“You should call the police,” Ned suggests, his baker’s hands leaving flour prints on my counter. “Theft is theft, even in Seacliff Haven.”
“What exactly would I report?” I ask. “Officer, someone with a key I didn’t know existed took my driftwood creation but nothing else of value?”
A sharp voice cuts through the murmurs. “What seems to be the problem here?”
Sid Gillespie stands in the doorway, his tall frame blocking the morning light. Despite the early hour, he looks immaculate in a charcoal sweater and dark jeans, his salt-and-pepper hair artfully tousled.
Klara fills him in while I continue searching through a stack of sea glass I’d been planning to incorporate into new pieces.
“That’s unfortunate timing,” Sid says. “The auction is what, four days away?”
I glance up. “Yes. Unfortunate timing indeed.”
Our gazes lock, years of rivalry crackling between us. Sid’s driftwood sculptures command higher prices than mine, hisgallery drawing the wealthy summer tourists while my shop caters more to locals and those seeking affordable souvenirs. But the charity auction has always been my moment to shine, my star consistently the highlight of the event.
“You don’t think I had anything to do with this, do you?” Sid asks, eyebrows raised. “I have my own piece to finish for the auction. Why would I need yours?”
“I never said you did,” I reply, though the thought had crossed my mind.
Tommy clears his throat. “Have you checked with Dawson? He might have heard something. That antique shop of his seems to know all the town gossip before anyone else.”
I haven’t spoken more than a casual hi here and there to Dawson Morrow in years, not since his falling out with my father. But Tommy has a point. If anyone would know about unusual activities in town, it would be Dawson.
“I might stop by later,” I concede.
The impromptu gathering slowly disperses as shops need opening and the Christmas Market setup needs attending. Klara stays behind, perching on a stool by my register.
“What are you going to do?” she asks quietly.
“I have to find it. That star means everything. Not just for the auction, but for . . .”
“For your dad,” Klara finishes. “I know, honey.”
I begin tidying the counter, needing to keep my hands busy. As I move a display of small driftwood ornaments, something white catches my eye. An envelope, unmarked and sealed, tucked beneath the wooden stand.
“This wasn’t here yesterday,” I say, holding it up for Klara to see.
She frowns. “Are you sure?”
“Positive. I wiped down this counter before closing.”
My fingers tremble as I open the envelope. Inside is a single sheet of paper with a typed message:
FORGET ABOUT THE PAST OR LOSE MORE THAN YOUR DRIFTWOOD.
Klara gasps when I show her. “Marnie, this is serious. You need to call the police right now.”
I read the message again. Cold spreads through me despite the shop’s warmth. “This isn’t about the star, not really. Someone’s trying to send me a message.”
“All the more reason to involve the authorities,” Klara insists.
“And tell them what? Someone stole my craft project and left a cryptic note? They’ll file a report and forget about it by lunch.”
Klara sighs. Our police force is small, consisting of Chief Barnes and two officers, and focuses mainly on summer tourist issues and the occasional break-in at vacation homes during the off-season.
“What do you think it means? ‘Forget about the past’?” she asks.
I shake my head. “I have no idea. The star was made from driftwood Dad and I collected together, but that’s personal. No one would care about that except me.”
