Going Through the Notions(88)

“Oh, it’s all right. I went to see ’im.”

“You did?” Relief flooded through me. “I didn’t know you were on the visiting list.”

“It weren’t none of yer beeswax.”

I closed my eyes briefly and exhaled. “How was he?”

“He’s not right in t’head no more.” Cyril shoveled a square of toast laden with beans into his mouth.

I bit my lip. “Look, there’s something I want to show you, but please don’t tell anyone about it.”

He waved at me impatiently with his fork, so I dug down into my pocketbook and pulled out the Parker Duofold Lucky Curve mandarin yellow pen.

“I found this in the Kratzes’ farmyard. The killer must have dropped it when he ran off. I kept it because I didn’t trust Ramsbottom, and now I don’t know what to do with it.”

“Sometimes when you don’t know what to do, it’s best to do nowt.” Cyril took the pen from me and held it up to the light. “Have you taken it apart yet?”

“No! Why on earth would I do that?”

“To see if there’s anything inside.”

I gasped. As an aspiring detective, I was completely useless. What if the real value of the pens, beyond the obvious worth, was because they were being used to smuggle something? Like diamonds or drugs? Something that someone would kill to own?

Cyril was wrestling with the nib, which didn’t seem to want to unscrew.

“Be careful,” I said, wincing. “Don’t break it. Are you sure you can put it back together?”

“Lass, that’s how I got started in this business. Because I liked to take things apart and see how they worked.”

He grabbed a pair of rubber-tipped pliers out of the kitchen drawer.

“Um, perhaps we should leave it alone and—”

Cyril made a rocking action to pull the nib section from the barrel and finally the sections loosened. He spread the pieces out on the table and shook them one by one, but there was nothing inside.

“The Lucky Curve feed is still intact, though,” he said. “That’s good.”

“The Lucky Curve feed,” I repeated. “See, how do you know that? How do you have all these random skills? What did you do before you owned this junkyard?”

He sighed. “I were a miner in Western Pennsylvania, Armstrong County. After I’d had enough of living like a mole and seeing men die young, I hitchhiked out this way. Met a guy in Reading who had a scrap yard. Repaired an old outboard motor for him and he gave me a job, fixing the broken stuff so he could sell it. Let me sleep in an abandoned trailer in back of the yard for free. Guess that’s why this place feels like home.”

This had to be the longest speech Cyril Mackey had ever given. And now he was living here in Millbury and somehow involved with my best friend.

I sipped my coffee and wondered how to bring up Martha, the pink elephant in the room.

“A gentleman never discusses his affairs,” Cyril said primly, handing the rebuilt pen back to me.

I could add mind reader to his list of talents.

“Oh, so it’s an affair now, is it?” I smirked at him as I stood up to leave.

He grimaced, and then his expression turned serious. “Watch tha step, lass. You didn’t make any friends busting up that poker game.”

For some reason, Cyril’s warning frightened me more than anything.





Chapter Eighteen





Joe had contacted the owner of the plate glass shop where we’d originally purchased the windows, and soon after I opened the store, they called to say they would be coming by in the afternoon with a new piece of glass.

I spent the next hour pulling everything out of the left front window, shaking it all out and vacuuming every inch of the store. I assembled some items in a convenient box to make a fresh display. It was Monday, after all. Time to change things up. Some vintage purses, a baby cradle made of mahogany, some loops of velvet and lace trim, and a floral uncut fabric panel all sat waiting for their moment onstage.

Every five minutes I glanced at the phone. I really wanted to call Detective Serrano. Would that count as breaking my promise to Joe not to get involved anymore?

The bell jangled over the door and Mary Willis came in, holding another large white bag.

I’d sold the last collection she’d brought in for five hundred and fifty dollars. In spite of Patsy’s mockery of my charitable gesture, I’d still made fifty bucks on the deal.

The linens she pulled out of the bag were even more exquisite than last time, including a pair of tambour lace curtains and several yards of Victorian velvet that made my mouth water. There was also an antique child’s christening gown that she said had been used for her late husband and all three of her children.