Page 2 of The Sole Suspect
I finished the repair quicker than expected, the familiar task soothing my frayed nerves. The image of Mrs. Simmons beaming at her refurbished loafers lifted my spirits, coaxing a real grin from me. As I tucked the repaired footwear into tissue paper and nestled them into a cardboard container, the clock on the wall caught my eye.
Lunchtime already.
I fished my cellphone from my apron’s pocket, thumb finding Penny’s number without a second thought. The line crackled to life after a single ring.
“Hallo!” My friend’s upbeat tone greeted me through the phone’s speaker.
“Hey,” I called out as I flipped the sign back to “CLOSED.” “Fancy grabbing lunch at the Hideaway?”
“You know I never say no to their lavender latte!” Penny’s voice lowered slightly. “Hold on a sec while I wrap up with a last minute walk-in. I’ll be ready to go in no time flat.”
The walk to the Hideaway was short, but it gave us a chance to soak in the pre-election atmosphere of the Historical District. The cobblestone streets echoed with a mix of familiar and new voices, long-time residents mingling with curious tourists drawn in by the election buzz. Penny and I strolled past the quaint storefronts, their windows reflecting the bright glow of the midday sun.
“Did you hear about old Mr. Finch?” Penny nudged me, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Apparently, he’s considering selling his antique shop.”
My stomach clenched. “What? But he’s been here forever.”
A group of tourists with cameras slung around their necks shuffled past, their excited chatter about the ‘charming old-world feel’ of our district momentarily drowning out our conversation.
“I know,” Penny sighed once they’d passed. “It’s this whole revitalization nonsense. He’s worried about keeping up with potential rent hikes.”
We paused at the corner, waiting for a horse-drawn carriage—one of the district’s main attractions—to clop by. The rich scentof leather and hay mingled with the aroma of fresh bread wafting from Wilson’s Bakery.
“First the vandalism, now this,” I muttered, my jaw tightening. “Has Finch mentioned anything about potential buyers? Any whispers about who he might be selling to?”
Penny absently fiddled with the lucky penny pendant around his neck, twisting it between slender fingers—a telltale sign he was mulling over some juicy tidbit of gossip.
“Well...” he drawled, glancing around us as if looking for eavesdroppers. “I did overhear him muttering about some bigwig from the city. Didn’t catch a name, but whoever it is apparently has deep pockets.”
I felt my jaw clench. “Of course they do. Rich predators, every last one of them.”
The late autumn breeze tousled Penny’s pastel pink hair. His eyes sparkled with that mischievous glint I knew all too well.
“Yeah, and they’re circling,” Penny said, tugging at my sleeve. “C’mon, let’s get lunch. My treat. I want my lavender latte fix.”
I chuckled, shaking my head. Penny and his caffeine addiction. But I had to admit, the idea of a warm, fragrant latte did sound tempting. “Alright, lead the way.”
As we made our way across the street, I glanced at the storefronts we passed, each one a piece of our community’s shared history. How many of them were at risk?
The entrance bell chimed as we entered. The Hideaway was a cozy coffee shop doubling as a B&B crammed into a converted, fourth-generation Victorian house. Someone had knocked down enough walls for espresso machines while keeping the originalcreaky floors and framed sepia portraits of people who’d probably never imagined the smell of roasted beans permeating their parlors.
We claimed our usual spot, a pair of mismatched armchairs tucked away in a quiet corner. The faded velvet cushions molded around me as I settled into my seat.
Penny flopped into the chair across from me, his pink hair a vibrant contrast against the faded floral pattern.
Sarah approached, notepad in hand. “The usual for you two?”
“You know us too well,” I said with a smile.
Penny piped up, “And throw in one of those heavenly lavender scones, pretty please?”
“Sure thing, Sweet Pea.” Sarah retreated to fetch our orders, her shoes tapping a familiar rhythm on the worn floorboards. Beyond our corner nook, a steady stream of customers flowed in and out.
“They’re packed today. Sarah’s going to need roller skates to keep up.” Penny drummed his fingers on the worn wooden table. “My shop’s been the same—I can barely keep vintage dresses in stock with all these campaign events. Everyone wants to look period-perfect for the photo ops.”
“Must be nice,” I said, absently shredding the corner of my napkin just to have something for my hands to do. “My repair orders dropped since Harrington announced his candidacy. People are holding onto their money, worried about property taxes going up.”
“The Historical District preservation tax?”