Shelly’s eyes darted to one side.
“You told him?” Ivy was nervous enough without this getting out.
“We left a couple of paintings out. It was so dark down there that we didn’t notice. Mitch saw them when he was changing the light bulbs. But I’m sure we can trust him.”
“I hope so. Tell him not to share this with anyone.”
After leaving Shelly, Ivy made her way back to Poppy, who was typing on her laptop.
“I’ve already entered your address, features, and keywords,” Poppy said. “What would you like to say in your description?”
Ivy grinned. “How about…please stay here and save us from financial disaster?”
Poppy laughed as her fingers flew over the keyboard. “Spacious, charming home just steps from the beach. Gather around the fire pit—”
“We don’t have a fire pit.”
Poppy furrowed her brow. “Can you get one? People love fire pits.” She scrolled through some romantic-looking photos of couples lingering beside fire pits. “They’re so atmospheric, and they encourage guests to mingle. I promise you’ll get your money back on the first rental, and the reviews will be worth it.”
“Well…as long as they’re truly atmospheric.” Ivy nudged her with good humor. “Okay, fire pit it is.” Cha-ching. One more cost.
Poppy continued. “And sleep to the sound of gentle waves. Enjoy one of Southern California’s most pristine beaches. Indulge in the grandeur of this rare historic home designed by California’s first female architect.” Poppy looked up. “This will appeal to those who love antiques and history. How’s that for a start?”
“Sounds grand. You’re a marketing genius.” Poppy had helped her niece Elena manage publicity in her Los Angeles jewelry business during a particularly disastrous time. “Keep going.”
“Can you give lectures on the history of this home?”
Just then, Ivy’s phone buzzed. “Hold that thought.” Though she didn’t recognize the number, she tapped the screen. “Hello?”
Nan’s voice floated through the phone. “The mayor tells me you want to know more about Las Brisas.”
“Hi Nan,” Ivy said. “I’d love to find old pictures of the house, especially the interior.”
“We have a book about Las Brisas that we created. We’d put it together to demonstrate the significance of the house to maintaining Summer Beach’s local history. Not only was your house built by a noted architect, but it was also used in the military effort during WWII. Mrs. Erickson was quite a character.”
“So it seems.” Ivy didn’t mention what they’d found on the concealed lower level. “Could I get that today?”
“Come by the shop. We have a copy in the office. And you can meet my husband.”
Ivy promised she’d visit and hung up. She turned back to Poppy. “What else do we have to do?”
“Number of rooms, price per night, availability.” Poppy motioned to a form on the iBnB website. “I’ll survey the competition. Hang on a minute.” She pulled up a map with nearby nightly rates displayed.
They discussed a pricing strategy, and Ivy gave her a date that was now four weeks away. “We’ll be ready.” And in that time, she’d have to squeeze in her mother’s party, a quick return trip to Boston to settle her affairs there and ship a few belongings back, furnish the entire house...
And talk to the FBI.
Poppy arched an eyebrow. “Are you sure? Because once people book their stay, if you cancel, they’ll scorch you with bad reviews.”
“No problem.” Ivy lifted her chin and gave her niece a confident smile, though the butterflies raging in her stomach were more like a hoard of bats now. “One way or another, we’re opening on the first day of June. Have to run now, though.”
Ivy parked the Jeep in front of the address Nan had given her. Located near Java Beach and on the block across from the ocean, Antique Times was a charming shop with an arched stucco façade. Flaming pink bougainvillea bracelets curved around the doorway. A sign proclaimed: Treasures of Yesteryear. Ivy stepped inside, and a bell attached to the door announced her arrival.
The scent of peach potpourri welcomed her to the serene shop. A polished craftsman-style settee rested next to a bookshelf of vintage, leather-bound books. Illuminating the area was a Victorian lamp, which brought to life a Persian rug woven of deep shades of burgundy and navy. As a still life, Ivy thought, this would be an intriguing grouping to paint.
A professorial man in his fifties with a shiny shaved head and a Hawaiian shirt and flip-flops greeted her. “I’ll bet you’re Ivy.”
“You’d win that bet. Ivy Bay.”
“Arthur Ainsworth. Nan’s my better half. I understand you’ve come to rescue the grand dame.”
Ivy detected a trace of a British accent. “My husband didn’t leave me much choice.”
“Better you than him.”
Before she went off again on her dear departed, she changed the subject. “Nan tells me that the two of you had put together a history of my property.”
“I have it right here.” Arthur lifted an over-sized, bound copy with Las Brisas del Mar printed on the front. “We also created a website to educate residents on the property’s cultural importance. The site is still live, so you can capture photos there.”
“That’s exactly what I need.” A thought occurred to her. “How long has this shop been here?”
“Built in 1949, though the original owner had lived in Summer Beach before the war. Served in it, too.”
“Did Amelia Erickson ever bring in pieces to sell here? Art pieces, paintings?”
“That was a long time ago, but I can check the records if it’s important.”
“It might be. Did you ever meet her?”
“No, she left before I arrived, but at the time, most everyone in town knew her. That’s why her illness was so sad. So many people loved her, but she didn’t know them anymore, and she thought she was all alone.”
“Why was that?”
Arthur tapped the book. “We found some writings about her. They say her memory began slipping. She was just forgetful at first, sometimes a little confused, and then it became increasingly apparent that she was mired in a fog of dementia more often than not.
