“That certainly seems a little odd.”
I run my hand up the left side of the desk, but nothing seems unusual. Nate helps me pull it away from the wall, and we both look all around it but find nothing.
“What are we missing?” Nate asks.
“Well, it wasn’t unusual to have hidden compartments in old desks like these. There has to be one somewhere.”
We check for a false bottom on the drawers but find none. I look around the inside of the cabinet section and again run my hand up the left side. On the very top corner, the position of the cornice appears slightly off.
“Nate, can you reach that top part?”
He reaches up above my head, pulls at the underside of the wood, and a small hidden drawer falls out in his hand.
“Another fucking note,” he mutters when he brings it down to eye level. “Was the woman who raised you into mystery novels by any chance?”
“Yes, actually, she was.”
“This note reads ‘Victorians weren’t all about safety.’ Should I assume this is about Victorian furniture?”
“That would be a fair assumption.” I look around the shop, but I don’t see any Victorian era items with sold signs on them. I check out a few items, but nothing of interest strikes me.
“This is ridiculous.” Nate is clearly frustrated. “We’re getting nowhere.”
Suddenly, I remember something.
“You know, there’s a Victorian bookcase at the house that has a hidden compartment with a safe in it. I wonder if she could have meant that.”
“Back to the house, then.”
We head back outside. The snow is coming down harder, and the streets are covered. As we walk up to the curb, a black pickup truck with a snowplow on the front slows and stops before us. The driver leans over to manually roll down the window, revealing a familiar face.
“Is that you, Cherry?”
“Hi, Bernard!” I wave. “I’m just here for a short visit!”
“You be careful out here!” Bernard calls back to me. “There’s quite a storm coming!”
“I will!”
Bernard rolls up the window and continues down the street, throwing snow over the sidewalks. We cross the street cautiously, and I start to turn left to head back to the house.
“Hold up a minute,” Nate says as he stops short. “Have you ever been in there?”
He points to the Firefly Farms cheese shop down the street.
“Sure, lots of times. I don’t think there’s a shop in Accident I haven’t been in before.”
“Do you mind if we go check it out?”
“Why?”
“In the file Micha had—the one with your forged birth certificate—there was a receipt from that shop. He ordered cheese from there for the Big O. I wanted to take a look and see why he might have ordered something from that particular shop.”
“All right.”
Inside, Firefly Farms is warm and inviting. The varnished wooden counter is lined with cutout paper paw prints with information on pet adoptions, and a cozy collection of tables and shelves are lined with gift assortments of cheese, wine, and various products made from goat’s milk. On the far side of the shop, large windows allow patrons to gaze at the cheesemaking process.
I walk up to the glass and look over the white plastic racks of cheese wheels, all stacked closely together in different stages of aging. To my left, another window looks into a large room with giant metal vats. Inside, a man leans over one of them, apparently adjusting the contents. As I watch him work, someone comes out of the office.
“Well, hello there, Cherry! I haven’t seen you in a while!” An attractive, dark-haired man waves at me from behind the counter.
“Hi, Pablo! How’s business?”
“I’m not complaining!” He smiles brightly. “I could do without these spring storms, though. I heard you had moved away.”
“I did,” I reply. “I’m just here for a short visit.”
“Well, it’s good to see you. I sure do miss your Aunt Ginny. She was a loss to the whole community.”
“Thanks.” I give him a quick smile before I introduce Nate, and they shake hands.
Nate starts asking Pablo about the order receipt he has, and Pablo says he’ll have to check the records in the back. As we wait, another customer walks in. He’s dressed in a long, dark coat and keeps his sunglasses on. He glances at me briefly, then goes back to browsing one of the shelves full of goat milk soap. A minute later, another man of similar description joins him.
I tense all over. Pablo comes out from the office, and Nate continues to chat with him, but I can see the transformation in Nate’s posture. He doesn’t look at the men, but he has his body turned toward them slightly, as if he’s ready to turn and pounce.
I take a step and feel the cold glass of the window behind me. The men glance at each other, nod, and then spring toward Nate. I scream out a warning, but Nate has already anticipated their actions.
He grabs a cutting board from the table next to him, and swings it at the first man, slamming him across the jaw. As he stumbles backward, Nate grabs a bottle of wine from the same table and smashes it over the other man’s head. With both men stunned, Nate rushes over to me, grabs my hand, and pulls me back behind the counter.
In the meantime, Pablo is screaming at everyone.
“Hey! What do you think you’re doing?”
“Back door!” Nate grabs Pablo by the collar and screams at him. “Where’s the fucking back door?”
Pablo’s eyes grow wide as he points over his shoulder, and Nate pulls me through the
