But suddenly Mortimer collected his tools and got up. “Need something at the hardware store,” he mumbled and was out of the door before Vicky could urge him not to stay away for half an hour.
Ms. Tennings had warned her that Mortimer could be pretty free with the time his customers paid for. “When he worked for me, his lunch break took over forty minutes,” the elderly lady had complained, “which is a bit much to eat a sandwich, if you ask me.”
Vicky agreed completely. Better keep an eye on him then.
Through the window Vicky saw Mortimer cross the street, put down his toolbox on a bench and check something in it. Some sheet it seemed. Then he pulled out his cell phone and punched in a number.
Hardware store, right… He was probably placing some personal call. On her time.
What was that guy thinking? They were all working like crazy to stay on schedule, and he just…
Determined to clock exactly how long this personal business took, Vicky kept watching him.
Mortimer paced up and down, waiting for the other party to answer. When that person apparently did, Mortimer talked fast, making hand gestures. He seemed upset about something, and insistent.
Always tuned in to any movement in the street, Mrs. Jones came out to restock her With Love From Glen Cove postcard rack in front of the general store. Mortimer noticed her presence nearby and at once moved away into the other direction, still flushed and agitated.
Mrs. Jones dropped all pretense of actually doing something to her card display and stared after him in disappointment. Her expression suggested she had expected to learn something worthwhile.
Oblivious to this, Mortimer pushed down the street, almost bumping into Everett Baker, who managed to steer away at the last instant and called something after him. Mortimer didn’t seem to hear. Everett shook his head and continued to collect his car from the parking lot. As usual he was rushing, probably late for some kind of appointment with prospective buyers for the new houses north of town.
Marge asked her something about the furniture delivery and Vicky tore herself away from the window. “They’ll be here before six, they assured me. If we’re lucky, Mortimer will be out by then. We have to keep the sideboards away from the walls of course until they are completely dry, but we can at least see how the dimensions work. I hope it doesn’t feel too full. That would be a shame, you know.”
But Mortimer Gill didn’t return from his supposed errand at the hardware store at all.
Vicky tried his cell phone, but he didn’t answer. She didn’t have his home number and decided to ask for a phone book at the Joneses. She could of course try looking for Mortimer’s number online, but the phone book would give her an excuse to see Mrs. Jones.
Maybe Mrs. Jones could tell her what Mortimer had been so upset about that he had run off.
The general store smelled of cardboard and plastic inside, and of hot hamburgers. Mr. Jones was baking them for an eight-person family who wore shorts and baseball caps. Mrs. Jones was telling the father that it was a great idea to take a boat out for an afternoon. “You can rent one yourself or go on a tour. Harry’s Tours is really good. You can’t miss the sign in the harbor.”
One of their kids bounced a soccer ball around that missed Mrs. Jones’ chocolate display by a hair. The mother called her son back and apologized, but Mrs. Jones had barely noticed as she served a local customer who was looking for really good sandpaper to treat a chair that had been in her family for generations. “I want to polish it and then repaint it. Probably lilac. That goes much better with my new carpet.”
Vicky thought it was rather ironic that she was going to a lot of trouble to remove everything lilac from her store, while somebody else exerted herself to make something lilac.
When the woman had left with her purchase, Vicky asked Mrs. Jones for the phone book. “Or Mortimer Gill’s home number if you happen to know it by heart.”
Mrs. Jones wanted to say something, but Mr. Jones cut in. “His service was disconnected because he failed to pay his bills.”
Mr. Jones gave Vicky a cold look. “He only uses his cell these days. Very unprofessional if you ask me. I would never hire someone who didn’t have a phone in his offices.”
The silence said it all. By hiring Mortimer Gill to work on her store, Vicky had disqualified herself in Mr. Jones’ book.
Jones continued, “Or what he calls his offices. You should see his place. A junkyard!”
Vicky sighed. She could hardly claim that Mortimer was a paragon of virtue. “He just walked out on the job. The mortar is hardening, and I can’t get a hold of him.” She hoped for Jones to come round as he saw her difficult situation, but the man simply turned his back on her to help another customer.
Vicky was stunned a moment, then decided she wasn’t going to stand there snubbed. She had to find another way to contact Mortimer.
As she was halfway out the store, Mrs. Jones popped up behind her and touched her shoulder. She spoke in a low conspirational tone. “Mortimer walked off half an hour ago. Was on the phone. He was raving mad. I couldn’t overhear anything specific though.”
She shrugged. “I suppose he is having trouble with non-paying customers again. Every small business owner does. In a town like this you can’t afford to treat people too harshly. You are all dependent on each other. But you do have to make a living, you know.”
She looked Vicky over. “You won’t be offering any food at that gift shop of yours, will you? We’re already competing with the diner and the bakery. He’s also selling honey and candles, supposedly because he has the bees to think of. But it just undercuts our sales.”
“I might go sell some preserves or something homely, but no food to eat on the go, no.” Vicky conveniently ignored the scented candles she planned to carry. “I do want to cooperate with you to draw attention to all of our stores. If we put in a communal effort, it need not cost a lot of money, and we will all benefit.”
Vicky flashed an encouraging smile. “Now do you have any idea who Mortimer was talking to on the phone? If he went to see this person, I might catch him there and ask him to come back and finish the job.” She looked hopeful.
Mrs. Jones shook her head. “I wouldn’t know really. His van sped by later. Maybe he went home? Must be those birds again. Feeding time, or taking them out to fly them. He only cares for them. Doesn’t see people, just birds.”
Vicky exhaled. “Great. He lives too far away for me to walk. I’d have to get my bike at my cottage or borrow a car.”
Mrs. Jones lost interest now that there was no sale to make or gossip to gather and asked a nearby woman in a blue dress what she was looking for.
Vicky turned away. “Thanks anyway.”
Outside in the bright sunshine she considered a moment. She had to get out to Mortimer’s house, but she’d rather not confront the arrogant mason alone. Maybe she could ask Michael to drive her out there and exert some pressure on Mortimer? She bet Mortimer listened better when two people appeared. And the drive out to Mortimer’s place would provide the perfect opportunity to talk to Michael one on one and gauge his feelings about last night and the team going through the rubble at Perkins’ place.
Vicky walked over to the Gazette’s offices, close to the old harbor. Boats bobbed on the water, their white sails contrasting with the blue skies. Tourists had just returned from a boat trip, their excited voices carrying up to her. A little boy was waving a toy seal.
The newspaper was still produced in the same building where it had all begun over a hundred years ago. Outside there was an information sign with black-and-white pictures of the ancient printing presses and the way the