Maybe she should have pasted old newspapers against the windowpanes and let them guess what was going on inside, who had rented it and why?But then Everett Baker wouldn’t be secretive about it. She’d rather advertise it herself than let the grapevine spread the tale.
“Hello!” A woman with red curls dancing on her shoulders came up to her. Her pale face was slightly flushed, and her eyes sparkled. She wore a basic tweed jacket with elbow patches over a pencil skirt. Nice businesslike attire as of someone who works in an office.
“You must be Vicky Simmons, the new tenant of the old beauty parlor? You’re going to do the English store, right? I just love everything British.”
The redhead’s expression turned apologetic as she continued, “I suppose you hear this all the time and that you probably can’t take on everybody who says they know their English stuff. But I do know everything about cozy mysteries. Have been reading them since I was a teen. Agatha Christie, Dorothy Sayers, Patricia Wentworth. And Bella Brookes’ fabulous SEE BRITAIN AND DIE series.”
Vicky perked up. “I met Bella Brookes when she was doing a book tour in Wales, and got her to sign Death in Dartmoor.”
“That’s one of her best books. Especially the finale. I never saw that coming.” The woman looked impressed. “You actually know her?”
“I could email her,” Vicky mused, half to herself, “and ask her if she’d sign some books for me to put in the store in the opening week. Or maybe she can send out autograph plates or something? I suppose that will cost less than sending books from the UK to here.”
“I would love an autographed book. I think her sleuth is amazing. And I keep promising myself I have to go to the UK sometime and see all of those places she wrote about. If only the airfare wasn’t so outrageous—and the hotel prices!”
The redhead took a deep breath and blinked as if she’d suddenly returned from some elevated spot to Glen Cove’s Main Street. “Sorry to be going on like this. Cozies are sort of an addiction of mine. I thought that maybe… Well, I do have time on my hands when my kids are in school. I could give a talk on cozies and then we can have a quiz about the classics. I’ve got a friend who could bake us some scones and muffins to hand out to the participants. Turn it into a real British party.”
Vicky lifted a hand to stem the flood of words and ideas. She wanted to say that it was very nice to meet someone who shared her passion. That she appreciated the offer of help too, but that it was way too early for all that. She had enough on her plate with the renovations. Last night she had actually had a nightmare about lilac beams chasing her across the beach.
And she had to order more stock, make decisions about the window display and the opening hours. About a website, business cards, brochures and where to put them…
Just thinking about all the details that she still had to work out, her mind swam. She wasn’t able to take on any more right now.
But then Vicky reconsidered. This woman had come up to her with genuine enthusiasm about her gift shop concept. She was an Anglophile like herself. A kindred spirit. Someone who’d offered her help. Spontaneously.
So maybe it was a bit overwhelming at times. But she need not do it all alone. She could actually ask this brand-new friend to help out. She might even delegate some jobs to her.
“That’s great.” Vicky smiled, extending her hand. “I’m Vicky Simmons, just like you said, and you are?”
The woman grabbed her hand, looking apologetic again. “Sorry. I do that all the time! Running in talking without even telling people who I am! I’m Marge Fisher. I volunteer at the library. That’s how I know your mother. I also have my own column on the regional librarians’ site, What Marge Read. On Wednesdays and every second Saturday I organize stuff to get kids reading. Only job I could get where I can bring my own kids and nobody minds…”
She grinned. “Don’t worry. I won’t bring my kids into your store. My mother takes care of them a lot, giving me a free hand. That’s the advantage of living close to your parents. Without her I couldn’t do half of what I do now. Schoolyard fundraisers, fairs…”
Vicky remembered Claire had written to her about Marge’s homemade specialties that she sold for good causes. She seemed like somebody with a lot of contacts in town and a lot of goodwill because of all her volunteering. Engaging her in the store might eradicate some skepticism. If Marge Fisher took part in it, it had to be right.
“Look,” Marge said, “I guess you were on your way someplace, but I would love to have coffee together sometime and talk about your plans for the store. I just couldn’t believe it. My kind of store, coming to my own hometown. That’s so amazing. Can I treat you at the diner whenever you are free?”
“Sure. Actually I was on my way to the diner now, to get some coffee. And pie. I need sugar badly. To be honest uh… The restorations are a bigger challenge than I thought.”
“Yeah,” Marge leaned over confidentially. “I came to Gwenda’s beauty parlor when it was still open. I never liked much makeup on my face, you know, but I did like to get my nails done. I have to keep them polished or I chew on them. Bad habit. People look at your hands all the time when you’re helping them with their books. Can’t have shabby nails. So I came to Gwenda’s every six weeks for a professional manicure. You could just see the place go down.”Marge sighed sadly. “I think she should never have left Mortimer. He kept her grounded. She’s not a person who can be alone. I guess nobody can. But some people cope better than others, you know.”
Vicky nodded. Being alone had never bothered her, but then she had been able to fill her time with interesting things to do. Gwenda Gill had probably felt like she got no chances in Glen Cove and nobody really cared for her situation. With everything Vicky learned about her predecessor, she felt more sorry for her bad luck in life. “I understand this ex-husband of hers, Mortimer, keeps predator birds?”
“Yeah, he is a falconer, I mean, a professional one. He gives shows and all, performs at weddings where his owls fly in the rings. He still has to do odd jobs to make ends meet, but the birds are his life. Nice guy, down to earth and pretty solid. But Gwenda was never happy with him. Believed he could do better, make more money. At least that’s what she always said.”
Vicky nodded thoughtfully. She wanted a full picture of Mortimer Gill’s character before she hired him to work for her. “I heard Mortimer was behind some anonymous letters that got published in the Gazette accusing Gwenda of doctoring some of her more expensive beauty products? I mean, using cheap stuff and passing it off as brand material?”
“That was a big row, yeah. But nobody knew for sure if Mortimer was behind it. It could have been some unsatisfied customer, not getting rid of her wrinkles?”
Marge grinned. “Look, I can understand that Gwenda felt like everybody sided with Mortimer against her. But Mortimer always said he had nothing to do with those letters. I was inclined to believe him. He seemed to keep caring for her. Even after they parted ways.”
Vicky nodded thoughtfully. Marge’s assessment of Mortimer Gill was different from what she had concluded herself. More positive. Still, Michael had called Mortimer a scam artist and referred to him selling spare car parts at reduced prices when he had been working at this garage. It suggested Mortimer had been hustling from the first job he had ever held. Vicky wasn’t quite sure yet if she wanted to hire him to work on her fireplace or not.
Of course it would be for a few hours only, and the store was still empty. Perhaps it could do no harm?
“You know, falconry is a really British thing,” Marge mused. “At least people associate it with the Middle Ages, the royal courts and all. Big hunting parties, glamour. Maybe we could involve Mortimer in the store opening. Have his birds fly in the key?”
“Gwenda might interpret it as some extra slap on the wrist.” Vicky pursed her lips. “She still lives over my head, you know, and she’s already telling everybody I’ll never make it work.”