Where There's A Will: A Glass Dolphin Mystery, #3

1

Appraisal Day. Arabella Carpenter was alternately looking forward to and dreading her business partner’s latest marketing scheme. Arabella was out of her comfort zone with the project, but it was true that Antiques Roadshow and programs like it had large, devoted audiences. Emily wanted to follow Appraisal Day with an Appraisal of the Week feature on their website, which seemed like a good idea. But last summer’s idea—sponsoring a hole in one contest at a charity golf tournament—had seemed good, too. Unfortunately, it had been a bust; finding a dead body in the woods had a way of putting a damper on things. But Emily Garland assured her Appraisal Day would give the Glass Dolphin the boost it needed.

Keep the lights on was more like it. Folks didn’t collect twenty teacups or dozens of Blue Willow platters anymore. In fact, most of those collectors were either dead or downsizing. Unless something was rare and in pristine condition, or truly unique, the market was soft at best, nonexistent at worst. There was a time when brown furniture—an antiquer’s catchall term for wood—sold well for solid prices. That was until mid-century modern became the latest darling of interior designers and decorator magazines.

Arabella had a sense of what might be trending next, but that wasn’t the point. She knew, from her economics classes, that the first two years of any business venture were the most precarious. Getting established meant a lot more than stocking quality inventory and keeping it fresh. There were profit margins to consider, although she’d learned sometimes you were forced to sell something at a loss to pay the rent. That had only happened twice so far, but both times it had stung. And now their landlord was jacking up the rent.

Her know-it-all ex-husband, Levon Larroquette, had warned her about the risks of opening a brick and mortar location on Lount’s Landing’s historic Main Street. He’d said, Brick and mortar means overhead and overhead could be the difference between making money or losing it, and that the idea of breaking even was the cruelest joke of all, giving a shop owner false hope that things would eventually turn around.

The rational side of Arabella knew Levon had a point, but owning her own store had been her dream for as far back as she could remember. She couldn’t imagine going back to her nine-to-five job at McLelland Insurance.

An antiques picker since his late teens, Levon had earned a decent living in the past two decades, and he’d taught Arabella most of what she knew. And though she’d remained friends with her ex—and occasionally, if regrettably, more than just friends—she wasn’t cut out for the rootless life of a picker.

So here she was, getting ready for the Glass Dolphin’s very first Appraisal Day, the doors set to open in under an hour, and where was Emily? Off house hunting. With her fiancé, no less.

Emily felt moderately guilty about not being at the Glass Dolphin for Appraisal Day, but the truth was she was more likely to be a hindrance than any sort of help. Sure, she’d been studying under Arabella for the past few months, but she had miles to go before she would be qualified to offer an appraisal. Her background was in journalism, and her role as partner in the shop was primarily focused on marketing, which was why she’d come up with the Appraisal Day concept. Arabella had been a reluctant participant at first, but she’d gradually warmed to the idea, albeit with extreme caution. That, to Emily’s mind, was Arabella’s biggest problem. The woman didn’t know how to chill out and have fun. And ever since her short fling with Hudson Tanaka had ended, she’d been broody, too. Would Arabella ever admit to herself that it was Levon or no one?

The break-up with Hudson had caused a few minor ripples in Emily’s life. She had recently become engaged to his best friend, Luke Surmanski, but it was nothing they couldn’t work around. When the big day came in two months’ time, Hudson would be the best man, Arabella the maid—or was it matron?—of honor, and they would all behave like mature adults.

In the meantime, she and Luke needed to find a house of their own, and soon. Emily wasn’t about to live in Luke’s drafty bachelor flat on top of Luke’s Lakeside Marina, even if the view of Lake Miakoda was lovely, and her one-bedroom apartment in Lount’s Landing was too small for the two of them. Besides, it was a rental. In Emily’s mind, if you got married, you bought a house. End of story.

They’d been house hunting for a couple of months in Cedar County’s tri-communities of Lakeside, Miakoda Falls, and Lount’s Landing, but nothing had screamed buy me to Emily. She didn’t want a new build, every house the same as the one next to it. It had to be something older, with character, ideally with Victorian architecture. Not too big, but also not too small, a house large enough to accommodate a family, and a yard with space for a garden—veggies and flowers—a swing set, maybe a wading pool. And it had to be near good schools.

Luke was getting frustrated, as was their realtor, Poppy Spencer, but Emily would know the perfect house when she saw it, and no amount of pressure was going to force her to settle for second-best. This was going to be their forever home, period. She wasn’t packing up and moving every time the wind blew in a different direction. She’d moved enough to last her a lifetime.

Even so, she had fully intended to be at the Glass Dolphin on Appraisal Day, until Poppy had called her late the night before, too keyed up to wait until morning. After nearly a decade of being rented out, the old Hadley house was finally on the market. According to Poppy, it was priced to sell and would get snapped up fast.

Emily had hesitated at first, given what she’d heard about the property’s history. How many people wanted to buy a house where the owner had been murdered? True, he hadn’t actually been murdered in the house, but the case had never been solved, and for the past decade, tenants had come and gone, none staying beyond a few months, most no more than a few weeks. Rumor had it the spirit of Esther Harriet Hadley haunted the house, unable to rest until her husband, Martin’s, killer or killers were brought to justice.

Even so, she had to admit that the Hadley house appeared to tick all their boxes, at least from the description and photographs on the agent’s website:

Location, location, location! This rustic four-bedroom, two-bathroom Victorian charmer on desirable Walnut Street includes a generous garden for your green thumb and a high-ceilinged lower level with loads of potential. Put your own stamp on this one. Motivated vendor.

Emily had seen enough houses to know that rustic charmer translated to needed serious renovations, whereas the generous garden for your green thumb meant an overgrown, weed-infested plot of land, and the lower level with loads of potential was realtor speak for an unfinished basement. But the Walnut Street location was absolutely perfect—a ten-minute walk to the Glass Dolphin, and a short drive to reach the main road to Lakeside for Luke. Buy the worst house on the best street, Poppy had said, and this house certainly qualified.

Prospects and possibilities, that’s what a house was supposed to be, not just four walls, a roof, and a place to sleep. Emily browsed through the online photos and virtual tour multiple times, and thought this could be the one, the creepiness factor of the old murder notwithstanding. Besides, it wasn’t as if she believed in ghosts.

2

Arabella opened the front door of the Glass Dolphin to find a half dozen people waiting, each one carrying a box, bag, or parcel. It was a promising start, better than she’d expected, and she didn’t recognize a single face. New clientele? Maybe this would work out after all.

She welcomed each person, knowing, as she did it, that she was going to need help, if only to manage the store while folks milled about waiting for their turn at the appraisal table set up at the back. It wouldn’t do to lose a sale, or heaven forbid, have something stolen from right under her nose. She excused herself, cursed Emily under her breath, and made a quick call to Caitie Meadows, their sometimes shop assistant, who agreed to come right over. Arabella summoned up a bright smile, and, in an effort to kill time before Caitie arrived, gave everyone a quick tour.

We have a wide selection of antique and vintage merchandise, all strictly vetted, along with some lovely pottery, jewelry, wooden ware, and quilts, handcrafted by local artisans, she was saying as rainbow-haired Caitie strolled in, and she felt the pressure in her chest subside. Feel free to browse while you wait. Now, who wants to go first?

There was a bit of shuffling, and after several awkward moments, a young, prematurely balding man stepped forward. Unfortunately, the open-faced pocket watch he thought was old and solid gold was a 1960’s gold-plated reproduction. Arabella did her best to break the news gently, pointing out the lack of a carat stamp and the tarnish that wouldn’t be there on real gold, but there was no mistaking the disappointment etched on his face. She could feel all eyes on her and knew she had to say more.

What’s your name?

Matthew.

Matthew, Arabella said, her voice soft. Does this watch have sentimental value?

Matthew admitted the watch had belonged to his late uncle, and that he had always admired it as a child. He’d done some research on the internet and… His voice had trailed off, the admission bringing a scarlet flush to his cheeks. Arabella wanted to tell him that the internet could be a minefield of misinformation, but that would only serve to embarrass him further. It was better to share some history.

The reality is, Matthew, even if this one had been vintage, open-face pocket watches were made in tremendous quantities, especially those produced by Elgin or Waltham, like this one. So regardless of the age, there would likely be limited monetary worth, something in the range of a hundred dollars, depending on the model and condition. However, your uncle loved you enough to leave this for you to treasure and remember him by. That makes this very special.

Matthew surprised Arabella by hugging her, and the rest of the folks in the shop clapped. The ice had been broken.

The next object—an intricately carved whale’s tooth—was also a fake. Arabella felt sorry for the excited young couple who had discovered their great find at a local estate sale, but this wasn’t scrimshaw; it was what was known in the business as fakeshaw, a thermoplastic polymer resin meant to replicate the look of ivory and bone.

The couple, Sal and Sally, had been recording the appraisal on their cell phones, perhaps wishing for a big reveal to post on social media. They turned their phones off and said they had done a hot needle test, and the needle couldn’t penetrate the bone. Tried a match and it wouldn’t burn. That meant it was real, didn’t it? That it was bone, not plastic?

Unfortunately not, Arabella said. Those tests were useful forty years ago, but, as you can imagine, the makers of fakeshaw changed their formulas to more closely resemble real bone. Even savvy antiques dealers have been fooled. As for this example, if the intention of the maker was to deceive, they have succeeded admirably. Can I ask if this whale’s tooth was represented to you as authentic, and did you pay a lot for it? If so, that would be fraudulent and you might have recourse.

Sal and Sally shamefacedly admitted that there had been no claims of authenticity. It was just one of many items at the estate sale, and no, they hadn’t paid a lot, about ten dollars, thinking they’d found something truly special. I suppose we should leave the antiques picking to the experts, Sal said, and Sally had nodded, though she looked close to tears.

Well, it’s worth ten dollars from a decorative standpoint, Arabella said, though as far as she was concerned a fake anything was worthless. But the last thing she needed was a sobbing Sally making everyone else in the shop uncomfortable.

Arabella was grateful the next few items, though neither rare nor valuable, were the real deal. First was a 1960’s McCoy Pottery cookie jar in the shape of a golden delicious apple, a chip on the leaf-shaped handle, not that the chip mattered much—the cookie jar collecting craze was firmly rooted in the last century.

Next was a dragon-decorated tea service stamped Made in Occupied Japan, pretty in its own right, but produced in great quantity during the seven-year allied forces occupation of Japan following the end of World War II. The workmanship was good, but values at auction were almost always less than a hundred dollars.

There was also a complete set of old china with a gold-rimmed scalloped edge and a delicate floral pattern. But even the Royal designation in the name didn’t give the set any monetary value. No one wanted old dishes any more; they weren’t microwavable, you couldn’t put them in the dishwasher, and most contained lead-based glazes. A family keepsake to be safeguarded for future generations and used on special occasions was the only way Arabella could spin it.

The day went quickly, the last man and his vintage postcard collection had left five minutes earlier, and with one exception, everyone else, Caitie included, were long gone. The exception was an attractive woman in her late twenties who’d been there since late morning, a canvas bag cradled in her hands. Her hair was long, wavy, and dyed cherry bomb red, a color that shouldn’t have worked with her pale complexion, but did. A tattoo of a turquoise-feathered dreamcatcher flowed from mid-thigh to above the knee, a black leather mini dress and leopard print stiletto heels showcasing her well-toned legs.

The woman had watched and listened to every appraisal with unabashed curiosity, her dark eyes taking in every last detail. At first the attention had been flattering, but as the day wore on, it bothered Arabella. There was a hard edge to her, an undercurrent of something Arabella couldn’t quite identify, and wasn’t sure she’d want to. Her inner instinct told her you wouldn’t want to be on the wrong side of this one.

And her inner instinct was seldom wrong.

3

The woman introduced herself as Faye Everett and apologized for waiting until the end. I wanted to be sure that you knew your stuff, she said. Lount’s Landing isn’t exactly Toronto.

When did Toronto become the gold standard for measuring the worthiness of antiques dealers, Arabella wondered, biting back a snarky response. I assume I made the grade since you’re still here. Okay, maybe still a little bit snarky.

Faye blushed. I deserved that. Let me start over. She pulled a pitted stoneware jug from the canvas bag. This belonged to my late aunt, and I’ve always admired it. It has a wonky lean to it, which to my eye makes it a more interesting piece, though unfortunately it’s missing the original stopper. I believe at one time there were some old pins inside of it, but they’re not there now, and I haven’t been able to find them. I assume my aunt tossed them, more’s the pity. I was hoping you could tell me something about it.

More’s the pity? Arabella would have liked to tell Ms. Everett that her aunt’s ignorance bordered on vandalism, but that sort of judgement was best left unsaid. Besides, it was her late