Maybe Ted Studebaker was Jewish. But that didn’t matter, either. Unless he was Orthodox and his shop wasn’t open on Saturdays. What did matter was that I had to wait until then, but once the weekend rolled around and I didn’t have my pesky nine-to-fiver to worry about, I drove out to cute, picturesque, pricey Chagrin Falls.
Yes, there really is a waterfall. It’s nowhere near the Niagara variety, but it’s still pretty, in a picture postcard kind of way. The river that feeds the falls meanders through the village of charming cottages and gardens and spills over a twenty-foot drop right near an old-fashioned popcorn and ice cream shop. I swear, it’s true. Like something out of a corny movie, only for real, and it brings in tourists by the droves.
There is also a main street (predictably called Main Street) that features a gazebo and a whole bunch of boutiques and gift shops where scrumptious-looking fall clothes were displayed in the windows. It was a shame I didn’t have time to browse and shop. But then, I didn’t have the money to shop, either, so unless like Marjorie, I was planning on using Bernard O’Banyon’s credit card . . .
No worries. The card was safe at home, hidden in the bottom drawer of my dresser underneath the wool sweaters I had a feeling I would be taking out any day now.
It was barely September, and I was chilled to the bone.
An unseasonably cold wind whipped down Main Street, and I wished when I was getting ready to leave my apartment I had paid more attention to the weather than I had to fashion. I was wearing a short-sleeved white linen jacket. It was as cute as can be, but between that and the tank top I had underneath it and my skinny jeans and wedge sandals, it didn’t offer much in the way of warmth. I was carrying an oversized leather tote, so I couldn’t even wrap my arms around myself in the hopes of generating a little heat.
Good thing Ted Studebaker Antiques wasn’t far from where I parked the Mustang.
I took a minute (no more, believe me, I was too cold to waste time) to look at the understated display in the front window of the shop. It featured a gigantic American eagle carved out of mahogany. It looked just like the one embossed on Studebaker’s business card. In front of that was a table with fancy legs with a silver coffeepot on it and a tasteful sign in flowing script that said, PRESIDENTIAL COLLECTIBLES A SPECIALITY.
I sailed right on in like I had every right to be there. But then, I guess I did. I had questions to ask: about Marjorie’s collection, about Nick’s sudden interest in it, and about the fact that there must have been something in that Garfield lollapalooza that someone was desperate to find.
The shop was in a big, old building, and it had one of those tin ceilings, and walls that were painted muted gray. It smelled like lemony furniture polish in there, and it was no wonder. Every table and chair and elaborate china hutch was shined to within an inch of its life. Every plate and vase and oversized pitcher and bowl set gleamed so that every picture of every president on those plates and vases and oversized pitcher and bowl sets was shown off to perfection. There were bookcases all around and hundreds of books on them with titles like
Ted Studebaker Antiques was impressive, all right. Even to me. I reminded myself not to forget it. When I finally came face-to-face with Ted, the last thing he needed to know was that, in reality, antiques give me the creeps.
And it’s no wonder why.
If the people who shopped there could see what I saw—which was a whole bunch of ghosts hanging around, too attached to their earthly possessions to leave them behind—they never would have taken the chance of buying the stuff and dragging it (and the ghosts) home. Even so, it wasn’t the spook-a-rama that turned me off. It was the idea of owning something—I mean, purposely—that someone else had owned before. Who in their right mind would want to do that?
When Ted himself stepped out from a back room, I recognized him right away. I’d seen him in those snippets of
