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  He sighs. “I wish.”

  Chapter Six

  The next day is much cooler. It’s still warm, but not frying-pan hot like before. The streets are full of tourists again, and so is the antique shop. People aren’t just browsing either. The merchandise is practically selling itself. This is a good thing, because although I like antiques, I don’t know much about them. If customers want old doorknobs or snow globes, I can steer them in the right direction. But if it’s an antique boot scraper or nutmeg grater they’re after—which one lady was searching for this morning—Aunt Maude has to help them.

  My task is to keep customers happy while they wait. That’s not generally too tough a job. Most people are on holiday, so they’re in a good mood and are content to browse until Aunt Maude gets to them.

  As I talk with the customers, I try to keep one eye on the front door, but even so, I don’t see the Spence sisters come in. Not that it matters. They see me and head over to say hello. Again, they’re dressed identically.

  “Christine, isn’t it?” one of them says. “You were on the ghost walk.”

  “Yes, I was.” I smile. “And you are Agatha and Hilary. Just don’t ask me to tell you which one’s which.”

  They chuckle, and one of them crooks a finger for me to come close. When I do, she whispers, “Truth is, we rather enjoy confusing people. That’s one of the reasons we dress alike.”

  “Are you ladies looking for something specific today?” I ask.

  “As a matter of fact, yes,” they say in unison. One of them adds, “We have a lovely collection of loose-tea infusers, and we’d love to add to it.”

  “Loose-tea infusers?”

  “Yes, yes,” the other sister says. “You know—those hollow metal balls that hold tea leaves. They do the same job as tea bags, but they can be used over and over. Very environmentally friendly, aren’t they, sister?”

  Her twin nods. “Very. Do you have any?”

  I nod. “I’m pretty sure we have a basket of them over this way. Follow me.”

  Once the Spence sisters start digging through the tea infusers, I return to the front of the store.

  “Can I help you find something?” I ask a woman I pass on the way.

  “Actually, I’ve already found too many things,” she says as she juggles an armful of items. “What I need is to pay for them and leave this shop before I bankrupt myself.”

  We both laugh, and I relieve her of some of her load. “Well, let’s get you to the cash register, then,” I say and lead the way to the service counter. “That will be $237.53,” I tell her when I’ve rung in the sale.

  She hands me her credit card. I process it and hand it back along with the bag of purchases. “Thank you for shopping at Maude’s Antiques, Mrs. Thatcher. Enjoy the rest of your day.”

  It seems all the shoppers are ready to pay at the same time, because suddenly there’s a long line at the till. When Mrs. Thatcher returns twenty minutes later, I’m still ringing through purchases.

  “Excuse me,” she says as she slides in front of the woman next in line. “I’m sorry to interrupt. I promise I won’t be a minute.” Then she turns to me. “I don’t know if you remember me, but I bought some postcards and some hand-painted things here a few minutes ago.”

  I nod. “Yes, Mrs. Thatcher. I remember you. Is there a problem?”

  She bobs her head. “Yes, there is. I can’t seem to find my wallet. Did I leave it here? It’s navy blue. About this big.” She draws it in the air. “I just tried to pay for something in another shop, and I didn’t have it.”

  I make a thorough search of my side of the counter while she does the same on hers, and then we both check the floor. By this time, other customers are looking around as well.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Thatcher,” I tell her. “It isn’t here.”

  Aunt Maude appears out of nowhere. “What seems to be the trouble?”

  “This lady has lost her wallet,” I say.

  “I was sure I put it back in my purse.” The woman is actually wringing her hands.

  “I thought you did too,” I say.

  Aunt Maude offers Mrs. Thatcher a reassuring smile. “Perhaps if you retrace your steps,” she suggests.

  The woman frowns, trying to remember. “Well, on my way out, I—I stopped at the bureau over there to admire the antique hand mirrors. I only put my purse down for a few seconds. It couldn’t have been any longer, I’m sure.”

  Aunt Maude searches the area around the bureau, but the wallet isn’t there.

  The shop becomes painfully quiet. I’m wracking my brain, trying to think where else to look, what else to do, how to placate Mrs. Thatcher. And then—

  “It’s the thief!” a customer cries out, and everyone turns. “You know—the guy who’s been breaking into motels and picking people’s pockets in all the towns around here. Quick, everyone, check to make sure you haven’t been robbed too.”

  “Now, now…” Aunt Maude tries to keep a lid on things. But a wave of panic moves through the store, and people dig into their pockets and purses, hunting for their own wallets. “There’s no need to panic. I’m sure there’s a reasonable expla—”

  She is cut off by one of the Spence sisters. “Oh no,” she gasps, holding out her open purse. “My wallet is missing too.”

  While we wait for the police, Aunt Maude closes the shop and rings through the patrons’ purchases, all the while assuring them that Bill and Andy—Witcombe’s local RCMP detachment—will get to the bottom of things. I’m in charge of serving iced tea. Considering that no one can leave until they’ve been questioned, Aunt Maude says it’s the civilized thing to do.

  I stand out of the way while the customers are questioned. One by one, they exit the shop. Finally, only Bill and Andy, the Spence sisters and Mrs. Thatcher are left. While the officers confer, Aunt Maude and I join the robbery victims to offer support.

  Mrs. Thatcher cocks her head toward Agatha—she was the sister who was robbed—and says, “You look very familiar.”

  The sisters look at each other, and Agatha says, “Well, as you can see, I have a very common face.”

  Mrs. Thatcher frowns. “Yes, I see that you are twins, but…”

  “What is it?” Aunt Maude prompts her when she pauses.

  “Well, it’s just that I’m sure I’ve seen this woman before.”

  “We’ve been in Witcombe almost a week,” Agatha offers. “Perhaps you’ve seen us in a restaurant or another shop.”

  “Now I remember where it was,” Mrs. Thatcher exclaims. “Out on the street when I left the shop. We bumped into each other.”

  The sisters exchange glances again.

  “As I said, our face is pretty common.” Agatha chuckles. “The older we get, the more we look like every other old lady out there. But I assure you, it wasn’t me—or Hilary—you bumped into. I remember seeing you in the shop earlier and again when you returned, but Hilary and I were here that whole time.”

  “It’s true, Mrs. Thatcher,” I say. “I can vouch for them. They were both here all that time.”

  Mrs. Thatcher shakes her head. “You’re right, of course. It must have been someone else. I guess I’m more upset about this robbery than I realize.”

  When Bill and Andy are satisfied that Agatha Spence and Mrs. Thatcher have nothing more to tell them, everyone leaves the shop. Aunt Maude locks the door and leaves the CLOSED sign in place.

  “That’s enough excitement for one day,” she sighs, flopping down on an antique settee. “I was so sure Witcombe would be spared.” She shakes her head. “Now I’m going to be watching everyone like a hawk. Anyone could be the thief.”

  Not quite anyone, I think. It couldn’t be Simon the magician. He was never even in the shop.

  Chapter Seven

  For the rest of the afternoon, all I can think about is the robbery. Two people had their wallets stolen, and I didn’t even notice. I try to figure out who looked suspicious. Nobody. Everybody! Which customers were looking at antiques, and
which ones were stalking other customers? I have no idea. I’ve never had any encounters with crooks before. The realization that I can’t tell the good guys from the bad guys bothers me.

  I think Aunt Maude might be feeling the same way. After she closes the shop, she goes to her bedroom and stays there until suppertime. She looks more tired when she comes out than she did when she went in.

  “Did you sleep?” I say, looking up from the magazine I’m browsing.

  She shakes her head. “No. I was too busy thinking. Lying down is good for that. But enough is enough. It’s time to move on.” She gestures for me to get up. “Come on, Christine. Run a comb through your hair, and I’ll put on some lipstick. We’re going out to dinner at Shep’s.”

  Based on the name, I guess the restaurant will be a hole-in-the-wall diner run by a guy with greasy hair who cooks corned-beef hash while sucking on a cigarette.

  I’m not even close.

  Shep’s might be the fanciest restaurant I’ve ever been to. It has classy decor, white linen, polished silver, sparkling glassware—even cushy carpeting.

  When we walk in, there are about ten people waiting in the foyer. We don’t have a reservation, so I think we’ll be leaving on empty stomachs. But Aunt Maude marches up to the hostess like she owns the place. I don’t hear what she says, but the hostess nods and smiles and picks up a couple of menus, and the next thing I know, we are following her to a table. It’s small and in an out-of-the-way corner, but it’s a table, and we didn’t have to wait for it.

  The hostess pours water and takes our drink order, a soft drink for me and a Harvey Wallbanger for Aunt Maude.

  “Your server will be right with you,” she says with a smile before leaving us.

  “How’d you manage that?” I ask, taking a sip of my water. “There was a pile of people ahead of us.”

  She pushes her glasses up on her nose and opens the menu. “Sometimes who you know is more important than what you know. Shep D’Amico and I went to school together.”

  Everything on the menu sounds fabulous. I can’t decide what to have. I still haven’t made up my mind when our server arrives.

  “What can I get for you ladies this evening?” he says.

  I look up. It’s Simon.

  “Hi.” I beam. “I didn’t know you worked here.”

  “Hi yourself.” He smiles back. “I told you I worked in a restaurant.”

  “Yeah, but you didn’t say it was this one.”

  He shrugs.

  I turn to Aunt Maude. “You remember Simon. He came in on the tail end of your ghost walk the other night.”

  Aunt Maude lets her glasses slide down her nose and squints at him over the top of them. “Ah, yes,” she says finally. “The young man who gave us the news about the robberies in Kaleden.”

  That reminds me of today’s thefts.

  “Speaking of robberies, Simon, did you hear about the excitement at the antique shop this afternoon?”

  He shakes his head.

  “The thief struck again. Stole the wallets from two of our customers. The police were called in and questioned everyone in the store.”

  “Really?” Simon says. “Do they have any suspects?”

  “If they do, they didn’t tell us.”

  “It looks like nowhere is safe,” he says. “Hang on to your purses, ladies. I’d hate for you to have to wash dishes to pay for your supper.” He grins. “So what can I get for you?”

  When we’ve ordered and Simon turns to leave, I touch his arm and whisper, “Did you find somewhere to sleep last night?”

  “Yeah. Another one of the waiters let me crash at his place. I can stay there for a couple more nights maybe, but I’m going to have to find something more permanent. If you hear of anything, let me know.”

  “What was that about?” Aunt Maude asks when he’s gone. “Did he get evicted?”

  I half smile. “You could say that.” I explain how Simon was trying to save money by sleeping at Greeley House. “Whoever owns the place found out he was there. When he came back yesterday, his stuff was outside on the ground, and there was a shiny new padlock on the door with a sign that said it was private property and that trespassers will be prosecuted.”

  Aunt Maude snorts and waves her hand. “Hogwash. Weren’t either of you listening on the ghost walk? I said the town took over the property for back taxes. That house is no more private than the Fraser River. Someone’s yanking Simon’s chain—yours too. Your friend is nothing more than the victim of a practical joke. Not that the town would want anyone going into the old house. It’s a death trap.” She pauses and eyes me suspiciously. “When did you and Simon get so chummy?”

  It’s probably not a good idea to tell her that I suspected he was the thief and I was spying on him. And it’s definitely not a good idea to tell her I went exploring in Greeley House. So I say, “Besides working here, Simon is a lifeguard at the pool.”

  Nothing like a little half-truth to get a person off the hook. Aunt Maude nods knowingly, mutters “Mm-hmm” and lets the subject drop.

  Though we’ve come to the restaurant to get our minds off the thefts at the antique shop, I can’t seem to chase them from my brain.

  “Aunt Maude,” I say, “I know you don’t like the idea, but after what happened today, don’t you think you should beef up the security at your shop?” I pause, waiting for her to balk. When all she does is take a sip of her Harvey Wallbanger, I keep talking. “The lock on the door is as old as the merchandise you sell. A six-year-old could pick it. You have no alarm system and no security cameras. You don’t even lock the glass cabinets where the valuable items are kept.”

  “My customers don’t know that,” she says.

  I roll my eyes. “That’s not the point.”

  She puts her drink down. “Do you really think the thief would have the gall to strike again in the same place? He never has before.”

  “Which is exactly why he might. He’s unpredictable. That’s why the police can’t catch him—or her,” I add. “There’s no reason why it couldn’t be a woman. Equal opportunity and all that. Anyway, could you at least think about improving your security?”

  “I have thought about it,” Aunt Maude announces in a tone that means further argument is a waste of breath.

  I sigh as Simon arrives with our food.

  “Enjoy your meals,” he says, “and if there’s anything else you need, please let me know.”

  “Not so fast, young man,” Aunt Maude says. “I understand you are without lodging.”

  Simon glares at me.

  I glare right back. “You didn’t say it was a secret.” Man, you’d think I’d committed treason.

  “Well?” Aunt Maude ropes him back in.

  “Yes, ma’am.” He nods.

  “Then I have a proposition for you,” she continues. “You are in need of a bed, and I am in need of a night watchman. My great-niece is concerned that my shop might be robbed. I have a suite of rooms above the store, but I’m a sound sleeper. So if someone breaks in during the night, I might not hear.

  “I have a cot in the storage room of my shop, which I am offering you for the duration of your stay in Witcombe. In exchange, you will keep an ear out for burglars. I certainly don’t expect you to stay awake. Just sleep lightly. There is a washroom, and I shall give you a key to the rear entrance of the shop—if the arrangement suits you. What do you say?”

  Simon looks at me. “Did you ask your aunt to do this?”

  I shake my head. “It’s news to me.”

  “Well?” Aunt Maude cuts in. “Yes or no? My dinner is getting cold.”

  Chapter Eight

  Aunt Maude might think evicting Simon from Greeley House was a practical joke, but I’m not so sure. For one thing, Simon never told anyone he was staying there. Somebody would have had to follow him to find that out—and there was no reason to do that. I only staked out the place because I saw him sneak onto the property during the ghost walk. And isn’t the point of a practical
joke to laugh in the face of the guy who’s been tricked? Nobody’s done that.

  I might be jumping to conclusions, but I can’t help thinking that whoever booted Simon out of Greeley House wanted the place for himself.

  What I have to find out is why.

  I start my investigation the next morning. Aunt Maude says she won’t need me in the shop until the afternoon, so it’s back to the old mansion after breakfast. That’s the only lead I have. I hope someone shows up. I’m probably wasting my time, but you never know. Like my mom always says—nothing ventured, nothing gained.

  So much for old adages. I arrive at the mansion at 8:00 am, and three hours later, all I have to show for the morning are cramped legs and a bursting bladder. Stakeouts look exciting on television, but in real life they’re just plain boring. At least I have my phone to entertain me this time. I’m ready to throw in the private-investigator towel when a zebra turns off the sidewalk and starts up the trail beside the wrought-iron fence.

  Okay, so it’s not really a zebra, but when I see black-and-white stripes moving through a wall of green, that’s my first thought. Unless we’re in Africa, this is not camouflage.

  Even from a distance, I can tell it’s a woman. Judging from the white hair and the slowness of her step, it’s an old woman. So right away I’m thrown off. What is an old lady doing at a run-down house on an abandoned street?

  As she gets closer, I blink to make sure I’m really seeing what I’m seeing. It’s one of the Spence sisters. What’s she doing here? And where’s the other one? I peer past her toward the sidewalk. There’s no such thing as one twin. Hilary and Agatha might as well be joined at the hip. They do everything together.

  Apparently, not this time.

  So now I’m more than curious. My immediate impulse is to jump up and confront her, but I force myself to stay in hiding and watch.

  She may not have sprinted up the path, but Agatha—or Hilary—isn’t the least bit winded when she gets to the top. For an old woman, she’s in pretty good shape. Without pausing, she goes directly to the fence, takes out the removable bar and steps through. Does everybody in Witcombe know about this secret entrance? Then she replaces the bar and heads directly to the hedge.