Next, she turned to the leftover silver nitrate and carried the canisters of it and other chemicals to safe chemical dumps. Then she threw away every empty film roll she could find. She called Amelia and offered to send her the camera equipment, but Amelia refused.
“Do what you want with it, Cait. He didn’t trust me with it, so I don’t see any point in keeping it.”
He didn’t trust her? How peculiar.
She understood her sister-in-law’s bitterness. The whole subject of Gordon’s last days must be too painful for her, even still. Caitlin hoped she healed soon; her sister-in-law didn’t deserve such grief.
She thought it best not to tell her of Trevor’s recent fits, though curiosity urged her to do so. Had Gordon suffered the same troubles? What caused it?
She reminded herself of what the doctor said: he likely suffered no more than pure exhaustion, not uncommon in someone who had so recently experienced such a tragic loss.
She wished Amelia well and returned to the shed. There was still much to go through.
As she worked, she found she liked the little place. Yes, her brother-in-law became odd and violent in the last few months of his life, but his art began here, and she could feel the inspiration oozing from the walls. A pleasant vibe filled the room and she smiled as she opened each little box and cabinet, wondering what she’d find next.
She found several rolls of unexposed film, and some overexposed attempts, and empty film spools. She wondered if she might be able to sell them online to collectors.
Maybe Trevor could incorporate some of this stuff into his chair.
She frowned. Nah.
Caitlin stacked up another set of empty film boxes, and carried them to the trash. Sweat soaked her brow and she wiped it away. Hoisting the bag into the trash can, she noticed the plastic had torn. The trail of little boxes behind, only confirmed the discovery. “Oh, for Pete’s sake.”
She stomped across the yard, plucking the boxes from the grass.
One rattled in a way it shouldn’t have. She picked at the box top, puzzled. Better not be a roach carcass inside—or a spider. The thought of critters made her think twice about shaking the rattling thing into her hand. She shook it over the sidewalk.
Something metal bounced on the pavement, pinging as it went. As it settled, Caitlin squatted beside it. What looked like a bronze pin the size of a penny glinted up at her. “Well, I’ll be.”
Caitlin scooped the thing up. Sunlight flashed off the dull metal surface and she narrowed her eyes, studying. The back held no clasp. She decided the thing was probably a button off someone’s coat.
She turned it over and her breath caught in her throat. A stately eagle covered the item’s surface, a capital A over its chest. She tucked her find into her pocket, and swept up the other boxes, shaking them to make sure no other treasures lay hidden inside. She set the trash by the curb and rushed inside.
Cleaned up, she settled down at her computer. She had to know what this button represented.
Many pages came up in her search but finally she stumbled across an antique site that gave her the information she sought. “Button from Union uniforms; eagle denotes membership in Union Artillery. Infantry squad. New York,” she read. Union? Here?
She searched her memory trying to recall specifics of the Civil War. Should she visit Fort Pickens? Could she? No, they’d see her link to Gordon, she was sure. Even if she never produced identification of any kind, surely they’d seen the newspaper stories. Unhappily, there was one photo in existence of her and Trevor at the funeral. No way could the fort keepers have missed it.
She groaned and shut down her browser window, tucking the button into her jewelry box along with the day’s questions. She didn’t need another project now at any rate.
* * * *
By the end of the month, Trevor began having trouble sleeping once again. Caitlin tried to convince him to go back to his doctor, but he would have none of it. Besides, the drugs and exercise hadn’t helped calm him, as far as Caitlin could tell. His nightmares had become more frequent, and it seemed more important to him to be able to awaken from them, escape them, when he needed, than to have a full night’s rest. She couldn’t argue with him. If sleep disturbed him, what other choice did he have?
The unfortunate downside to all this was the strain it put on their daily life. His work for Wilkins and Brandt suffered, and Caitlin found herself in more arguments with him than she liked over his growing collection of sculpted figurines. Within the last few weeks he’d sculpted over a dozen figurines, all different sizes, but repeatedly, they remained of one thing:
That ridiculous, strange chair. Odd that. He usually sculpted all manner of designs.
She didn’t know what she was going to do about this obsession, but it was obvious something must be done.
One day in early August, he handed her a set of legal documents.
“What are these?” she asked, scrutinizing Trevor more than the papers. “Are you asking me for a divorce?”
Judging by his wide eyes, her question caught him by surprise. “No, honey. Never.” He ran a hand down the length of her hair. “Something better than that: I’m thinking about going into business for myself.”
Astonishment tightened her chest. With their less than illustrious employment, she couldn’t fathom how he might have come to this decision. They had a modest savings, but to start his own business? Impossible! They still had insurance and mortgage to pay on the house, outrageous bills they could barely afford as it was. On the other hand, he’d never planned on working in someone else’s gallery for the rest of his life. She wished he’d made this decision before they took Amelia’s offer and bought the house. How could he consider opening his own gallery now?
Maybe they could swing it on a loan from the National Endowment for the Arts, or a local version thereof. The government gave loans for the arts, didn’t they?
He laughed. “Not my own gallery, no. I’ve decided to go into antiques.”
This was even worse. Caitlin blinked, taking a deep breath, she asked him for more details and listened in a good impression of interest while Trevor explained his idea.
“Are you crazy? How the hell can we afford it?”
Trevor merely shrugged. “I’m looking into it.”
“Looking?” Caitlin clenched a fist around the edge of the desk, studying the computer screen. “What have you found?”
He sighed and sat back. “Not much. But I have thought of the perfect name for the shop.”
“What?”
“Cait’s Treasures, or Cait’s Curiosities.” He nuzzled her cheek. “No, I think Curiosities would be best.”
She pinched him. “Don’t you dare!”
“No, I like it.” He kissed her. “I think I’ll need new business cards.”
“You’ll need funding first.” She waved a hand. “No sense in adding an extra expense we can’t afford.”
“We’ll be able to.” He wound an arm around her waist. “You worry too much. It’ll work out, you’ll see. I think maybe I could sell some of Gordon’s photos.”
She closed her eyes and counted to ten, then twenty. “Just don’t jump in before you know what you’re getting into.”
“It’ll be fine,” he said and turned back to the computer. “I promise.”
For weeks on end, there wasn’t an evening that passed when Caitlin had him all to herself before he fell exhausted into their bed and ignored any attempt she made to gain his interest. He was always too weary now. He talked constantly about his latest piece and planned similar pieces in various sizes. As he planned, he worked.
She hoped he’d make the decision to sell all his pieces. She grew tired of looking at the large, elaborate chair, tired of avoiding her own attic. The right interest should convince him to sell.
She hoped it came soon.
She stood back, studying the pieces, trying to see the charm that so overwhelmed Trevor. “Damned if I see it.”
He’d done
fine work, but a shudder crawled up her spine when she looked at the pieces. They were all of them creepy. As if touched by some curse.
She wondered if he could donate them to the wax museum in Panama City.
Caitlin awoke one morning to find Trevor on the front porch, working on two more sculpted chairs in the crisp morning air. “Don’t you have enough?” she asked, taking up the cup of coffee he’d set on the porch railing. Cold. He’d been working for a while.
“These extras won’t hurt the collection.” He stepped back to survey his work, took the mug out of her hand and sipped, saying nothing about the temperature of the drink. “Besides, once the others sell I’ll need more.”
She knelt down to study his latest work. He’d carved this with a twisting apple tree motif. The little orbs seemed to glisten. She could almost see an evil queen plucking one down and dunking it in poison. The thought made her shudder. “Not to put a damper on anything, but what happens if they don’t sell?”
“They’ll sell. Marvin’s sure they will. We just need to find the right buyer.”
Marvin Hofter seemed to be doing nothing in that direction, however. She left the obvious fact unspoken. “If they don’t, where are you storing them? Is the store big enough?”
He looked over at her. “I can keep them here.”
Like hell you can. “You might think about renting a storage facility.”
He poked at his latest figurine, smoothing the clay in the opposite direction. “We’ll figure it out.”
“If you say so.” She took the mug from him and crossed into the kitchen, setting the mug in the microwave.
When she returned, his hands and mind were still deep in his work. She reminded him he would be late for work, and took the advice herself.
She spent the day scurrying around Kameko’s print shop, trying to avoid her boss’ sneering looks. She delivered a print job to a Jacksonville art gallery and the drive gave Caitlin ample opportunity to think about Trevor’s problem. What’s wrong with him? He was wearing himself out and she worried about him. He’d wake up in the middle of the night, and if she didn’t find him scribbling notes or working on his computer, he was upstairs carving away at his chair. She tried to support him, tried to encourage him—after all, the work kept him from brooding over his brother’s recent demise. She’d never had a twin, but from everything she’d seen and read they were closer than close. He should be taking Gordon’s death harder. As far as she could tell, he coped rather well. A meltdown wasn’t inevitable, was it?
Maybe opening the antique shop wasn’t such a bad idea, but she was afraid he might collapse, if he wasn’t careful. And then what? She’d caught him staring at Gordon’s work shed once or twice, and she worried what he might be thinking of his brother.
She had to do something to make him slow down. Everything didn’t have to happen all at once, did it?
When she returned home that night, she was determined to sit Trevor down, and talk some sense into him. She hoped she would do more than talk herself hoarse.
She found him comparing two of his best suits.
“What are you doing?”
“We’ve got a party to go to,” he insisted.
Caitlin blinked. “Whose party?”
“Didn’t I tell you?” He smacked a hand against his forehead. “I’m such an idiot! Abby’s set up a meeting, of sorts, with several investors.”
Things slipped his mind more often lately, it was true, but this was an incredibly strange thing for him to overlook. “Investors for what?”
“For me, of course.” He pointed to the ceiling. “We’re hoping to gain some investors to pay for the shop I want to open.”
She wasn’t sure what to think of this lapse in memory. “When tonight?”
“At seven.”
She glanced to the clock on the bedside table to see it was now five-thirty. “Seven?” Nine she could’ve handled, but seven? “What did you expect me to do? Go in my jeans? That’ll make a great impression! I swear, I’m going to—”
He took her hand and tugged her to the closet. “Please don’t make me go alone.”
“I should.” She crossed her arms. “I should make you sleep in the dog house.”
Trevor laughed. “We don’t have a dog.” He kissed her gently and despite her growing anger, warmth spread to her toes. “You’re beautiful whatever you do with yourself.”
She grunted annoyance. Beautiful my foot! She knew she at least needed a haircut if nothing else—and a manicure. Her nails still held blue ink stains from work.
“Please,” he begged. “I can’t do this without my best girl.”
“Okay.” She poked him in the chest. “Next time, give me some warning!”
She wished he’d given her some hint this time. “And wear the black one.”
She didn’t like these lapses of his at all, but she turned to her closet, and chose her favorite slinky black dress.
* * * *
Drawing Down the Shades
Antique Magic, book 3
Prologue, February 16th
The man browsed through Starfort Collectibles’ main showrooms silently for several moments, and Caitlin watched him, wondering. The box under his arm gave her pause. What was he doing here? Was he about to steal something? Or did he want to sell something? If so, why wasn’t he already talking to Trevor?
He seemed somewhere in his late sixties if she guessed correctly. The thought struck her that he might simply be passing time. She turned her attention back to her laptop and her latest blog entry but watched him out of the corner of her eye.
He turned a doll idly, set it back, and crossed the aisle to an old train set. Then he turned a corner into the far southern end of the shop. Caitlin strained over the counter to watch. What’s he doing?
He didn’t seem the type to shoplift and the Christmas holiday was long gone.
She pushed her hair behind her ear and cleared her throat. “Can I help you with something?”
The man turned, nonchalant as could be and smiled at her, shifting the box in his arms. “Actually, yes. I wondered who I might speak to about selling an item.”
“My husband can help you,” she said and shouted over her shoulder, “Trevor!”
“What?” Trevor’s deep voice wafted down from the stairs.
“Customer.”
“You can’t take care of it?” the customer asked.
“No.” She sighed and smiled. “My husband is the expert. Well, I can take a look and tell you what I think but you’ll want to speak with him before you make a decision to let this go.” She pushed her laptop aside and wiggled her fingers at him. “He’ll be right down.”
The man set the box on the desk before her and pulled at the tape holding the cardboard flaps together. Packing material rustled as he reached inside.
Trevor’s footsteps scuffed across the floor and he greeted the man. The old gentleman turned his attention back to the box, carefully removing the item inside. Caitlin peered over the top of the box curiously.
The man set down a small statuette of a woman, pouring something from a pitcher. Caitlin tipped her head. “That’s lovely, I must say.”
Trevor grunted and leaned forward. “Looks Greek.”
“German actually,” the man said.
“1920’s.”
“1960 give or take.”
Trevor pursed his lips and stepped back from the statuette, eyeing it thoughtfully. “That’s a little outside my range.”
The man pressed, “It’s a find, I can tell you that.”
“Rare?” Trevor asked.
“Oh, yes. One of a kind.”
Trevor glanced at her and back to the customer, holding out a hand. “May I?”
“Go right ahead.” He set the statuette gently—almost lovingly—into Trevor’s hands. “I think you’ll find there’s not a scratch on it. My children are tired of looking at it, you see. They say it gives them the creeps.”
Caitlin raised a brow. “How odd.??
? The little statuette looked lovely to her.
“Well, they have active imaginations. So here I saw your shop and thought you might have a solution for me.” He touched the statuette as if he didn’t want to part with it. “After I’m gone, I’d like someone to have it who’ll appreciate it.”
Trevor grunted again as he turned the little figure. Caitlin smiled at the man. “I told you, it’s his shop, his expertise.” She winked at Trevor. “I just keep the books.”
Trevor laughed under his breath, studied the item for another moment, and set it down. “It does look in mint condition. Do you have any documentation?”
The man sucked in a quick breath and reached into his coat pocket. A packet slid forth through his old fingers.
Trevor opened the packet, scanned it. He met the man’s gaze, startled, Caitlin thought. “Are you kidding me?”
“What’s the matter, honey?” Caitlin looked from her husband to the customer. When they said nothing more, she glanced over Trevor’s shoulder at the document in his hands. She caught the name Donavon before Trevor’s grip tightened on the form, crumpling the text out of view.
“Not in the slightest,” the man said as if she hadn’t spoken.
“You can’t be him,” Trevor said.
“I assure you, I am.” The man reached a hand into his coat. “Do you need to see my ID?”
Trevor narrowed his eyes. “I thought he’d died. I mean, you. I thought you’d died.”
The man pursed his lips and shook his head. “Not yet.”
“Who did?” Caitlin asked completely confused by this conversation.
“I thought everything she had,” Trevor barreled on, “was in the Museum of Fine Arts.”
The man chuckled to himself. “Not all of it.”
“Are you saying she gave some of the collection to you and you want me to have one?”
“Yes.” The man smiled sadly meeting Caitlin’s gaze directly. “Because I think you and she have more in common than you’d believe.”
Caitlin frowned. What did they have in common with whom? Who was this Donavon person? “Excuse me. What are you talking about?”
Trevor waved a hand. “Forget it, Cait.” He pointed to his office. “Of course we’ll take it. Let me just get some information from you.”