Page 3 of Last Resort

“How about pizza?” Erik asked when the last box had been flattened. Ben opened his mouth to agree when a knock at the door startled both men. Thanks to the magical protections that surrounded Trinkets and Erik’s apartment, only a handful of trusted people were able to get close.

“Are you finished unpacking yet?” Susan stood outside the door holding a casserole in oven mitts. Her short brown hair hid gray strands, and her trim form—even in her sixties—was a testament to a dedicated Yoga routine. The afternoon had flown, and they were past the shop’s closing time.

“I figured you wouldn’t feel like cooking after all that work, so I brought my ‘famous’ chicken tetrazzini.” Susan passed the mitts and the dish to Erik. “It’s Cole’s favorite,” she confided about her son, the Cape May chief of police.

“Come on in.” Erik moved aside. “The boxes are gone, and we might move some things around, but it’s mostly done.”

Susan walked into the living room and looked around, then nodded. “I love the mix. It’s unique. Now that you’ve mixed ‘his’ and ‘his,’ it’ll be interesting to see what you add that you pick out together.”

Erik set the casserole in the oven and turned back to their guest. “Thank you for dinner. You saved us from pizza.”

“Oh, I love good pizza,” Susan said. “But there’s nothing like a homemade casserole.”

“Can you stay and eat with us?” Erik asked.

Susan shook her head. “Thank you, but I’ve got my own meal in the oven at home. I did want to bring you this.” She took a package out of her large purse and handed it off. “It came in the mail for you at the shop. Anything that’s hand-printed on brown paper packaging gets my attention. Definitely not your usual mail order.”

Erik reached for the envelope and then recoiled as his fingers touched the paper, letting it fall onto the table. Susan and Ben looked at him with concern.

“What’s wrong?” Ben moved protectively to get between Erik and the package.

“Sorry,” Erik said, chagrined. “Nothing dangerous—just surprising. Whatever’s in there had a strong emotional connection for the sender. Not sure whether it was positive or negative.”

“Is it safe to open?” Susan asked.

“It should be,” Erik replied. “And I’ll use gloves when I handle it.”

“Let’s see what’s inside.” Ben got scissors and cut the package open, careful not to damage the address or anything within. “No return address. That’s never a good sign unless there’s a note.”

Six yellowed poker chips tumbled onto the table. Ben lifted one to the light. “Fun Factory, Sewell Point, NJ,” he read aloud. “Clay chips, pretty old,” he observed.

“Casinos haven’t used clay chips since the 1950s,” Erik mused. “I’ve never heard of the Fun Factory.”

Susan shook her head. “Neither have I, and I’ve lived in Cape May all my life.”

Erik let his open palm hover above the chips. “I’m picking up excitement, tension, disappointment, and an undercurrent of danger.” He let his touch magic read the impressions left by the emotions of the person who owned them.

“There’s no ghost present at the moment, but I’m sensing enough energy that I think the chips still might be haunted. Maybe the ghost wants to get to know us better before he or she shows up,” Ben said after concentrating for a moment, and Erik nodded. Both men could see ghosts who weren’t strong enough to make themselves visible to others.

“I think there’s definitely a story behind them.” Erik frowned as he stared at the mysterious pieces. “Is there a note?”

Ben dug into the envelope and pulled out a piece of paper. “Take these with my blessing. They’ve been nothing but trouble,” he read aloud. “There’s no signature.”

“Do you think they’re safe?” Susan had worked for Trinkets long enough to have seen haunted, cursed, and possessed objects, which made her definition of “safe” different from what most people meant.

“I’m not picking up anything harmful, although the chips might have somehow caused harm to their owner,” Erik said slowly as if he was sorting out the impressions. “Maybe the person was a compulsive gambler and got into debt or trouble with the mob. I’d like to know more about the Fun Factory. From the look of the chips, I’d say they were made before 1920.”

“The Jersey Shore was pretty wild back then,” Ben said. “Cape May’s Mob was a bit more ‘refined’ than the Atlantic City crowd, but those were the Capone years. I’d be surprised to find a gambling establishment that didn’t have Mafia connections.”

Here we go again, Ben thought. He’d gotten shot as a cop because he dug up information about old Mob cases people wanted to leave buried. Erik’s art fraud investigations had pitted him against Russian oligarchs, spoiled brat billionaires, and “gentleman” mobsters with a taste for finer things. His testimony against them nearly got him killed and led to death threats that Ben and Erik took seriously, even now.

“Gotta love New Jersey.” Erik sighed. “Come for the beaches, sleep with the fishes.”

“I’ll take the chips downstairs and put them in the safe,” Susan volunteered. “We can look into the provenance later. I’m sorry to spoil your move-in.”

Erik shook his head. “No harm done. Maybe Jaxon knows more about the casino?” Jaxon Davies ran the Cape May Center for the Arts, which devoted itself to the area’s history. “It seems like Jaxon knows everything about anything local.”

“It’s worth asking. You haven’t stopped in to see him in a while,” Ben noted.

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