Chapter One
In my twenties, I fell madly in love with an electric blue pair of Manolo Blahniks in Bloomingdale’s front window. In my thirties, I lusted after bare-chested runners with washboard stomachs and golden biceps sweating in Central Park. In my forties, all I really yearned for was a day off with a good book.
Now in my late fifties, I’ve finally discovered my true passion in life. It’s for my store, a haven of all kinds of sewing notions and antiques named Sometimes a Great Notion. What can I say? I’ve always had a thing for Paul Newman, too.
My heart was currently thumping in anticipation of acquiring an antique dollhouse I’d spotted in the pre-bidding walk-through prior to the auction in Sheepville tonight. My dear husband, Joe, the recipient of some of that aforementioned lust over the years, was driving in his usual careful, and in my opinion, rather pedantic manner.
“Step on it, Joe, or we’ll never get there!”
“Easy, Daisy. We’ll make it in plenty of time.”
I leaned out of the window of our Subaru station wagon into the balmy June evening air, willing the last mile of country road to pass by as quickly as possible.
Not only had the dollhouse caught my eye, but there was a beautiful Singer Featherweight up for bid, a small vintage sewing machine prized by quilters. Either one would look wonderful in the window of the shop. There were plenty of other treasures to be had, too—tins of Bakelite buttons, several boxes of musty, but restorable tablecloths, glass doorknobs salvaged from century-old buildings, and some wooden darning eggs.
Gravel crunched under the car’s tires as we pulled into the parking lot at twenty minutes to seven. Plenty of time to register and get my bidder’s number before the evening’s events started. As usual, Joe was right.
Angus Backstead, the auctioneer, and his wife lived in a pristine white stucco three-story farmhouse across from the auction building. A Pennsylvania Dutch hex sign featuring a circle of blue and red flowers and sheaves of wheat adorned the front of the house. Baskets of overflowing pink and white impatiens hanging on the powder blue painted porch swung gently in the breeze.
A good crowd had already gathered. It would be a humdinger of an auction tonight.
I loved the auction. It was almost like going to the theater—the drama, the tragedy, and sometimes the comedy, like when Sally McIntire forgot she left her red string bikini underwear in the drawer of a nightstand she’d consigned, and the winning bidder, inspecting his purchase, held it aloft for everyone to see.
I hopped out of the car before it had barely stopped moving. I spotted my good friend, Martha Bristol, as well as several of the other regulars. Various pieces of farm equipment, miscellaneous furniture, and box lots sat on the tarmac, ready to be auctioned off first before we went inside.
But what were all the police cars doing here?
The door to the low-slung building opened, and I gasped as I saw Angus being led out in handcuffs. His face, normally ruddy from a lifetime of outdoor labor and his beloved Irish whiskey, was deathly pale. He spotted Joe and me standing at the edge of the crowd.
“I didn’t do it!” he cried as a policeman maneuvered him into a car. A little too forcefully, as Angus banged his snowy white head on the top of the door frame.
“Hey! Be careful with him,” I shouted. The door slammed shut as Angus cried out to us one last time. “Help me, Daisy!”
But it was too late. The cruiser was already pulling away.
Joe laid a steadying hand on my arm. It was always that way between us. Joe, calm and solid as a rock, and me, impulsive and quick to react.
“What the hell’s going on?” I demanded as Martha sailed up to us. She was an imposing sight in a purple, green, and yellow floral summer dress, belted tightly under her large bosom. Her long legs looked even longer in strappy yellow sandals, and her glorious mane of red hair was bundled up into a precarious knot. Kind of like a vintage Barbie on steroids. Martha was my age, but she wasn’t leaving her youth behind without a fight.
“Jimmy Kratz was found bludgeoned to death in the barn behind his house this morning,” she announced.
“What?”
Jimmy was one of the auction regulars, too. He owned a company called CleanUp and CloseOut. When people needed their basements cleaned out, or even a whole house, they called Jimmy. Some of it was pure trash, some of it he used himself, and some of the scrap metal he took to the local salvage yard. And some of the better stuff he sold at auction and scratched out a living that way.
“Well, why on earth do they think Angus had anything to do with it?” I asked.
“Jimmy stole a collection of fancy fountain pens that were due to be sold tonight. They’re saying they were worth tens of thousands of dollars.”