Page 30 of Quintessentially

In the house.

I look around for a weapon.

‘Right, Dax,’ I say to myself. ‘Grandma had a 45 in her bedside stand.’

My phone is here. I could call the Riverbend police.

What if I’m wrong?

Quietly, I make my way to the room I used to use and open the closet. While most things are gone, there is a stack of totes, the large plastic kind, and in the corner is a baseball bat, one smaller than the one I used last night. With my heart thumping and palms sweating, I quietly descend the staircase. The bat is in my grasp, ready to swing, and my back is to the wall, the way I’ve seen in movies.

All the rooms are dark.

I check the front door.

Locked.

Slowly, I make my way down the hallway to the kitchen entrance that goes out to the breezeway. That too is locked.

Just when I think I may be hearing ghosts, wind, or simply a creaky old house, I notice light shining from beneath the basement door.

Could I have left a light on when I turned on the water heater?

I know I didn’t.

What the fuck?

ChapterTwelve

Kandace

It seems that my heart stops beating when I get to the bottom of the basement stairs. The room that was once covered in wood paneling is now drywalled. The suspended ceiling is gone, the rafters and pipes now painted black. The change makes the room seem larger and more modern. My anxiety rises at the absence of a large pool table, one that had not been used in decades. The problem with this situation is that the pool table held the boxes and containers of merchandise. I carried them down here myself as Ruth didn’t often go down into the basement. In reality, this house became too large for one person.

Flipping switches, I move to the other rooms. They are all connected one to the other, separated only by doors. The second room is smaller. In her younger years, Ruth used this room for crafts—sewing and scrapbooking. The table and shelves are gone. As with the first room, the paneling is now painted drywall.

Why didn’t I think about this merchandise before now?

My pulse is racing at the notion of explaining the missing inventory.

Who will believe I’m responsible enough to run Quintessential Treasures if I can’t keep track of the inventory?

My steps slow as I open the last door.

Flipping the switch, I bring light to what could mostly be described as the furnace room. This room is much like it was before. I inhale, seeing the boxes stacked in the corner opposite the water heater. Quintessential Treasures is written in marker on their sides.

I hurry to the stack and pull down the top box as my heart attempts its normal rhythm. Opening the flaps, I peer inside and exhale. One by one, I look in each box. This is some of the inventory I’m missing.

Sitting on the floor, I drop my forehead to my knees.

It isn’t all present.

With my head pounding, I try to recall the items listed back at the store as tears come to my eyes. There were half a dozen holiday-themed quilts made by a woman in a neighboring county. I recalled stocking caps and mittens knitted by a group of women at the local nursing home. They knit all year long to raise money to buy gifts at Christmas.

My chest is heavy, as I stand.

I have savings, savings I planned to use in the renovation of the space over the store. It won’t matter. Losing this merchandise will be the final straw, taking away my dreams. I take one last look at the boxes. Tomorrow after the store closes, I’ll come by and get them. By Sunday, I should know who I owe, and on Monday, I’ll arrange a personal payment to reimburse the missing items.

Turning off the light, I close my eyes, ready to go home and finish what remains of Mom’s hidden wine stash.

---