Read Online The Secret Staircase (A Wendover House Mystery Book 1) by Melanie Jackson - Free Book Online Page A

island, Harris and I headed to a sort of antiques and hardware store, clearly marked by the wheelbarrow full of books parked on the wooden walk.
    “I think Bryson took a shine to you. That’s nice because Kelvin was not always his favorite person,” Harris said. He wasn’t prying, but I knew he wondered what had amused the older policeman.
    “I told him I wouldn’t judge him for eating donuts if he didn’t judge me for being from away .” And female. And a Wendover, I guessed , if he hadn’t liked my relative.
    Harris nodded.
    “Bryson is a shrewd man. Some people miss that because of his casual demeanor.”
    “Looks are deceiving sometimes,” I agreed, thinking how much I apparently looked like a Wendover and how little that meant to me though it seemed significant to others. “And Everett?”
    Harris forgot his dignity and shrugged.
    “Everett is more formal. Less relaxed. Some people call him judge-and-jury Sands. Bryson keeps him from the tourists. Oddly enough, Everett and Kelvin got along fine. I never understood why, but he came to visit Little Goose every few weeks.”
    Harris opened the Mickle’s Emporium door for me and I stepped inside the shadowy shop of old things and new things which looked old. The creaking floors were hand-pegged like they were in Wendover House, though these boards were far more battered and they had never enjoyed a coat of wax.
    Morris Mickle , the proprietor, was introduced and after a nod, Harris set about explaining what I wanted. Morris had a lovely soft voice but he used it very little. He gave the impression of being slightly moth-eaten, a taxidermy left forgotten on some shelf. I wondered if this was by design.
    After some searching in a shallow bin, he decided that he did not have a keyed lock for the basement door, but he had a heavy bolt that would work as well. He had also just gotten in a stock of crank lantern-flashlights and crank radios. Harris complimented him on his acumen and he looked pleased.
    I got one radio and three flashlights and an adapter for my cell phone charger. That seemed like overkill if I was leaving in a few days, but I had been thinking it over and decided that I wanted time to go through the attic and look for family photos and maybe a few keepsakes to bring home. There was no reason to get back to Minnesota right away, so why rush? And besides, there could be antique treasures in those trunks and crates.
    Morris reached under the counter and pulled out a green fishing float which he wrapped in newspaper and added to my bag.
    “A house warming gift to keep you safe—though of course you’ve no need of it,” he said with a shy smile and a guilty glance at Harris.
    “Thank you,” I said. “I will hang it over the basement door. I think I have boggles down there.”
    Morris blinked but didn’t say anything.
    I was prepared to pay with a credit card as my purchases were loaded into a mesh bag, but Harris told Morris to send the bill to his office and he’d see it was paid at the end of the month.
    “Everyone runs a tab. It’s just easier,” Harris explained as we left. “And the estate should pay for these expenses for now. Probate will take about two weeks more. Then the money will be yours free and clear, but for now, don’t take on the burden of debt.”
    “I’m impressed that it is only two weeks,” I said.
    “We are not a populated county. There aren’t that many people pressing claims ahead of you, and I started the ball rolling the moment I found you.”
    The next stop was the grocer. Morris Mickle’s parents owned it. They were introduced as Mr. and Mrs. Mickle . They were straight out of American Gothic , missing only the pitchfork, and this time I didn’t offer to shake hands or attempt any off-topic conversation. Frivolity would not be welcome by the dour pair.
    Harris did not protest my purchase of a large bag of cat kibble. He probably saw all of this shopping as a sign that I was thinking of staying