“Two hundred for the pair,” Kerry said, holding her breath, hoping the woman wouldn’t change her mind.
“Okay. Sold.” The customer reached into the pocket of her Patagonia jacket and pulled out some folded-up bills. She plucked four fifties and handed them to Kerry. “I’m Lorna. And I’ll see you in a bit.”
Kerry was winding tartan ribbon around a twenty-six-inch wreath when a tall, slender man approached with a small fluffy dog on a leash. He wore a brown leather bomber jacket with a Burberry scarf wrapped around his neck, and a tweed newsboy’s cap.
Queenie, who’d been lounging on her moving blanket, walked over and gave the dog an inquisitive sniff, and the smaller dog responded by rolling onto his back and wriggling on the sidewalk.
“Oooh,” the dog’s owner said, pausing to watch what Kerry was doing. “That’s super cute. I can totally see that tied to one of the glass doors on my husband’s grandmother’s mahogany secretary. If I buy it, could you add a loop of ribbon to hang it with?”
“Of course,” Kerry said.
He cocked his head and gave it some thought. “But I’m wondering if that red plaid will clash with all the oranges and browns in the rug. It’s an Oushak, very old.”
“I can use whatever ribbon you like,” Kerry said quickly. She held up the roll of gold satin ribbon. “What about this?”
“Yaaaasss,” he drawled, looking around the Christmas tree stand. “You’re new this year, right? I don’t remember Murphy and Jock selling wreaths this nice before.”
Kerry laughed. “I’m Murphy’s sister, Kerry. My dad couldn’t make the trip up from North Carolina this year, so I’m his substitute.”
He took her hand in his. “Well, welcome to the neighborhood, Kerry. I’m John.” He gestured toward the dog. “And this is Ruby.”
The dog gave a short, enthusiastic bark and wagged its tail so vigorously, Kerry couldn’t help but laugh.
“What kind of dog is Ruby?”
“She’s a very entitled, spoiled mini goldendoodle,” John said. He reached in his pocket and brought out a small business card. “She’s got her own Instagram account, in case you do that sort of thing. By the way, you’re coming Saturday night, right?”
“Saturday night?”
“We, that is, everyone in our building, always have a holiday open house, the second Saturday night in December. Just a little potluck affair, you know?”
He pointed to the same building Kerry had seen Patrick and Austin emerge from the previous day. “You must come! And remind Murphy too. We’re hoping he’ll bring his dobro.”
“His dobro?” Kerry glanced at the bakery window, where her brother was apparently waiting for his breakfast muffin to get heated up.
“Of course. We have to practically beg him to play, but once he gets started, he’s really an amazing musician.” John gave her a quizzical look. “Is this somehow news to you?”
“Sort of,” Kerry said, not wanting to explain her family’s complicated history.
“Anyway, come around six. Dress is holiday festive.”
“Holiday festive,” she repeated. “And what can I bring?”
“Oh, don’t worry about that. We always have an embarrassing amount of food.”
“I’ll figure out something to bring,” Kerry said firmly. “Southerners never show up anywhere empty-handed.”
“I’ll tell you what,” he said slowly. “Maybe you could bring some kind of centerpiece? Old Mrs. Gaskins on the second floor usually brings one of her tragic fake poinsettia creations, but she’s gone to stay with her daughter in Florida this year.”
“I’d be happy to,” Kerry said. She hesitated for a moment. “It sounds like you know most of the people who live in the neighborhood.”
“I should. We’ve lived here for twenty years. Why? Has someone been bothering you?”
“Nothing like that,” she said. “I was sketching earlier, and an older man dressed in a big heavy black coat sort of wandered over and gave me some unsolicited criticism.”
“Does he walk with a cane? Bundled up in a scarf?”
“That’s him.” She nodded her head.
“That’s just Heinz. Sort of a crank, but he’s harmless. Say, when do you think you can have my wreath ready?”
“This evening,” Kerry said.
He looked over at Ruby, who was now rolling around on the ground gnawing on a stiff, furry brown article. “Ruby, no!”
“Just a dead chipmunk,” Kerry said helpfully. “I think Queenie found it in the park.”
“Ruby, drop it!” He tugged at the leash, but the dog ignored him.
His voice took on the stern tone of a disapproving parent. “Right now, young lady.”
Ruby crouched down and gave a short, gleeful bark.
“Here.” Kerry picked up a plastic bag, leaned down, and deftly extricated the chipmunk from Ruby’s grasp, then dropped it in the trash barrel.
“Oh God,” John moaned. “Do chipmunks carry rabies?”
“Doubtful,” Kerry said, laughing. “You don’t want to know the gross dead stuff our dogs find back home. Possums, squirrels, rats…”
“Rats!” He clutched his chest in horror. “I can’t.”
Ruby was sniffing the base of the trash barrel, whining and straining at her leash.
“Let’s go,” John said. “I’m taking you straight to Pups and Pearls to get disinfected. See you Saturday, Kerry. And don’t forget to tell Murphy to bring that dobro.”
chapter 9
Wednesday morning, Kerry was drinking coffee, sitting at her folding chair on the sidewalk, when a huge tractor trailer pulled up across the intersection. A worker in brown coveralls jumped out and plopped a set of traffic cones in front and back of the truck.
A pickup pulled up and parked behind the trailer, and two more men emerged, one tall and thin in quilted navy coveralls, the other shorter and stouter, in jeans and a faded gray sweatshirt. The men began unloading stacks of plywood and power tools and swiftly began erecting scaffolding on the sidewalk outside Happy Days, the neighborhood bodega.
The whine of the power saws and nail guns soon roused Murphy.
He stepped out of the camper, dressed only in his long johns, and blinked in the bright sunlight. “What the hell’s going on?”
Kerry pointed at the construction project across the intersection. “That. I can’t quite figure out what they’re doing over there.”
“I can.” Murphy’s expression was grim. He climbed back into the camper, and when he reappeared five minutes later, he was dressed and ready for action.
He bolted across the street, dodging cars and buses as he ran.
“Hey!” he shouted. “What do you think you’re doing?”
The tall thin man turned, grinned, and nudged the chunky one.
“You can’t set up here,” Murphy shouted, his voice cutting through the noise of traffic. “This is our block. Our corner. Always has been.”
The thin man’s voice was surprisingly high and shrill. “Not no more, buddy. You don’t own this block. So beat it.” He took a step forward, brandishing a two-by-four.
Murphy stood in the street, with his hands on his hips, glaring at the crew, until a cab blared its horn and he beat a reluctant retreat back across the street.