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Claire shrugged as she took the phone. “Not that I know of.”

Praying her vandals hadn’t decided to sue her for defamation of character—her language had been scathing the last time they’d called and threatened her—she brought the phone to her ear. “Hello, this is Claire MacGregor. How may I help you?”

“Ms. MacGregor, this is Wesley Brindle, senior partner at Brindle, Bailey, and Sheltonship. I’m the executor handling the estate of Mr. Tavish MacLean, formally of 210 Willow Street, Portsmouth, New Hampshire. It’s my sad duty to inform you that Mr. MacLean has passed, and—”

“Passed?”

Claire groped for the stool behind her. No, no. She’d just received her anniversary card, had spoken with Tavish not a week ago. He’d called to thank her for the chocolate chip cookies, and they’d made plans to meet Christmas Eve as they did every year. If the weather was nice they’d stroll through the Common, admire the decorations and store windows, then …

He couldn’t possibly be dead.

“Ms. MacGregor?”

Claire struggled to clear the burning at the back of her throat. “I—I’m here. When did he die?”

“On November 28th, of a heart attack.”

Oh, God. He must have mailed his card that day. “Please tell me he wasn’t alone when it happened.” Please, please. She couldn’t imagine anything worse.

“No, he didn’t.” The clipped voice had softened. “According to the police, he was in a grocery store when he collapsed and the manager called 911. Unfortunately, the paramedics couldn’t revive him. The police went to his home in hopes of notifying next of kin. Finding he lived alone, they went through his personal phone directory and found our listing.”

Poor sweet Tavish. He’d been the picture of health when they’d last—

“Ms. MacGregor?”

“Yes.”

“I know this comes as a shock, but it was very important to Mr. MacLean that his estate be settled as quickly as possible. Since he’d died of natural causes and his affairs were in order, I believe we’re close to completing that task. He bequeathed his assets, limited as they are, to you.”

Claire’s throat, tight with unspent tears, seared as she croaked, “To me?”

“Yes. At his request, you’ll be receiving a check within the next week.” He asked her to confirm her mailing address, which she did. “I’ve also contracted a moving company to crate his worldly possessions and deliver them to you per Mr. MacLean’s instructions. The truck should arrive in a day or two.”

Oh shit!

The delivery guy was still freezing his buns off on her loading dock. “Could you please hold for a moment?” Without waiting for an answer, she covered the mouthpiece and flapped a hand at Tracy, who stood not three feet away pretending not to be listening. “Quick! Go to the back and tell the delivery guys they can unload the truck.”

“Okay, but what’s happening? Who died?”

“Later.” She shooed Tracy away and again tried to clear the thickness in her throat before saying, “Mr. Brindle, I’m sorry. The moving van is here.”

“Ah, very good. I feared the weather might delay them. In a day or two you’ll receive a certified package containing a copy of the will and a check. Please sign the enclosed forms and send them back in the envelope provided as soon as possible. We can deal with the tax issues at a later date. Do you have any questions?”

Yes, hundreds. “Why did Tavish name me as his heir?”

“He had no family and from what I could glean from our conversations, he was quite fond of you.”

“Oh.” She’d been very fond of him, too. Imagining Tavish—pink-cheeked, dressed in tweed, wispy tufts of white hair sprouting from beneath his tam—chuckling as the Russian Tea Room fortuneteller told him that he’d live to be one hundred, seeing him grow pensive when the woman had said, “Ah, a secret … but you’ve chosen well,” and then to see his broad grin return when the fortuneteller had picked up Claire’s teacup and told her that she’d have a strapping son—her tears spilled. Tavish had only been seventy-seven.

“I think that covers it,” Mr. Brindle murmured. “If you have any more questions, please don’t—”

“Where is he buried?” The opportunity to attend his funeral had passed but she could still pay her respects at his gravesite, place flowers by the headstone. Roses. He’d loved red roses.

“Mr. MacLean requested that his body be shipped to Appin, Scotland. He’s buried in a family plot next to his parents.”

“Oh … I see.” Her gaze shifted to the open armoire and the glass case protecting a beautifully crafted miniature sloop sitting on the middle shelf. Tavish, an avid model builder, had told her it was an exact replica of the boat his father had once owned. He’d given the model to her last Christmas and she’d placed it in the shop in hopes that it might garner him a commission or two.

She could wire flowers. Tavish had said Appin was small, little more than a fishing village. Perhaps someone in town or at the church would remember him, might agree to place the flowers on his grave for her. Maybe Teleflora—

“Ms. MacGregor? Are you still there?”

Claire shook her head, felt tears splash her cheeks and dashed them away. “Yes. I’m sorry, this—it’s still such a shock.”

“I quite understand. If you have any further questions, please don’t hesitate to contact me.” He gave her the information. “If there’s nothing else, I’ll bid you good evening.”

“Thank you.”

How long the phone buzzed in her ear she couldn’t have said, but a thud followed by Tracy yelling, “For God’s sake, be careful with that!” pulled Claire out of her daze.

In the back room, she found Tracy shivering against the frigid blasts coming through a wide-open loading dock door. Beside her stood four shoulder-high wooden crates. “How many more are there?”

Teeth chattering, Tracy shrugged. “I have no idea. I just know they’re heavy. The guys have been sweating and cursing a blue streak.”

Claire ran a hand over one of the crates. How sweet of Tavish to care enough to will her his worldly goods. And how painfully sad that she—a relative stranger—had been the only one he could leave them to.

The burly guy she’d left standing on the dock dropped another crate—this one long and low—on the floor, then shoved his clipboard under her nose. “That’s it, lady, five crates. Sign here and we’ll be gone.”

After reading the invoice, Claire signed the bottom, then handed the clipboard back. As he tore off her copy, she asked, “Do you know the contents?”

“Furniture and clothes, mostly.”

Great. She was already up to her chin and wall-to-wall in furniture.

She took the copy he held out to her and saw him to the door. “Thanks and Merry Christmas.”

The guy waved over his shoulder as he headed for his truck. Ah, apparently a fellow Scrooge.

She closed the door and threw the bolt.

“So,” Tracy grumbled, “are you going to tell me who died and what all this is about, or what?”

“Tavish died. Last Monday.” Just saying the words caused something around her heart to contract and more tears to well up.

“Oh, Claire, I’m so sorry.” Tracy wrapped her arms around her. “I hadn’t realized he’d meant so much to you.”

“Thanks.” Her relationship with Tavish had been a special secret, one she’d kept close. She’d never known her grandparents and Tavish had somehow filled that gap. And knowing how ridiculous it was for a thirty-one-year-old woman to long for such a connection—much less cry over its sudden loss—she stepped out of Tracy’s embrace, forced a smile and tapped on the closest pine crate. “He willed the contents of his home to me.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No.” Claire gave the crates a final glance, noting that the last crate the men had brought in looked like a coffin. She headed for the front of the store.

“Hey! Aren’t you going to open them?” Tracy’s high-heeled boots clicked against the shop’s warped oak flooring as she followed. “I’ll help.”

“Thanks, but I’m not ready to open them just yet. Let’s find something to eat.”

“Oh, okay.” Brow furrowed in obvious confusion, Tracy donned her coat as Claire shut off lights. “Are you still up for going to the Oyster House?”

Claire shook her head, doubting she could eat, but knowing she should try or she’d being dealing with the mother of all headaches before too much longer. “Let’s just go to the Cocky Rooster.” The neighborhood pub was a lot cheaper.

She flipped up the hood of her down jacket, tugged on her gloves, activated the alarm and closed the Velvet Pumpkin’s front door. Inserting the key into her newly installed deadbolt, she mentally cursed the hoodlums who’d forced her to change out her shop’s pretty but useless antique hardware.

As Tracy tottered on her four-inch heels down the broad granite steps coated in as much snow, she said, “Wouldn’t it be cool if he left you millions stuffed in a mattress?”

Claire, moving just as cautiously but in sensible rubber-soled boots, guffawed. “Dream on.”

Tavish, for all his affection toward her, had been a bit of a recluse and almost as poor as she. She’d be lucky to not find a body in that long narrow crate.

“Shit.”

There was only one thing Wesley Brindle loathed more than dealing with his ex-wife and that was lying—even by omission. Which was why he handled only civil litigation cases.

His caseload wasn’t as sexy as the criminal work his partners handled, but to his way of thinking, he walked the higher ground. Cranking out mountains of documents, creating ponderous witness lists, and filing delay after delay in the hopes of wearing down an opponent beat the hell out of standing before twelve jurors, good and true, and bending the truth—to the point of dislocating Lady Justice’s arm—all in the name of a fair trial for a guilty-as-sin bottom feeder.

And still he’d just lied by omission to a client—or better put, a potential client—and all because Tavish MacLean’s will stipulated that upon his death Wesley was to deliver $2,000 to Ms. MacGregor and to place the rest of the man’s liquid assets—$12,000—into an escrow account to cover any future legal fees the lady might incur.

Never having imagined that Tavish would die before explaining why the lady might need a lawyer, Wesley ground his teeth, the calzone he’d eaten for lunch souring in his stomach.

Well, there was no undoing it now.

Thank God he’d taken the precaution of hiring a private investigator to do a background check on Ms. MacGregor when his friend had named her as his sole heir. Other than having an incarcerated thief for a father, a few questionable friends, and a hefty mortgage she was hard-pressed to pay, Ms. MacGregor appeared to be a model citizen. So, he really had nothing to worry about.

He drummed his fingers on the polished surface of his rosewood desk, his gaze shifting from the broad Charles River twenty-one stories below to the glass case sitting on his bookcase. Within it was Tavish’s parting gift to him, the beautifully rendered half model of Admiral Nelson’s Victory.

Ya, he had no reason to sweat and Clinton never inhaled.

* * *

Dressed in her favorite after-hours outfit—an oversized T-shirt, fleece robe, and teddy bear slippers—Claire took a healthy swallow of merlot and stared at all that was left of her friend Tavish MacLean.

Only five moving crates after surviving a polio epidemic, two world wars, a loving but childless marriage, and too few golden years. What the hell was wrong with this picture?

There should be more.

And children or grandchildren should be inheriting his treasures, not her.

Sniffling, she put down the wineglass and grabbed a claw-toothed hammer. She’d postponed this long enough.

Half way into the first box, a thump sounded behind her and the door at her back flew open with a bang. Heart in her throat, she spun, her hammer raised and ready to clobber. “Oh! Mrs. Grouse.” Claire lowered the hammer and blew through her teeth. “Good God, woman, you scared me half to death.”

Her bathrobe-clad tenant lowered her rolling pin and patted her own chest. “And you, me! I heard this awful screeching noise and thought those young thugs had broken in.”

“So you came down here alone?” The woman was insane.

Mrs. Grouse shrugged her plump shoulders as she looked at the boxes. “Why are you working so late?”

“Tavish … died last Monday. These are his things.”

“Oh, no.” Mrs. Grouse waddled toward her, her arms out, her pink sponge rollers bobbing, and her worn satin robe swishing. After giving Claire a cologne-drenched hug, she murmured, “Such a dear man. And so young.”

Claire nodded, deciding age must be relative. Mrs. Grouse was eighty-five.

“Dear, is there anything I can do to help?”

“You’re sweet to offer, but no. I really need to do this on my own. I’m sorry I woke you.”

Mrs. Grouse waved a dismissing hand. “I wasn’t asleep. Don’t need much at my age. Thank heaven for the Your Shop TV and CNN. They’re on day and night.” She clucked as she surveyed the mess Claire had made, then gave her arm another pat. “Well, don’t work too late. They’ll still be here in the morning.”

Yes, and Claire would be tripping over storage crates and packing material for weeks if she didn’t get the mess out to the dumpster by eight tomorrow morning … for her neighborhood’s monthly bulk pickup.

With a final wave, Mrs. Grouse headed for the stairwell, where she’d doubtless have the devil’s own time making it back upstairs, thanks to arthritis. Why the dear woman remained in her second-floor apartment instead of moving into a retirement home with an elevator remained a mystery. But Claire didn’t complain. Her company and modest rent—not to mention Mrs. Grouse’s world-class coffee cakes—were worth the inconvenience of Claire having to run out to the grocery or pharmacy whenever the old dear needed something.

Hearing Mrs. Grouse’s door finally close, Claire turned her attention back to the crates.

Three hours later, she collapsed onto a stack of books—most of which dealt with ships or model building—poured the last of the wine into her glass and stared at the necessities of one man’s life.

A collection of plaid sports coats, shoes—their toes curled and scuffed from wear—slacks with shiny seats and creased knees, a few hats, socks, and underwear. Added to the mix: a toaster with a frayed cord, a clock, battered kitchen utensils and pans, a few pieces of chipped English bone china with a delicate pink rose pattern—probably a wedding gift—stained stainless steel flatware—she’d like to know how he’d managed that—shaving gear, canned goods, a vacuum cleaner as old as dirt, hundreds of small woodworking tools, and dozens of delicate ships and boats trapped in green-tinted bottles. Next to those items stood a full-sized pine headboard, dresser and matching end table, a harp-backed rocking chair with more layers of paint on it than she had years on her, and a spindle-legged maple kitchen set straight out of the ’50s. And there was still a box yet to open; the one that looked like a coffin.

Yawning, she picked up the gold-leafed picture frame she’d placed on the end table and ran a gentle finger over the glass. Over Tavish and his love, Margaret, as they stood grinning, he young and dressed in a formal military kilt and she, blond tendrils flying in the wind, dressed in a lovely Victorian wedding gown and clutching a bouquet of wildflowers.

“I’ll miss you, Tavish, I truly will.” She clutched the picture to her chest and closed her eyes. She shouldn’t be angry with him for leaving her like this. His wife had waited long enough.

Heaving a sigh, she placed the picture back on the end table, picked up the hammer and knelt before the long, narrow crate. Nails bent and screeched. If the fates were kind, she’d find a lost Rembrandt. Maybe the bridal gown she’d seen in the photograph. Or better yet, maybe she’d find a complete service of Waterford stemware with a matching footed punch bowl and twelve perfect cups. Now that would be lovely.

When the last nail gave way, Claire closed her eyes and grasped the lid with both hands.

Please, God, don’t let it be a perfect scale model of the Queen Elizabeth II.

Heart tripping with anticipation, she gave the lid a shove. It hit the floor with a resounding thud and she opened her eyes.