She nodded. “It didn’t occur to me, quite frankly—but I can see why you’d be interested. The detectives took it—her, I mean—yesterday, and they’re going to try and identify the body. If you haven’t heard the details,” she looked up at him, raising her eyebrows in question—since he’d obviously heard something, “it’s a woman and she’s been here about fifty or sixty years.”
“I wondered about that.” Sternan leaned against a table, crossing his arms. “Incidentally, how areyoudoing, Ms. Murphy? I’m sure it was quite the shock for you to find a skeleton hidden away.”
“Please, call me Fiona. And I’m fine. I was a little freaked out at first, as you can imagine—but, well, she’s been dead a long time.”
“Yes. So, the authorities are saying she’s been dead for more than fifty years? I certainly hope that they don’t try and attach Uncle Nevio to this mess.”
“I hardly think that a fifty-year-old skeleton in your deceased relative’s shop is going to ruin your reputation.” She smiled to take any sting out of the comment.
Sternan chuckled, and he appeared more pleasant than she’d ever seen him. “I suppose you’re right. But it’s difficult to know what will affect one’s reputation and what won’t—and I work with a lot of very important, very rich, and very powerful people in my line of work.” His smile faded suddenly.
Fiona felt a little chill skitter over the back of her neck. Had that been some sort of warning? Or had all of this activity made her exceptionally sensitive?
“Well, nothing was found with the body; at least, nothing to identify who she was,” Fiona told him.
“Er…well, then, I expect they won’t be making any assumptions about how the skeleton got there. I’m just concerned my uncle’s name will be dragged through the trash.”
“Do you actually think your great-uncle smashed her on the head and stuffed her in a secret room for fifty years?” Fiona said, a giggle bubbling up inside her.
“Certainly not. Uncle Nevio might have been odd, but he wouldn’t have hurt a fly,” Sternan replied in a tone that sounded far too hearty to be real.
She looked at him with narrowed eyes as she became aware of a sudden chill brushing her cheek.
And was that the scent of roses?
The hair on the back of her neck and arms prickled. The temperature had definitely dropped.
“It was so long ago, I’m sure he didn’t even own the property at the time,” Fiona said, a trifle louder than necessary. “Surely he didn’t.”
A loud crash startled them, and she whirled. “Oh dear.” An antique china shepherdess lay in smithereens on the floor, several yards away—and nowhere in the vicinity of the Tuesday Ladies, who remained huddled in the rear of the shop.
She spared a worry as to what they were discussing or planning, but then she was distracted when she realized the shattered figurine had been close to that old walnut desk with The Lamp on it. Fiona swallowed.
“How on earth did that happen?” Sternan asked in astonishment, staring at the mess.
Fiona forced a nervous laugh. “It must have been the cat—Gretchen. I wonder where she went.” She made a show of stooping as if to look under the nearby tables, but she knew the cat hadn’t knocked over the figurine.
But the fringe on the white milk-glass lamp was swaying slightly, as if a breeze—or something else—had passed by. Yet the door and windows were closed, and there weren’t any fans to stir up the fringe.
And still, the air had cooled. Suddenly and noticeably. The tip of her nose felt icy.
“I’d best get a broom and get that cleaned up,” Fiona said, hoping to take advantage of the diversion to bid her unwelcome guest goodbye. “Thank you for coming by, Mr. Sternan. I’m sure you understand, but I have to get back to work. The forensics team left quite a mess. Thanks again for stopping by.” She moved toward the door and opened it, letting the cooling evening breeze sift into the store.
Left with little choice, Sternan nodded and began to walk out, but, like Colombo, paused for one last entreaty. “If you don’t mind keeping me in the loop on what’s going on with the body, I would appreciate it. He was my uncle, you know.”
“Yes, of course I will,” Fiona promised. He was a relative, after all. “Have a good night.”
As soon as she closed the door behind him, Fiona returned to the scarred, oaken desk in the middle of the shop and began to yank open the heavy drawers.
It hadn’t even occurred to her that Valente—that harmless old man—could have been responsible for the woman’s death, if it was indeed murder, until Arnold Sternan had appeared so concerned about it. But now that the thought had struck her, she agreed with Maxine: she needed to know when Valente had bought the shop.
“If it was less than forty years ago, he’s innocent,” she murmured, bending almost double to look in the back of the bottom-most drawer.
“Who was that?” demanded Maxine Took.
Fiona nearly shrieked as she bolted upright. How had the old woman sneaked up on her like that? Usually, you could hear her shuffling feet and thumping cane from miles away. Not to mention her peremptory voice.
“That was Nevio Valente’s nephew,” Fiona replied. She looked at the elderly woman, who was frowning and staring around the shop. Iva and Juanita joined them. “You—uh—did any of you notice how chilly it got in here a few minutes ago? Was the back door open by any chance?”
