Crime in the Café

In her mind’s eye, Lacey pictured the oil painting of a boat at sea that Xavier had mailed her just last week. She’d hung it above the fireplace in her living room at Crag Cottage.

“It’s the type of boat his great-great-grandfather captained,” she told Gina, defensively. “Xavier found it in a flea market and thought I might like it.” She gave a nonchalant shrug, trying to downplay it.

“Huh,” Gina grunted, her lips pressed into a straight line. “Saw this and thought of you. You know how that looks to an outsider…”

Lacey huffed. She’d reached the end of her patience. “Whatever you’re hinting at, why don’t you just come out and say it?”

“Fine,” her friend replied boldly. “I think there’s more to Xavier’s gift-giving than you’re willing to accept. I think he likes you.”

Though Lacey had guessed her friend was implying as much, she still felt affronted hearing it spoken so plainly.

“I’m perfectly happy with Tom,” she argued, her mind’s eye conjuring up an image of the gorgeous, broad-smiled baker she was lucky enough to call her lover. “Xavier’s only trying to help. He promised he would when I gave him his great-grandfather’s sextant. You’re just inventing drama where there is none.”

“If there was no drama,” Gina replied calmly, “then why are you hiding Xavier’s parcel on the bottom shelf of the storage cupboard?”

Lacey faltered momentarily. Gina’s accusations had taken her off guard and left her flustered. For a moment, she forgot the reason why she’d stowed the parcel away after signing for the delivery, instead of opening it right away. Then she remembered; the paperwork was delayed. Xavier had said she’d need to sign an accompanying certificate, so she’d decided to stow it away for the time being in case she accidentally violated any finickity British law she’d yet to learn. With the amount of time the police had ended up sniffing around her store, she couldn’t really be too careful!

“I’m not hiding it,” Lacey said. “I’m waiting for the certification to arrive.”

“You don’t know what’s inside?” Gina asked. “Xavier didn’t tell you what it was?”

Lacey shook her head.

“And you didn’t ask?” her friend prompted.

Again, Lacey shook her head.

She noticed then that the look of accusation in Gina’s eyes was starting to fade. Instead, it was being overtaken with curiosity.

“Do you think it could be something…” Gina lowered her voice. “…illegal?”

Despite being confident Xavier had not shipped her some banned item, Lacey was more than happy to divert the topic away from his gift, so she ran with it.

“Could be,” she said.

Gina’s eyes widened further. “What kind of things?” she asked, sounding like an awed child.

“Ivory, for one,” Lacey told her, recalling knowledge from her studies of items that were illegal to sell in the UK, antiques or otherwise. “Anything made from the fur of an endangered species. Upholstery made with fabric that’s not fire-retardant. Obviously weapons…”

All hints of suspicion now entirely vacated Gina’s expression; the “drama” over Xavier was forgotten in the blink of an eye with the far more exciting possibility of there being a weapon inside the box.

“A weapon?” Gina repeated, a little squeak in her voice. “Can’t we open it and see?”

She looked as excited as a child beside the tree on Christmas Eve.

Lacey hesitated. She’d been excited to look inside the parcel ever since it had arrived by special courier. It must have cost Xavier an arm and a leg to send it all the way from Spain, and the packaging was elaborate as well; the thick cardboard was as sturdy as wood, and the whole thing was fixed with industrial-sized staples and tied with zip ties. Whatever was inside was obviously very precious.

“Okay,” Lacey said, feeling rebellious. “What harm can a peek do?”

She tucked an unruly strand from her dark bangs behind her ear and fetched the box cutter. She used it to slice the zip ties and prize out the staples. Then she opened up the box and sifted through the Styrofoam packaging.

“It’s a case,” she said, tugging on the leather handle and heaving out a heavy wooden case. Styrofoam bits fluttered everywhere.

“Looks like a spy’s briefcase,” Gina said. “Oh, you don’t think your father was a spy, do you? Maybe a Russian one!”

Lacey rolled her eyes as she placed the heavy case onto the floor. “I may have entertained a lot of outlandish theories about what happened to my father over the years,” she said, clicking open the catches of the case one after the next. “But Russian spy has never been one of them.”

She pushed up the lid and looked into the case. She gasped at the sight of what it contained. A beautiful antique flintlock hunting rifle.

Gina started cough-choking. “You can’t have that thing in here! Goodness, you probably can’t have it in England, full stop! What on earth was Xavier thinking sending this to you?”

But Lacey wasn’t listening to her friend’s outburst. Her attention was fixated on the rifle. It was in excellent shape, despite the fact it had to be well over a hundred years old.

Carefully, Lacey removed it from the case, feeling the weight of it in her hands. There was something familiar about it. But she’d never held a rifle, much less fired one, and despite the odd sense of déjà vu that had rippled through her, she had no concrete memories to attach to it.

Gina started flapping her hands. “Lacey, put it back! Put it back! I’m sorry I made you take it out. I didn’t really think it would be a weapon.”

“Gina, calm down,” Lacey told her.

But her friend was on a roll. “You need a license! You might even be committing an offense having it in this country at all! Things are very different over here than they are in the USA!”

Gina’s squeaking reached a fever pitch but Lacey just left her to it. She’d learned there was no talking Gina down from her panicky outbursts. They always ran their course eventually. Either that, or Gina would tire herself out.

Besides, Lacey’s attention was too absorbed by the beautiful rifle to pay her any heed. She was mesmerized by the strange feeling of familiarity it had stirred within her.

She peered down the barrel. Felt the weight of it. The shape of it in her hands. Even the smell of it. There was just something wonderful about the rifle, like it was always meant to belong to her.

Just then, Lacey became aware of silence. Gina had finally stopped ranting. Lacey glanced up at her.

“Are you finished?” she asked, calmly.

Gina was still staring at the rifle like it was a circus tiger escaped from its cage, but she nodded slowly.

“Good,” Lacey said. “What I was trying to tell you is that I’ve not only done my homework on the UK’s laws on possession and use of firearms, but I actually have a certificate to legally trade antique ones.”

Gina paused, a small, perplexed frown appearing in the space between her brows. “You do?”

“Yes,” Lacey assured her. “Back when I was valuing the contents of Penrose Manor, the estate had a whole collection of shooting rifles. I had to apply for a license immediately in order to hold the auction. Percy Johnson helped me organize it all.”

Gina pursed her lips. She was wearing her surrogate mother expression. “Why didn’t I know about this?”

“Well, you didn’t work for me back then, did you? You were just the lady next door whose sheep kept trespassing on my property.” Lacey chuckled at the fond memory of her first morning waking up in Crag Cottage to find a herd of sheep munching her grass.

Gina didn’t return the smile. She seemed to be in a stubborn mood.

“Still,” she said, folding her arms, “you’ll need to get it registered with the police, won’t you? Have it logged on the firearms database.”

At the mention of the police, an image of Superintendent Karl Turner’s stern, emotionless face appeared in Lacey’s mind’s eye, followed quickly by the face of his stoic partner, Detective Inspector Beth Lewis. She’d had enough encounters with the two of them to last a lifetime.