He had been thinking things could not get any worse.
But here was Mrs. Dubonnet who ran the toy shop next door, filling him in on last night’s break-in while he tried to take in the boarded-up glass doors and yellow streamer of crime scene tape stretched across the entrance of Time in a Bottle Antiques.
“But he’s all right?” Andy insisted, because anything else was unthinkable. “He’s alive and they took him to the hospital, so he’s…”
He was beat up pretty bad,” Mrs. Dubonnet told him. She was trying not to stare at the purple-black bruising on his own face. “Your uncle’s not a young man.”
She probably didn’t mean it to sound like an accusation, but Andy still felt it like a punch to the heart. It was true. Uncle Cuthbert was seventy. Not a young man by any stretch. And even knowing that, knowing Uncle C. was struggling with things, Andy had allowed his own problems—allowed Marcus—to take precedence.
The cold December breeze kicked up white caps in the harbor, whipped and snapped the flags and banners all down the row of the cute little shops lining Main Street, and whispered down the back of his neck. He shivered. “Why would anyone bother robbing this place? He can’t have been bringing in much business.”
“Easy pickings,” Mrs. Dubonnet said with all the certainty of a veteran beat cop. She was about sixty; a short, round woman with rosy cheeks, fierce blue eyes, and glossy black hair cut in classic Dutch boy style. She had been neighbors—and friends—with Uncle C. for the last twenty years.
Mrs. Dubonnet added loyally, “Cutty still has some nice pieces on the shelves.”
They gazed through the grimy front window at the full-rigged 1869 gunboat in a bottle sitting on a chipped and battered 19th Century English inlaid rosewood handkerchief table. Those were probably the two most valuable items in the shop, and they were still sitting there undisturbed, collecting dust as they had for the past six years. Uncle Cuthbert did not price to sell. Andy had long suspected, his uncle did not want to sell some of these old treasures.
“I should get over to the hospital,” he said.
“Let me know what you find out,” she said, and just for a moment her lower lip trembled.
“Will do.” Andy patted her arm, said with a confidence he didn’t feel, “I’m sure it will be okay.” He turned away.
“You’ll probably run into Clark.”
There was something in her tone—it sounded a little like a warning. Andy turned back. “Right. Well, he’s family.”
Clark Skylar was a distant cousin to Uncle C. and an even more distant cousin to Andy. Clark had worked at Time in a Bottle for a year or so, but there had been some falling out. Andy had never known the details, but Clark and Uncle C. had seemed to move past it. Andy knew his uncle had spent Thanksgiving with Clark and his wife.
Mrs. Dubonnet said darkly, “There’s family and then there’s family.”
Dark and a bit cryptic.
“Uh, sure.” Andy nodded politely, went down the steps, freezing in his tracks, when Mrs. Dubonnet called after him, “Clark won’t be happy when he learns Cuthbert is leaving the whole kit and caboodle to you.”
“The whole…”
There was no hiding his shock, and, reading his face, she smiled grimly. “Yep. Everything goes to you. Cutty always said you were the son he wished he had.”
“But I don’t…” Want it. As fond as his memories were of spending teenaged summers at Safehaven Harbor and learning the antiques trade in the crowded aisles of Time in a Bottle, Andy’s life was in Philadelphia. His job, his friends, his…
Marcus was in Philadelphia, but you couldn’t blame the city for that.
And he couldn’t hide out in Safehaven forever. This was just a layover while he recovered from the breakup and figured out his next step. He was not moving to Safehaven. Not even for Uncle C. And definitely not if Uncle C. wasn’t going to be around.
Which was a terrible thought.
He said, “It’s way too soon to be thinking that way. I don’t—”
“Clark will be thinking that way. You can bet your life on it.” Her expression was as bleak as her tone. “Best to be prepared.”
Andy hesitated, then nodded. “I’ll let you know what I find out about Uncle C.,” he promised.
* * * * *
It was only a thirty-minute drive to the hospital in neighboring Belfast, but Andy had been driving most of the night and by the time he walked through the doors of Rufus County General, the morning had gone from shocking to surreal.
Even more surreal was seeing Uncle Cuthbert lying so still and flat in his hospital bed. Beneath the bruises and discoloration, his face was waxen. As though he’d already been laid out for the funeral.
Doctor Waldo explained that the old man was comatose following the severe beating he had received from the intruders who had broken into the shop during the night. The good news was the scans had not indicated brain damage. The bad news was…well, obvious. Prognosis? Guarded.
After which, the doctor asked Andy if he needed to sit down.
Andy declined.
He was numb during the short elevator ride to the lobby—moving mechanically, unable to think beyond the horror of seeing Uncle C. lying there so deathly pale and still. He tried to convince himself that his uncle was too tough an old bird to give up and die so easily, but the truth was, Cuthbert Allison was not a tough old bird. He was a frail and kindly old man, who had never harmed anyone in his entire life. He had loved and sheltered his geeky, shy great-nephew when said nephew’s parents didn’t have time—between their Aspen ski vacations and trips to Europe—to be bothered with him. He had instilled an appreciation for the past and taught Andy everything he knew about the antiques trade, which was how Andrew Allison, no longer shy but probably still pretty geeky, had landed the prestigious and even decently paid gig of curator for the Worley Foundation.
He owed everything to Uncle C., and when Uncle C. had needed him, he had not been there.
Not once. Not twice. Three times Uncle C. had hinted he was hoping for a visit from his favorite—and only—nephew. And not once, not twice, but three times Andy had stalled and made excuses because he hadn’t wanted to upset Marcus—had been too gutless to tell Marcus no—and to what end? His relationship with Marcus had continued to deteriorate to the point where for a few minutes there on Friday afternoon, he had honest-to-God feared for his life.
Still feared for his life, if he was honest.
The elevator dinged, the doors slid open, and Andy found himself staring into the dark and owlish gaze of his cousin Clark—though it took him a moment to realize it.
Clark was quicker to recognize him. His expression changed. “Andy!” he exclaimed. “How’d you get here so fast?”
Clark was one of those people who was born middle-aged. At fifty, he didn’t look a whole heck of a lot different than he had at thirty. A little more portly, a little more pouty, but his cheeks were rosy and his thinning hair and “rich uncle” mustache were still jet black, whether by nature or design.
“Clark, hi,” Andy began, but he was cut off by the slender blonde standing next to his cousin.
“Andy? You must have driven straight to the hospital!” Fleur sounded more put out than sympathetic.
Andy had only met Fleur once and that had been while she and Clark were still dating. Unlike Clark, she definitely looked older. Or at least thinner, blonder, and more brittle than he remembered.
“No, I stopped at the shop and spoke to Mrs. Dubonnet.”
“Ugh.” Fleur wrinkled her nose. “That old busybody.” She studied his face and her brows rose—he hadn’t made any effort to conceal the bruising—she glanced instinctively at Clark.
Clark too was staring at his face. He belatedly offered his hand, saying, “I tried phoning your place in Philadelphia, but your…partner said you had already left.”
Andy had the uncomfortable sensation the elevator dropped another floor or two from beneath his feet. He said carefully, trying to hide his instant alarm, “You told Marcus I was coming to stay with Uncle C.?”
Belatedly, he realized they were blocking the entrance to the elevator. He stepped off as an elderly couple shuffled inside, peering at the array of buttons. They were still arguing over which floor they needed as the doors slid closed.
“Was it supposed to be a secret?” Clark asked.
Yes.
Jesus Christ, yes, it was most definitely a secret, and Andy could not believe that this piece of catastrophically bad news had just been added to all the rest of the day’s unwelcome developments. And it wasn’t even noon.
“Didn’t seem like it was much of a surprise,” Clark added into Andy’s stricken silence. “He said he figured this was where you were headed.”
“Isn’t it beside the point?” Fleur asked. “You can’t stay at the shop now. Even if Uncle Cuthbert pulls through, he won’t be able to work for ages. He’ll have to sell the business.”
“Fleur,” Clark protested.
She threw him an impatient look. “It’s the truth. We all know it. He should have sold everything years ago. It was just a matter of time before something like this happened.”
“A matter of time before the shop was burglarized?” Andy spoke automatically. His mind was still on Marcus, wondering if Marcus was already on his way to Maine.
Or maybe, just maybe Marcus would decide he was above chasing Andy up and down the Eastern seaboard. Was that a possibility? How many times had Marcus accused him of bluffing, of giving ultimatums he didn’t have the balls to back up? Maybe Marcus would look on Andy’s flight as something like that. Maybe he would figure Andy would be back soon enough, tail between his legs.
Or maybe not.
Because for all his ego and arrogance, Marcus had a dangerous streak of insecurity—dangerous because he couldn’t handle any affront to his vanity. As Andy had found out the hard way.
“There’s no need to go into all that now,” Clark said uncomfortably. “Andy can stay with us for a few days until we know.”
Fleur threw him a look of disbelief. “You heard the doctor. It could be weeks before we know, weeks before we have to make a decision.”
“Make a decision?” Andy repeated.
“Of course.” Fleur looked from him to Clark. “For heaven’s sake, you two. Uncle wouldn’t have wanted to be kept alive on a machine forever.”
For a moment Andy couldn’t seem to get past wondering why the fuck would Clark have married such a horrible person.
Even Clark seemed a little shocked. “Fleur, this isn’t the time or the place. It’s not a…a foregone conclusion.”
Meeting Clark’s troubled gaze, Fleur seemed to rethink. She sighed. “I’m sorry if I seem insensitive, but someone has to keep a practical thought. This has been a shock to me too, but at least I’m not afraid to face all the possibilities, however unhappy.”
“I know, honey,” Clark said. “But it just happened. Cuthbert’s a fighter. He could pull through.”
Fleur gave him a cool, unconvinced smile, but turned to Andy. “Of course, you’re welcome to stay with us for a few days, Andy. If that’s what you want to do.”
He’d rather sleep in the street. But dealing with difficult personalities was part of the museum curator job description. He curved his mouth, crinkled his eyes, said neutrally, “That’s very kind. But if it’s okay with the police, maybe I should stay at Uncle C.’s as planned.”
“Stay at the shop?” Clark echoed. “I’m sure it’s not okay, and why would you want to?”
Fleur said, “No, of course you can’t stay at the shop.”
He didn’t think he was imagining the sudden suspicion in their gazes. Why? What on earth did they think he was going to do at Time in a Bottle? Pilfer the petty cash? Pocket a couple of tin soldiers?
“Don’t you think it might be a good idea having someone on the premises? It’s not going to be a secret that Uncle C. is in the hospital, and the last thing any of us would want is for the shop to be broken into again. Is Ray Millard still Chief of Police? I could talk to him and see if there’s a problem with my staying there as planned. If he says no, then I’ll take you up on your…your very kind invitation to stay with you for a few days.”
Clark glanced at Fleur. “Well… I can’t imagine you’re going to get permission to stay there, but if you want to ask Chief Millard, I guess it’s his call. Maybe you can find out if they’ve made any progress in the case.”
“Clark.” Fleur stared at her husband. She didn’t have to put her feelings into words. Her expression said it all: Are you crazy?
Clark said uncomfortably, “Well, Andy has a point. We don’t want a return visit from whoever broke in. Not that there’s anything of real value at Time in a Bottle, and they already emptied the cash drawer—all seventy bucks worth, the bastards—but if the building is sitting empty, it’s an invitation to local kids.”
“Yes, I understand, but it’s a little inappropriate for Andy to stay there now, don’t you think?” she ignored Andy, fixing her gaze on Clark.
Clark looked more uncomfortable and a little confused. “I’m not sure…”
“I’m not sure what you mean either,” Andy said. He kept his expression pleasant, but he was getting madder by the minute. “Uncle C. invited me to stay. I promised to help him inventory the shop. I’m sure he wouldn’t have a problem with my going ahead with our plan—and it might help the police determine whether anything is missing.”
Fleur spared him a slightly harassed look. “Of course, and no disrespect, but—”
Clark had never liked conflict, so it was a surprise when he suddenly threw-in on Andy’s side. “Andy’s right. And it’s not like he doesn’t have experience running the shop.”
“Every summer until I took the job at the Worley Foundation.”
“But that was five years ago!”
“So? He sure as heck knows the antiques trade better than we do, and Cuthbert did ask him to come and stay.” Clark added wryly, “It’s all he’s been talking about.”
Fleur swallowed the rest of her objections and summoned a tight little smile. “I guess I know when I’m outvoted.”
“It’s not like that, honey,” Clark began.
“No? It sure does feel that way.” Fleur reached past him and punched the elevator’s up button. “That’s fine. Whatever. We’ll leave it up to Chief Millard. We should get back to Uncle. See if there’s any change.”
The elevator doors slid open to reveal the elderly couple still bickering about where they were headed.
Fleur tugged on Clark’s sleeve, and with an apologetic glance at Andy, Clark followed her into the elevator.
“Keep us posted,” Clark said.
“Will do,” Andy replied.
It was a relief when the elevator doors glided silently shut.
