“What have you found this time, treasure hunter?” I call out and make my way toward him.
Finn looks up proudly. His dignified bearded face frames a medium-sized piece of driftwood gripped carefully in his strong jaws. He presents it to me with a formal dip of his massive head. His tail is held high with satisfaction.
I accept his gift and turn the smooth wood over in my hands. It’s oak lightened by its time in the sea, with a natural curve that would fit perfectly as part of . . .
My breath catches. This piece is nearly identical to one I used in the star’s central point, like a partner separated at sea.
“Good boy, Finn,” I whisper and tuck the wood into my pocket. “This is coming home with us.”
Dad always said things wash up on this beach for a reason. Guess I’m getting superstitious in my old age - thirty-four isn’t exactly ancient, but sometimes I swear I can hear Dad’s laughwhen Finn finds something special. Like the universe is sending me little reminders.
We walk toward the boardwalk, which is really just a sidewalk on the other side of a massive rock wall. The lights of Seacliff Haven twinkle ahead, reflected in the harbor waters. Tomorrow brings the official start of the Christmas Market preparations, culminating in the charity auction where my star will take center stage.
Chapter Two
The holiday music playing in my shop normally puts me in a festive mood, but this morning it grates against my rising panic. I stand in the middle of my shop, staring at the empty window display where my driftwood star should be.
“It has to be here somewhere.” My voice sounds off in the quiet shop. “I know I put it in the window last night.”
Finn paces beside me, his black coat gleaming under the shop lights, his intelligent eyes tracking my movements. His beard twitches as he sniffs the air.
I arrived at Driftwood & Décor early, eager to add the final touches to my window display before the official start of Seacliff Haven’s Christmas Market preparations. The cardboard tray of coffee and pastries from K’s Korner Kafé sits forgotten on the counter, steam still rising from the cups. My excitement had died the moment I flipped on the lights.
The star is gone.
“Maybe I moved it last night and forgot?” I suggest to Finn, who tilts his head. Even to my own ears, the explanation sounds unlikely. That star represents weeks of work and a priceless connection to my father. I wouldn’t simply misplace it.
I begin a painstaking search of the shop, checking behind the counter, in the small storage room, under tables covered with works in progress. Finn follows close behind, his nails clicking on the wooden floor.
“It was right here,” I say, tapping the glass of the front window. “I placed it here myself before we left for our walk.”
The panic that had been simmering now boils over. I rush to the door, examining the lock for signs of tampering. Nothing looks disturbed. The cash register remains untouched, with the day’s float still inside. Nothing else appears to be missing, just the star.
My star. Dad’s memorial.
The phone feels heavy in my hand as I dial Klara’s number. She answers on the second ring, with the sounds of her busy café in the background.
“Klara, it’s Marnie. Did you . . . did you happen to borrow my driftwood star for the café? Maybe as a surprise decoration or something?”
Her silence tells me everything before she even speaks. “No, honey. Why would I take it without asking? Is everything okay?”
“It’s gone,” I say, my voice quieter than I intend. “I came in this morning and it’s just . . . gone.”
“I’ll be right over.”
While waiting for Klara, I continue searching. Finn stays close, nudging my hand with his nose when my movements become too quick.
The bell above the door jingles as Klara bustles in, a cloud of flour and cinnamon trailing her. “Tell me exactly what happened,” she says, her usually cheerful face lined with concern.
I tell her about the night before, and how I had positioned the star in the window, locked up, and taken Finn for our beach walk. “When I came in this morning, it was gone. Nobroken windows, no forced locks. Nothing out of place. Just . . . vanished.”
Klara checks in places I had already examined twice. “Could someone have a key? An old employee, maybe?”
“It’s just me,” I reply, leaning against my workbench. “Dad was the only other person with a key, and I changed the locks after he passed.”
The bell jingles again as Bea from Seashell Books & Baubles enters, carrying a tray of hot chocolate. “I saw Klara rushing over and thought you might need reinforcements. What’s happened?”
Soon, my small shop fills with concerned neighbors. Monica, Tommy, and even Ned from The Twinkling Tides Bakery crowd around, offering theories and support.
