Chapter Twelve
The post-lunch lull had settled over the estate like a sigh. Guests were tucked away for naps or in-room massages, the caterers were clinking trays in the kitchen, and the only real sound came from the birds gossiping in the trees.
Even the chauffeurs, jackets off and ties loosened, had given in to the quiet, dozing in the shade by the cars.
Noah had lent me his office for the week so Cleo and I could get through the mountain of wedding logistics without tripping over guests or floral arrangements.
The space was tidy in that understated, masculine way, polished timber desk, leather notebook, faint trace of cedar and printer ink.
Within twenty-four hours, I’d taken it over completely: folders, fabric swatches, place cards in various stages of alphabetisation, and a seating chart that had already become a living organism.
The late afternoon sunlight slanted through the blinds, striping the wall with colour. The kitchen clattered in the distance, resetting and getting ready for the big welcome party.
Cleo was perched at a smaller desk, deep in the kind of paperwork that could make or break a centrepiece order. She’d tied her hair up into a messy bun, and had a highlighter poised like a scalpel.
Then she stopped. Frowned. Leaned closer to the bin beside her.
“Hey, Hol?” she said, uncertainty affecting her usually perky tone. “Was there a second order I missed?”
I glanced up from my laptop. “Not unless someone’s decided to gift-wrap the mother of the groom.”
She didn’t laugh. Her brows stayed knitted as she reached into the bin and tugged at something caught in the corner of a flattened flower box. “Because this doesn’t look like the florist’s invoice.”
I crossed the room. The box in question was one of the big cardboard ones the roses came in, still faintly damp from the cool room, the bottom corners freckled with petals and tape residue.
She worked the paper loose carefully and smoothed it flat against the desk. “See? This.”
It wasn’t one of ours. It was a receipt, cream paper, thin and textured, the kind that belongs to fountain pens and linen stationery, not spreadsheets. The ink had bled a little, soft around the edges.
“Where did you find it exactly?” I asked.
“Snagged inside the corner of the box,” she said, pointing. “I only noticed it when I went to flatten the cardboard. Thought it was a sticker at first.”
I took it from her, the way you take something fragile. The paper had that faint scent of lavender polish and dust, a scent that didn’t belong to the kitchen, the florists, or any of us.
On the back, in looping handwriting: Evelyn’s Boutique.
Something about it unsettled me.
Cleo watched me read. “The shop is in Margaret River,” she said, nodding to the small, printed line at the top.
“Maybe the florist reused an old box,” I said automatically. “They do that sometimes.”
“Sure,” she said, though her tone suggested she wasn’t sure at all. “Still strange. The paper’s not old. It hasn’t yellowed or anything.”
There was no phone number, or amount, just a faint unreadable scribble and a date stamp from Sunday, which was yesterday.
Before I could reply, Noah appeared in the doorway, his sunglasses hooked in his shirt pocket, and a familiar raised eyebrow that questioned what we were talking about.
“You both look like you’ve discovered buried treasure,” he said.
“More like lost paperwork,” I replied, handing him the slip. “It was wedged in a flower box. Maybe the florist reused packaging?”
He turned the slip over in his hand, studying it with the mild curiosity of a man who notices details for sport. “Evelyn’s Boutique?” he read, brow lifting. “I know that place, antique jewellery shop, over next to Jack’s Surf Shack in town.”
My eyes snapped to his. “Jewellery?”
The word landed like a dropped pin. For a heartbeat, none of us spoke. The hum of the overhead fan filled the silence, underscoring the same thought circling between us.
Noah’s expression shifted, not surprise, exactly, but recognition. “Could it be connected to the missing piece?”
Cleo met my eyes over the desk, her highlighter still in hand. “That’s what I was wondering too.”
“We don’t know that for sure,” I said quickly. “Could be nothing. But… it is odd, isn’t it? Of all the things to find in a box of flowers.”
Cleo nodded. “If it were packing paper, I’d say fine. But it was stuck to the bottom, like it was picked up accidentally.”
Noah set the receipt back onto the desk. “I’ll call the florist,” he said. “Ask if they’ve had any antique-shop detours lately.”
“Don’t,” I said too quickly. “Not yet. If it’s nothing, I’d rather not start rumours amongst the suppliers.”
He tilted his head, considering. “And if it’s something?”
“Then I’d rather hear it from Evelyn herself.”
Cleo looked between Noah and me, then back at the seating chart spread across the desk, already reclaiming her role like slipping on armour. “Go,” she said. “If anyone asks, you’re both dealing with… something important and vague. I’ll hold down the fort.”
“Try not to reorganise the entire wedding while I’m gone,” I said.
“No promises,” she replied, already reaching for her clipboard.
Outside, the late afternoon light had softened, spilling gold across the gravel as Noah and I crossed towards the car.
Noah’s 4WD rumbled onto the road, the vineyard falling away behind us in long, sunlit rows. For a while, we just drove in silence.
“So,” Noah said eventually, “is your office always like that? Everything lined up. Labels. Clipboards. Colour coding. It’s… impressive.”
I snorted. “That’s one word for it.”
“What’s the other word?”
“Concerning.”
He seemed amused. “You don’t seem concerned.”
“That’s because it’s my job. I’m organised at work because I have to be. If I’m not, someone ends up walking down the aisle to the wrong song or the cake gets delivered to the wrong wedding.”
“That… actually sounds like a nightmare.”
“It is. Hence the clipboards.”
He nodded like that made perfect sense. “So you’re one of those people who has everything together.”
“Oh, absolutely not,” I said quickly. “Don’t tell anyone, but at home I’m a disaster.”
He raised a brow. “A disaster?”
“Utter. My laundry lives on a chair. My fridge contains three condiments and a questionable yoghurt. I once lost my own car keys for two weeks.”
He let out a surprised laugh at that, “You? Miss Spreadsheet?”
“See? Everyone assumes I’m put together. But the truth is, I use up all my organisation at work. By the time I get home, I’m done. I have nothing left to give.”
“That’s… kind of reassuring.”
“Reassuring?”
“Yeah.” He shrugged. “Makes you human.”
I smiled at the window. “Wow. High praise.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
“Oh, I won’t,” I said. “I’m sure you’ll be back to grumbling any minute.”
“I don’t grumble.”
“You absolutely grumble.” I snorted.
He gave me a look that was half offended, half amused. “I’m just selective with my words.”
“That’s just a fancy way of saying you grumble.”
He shook his head, but he was smiling again.
The town came into view, the afternoon light stretching long across the shopfronts.
“You know,” he said, slowing at the curb, “I didn’t expect you to be… like this.”
“Like what?”
He hesitated. “Easy to talk to.”
Something warm fluttered in my chest. “Well,” I said lightly, “don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation to protect.”
“Oh yeah? What reputation is that?”
“Bossy. Overly organised. Terrifying.”
He considered that. “I don’t think you’re terrifying.”
“Give it time.”
He smiled, shaking his head as he parked. “All right. Let’s go before you try to organise my glovebox.”
I gasped. “You have a glovebox?”
“Don’t even think about it.”
As we drove towards town, the vines blurred into gum trees, their shadows flickering across the windscreen, the ocean flashing silver through the gaps like something just out of reach.
By the time we reached the main street in Margaret River, the afternoon light was spilling lazily across the shopfronts, surfers’ jeeps lined along the curb with boards rattling against roof racks in the wind.
A teenager in a half-zipped wetsuit wandered past carrying a fresh croissant from the bakery a few shops down, leaving damp footprints along the pavement like this was completely normal behaviour.
Which, in Margaret River, I suppose it was.
A hand-painted sign reading Evelyn’s Boutique swung gently in the breeze in front of us.
The bell above the door gave a delicate jingle as we stepped inside, the kind of sound that could only belong to a shop where nothing had changed in fifty years.
The air was cool and still, perfumed faintly with lavender and metal polish. Dust motes drifted lazily through beams of light slanting across glass cabinets filled with neatly arranged treasures: vintage rings, tarnished lockets, strings of pearls glowing softly in the sunlight like tiny moons.
A woman sat behind the counter, whom I assumed was Evelyn, looking exactly like the sort of person who’d spent decades surrounded by antiques and had somehow become one herself in the most charming way possible.
Mauve cardigan, pressed slacks, a small pendant resting neatly at her throat. Her lipstick matched the shade of a well-aged rose, and her eyes, bright, shrewd, and kind in a way that could still cut glass, followed us as we crossed the creaking floorboards.
“Lovely afternoon,” she said, her expression bright. “Can I help you find something? An engagement ring perhaps?”
Noah and I exchanged a startled glance.
“No,” we both said at exactly the same time.
Heat crept up my neck.
Her smile only widened.
I cleared my throat and gave her what I hoped was a professional smile. “We’re actually following up on a bit of a mix-up.” I produced the receipt, now smoothed flat inside my notebook.
“This turned up with one of our deliveries for the Langston Estate wedding. We thought you might recognise it.”
She took it delicately between two fingers, the way you might handle something breakable. “Oh,” she murmured, adjusting her glasses. “Yes, this is one of mine. I write them all by hand, can’t abide those new computer tills. Much too impersonal.”
Her brow furrowed in mild concentration. “Let me think… That one was yesterday afternoon. A woman, yes. Quite put-together. One of those faces you can’t quite pin to an age. Graceful, but in a hurry.”
Noah leaned on the counter, all calm ease. “Would she have been local do you think?”
Evelyn shook her head, a small, knowing smile tugging at her mouth. “No, I don’t think so. I would have recognised her if she was.”
Her gaze flicked between us, assessing. “Why do you ask? Looking for something, are you?”
I matched her tone, friendly, curious. “Not exactly. We just want to make sure none of our suppliers are missing paperwork.”
“Ah.” She folded the slip neatly and handed it back. “Well, I doubt anyone’s missing much. People buy and sell all sorts of things here. Lockets, mirrors, brooches, hatpins. Little pieces of memory, really.”
The word brooches fell like a feather, soft but deliberate.
Noah and I exchanged a fleeting glance.
I smiled, keeping my tone conversational. “It’s a beautiful collection you’ve got. You must see so many stories pass through here.”
Evelyn’s expression lightened, pleased. “That’s exactly it, dear. Every piece has a history. Most buyers like to imagine they’re preserving it, though half of them just want something pretty for a dinner party.”
“Did this woman seem like the preserving type?” Noah asked, voice casual.
Evelyn tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Hard to say. She lingered for a while, asked about a piece she had, its provenance, then decided it wasn’t for sale. Had another look around and ended up buying something else, I think. Paid cash, no name. Said she’d found what she was looking for and left.”
I tilted my head. “Do you remember what she brought in?”
“Oh…” Evelyn’s eyes drifted towards the nearest cabinet, scanning the displays as if retracing the memory. “A locket perhaps, or a pin. Something delicate. I only remember her because she left a fingerprint on the glass when we were chatting. I nearly called her back to wipe it off.”
“Did she leave a name?”
“No, dear.” Her smile returned, bright, empty, and clearly final. “People don’t these days. Cash buyers never do.”
Her attention lingered on us briefly, too perceptive for comfort. “You know,” she added gently, “people often think they lose things, when in truth, they simply forget where they last left them.”
I smiled politely. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
She gave a knowing little nod, and as we turned for the door, her voice followed us. “Lovely flowers, by the way, the native bouquets. I saw your delivery being packed yesterday. Boxes everywhere, roses, eucalyptus… quite the operation. You’ve an eye for quality.”
I froze for half a heartbeat, just long enough to feel Noah’s eyes find mine.
I recovered with a light, professional smile. “I do my best,” I said, forcing an easy laugh. “Thank you for your time, Evelyn.”
She inclined her head, her composure never faltering.
I pushed open the door. The bell chimed behind us as we stepped into the bright air, the kind that carried the faintest trace of the nearby ocean.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then Noah said, “She definitely knows more than she’s saying.”
I nodded, running it over in my head. “And apparently, she notices delivery vans. Who notices delivery vans?”
He looked amused. “Maybe she notices everything.”
“Or maybe she’s bored and spies on whoever parks near her shop,” I said.
I folded the receipt and slipped it back into my folder.
Noah glanced at me, then towards the street. “So,” he said, tilting his head, “mystery buyer, no name, paid cash, likes antiques.”
“And possibly brooches,” I murmured.
A faint smile played at the corner of his mouth. “You’re thinking what I’m thinking?”
“That I should’ve charged extra for all of this detective work?”
He chuckled, that low, unhurried kind that made it sound like he was genuinely amused, but his eyes stayed sharp. “You think it’s one of them.”
I hesitated, watching the heat ripple above the bitumen. “I think the timing’s odd, that’s all. What if one of our guests did go to sell an antique right after a family heirloom vanished?”
I paused, hearing it as I said it.
“What if they were trying to swap it?”
He tilted his head. “Could be coincidence.”
“Or it could be very good cover.”
Somewhere a kookaburra started chortling like it was in on the joke.
“You know what bothers me most?” I said finally.
“What’s that?”
“She didn’t ask what we were looking for. Not once. Like she already knew.”
Noah slipped his sunglasses back on, and the corner of his mouth curved again. “And that, Sinclair, is why I’m not betting against you.”