Flora descended so that we were at eye level, which meant that she was standing about four steps up.“Yeah, I caught her around the kitchen door looking like she was trying to get in.”
“When was this?”
“Couple of nights ago. Though I shouldn’t be surprised with all the goings-on around here. Tarot readings. Crystal balls. You ask me, all these people here are a bunch of weirdos. You should get a better clientele.” She fluffed the air with her duster one more time, then shuffled off toward the front parlor muttering under her breath, “No wonder murders happen here so often.”
I stood in the hallway a few minutes longer, thinking about what Flora had just told me about Anita. Why would she be trying to get in the back door and did that have anything to do with Madame Zenda’s murder?
I didn’t have a lot of time to think about it because just then I saw Millie’s decades-old Dodge Dart drive in. Mom and Millie jumped out and hurried to the front door, stopping short when they saw me standing in the hallway.
“Oh good, you’re ready,” Millie said. “We’re going down to Felicity’s Fabrics. They have the largest selection of buckles in town.”
I was momentarily confused.“Buckles?”
“Yeah, you know, like they found on the body.” Mom lowered her voice. “If we figure out who bought the buckle, we figure out who the killer is.”
“Speaking of which,” Millie said. “Do you still have that book with the historical etchings and photos of the guesthouse in it? I think there might be one we can use to validate whether or not that buckle really is Jed’s.”
Millie had left lots of things in the guesthouse. Furniture, doilies, plates, glasses and books, including a history of Oyster Cove that featured historical photos, etchings and drawings of the guesthouse. It hadn’t always been a guesthouse; initially it had been built by Jedediah Biddeford as a family estate, then over the years it had been expanded and eventually turned into an inn. I remembered one of the earlier etchings featured Jed and his family sitting in front of the house all dressed up. Apparently, Millie wanted to scrutinize it and see if we could match the buckle.
“It’s in the kitchen.”
Mom and Millie followed me into the kitchen where I plucked the book out of the bookshelf and handed it to Millie. Nero and Marlowe must have had their fill of breakfast treats because they trotted in and begged Millie for attention, which she had no trouble providing. After petting the cats for several minutes, she flipped through the book, stopping on the page with the drawing of Jed’s family. Jed sat in a chair, a small child on his knee and older children beside him. A dour-looking woman in a voluminous black dress, who I assumed was his wife, stood behind him. Off to the side several servants were lined up.
Millie whipped out her cell phone and zoomed in on Jed’s shoe. “Look at this! The artist must have been very good, it looks so realistic. Almost like a photo. And look at his shoes! Does this look like the buckle we found on the body?”
I peered over her shoulder. My memory of the buckle on the body was fuzzy, but it looked similar.“Hard to tell, that drawing might not be exactly accurate. Looks like it could be, but I’m sure the buckle on Madame Zenda wasn’t an actual buckle from Jed.”
“Yeah but why would someone go to the trouble of getting a buckle that looked like that?” Mom asked.
Millie snapped a photo.“Probably because they just wanted it to look like it could be Jed’s. Maybe I can persuade Seth Chamberlain to tell me if the buckle is a replica or not.”
Mom and I remained silent. Millie had a way of“persuading” Seth to tell her things about the investigation that he wouldn’t normally tell a civilian. Neither one of us wanted to know exactly what she did to get that information.
“So far the only thing I’ve been able to get out of him is that the note wasn’t real blood and the murder weapon was wiped clean.” Millie shoved the cell phone into her large purse. “Come on, girls. All we need to do is show the picture of that buckle to Felicity and find out who bought asimilar buckle and we can solve this case.”
Eleven
Felicity’s Fabrics was crammed with bolts of cloth—cotton, linen, taffeta, silk—in a rainbow of colors and patterns. Felicity, a woman in her sixties who had owned the store ever since I was a kid, sat at the register, her glasses perched on her nose and a colorful beaded eyeglass holder looped behind her neck.
“Millie! So good to see you again.” She leaned across the counter. “Are you here for more sheer fabric for another nightgown?”
Mom and I glanced at Millie, who at least had the modesty to blush.
“No. I’m here with a question.” She whipped out her phone and showed Felicity the picture of the buckle. “Do you have any buckles that look like this?”
Felicity pushed the glasses up her nose and scrunched up her face as she picked up the phone and held it at arm’s length from her face. “This looks like an antique.”
“Yes, but you have antique replicas here,” Millie said.
“Not like this.” Felicity handed the phone back to her.
“Are you sure? Has anyone been in asking about replicas of old buckles?” Millie persisted.
“Nope. Sorry.”
“And you’re absolutely sure?”
Felicity gestured to the side of the store where little cards hung in dozens of rows.“Look for yourself. These are all the buckles I have. You will find nothing that resembles the buckle on your phone.”
Millie bustled off toward the buckles and Mom and I followed. I shot a“thank you” over my shoulder at Felicity. A few minutes of studying the buckles proved that Felicity was correct. Nothing even close to the buckle that had been on Madame Zenda’s body was on display.
“Well, how do you like that, I thought we’d have this case solved by noon and could celebrate at the Marinara Mariner for lunch.” Millie’s shoulders slumped, the wind taken out of her sails.
Mom snapped her fingers.“Wait a minute. All is not lost. What about the antique store? I bet they have a lot of old buckles.”
Felicity nodded.“Sure they do. Lots of old stuff over there. And Agnes is doing some restoration and repurposing work, maybe she restored your buckle.”
We hustled toward the door, Millie stopping to admire a see-through pink polka-dot sheer fabric on display. I didn’t even want to try to imagine what she would make out of it. Some things were just better not to think about.
Withington’s Antique Store was across the street. Traffic was always light in Oyster Cove, so we sauntered across, admiring the colorful barrels of flowers and cheerful store awnings. The town had made sure that everything was in tip-top shape for the two hundred and fiftieth celebration a few weeks ago and the streets practically gleamed. Store windows sparkled; the cafe had put out several scrolly wrought-iron tables and chairs; and the whole thing was reminiscent of a Parisian sidewalk.
It was picturesque, especially with the cats that were trotting into the alley between the cafe and Withington’s. Wait… that looked like Nero and Marlowe. As I watched, Nero glanced back over his shoulder, his eyes catching mine. I could have sworn he nodded before turning back and continuing on his way. This wasn’t the first time I’d seen the cats downtown and it made me wonder how they even got down here. Was there some secret shortcut? If there was, I wouldn’t mind finding out so I could use it myself.
Withington’s Antiques smelled like old furniture and lemon pledge. It was crammed to the gills with oak servers, mahogany dining-room sets, crystal chandeliers and lighted glass cases full of vintage jewelry and knick-knacks. Agnes Withington had run the shop since I’d been in diapers and she had to be ninety years old. She sat behind the counter on a stool, a petite thing with a shrewd gaze.
She smiled as she recognized Mom and Millie.“Millie and Rose, what a pleasant surprise!” Her inquisitive gaze drifted to me.