Page 4 of The Cobbler and His Elves
I reached for my grandfather’s old leather-working tools, feeling their familiar weight. Maybe, just maybe, I could pull this off. And if I did... well, it could change everything for my little shop.
I sighed as I wrapped the leather in a scrap of cloth. I’d take it to Sheriff Dawson, explain how I’d found it. Surely he’d understand?—
The bell above the door jangled, startling me. I shoved the wrapped leather into my workbench drawer. The worn wood creaked as I slid it shut. My heart raced as I turned to see Martha Sawyer hurrying in, her face pinched with worry.
My nostrils flared as the rich aroma of expensive leather hit me like a punch to the gut. The scent clung to the air, thick and unmistakable. I glanced at Martha, praying her beta nose wouldn’t pick up on it. My heart hammered against my ribs as I forced a smile, willing my scent not to betray my anxiety.
“Miss Sawyer,” I said, my voice a touch too high. “What can I do for you today?”
“Mr. Hart,” she said, slightly out of breath. “I need your help.”
I forced a smile. “Of course. What can I do for you?”
She thrust a pair of well-worn oxfords at me. “The sole’s come off. I need them fixed right away. Today, if possible.”
I examined the shoes. A quick job, nothing complex. “I can have them ready by closing time,” I said.
Martha nodded, her eyes darting around the shop. “Thank you. I’ll be back then.”
Martha hurried out the door, the bell jingling in her wake. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t quite right with her today.
I didn’t know Martha all that well. She’d only moved to town about six months ago, setting up shop in old Mrs. Finch’s vacant storefront. She was a newcomer to Millcrest, still finding her place.
The rest of the day crawled by, each tick of the clock an accusation. By closing time, my nerves were frayed. Martha returned and paid without comment. I noticed her face appeared drawn, with dark circles under her eyes, but the nervous energy that had surrounded her earlier seemed to have dissipated.
Once she left with her newly repaired shoes, I locked up the shop and my attention turned to the leather scrap in my workbench drawer. I needed advice, a friendly ear. Leaving the shop, my feet carried me to Mabel’s bakery of their own accord.
The warm scent of cinnamon and apples enveloped me as I entered. Mabel looked up from where she kneaded dough, her smile faltering as she took in my expression.
“Milo? What’s wrong?”
I sank onto a stool at the counter, pouring out the whole sordid tale. Mabel listened, her hands never stopping their rhythmic work.
When I finished, she sighed. “Oh, Milo. What a mess.”
I ran a hand through my hair, feeling the weight of my predicament. “I’m in a real pickle here. Mrs. Thackeray’s got her heart set on those pumps, but I don’t have the leather to make ‘em. Not to mention the silk and pearls—or glass beads, if we’re being honest. Who can afford real pearls these days?”
Mabel’s eyes lit up. “What about that scrap you found?”
“No, I can’t.” I shook my head, my jaw clenching. “Much as I need it, using that leather wouldn’t be right. I’ve got to turn it in to the Sheriff.”
“Always the boy scout, aren’t you?” Mabel teased, sliding a steaming cup of coffee my way.
I managed a weak smile. “Someone’s got to keep this town honest.”
“And who’s keeping you fed, hmm?” She wagged a flour-dusted finger at me. “You can’t cobble on an empty stomach.”
“Is that your way of offering me a day-old danish?”
“Day-old? I’ll have you know everything here is fresh as a daisy.”
Our banter lifted my spirits for a moment, but the weight of my decision still pressed down on me. I was about to ask Mabel if she had any more practical advice when her expression suddenly turned serious.
“You haven’t heard, then?” Mabel fidgeted nervously. She grabbed up a cloth and began wiping the counter furiously, her usual cheerful demeanor replaced by unease.
“What haven’t I heard?” I asked, my stomach knotting with sudden dread. Mabel’s serious tone set off alarm bells in my head.
“Mr. Thompson’s threatening to close the tannery unless the stolen leather is found.” I watched Mabel twist the cloth between her fingers. We both understood the implications—if the tannery closed, my little store wouldn’t stand a chance.