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Authors: Alyssa Goodnight
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lovely boudoir table I purchased from an elderly bachelor over in Fredericksburg during Trade Days.”
A muffled noise from Beck, behind me and a little to the right, had me shooting her a curious glance. She was petting a stuffed and smiling armadillo that was poised over a backgammon board with one white chip clutched in its claws. I turned back, smiling to smooth over the interruption, fairly drooling for more information.
The shopkeeper dragged her disapproving gaze from Beck and refocused it on me before finally shifting it down to settle on the journal. “As it was empty and rather nondescript, I assumed the seller wouldn’t quibble to have it back.”
She, in turn, hadn’t quibbled about selling it to me for ten dollars.
“Could you tell me the approximate age of the table?” Not that it mattered—the journal could easily be older or newer—but I felt compelled to come away with a little something more than a stowaway that had escaped a bachelor in Fredericksburg.
“I dated it as early 1920s.”
“What about the man? Do you keep records of that sort?”
“I assume you’re not referring to his age,” she inquired drily.
“No! No, no, no. Well, honestly, anything you can tell me might be helpful,” I backpedaled.
“Surely there’s little to tell about a small blank book.” She was clearly puzzled—and cranky. I could see the tight little lines around her lips, where coral lipstick was fanning into a prickly mess.
Instinctively, I slid the journal under my arm, shielding it from view.
Tripping forward on the exposed end of a rolled-up carpet stashed behind a pair of French-looking chairs, Beck materialized beside me and blurted, “We were actually wondering if you had anything else like it, stashed in another drawer somewhere.”
I jabbed my elbow into her side and smiled my friendliest trust-me smile. “She’s joking.” I stepped forward, hoping to draw the woman’s doubtful eyes away from Beck. “I’d just like to talk to the gentleman in Fredericksburg. All I’d need is his name and number ... ?”
“It’s not really our policy.”
“Just this once? As a ‘Purveyor of Curious Goods,’ you have to sympathize with someone curious about the goods, right?” Beck had stepped forward once again to present this ingenious argument, but the Purveyor was not impressed. In fact, she was frowning.
“This is highly irregular, and while I won’t give out contact information, I will call and briefly inquire about the book. Who knows? He may even ask to have it returned to him.” Now she smirked, and I had to dig deep to keep from sticking my tongue out.
Climbing down off her stool, her lips set in a disapproving line, she moved to the other side of the wraparound counter, her sensible heels clicking on the painted concrete flooring. Beck and I exchanged a quick low five and some facial acrobatics as she tapped away on the shop’s computer. When she lifted the phone to dial, I gestured wildly to Beck to move closer and scam the name and number from the computer screen. Miraculously, Beck’s awkward lunge away from the counter and subsequent tussle with an umbrella stand went unnoticed as the Purveyor replaced the phone in its cradle and turned grimly back to me.
“I’m sorry,” she said, clearly anything but. “There was no answer.” Her smile was so brittle I was afraid it might shatter. Clearly we wouldn’t be getting any more help from her. At least not on the up-and-up.
With a quickly tossed-off thank you, I grabbed Beck’s arm and pulled her toward the door, exerting a determined yank when she reached for the top volume of a stack of scuffed-up books near the door.
“What?” she demanded, after the door had swung shut behind us. “Why couldn’t we stay and look?” She dusted her hands on her rear end, and I reached into my purse in search of antibacterial gel.
“I think it’s a pretty safe bet she doesn’t have another one, Beck.” I offered her a squirt.
A muffled noise from Beck, behind me and a little to the right, had me shooting her a curious glance. She was petting a stuffed and smiling armadillo that was poised over a backgammon board with one white chip clutched in its claws. I turned back, smiling to smooth over the interruption, fairly drooling for more information.
The shopkeeper dragged her disapproving gaze from Beck and refocused it on me before finally shifting it down to settle on the journal. “As it was empty and rather nondescript, I assumed the seller wouldn’t quibble to have it back.”
She, in turn, hadn’t quibbled about selling it to me for ten dollars.
“Could you tell me the approximate age of the table?” Not that it mattered—the journal could easily be older or newer—but I felt compelled to come away with a little something more than a stowaway that had escaped a bachelor in Fredericksburg.
“I dated it as early 1920s.”
“What about the man? Do you keep records of that sort?”
“I assume you’re not referring to his age,” she inquired drily.
“No! No, no, no. Well, honestly, anything you can tell me might be helpful,” I backpedaled.
“Surely there’s little to tell about a small blank book.” She was clearly puzzled—and cranky. I could see the tight little lines around her lips, where coral lipstick was fanning into a prickly mess.
Instinctively, I slid the journal under my arm, shielding it from view.
Tripping forward on the exposed end of a rolled-up carpet stashed behind a pair of French-looking chairs, Beck materialized beside me and blurted, “We were actually wondering if you had anything else like it, stashed in another drawer somewhere.”
I jabbed my elbow into her side and smiled my friendliest trust-me smile. “She’s joking.” I stepped forward, hoping to draw the woman’s doubtful eyes away from Beck. “I’d just like to talk to the gentleman in Fredericksburg. All I’d need is his name and number ... ?”
“It’s not really our policy.”
“Just this once? As a ‘Purveyor of Curious Goods,’ you have to sympathize with someone curious about the goods, right?” Beck had stepped forward once again to present this ingenious argument, but the Purveyor was not impressed. In fact, she was frowning.
“This is highly irregular, and while I won’t give out contact information, I will call and briefly inquire about the book. Who knows? He may even ask to have it returned to him.” Now she smirked, and I had to dig deep to keep from sticking my tongue out.
Climbing down off her stool, her lips set in a disapproving line, she moved to the other side of the wraparound counter, her sensible heels clicking on the painted concrete flooring. Beck and I exchanged a quick low five and some facial acrobatics as she tapped away on the shop’s computer. When she lifted the phone to dial, I gestured wildly to Beck to move closer and scam the name and number from the computer screen. Miraculously, Beck’s awkward lunge away from the counter and subsequent tussle with an umbrella stand went unnoticed as the Purveyor replaced the phone in its cradle and turned grimly back to me.
“I’m sorry,” she said, clearly anything but. “There was no answer.” Her smile was so brittle I was afraid it might shatter. Clearly we wouldn’t be getting any more help from her. At least not on the up-and-up.
With a quickly tossed-off thank you, I grabbed Beck’s arm and pulled her toward the door, exerting a determined yank when she reached for the top volume of a stack of scuffed-up books near the door.
“What?” she demanded, after the door had swung shut behind us. “Why couldn’t we stay and look?” She dusted her hands on her rear end, and I reached into my purse in search of antibacterial gel.
“I think it’s a pretty safe bet she doesn’t have another one, Beck.” I offered her a squirt.
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