God!” Her eyes widened and her lips curved into a giddy smile. “I just realized—you’ve got the journal with you, don’t you? Can I see it?” Her tone was tentative rather than demanding, and although I felt my heart rate kick up into a steady, thumping rhythm, I figured, what the hell? There were no remaining secrets, as far as Beck was concerned. So, wiping my hands on my napkin, I pulled it out and handed it over.
Beck shoved her plate away and scoured the table with a fresh napkin in preparation for her chance at the journal. She took it reverently, carefully fingering the edges with neat, square-tipped, metallic blue-painted nails before laying it gently on the table. With nothing to say and an unfamiliar clutch in my chest, I started in on the other half of my sandwich. No regrets. I was glad I’d told her—glad I’d picked her specifically. This secret was too overwhelming to hold alone, and she was the perfect foil for my cynicism.
She took her time, clearly savoring this opportunity, running her fingers over the key plate and knob, the covers, inside and out, and then each individual page, lingering over the ones left with fortune-cookie wisdom. Having been through the very same process myself, although admittedly with more frantic fingers, I could tell she was searching for clues. Just as I knew she wouldn’t find any. They simply weren’t there. And, oh, was that bugging me!
“Amazing. I sooo want one of these. You, my friend, are going to be the stuff of urban legend.” It was clear I had just gone up a notch in Beck’s estimation. I kept chewing; she gushed on.
“What if this is like
“Okay, I get it,” I said, holding my hands up to derail Beck’s runaway train of thought. “Hollywood loves crazy, unexplained phenomena.”
“You think there might be another one, a little matched set?” She shot me a mischievous smile. “Which shop was it?”
I answered just as my eyes finished rolling. “Violet’s Crown Antiques, just a couple of blocks down on the other side of the street from here. Self-professed ‘Purveyors of Curious Goods.’ Truer words ...”
“So you don’t think she has another one? Well, then maybe you’ll let me borrow this one after you ‘have your cake but meet him too.’ I can wait until the romance really gets going.” Little smart aleck.
“How can you possibly need any help in this department?”
“I think it’s the pink—and maybe the stud. I think it scares off the nerds, and I
“Who doesn’t?” I agreed.
As I watched Beck pore over the journal, I fantasized about the many nerdy facets of Mr. Brett Tilson.
The walk to Violet’s Crown Antiques was quick and in the thick of Austin “Weirdness,” and the closer we got, the more I worried. Beck was wired, but relaxed enough for window shopping, whereas I was tense and fidgety, not at all ready for any more surprises.
“You ready, Mulder?” We were steps away from the shop, the source of my personal X-File, and I figured Beck would thrill at the chance to be typecast as the weird detective.
“Lead the way, Scully,” she said with a grin.
I pulled on the brass door handle and thought to add, “How about I do the talking on this one?”
No answer.
A little bell echoed from some mysterious spot in the back as I walked through a mind-boggling mix of goods just as likely to have been fished from someone’s trash as culled from an estate sale. I made my way toward a makeshift counter in the middle of the store. Lavender was thick in the air, vying with the smells of dust and old age. I smiled at the chignoned shop owner, reaching into my bag and fishing out my one-of-a-kind find. I held the journal face out, the fancy little hardware on display, hoping to spark a memory.
“I bought this journal here a couple of weeks ago. It was on the table with some old novels and brass candle snuffers ... ?” Her only reaction was to lift the reading glasses hanging from a chain around her neck and settle them on her nose. “I’m not, by any means, knowledgeable about antiques, but this little book seems like it’s something special.” Talk about your understatements. “I confess, my curiosity is piqued, and I wondered if you could tell me anything about it—where you got it, any history, anything ... special?”
I turned my head slightly, my eyes darting around in their search for Beck.
“I’m surprised I remember it.” The words had me whipping my eyes back around to focus on the shop owner. “But I do. It was a bit of a stowaway, tucked in the drawer of a lovely boudoir table I purchased from an elderly bachelor over in Fredericksburg during Trade Days.”
A muffled noise from Beck, behind me and a little to the right, had me shooting her a curious glance. She was petting a stuffed and smiling armadillo that was poised over a backgammon board with one white chip clutched in its claws. I turned back, smiling to smooth over the interruption, fairly drooling for more information.
The shopkeeper dragged her disapproving gaze from Beck and refocused it on me before finally shifting it down to settle on the journal. “As it was empty and rather nondescript, I assumed the seller wouldn’t quibble to have it back.”
She, in turn, hadn’t quibbled about selling it to me for ten dollars.
“Could you tell me the approximate age of the table?” Not that it mattered—the journal could easily be older or newer—but I felt compelled to come away with a little something more than a stowaway that had escaped a bachelor in Fredericksburg.
“I dated it as early 1920s.”
“What about the man? Do you keep records of that sort?”
“I assume you’re not referring to his age,” she inquired drily.
“No! No, no, no. Well, honestly, anything you can tell me might be helpful,” I backpedaled.
“Surely there’s little to tell about a small blank book.” She was clearly puzzled—and cranky. I could see the tight little lines around her lips, where coral lipstick was fanning into a prickly mess.
Instinctively, I slid the journal under my arm, shielding it from view.
Tripping forward on the exposed end of a rolled-up carpet stashed behind a pair of French-looking chairs, Beck materialized beside me and blurted, “We were actually wondering if you had anything else like it, stashed in another drawer somewhere.”
I jabbed my elbow into her side and smiled my friendliest trust-me smile. “She’s joking.” I stepped forward, hoping to draw the woman’s doubtful eyes away from Beck. “I’d just like to talk to the gentleman in Fredericksburg. All I’d need is his name and number ... ?”
“It’s not really our policy.”
“Just this once? As a ‘Purveyor of Curious Goods,’ you have to sympathize with someone curious about the goods, right?” Beck had stepped forward once again to present this ingenious argument, but the Purveyor was not impressed. In fact, she was frowning.
“This is highly irregular, and while I won’t give out contact information, I will call and briefly inquire about the book. Who knows? He may even ask to have it returned to him.” Now she smirked, and I had to dig deep to keep from sticking my tongue out.
Climbing down off her stool, her lips set in a disapproving line, she moved to the other side of the wraparound counter, her sensible heels clicking on the painted concrete flooring. Beck and I exchanged a quick low five and some facial acrobatics as she tapped away on the shop’s computer. When she lifted the phone to dial, I gestured wildly to Beck to move closer and scam the name and number from the computer screen. Miraculously, Beck’s awkward lunge away from the counter and subsequent tussle with an umbrella stand went unnoticed as the Purveyor replaced the phone in its cradle and turned grimly back to me.
“I’m sorry,” she said, clearly anything but. “There was no answer.” Her smile was so brittle I was afraid it might shatter. Clearly we wouldn’t be getting any more help from her. At least not on the up-and-up.
With a quickly tossed-off thank you, I grabbed Beck’s arm and pulled her toward the door, exerting a determined yank when she reached for the top volume of a stack of scuffed-up books near the door.
“What?” she demanded, after the door had swung shut behind us. “Why couldn’t we stay and look?” She dusted her hands on her rear end, and I reached into my purse in search of antibacterial gel.
“I think it’s a pretty safe bet she doesn’t have another one, Beck.” I offered her a squirt. “Armadillos are
