“Can I help you?” he asked, and even if I hadn’t seen him on the show, I wouldn’t have been surprised by his deep, baritone voice. It went perfectly with his barrel chest, his shock of wild, silver hair, and his impressive height. Though the window display may have been understated, and the shop was civilized and genteel, there was nothing unpretentious about Ted Studebaker, his two-thousand-dollar suit, his Italian silk tie, or his alligator shoes. He looked me over and grinned, not in a lecherous-old-man way, but in a very gay way that told me he appreciated my sense of style.
I could see that Ted and I were going to get along.
He eyed me and my tote bag up and down, and before I could say a word, he said, “If you’re here for an appraisal, I’m afraid I’m going to have to disappoint you. I wish I could help, darling, but no can do. These days, my agent is in charge, and she insists I can’t even think about an appraisal without a signed release form and a camera rolling.”
“Then I guess it’s a good thing I’m not looking for an appraisal.” He had a dazzling smile, so it wasn’t hard to smile back. “Actually, I was by here a couple weeks ago, and I saw your sign.” I looked toward the front window. There was a roly-poly ghost standing in the way, hovering over a set of china with big pink flowers on it. Not that it mattered. Studebaker couldn’t see the ghost. And I didn’t need to see the PRESIDENTIAL COLLECTIBLES sign. “I was wondering, do you just sell presidential memorabilia? Or do you buy, too?”
Like collectors everywhere, Ted’s eyes lit up at the prospect of discovering something new and different that wasn’t on the market yet. He rubbed his hands together, and the heavy gold rings he was wearing glittered in the light. Unaware of the short, pudgy ghost wearing a miniskirt she shouldn’t have been caught dead in standing in the way, he ventured closer. When he got too close to her for comfort, a shiver snaked over his shoulders, but something told me he must have been used to the chilly feeling. With as many ghosts as were hanging around the shop, he must have run into their icy auras all the time. There was a glass case nearby chock-full of old jewelry and he came to stand near it.
Little did he know he had positioned himself right next to another ghost. This one was a skinny woman in a black Victorian gown. I shooed her out of the way with a look that told her I didn’t appreciate getting flash frozen and joined him.
“You’re interested in selling?” he asked.
I hoisted up the leather tote and held it in front of me in both hands. “Maybe. If what I have is worth selling. But if you tell me that, that would be like you giving me an appraisal, right? I don’t want you to get in trouble with your agent.”
“I’ll handle her.” He gave me a wink and looked at the tote. “You have it with you?”
I did. I set the tote on the counter.
“He’s going to try to flimflam you, kid.” The voice came from just over my right shoulder and I looked back to see a ghost wearing a suit and tie who looked like he’d just stepped out of one of those old black-and-white gangster movies. He had a pug-dog nose that sat a little crooked on his face and a nasty-looking scar that followed the outline of his jaw, all the way from his left ear down to his chin. “Don’t let him con you, sweetheart. I seen him do it, see. To plenty of other suckers. Whatever you’re selling, hold out for a good price. Before you agree to anything, make him hand over the cabbage.”
It wasn’t like I could tell the ghost the price Studebaker quoted didn’t matter, that I wasn’t there because I was looking for money, but for information.
I reached into the bag.
The ghost leaned forward. “Don’t be a pushover, doll.”
I ignored him and pulled out one of the pieces of Garfield garbage . . . er . . . memorabilia that had been in the trunk of my car since the night before Marjorie was killed. It was a framed front page from the
If they only knew!
I presented the piece to Studebaker and waited, giving him my best look of eager anticipation.
Just like he did on TV when he was sizing up some piece of junk or another, he stepped back, his weight resting on one foot, and pursed his lips. He clicked his tongue. He turned the frame toward the light for a better look.
“It’s interesting, surely,” Studebaker said. He set the framed newspaper page on the counter and tapped one finger on the glass. “I’ll give you twenty dollars for it.”
