The Shop of Shades and Secrets (Modern Gothic Romance 1), Page 3

  “You are so weird about hands, Fiona. And you know that blind date was only to pay you back for sending me flowers from Colin Farrell.”

  Fiona smirked, remembering how she’d called her, babbling uncontrollably about the dozen red roses that she’d received the day after meeting Colin Farrell at a charity function Chris had chaired. “That was a good one, wasn’t it?”

  “Not as good as the vet I set you up with—the one who performs hypnosis on dogs and cats.”

  Fiona snorted and flapped her hand to brush off her friend’s aspirations. “You are nowhere near as good as I am when it comes to great practical jokes. Just keep trying, though. Maybe someday you’ll learn.” She sipped more of her tea.

  “Anyway, this lawyer—”

  “Speaking of lawyers,” Fiona said, bent on changing the subject. “Why is an accountant better than a lawyer?”

  Chris rolled her eyes but succumbed to the pressure. “I don’t know.”

  “At least accountants know they’re boring.”

  Chris chuckled, and, just as she opened her mouth to speak again, she snapped it shut. Fiona realized why when a deep voice reached her ears. “Ms. Murphy?”

  She looked around just as Barnaby Forth stepped into her line of vision. “Well, hello,” she greeted him, surprised that he would seek her out.

  “I thought that was you,” he said, smiling down at her and then at Chris. “Mind if I join you for a quick minute?”

  Fiona shrugged and flickered a glance at Chris, who seemed to be bursting with curiosity. “Have a seat. This is my friend Chris Nielsen. Chris, this is Barnaby Forth, the grand-nephew of Mr. Valente.”

  He took a seat, and the waitress was upon them in a second, obviously eager to take the order of the well-groomed, attractive man. After ordering a black coffee, he returned his attention to Fiona. “So were you out checking out your inheritance?” he asked with a grin.

  She felt her face warm slightly, but replied with casual aplomb, “Yes, as a matter of fact, I was. But what brings you down to South Street?” This was definitely not a place she would have expected Barnaby Forth to frequent. The Main Line, Society Hill, Chestnut Hill…maybe. But not the quirky, gothicky South Street.

  “I’m meeting a friend for dinner and got here a little early. When I saw you, I thought I’d take a second and say hi.”

  Fiona took a sip of her tea, then decided to ask the question that had been niggling at her for days. “Speaking of your great-uncle…do you know who Gretchen was?”

  “Gretchen?” He looked at her with genuine confusion. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”

  She shook her head as if to clear it, and decided to start from the beginning. “Mr. Valente left a letter for me, sort of explaining his reasoning for putting me in his will, and he mentioned someone named Gretchen. I thought she or her identity might have come up at the reading of the will on Friday, but she didn’t. I just wondered if you knew who she was because your great-uncle spoke very fondly of her in the letter.”

  Barnaby looked surprised. “Fondly?” He shook his head, absently glancing up to smile at the waitress who set his coffee carefully in front of him. “I’m sorry, I don’t know who that could be. Frankly, I can’t imagine my great-uncle feeling fondly toward anyone.” His smile was wry as he stirred his drink—although he’d added no sugar or cream, Fiona noticed—then rested the spoon carefully on the saucer. “No, I don’t think I’ve ever heard mention of a Gretchen. Did he say anything specific about her?”

  Fiona took a moment to sip her own tea, wondering how much of the contents of the letter she should share. Not that there was anything that important in it, she reminded herself, but she felt odd sharing the nostalgic words from the old man. Not even H. Gideon Nath, III, knew what was in the letter. Then she shrugged again. “He didn’t say much, other than that he knew her long ago.” That was a good compromise. “Hence my questions.”

  “I’ll ask my mother if she knows,” he promised.

  “That would be great. It’s just something that bothers me a little, in a curious sort of way.” She gave him a dazzling smile and noticed interest and appreciation in his eyes.

  “I’ll give you a call next week,” he said. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he glanced at his Rolex and stood. “I’m sorry to be so abrupt, but I have to run now.” He dug into his pocket and pulled out a money clip, flipped through several large bills to find a ten-dollar bill, and tossed it onto the table. “It was nice to see you again, and nice to have met you,” he added, looking at Chris.

  “Good-bye,” Fiona said, and returned her attention to Chris as he walked out of the coffee shop. Her friend was looking at her through narrowed eyes. “What’s wrong?”

  “So, what—is he the reason you don’t want to meet the lawyer I want to set you up with? He’s not bad looking, but seems a little…not your type.”

  With a sigh, Fiona picked up her six rings and slipped them methodically back on her fingers. “What is it with you and setting me up? I go out enough. I don’t need you to—”

  “I know you go out all the time, but when you do, it’s a different guy every time. Don’t you get tired of playing the game?”

  “I like being casual about it. Just because you found Mr. Perfect doesn’t mean that I’m interested in that. I’m not. I like things just the way they are. And besides,” Fiona added, her faint irritation evaporating, “now that I have the shop to run, I’ll have enough responsibility in my life. I don’t need to be responsible for a man, too.”

  ~*~

  “Doesn’t the shop or the will have to go through probate and everything? And what about the other members of Valente’s family—aren’t they ticked off that I got the shop and they didn’t? Should I worry about them trying to stop this from happening?” Fiona Murphy settled back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest, staring Gideon down as though she’d just poked holes in some beloved theory he’d dreamed up.

  Gideon felt faint surprise that she knew enough to ask about probate. Maybe she wasn’t quite as ditzy as he’d thought. “The probate hearing was yesterday and it went off without any challenges. As I assume you heard at the reading last week,” he said with not-so-gentle emphasis, “the other family members inherited other, much larger and more lucrative portions of Valente’s great wealth. The antiques shop is really just a small piece of it.”

  “Very well, then. And that brings up a bigger issue. Before we go any further and before I sign anything, I’d like to see just what it is I have to work with.” Ms. Murphy’s smile was engaging, but there was shrewdness—and something like apprehension—in her eyes. “I want to know what I’m getting into before I actually get into it.”

  She caught him by surprise. Gideon set down the papers he was holding and reached for another folder. “Of course we can go through all that. I just presumed you’d want to wait until everything was final before spending time on it.” Actually, he’d assumed she hadn’t a clue in her lovely head about running a business, and that ledgers and accounting would be the last thing she’d worry about. When she spoke again, she surprised him further.

  “I’ll be the first to admit that I don’t know much about running a shop, but I do know something about business. I’m one hell of an office manager. But since I’ve never had my own business, it’s hard to know whether I have a head for the big picture. But,” she leaned forward, “I figured you’d be a good resource for me to ask whether the shop is viable financially. From what you’ve said, I get the impression that Valente left me the dog, and everyone else the diamonds. Not that I’m complaining…”

  He found himself nodding in agreement while trying not to smile at her bluntness. “Absolutely, Ms. Murphy, I—”

  “And,” she said, giving him a smile that warmed like a sip of the twelve-year-old single malt Scotch his grandfather liked, “I think you can stop calling me Ms. Murphy. Fiona is fine. Now,” she continued, rummaging in that huge bag of hers. “Please, tell me about the whol
e picture here.” She extracted a piece of paper with what appeared to be a list—of questions most likely.

  “Well, Ms. Mur—Fiona,” he corrected himself and firmly directed his attention back to the matter at hand, “in a nutshell, you’re right—the shop isn’t going to make you a wealthy woman. But it’s not in the red, either. There’s quite a bit of healthy income from rents, although the inventory of the shop does bring in a bit of a profit, both from walk-in and online sales. You won’t find yourself on the street—at least right away.”

  He pulled the information out of a folder and for the next thirty minutes, went through the property in detail as Fiona fired her questions at him.

  “So I should be able to make a living off the shop and rents,” she said at the end. Her voice held enthusiasm, but trepidation still hung on her face. “When do I get the keys?”

  Gideon almost laughed, but caught himself in time. It was amazing how she’d gone from serious, banker-type mode, bright-patterned cheaters perched on the edge of her nose, shooting off questions with little pause—to guarded enthusiasm in a split second. “As soon as you sign these title papers, I’ll be happy to relinquish the keys.”

  It was another thirty minutes before the title work and other papers transferring ownership to Fiona were completed.

  “I think we’re about finished, and I can give you those keys.”

  “Marvy!” She stood just as he did, and her ankle-length, gauzy dress settled in fluid folds around her.

  He noticed how nicely the long, simple shape complimented her, hugging well-proportioned curves and swirling about hints of long legs. It was a bronze color, made of a soft, shiny, crinkly material, and with her fair skin and chestnut hair, it made her look soft and golden...and very feminine.

  Fiona’s fine auburn eyebrows rose. “Is something the matter, Mr. Nath?”

  With a start, Gideon realized he’d been staring and, belatedly, that he hadn’t asked her to call him by his first name. “No, I just thought I’d forgotten to do something . . . but, please,” he forced a smile, wondering where his head had gotten, “call me Gideon. Now, let me get those keys.”

  He turned to retrieve the small goldenrod envelope that contained the keys to the shop and all doors of the building that Fiona Murphy now owned. Flipping the metal clasp that held it closed, he poured the keys—twenty-some in all—onto the table.

  “You have your work cut out for you,” he said wryly. “Most of these keys aren’t labeled—although a few are, and, undoubtedly, some of them are duplicates—but as for the rest of them, I have no idea what they’re for.”

  Gideon retrieved one ring with four keys on it and handed it to her. “These are for the antiques shop and they’re labeled—front and back doors, safe, and storage room.”

  Fiona took the envelope and slipped it, along with the rest of her paperwork into the cavernous leather bag and extended a hand. “I guess we’re all set then,” she smiled as he clasped her hand, feeling the ridges of the many rings that adorned her fingers. “Thanks so much for all of your help, Gideon. I really appreciate it.”

  He walked to the door with her, realizing suddenly that he would probably have no occasion to see her again, and found himself saying, “It’s been my pleasure. And if there’s anything else I can help you with, please feel free to give me a call.”

  She stopped in the doorway and gave him another of those dazzling smiles. “I just may take you up on that. Thank you!”

  ~*~

  The chimes tinkled above her head when Fiona opened the door and stepped into the long, narrow shop. The smell of age met her nose: the scent of mothballs and mustiness, old wood and worn damask. The space was dark, and it took a few moments for her eyes to adjust to the faint light.

  This was hers.

  All hers.

  A tingle of trepidation swirled through her middle, curling and squeezing in her stomach. She’d never been responsible for anything this…important before. She’d hardly been able to keep an orchid alive, and everyone knew they could go weeks without water.

  Her palms were sweating…but a giddy grin tugged at the corners of her mouth. Her mother was going to freak when she found out that Fiona owned an entire store. A business.

  She closed the door behind her, locking it, and found a table on which to rest her leather bag. Then, feeling cautiously on the wall just inside the doorway, she groped for the light switch that she hoped was there. Her fingers brushed rough paneling, fumbling over molding and across a myriad of cords that no doubt attached to lamps that were suspended above. That front wall ended, giving way to the chalky brick and mortar of the side, and Fiona had not located a light switch.

  Then, suddenly, with a little laugh, she pulled her hand back to her side. “Fiona, you are an idiot!” She shook her head at her own silliness and reached unerringly for a nearby lamp, slipping her hand under its shade to find the switch.

  A welcome glow of light filtered into a small area, highlighting the flecks of dust and mites she’d stirred up with her investigation.

  In the silence, Fiona heard the floor creak and groan as she strolled on into the center of the store. The ceiling was lower here, and she noticed that there was an unobtrusive staircase on the left side of the shop that led to a second floor. That explained why the front part of the store had high ceilings and the rear seemed close and dark like a cave. She began to climb the stairs, hesitating when she looked up into the dark, cavernous stairwell.

  Something shivered up her spine. Something like a chill, and suddenly, she didn’t want to go up there.

  Abruptly, Fiona stepped back from the stairs, and a sharp coolness enveloped her. The hair at the nape of her neck prickled and she sucked in her breath with a gasp—smelling, oddly enough, the faint scent of roses—and her heart began to bump out of rhythm in her chest.

  Her hand curling at the collar of her blouse, she backed away from the stairs and looked around. There was nothing to see.

  Fiona swallowed, tasting dust, and turned to continue her walk toward the back of the shop, berating herself for her skittishness. “I’ll get a flashlight,” she said aloud…but her voice sounded weak and hollow in the silence.

  As she did turn, something felt like it whispered past her, brushing her fingers. Fiona gave a little shriek, and, pulling her hand away, stumbled backward a few steps, bumping into a table. Something rocked on it and fell to the floor with a loud crash.

  Just then, she noticed a glow of light from near the alcove beneath the stairs, and turned to see three lamps arranged on the top of a massive piece of furniture. The one in the middle of the trio was lit—and it hadn’t been a moment ago.

  The hair on the back of her neck lifted. As she stepped toward it, caution making her movements slow, the light winked out. The smell of roses became more noticeable…and the light flickered back on.

  Fiona shook her head to clear it. “There must be a timer on this thing,” she murmured, pushing the heavy chair out of the way so that she could step closer to the large oaken desk. “Or a short in the wire.”

  She reached around and found the cord to the glowing white lamp, following it down to the depths behind the secretary. It wound behind it and disappeared into a corner. Fiona leaned over and, from the light of the lamp, could see where it went.

  When she looked, Fiona suddenly felt as though she’d been plunged into freezing water, and for a moment, she couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t react.

  Then, she was a flurry of frantic movement, whirling away from the alcove, ramming into the corner of the chair, ricocheting against a table, and stumbling toward the front of the shop. Her breath came back, furious and shallow, and her head felt light as she ran to the front door, flipping the lock open.

  Without looking back, without even hesitating, she yanked the door wide. The tinkling of the bells above barely registered in her stupefied mind as she burst out onto the sidewalk.

  The lamp was unplugged.

  ~*~

/>   The phone rang, its low-key bleep startling Gideon in the silence of his office. Rubbing his dry eyes with a thumb and forefinger, he reached for the receiver as his attention skittered over the clock on his desk.

  “Yes?” he said crisply.

  “Gideon! I knew I would find you there.” His grandfather’s voice boomed over the line as if he were in the room with him, despite the fact that static crackled in the background. “What are you doing at the office at ten-thirty on a Friday night? Don’t you have anything better to do with your time than to work?”

  Tilting his chair back so that he could rest his feet on the desk, Gideon smiled faintly. “Someone has to hold this practice together while you and Iva are gallivanting around the Caribbean in your yacht.” He loosened the tie he’d been wearing since six-thirty a.m., and snagged open the top button of his starched shirt. Ahh.