There was a brief silence, and then Tucker said, “I guess most people know that much.”
“I guess. Yeah, I made sure he’d been neutered, otherwise I would have taken him to a vet. Too many stray cats around for my peace of mind. They live dangerous lives, poor things.” With a shrug, she added, “He probably belongs to someone in the area, given his condition and that collar. He’s been somebody’s cat, obviously cared for.”
“Then maybe he went home after his breakfast.”
“Maybe so.”
“Ready to go down to the shop?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be.”
They left the apartment and went downstairs to the shop, finding Margo occupied with a customer.
“I had something a little more…economical in mind,” the attractive young woman was saying somewhat wryly as she studied the price tag of a beautiful early Victorian writing desk.
Margo chuckled. “Antiques are always economical, especially if you’re looking at long-term investment, Miss Desmond. Just think of having something this beautiful to pass down to your children.”
“You mean instead of the cash?” Miss Desmond grinned.
Sarah recognized from Margo’s happy expression that she expected to make a sale, so she didn’t try to interrupt. Instead, she led Tucker through the maze of gleaming furniture to a back corner, where a stunning ormolu-mounted boulle bureau plat of Regency design acted as a desk where Sarah and Margo did the necessary paperwork for the shop.
“Nice place,” Tucker commented.
“Thanks. It’s taken us almost eight years to get the kind of stock and clientele we dreamed about when we started. A lot of long hours and hard work went into Old Things, to say nothing of every penny Margo and I could come up with.” She said it matter-of-factly but with a trace of wistfulness, filled with the conviction that this part of her life was ending. She didn’t know whether her prediction of a bleak future would be fulfilled, but she was sure, utterly sure, that her partnership with Margo was ending.
One way or another.
Sarah glanced back across the shop at Margo and the customer, then looked at her watch uneasily. It was still well before noon, but she wouldn’t feel that her friend was out of danger until she was out of Richmond and far away from this shop.
“I think I’ll wander around a bit,” Tucker told her. “I’ve always been interested in antiques.” He nodded toward Margo, adding, “Sing out when you need me.”
“Okay.” Sarah sat down at the chair behind the desk and opened a file to go over several shipping invoices. It was busywork and nothing more; the clock in her head was ticking away minutes, and all she could think about was talking to Margo and getting her out of here.
With that tense part of her awareness, she was conscious of Margo talking to the customer, leading her from piece to piece but always returning to that Victorian writing desk she clearly intended to sell the woman.
“Let me just sit here and think about it,” the customer finally said, sitting down somewhat gingerly in a George III mahogany-framed dining chair.
“It’s a tough decision, I know,” Margo said sympathetically.
“I’ll say. I do love that desk, though.”
“We have a layaway plan. Ten percent down, and you can take a year or more to pay the balance.”
The customer groaned. “You’re an evil woman. Tempting me.”
Margo laughed. “It’s something I’ve been accused of before. But what can I say? I like people to have beautiful things.”
That, Sarah reflected absently, was true. Sales techniques aside, Margo did genuinely enjoy the thought of the beautiful things she valued giving pleasure to others.
“My husband will shoot me,” the customer said with another groan. “He expects me to come home with a plain old desk, not an antique. I just stopped by here on impulse.”
“Sometimes,” Margo said, “impulse is the best way to find the nice surprises in life.”
“Yeah.” The customer frowned. “Look, give me a few minutes, will you, please? I want to think about this.”
Her meaning was clear, and Margo smiled brightly. “No problem. Just call me when you’re ready.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
Margo turned and headed toward the back of the shop where Sarah waited.
Sarah rose to her feet, anxious to warn Margo and get her out of the shop as soon as possible—sale or no sale. But before she could leave the desk, the phone rang.
“Good morning, Old Things, this is Sarah,” she said as she answered automatically.
Without preamble, a man said, “I was in your shop the other day looking at an Irish mahogany breakfront wardrobe, and I think I absentmindedly left a small black notebook inside. At least, I hope I did. Could you look for it, please?”