Page 12

“Good. Good. This sure is a surprise.”

“Yes.” He had forgotten how very green, intensely green Quinn’s eyes were. Not a bright spring green. The dark, shadowy green of old forest. Of secret places you shouldn’t walk alone.

Meanwhile Quinn was still making bonhomie small talk. “You don’t live here now, do you?”

“No. I guess you do?”

“Yeah. I moved back a few months ago.” Quinn gathered two sacks of groceries, still offering that meaningless show of perfect teeth. “Well, it’s good seeing you again. You look…” His green gaze lingered on the bruises on Andy’s face.

“Like life has been treating me well?” Andy supplied. As boys, they had shared a sarcastic sense of humor, and once again Quinn’s gaze flickered.

He gave a funny laugh, said, “You look great to me, Andy.” It was about the only thing he’d said so far that sounded genuine.

Groceries in his arms, Quinn backed toward the door—not in retreat; in a casual, eyes-in-the-back-of-his-head way—and called, “I’ll see you around.”

To which Andy called back, “Not if I see you first.”

Everyone laughed, including Quinn, who was still grinning as he ducked out the door.

On automatic pilot, Andy paid for his groceries, answered inquiries as to Uncle C.’s health, reasserted that he was not in Safehaven to stay, and departed.

Before the sliding glass doors shut behind him, he could hear the buzz of conversation.

A man in a green fedora was waiting outside Time in a Bottle when Andy returned from grocery-shopping.

The wind had picked up—it had been blowing against him the entire hike home—and he was disheveled, slightly out of breath, and not in a mood to chat, so at the sight of this… Prospective customer? Sightseer? Man admiring his reflection in the window? Was unwelcome.

He was tempted to sneak up the outside staircase, but he resisted, and approached the stranger.

“Hi. Can I help you?”

“Are you the owner? Is the shop not open?” The man was about fifty. Shorter than Andy, slim, trim, and dandified, from his expensive Derby leather shoes to the fedora. His eyes were black and bright as buttons. His beard was a gray and precisely groomed Van Dyke.

“No. I’m sorry. We’re not open today.”

The man looked taken aback. “Not open on a Saturday?”

“Yes, well, the shop would normally be open on Saturday afternoons, but the owner’s in the hospital, so we’re closed.”

“I’m sorry to hear it. Are you an employee here? The lady at Second Chance Heirlooms recommended I stop by. When will the shop be open again? Soon?”

“I’m the owner’s nephew. And yes, I hope to have the shop open soon. Perhaps you can—”

“By tomorrow?” the man interrupted. “I’m only here for the weekend, you see. I leave tomorrow evening.”

Andy shook his head regretfully, although frankly, something about the man in the fedora—possibly the fedora—struck him as off. “Sorry. I don’t think I’ll finish the inventory in time to open tomorrow.”

“Inventory on a weekend?” The man looked affronted, and Andy wondered if he was another dealer. Not that there was anything wrong with that. It was a good idea to keep an eye on the competition. Sometimes you even found a sleeper—artworks or collectibles underpriced or mislabeled because of the seller’s oversight or lack of expertise—in another shop. But Time in a Bottle could hardly be competition for…almost anyone. And mostly, dealers purchased their stock through estate sales, garage and yard sales, flea markets, thrift stores, and auctions.

“We had a robbery last night. We’re doing inventory for the police.”

The man frowned. “A robbery?Here?”

“Yes. Maybe next time you’re in the area—”

“I have no idea when that will be.”

“Well, sorry.”