had a nice bullet hole in the front of it.
To my way of thinking, it only enhanced the value. People loved it when a particular item had a story attached. And provenance was key. Not that I would ever sell this prized possession.
Alice, the mannequin in the corner, also had a bullet hole. Right through her left breast. One that was meant for me.
It was carefully covered now with a Bob Mackie–Ray Aghayan dress, a psychedelic, slinky full-length number in a black, white, rose, and orange design of stripes and flowers that came up to her neck in a V-shape, but left her beautiful shoulders and collarbone bare.
I shook off the wisps of bad memories like so many cobwebs with a feather duster and hurried upstairs to fetch a couple of boxes. The main shop was situated in what used to be the front parlor and living room, but thanks to Joe and our friend Angus, the walls between had been opened up to make one space. The dining room served as an office and prep area, and there was a kitchen and powder room in the back.
From one of the boxes I unearthed a stash of Ocean Pearl buttons, still on their original cards. I lingered over a Lady Prim needle book from “Old New York” with a green, gold, and rust design of city buildings.
Next were some exquisitely embroidered linen napkins and a vintage tea towel that I was tempted to keep for myself. I trailed my fingers across its hand-stitched wicker basket of strawberries and wildflowers, but I’d learned early on that I needed to let go of these treasures. I was only their caretaker for a short time.