“The lamp is back on.” She pointed behind him with a finger that trembled even as she clutched the sleeve of his shirt with a death grip. “See it?”
Gideon took a hesitant step toward the back of the shop, then, when she started to follow, he lengthened his strides.
“It’s not plugged in,” she babbled, feeling lightheaded and confused. “And it keeps coming on. That one lamp.”
When they came around a tall escritoire and full-faced into the alcove, Fiona stopped short. The tension flooded from her, leaving her limbs weightless and numb, and immediately, embarrassment replaced her fear.
On the mammoth walnut desk, where the three lamps stood like a row of gateposts, Gretchen sat calmly cleaning her paw. She was, no doubt, cleaning the paw that had just batted at the dangling chain-switch for the Tiffany-like glass lamp of red and blue…the light which now glowed there in the alcove.
Gideon shot her a confused look, but, thankfully, he didn’t say anything. Fiona wanted to sink into the floor. How much more of a madwoman was she going to be around him?
Gamely, he reached around behind the lamp, pulling its cord and following it down into the dark recesses of the corner as Fiona had done with the other lamp shortly before.
“It’s plugged in,” he said, straightening, looking at her closely.
Fiona darted a glance at the other lamp—TheLamp—which sat innocently in the far corner of the desk and didn’t even hint at being alit. She forced herself to give a short laugh and turned away—wanting to get out of there as quickly as possible.
“Must’ve been the cat,” she said lamely, curling her fingers into the palms of her hands. It was a good thing she had no nails to speak of, or she would have drawn blood.
“Yes, it must have been the cat.” Gideon’s voice was carefully level and neutral. He gave her a long, steady look, then turned away, starting back toward the front of the shop.
After glancing over her shoulder at the lamps again, Fiona followed, feeling like a complete idiot…but at the same time, frightened and disconcerted.
She wasnotcrazy.
When she rejoined Gideon, he was pulling on his jacket. Flipping the collar down and smoothing the sleeves, he looked up at her. “So, when are you planning to open for business?”
“Tuesday.”As long as the place doesn’t keep freaking me out.She gritted her teeth. “Baxter James—he’s the owner of B-Cubed Brewery here in town, if you don’t know, and he also does freelance writing—did a feature on the shop for thePressthis weekend. Hopefully that will spur lots of folks to come and check it out.”
He still looked bewildered—like he was ready to bolt—so she decided to make it easy on him. “I’m glad you stopped by, Gideon, but I have a lot of work to do before Tuesday. I’d enlist your help,” she said with a teasing smile, “but you’re not really dressed for the occasion.”
She started to walk toward the front door, hoping he would take the hint. She couldn’t stand to have him continuing to look at her as if afraid she’d turn into a screaming idiot at any given moment.
“Ah, yes. Well, let me know if there’s—err—anything I can do. If you have any other problems with the—the lights.”
Fiona’s cheeks warmed. “Certainly. Thanks again, Gideon.” She nearly pushed him out the door, and watched covertly as he started down the street. As soon as he rounded the corner out of sight, she grabbed her leather bag, shot out of the store, and slammed the door behind her.
* * *
He was beginning to get worried.
In more than six weeks, he’d found no sign of old Valente’s journal or the bank statements he knew existed.
Fiddling with his gold-plated fountain pen, he pursed his lips and tried to quell the nervousness that roiled deep within. If he didn’t know for certain the journal existed, he wouldn’t be so damned concerned—but Valente had mentioned it more than once, so he knew all of the old man’s dirty secrets were written somewhere. His nostrils flared as if he smelled something rank.
Why the hell had the bastard insisted on writing everything down anyway?
He slammed his hand onto the desk, and the fancy pen flew from his hand and clattered onto the floor. What kind of fool would leave a paper trail of sins behind him?
He’d torn apart every file, bookshelf, box, and drawer in Valente’s home since his death—very carefully, of course, for the others knew nothing about the old man’s secrets or his egotistical need to write them down. He had only learned about it by chance…but once Valente realized out he knew, the old man seemed to feel the need to divulge every aspect of his sordid life—as if he was unburdening himself.
That was the best thing Valente had ever done for him, besides leaving him pots of money—for if he didn’t know enough to be concerned about that damn journal showing up, he wouldn’t be looking for it. And then, when it did appear someday, as it was bound to, he would be broadsided and lose everything.
That could not happen. He’d worked too hard to get where he was to allow the old man to bring it tumbling down around him—especially after the bastard was dead.
There was only one more place left to look.
His hand sidled over to the well-creasedGrand Rapids Pressand picked up the weekend section, where there was quite an admirable spread about a little antiques shop and its grand reopening.
