Éclair and Present Danger (22 page)

S
omehow, even amid the fog of disappointment and worry hovering around every step she took, Winnie couldn't help but marvel at the way perspective could change. For two years, she'd made this same walk, twice a day, every day—a nearly mile-long trek that had been doubly onerous after standing on her feet for as much as twelve hours at a time. Yet now that she no longer had to rely on her feet for all her transportation needs, she actually welcomed the opportunity to get outside and clear her head.

Her visit to Silver Lake Elementary School had stoked up so much internal angst in its final thirty minutes she simply couldn't handle being hissed at for sitting on the couch . . . or walking across the kitchen . . . or (God forbid) stretching out across her
own
bed. So she'd grabbed her purse, made sure the perpetual hisser had fresh food and water, and took to the pavement, her destination uncertain for the first half of the trip. Eventually, though, as her thoughts skirted between Bart and Jay, she realized she was headed toward her bakery.

Or, rather, the area in which her bakery had been before it was driven from its walls by a delusional landlord who fancied Silver Lake's Main Street as something akin to the kind of popular thoroughfares that drew people to places like Chicago and New York.

She knew she should be pleased with the Dessert Squad's first three days, and she was, but having Delectable Delights virtually snatched from her hands by such idiocy still stung a little. Fortunately (or unfortunately, as the case was turning out to be), suspect lists (or lack thereof) and unexpected date requests had a way of bulldozing over that sting fairly well.

If she hadn't been so thrown by losing Sissy as a suspect, maybe she would have picked up on Greg's cues a little faster, giving herself time to come up with a better reply to his dinner invitation than “Uhhh, um, wow . . . sure.”

“
Sure
,” she muttered as she crossed a side street and continued the final two blocks to what was referred to as downtown. What had she been thinking? She didn't want to go out with Greg Stevens. Yes, he was gorgeous. Hot, even. But Master Sergeant Hottie wasn't who floated her boat.

Jay Morgan did that.

Jay . . .

Suddenly, she was back at Beans, joking and laughing with him in a way she hadn't joked or laughed with a man under sixty-five in years (okay, ever). Seeing him in her head, with his chin propped in his hand, leaning forward against the table as if he couldn't get enough of Winnie, was worth every palpitation she was experiencing at that moment . . .

Or was until a decidedly feminine version of Jay's face claimed center stage and immediately drained the water on which Winnie's boat had dared to float.

No, Jay Morgan simply wasn't an option.

She could almost hear Renee's voice in her head, telling
her to keep the date with Master Sergeant Hottie. The problem was whether she should listen.

If she listened, she was being unfair to Greg—a man who seemed to genuinely like her, and whom she saw as nothing more than a potential friend.

If she didn't listen, she would continue living exactly the way she had since moving to Silver Lake. Only now she had a cat . . .

She looked up as she crossed the next side street and stepped back onto the sidewalk, her old storefront now mere steps away. Pushing thoughts of Jay, Greg, Caroline, and Bart from her mind, she allowed herself to really see the rectangular dark green shingle that hung where her pink and white one had been just eight days earlier.

In the center of the green shingle, in thick black letters trimmed with white, the sign read:

THE CORNER POCKET

“The Corner Pocket,” she repeated aloud as her feet automatically stopped in front of the open door. Peeking inside, she saw a painter's ladder, an assortment of paint cans, and the back side of a man clad in paint-spattered jeans and a loose-fitting shirt. The back half of the room that had once held her dessert cases and a few small tables now boasted one solid red wall, a stark white wall with a single thick stripe of yellow running horizontal across the center, and a solid green on the wall currently being painted.

She watched as the man returned his roller to the tray, loaded it up with paint, and applied it to the third wall one careful swath at a time. It wasn't necessarily a decorating scheme she would have thought of, but seeing it come together under Mark's careful hand made it a veritable no-brainer for a billiards hall.

The part she still couldn't rationalize, though, was how
Mark—a man well-known in town for a history of gambling (and losing)—suddenly had enough money to open a brand-new business in a space she (a proven business owner) couldn't afford.

“Hey there, Winnie.”

She lifted her gaze back to the top of the ladder and waved at the man now alternating between wiping his hands on a cloth and gesturing her inside.

“C'mon in. Tell me what you think . . .”

Nibbling on her lower lip, Winnie fought through the desire to preserve her memory of the storefront's previous incarnation and stepped inside. Slowly.

“Wow, you've really been working hard in here.” She heard the slight shake to her voice and hoped it went unnoticed. The last thing she needed was to get all sentimental with her last remaining suspect in Bart's murder.

Mark set the roller inside the tray and then climbed down the ladder. At the bottom, he pointed to the first two walls. “Tell me you get what I'm doing here . . .”

“Sure. The red wall and this green one are the solid balls . . . and the back wall is for the striped balls.” Now that she was inside, she found it wasn't so hard. The fact that Mark's version of the space bore absolutely no similarity to hers helped. “And your sign out front is supposed to be the inside of the pool table, yes? With the white trim around the black letters to simulate the eight ball?”

A smile spread across the man's aging face like wildfire. “Awesome! I was hoping I'd pulled it off!”

“And you have.” She inched across the series of drop cloths lining the floor around them and pointed toward the back of the room. “Are you going to put the tables in vertically with the back wall?”

Mark reached up, lifted the bill of his painter's hat, swiped the back of his free hand across his forehead, and then adjusted his hat back into place. “That's what I envisioned in my head, but when I got in here with my
measuring tape, I realized trying to put in my tables in that way wouldn't give players room to move around the tables. So I'm going horizontally. Gives me room for four tables and maybe even some chairs people can sit in between play or during tournaments.”

“Sounds like you've got it all figured out,” she mused.

“Been dreaming about it for years but never had the money to give it a go until now.”

She felt her eyebrow lift along with her curiosity. “So what's different about now?”

“Dad told me to go for my dream.”

She stifled the urge to gasp and was more than grateful for the reprieve Mark's brief glance back at his wall provided. Before she could formulate some sort of response, though, he continued, his voice exhibiting a rare burst of emotion that seemed surprisingly genuine. “When Mom passed, any remaining money from my biological father's estate immediately transferred to me. It wasn't tons, but it was enough to open this place.” Mark waved her over to a pair of folding chairs in the center of the room and dropped onto the second one. “Initially, I figured I'd hold on to it. You know, in case Dad went into a rapid decline in the wake of Mom's death. But Dad wanted no part of that. He said he had money of his own to take care of his needs and that I should use my biological father's money to get this place going.

“That's the way Dad was. Always supporting me even when I didn't deserve it. That's why I want to do this place right. I want to finally be the success my parents always believed I'd be, even when I did everything to show them otherwise.”

Lowering herself onto the first chair, she found herself swallowing over the same lump that appeared in her throat every time she thought of Ethel and Bart. “So then if you had the money to start this place all on your own, why were you pressuring your dad to sell his house?”

The second the question was out, she found herself wishing for a rewind button. Talk about pushing things . . .

Surprisingly, though, Mark didn't even flinch. Instead, he dropped forward, propped his forearms on his thighs, and hung his head. “I hated the thought of him being alone in that house all day long. I mean, that place was
them
, you know? Mom's absence was suffocating.”

“And you thought a nursing home would be better?”

His head shot up, his eyes pinning hers. “
Nursing home
? I didn't want Dad in a nursing home. I wanted him at my place . . .
with me
.”

It was a part of the story she hadn't known. One that didn't completely mesh with the version told to her by Bridget . . .

“So you're saying Bart was all for the move?”

His dark eyes disappeared from view for what seemed like an eternity before reappearing beside deep creases. “Dad refused to go. Said his home was Mom's home and he was going to stay there until he took his last breath. He was stubborn that way.”

Mark released a weary sigh and then dropped his face into his hands, muffling his words as he did. “But no matter how stubborn he was, there was no denying what being in that house without Mom was doing to him. And he knew it. Looking back, I wish I hadn't pushed the issue so many times. Heck, I even made up flyers on the house two weeks ago and showed them to him.” He picked up his head, threw his body back against the chair, and stared up at the ceiling. “Man, he went ballistic when I did that. Yet, when he called me that last night and told me he couldn't do it anymore, he referred to that flyer. Said, ‘Get them things out there before I change my mind.' So I did. And then I got the call that they'd found him—that
you
found him.”

She closed her eyes against the memory of Bart's lifeless body and forced herself to remain in the present, with the
man seated in the next chair—a man whose pain was so raw and so real she could no longer keep the emotion from her own voice. “I'm sorry, Mark. I really am. Your parents were the best.”

For a moment she wasn't sure he heard her, but, eventually, he sat up tall and met her gaze head-on. “They loved you, Winnie. I hope you know that.”

“I do. And I loved them, too.”

Mark's smile was back, only this time, it held a hint of sadness. “I know about the pies you brought him each week for Mom. That was a really awesome thing to do.”

Oh, what she wouldn't give to make Bart another pie . . .

Shaking off the thought, she reached across the gap between their chairs and patted the top of Mark's hand. “And I think what you did for your dad with his coin was pretty awesome, too.”

He drew back. “What are you talking about?”

“Burying him with it.”

His eyes narrowed with confusion. “Buried him with it? I didn't bury him with it.” He pulled his hand from hers and palmed his face, grief turning to horror. “My God, I—I didn't even think about that . . . I'm such an idiot.”

Slowly he let his hand drop down to his lap as he, once again, met her eyes. “Do you think it's too late? I mean, should I have him exhumed so I could put it in the casket with him?”

She considered his question and the pain in which it was asked and gave the only answer she could. “No. I think you should hold on to it. As a memento of your dad. Share its history as proudly as he did.”

Mark's nod was slow to come, but once it did, it came with a smile. “You're right. Dad got that coin from
his
father, just as I will get it from
my
dad.”

“
Will
get?” she echoed.

“I'll stop by the house tonight and pick it up.”

She stared at him, waiting for his words to carry some other sort of meaning. But no matter how hard she tried to squeeze something different out, only one response fit. “It's not there, Mark. The case is empty and Bart's coin is gone.”

S
he lifted her fist to the door and knocked louder, any guilt she should have felt over the late hour paling in comparison against the need to vent. Sure, she'd heard of would-be home buyers taking things when Realtors weren't looking, but to do that to Bart? With something that meant so much to him?

It wasn't right.

It wasn't right at all.

“Mr. Nelson?” she called between knocks. “It's me. Winnie. Could we talk?”

Pulling her hand back, she pressed her ear to the door and listened.

Nothing.

Defeated, she stepped back, turned toward the stairs, and began the slow climb to the top, trying, with each step, to envision Lovey as a sounding board. Technically, with Lovey, Winnie didn't have to worry about malfunctioning hearing aids and having to repeat herself all the—

The door at the top of the steps creaked open, and Mr.
Nelson peered out from her entryway. “Well, would you lookee who's here, Lovey. It's your momma.”

“Mr. Nelson!” She ran the rest of the way up the steps and into her apartment, the welcoming hiss from the living room barely registering against her excitement. “I was just knocking on your door, hoping you weren't asleep yet.”

“Asleep? With you still out and about?” Mr. Nelson pushed the door shut behind her and caned his way into the living room. When he reached Lovey's armchair, he snapped his fingers for the cat to move and then sat.

“How did you do that?” she asked, awestruck. “She won't give up that chair for
me
.”

“Give it time, Winnie Girl. She'll come around.” A quick pat on his lap brought Lovey back to the chair (and Mr. Nelson's lap) with an audible purr. “Been out with that fella you were telling me about, have you?”

“Fella?”

“The one with the daughter.”

Jay . . .

She shook the business professor's image from her thoughts and lowered herself onto the couch. “I was with Mark.”

“Hark? That's the fella's name?”

Waving aside his words, she leaned forward and spoke louder. “I was with Mark, Mr. Nelson.”

“Mark?”

At his continued confusion, she added more information. “Mark Reilly. Bart's son.”

“
Mark
has a
daughter
?” Mr. Nelson asked. “Does Bridget know this?”

She allowed herself to sink backward against the cushion, grabbing a throw pillow and hugging it to her chest as she did. “If Mark had a daughter, Bridget would know.”

Mr. Nelson took a moment to nod in agreement and then turned up the volume in his right ear. “I'm not sure Mark is the right man for you, Winnie.”

“We weren't on a date, Mr. Nelson. I just happened to see him when I went for a walk. He was painting the walls in his new pool hall.” She thought back to her evening and the rare side of Mark she'd witnessed. “He's doing a nice job. Bart would be proud of him.”

“He always was proud of that boy. Sometimes he had to search real hard to find something worth being proud of, but he always managed to find something.”

“Bart had decided to sell, Mr. Nelson. Those flyers I saw were
his
idea.” At Mr. Nelson's obvious skepticism, she amended her statement to help fill in the gaps. “I mean, the initial idea was Mark's, but the decision to finally put them up was Bart's.”

“And you believe that?” Mr. Nelson asked quietly.

“I do.”

Any urge he may have had to call her on her sudden conviction remained in check as he turned his attention to Lovey. “Your momma has always been a smart young lady. No reason to think anything different now.”

She hiked her legs up onto the couch and ran her finger along the throw pillow's simple design. “Mr. Nelson?” she finally asked, looking up. “What can you tell me about Bart's coin?”

Mr. Nelson's hand stopped as he leaned his head against the back of his seat, a thoughtful smile claiming his lips. “He got it from his daddy. Who got it from a member of President Roosevelt's Secret Service detail.”

“I remember something about a floral shop. Is that right?”

“Bart's daddy was a florist. One of President Roosevelt's Secret Service agents had a standing order for a floral delivery to his wife.” Mr. Nelson returned to petting Lovey, but his thoughts, his memories, were clearly somewhere else. “See? That's why I never got married. I wouldn't have thought of sending flowers every week.”

“You'd have thought of your own things.”

“Eh,” he said, waving her words away. “I'd have been no good at marriage.”

She opened her mouth to offer another protest but let it go. After all, what difference did it make? Mr. Nelson was set in his ways. “Tell me more.”

“Bart's daddy filled that order faithfully for more than twenty years. Never forgot a one, from what Bart said.”

It was hard not to smile at that. Still, she wanted to hear more. “Okay . . .”

“In thanks for his daddy's dedication, the agent gave him that gold double eagle coin.”

“It was made in 1934, right?”

“In 1933,” he corrected. “There were more than four hundred thousand of them made.”

She pulled the pillow from her chest and slowly turned it around in her hands, her mind working through Mr. Nelson's words—words she'd heard many times from Bart yet wanted to commit to memory now. “Four hundred thousand sounds like a lot.”

“Because it is. Especially back in 1933.”

“So the fact that he got it from a member of the president's Secret Service is what made it so special, right?”

Mr. Nelson looked at her across the coffee table, his head starting to shake before she'd even finished her question. “What made it special was the fact that none of those four hundred thousand coins were ever released to the public.”

“But why?” she asked, lowering the pillow to her lap.

“During the Depression, President Roosevelt decided to take America off the gold standard. When he did that, it became illegal to have any gold coins.”

“But this coin Bart's dad was given was gold . . .”

“Indeed it was.”

“So that means it has to be really rare.”

Mr. Nelson slid his hands underneath Lovey, scooted the cat into the miniscule gap between his legs and the side
of the chair, and then inched forward until he was ready to stand. Wrapping his hand around the top of the cane Bart hand carved for him years earlier, he rose to his feet and began his journey to the door. “Rare just like you, Winnie Girl.”

“I wish that were true.” She cringed at the woe-is-me tone of her voice, but before she could counteract it with a proper thank-you, he steadied himself with the edge of the now-open door and pointed the end of his cane at Winnie.

“You care about folks, Winnie Girl. Really care about 'em. Especially us old-timers. Most people your age wrote us off a long time ago. But not you. Can't put a price on something that rare. Though, if you could, I'd pay it in a heartbeat.”

*   *   *

W
innie pushed the covers off to the side and swung her feet over the edge of the bed. Two hours of forcing her eyes closed, counting sheep (or, rather, raspberry mousse parfaits), and one-sided conversation with a cat who'd long since left the room was indication enough that sleep wasn't going to be forthcoming anytime soon.

She could get a jump on the day's baking. But there weren't any orders yet.

She could track down Lovey and try to become friends, but exercises in futility had never been her forte.

She could turn on Mr. Nelson's old tube television set and flip through the channels. But the last time she did that at three in the morning, she ended up buying a set of measuring cups that melted in the dishwasher.

The only thing left was the computer, which, unfortunately, meant dislodging Lovey from the chair on which she'd suddenly chosen (for the first time, mind you) to sleep away the wee hours of the morning.

Three hisses (and what sounded an awful lot like a growl) later, Winnie clicked the icon for solitaire and began
to play. The first game, she won. The second game, she didn't. Halfway through the third game, she switched over to the Internet. She checked Renee's Facebook page (she'd posted a picture of Ty playing baseball) first, and then moved on to Bridget's and the picture depicting the latest blanket the elderly woman had completed.

She contemplated updating her own page but discarded the idea when she realized she had nothing to say. Then, moving the cursor up to the search bar, she typed in Jay's name. A dozen or so people with the same name popped up, but it took Winnie just seconds to locate the correct one thanks to the thumbnail-sized profile picture of the business teacher himself. She clicked on the tiny photo and instantly found herself staring at a larger version of the same picture—one that showed his smile and his eyes with such startling clarity she actually sucked in her breath.

For far longer than she knew she should, she studied his every feature, memorizing the curve of his face, the arch of his brow, the honest directness of his gaze. More than anything she wanted to know what he was doing at that moment (although sleeping was a good guess), but because they weren't Internet friends, she couldn't see anything beyond his picture.

Finally, she forced herself to log off her account. Next, she checked her Twitter account, scrolling through some of the tweets she'd missed over the last few weeks. A few pages in, she grew bored and abandoned her efforts. Her e-mail account yielded nothing capable of helping pass the time, and she closed out of that, too.

She was just about to shut down the computer and head back into her bedroom to count more parfaits, when she switched gears and typed “1933 gold double eagle coin” into her favorite search engine. Sure enough, more than ten pages of links popped up on her screen, and she clicked on the first one.

Two paragraphs in, she realized she knew everything
there was to know, thanks to Mr. Nelson. Still, she checked the next link and the one after that, the same basic facts repeated again and again.

Halfway down the page of links, she clicked on one that mentioned value and began to read.

Currency can be traced back hundreds and hundreds of years. The older a coin is, the rarer it is. The rarer it is, the more coveted it is by collectors. Today, the most coveted coin—which recently sold for 7.5 million dollars—is the 1933 gold double eagle.

This time, when she sucked in her breath, the sound echoed around the room.

“Noooo . . .” Her gaze returned to the top of the article and quickly skipped ahead to the most important part.

Today, the most coveted coin—which recently sold for 7.5 million dollars—is the 1933 gold double eagle.

“
Seven point five million dollars
?” Covering her mouth with her hand, Winnie reread the sentence one more time, the third go-round kicking off a chill so powerful she actually began to shiver.