2 Days 'Til Sundae (2 'Til Series Book 1) Page 9

  She found a section of children’s toys: bright plastic tea sets and Barbie dolls and stuffed animals and Little People sets. Some of the things were versions that could still be purchased at Target or Walmart today, for a few dollars more, but others were older versions from her own childhood, or even more ancient, and priced much higher now than when they were new. She saw Polly Pockets that she remembered from the little girls she used to babysit for. Those hadn’t come out until after her toy days were already in her past—sort of. Then she found a Huckleberry Pie doll in his blue overalls with his hat still attached to his head by the plastic manufacturing tabs. She sniffed at the fringe of hair that poked out below the brim of the hat and caught a slight whiff of something beyond plastic doll smell. Considering she had never come across a huckleberry in her life, she didn’t know what it should smell like. And she’d never actually had Huckleberry Pie in her Strawberry Shortcake collection, so she couldn’t search sensory memories locked away somewhere in her brain for the answer either. The only thing she did know was that he didn’t smell like smoke or mildew or old, like so many things in antique stores often did, as if scent were a disease that the treasures caught from each other just by being in close quarters. He was fifteen dollars, more than he cost back when she had opted to use her Christmas money to buy Sour Grapes instead—her first villain, complete with a snake draped around her neck—but still reasonable considering some of the prices she had happened across on eBay when her search for Caramellie had gone a little wide of the mark. She scrounged along the shelf until she found Huck’s little plastic puppy friend with the molded green and white striped patches (she couldn’t find his name in her mental rolodex). She held onto the toys. They were awfully cute. But she reminded herself she was searching for one very specific toy. She had promised herself this was not a collecting obsession, just a single toy, and Huckleberry Pie wasn’t even in the same toy family. She forced herself to place them back in the pile; then decided to sit Huck on a nearby shelf instead, with his puppy between his splayed legs. At least he had a fighting chance at a home that way.

  She searched the rest of the premises, even scouring the shelves of plates and teacups and books, hoping to find the sundae house propped up as a bookend or decorating a display somewhere. Nothing. She was alone, hundreds of miles from home, and she had come up empty. As she reached the register, she wondered if perhaps all she had to do was ask for Caramellie and someone behind the counter would produce the little house—pull it out of the stock in back, like asking for shoes in her size.

  An older woman came out of the back room and met her at the counter. She was probably about her mother’s age, although this woman looked every year of it. “I thought I heard someone out here.” She pointed toward the bell on the door. “When I poked my head out, though, I didn’t see you. Figured my mind was playing tricks on me.” Her voice was weak and craggy from cigarettes—the scent of smoke deeply entrenched in her clothes and probably in her pores.

  “I was just having a look around,” Catherine said too loudly, telegraphing her own need for the lady to speak up.

  “Well don’t let me stop you. I could use the company. Mondays are notoriously slow. I could probably open only on weekends and do just as well.”

  Catherine chuckled and said, “I hear ya,” though she had never owned a store and wouldn’t have the faintest idea.

  “Can I help you with anything?”

  “Actually... I was looking for something pretty specific. I can’t imagine you would have it,” she lied. “It’s a toy made by Mattel in the late seventies…. Caramellie?” She winced, as if waiting for some kind of backlash. “She comes in a sundae-shaped house and—”

  “Oh, I did have one of those,” the woman answered, her eyes glittering with recognition.

  “Did?” Catherine asked expectantly. She felt her stomach tighten beyond nerves into outright worry.

  “I sold it just last week.”

  “Already?” she said without thinking.

  “Excuse me?” The woman cupped her ear to better her hearing.

  Catherine wanted to say that she knew the real deal. That the toy just had to be here because she knew the woman had snaked it out from under her on eBay. And now she was hiding it behind the counter or in the back or something, discriminating against her by refusing to sell it. Maybe she was a hoarder—the antiques life was certainly suited to such disorders.

  “I wish I could help you out. I actually just got it myself and within two days it was sold.”

  Yeah, right. Who could possibly want a Caramellie toy that badly?—aside from me.

  The woman’s story seemed totally implausible, but Catherine didn’t want to sound stalker-ish by admitting that she had flown hundreds of miles to claim what should have been rightfully hers in the first place. Not after she had been shot down in that email. No, she would not admit that she was HemmCat. Or that she was the person who had called from a distant area code—the heavy-breather who had asked about Caramellie and been shot down by the person on the other end who supposedly didn’t know what she was talking about.

  Unprovoked, the woman continued, “I actually bought it on eBay… from Florida, I think. I was getting it for a customer who specifically requested it. She said there were three different sundae houses and she was willing to pay a hundred bucks each!” She stared at Catherine, her eyes wide in disbelief. “Even if they were used! So I got it for sixty—”

  $58.51! she wanted to scream.

  “—it would have been a nice little markup, but then when I received it and notified her she said she no longer wanted it. That she had found Caramellie elsewhere, but if I could keep an eye out for the others she would appreciate it. She might have fooled me once but I won’t let her do it twice. I’ve offered that service for a while, but this experience definitely makes me reconsider it. Had I only known, I never would have gotten in a war with that other bidder.”

  Catherine pinked at the memory. “So how did you end up selling it if the buyer didn’t want it?” she prodded, her voice cloudy.

  “Well, I didn’t recoup my loss, but this guy came in here late last week and was buying a bunch of stuff and asked about it. I gave him a deal so I could cut my losses. I figure I made enough off of everything else to break even—”

  I would have paid more!

  “—You know, I’ve been doing this for twenty years and I have never once had anyone ask about this Caramellie toy. Now I had five different people within weeks of each other—”

  I’m three of those friggin’ people and yet I am the only one still without a Caramellie. How is that right?

  “—Believe me, had I only known, I would have held onto it. But that’s water under the bridge,” she said with chagrin.

  Catherine gave her a grim smile; maybe tROVESoFsTUFF was at peace with the ending, but what about me? She had come this far and spent this much money, and now she was supposed to go home empty-handed?

  “So… was this a local guy who bought it?” she asked.

  “Oh no. Actually I’d never seen him before, and I’ve been here all my life.

  “Do you happen to know where he’s from?”

  “Nope.”

  Catherine appraised the woman behind the counter, wanting to shake the information out of her—grab her by the polyester lapels and just shake her. This was supposed to be simple. She was supposed to be back on a plane tomorrow afternoon with Caramellie nestled in her carry-on. This is where Caramellie was supposed to be, and right about now Catherine should be hopping back in the car with her—heart and wallet both a little lighter—on the way to her next stop. Then she would end the day with a soak in the indoor pool at the Holiday Inn just outside the airport, dinner at their in-house restaurant, and a restful night’s sleep in one of their beds. The universe was supposed to go along with her plans; that’s why she’d made them.

  Life is real, not ideal, Catherine Marie—thanks Mom.

  She could tell by the set of the woman
’s jaw that she was clamming up, and the look in her eyes had gone slightly squinty with uncertainty about her only customer’s motives. This was going to require a little finagling.

  “Listen,” Catherine said, pausing for effect, “I’m really in a bind here. My boss—I’m a dog walker, you know—well, I went to her house while she was on vacation to take care of the dog and—” She stopped speaking to manufacture a few tears for her cause. “—I found the house destroyed—”

  “Robbed?” the woman gasped.

  “Actually, no,” she admitted. It just didn’t seem possible that robbers would be interested in Caramellie and her dollhouse too. “It was her precious dog, Winston. He ransacked the place in her absence. You see, she has this collection of old toys that she displays and Winston pulled the shelf down, destroying almost everything. Caramellie took the brunt of it. The house ended up on the ground and the shelf came down on top. It was completely ruined. I just don’t want her to blame Winston. And I can’t lose my job!” she sobbed.

  “Oh, you poor dear. I am so sorry to hear that.”

  “I’ve been searching everywhere, and you’re the first store that has even heard of the doll. Please. My boss will be back in town on Wednesday. I just want the opportunity to ask the guy if he might sell it.”

  “Well, I don’t know what good it’s going to do….” The woman was looking at her intently, gauging her honesty. “He’s a widower—got the toy for his young daughter. It’s very unlikely that he will want to part with it…. But I hate to think that you could lose your job or that Winston could lose his home over it,” she said nervously.

  Catherine looked back at her, appropriately dejected.

  “I have a Pomeranian named Moe and he gets into some of the most awful predicaments. I think it’s something to do with his size, like he thinks he’s a much bigger boy than he really is,” she chuckled. “What is Winston?”

  “A… Jack Russell,” she said quickly, after a too-long pause in which she could picture nothing but Pomeranians. Identical trouble-making dogs would have been too much of a coincidence and she was treading in already awkward territory.

  “Those little guys are smart and spunky.” Seemingly satisfied with the story, the woman started shuffling through receipts. “He paid with a check. I haven’t made my deposit yet, so I actually do have his information.”

  -13-

  She turned out onto the main road, heading in the general direction the woman had pointed when handing over the address. Her directions had been evasive, but Catherine had Glenda to tell her what to do… when Glenda got around to it.

  She looked over at the passenger seat where Huckleberry Pie peeked out of a plain white plastic bag, mocking her. His pup was just a lump in the bottom of the bag and cost another five dollars on top—not that she could have even considered breaking up the set. That was how they got you, bilking more by charging à la cart. No sense bemoaning the issue; it was the least she could do to buy something after the woman coughed up the information necessary to track down the guy—the louse—who had weaseled the toy out from under said woman for a pittance of what it was worth… after that same woman snatched it out from under me for more than I’d been willing to spend—I shouldn’t have bought squat from that broad, she owes me.

  But Huck did look awfully handsome in his little plastic “straw” hat.

  Catherine looked at the GPS screen as Glenda suddenly started to chatter. It seemed that she’d finally finished her coffee break and gotten around to finding their new destination. Nekoyah was less than an hour away, not an awful detour from Catherine’s New York-laid plans, although she would definitely have to cut her mall trip short. She mentally scratched out approximate times on her schedule, figuring she could eke out a few minutes here and there and still fit in everything. She had thought ahead and padded her numbers just in case she ran into delays or problems—namely with traffic or directions—but it turned out that the greater Minneapolis-St. Paul traffic wasn’t too bad; it was just her primary intel that totally sucked.

  As she drove along the highway, she couldn’t help but notice how a seemingly endless stream of much larger and tougher looking vehicles were swallowing her up, passing by on the left like she was practically standing still even though she had her foot pressed to the floor. She looked up at the hulking machines around her, noticing the little faces of children in the back windows of SUVs, laughing and pointing at her in her windup toy. And in the rearview mirror she saw the grill of a Mac truck bearing down, almost certain it wouldn’t stop until it squashed her like the nuisance she was, but then it was out of her lane, passing her uphill while dragging eight cars on its trailer—all of those also bigger and stronger than her Smart one. As the tractor-trailer slipped in front of her, she watched the piggybacked cars bouncing in place and thought about the irony of being flattened by an entire fleet of real cars falling off the back onto her toy one. Laughable if I wouldn’t most certainly be dead.

  Catherine tried to focus her mind on something useful, like the sales pitch she could give this guy—she looked over at the name and address on the paper—Joel Trager. How would she get him to sell her the toy he had just purchased for his daughter? She hadn’t prepared for this type of hiccup at all. She wondered if she should stop and buy a cooler, hipper, newer toy as a decoy—one that was all the rage for little girls these days. She could even wrap it and give it to her, distracting the little girl with pure awesomeness. The old crappy toy would be completely forgotten and Catherine could grab it, turn tail, and run with it. But what did girls like these days? She wasn’t qualified to enact such a measure. No, the straightforward approach of a simple transaction set better in her stomach. Like going to a garage sale. The guy would make a little money, and she would come away with her Caramellie—back where it belonged.

  The city sprawl fell away behind her and she found herself in Minnesota’s version of no-man’s-land. It was pretty, but completely off the grid—at least off her grid. If anything happened to her out here, no one would even know where to come looking. There were several sides to her story right now. Tara knew she was taking the week off from work to decompress and likely figured she was on the couch. Georgia knew she was working long and possibly late hours at work, but believed she was actually up to something, although she had no idea what or where. And her family only knew that she was Catherine Marie Hemmings, as usual—although she wasn’t letting Catherine Marie control the show anymore. It would kill her family and friends if she bit it out in the middle of nowhere while they thought she was snug as a bug in the rug in NYC.

  She tried to amuse and distract herself by playing the alphabet game, only to find that it was definitely more fun in competition with someone else. Unfortunately Glenda was too busy counting the miles and Catherine Marie’s silence was her protest of the ongoing events.

  She exited the highway when Glenda demanded, and then wound further and deeper into unfamiliar territory until she came upon a suburban center that for all its offerings could have been Chesterton—Target, Marshall’s, Borders… seemingly endless stores dotted the landscape. Yet Glenda urged her past all of it and back into quiet monotony, until suddenly and unceremoniously announcing that they had reached their destination. She stopped short, right in the middle of Main Street, USA. It was an adorable, quaint little town. She heard the clanging bells for a railroad crossing and looked around, finally spying the crossing in her rearview mirror. She had passed over the train tracks and not even noticed. A light beep awakened her to the reality that she was sitting in an idling car in the middle of the street, and she quickly pulled forward and then off into an angled spot at the curb, shrinking in her seat with embarrassment at being caught in la-la land.

  To the left and right of her were massive pickup trucks—duelies and quad cabs with extended beds. They hid her tiny car completely from view, and she feared someone would whip into her spot behind her, thinking it was empty. She put the car in reverse and pulled far enough back tha
t she was even with the trucks’ tailgates so she could be seen, noticing there was enough room left in front of her for at least one more Smart car.

  Catherine got out and stepped up onto the curb, looking both ways along the sidewalk. She had only been able to get this far with her GPS—the center of town—since Joel Trager’s checks only had a P.O. Box on them. But how many Joel Tragers could live in a town this size? Everyone probably knew everyone else. This main road was likely their only source of entertainment and shopping. There were awnings over the doors of each establishment, and much like New York, every shop had living quarters above, making the town seem slightly less rinky-dink than its three blocks. There were black ornate lampposts that had the appearance of gaslights and the sidewalks were concrete with cobbled stamping that told of relatively recent public works projects to revitalize the town. There was a banner running the width of the street from the second floor of the shops on each side advertising “Nekoyah’s 34th Annual May-gnificent Festival” beginning on “May Eve”—this Thursday. Great, I’m as old as the friggin’ festival. Too bad I won’t be around to celebrate our year, but thirty-four ain’t all it’s cracked up to be.

  She appraised the options for finding her man. There was an old-fashioned pharmacy, an ice cream parlor, a barber shop—complete with red, white and blue swirling barber pole. A loan office, hardware store, and post office—Joel’s post office. A gift shop, consignment shop, pizza parlor. A lawyer, dentist, doctor, vet, the Nekoyah Gazette, and a diner. She opted for the diner, figuring that was where the gossip and news most likely happened and hoping that maybe Joel Trager was a regular.

  She stepped inside and about fell over, immediately weak in the knees from the scent of dark brown coffee and french fries, and the sight of a selection of pies along the counter. She hadn’t eaten this morning before she got on the plane and in the interim another entire meal had passed her by. It was almost two-thirty, after lunch and not yet dinnertime, explaining why the place was relatively uninhabited but for a few tables of older patrons who looked like they had taken to living there, probably coming in first thing in the morning and not leaving until they had chatted and played cards through three squares. There was no one under social security in evidence, and that made her pretty certain Joel Trager wasn’t currently in the building, not having a young daughter.