Part 1 (1/2)
LARCENY AND LACE.
by Annette Blair.
A Ghost of a Chance.
A spicy whiff of aftershave reached me. Probably a male, as I a.s.sumed. An intruder with cla.s.s? Well, one who bathed and shaved, anyway.
I put down the pepper spray to pick up Chakra, who licked my arm as I nuzzled her. ”You scared off that big bad intruder with your howl, didn't you, sweetie?”
Between my fear for her and the potential, albeit aborted, attack on my person, the episode left me trembling.
It took a minute for me to unlock my elbow and loosen my white-knuckled grip on the crowbar before I could lower it to my side, though I wasn't ready to let it go.
My heart, echoing in my head, slowed by the beat, thanks to our safety and Chakra's soothing presence.
As an aftermath to the adrenaline rush, I began to relax and s.h.i.+ver.
A husky, ”Bravo,” was whispered in my ear.
Chakra howled, jumped s.h.i.+p, and ran for cover.
With a honed fight or flight instinct, I screamed and wielded the crowbar, intending to beat the speaker to a b.l.o.o.d.y pulp . . .
Dedicated with love to:.
Tunney Lague:.
Your friendly meat cutter. A recipe for every cut.
A kind word and a handsome smile for every customer.
A joke for every occasion.
Awesome cook.
Proud war veteran.
Giver of great pony rides.
Miss you, Dad.
Author's Note.
Mystick Falls and its role as Mystic's governing body, the Phantom Coach Road, and the carriage house on Bank Street, home of Vintage Magic, are figments of my imagination. I took the liberty of eliminating River Road and located Mystick Falls in a nature sanctuary across the Mystic River from the seaport. The river, the seaport, and its s.h.i.+ps, historic downtown Mystic, and Mystic Pizza-of movie fame-are real and well worth a visit. Though I throw in a real Mystic shop name, on occasion, characters come with fictional shops.
One.
I find that it is vital to have at least one handbag for each of the ten types of social occasion: Very Formal, Not So For mal, Just a Teensy Bit Formal, Informal but Not That Infor mal, Every Day, Every Other Day, Day Travel, Night Travel, Theater, and Fling.
-MISS PIGGY.
If I hadn't asked my New York cronies to mention my grand opening in their national fas.h.i.+on magazines, I might be able to breathe as if I weren't wearing Scarlett O'Hara's corset.
Thirteen days before Halloween. Thirteen days to open Vintage Magic, my dress shop for timeless cla.s.sics and designer originals.
What was I doing to make it happen? I was driving home to Mystic, Connecticut, from New York after working out my contractual two weeks' notice, rather than forfeiting the bonus I needed to turn my building into Vintage Magic.
As I drove, grinning witches and twinkling pumpkin lights mocked me. I needed a tucking miracle.
My name is Maddie Cutler, well, Madeira, a former New York fas.h.i.+on designer, and I can fix anything, with the possible exception of cloning myself. So you can imagine my frustration two weeks ago at having to hand my shop's renovation reins over to my father.
Harry Cutler, staid academic, planned ahead. His oldest daughter, creative free spirit-that would be me-did not, which is how I got myself into this.
The silver lining? I pa.s.sed my departing construction crew near Mystic Seaport. Finished. Finally. And only three weeks late.
The flaw in the fabric? A faxed report from the construction crew's night watchman. A rash of b.u.mps in the night and running feet into the early hours of the morning. Note from said watchman: The Mystick Falls police are getting ticked at being called every night ”with no perp to show for it.”
I did not need any more grief from my old nemesis, Detective Sergeant Lytton Werner, also known as ”the Wiener,” thanks to a certain third-grade brat-that would also be me.
My complicated relations.h.i.+p with the local police aside, did the b.u.mps in the night worry me? You bet your French knickers, they did. Why this sudden interest in a building that had been boarded up and left undisturbed for more than half a century?
I hoped never to find out.
Tomorrow I'd start moving in my stock and setting up my displays. How long could it take? I'd only been collecting vintage my whole life. Oy.
As I turned onto Bank Street, I heard raised voices in the distance, which anyone who pa.s.sed the playhouse across from my shop heard at one time or another. Broderick Sampson, the curmudgeon of an owner argued with everyone. Just another sign I was home.
I pulled into the crowded lot behind Mystic Pizza to view my building from across the street. I had always admired the original copper weathervane, a s.h.i.+p in full sail time-coated a soft green, but I loved the new Victorian streetlamps brightening my parking lot and the spotlit old-fas.h.i.+oned tavern sign hanging above the door: Vintage Magic in bold white on a dark eggplant-colored s.h.i.+eld. Behind the shop name stood a pale lavender side silhouette of a woman who could be Jackie O., the sixties being such a popular vintage.
I finally uncrated my squalling kitten, who would rather have been riding shotgun from the armrest, and she came to make her own a.s.sessment.
I refused to stress over the parking-lot debris marring the scene: empty wire reels and a mountain of boxes at my front door. You'd think the crew would have cleaned up.
The yellow fur ball purred and curled against my solar plexus chakra, an intuitive move on her part. She had the uncanny ability to calm me. Because of it, I'd named her appropriately. ”What do you think, Chakra? Beautiful?”
She approved with a soft meow.