Page 1 of The Mystery of the Curiosities
CHAPTER ONE
TUESDAY MORNINGbegan with a brick through the Emporium window.
The seconds that followed were strangely silent. Nothing but the gentle patter of frozen February rain. Then my heart remembered to keep beating, and I could hear itsthud, thud, thudin my ears. A few pieces of glass cracked from the top of the large bay window frame and fell to the wooden floor. The sound of New York City traffic invaded my quiet, cozy cave of a shop.
“What the fuck!” Max shouted. He moved to run by me at the counter, but I grabbed his shoulders.
“Be careful,” I said, pointing at the ceramic coffee mug I’d dropped when the shattered glass scared the ever-loving hell out of me.
Max jumped over the mess and down the steps from the register. He motioned wildly at the window. “What the fuck?” he declared again.
I’ll say.
I walked down the stairs and studied the scene. Glass was everywhere and rain was coming in. “Grab a trash bag from the office.”
“The glass will just slice—”
“To put over the displays before they get soaked. Go.”
Max ran to get the bags.
I pinched the bridge of my nose and took a deep breath. What a way to start the week.
Pushing my glasses up, I went to the door, threw it open, and stepped out into the miserable morning. Rain splattered my lenses and dampened my sweater. My breath puffed around me while I looked up and down the sidewalk, as if I’d find the vandal hanging out and waiting to be caught. A couple paying the meter nearby were looking at the window in horror, and a man walking his tiny dog had to pick the animal up to avoid glass on the sidewalk.
Max was spreading out trash bags on nearby displays. “Did someone spray-paint a dick on the door too?” he called.
“No,” I answered before going back inside. “Why?”
“Add insult to injury. Should I move this stuff away from the window?”
I tugged my phone from my back pocket. “Hold on. Let me get some pictures before we move anything.” I snapped photos of the window and floor before motioning him to continue.
When I stepped away from the immediate area, I noticed the brick across the room. I went over, crouched down, and picked it up. It was just an ordinary brick. With a rubber band wrapped around it. I set my phone on the floor beside me and turned it around to see a folded piece of wet paper on the other side.
Hell. There were easier ways to get in touch with me. There was this great invention called the telephone.
Even a carrier pigeon would have been better. Because a pigeon would just crap on my inventory and be gone. A pigeon didn’t require a police report, insurance paperwork, and my jerk of a landlord coming down to inspect this mess.
I yanked the rubber band free and unfolded the paper. I don’t know what I had been expecting as I held it close to read, but it wasn’tI know you like mysteries.
“What’re you doing?” Max asked.
I glanced over my shoulder. “Someone attached a note to the brick.”
“What does it say?”
“‘I know you like mysteries.’”
“Me?”
“No, that’s what the note says,” I replied while waving the paper over my shoulder. I picked up my phone again and stood, knees cracking like I was an old man and not just a crabby thirty-three-year-old. I turned around and saw Max had gone very still. “Are you okay?”
“This isn’t going to be like Christmas, is it?”
Duncan Andrews had thoroughly fucked up my holidays. He’d been responsible for the death of my former boss, had harassed and stalked me, and had shot Detective Calvin Winter.
“No,” I said firmly, shaking my head. “Duncan is rocking an orange jumpsuit now.”
