Софи Райан - A Whisker Оf Trouble

“Let me get this straight,” he’d said. “You found this in a ditch?”

“People dump their garbage out on a couple of those woods roads because they don’t want to pay the fee at the landfill,” I’d said, pulling on a pair of canvas work gloves before grabbing one side of the cabinet. “It’s disgusting.”

“So you decided to bring it here? How exactly did you get this . . . thing from the ditch to your car?”

“Jess and I carried it.”

Jess had actually been the one who climbed down into the mud and heaved the metal cabinet up onto the trail.

Mac had tried to swallow down a grin and pretty much failed. “I don’t know, Sarah,” he’d said. “I think you may have jumped the shark this time.”

“O ye of little faith,” I’d said as he’d help me carry the cabinet into the old garage. Now, standing on a tarp, scraping who knew how many years of blistered, peeling paint off the old metal, I wondered if he was right. Not that I was willing to admit defeat yet.

Cleveland showed up midmorning. I bought a couple of paintings, three potato baskets and an armless upholstered chair that looked as though it had been used as a cat scratching post.

Avery and Mr. P. showed up at lunchtime. Avery’s progressive school only had morning classes, so she worked most afternoons for me. Liz grumbled that there was no way she was learning anything only attending classes in the morning, but from what I’d seen of Avery’s homework, they seemed to be using the time well. I had no idea what exactly had happened at home or at her previous school, but being in North Harbor had been good for the teen. And living with Liz, for all they squabbled about kale smoothies and Avery’s driving, had been good for both of them. I sent her out to the garage to work on a set of old kitchen cabinets I wanted to eventually use for storage out there.

After lunch of a turkey sandwich made with Charlotte’s leftovers, I went out to the porch. Mr. P. was at his computer.

“Hello, Sarah,” he said. “How was your morning?”

“I started working on that old cabinet,” I said.

He smiled. “I’m sure it will be lovely when you’re done.”

I smiled back at him. “I hope you’re right.”

“I’m confident that I will be.”

I held out the business card. “I think this is the man you’re looking for,” I said. I’d thought about giving the card to Charlotte and decided against it. I didn’t know why Nick hadn’t just given it to his mother and I didn’t want to cause a problem between them. “I tried the number, but all I got was a very robotic leave-a-number message.”

“Thank you,” Mr. P. said.

He didn’t seem surprised, I realized.

“It occurs to me that it might be better if I didn’t ask you how you came to get this card,” he added.

I wasn’t the only one who could read Nick’s tells, I realized.

“You’re a very observant man,” I said, choosing my words carefully.

The old man adjusted his glasses and smiled at me again. “Over the years I’ve discovered that being observant has its advantages.”

“Yes, it does,” I agreed. I looked over at his computer. “I’ll let you get back to work.”

“Thank you, my dear,” he said.

I spent the next half hour returning phone calls in my office. I came downstairs to see how Avery was doing packing parcels just as Ethan Hall came into the shop. I’d called Stella and told her about finding the train and about Channing Caulfield’s claim on the rare model cars. She’d told me she’d talk to Ethan and promised one of them would get back to me.

“Hi, Sarah, do you have a minute?” Ethan asked.

“Of course,” I said, walking over to him. It was like standing next to Nick. Even in heels I felt short.

“Aunt Stella told me about the model train,” he said. There was a day’s worth of stubble on his chin, blond, like his short hair. “Do you think Caulfield has a claim on it?”

“Possibly,” I said. “There’s that bottle of wine that changed hands because of it.”

Ethan blew out a breath. “Damn it,” he muttered.

“I have an idea,” I said.

“I hope he doesn’t expect me to pay for that bottle of wine,” he said. “I’m sorry he got conned, but so did my dad.”

“Don’t worry about the wine,” I said. “Stella told me about Ellie needing surgery on her back.”

His blue eyes clouded over. “Then she probably also told you that the surgery is considered experimental.”

I nodded. “I think Channing Caulfield might be persuaded to relinquish his claim on the model train so it can be sold with the proceeds going into a fund for Ellie’s surgery.” I raised an eyebrow. “He gets to look good.”

“And we get the money,” Ethan finished. “I might be able to convince Ellie to go for that. She has some very strong opinions on anything she sees as being a handout.”

“We need to do a little more research into the value of the layout,” I said. I raised a cautionary hand. “And it’s not going to cover the cost of the surgery by a long shot.”

“But it will help me.” Ethan smiled. “Thank you, Sarah. The stress from all this has been eating me alive.”

“You’re welcome,” I said. “I wish it were more.”

He wiped a hand over his mouth. “You and me both.”

Mr. P. came in from the sunporch then and walked over to us. He was carrying a sheet of paper in one hand. “Excuse me, Sarah,” he said. “Would you mind if I made a copy of this?” He held up the page, which was a photo of Thorne Logan that he’d probably printed at home.

“Go ahead,” I said.

He patted his pockets and I knew he was looking for a quarter. Charlotte, who kept the Angels’ books, insisted that they pay for copying and printing. Arguing the point had done me no good. They’d also started paying me rent for the sunporch. When I’d tried to argue against that, Rose tartly informed me that if I didn’t take the money they’d rent office space somewhere else. I couldn’t see how that would be a good idea, so I’d relented. Every month half the money went to the Friends of the North Harbor Library and the other half to the Mid-coast Animal Shelter. It made me feel better about taking the money in the first place and since they didn’t know they couldn’t argue with me over it.

Mr. P. found the twenty-five cents and held it out to me. The photo slipped from his grasp. Ethan reached out and caught it before it could hit the floor. He glanced at the picture and frowned. “Wait a minute,” he said. “Do you know this man?”

“Do you?” Mr. P. asked.

Ethan nodded. “He contacted me a couple of weeks ago. He wanted to buy a bottle from my father’s wine collection.”

“Just one bottle?” Mr. P. said. Like me, he’d noticed that Ethan had said “a bottle.”

Ethan glanced at the photo once more and handed the piece of paper back to Alfred. “Yes.”

Mr. P. and I exchanged a look. “Why did he want a bottle of wine that isn’t worth anything?” I asked.

Ethan swiped a hand across his mouth again. “Because he thought maybe it was.”

Mr. P. and I stared at him.

Ethan shrugged. “I mean he was wrong. Ronan talked to some other contact he had and whoever it was agreed that the bottle was a fake.” He exhaled loudly. “Just like all the other bottles in the old man’s collection. I don’t know why he did that to me.” It was impossible to miss the edge of bitterness in his voice. Then he shook his head and gave us a wry smile. “I don’t know how people can sleep at night, taking advantage of someone who’s old.”

Mr. P. tipped his head back and regarded Ethan thoughtfully, it seemed to me. “There’s an old saying,” he said quietly. “What goes around comes around.”