The shop phone rang and Max answered from the counter with an enthusiastic, “Snow’s Antique Emporium, how can I help you?”
I asked Chris, “How would she feel about a pair of porcelain King Charles spaniels? They were inspired by Queen Victoria’s dog, Dash.” I brought him to a large glass display in the middle of the showroom and pointed out the three-foot-tall dogs with haunting, hand-painted eyes that I swear to God followed me no matter where I stood.
“Yikes. Those are….”
“Conversation pieces,” I offered.
“If I didn’t know better, Sebastian, I’d say you were desperate to get rid of these.”
“I don’t like how they stare at me.”
Chris laughed heartily.
“Boss?”
I turned to Max, who’d left the register and come toward me, holding the cordless phone against his chest. “I’m with a customer,” I said with a hint of polite chastising.
Max nodded, offered Chris a quick apologetic wince, then said in a somber tone, “I think you need to take this.”
“I have to get going anyway.” Chris reached a hand out and shook mine. “But I’ll take these mutts.”
“Don’t feel obligated. They might be haunted.”
“They’re the ugliest tchotchkes I’ve ever seen. Cynthia will adore them.”
“I’ll have them couriered over in the next day or two.”
“What would I do without you?”
“Spend less money,” I answered. Once Chris said goodbye and made for the front door, I took the phone from Max. “Hello?”
“Sebastian Snow?” a woman asked.
“Speaking.”
“My name’s Nellie Taylor. I’m a freelance journalist for theNew York Courier.”
I furrowed my brow, asking, “Didn’t that newspaper shutter in the early 2000s?”
“We’re an online publication now.”
“How eco-friendly.”
“I’d like the opportunity to meet you in person. I’m writing an article on the Sandra Habel case, and it could benefit from some direct insight—specifically in regards to your interaction with the NYPD.”
I shot Max a quick look and he nodded frantically. “My what?”
“During a press conference this morning, it was floated that you’re working in a certain capacity with the NYPD. I’ve done a bit of digging, and I’ve found your name associated with a number of past cases—”
“I think you’re mistaken.”
“I don’t believe I am,” she said coolly. “Can we—?”
“No. Sorry.” I ended the call and passed Max the phone.
For a moment, the only one speaking was Louis Armstrong via the shop speakers, singing his haunting rendition of “St. James’ Infirmary” in that iconic raspy timbre.
Then Max said, “You’ve got to tell Calvin.”
