Page 20 of A December to Remember
Maggie thought back. “Before the last time he left, so five years ago, I guess. Verity had been five when he’d taken off, she’ll turn eleven in the spring. She hardly remembers him; it’s a shame, really. I would have liked the kids to have known their grandfather better.”
“It isn’t your fault that they didn’t. That’s on him.”
“How about you?”
“When was I last at the shop?” Simone asked, and Maggie nodded. “Christ knows. Verity’s baptism maybe?”
“I’m looking forward to having a good snoop around,” said Star, a look of glee on her face.
Simone chuckled. “Now that it’s daylight and you’ve got both of us with you, you’re feeling brave.”
“Exactly.”
“I feel stressed just thinking about the disorder inside. It was fun when we were kids, but that’s because it wasn’t our shit to deal with.”
“Well, you’d better see if you can score some Valium to calm you down, then, because we’ve got no choice now. The old codger’s going to make us sort through all his crap whether we like it or not,” said Simone dryly.
“It’s going to be even worse if he’s been sending his finds back from his travels. We’ll have to go through all that junk as well.”
“Let’s concentrate on finding the Monopoly houses first.”
Artemis hopped up onto the window ledge and rubbed her head against Maggie’s hand, purring and nudging her to turn the key.
“Right!” she said, gathering herself. “We’re going in.”
The shop waslong and narrow, reaching so far back that the daylight was lost to cave-like shadow by the time it reached the end. The space was unnervingly cluttered, the kind of place that could only fit one person in each aisle at a time. Not that they much resembled aisles in the traditional sense; there wasn’t astraight line in the place. Instead they meandered lazily, curving in on themselves like a maze made of head-height bric-a-brac instead of hedges, so that every now and then you’d find yourself at a dead end and have to shuffle back out the way you’d come. The floor was original flagstone, worn smooth over time but still uneven enough to cause the freestanding shelving units to list alarmingly. In places, faded rugs laid threadbare and footworn.
Then there was the snarled-up mass of merchandise itself. A porcelain figurine inside a yellow diving helmet behind a cow-shaped butter dish, draped in a silk scarf, beside a 1939 hardcover edition ofMacbeth, which lay beneath a wooden mouse... and so it went in an eclectic jumble of items so tightly packed it was hard for the eye to single out one object from the next. Much of the tangle seemed to defy gravity as it teetered precariously on the shelves without falling.
At the back of the shop, behind a mahogany-and-glass display unit, which looked as antique as the brooches and pocket watches it housed, was the wall of clocks. Each one’s hands had stopped at exactly seventeen minutes past three.
“What time did Dad die?” asked Star, as the three sisters stood looking up at the wall of silent timekeepers.
“Don’t even start with your nonsense,” warned Simone.
“What?” she asked innocently.
“You’re going to suggest that all the clocks stopped at the time he died, aren’t you?” said Simone.
“Well, even you have to admit, it’s a bit spooky,” she retorted.
“Romantic as that idea is, Star, I’m afraid those clocks probably wound down a week after Dad left for his last expedition,” said Maggie kindly.
“I’d hardly call our father’s wanderings ‘expeditions,’ ” said Simone.
“Why not?” asked Maggie. “He was exploring in his own way. He’s a lot better traveled than I’ll ever be.”
“Yes, but at what cost? He barely even knew his own children.” Simone’s expression was petulant.
A knock at the door prevented further quarreling, though Star knew it would only be a temporary ceasefire. She began to wend her way down to the front of the shop, her sisters trailing behind her.
A smart-suited man with a trepidatious expression was peering in the window of the door, his hands on either side of his head to shield his eyes from the light outside and better see into the gloom of the shop. He flustered, embarrassed, when he saw Star and quickly moved away from the window, pushing up his glasses and picking his briefcase up off the ground. He seemed familiar to her, though she couldn’t place him.
“Can I help you?” she asked as she pulled the door open, the airflow causing several wind chimes hanging from the ceiling beams to tinkle daintily.
“I hope so, yes.” The man smiled nervously. “I stopped in at Steele & Brannigan, and they told me you were all here. I’m the appraiser from Sotheby’s. Duncan. Duncan Steadman, pleased to meet you.”
He held out his hand and she shook it. His fingers were long and thin, like a pianist’s or an artist’s, and warm as they wrapped around Star’s own hand. Suits—as a type of man—had never been her cup of tea, but there was something about him. She found herself both intrigued and soothed by his gentle manner.
