Fiona eyed the staircase tucked against the left wall, but decided she wasn’t ready to climb up and see what was on the second level. Despite the glow from the myriad of lamps and chandeliers, the upstairs seemed dark and forbidding. And of course she remembered what had happened yesterday.
Instead, she made her way past the staircase and into the low-ceilinged portion of the shop, Fiona fixated on the strange, spontaneously illuminating lamp. It squatted there like an ugly, albino toad.
It was an unexceptional piece. Stocky and white, the base had small nodules texturing its milk glass curves. The shade had faded to a yellowish satin, but the fringe that edged it was still white.
Fiona didn’t take her eyes from the lamp and was watching breathlessly to see if it would come on again when a faint jingle from the front of the store startled her.
“Hello? Is anyone there?”
Fiona pivoted in surprise, banging her shin against the corner of a heavy chest. Stifling a gasp of pain, she called back, “I’ll be right with you!”
Limping slightly, trying to ignore the throb of pain in her leg, she hurried back to the front. On the way, she noticed the shards of porcelain from the clock she’d broken on her last visit, and knew she’d better find a broom somewhere soon.
When she reached the front, she was surprised to see the broad-shouldered figure of H. Gideon Nath, the Third, looming near the entrance. As usual, he was wearing expensive clothing—but at least it wasn’t a suit and tie. A sport coat, yes. A crisp, button-down shirt, yes. But no tie, and the top button (only the top one) was unbuttoned. His dark hair was combed into place, but one tiny little wave curled out of sync over his ear. This must be his “Saturday casual” look, Fiona thought with an inner grin.
He was examining a small end table topped by a Tiffany-style lamp, but looked up when she approached. He must have noticed that she favored her leg, for he asked, “Are you limping?” in that cut-to-the-chase, professional way of his.
“When you called out, you startled me so much I whirled and slammed my leg into the corner of a chest. So, thank you,” she teased lightly. Then she became serious. “Do you have more papers for me to sign?”
H. Gideon shook his head, then turned his gaze from her to scan the shop. “I’ve never been in here before. It looks like a fascinating place.” He reached out almost reverently to touch the stained glass shade of the lamp next to him. “There are some valuable pieces here.”
Fiona looked at him in surprise. She wouldn’t have expected the stuffy attorney to find an old, musty shop like this fascinating. Surely antiques would be out of place in H. Gideon’s life: he’d be all about chrome, and black and white decor with smooth lines. He’d have sleek, uncomfortable leather furniture, with few—if any—color accents.
The illumination in his high-rise condo overlooking the Grand River, she imagined, would consist not of interesting lamps, but of cold recessed lighting, wall sconces, and chilly halogen bulb lamps hanging from narrow black cords.
Abruptly, he returned his attention to her and caught her staring at him. Fiona looked away, controlling a smile, and jammed a hand through her thick hair to push it back from her face.
“Is this yours? I found it in my office after you left.” He reached into his pocket.
To Fiona’s surprise, she immediately recognized it as her gold compact. She was overcome by relief. “Oh, thank youso muchfor finding this. It was a gift from my grandmother—it must have fallen out of my bag.”
She took the compact from his long fingers, noticing how warm it was from being in his pocket, and clutched it to her chest. “I would have been devastated if I’d lost it.”
She tucked it into the pocket of her skirt. “You didn’t have to come all the way here to return it, though.” When Fiona raised her eyes, she found that he was looking at her with something much more than reserve and cordiality.
Gideon shifted his gaze away and straightened his stance—as if he could stand any taller—and said, “How about a tour of your place while I’m here? Are you open for business yet?”
“No. That’s why I was so startled when you came into the shop. The sign does say ‘Closed Due to Death’.”
“Right,” he replied, somewhat abashed.
“I think I know the real reason you came by.” She gave him a teasing smile.
“And what reason would that be?” he asked warily.
“To tell me what that initial H. stands for.”
He choked back a laugh, then shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
She rolled her eyes. “I don’t know what the big deal is.”
“Exactly my thought,” he replied dryly. “Why does it matter to you?”
“Because it’s on your nameplate and your business card. If it wasn’t a big deal, then why use the initial?”
He drew in a breath as if to argue, then simply exhaled, refusing to answer.
“Is it Harry? Or Hiram?” she pressed. “Or Hewey?”
