Death and a Dog

Chester began to bark furiously. Lacey gave him a hand signal to stop, and he did, obediently, but he still held his position as if he were ready to attack the second she gave him the go ahead.

Lacey folded her arms and squared off to Buck, aware of every inch he loomed over her but determined to hold her ground. She wasn’t going to be bullied into selling the sextant. She wasn’t going to let this mean, hulking man intimidate her and ruin the auction she’d worked so hard for and was so looking forward to.

“If you want to buy the sextant, then you’ll have to come to the auction and bid on it,” she said.

“Oh, I will,” Buck said through narrowed eyes. He pointed right in Lacey’s face. “You bet I will. Mark my words. Buckland Stringer will win.”

With that, the couple left, swirling out the store so fast they practically left turbulence in their wake. Chester ran to the window, put his front paws up against the glass, and growled at their retreating backs. Lacey watched them go, too, until they were out of sight. It was only then she noticed how much her heart was racing, and how much her legs were trembling. She gripped the countertop to steady herself.

Tom had been right. She’d jinxed herself by saying the pair had no reason to come to her store. But she could be forgiven for assuming there was nothing of interest for them in here. No one would have been able to guess by looking at her that Daisy had any desire to own an antique navy sextant!

“Oh, Chester,” Lacey said, sinking her head into her fist. “Why did I tell them about the auction?”

The dog whined, picking up on the note of mournful regret in her tone.

“Now I have to put up with them tomorrow as well!” she exclaimed. “And what’s the likelihood they know anything of auction etiquette? It’s going to be a disaster.”

And just like that, her excitement for her auction tomorrow was dowsed like a flame between fingertips. In its place, Lacey felt only dread.

CHAPTER FOUR

After her encounter with Buck and Daisy, Lacey was more than ready to lock up for the day and head home. Tom was coming over tonight to cook for her, and she was really looking forward to curling up on the couch with a glass of wine and a movie. But there was still the till to balance, and stock to tidy, the floors to sweep and the coffee machine to clean… Not that Lacey was complaining. She loved her store and everything that went along with owning it.

When she was finally finished, she headed for the exit, Chester in tow, noticing that the hands on the wrought iron clock had reached 7 p.m., and outside it was dark. Though spring had brought longer days with it, Lacey had yet to enjoy any of them. But she could feel the change in the atmosphere; the town seemed more vibrant, with many of the cafes and pubs staying open longer, and people sitting on the tables outside drinking coffee and beer. It gave the place a festive vibe.

Lacey locked up her store. She’d become extra diligent since the break-in, but even if that had never happened, she’d have gotten this way, because the store felt like her child now. It was something that needed to be nurtured and protected and cared for. In such a short space of time, she’d fallen completely in love with the place

“Who knew you could fall in love with a store?” she mused aloud with a deep sigh of satisfaction for the way her life had turned out.

From beside her, Chester whinnied.

Lacey patted his head. “Yes, I’m in love with you too, don’t worry!”

At the mention of love, she remembered the plans she had with Tom that evening, and gazed over at his patisserie.

To her surprise, she saw all the lights were on. It was most unusual. Tom had to open his store at the inhuman hour of 5 a.m. to make sure everything was ready for the breakfast crowd at 7, which meant he usually closed at 5 p.m. on the dot. But it was 7 p.m. and he was clearly still inside. The sandwich board was still out in the street. The sign in the door was still turned to open.

“Come on, Chester,” Lacey said to her furry companion. “Let’s see what’s going on.”

They crossed the street together and went inside the patisserie.

Right away, Lacey could hear something of a commotion coming from the kitchen. It sounded like the usual sounds of clattering pots and pans, but in hyperdrive.

“Tom?” she called out, a little nervously.

“Hey!” his disembodied voice came from the back kitchen. He used his normal sunny tone.

Now that Lacey knew he wasn’t in the middle of being burglarized by a macaron thief, she relaxed. She hopped onto her usual stool, as the clattering continued.

“Everything okay back there?” she asked.

“Fine!” Tom called in response.

A moment later, he finally appeared in the archway of the kitchenette. He had his apron on, and it—as well as most of his clothes underneath and his hair—were covered in flour. “There’s been a minor disaster.”

“Minor?” Lacey mocked. Now that she knew Tom wasn’t fighting off a kitchen intruder, she could appreciate the humor in the situation.

“It was Paul, actually,” Tom began.

“What’s he done now?” Lacey asked, recalling the time Tom’s trainee had accidentally used baking soda instead of flour in a batch of dough rendering the entirety of it unusable.

Tom held up two almost identical-looking white packages. On the left, the faded printed label read: sugar. On the right: salt.

“Ah,” Lacey said.

Tom nodded. “Yup. It’s the batch for tomorrow morning’s breakfast pastries. I’m going to have to remake the whole lot, or risk the angry wrath of the locals when they arrive for breakfast and discover I have nothing to sell them.”

“Does that mean you’re cancelling our plans tonight?” Lacey asked. The humor she’d felt moments earlier was suddenly dashed, and now in its place she felt heavy disappointment.

Tom flashed her an apologetic look. “I’m so sorry. Let’s reschedule. Tomorrow? I’ll come over and cook for you.”

“I can’t,” Lacey replied. “I’m having that meeting with Ivan tomorrow.”

“The Crag Cottage sale meeting,” Tom said, snapping his fingers. “Of course. I remember. How about Wednesday evening?”

“Aren’t you heading off for that focaccia course Wednesday?”

Tom looked perturbed. He checked the calendar hanging up, then let out a sigh. “Okay, that’s next Wednesday.” He chuckled. “You gave me a fright. Oh, but I am busy Wednesday evening after all. And Thursday—”

“—is badminton practice,” Lacey finished for him.

“Which means I’m next free on Friday. Is Friday good?”

His tone was just as happy-go-lucky as usual, Lacey noted, but his blasé attitude over cancelling their plans together stung her. He didn’t seem to mind at all that they may not be able to see one another in a romantic capacity until the end of the week.

Though Lacey knew full well she had no plans on Friday, she still heard herself saying, “I’ll have to check my diary and get back to you.”

And no sooner had the words left her lips than a new emotion crept into her stomach, mixing with the disappointment. To Lacey’s surprise, the emotion was relief.

Relief that she wouldn’t be able to have a romantic date with Tom for a week? She couldn’t quite comprehend where the relief was coming from, and it made her feel suddenly guilty.

“Sure,” Tom said, seemingly oblivious. “We can put a pin in it for now and arrange to do something extra special next time, when we’re both less busy?” He paused for her response, and when it didn’t come, added, “Lacey?”

She snapped back to the moment. “Yes… Right. Sounds good.”

Tom came over and leaned his elbows onto the counter, so their faces were level. “Now. Serious question. Are you going to be alright for food tonight? Because obviously you were expecting a tasty, nutritious meal. I have some meat pies that didn’t sell today, if you want to take one home with you?”

Lacey chuckled and smacked his arm. “I don’t need your handouts, thank you very much! I’ll have you know I can actually cook!”