The main shop was situated in what used to be the front parlor and living room, but the walls had been opened up between to make one space. I used the dining room as an office and prep area, and there was a kitchen and powder room in the back.
I walked in, turned on the stereo, and soon the sounds of 1940s jazz music wafted through the air.
An antique Mennonite star quilt hung on one wall with handwrought iron clamps, and on the facing wall were black and white photographs of Main Street from a hundred years ago, when the road was nothing but dirt. Actually, Millbury didn’t look a whole lot different today.
The huge ten-drawer seed counter, manufactured by the Walker Bin Company, was one of my most prized possessions. It had glass-fronted loading bins that pulled down and housed spools of unused French ribbons from the 1920s, a stack of Simplicity and McCall sewing patterns, piles of braided trim, and a collection of tortoiseshell hair combs.
I breathed in the faint familiar scent of lavender and furniture polish as I wandered through the store, gently arranging things.
A Welsh dresser stood with its drawers partially open, displaying vintage fabric remnants, unfinished quilt tops, and dresser scarves. In the center of the room, a collection of wooden crates stacked together were laden with other great finds, including a bolt of Irish linen dress fabric, still with the original label, a feed sack patchwork coverlet, and hand-embroidered place mats and napkins. I ran my fingers through a sea of glass beads in a lithographed tin doily keeper, and hoped these rescued treasures would go to a good home.
I’d barely set the coffeepot on to brew when Martha breezed through the front door, carrying a tray of her famous baked goodies.
“Good God, that doll gives me a funny turn every time I come in,” she said, as she always did, referring to my salvaged mannequin in the corner.
“It’s not a doll, it’s a mannequin,” I responded, as I always did.
I’d named her Alice, and she was decked out for the season in a Christian Dior pink brocade dress and jacket, looking a little like Jackie O, with white gloves and an antique parasol on her arm.
Martha set the tray down on top of the counter. “Crème Brûlée Cheesecake Squares. They’re quite delicious, if I do say so myself.”
Today, Martha’s buttercup yellow linen dress stretched tightly across her bosom, which was fine, because her décolletage still looked pretty good. The problem was it stretched across the rest of her, too.
With her bright red hair, orange lipstick, and crimson fingernails, she looked as though you could stand in front of her and warm your hands on a cold winter’s day. The sight of her never failed to cheer me up.
My store had somehow become the hub for news, gossip, a good cup of coffee, and tasty treats. Martha claimed not to gossip, but she was actually my chief source of information. She was also a talented baker, and brought her creations into the store so she wouldn’t be tempted to eat them at home. She’d become a widow a few years ago. Some said, rather unkindly, that poor Teddy Bristol had dug his grave with his knife and fork.
The doorbell chimed, and Eleanor Reid stepped lightly into the store. Eleanor was one of my fellow store owners along Main Street. She ran a business called A Stitch Back in Time, where she restored vintage wedding gowns.
“Did you hear the news that Angus was arrested?” she asked us.
“News? News?” Martha placed her hands on her ample hips. “Where have you been, woman? That’s ancient history by now!”
Eleanor had a wiry flat-chested body, and from a distance she could be mistaken for a little old man. She wore her white hair cropped short, had sharp features, and wore black pants and a black shirt, regardless of the weather or season. For a business that dealt in romance, she was the unlikeliest purveyor, but she was an expert seamstress, and often a customer for my antique buttons, ribbon, and lace.
I told them about my visit with the uncooperative detective.
Martha popped one of the cheesecake squares into her mouth. “Well, that doesn’t surprise me. Frank Ramsbottom and Angus Backstead don’t get along. They’re bitter enemies, in fact, so I’m sure he’ll be content to go with the easy solution of pinning the murder charge on our favorite auctioneer.”
“Really? Bitter enemies?” I poured three mugs of coffee. “I can’t believe someone as friendly and generous as Angus could have any enemies at all.”
“Oh, yes. I remember when Angus got in a nasty fight when he was younger. He nearly beat the other guy to a pulp before the fight was stopped. That’s probably how come the police already had his fingerprints on file. Right, Eleanor?”