“Oh,” she said. “I was scared to death that night, you know.”
“It was the logical response to the situation.”
There was a muffled clunk from the far side of the shop. Charlotte heard a faint, ominous buzzing noise. She realized that she could no longer see Rex.
“Your dust bunny,” she yelped. Alarmed, she rushed out from behind the counter. “Where is he? What’s he doing?”
“Rex is not my dust bunny. We’re buddies, that’s all.”
“Yeah, yeah, I understand. That’s not the point. The point is that you are responsible for him while he is in this shop. Now where is he?”
“He may have gone behind that fancy little table with the mirror.”
The buzzing sound continued. Charlotte heard more thumps and thuds.
“That dressing table is a genuine First Century Pre–Era of Discord piece,” she snapped. She hurried across the room to the exquisitely inlaid dressing table. “It was designed by Fenwick LeMasters, himself. The inlays are green amber and obsidian. The mirror and frame are original, for goodness’ sake.”
“Who is Fenwick LeMasters?”
“Just one of the finest furniture craftsman of his time. Also a very powerful talent who could work green amber. Collectors pay thousands for his pieces. Oh, never mind.”
She peered over the top of the dressing table and saw Rex. The dust bunny had trapped a vintage action figure in the corner between a First Generation cabinet that reeked of the old-Earth para-antiquities it had once contained and a Second Generation floor lamp. Rex was batting the toy unmercifully with his paw as if tormenting a mouse or some other prey. The foot-high plastic figure wore long, flowing plastic robes marked with alchemical signs. The toy was armed with a small, fist-sized crystal.
The unprovoked assault had activated whatever energy was left in the old, run-down amber battery inside the figure. The action doll repeatedly raised and lowered one arm as though to ward off Rex. The buzzing noise came from the odd little crystal weapon. Each time the arm shifted, the toy weapon flashed and sparked with weak, violet-hued light.
“Stop that,” Charlotte said to Rex. “Sylvester is a very valuable collectible. Fewer than five hundred of them were made.”
Rex ignored her. He took another swipe at the figure.
She started to reach down to retrieve the action figure but common sense made her hesitate. Dust bunnies could be dangerous when provoked.
She rounded on Slade, instead. “Do something about Rex. I’m serious. That figure is worth at least a thousand dollars to certain Arcane collectors.”
Slade came to stand beside her. He looked down at Rex and the hapless Sylvester doll.
“That’s enough, Rex,” Slade said quietly. “You don’t want to mess with Sylvester Jones. According to the legends the old bastard could take care of himself.”
To Charlotte’s relief Rex stopped batting the figure. He sat back on his rear legs and fixed Slade with what Charlotte concluded was the dust bunny equivalent of a disgusted eye-roll. He sauntered off to investigate a pile of vintage stuffed animals.
“Whew.” Charlotte scooped up the action figure and examined it closely. “Luckily I don’t think he did any damage.”
Slade looked at the toy. “Never saw one of those. When were they made?”
“About thirty years ago. The designer was Arcane, obviously. Most of the customers who bought the original Sylvester Jones action figures for their kids assumed the character was supposed to be an Old World sorcerer. But everyone who was connected to the Society recognized him at once. Sort of an inside marketing joke.” Satisfied that the action figure was unharmed, Charlotte set it on top of the dressing table. “Luckily Sylvester seems to have survived.”
“Sure. This is Sylvester Jones, we’re talking about.”
Charlotte smiled. “True. Legend has it he was a hard man to kill.”
“Tell me about the breakin,” Slade said.
“Right.” She dusted off her hands. “As I explained to Myrna when I called the station this morning, I thinkI had a breakin. The problem is that I don’t know if anything was stolen.”
“I can understand why it would be hard to tell if something was missing. This place is crammed with junk.”
Charlotte glared. “That’s antiques and collectibles to you.”
“Right. Antiques and collectibles. Tell me about the breakin you think you had,” he said.
“He came through the back door. I’m positive I locked it last night when I closed up.”
“No one locks their doors here in Shadow Bay.”
“I do. I’m from the city, remember? At any rate, the door was unlocked this morning when I arrived. And there are what look like muddy prints on the floor.”
“Oh, good,” Slade said. “Actual clues. That should be interesting.”
“You’re not taking this seriously, are you?”
“In the five days that I have been chief of police here the most serious crime I’ve had to deal with involved the supposed theft of Hoyt Wilkins’s bicycle. It turned up the following day. Astonishingly, it was still leaning against the tree where Hoyt had left it when he realized he was too drunk to ride it home from the Driftwood Tavern.”
“I heard that two nights ago you also had to break up a fight at the Driftwood.”
“Breaking up a bar fight is not the same thing as conducting an investigation. Mostly it involves trying not to get slugged while you separate the drunken idiots involved.”
“But wait, there’s more,” she announced triumphantly. “Yesterday you arrested those two hot-weed runners who anchored their boat in the marina in order to hide from the Coast Guard.”
“Both of those guys were too stoned on their own product to notice that they’d been arrested. All I did was throw them in jail until the authorities from Frequency could get here to collect them and the weed,” Slade said.
“Still, it sounds like a busy first week on the job. Why am I getting the feeling that you’re already bored?”
“Is it that obvious?” Slade asked.
“If you didn’t want to be a small-town police chief, why on earth did you take the job here on Rainshadow?”
“I told you, I needed something to tide me over until I can get my project up and running.”
“Things didn’t work out in the FBPI?”
“Let’s just say I’m ready for a change. Now, about your breakin.”
“Follow me.”
She led the way through the crowded, shadowed space and into the back room of the shop. She was very aware of Slade following close behind her. Face it,she thought, he’s the sexiest man you’ve ever met in your entire life and you are alone with him on an island.
Okay, not alone, exactly. She and Slade shared Rainshadow with the other residents, but an island was an island, and given that a ferry that operated twice a day was the only regular link to the outside world, there was a very real sense of remoteness and isolation.
The back room of Looking Glass was even more crowded than the front sales room. It was jammed almost to the ceiling with packing crates and shipping boxes full of antiques and collectibles that her aunt had never bothered to unpack. The containers formed a narrow canyon that led to the rear door. There were also several new crates stacked around the room. They contained the objects that she had elected to bring with her when she closed down her Frequency shop.
“I don’t envy you trying to take an inventory,” Slade said. “Some of these crates look as if they’ve been sitting here for decades.”
“Like I said, Aunt Beatrix wasn’t big on organizing stuff.”
“This goes beyond a lack of organizational skills. There’s a word for folks with this kind of psychological problem, you know.”
“Hoarder? Yes, I know.” Charlotte stopped. “What can I say? It’s no secret that my aunt was a little weird.” She gestured down the narrow path created by the towering walls of crates. “That’s the door that was unlocked this morning when I arrived.”
Slade walked forward and crouched on the floor directly in front of the door. “Huh,” he said.