"A treasure map?"
"That's what they say," she said. "Of course, that was a hundred years ago, and there have been generations of Satterthwaites in this house since and nobody's ever found it." She cocked her head to one side. "I thought maybe with all the renovations you were doing, maybe you might run across it; I didn't want you to throw it out."
"Other than a few old medicine bottles and the sole of a shoe, I haven't found anything like that," I said, thinking of the odds and ends I'd found in a corner of the cellar. "I'll keep an eye out, though, even though I'm sure it's just a figment of someone's imagination."
"Maybe. Maybe not." She took the books, tucking them into her tote bag, and thanked me again. "Good luck to you, and let me know if you do find anything. And if you see any other books you think I might like, please drop me a line."
"I will," I told her. "And thank you for your support."
"Of course," she said. "I'll see you soon. And don't get into any more trouble!" she advised me.
"I'll try not to," I told her.
The rest of the afternoon was quiet in the store, so I was able to spend some time in between customers on unpacking and arranging my kitchen. By the time I closed the shop and headed upstairs for the night, the little cafe table and chairs were clear of boxes, I'd tied back the white curtains over the sink, I'd laid out my favorite blue Provençal tablecloth, and even had time to run down and snip a few roses from the bushes outside the store to fill a Mason jar.
I had decided to make myself one of my favorite healthy comfort foods, an Italian pasta dish featuring arugula, lemons, and cherry tomatoes and a yummy local goat cheese they carried at the grocery store. For dessert, I'd picked up some fresh blueberries and a pint of vanilla ice cream. I was in the mood for a blueberry buckle a la mode, but didn't have the energy. Even just blueberries and creamy ice cream sounded divine.
I played a Celtic music station on my little portable speaker, filling my new home with soothing music, and while a pot of salted water heated on the stove, I sliced up the cherry tomatoes and peeled garlic, enjoying the homey task of meal preparation. When the water was boiling, I added the pasta, then heated a knob of butter mixed with good olive oil in a pan; soon, I was inhaling the delightful aroma of garlic browning in butter. Before the garlic had a chance to get too dark, I tossed in halved cherry tomatoes; while they cooked, I cut the goat cheese into chunks, rinsed the arugula, and squeezed two lemons into a bowl.
It took only a few minutes to mix everything together; I tossed the cooked pasta into the pan with the tomatoes, then quickly added some reserved pasta water and the arugula and turned off the heat, stirring until the arugula was wilted. Then I added the goat cheese, lemon juice, and a touch of salt and pepper, tasting it until it was perfect.
With a glass of inexpensive Pinot Grigio I poured myself from the bottle in the fridge, it was a satisfying dinner. Although I enjoyed it with my James Herriot book, losing myself, at least for a few minutes, in the Yorkshire Dales with young veterinarian James and his cast of delightful two-legged and four-legged characters, I found myself glancing out the mullioned glass kitchen door at the changing sky. Through the open window, I could hear the lap of the water against the rocks, soothing and timeless. I'd loved living in Boston, but there was something magical about Maine, particularly the coast. Was it possible that I'd find a way to stay here? I certainly hoped so.
I returned to my book, trying to push gloomy thoughts out of my head. With my Italian dinner, Celtic music, and English reading material, I was having a very international evening, I reflected as I popped another tomato into my mouth. As I finished another chapter, I looked around the little kitchen with satisfaction.
The kitchen's walls were bright white, setting off the warmth of the pine cabinets and the blue-and-white hand-painted tiles somebody had installed as a backsplash. It was a small space, with just enough room for the basics and a small table, but something about it told me it had been used lovingly by cooks for many years. Through a wide doorway I could see the living room, where I'd pushed my white slipcovered couch into place, flanking it with two blue armchairs I'd rescued from my study in Boston. At some point I'd get a television. But since I lived above a bookstore, I wasn't sure it was necessary, really.
I'd just cleaned up from dinner and put the leftovers in the fridge when my cell phone rang.
"How are you doing?" Denise asked as I picked up my cell.
"Not great news about the bookstore, but at least no one's arrested me. Yet, anyway." I told her what I'd learned about the deed situation today. Like Bethany, she seemed dispirited, but didn't share it with me.
"I'm sure you'll figure it out," she said, trying to sound optimistic. "I found out a little tidbit today, and I thought I'd share it with you."
"What?" I asked.
"Gretchen Parker was at Scooter Dempsey's office today," she said. "She accused him of helping Cal hide money."
16
"How do you know that?" I asked.
"One of the baristas heard them through the open window when he
