Chapter 14
It’s Small Business Saturday, and The Memory Bank is the busiest it’s been all month.
My heart’s all aglow seeing my little space full of shoppers and antiquers.
Out of all the various faces that have stepped into the store, I’ve yet to see the one I’ve been watching for.
The Atlantic Mold ceramic tree did indeed arrive today.
As a dutiful proprietor, I texted Leo letting him know, and he promised to swing by.
As I hand a receipt to a customer purchasing vintage baskets, the bell above the door jingles. My eager gaze zips to the front. Adelaide Springfield breezes in, her hands clutching a black velvet box. All my excitement deflates in a millisecond.
“Hello, dear!” Her giddy voice clashes with Perry Como’s smooth baritone over the shop’s speakers. “Do you have a moment to make a deal of a lifetime?”
No, I reached my scam limit for the week. “It’s pretty busy today, so?—”
“Exactly what I think too. Let’s get down to business.” Her boisterous tone draws glances from surrounding customers.
The slight fraying on the cuff of her peacoat and the bleeding of her crimson lipstick into the tiny cracks framing her mouth can trick the humblest heart into thinking Adelaide is a harmless middle-aged housewife with a misguided hobby.
She’s not. Adelaide’s like a flamethrower in a room of ice sculptures.
She makes a commanding entrance, incinerates everything in her path, and leaves your brain in a mushy puddle of confusion.
I’m not saying her sole purpose in life is to ruin my day, but I’m also not saying I don’t have the urge to staple the “CLOSED for Business” sign to my forehead rather than listen to yet another con.
She clears her throat. Twice. “Today, I have something you’ve never thought you’d ever see in your lifetime.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
She reaches into the bag draped over her left shoulder and pulls out a pair of white gloves. With slow movements, she puts them on, finger by finger. “Prepare yourself.”
“Believe me, I am.”
She smooths a hand over the velvet box and then cracks it open. “Behold.” Her awed whisper makes my eye twitch.
“Costume jewelry?”
“Not just any costume jewelry. This pearl necklace was worn by Donna Reed in the classic last scene of It’s a Wonderful Life .”
She might be trying to swindle me for thousands of dollars, but at least she made it seasonal. Without a word, I hold open my hand.
She retreats a step with a tsk. “You need gloves, dear. It just so happens I’ve an extra pair.”
I wave her off. “Please set the box on the counter.”
“Of course.” She does as I ask but hovers close. “Don’t you need a loupe?”
Adelaide is the cheese grater to my shredded patience.
“You know, those magnifying glass thingys that jewelers use?”
“Thank you, Adelaide. I know what a loupe is. I’m just …
” Scraping for my sanity . “Trying to gently inform you that this is not a piece from the ’40s.
” Unfortunately for Adelaide, cinema wardrobe is one of my specialties.
“The lobster-claw clasp, like this one, wasn’t patented until the mid-nineties. ”
Her gaze narrows. “Are you certain?”
“Very.”
“Hmm.” She cautiously closes the box, which is probably worth more than the trinket. “I’ll have to verify this from my source.”
“Thank you for coming in.” And because I can’t help myself and my stupid soft soul, I offer her my voucher for a free entrée and dessert at the café.
It’s a small token, but maybe she’ll grasp the hint that Christmas is the season of giving and not scamming.
“This expires soon, and I won’t use it. I remember you once saying how much you enjoy their cheesecake. ”
She brightens. “Oh, it’s divine.”
“Then enjoy.” I smile, and as she says goodbye, a customer approaches me asking about a piece in the locked display case. I grab my keys from the register and follow her to where her daughter, I assume, is leaning against the case, typing away on her phone.
The mom points at an early nineteenth-century mirror. “We love this, but I don’t see a tag.”
“Ah, that’s a Sylvia Stave piece. She was a silversmith from Sweden during the first half of the twentieth century.
The art deco handle is beautiful.” I can go on about the mirror, but judging by the younger girl’s loud cracking of her gum and the older woman’s rapid tapping of her boot, they don’t seem like antique enthusiasts.
“It’s on sale for three hundred.” Which is about half the cost of what they’d find at other shops.
I unlock the case, retrieve the pewter piece, and let the ladies get a good look at it.
“We’ll take it.” She gives a quick nod and hands it back to me. “It’ll look nice in my daughter’s dorm. She’s attending college in the spring and wants everything in a Roaring ’20s theme.”
“Oh, the mirror’s actually from the ’30s.”
The mom lifts a narrowed shoulder. “Close enough.”
“Great, I can hold this for you if you’re still shopping or?—”
“We’re ready to check out now,” she says, digging through her purse.
Walking to the register, I smile at the daughter, a spitting image of her mom with crystal blue eyes and dark hair. “What school are you going to?”
“Harvard.” She cracks her gum again as if it’s no big deal, but then adds, “Well, not officially. I didn’t get accepted yet.”
“But she will,” her mother puts in. “We’ve got it all worked out.”
“Oh, yes.” The teen shoves her phone into her coat pocket. “It’s what I asked Santa for. I mean, not like the mall Santa, but the Silver Creek secret one. A full ride to Harvard would be the best Christmas gift.”
I inwardly wince. “Even though you didn’t get accepted yet?”
She shrugs, then sneaks a glance at her mom, who seems to be answering a text. “If I don’t get in, then I’ll put the money from the Secret Santa toward a new car. My Jeep’s a year old.” She wrinkles her nose as if her car expired like rancid meat. Meanwhile, my Highlander’s pushing twelve.
I’m going through the motions of the transaction, but my mind’s disengaged.
I vaguely recall a Secret Santa letter asking for college tuition, but I didn’t imagine this scenario.
I would think there are members of this community who need real support and are not just trying to get free cash.
But how am I going to find that one? So far, I’ve already ferreted out two candidates who were frauds.
How many more are in that folder? How can I tell?
Leo said he learned over the years how to spot the phony in people, but I don’t have the luxury of time. I’m on a deadline.
I finish up with the mother and daughter, exchanging goodbyes, as my business phone rings. I numbly answer, “The Memory Bank. Greta speaking.”
“This is Jeff Reilly from Timeless Treasures. I was told you’re on the hunt for a Vallerton Nativity.”
I blink as the words sink in. The Vallerton. Leo’s antique! The unicorn! “Yes,” I say calmly, though my head’s spinning. “I have an interested customer.”
“I’ve got what you’re looking for.”
Say what? Pen, I need a pen. I sprawl across the counter and scramble for one.
He gives me the address. Usually I would arrange the sale and have the owner ship me the piece, but one, this man isn’t from my regular, trusted contacts.
Two, there’s no way he’ll let that set out of his sight.
Not that I blame the guy. “Okay, I’ll pass this on to my customer. ”
Said customer is walking into my store even now.
My pulse races, but this time it has nothing to do with the Vallerton. Leo’s smile is enough to make me forget a person is speaking to me on the phone.
“I can only hold this until closing.” That brings me back to reality. “We lock the doors at seven.”
I glance at my watch, and my stomach drops. It’s already after four. “That doesn’t give my customer much time, especially since your shop’s over an hour away.” Possibly an hour and a half.
“Well.” He draws out the simple word into two syllables. “I’m certain I don’t have to tell you how in-demand a Vallerton Nativity is.”
Not sure I like his tone, but the man has a point. “I’ll let him know.” I hang up with a huff.
Leo approaches with a swagger I’m not exactly prepared for. He holds out a purple tumbler. “I realized I should’ve bought one of these for you too.”
My jaw sags at the unexpected gift. “Thank you.”
“I take hydration levels seriously.” His tone is teasing, but I detect an earnestness in his eyes.
After the scare with Mitzy yesterday, I’ve been much more conscious of my own water intake.
I checked on our doll-loving patient before work this morning.
She seemed disappointed to find me at her door rather than Leo, but other than a little pouty, she was doing great.
I lift my new cup in a cheers . “I promise I won’t faint in your arms.”
He dimples. “No, I’d rather you step into them willingly.”
“You’re such a flirt.” I feebly swat him. “Okay. I’ve got good news and I-feel-like-throat-punching-someone news. Which first?”
He eyes me as if unsure if he should laugh or throw chocolate at me from a distance. “Let’s start with good.”
“I just got a call about the Vallerton.”
His eyes widen, and a smile lights his face. “That’s great. I was thinking it’s a lost cause.”
“Bad news is you have to leave, like, now. Because he won’t hold it for you.
” Which is fair, but still. Leo doesn’t know what to look for.
There are many knockoffs, and I doubt Leo could spot a forgery.
If only we could trade talents just for December.
I could borrow his gift of spotting fake people, and he can have my skill in antiquing.
Or maybe we can strike a deal.
“Thanks for coming with me.” Leo adjusts his hand on the wheel and sends me a smile full of wonder as if I’d told him I spend my evening hours watching SportsCenter and eating hot wings.