Going Through the Notions(92)

That’s when I knew for sure she didn’t do it.

Money didn’t mean that much to Fiona. She could afford to buy herself a duplicate set of the pens, with or without her father’s estate. She might have all the money in the world, but she could never buy his love or attention. I had one small memento that would mean the world to her hidden in the bottom of my pocketbook. I decided then and there to give her the pen. But not now. Not in front of everyone. If I was doing something vaguely illegal, I wasn’t going to involve my daughter and friends.

After Fiona left, Sarah was the first to recover. “Jeez, that woman seems too happy for her own good.”

Martha blew out a long breath. “It’s like she had a personality transplant or something. She’s as violently happy as she was violently angry before.”

We didn’t have much time to recover from Fiona’s visit before the doorbell jangled again and Cyril marched in.

“Ah found that part tha needed for yon car.” He gestured toward Martha’s Lincoln parked outside. I knew she had a tough time getting it serviced because it was so old. “Ah could come by later to put it in, if tha like.”

It seemed as though he walked a little taller, his shoulders a little straighter these days.

“That would be wonderful, thank you.” Martha’s cheeks were as pink as the rose-colored linen dress she wore.

I ignored Eleanor’s dig in my ribs and refused to look at Sarah. I took pity on Martha and ransacked my mind for a conversation starter. “So, Martha, how’s everything coming along with preparations for the fair on Saturday?”

She took a deep breath, gathering her composure around her like one of her fur stoles.

“Well, all seems to be under control. The flyers are posted, the exhibits are lined up, and the volunteers procured. The only snag is that Ruth isn’t sure how many more tables she can get for the flea market. She’s pushing Precision Rentals as hard as she can to donate more, but they say they need to keep some on hand for their business.”

“How about a boot sale like they have in England?” Cyril said.

I don’t know why everyone looked to me for a translation. “For selling boots?” I asked faintly.

“No, no,” he said impatiently, “you know, the boot—the trunk of the car. Everyone pulls their cars up in a big circle, opens the trunks with the stuff inside to sell, and Bob’s yer uncle.”

“Oh. I see.” I glanced at Eleanor and she raised her eyebrows in approval.

“Actually, that’s a pretty good idea. Sounds like the solution to all our problems,” she said dryly.

“Well, I’d best be off.” Cyril hurried out the door.

Under her breath, Eleanor murmured, “What have you done to that man, Martha?”

“He looks like one of the lost members of the Rolling Stones or something,” Sarah said. “Sort of sexy in a way. For an older guy.”

Eleanor grinned. “She’s an absolute miracle worker.”

“Knock it off, you two,” I said.

Sarah giggled. “I just have one question. Who’s Uncle Bob?”





Chapter Nineteen





It wasn’t until Friday that I was allowed to visit Angus. The surgery had taken over fourteen hours, and then he’d been in ICU for a while. But he’d made it through, and for that I was truly grateful.

It was around 4 p.m. I closed the store early. I’d have asked Sarah to stay, but I didn’t want her closing up by herself. The shooting had bothered me more than I’d realized.

Hospitals freaked me out, too, but I’d make the effort for Angus’s sake. I walked for what felt like about a mile down the polished tile hallway at Doylestown Hospital until I found the right room.

A tiny old man was sleeping in the first bed, his mouth hanging open. Around the blue curtain that didn’t go all the way to the floor was Angus in his bed. Even though his head was totally wrapped in bandages, his color was good, and one look into his eyes made me feel like cheering.

Angus was back!

“Hullo, Brat.”

“What did you do? Climb over the wall or something?” I teased as I gave him a hug.

“Something like that. I sure am glad to be out of that prison. Hell of a way to get sprung, though.”

I dragged a chair closer to the high bed, careful not to bump the IV stand. I laid some collectible and antiques magazines on the blanket, plus the local auction listing newspaper. “Here you go. To bring you up to speed.”

“Thanks, Daisy. You know, there’s some things going to change when I get home. I did a lot of thinking when I was sitting in that prison cell. No more drinking. Even without the brain tumor, I was a mess and I know it. I’ve not been a very good husband to poor Betty either. She’s had a lot to put up with.”