33 Birdie
BIRDIE
The bell over the door dings as I enter the Carousel.
I came in here on Saturday with Pickles just to look around.
This shop is a bit larger than Salt & Sage, with two extra rooms off the back.
It’s an eclectic mix of furniture pieces and art, fashion jewelry, vintage clothing, and a mess of media, like records and books.
It gets its name from the gorgeous painted carousel horse sitting in the front window.
“Welcome in,” calls a softly feminine voice.
I step around a carved armoire to see Mercy Bartlett at the register. She’s wearing glasses today, a simple pair with black frames. They match her crisp black sheath dress. With the single string of pearls at her neck, it looks like she just came from a funeral—
Oh crap.
I bet you any money she did. That relative of Jasper’s, right? No doubt, Mercy knew her too. I saw the sign taped to the front door of Salt & Sage as I walked past:
CLOSED FOR FUNERAL
Mercy slips the glasses from her face, setting them on the counter. “Oh, Birdie. Hello. Can I help you find something?”
Stepping around the armoire, I walk up to the register. “Actually, I came to see you.”
Her eyes widen slightly. “Me?”
“Yeah, I came to thank you.”
“Thank me, dear? Whatever for?”
“For the toffee in my welcome basket. Jasper said it was from you, right? It’s really good.”
She stiffens, her smile falling somewhat. “You spoke to him?”
“Yeah, he dropped the basket off the other night, and I’ve been snacking on it ever since. Just made myself some lunch out of Ruby’s bread and Saito’s cheese,” I add brightly.
“Did you speak to Jasper today?”
My smile falls. “Yeah, why? Wait, is he okay?”
“He’s fine.” Her own smile looks strained. I don’t know if she’s forcing it or if that’s just how Mercy smiles. She seems like the kind of woman who only has to worry about frown lines.
“Did everything go okay—with the funeral, I mean?”
Her eyes widen again. “What?”
Okay, why do I feel like I’m missing something here? “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry. It just looks like maybe you were dressed to attend.”
She glances down at her all-black ensemble. “Oh, yes.” She brushes a manicured hand over the pearls at her neck. “I suppose I do look a bit like a dowdy old crow today.”
“I think you look beautiful. Very elegant.”
This pulls a genuine smile from her. “Thank you, Birdie, dear.”
Whatever I expected when I walked in here, this distracted, flighty creature is a surprise.
In the two times I met Mercy Bartlett before now, she was all quiet, calm confidence.
Perhaps it’s just the funeral that’s put her out of sorts?
All I know is that now is not the time to go asking about Robert Dent’s journal. I’ll have to try again tomorrow.
I slowly back away from the register. “Well, I won’t take up any more of your time. I just wanted to thank you for the toffee—”
“You should stay,” she says over me.
I stiffen. “Stay?”
“Yes, take a look around. The toffee wasn’t much of a welcome present. Honest truth, it was just something I had lying in the pantry. Let me offer you a real welcome gift.”
“Oh, that’s not necessary—”
“No, dear, I insist.” Stepping around the counter, she wraps a slender arm around my shoulders. “Come with me. A little tour, hmm?”
“Okay . . .”
“You know, my family has owned a shop on this premises for more than one hundred and fifty years? It only became an antique store during my grandmother’s time.”
“Wow, that’s really neat.”
Mercy leads me deeper into the shop, not stopping until we hit the music room.
The walls are framed with crates of alphabetized records.
Higher up the wall, a range of musical instruments are shelved, everything from old acoustic guitars to a ukulele to a mini xylophone.
Mercy smells faintly of lilac and rosewater as she leans in.
“My husband curates our record collection and Phoebe says it’s better than anything she can find in Winthrop.
Why don’t you take a look? Pick something new for that old record player up in the apartment. ”
“That’s so kind of you, Mercy.”
The room beyond this one is the book room, stacked floor to ceiling with rare and used books.
I doubt she has her family heirlooms tucked away on the shelves, but books are at least a more natural transition than records.
“Maybe I’ll have a look at the books too. You know . . . just while I’m here.”
Mercy beams at me. “You should. Pick one of each. It’s on the house today.”
“Oh, I can’t do that—”
With a haughty lift of her chin, she wards me away with both hands. “Nonsense. A friend of Phoebe’s is a friend of mine. Take your time. Look. Browse. I’ll leave you be but ask if you have questions.”
“That’s so sweet of you, Mercy. Thank you.”
With a final nod, she backs away, heading out to the front of the shop.
I’m left alone, looking around at all the records.
Okay, so how do I do this? What’s the most natural chord progression to go from “Hey, can I have this Rick Astley album?” to “Hey, you know that priceless journal of your murdered great-great-great-great-grandmother’s husband?
The one where he said where he buried her? Yeah, can I have that instead?”
We’re gonna workshop it a little more. She told me I could take my time back here, right?
I’m not even convinced I’ll give the journal to Howe if I find it. No matter how he tries to spin it, I still have questions about his intentions . . . and the possible unintended harm. But there’s no deciding on that until I know if Mercy even has the journal.
And there’s no knowing that until I ask . . .