Chapter 2
Chapter Two
The holiday music playing in my shop normally puts me in a festive mood, but this morning it grates against my rising panic. I stand in the middle of my shop, staring at the empty window display where my driftwood star should be.
“It has to be here somewhere.” My voice sounds off in the quiet shop. “I know I put it in the window last night.”
Finn paces beside me, his black coat gleaming under the shop lights, his intelligent eyes tracking my movements. His beard twitches as he sniffs the air.
I arrived at Driftwood & Décor early, eager to add the final touches to my window display before the official start of Seacliff Haven’s Christmas Market preparations.
The cardboard tray of coffee and pastries from K’s Korner Kafé sits forgotten on the counter, steam still rising from the cups.
My excitement had died the moment I flipped on the lights.
The star is gone.
“Maybe I moved it last night and forgot?” I suggest to Finn, who tilts his head. Even to my own ears, the explanation sounds unlikely. That star represents weeks of work and a priceless connection to my father. I wouldn’t simply misplace it.
I begin a painstaking search of the shop, checking behind the counter, in the small storage room, under tables covered with works in progress. Finn follows close behind, his nails clicking on the wooden floor.
“It was right here,” I say, tapping the glass of the front window. “I placed it here myself before we left for our walk.”
The panic that had been simmering now boils over. I rush to the door, examining the lock for signs of tampering. Nothing looks disturbed. The cash register remains untouched, with the day’s float still inside. Nothing else appears to be missing, just the star.
My star. Dad’s memorial.
The phone feels heavy in my hand as I dial Klara’s number. She answers on the second ring, with the sounds of her busy café in the background.
“Klara, it’s Marnie. Did you . . . did you happen to borrow my driftwood star for the café? Maybe as a surprise decoration or something?”
Her silence tells me everything before she even speaks. “No, honey. Why would I take it without asking? Is everything okay?”
“It’s gone,” I say, my voice quieter than I intend. “I came in this morning and it’s just . . . gone.”
“I’ll be right over.”
While waiting for Klara, I continue searching. Finn stays close, nudging my hand with his nose when my movements become too quick.
The bell above the door jingles as Klara bustles in, a cloud of flour and cinnamon trailing her. “Tell me exactly what happened,” she says, her usually cheerful face lined with concern.
I tell her about the night before, and how I had positioned the star in the window, locked up, and taken Finn for our beach walk. “When I came in this morning, it was gone. No broken windows, no forced locks. Nothing out of place. Just . . . vanished.”
Klara checks in places I had already examined twice. “Could someone have a key? An old employee, maybe?”
“It’s just me,” I reply, leaning against my workbench. “Dad was the only other person with a key, and I changed the locks after he passed.”
The bell jingles again as Bea from Seashell Books & Baubles enters, carrying a tray of hot chocolate. “I saw Klara rushing over and thought you might need reinforcements. What’s happened?”
Soon, my small shop fills with concerned neighbors. Monica, Tommy, and even Ned from The Twinkling Tides Bakery crowd around, offering theories and support.
“You should call the police,” Ned suggests, his baker’s hands leaving flour prints on my counter. “Theft is theft, even in Seacliff Haven.”
“What exactly would I report?” I ask. “Officer, someone with a key I didn’t know existed took my driftwood creation but nothing else of value?”
A sharp voice cuts through the murmurs. “What seems to be the problem here?”
Sid Gillespie stands in the doorway, his tall frame blocking the morning light. Despite the early hour, he looks immaculate in a charcoal sweater and dark jeans, his salt-and-pepper hair artfully tousled.
Klara fills him in while I continue searching through a stack of sea glass I’d been planning to incorporate into new pieces.
“That’s unfortunate timing,” Sid says. “The auction is what, four days away?”
I glance up. “Yes. Unfortunate timing indeed.”
Our gazes lock, years of rivalry crackling between us.
Sid’s driftwood sculptures command higher prices than mine, his gallery drawing the wealthy summer tourists while my shop caters more to locals and those seeking affordable souvenirs.
But the charity auction has always been my moment to shine, my star consistently the highlight of the event.
“You don’t think I had anything to do with this, do you?” Sid asks, eyebrows raised. “I have my own piece to finish for the auction. Why would I need yours?”
“I never said you did,” I reply, though the thought had crossed my mind.
Tommy clears his throat. “Have you checked with Dawson? He might have heard something. That antique shop of his seems to know all the town gossip before anyone else.”
I haven’t spoken more than a casual hi here and there to Dawson Morrow in years, not since his falling out with my father. But Tommy has a point. If anyone would know about unusual activities in town, it would be Dawson.
“I might stop by later,” I concede.
The impromptu gathering slowly disperses as shops need opening and the Christmas Market setup needs attending. Klara stays behind, perching on a stool by my register.
“What are you going to do?” she asks quietly.
“I have to find it. That star means everything. Not just for the auction, but for . . .”
“For your dad,” Klara finishes. “I know, honey.”
I begin tidying the counter, needing to keep my hands busy. As I move a display of small driftwood ornaments, something white catches my eye. An envelope, unmarked and sealed, tucked beneath the wooden stand.
“This wasn’t here yesterday,” I say, holding it up for Klara to see.
She frowns. “Are you sure?”
“Positive. I wiped down this counter before closing.”
My fingers tremble as I open the envelope. Inside is a single sheet of paper with a typed message:
FORGET ABOUT THE PAST OR LOSE MORE THAN YOUR DRIFTWOOD.
Klara gasps when I show her. “Marnie, this is serious. You need to call the police right now.”
I read the message again. Cold spreads through me despite the shop’s warmth. “This isn’t about the star, not really. Someone’s trying to send me a message.”
“All the more reason to involve the authorities,” Klara insists.
“And tell them what? Someone stole my craft project and left a cryptic note? They’ll file a report and forget about it by lunch.”
Klara sighs. Our police force is small, consisting of Chief Barnes and two officers, and focuses mainly on summer tourist issues and the occasional break-in at vacation homes during the off-season.
“What do you think it means? ‘Forget about the past’?” she asks.
I shake my head. “I have no idea. The star was made from driftwood Dad and I collected together, but that’s personal. No one would care about that except me.”
Finn, who had been investigating the scents around the empty window display, pads over and places his large paw on my knee. His dark eyes hold something I can’t quite read.
“Maybe it has something to do with your father’s conservation work?” Klara suggests. “He did ruffle quite a few feathers back in the day, stopping that resort development.”
The resort. I had almost forgotten. Ten years ago, a developer had planned to build a massive complex on the north end of the beach, threatening the delicate ecosystem and the town’s character.
Dad had led the opposition, rallying the community and ultimately succeeding in blocking the project.
Some business owners had supported the development, seeing potential profit in the increased tourism.
Dawson among them, which had contributed to their falling out.
“That was a decade ago,” I say. “Ancient history.”
Klara raises an eyebrow. “Not to everyone, perhaps.”
A thought occurs to me. “The driftwood Finn found yesterday . . . it seemed familiar, like it belonged with the star somehow.”
“Where is it now?”
“In my coat pocket.”
I retrieve the piece from my coat hanging by the door. In the morning light, its similarity to the central piece of my star is even more apparent.
“This is strange,” I murmur, turning the wood over in my hands. “It’s almost like someone wanted me to find this.”
Klara looks skeptical. “That’s a bit of a stretch, Marnie. Driftwood washes up all the time.”
“Maybe.” Though I can’t shake the feeling that everything is connected. The star, the note, the driftwood piece Finn found. All of it somehow tied to my father.
The shop door opens, and Sid returns, holding a cardboard cup from K’s Korner Kafé. “I thought you might need this,” he says, placing the coffee on the counter.
I eye him. “Thank you. That’s . . . surprisingly thoughtful.”
He shrugs. “I also wanted to say that if there’s anything I can do to help find your star, just ask. The auction won’t be the same without it.”
“Why would you care?” I can’t help asking. “You’ve spent years trying to outshine me.”
Sid has the audacity to look peeved. “Competition is one thing, theft is another. Besides, that piece represents your father’s legacy. Everyone respected Samuel, even those of us who occasionally butted heads with him.”
For the first time, I consider that Sid’s rivalry might be more professional than personal. Something in his expression seems genuine.
“I appreciate that,” I say.
After he leaves, Klara gives me a knowing look. “Well, that was interesting.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing,” she says with a small smile. “Just observing.”
I roll my eyes. “Focus, Klara. Missing star, threatening note, remember?”
“Right, right.” She becomes serious again. “So what’s your plan?”
I glance down at the note again. “I need to figure out what ‘the past’ refers to. Someone thinks I’m digging into something I shouldn’t be, but I have no idea what.”
“Start with Dawson,” Klara suggests. “He and your dad had that mysterious falling out. Maybe it’s related.”
I nod. “And I should look through Dad’s old papers. Maybe there’s something there that could explain this.”
“What about the police?” Klara presses.
“If I find something concrete, I’ll go to them,” I promise. “But right now, all I have is a missing craft project and a vague note. Let me dig a little first.”
Klara doesn’t look happy, but she nods. “Just be careful, okay? Whoever took the star managed to get in and out without leaving a trace. That shows planning.”
The thought sends another chill through me. Someone had been in my shop while I was gone, touching my things, stealing my work, and doing who knows what. I glance around my shop again, wondering if whoever hid a camera in here.
I sigh heavily. “I need to get a new lock. Something more secure.”
“Stay with me tonight,” Klara offers. “You and Finn. Just until we figure this out.”
I shake my head. “Thanks, but we’ll be fine at home. Whoever did this got what they wanted.”
But even as I say the words, I wonder if that’s true. The note suggests this might just be the beginning.
Finn follows me to the door as I flip the sign to “Closed.” I’d planned to join the Christmas Market setup today, but finding the star has to take priority.
“We’re going to figure this out,” I tell him, scratching under his bearded chin. “Dad always said you were the best treasure hunter on the beach. Time to put those skills to work.”
Finn gives a soft “woof,” his posture alert and ready.
As we step outside, the cheerful sounds of the market preparations fill the air.
Volunteers string garlands between lampposts, and the scent of Ned’s gingerbread wafts from his bakery.
It should feel festive, but all I can think about is the star, crafted from pieces of driftwood that told the story of my final months with Dad.
And the note in my pocket.
“First stop, Shoreline Antiques,” I tell Finn, who trots faithfully beside me. “Let’s see what Dawson knows.”
As we walk down Harbor Street, I can’t shake the feeling that someone is watching us. I turn suddenly, scanning the busy sidewalk, but see nothing suspicious. Just townspeople and early tourists, all focused on their holiday preparations.
Still, the sensation prickles at the back of my neck.
Forget about the past or lose more than your driftwood.
The past. But which past? My personal history with Dad? His environmental work? Something else entirely?
One thing is certain: I’m not forgetting anything. That star represents too much, means too much. I’ll find it, no matter what secrets I have to uncover along the way.
I just hope I’m prepared for what those secrets might be.