Page 44 of About Last Christmas
CHAPTER 14
It’s Small Business Saturday,and The Memory Bank is the busiest it’s been all month. My heart’s all aglow seeing my little space full of shoppers and antiquers. Out of all the various faces that have stepped into the store, I’ve yet to see the one I’ve been watching for. The Atlantic Mold ceramic tree did indeed arrive today. As a dutiful proprietor, I texted Leo letting him know, and he promised to swing by.
As I hand a receipt to a customer purchasing vintage baskets, the bell above the door jingles. My eager gaze zips to the front. Adelaide Springfield breezes in, her hands clutching a black velvet box. All my excitement deflates in a millisecond.
“Hello, dear!” Her giddy voice clashes with Perry Como’s smooth baritone over the shop’s speakers. “Do you have a moment to make a deal of a lifetime?”
No, I reached my scam limit for the week. “It’s pretty busy today, so?—”
“Exactly what I think too. Let’s get down to business.” Her boisterous tone draws glances from surrounding customers.
The slight fraying on the cuff of her peacoat and the bleeding of her crimson lipstick into the tiny cracks framing her mouth can trick the humblest heart into thinking Adelaide is a harmlessmiddle-aged housewife with a misguided hobby. She’s not. Adelaide’s like a flamethrower in a room of ice sculptures. She makes a commanding entrance, incinerates everything in her path, and leaves your brain in a mushy puddle of confusion. I’m not saying her sole purpose in life is to ruin my day, but I’m alsonotsaying I don’t have the urge to staple the “CLOSED for Business” sign to my forehead rather than listen to yet another con.
She clears her throat. Twice. “Today, I have something you’ve never thought you’deversee in your lifetime.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
She reaches into the bag draped over her left shoulder and pulls out a pair of white gloves. With slow movements, she puts them on, finger by finger. “Prepare yourself.”
“Believe me, I am.”
She smooths a hand over the velvet box and then cracks it open. “Behold.” Her awed whisper makes my eye twitch.
“Costume jewelry?”
“Not just any costume jewelry. This pearl necklace was worn by Donna Reed in the classic last scene ofIt’s a Wonderful Life.”
She might be trying to swindle me for thousands of dollars, but at least she made it seasonal. Without a word, I hold open my hand.
She retreats a step with a tsk. “You need gloves, dear. It just so happens I’ve an extra pair.”
I wave her off. “Please set the box on the counter.”
“Of course.” She does as I ask but hovers close. “Don’t you need a loupe?”
Adelaide is the cheese grater to my shredded patience.
“You know, those magnifying glass thingys that jewelers use?”
“Thank you, Adelaide. I know what a loupe is. I’m just …”Scraping for my sanity. “Trying to gently inform you that thisis not a piece from the ’40s.” Unfortunately for Adelaide, cinema wardrobe is one of my specialties. “The lobster-claw clasp, like this one, wasn’t patented until the mid-nineties.”
Her gaze narrows. “Are you certain?”
“Very.”
“Hmm.” She cautiously closes the box, which is probably worth more than the trinket. “I’ll have to verify this from my source.”
“Thank you for coming in.” And because I can’t help myself and my stupid soft soul, I offer her my voucher for a free entrée and dessert at the café. It’s a small token, but maybe she’ll grasp the hint that Christmas is the season of giving and not scamming. “This expires soon, and I won’t use it. I remember you once saying how much you enjoy their cheesecake.”
She brightens. “Oh, it’s divine.”
“Then enjoy.” I smile, and as she says goodbye, a customer approaches me asking about a piece in the locked display case. I grab my keys from the register and follow her to where her daughter, I assume, is leaning against the case, typing away on her phone.
The mom points at an early nineteenth-century mirror. “We love this, but I don’t see a tag.”
“Ah, that’s a Sylvia Stave piece. She was a silversmith from Sweden during the first half of the twentieth century. The art deco handle is beautiful.” I can go on about the mirror, but judging by the younger girl’s loud cracking of her gum and the older woman’s rapid tapping of her boot, they don’t seem like antique enthusiasts. “It’s on sale for three hundred.” Which is about half the cost of what they’d find at other shops. I unlock the case, retrieve the pewter piece, and let the ladies get a good look at it.
“We’ll take it.” She gives a quick nod and hands it back to me. “It’ll look nice in my daughter’s dorm. She’s attending college in the spring and wants everything in a Roaring ’20s theme.”
