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The Yesterday Place was a small shop right on Main Street in Raven Springs. It had a stenciled name on glass that looked a little ragged around the edges. But inside, it was warm and friendly.
The owner, Mike Markson, was bald on top and had big, kind brown eyes. He was short and a little rotund. Meadow liked him at once. He was friendly and welcoming, not the sort of man who had a hidden agenda. At least, her FBI training had taught her body language and how to notice criminal traits. This man seemed as straight as an arrow.
“I’m Meadow Dawson.” She introduced herself, shaking hands with a warm smile. “I’m Sheriff Ralston’s new investigator.”
“Glad to meet you. I’m Mike. I’ve been here for so long that I feel I own half of Main Street.” He laughed.
“Our family goes back three generations in Raven Springs. I lost my father just recently,” she added.
“I knew your father,” he replied. “Good man. I was sorry to hear that he died. Was it quick?”
She nodded. It was hard to talk about it. The wound was fresh. “Heart attack.”
He grimaced. “My wife went like that,” he said. “My son never got over losing her. He and I get along, but he’s more aggressive with people than I am.” He shrugged. “Maybe that’s good. I tend to be a little too generous in my offers.” He laughed. “Gary can bargain them down to a fraction of what something’s really worth.”
Meadow would have called that a larcenous personality, but she wasn’t about to say it to the man’s father.
“I’d like you to look at something, if you don’t mind,” she said politely.
“Glad to. Glad to.”
She pulled the Internet photo out of the file under her arm and put it on the counter.
“This lamp?” He pulled up his glasses with a grin when he bent over the photo. “Reading glasses, my left elbow.” He chuckled. “Have to take them off to see anything up close.” He frowned. “This is a magnificent lamp. John Harlow had one just like it. I tried so hard to get him to sell it to me, but he wouldn’t budge. My son, Gary, the antique expert, had a fit over it. He offered John a small fortune for it. John said it was a family heirloom, and he couldn’t part with it. It belonged to the family of President Andrew Jackson at one time. It had a history.” He shook his head. He frowned and looked up at Meadow. “Why am I looking at this lamp?”
“It was stolen, just recently, from Mr. Harlow’s home.”
“You don’t say!” Mike was shocked. “But we don’t have people stealing antiques around here,” he added quickly. “In fact, we hardly ever have thieves at all, unless someone’s desperate for drug money. There was a case last month, a man who stole a whole steel gun case out of a local man’s house and blew it open with C4.” He frowned. “Neighbor heard the explosion and called police. They walked up just as the perpetrator was taking the guns out of the case.”
“Tough luck for him,” she agreed.
He shook his head. “Damaged one of the skeet guns. A Krieghoff, worth about fifty thousand dollars.”
Her lower jaw fell open. “That much for a gun?”
“Not just any gun,” he said. “A competition shotgun. They’re expensive. The guy who owned it is a Class A shooter. He goes to the World Skeet Shooting Competition in San Antonio, Texas, every year and wins prizes.”
“Wow.” She shook her head. “I had trouble affording my Glock,” she confessed.
He smiled. “I have a twelve-gauge shotgun of my own,” he said, nodding toward the underside of the counter she was leaning against. “Can’t take chances. I have some very valuable things in here. I’ve never been robbed, but there’s always a first time.”
The bell on the front door clanged, and a tall, thin young man with brown hair and a scowl walked in.
“There’s my son! Gary, this is Meadow Dawson,” he said.
“She’s with the sheriff’s department; their new investigator. Miss Dawson, my son, Gary.”
“Nice to meet you,” he said, but he looked apprehensive as he stared at her. He didn’t offer to shake hands.
“She’s here about that lamp that was stolen from John Harlow’s place,” the older man explained.
“I see.” Gary’s eyes narrowed. “Got any leads?”
“Not yet. I was just checking with your father about its worth. I’d also like to know if you have any contacts who could tell me about potential buyers for an item like this,” she added to Mike.
He pursed his lips. “Not really. I deal with local people. But Gary here has some links on the Internet to specialty purchasers, don’t you, son?”
Gary gave his father a cold glare. “Not many. I deal with the big auction houses back east for rare items. Very rare items,” he emphasized. He glanced at the lamp in the photo. “That’s a low-ticket item.”
