Part 1 (2/2)

Genuine delight washed over me.

No more weather-ravaged, raw wood shack, though we hadn't replaced a splinter that didn't need it. No windows existed on the building's main floor, but I didn't want suns.h.i.+ne fading my vintage treasures, anyway.

We'd replaced the people door, but the huge, tall, front-facing double doors beside it, built for horse-drawn hea.r.s.es, were now sealed . . . though the same could not be said for a similar door at the side of the building.

In front, however, their sheer size in lavender with eggplant crossbeams, made the sage building pop. Magical colors, according to Aunt Fiona, lawyer, G.o.dmother, and witch. Sage: the herb to clear negative energy and the color for prosperity; lavender for harmony; purple for wisdom.

In this incarnation, Vintage Magic oozed character and charm, leaving its days as a morgue, then a funereal carriage house, to the history books.

I moved Chakra from my lap, drove across Bank Street, and pulled straight into my smooth new tarmac parking lot.

I had yet to see the transformation inside.

Between the New York job and condo to sublet, I hadn't been back in the last two weeks. But the minute both were done, I'd packed seven years of my life into a funky rental and beat my ETA by an hour.

As a result, Dad, Aunt Fiona, Eve, my best friend, and Nick, my hunky Italian boy toy, weren't here, yet. They were due soon to crack open the secret room with me; secret being relative.

Dolly Sweet, friend and centenarian, who'd deeded me the place for the price of taxes, forgot to tell me about the second-floor storage room, its doors cut so seamlessly into a wall I'd missed it on my pre-owners.h.i.+p tour. Like the rest of us, Dolly couldn't wait to find out what she forgot she sold me.

Sure, reports of b.u.mps in the night made me think twice about viewing even the bottom floor alone. But this was my building and I was the only one who hadn't seen its transformation.

Besides, I had four things on my side. A key. A can of mace. Spiked heels. And a watch cat. Who could ask for more?

I was going in.

The key my father sent me slipped into the lock like a knife through flan, or cheesecake, or tiramisu. Hmm. I forgot to eat today. Forgot to sleep last night, too, I was so busy packing.

My stomach growled as I stepped inside, the scent of fresh paint filling me with a giddy Christmas-morning rush. Chakra jumped from my arms and hit the floor with a whomp to scope out the place.

The panel of switches and dimmers behind the enclosed stairway, near the door to my horse-stall dressing rooms, allowed me to flood the room with a soft wash of indirect pale pink light. I'd asked for a hint of art deco in the mahogany trim and it looked sensational, better than my sketches.

Crazy-quilt ideas for finis.h.i.+ng touches, decorating, displays, and shop layout filled my mind.

I grinned as I perused my linen-paneled, three-thousand-square-foot dream-come-true. Vintage Magic.

The mahogany, waist-high hea.r.s.e stalls against the back wall remained intact and set the style, while a cart of matching movable lower walls awaited placement along the front and sides. I'd be able to see my customers in whatever fas.h.i.+on type or designer nook they perused.

Unexpectedly, the wind grabbed the front door and slammed it.

I jumped and Chakra howled.

A metallic clank hit the floor above us.

My heart skipped a beat. Chakra flew into my arms, her fear becoming mine as I s.h.i.+vered in my Jimmy Choos.

Sc.r.a.p! A b.u.mp in the night and no watchman in sight.

Two.

Balanced emotions are crucial to intuitive decision making.

-DONNA KARAN.

I stood glued to the spot, adrenaline rus.h.i.+ng through me while hair-raising pinp.r.i.c.ks ran up and down my arms and legs.

An unnatural silence followed, thick and heavy with jeopardy.

It couldn't be a lagging construction worker. I'd told them not to touch the upstairs.

I could call 911, wait for the police, who were so sick of coming here they might take their time. In which case, I'd chance losing the intruder. Or I could try getting a visual and a description, which would give the police something to go on.

Since the perp was a doc.u.mented runner, I decided to investigate. I wiped my sweaty palms on my skirt, propped open the front door, and hung my Lucite box bag on the outside k.n.o.b, in the event a quick getaway became necessary.

Slipping from my Jimmy Choos, I put Chakra on the floor and picked up a shoe. ”Follow my lead,” I whispered.

With a spiked heel in my right hand and a vial of pepper spray in my trigger-happy left, I went boldly forward.

I flipped the switch for the enclosed stairs, expecting to light the upper level, as had happened on my tour. Instead, a single token ten-watt lightbulb went on at the bottom of the stairs, and the second floor remained black.

Sc.r.a.p. I'd had the circuit split. It seemed a waste to light so many square feet with one switch . . . except when you were about to confront a b.u.mp in the night.

I caught movement above, stealth slithering across the ceiling, just enough to make me tremble and hesitate, but not enough to make me stop.

This was my building, dammit. I felt violated. Angry. Furious. I was a woman of action.

Impetuous had its perks. If a member of my family found themselves in this situation, they'd call me.

Acting first and thinking later worked for me. Mostly.

I looked up, beyond ceilings and roof and wind-scuttling autumn clouds. Please let this be one of those times.

Chakra kept a step ahead of me, lying low as if sneaking up on a mouse.

The first stair squeaked, sending a trickling stream of icy perspiration down my back.

<script>