Always on My Mind (16 page)

“Thanks, Ned,” Casper said. “I know I put you in a tight spot.”

“Nah.” Ned shrugged on his jacket. “With the cold snap, this
place is a graveyard. We’ll need to figure out how to get some traffic in the door and move some merchandise before spring shows up.” He pulled on his stocking hat. Stopped at the door. “By the way, my sister said she saw you at the VFW on Valentine’s Day. Without a date.” He pointed at Casper. “We need to remedy that, pronto.”

Casper held up his hand. “I’m good, Ned
 
—”

But Ned was already out the door, leaving Casper just a bit cold at the thought of the prospects he might dig up.

However, if Raina could move on, date someone new, so could he.

The thought pressed a fist into his gut.

Another reason to leave the moment winter eased its grip.

He vacuumed the store, checked the stock, printed and filled the online orders, then closed the till and ran the final report for the day.

At eight o’clock he shut the door, the wind like knives against his flesh. He ducked his chin into his jacket, pulled his hat down, and hustled to the truck. Tossing the money pouch onto the seat, he climbed in, shivering as the engine turned over and blasted frozen air from the heaters.

He should get home, check on the cabins, but four days away from the historical society had his brain conjuring up a slew of what-ifs about Duncan Rothe and Thor’s letter. Which would probably only lead to a dead end and, worse, possessed the terrible power to rouse the image of Raina and her surprise as he met her at the door. Those widened amber-brown eyes, not unlike the moment on the shore last summer when he’d shown her the sunset over the lake. Or when he’d finally scrounged up the courage to trace his hand down her cheek, pull her close, catch her lips with
his. She’d tasted of soda, and the little sound she made of delight, of surrender, could still find him, deep in the night.

Or any time of day.

Yeah, maybe he should steer clear of the mystery of Duncan Rothe.

The truck began to warm, blasting out tepid air. Casper shook himself from the memory and drove to the bank. He parked and dropped the pouch in the night deposit slot.

From across the street, the smell of baking pizza crust and garlic stirred his hunger. It wasn’t like he had anything at home waiting for him. He left the truck parked and jogged to Pierre’s.

Only a couple patrons lined up in front of him. He pulled off his gloves and ordered a pizza to go.

He was turning to wait when Monte Riggs walked into the lobby.

The man wore a fancy black wool coat, a suit and tie, like he might be a big shot from the Cities instead of a local junk dealer. His gaze fell on Casper for a moment, settled, something cool in his expression, then slid away.

Just walk away.
Casper didn’t know if the thought was for him or Monte, but he let it steel him, keep him moving forward.

Except Monte’s voice slithered over Casper, low and dark. “I know all about you and Raina last summer, Casper.”

Casper stilled, turned.

For a split second, he was taken back to high school, to that day when he’d found Monte and Beth Johnson alone in the weight room, Monte pressed up against her, his hands under her shirt.

He might never erase the look in Beth’s eyes when she saw him or the way she ducked under Monte’s arm and dashed out past Casper, not looking at him as if embarrassed.

Or . . . afraid?

Nor would he forget the gleam in Monte’s eyes, something of triumph or perhaps power. Or the way he watched Beth flee, a smile twitching his thin lips.

Casper had stood there, unable to move as Monte swaggered past him. “Girls. They never know what they really want.”

That smile was seared into his brain, and Casper saw it now, inching up one side of Monte’s pale face. “And in case you get any ideas, she’s over you. She’s mine now.”

An anvil landed on Casper’s chest. “Raina doesn’t belong to anybody.” But his hoarse whisper gave him away and he pushed out into the night before he did something stupid.

Except he couldn’t leave, not with that memory reminding him that back then, he’d done nothing
 
—
nothing
.

The door jangled as Monte exited, holding a pizza. Casper’s patience escaped in a hard exhale, and he rounded on Monte.

Who probably expected him because he betrayed not a hint of surprise in those cool hazel eyes. “What?”

What?
Oh, he could give him what, longed to show him exactly
what
by delivering the answer right here on the frozen sidewalk.

No. He took another breath. “Raina’s . . . she’s fragile, okay? She’s been through a lot and puts up a good front, but she’s been hurt
 
—”

“By you?”

Casper’s mouth closed. He heard the word
meddling
 
—it perched in the back of his brain. But he refused to listen. “There’s history you shouldn’t start digging around in. Just walk away, Monte. She’s not the girl for you.”

The smile appeared again. “I think she’s exactly the girl for me. And don’t you worry about her being fragile. I promise I’ll take very good care of her.”

Then he winked.

Casper nearly lunged, nearly tackled him and his large pepperoni onto the sidewalk. He had a very satisfying vision of slamming his fist into Monte’s pretty face, correcting that nose, maybe emptying some of his frustration into the man’s jaw.

Except, no. Because then he’d be the man he’d fled six months ago.

So he stood there, again watching Monte walk away, feeling like he might retch instead.

He closed his eyes, listening to his heartbeat thunder inside.
Let it go.
This was why he shouldn’t get involved, shouldn’t be so desperate to fix things.

He crossed the street, got in the truck, and drove to the historical society, parking a half block away, which seemed silly, even to him, but he had to have a moment to sit in the car and just shake. Stare for a second at the stars poured out overhead in the crisp night and hang on to Darek’s words:
You gotta stop acting as if she belongs to you.

No, she didn’t belong to him, and yes, hanging on to her could devour him.
Be patience. Be light. . . . Let all this anger and darkness go.

He took a breath, trying to cling to his prayer. But how could he let her go when he saw the danger ahead?

Tonight, right now, he needed a distraction. He got out and crossed the street, unlocking the door to the historical society, flipping on the light, and heading to the back.

He’d deliberately waited to plow through the boxes of clothing in the storage room until he’d feasted on the trinkets, mostly to understand what manner of people he discovered. It helped him assign clothing to the right owner, even if it might be a guess.

He found nothing of historical significance in the first box, the contents more Goodwill clothing than artifacts. No formal tuxedos or, for that matter, voyageur wolf-tail caps or worn leather mukluks.

He closed the box, set it by the door, marked it for the Salvation Army, and opened the next. Baby clothes. A layette
 
—a white knit christening gown with blue trim, a matching swaddling blanket, an embroidered cotton sleeping sack, but with it, a pair of bell-bottoms, a cowl-necked sweater, a plaid vest. He took out the layette, closed the rest up to donate.

The third box netted the same
 
—contents that could be placed as far back as the eighties, things he might find in the depths of his mother’s closet. Nothing of value.

He took another box, opened the top, saw a ratty brown wool sweater, and closed it again. Then he glanced quickly into the final box, lifting up one side.

Clearly whoever donated the collection hadn’t stopped to sort the valuable from the trash, just handed it all over to the society.

He checked his watch and groaned. Pierre’s had closed twenty minutes ago, his pizza now cold and locked inside.

A wasted, hungry night and his encounter with Monte still churning inside him. He’d dropped the boxes by the front door and was going back to the storage room to turn out the light when he heard a voice in the lobby.

“Yoo-hoo!” the voice sang. “Casper?”

He pulled the string to the overhead light and returned to the showroom. “Mrs. Draper, what are you doing here?”

She came in holding her keys, eyes wide. “Oh, goodness, it
is
you. I hoped so when I saw the light. I just finished a chamber meeting and was driving by and thought, my, my, that boy works late.”

She wore a purple parka and a ski hat with pom-poms dangling around her ears. “Did you find anything of value tonight?”

He ushered her toward the door, turning out the light in the display room. “No. Just a bunch of throwaway clothing. I am starting to fear that the Linnell family considered us the local Salvation Army drop-off.”

She stopped at the boxes. “No mysterious tuxedos?”

“I found a christening gown, but mostly a lot of plaid jumpers and bell-bottom jeans.”

“I remember those days. Had myself a pair of paisley pedal pushers I still can’t bear to give up. Ah, memories.” She turned to the top box, tugged at it as if wanting to relive the past.

“I think my mother kept her entire wardrobe from the seventies
 
—hey, is that a wedding dress?”

Edith had tugged silky white fabric out of the top box
 
—the one he hadn’t opened fully. “It certainly looks like it.” She put her purse down, and he helped her release the dress, rolled up and shoved down the side of the box.

“It’s immaculate,” Edith said, holding up the skirt of the dress while Casper gripped the shoulders. “And looks lovely on you, by the way.”

“I’ve always looked good in white,” he said, winking, and draped the dress on the glass display of pictures for a better look. “I can’t believe I missed this.”

Edith arranged the skirt. “It looks Edwardian, given the high collar, the gigot sleeves. See how they puff out and then taper to the forearm? And this lace . . . it looks hand-tatted.”

“Well done, Mrs. Draper,” Casper said. “I didn’t know you knew about early fashion.”

“I didn’t get my position as historical society president because
of my good looks, sweetie.” She held up the lace overlay. “The skirt is silk, I’m sure of it. And the V-shaped flounce on the bodice was to emphasize the S-corsets of the time. This is a very old dress, probably early 1900s. See if there’s a tag. Often seamstresses of the time would embroider their name into the back, near the waistline.”

Casper turned the dress over, opened the buttons, searching. “It’s from the House of Worth.”

“Oh, my. It’s a Worth dress. That’s . . .” She took his hands, pushed them away. “Darling, this dress could have been made by Charles Frederick Worth, a designer out of Paris in the Gilded Age. We should be wearing gloves.”

“There’s a name on the tag.”

“Fine. Get some gloves on and we’ll take a look.”

Casper had to admit to some chagrin that he hadn’t thought of that immediately. But he retrieved a pair of white cotton gloves and handed another pair to Edith, donned his own, then finished unbuttoning the dress. Took a flashlight to read the initials sewn into the tag. “C. A. F.”

“C. A. F.,” Edith repeated. “Anything else?”

“Nope.”

“The dress is soiled at the hem as if it might have been worn.” Edith lifted the dress, keeping the hem off the floor. “Get a padded hanger and a clothing bag and let’s package it up. And then take those boxes back to the storage room. Just for one final look.”

Her kind way of suggesting he might have missed something. Great archaeological work there, Casper.

After he found the clothing bag, brought it out to the front, he and Edith folded the dress inside. Then he returned the boxes to the storage room while Edith fired up the computer and plugged
the initials into a search box of the catalogs and records of the historical society.

“I wonder . . .”

He came out to find her peering at the pictures in the display.

“What?”

“Well, there is a story . . . You know that Naniboujou Lodge, the resort northeast of town, was built in the 1920s, right? It was built as a private club for the elite. Babe Ruth and Jack Dempsey were among the charter members.”

“I’d heard that. They had big plans, right before the fall of the stock market.”

“They called Lake Superior the ocean of the Midwest. Had plans drawn up that made it resemble Brighton Beach, complete with swim tents, shuffleboard, tennis courts, and a boardwalk.”

“The playground of the wealthy, tucked into the north woods.”

“The kind of place a debutante might come for her honeymoon?” Edith pointed to a picture in the case, one of a group of men surrounding a roadster, a couple standing next to the running board, waving. The woman wore a cloche, a long string of pearls; the man a dapper suit, his dark hair so shiny with Brylcreem it seemed fresh. “This came from the Naniboujou collection a few years ago. Just a sampling of the pictures they have donated over the years. But I do remember a picture that hung in the foyer for a long time
 
—of a bride and groom, the first wedding at the resort. There was a tale attached to it. The story is that the bride disappeared the night of the wedding. Apparently she and the groom had a terrible row and she ran away. He went after her, and the two were never seen again. I was always mesmerized by that picture, wondering what the story could be.”

He stared at the roadster, and it niggled a smoky memory.

What if the roadster was the same one discovered in the woods near Mineral Springs? The one rumored to belong to Duncan Rothe?

And right then, the flame ignited, the reason to stick around just a little longer. That and the untended hope of solving the mystery at last.

What if . . . ?

No. He needed to stop chasing after lost treasures. Lost causes.

“I wonder if the courthouse has a record of their marriage. You might check
 
—it would certainly add legitimacy to the display.” Edith turned off the computer, reached for her leather gloves. “I have to admit, I haven’t had so much excitement in ages.”