Going Through the Notions(22)

“No idea.” I set the squirrel down on the floor. Eleanor was right. It was ridiculous that I was afraid to ask my own daughter to do me a favor. “And it seems as though I can never say or do the right thing when she’s around, as hard as I try.”

“Maybe don’t try so hard?” Eleanor laid a hand on my arm. “We all have our blind spots, Daisy. It’s okay.” In contrast to her mannish appearance, her hands were beautiful. Feminine and elegant, the nails painted a pale pink.

I sighed. “Sarah gets along so well with her dad, but when I talk to her, it’s like my timing is always off. When all I want to do is help her find the same purpose and joy in life that I’ve found with this business.”

Eleanor smiled. “And you worry too much.”

“I know. It’s part of my DNA. I can’t help it.”

I went over to hug Martha. “Thanks. Nice touch with the table, by the way.”

“Hey, I know what men like.” She winked at me. “Just call me large and in charge.” She bustled off to ring up another purchase. The MALE box was almost empty.

Eleanor poured herself a cup of coffee and looked around. “What? No treats this morning?”

Martha sniffed from behind the cash register. “Well, I did make oatmeal cherry cookies, but someone gave them away.”

“Relax. I have some of your shortbread in the kitchen.” Before things turned violent, I hurried into the back and retrieved a tin of buttery shortbread fingers.

“So what did you find out from the evil troll down the lane?” Martha asked.

I quickly told them about the Perkins family and the estate sale where they felt they had gotten robbed.

“That’s just the luck of the draw. It’s not Angus’s fault. They could have chosen to have a regular auction if they wanted.” Martha trailed her fingers over her upswept hair, where a few red tendrils were escaping.

Eleanor plucked a biscuit from the tin. “That grandmother was an old hag. Bet they couldn’t wait to get rid of her, and her stuff, too.”

“That’s not all,” I said. “Some crazed woman called Fiona Adams showed up at the auction house this morning, claiming the pens belonged to her dead father. His new wife sent them here instead of auctioning them off in New York. The whole thing seems very strange to me.”

I handed Martha a cup of coffee.

“Thank you, Daisy. The plot thickens, eh? And now I hear Vikki, the bartender over at the pub, is trying to backtrack, saying Angus wasn’t that drunk. Probably worried about the liability. Too bad she already told everyone how smashed he was. That woman can’t keep her mouth shut about anything.”

Eleanor rolled her eyes at me, and I hid a smile. I loved Martha, but she couldn’t keep anything to herself either. I’d learned the hard way not to tell her any deep dark secrets. Those I reserved for Eleanor.

“Look, guys, Betty is still going ahead with the auction this weekend,” I said. “We have to help her out. I’m going to ask Patsy to do the bid calling, and Joe will move the heavy stuff, but we’ll need someone to run the snack counter like Betty usually does, because she’ll be busy overseeing and—”

“Snack counter! I call the snack counter.” Martha raised an arm in the air.

“And I’ll take the cold hard cash.” Eleanor drained her mug. “Good coffee as always, Daisy. You know how I like my coffee. Like ah like my men. Hot, black, and strong,” she murmured in her best Mae West imitation, garnering a few interested glances from the men over at the dice game.

Martha nodded toward the bistro table. “I was thinking we could put a mini television over there, volume on low, of course, so the men could watch the baseball games and—”

“Jiminy Cricket, don’t make it too comfortable for them,” Eleanor protested. “How are we supposed to gossip about the male population of this village if they’re hanging around here? Besides, they have Tony Z’s.”

I turned off the coffee machine. “I’ve always wondered how Tony stays in business at ten dollars a person. I don’t think he’s changed his prices since 1970.”

“Yes, but think about how often guys need a haircut,” Eleanor pointed out. “Some of them come here every single week.”

“True. And I guess he’s such a character that he has a loyal clientele who make it a point to travel to see him. It’s like the men’s own version of Sometimes a Great Notion.”

“Exactly. So they don’t need to horn in on our spot.”

After Martha and Eleanor left, and the men disappeared, I called Detective Ramsbottom. “A woman named Fiona Adams was at the auction house today, claiming the stolen pens belong to her.”