Antique Auctions Are Murder

Book 7: Poppy McAllister Mystery

by Libby Klein

Genres: Craft & Hobby Cozy Mysteries; Culinary Cozy Mysteries

Synopsis

When vintage items go up for auction, gluten-free baker and B&B owner Poppy McAllister discovers some people will pay the ultimate price . . .



It's peak summer season at the Butterfly House Bed and Breakfast in Cape May, with tourists fluttering in and out and wreaking enough havoc to rival a Jersey Shore hurricane. Also back in town is Courtney Whipple and his family of antique dealers for the annual Cold Spring Village antique show. Courtney's son Auggie has a unique piece he believes will fetch them a fortune if he can get it authenticated in time—a piece rival dealer Grover Prickle insists was stolen from his store.



Poppy and her Aunt Ginny attend the auction, hoping to bid on an armoire for the B&B, and discover a veritable armory for sale—everything from ancient blades and nineteenth century guns to such potential killing devices as knitting needles and a blacksmith hammer. Strangely, they don't see either Auggie or Grover—or the mysterious item they both claim to own. Then during the auction, a body falls out of the very armoire Poppy was hoping to acquire, stabbed through the heart. Now, surrounded by competitive dealers and makeshift weapons, she must find out who turned the auction house into a slaughterhouse.

Release date: February 22, 2022

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 368

Sample

“Why is it every time a body drops in this town I gotta be questioned by the police?”

“It’s standard operating procedure.” The walkie Velcroed to the shoulder of Amber’s police uniform squawked and she twisted the volume down.

I took a sip of the coffee I’d brought outside with me. “Since when?”

“About two murders ago. Also, since Captain Kieran Dunne took over as acting chief of police and strapped me to a partner who watches my every move like a stalker.”

A slim African American woman in uniform stood at the bottom of my porch steps. She folded her toned arms across her chest and her golden-brown eyes assessed my front yard. She frowned at Amber. “And you’re such a delight.”

I gave the new officer a smile. “Hi, I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Poppy.”

Her eyes lolled my way and she scanned me from toe to head. “I know who you are.”

I glanced back at Amber and she gave me an eyebrow raise that bobbed her blond top bun. “You see what I’m dealing with here?” She held a photo out for me to examine. It was an older man with a pot belly and a steel-gray comb-over.

He had a face like a bulldog and a tattoo of a snake over his left eye. “Nope. Never seen him before. Who is it?”

“Mitchel Maloney, age fifty-seven, down from Yonkers. He was found under Morey’s Pier. Strangled with a macramé plant hanger. I don’t suppose he’s one of your guests?”

I handed her the photo back. “No. And all of mine are currently in-house getting ready to check out. Sunday morning is a big turnover time for us.”

Amber slid the photo back into her front pocket. “Alright. Keep your ears open and if you hear anything, you let me know.”

The officer behind Amber sighed loudly, took the few steps up to my wraparound, and fished a business card out of her front pocket with her active-length gold glitter nails. “You got no business being involved, but if you do see something, I want to be in that loop. Here’s my card and the number to the station.”

I glanced at the white cardstock with the county insignia. I could have told Sergeant Viola Washington that I already had the police department number memorized, but I sensed that would only elicit another eye roll and I was already on shaky ground with her just for existing.

What a pair they made. Amber, a former cheerleader for Cape May High, who was just barely tall enough to ride the Wild Mouse roller coaster on the Wildwood Boardwalk; and her new partner, who looked like a founding member of the Gorgeous Ladies of Wrestling. Amber dropped her mirrored sunglasses to her nose and both officers made their way down the sidewalk towards the police car. I returned to the front desk to finish checking out the Applegates.

“Our whole vacation was ruined. I really don’t think we should have to pay for the days it rained.”

I handed Mrs. Applegate a copy of our terms of service. “I’m very sorry that you had to miss the beach, but as our policy says, we have no control over hurricane season.”

She was a sour one. Cracking a smile might ruin the lifetime she’d devoted to wallowing in bitterness. She’d already turned in a daily comment card complaining about our tea and jam selection. Now I was being punished for low quality weather.

Mrs. Applegate gave me a disapproving sniff. “I still think we should get a discount. It’s not my fault it rained.”

I was about to remind her and her husband that weather fell under our Act of God policy and we had supplied free umbrellas for their stay, but I spotted Mrs. Newman slinking down the stairs with a distinctive package tucked under her armpit. Oh heck no. “Joanne!”

My high school nemesis turned part-time pastry chef emerged from the kitchen wiping her hands on a tea towel. Her brow crinkled as we made eye contact.

“Could you please finish checking out the Applegates? I believe Mrs. Newman needs my attention.”

Joanne swiveled to see Mrs. Newman and her souvenir selection. The whites of her eyes popped, and she gave me a nod.

While she took over checking out the third set of guests in a row to attempt to shake us down for a rain discount, I caught up with the little old lady from Piscataway who was trying to steal something from her room. “Mrs. Newman.”

The woman jumped when she saw me, and her face blushed a shade of pink that matched the roses in my front yard. “Oh. I was just taking my things to the car.”

“Yes, ma’am, but I’m afraid you’ll have to leave the painting here.”

Her eyes softened like a bloodhound. “Oh, is this your painting?”

“Yes, ma’am. That’s why it was hanging over the dresser in your suite.”

“Well, couldn’t you just look the other way this one time? I’d be happy to give you twenty dollars for it if that would make you happy.”

I put my hand on the corner of the gilded frame. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Newman, but this is a painting of my great-uncle Rooster. It’s a family heirloom.”

Her lips rolled down to a pout. “But he looks just like my Roger.”

I didn’t see how that was likely since Uncle Rooster had flaming red hair peeking out from under a leather helmet and was wearing aviator goggles that gave him bug eyes. It was a hideous portrait, but he was still my family. I eased the painting from her arthritic death grip. “I’m sorry, ma’am.”

Mrs. Newman let the painting go and let her wheelie bag drop with an irritated thump thump thump down every step to the front door. Whoever said “Summertime and the livin’ is easy” didn’t know what the monkey foot they were talking about. They had clearly never worked in Cape May during tourist season.

I said goodbye to the Applegates and returned to the kitchen to bask in the best part of the week. The quiet in-between. Whether guests came for a romantic weekend or an entire week of sun and sand, most everyone checked out on Sunday afternoon laden with boxes of taffy and fudge, to return to wherever they called home and ease back into their normal routines.

Joanne slumped down at the kitchen table with an iced blackberry tea and played a game on her phone. We sat together in silence—our weekly agreed-upon ceasefire from the mutual animosity that was forged in adolescence, lugged through the past twenty years, and thrown into overdrive at one disastrous high school reunion.

I stared at the blinking cursor on my laptop screen. I’d promised a friend I’d write a post for their blog. “What it’s like running a bed and breakfast at the shore?” I was afraid that if I told the truth no one would believe me. The last thing I felt like putting up with was a bunch of comments telling me my post was ridiculously far-fetched when I knew every word of it was true. I closed the laptop. This would have to be a problem for another day.

I let the fleeting quiet wash over me before Joanne started on this afternoon’s check-in cookies and I began the muffin brigade for La Dolce Vita.

The Butterfly Wings Bed and Breakfast was far too busy for me to spend several hours each day flirting—I mean baking—at the coffee shop. No matter how badly I wanted to spend time with my gorgeous Italian boyfriend. I felt giggly just thinking the word. Boyfriend. Like I was some frisky teenager and not a middle-aged widow in a plus-sized sundress. The stakes were so high that I was checking for gray in my natural auburn every day.

My naughty Persian, Sir Figaro Newton, pushed his foofy black smoke face through the swinging door that led from the kitchen to the dining room, making his orange eyes bug out. He spotted me at the table and forced his way in through the crack. Trotting over with his flat nose in the air, he jumped onto the bench seat next to me to see if a snack might be in the works.

The back door cracked open on the other side of the kitchen and Aunt Ginny stuck her L’Oréal Hot Tomato–hued red head through. “Are they gone?”

I stretched my arms over my head. “Yep, it’s just us for a couple of blissful hours.”

“Thank God.” Aunt Ginny sashayed across the gray porcelain tiles in a breeze of piña colada tanning lotion. She tightened the strap of the red and white gingham halter bikini she’d had since the fifties when she worked the lifeguard stand just a block away. She removed a red straw sun hat the size of a beach umbrella, and large white-rimmed sunglasses and threw them both on the island before pouring herself a tall glass of iced tea. “Has Victory come down yet? I’ve been waiting for this all day.”

Victory, my Ukrainian chambermaid, shot through the pantry doors where the spiral staircase led up to the third floor. “I breing box. Eis time!” She threw a bag of dirty linens into the mudroom by the washer, and hoisted the Amazon box full of lost and found trinkets on the kitchen table to start lining the contents up for consideration.

We had decided on a one month waiting period for forgotten items to see if they were claimed before putting them up for grabs. Victory and Aunt Ginny had been chomping to rifle through the box, convinced that guests had abandoned priceless treasures in order to make packing room for fresh-roasted cashews and Swedish fish. Figaro jumped to the table to get a better view of the bounty in case there was anything he wanted dibs on.

One turquoise toe ring; one purple velvet push-up bra—size thirty-six B; a Fifty Shades of Grey audiobook on CD—missing CD number three; a tube of Shayla Rose eye cream; a pair of rhinestone bejeweled strappy sandals—size eight; a Hogwarts leather-bound journal; and a bright red satin hair scrunchy.

Victory held up half a tube of mangled dollar-store sunblock. “I want thees. Wednesday ees day off and I go to beach.”

“Fine by me.” Aunt Ginny reached in the box and took the purple velvet bra. She folded it up and stuffed it in her sun hat. “What? I already have the matching bottoms.”

Joanne choked on her tea.

What do you say to an eighty-something-year-old, who has been the single most important role model for your entire life, when she wants someone’s left-behind sexy underwear? You might want to run it through the washer first. I started setting out ingredients for gluten-free saltwater taffy muffins when the front door chime sounded in the kitchen.

“Hellooo.” Mrs. Davis’s voice floated down the hall.

Aunt Ginny slid the strappy sandals off the table and held them behind her back. “In here, Thelma.”

Thelma Davis was one of Aunt Ginny’s oldest and silliest friends along with two other biddies who were mysteriously missing from this social call. They had lived in Cape May so long they remembered when the Welcome Center was a train station, and you could drive down the middle of the Washington Street Mall in a Ford Model A roadster.

“Where are Mrs. Dodson and Mother Gibson? I thought you ladies traveled in a pack in case one of you needs an alibi.”

Mrs. Davis headed straight to the table of assorted treasures. “They’re coming along in a bit. Ooh, what’s this?” She held up the toe ring.

Aunt Ginny was trying on her new sandals since no one had called her out for taking them. “You can have it. We’re going through the left-behinds.”

Mrs. Davis slipped it on her pinky finger. “Nice. I just wanted to remind you to be at Courtney’s at six for his annual snowbird show-off.”

Joanne had commandeered the KitchenAid to make a batch of pecan sables, so I dug out the handheld mixer from the bottom drawer. “How’d he do?”

Mrs. Davis shrugged, and her pink perm bobbed like fresh spun cotton candy. “Blue ribbon. Again. He wins every year. I don’t know what the big deal is at this point. You’d think he’d let someone else have a chance for Pete’s sake.”

Joanne looked up from the recipe card she was holding. Bright green reading glasses perched on the end of her nose. “Blue ribbon for what?”

Aunt Ginny was doing a runway strut back and forth in front of the table, trying out her new sandals, while Figaro was trying to capture the red scrunchie with his paw.

“Annual garden show.” Mrs. Davis poured herself a glass of tea. “Courtney holds the record for most wins with tomatoes and kohlrabi in an heirloom garden.”

Victory wrinkled her nose that was now covered in blue sunscreen. “What eis cowld robbee?”

Mrs. Davis shrugged. “It’s like a German turnip.”

“Eww.” Victory was so overcome that she immediately fell asleep, landing on the tube of sunscreen where an inch of blue paste splotched out.

I was thinking the same thing but didn’t put it as delicately as my narcoleptic chambermaid. “How upset would you be if Gia and I missed the party? We’ve hardly had a minute alone together since we started dating.”

Mrs. Davis pointed her toe-ring bejeweled pinky at me. “Absolutely not. You can make out on your own time. I need you both to be there as my buffer. Edith and Lila came up with excuses faster than I could trap them into going. I think they had it on their calendars from last year, so they’d be ready.”

I started unwrapping peanut butter saltwater taffy. “What are you not telling me about tonight?”

“My sister-in-law is the most unpleasant woman you’ll ever meet. She’s conniving, she’s sneaky, she has no sense of style, and she’s been stealing from me for thirty years. If you’re not there I’m likely to put Josephine in a headlock.”

Aunt Ginny struck a pose from across the room. “We aren’t due another senior citizen brawl until the Methodist Craft Bazaar in December. This would really throw off our pacing.”

Figaro had captured the prized scrunchie and rocketed from the kitchen with his illicit treasure in his mouth.

Victory’s head shot up. “Eet sound desgoosteeng.”

I stared at her for a beat, trying to decipher which conversation she was in the middle of, then turned my attention back to Mrs. Davis. “How do you know your sister-in-law is stealing from you?”

Mrs. Davis cocked her head at an angle and narrowed her eyes. “Oh, you’ll see.”

I had just poured myself into my new navy skater dress when Aunt Ginny hollered up the steps, “They’re here!” I frowned in the mirror. All the weight I’d lost in the spring while worrying over Gia working out his family drama, I’d gained back as soon as I binged on my first lettuce leaf. I slipped on my wedges and headed downstairs.

Joanne was checking in some new guests. She passed me a note when I hit the landing.

Our loaner bikes were on the honor system. Guests checked them out and failed to return them at least once a week. Now I had to call around town to track them down. We needed a better system. People weren’t stealing them. They were abandoning them on the side of the road when their bodies reminded them that they’d been sitting at a desk for thirty years and they’d rather pay someone fifteen dollars to Uber them back from the winery on the other side of the island.

“Call Kim at the Laughing Gull and tell her to be on the lookout. Nine times out of ten that’s where we’ve found them.”

The front door swung open and a six-foot-tall, bronzed god stood in the entry wearing black slacks and a crisp pinstripe dress shirt. “Are you ready, cara mia?”

My face split into a grin and I suddenly didn’t give a flip about the missing Huffys. I abandoned Joanne’s note and let it flutter to the desk. “Hey, you.”

“Gorgeous.” Gia took my hand. He kissed the back of my knuckles and I giggled.

Joanne cleared her throat. The guests checking in were staring openmouthed and I whispered, “We’d better go.”

Aunt Ginny was already out front with Royce, her dapper boyfriend who’d recently retired to Cape May, and she was getting into the back of his sister’s gold Lexus. His nephew Iggy was wearing a driving cap and dressed in a chauffeur suit for some reason. He touched his brim in way of a formal greeting and gave me a sly grin.

I didn’t have time to decode the conniving in his eyes because Gia was holding the door of his Alfa Romeo open for me. I slid onto the creamy leather passenger seat, chilled from the air conditioner, and Gia shut me in. When we pulled away from the curb, the words started spilling out of me. “Who did you get to babysit Henry?”

“My sister, Teresa. He asked if you could send him some cuppycakes since he has to stays home.”

My heart felt like it would burst. I loved that little four-year-old like he was my own.

Gia and I laughed and chatted the few blocks to Mrs. Davis’s family Victorian. He drove with one hand on the wheel and one hand in mine. “What is this deal tonight and can we sneak out early?”

My face warmed at the thought of time alone with him. We’d had very little since tourist season had exploded into full swing the minute we officially became a couple last April. It was a long, painful road to get here, but my life hadn’t been the same since. “Mrs. Davis said her brother, Courtney, and his wife, Josephine, are snowbirds.”

Gia glanced at me with narrowed eyes. “Shoobies?”

“Not exactly. ‘Shoobie’ just means tourist. Snowbirds come up every spring and move south for the winter. The Whipples are originally from Cape May, but now they live in Jupiter Island, Florida, four months of the year.”

Gia gave a slight shrug. “And why are we doing this instead of... anything else?”

“Aunt Ginny’s friends have been very good to me since I moved back. I can’t say no to them.”

“Maybe you just need more practice.”

“Plus, we’re supposed to help keep the peace between Mrs. Davis and her sister-in-law. They don’t get along. Like your mother with . . . everyone else.” I caught Gia’s roguish grin from the corner of my eye and smiled to myself.

We turned down a quiet, tree-lined street and parked in front of the huge Victorian built in the French Second Empire style. It was custard yellow with a tan mansard roof trimmed in cast-iron cresting. The front steps and recessed entry were painted with a cherry-red lacquer that sparkled over the white ornate gingerbread trim. Three gabled dormers peeked down from the third story in the midst of decorative coral and beige slate tiles. I stepped out onto the brick walkway and shielded my eyes from the evening sun. “Wow. I’ve passed this house hundreds of times. I had no idea Mrs. Davis grew up here.”

Gia eyed the second-floor balcony. “With this much old money you would expect her to tip the barista better.”

Iggy pulled up behind Gia and got out to open the door for Royce.

Royce held out some bills. “Thank you, driver.”

Iggy pulled at the brim of his cap. “At your service, Mr. Hansen.”

Aunt Ginny came around the back of the sedan and gave Royce’s middle-aged nephew the stink eye. “He may have dementia, but my mind is just fine.” She put her hand out and Iggy frowned. Then he fished out the few dollars from inside his suit jacket and turned them over. Aunt Ginny stuffed them into Royce’s breast pocket.

The front door opened and a thin man with sunken gray eyes and wisps of steel-gray hair trotted down the front steps. He was wearing white linen slacks and a pale blue resort-wear button-down. Well-tanned arms reached out to embrace Aunt Ginny. “Welcome, welcome, Ginny. You get prettier every time I see you.”

Aunt Ginny smoothed the back of her hair. “It must be the salt air. Do you remember Royce Hansen? He was in the class with Thelma and me?”

The man put his hand out. “Yes, you made quite a name for yourself on Broadway, I hear. Courtney Whipple.”

Royce took Courtney’s hand. “Tis a pleasure, fine sir.”

Courtney turned towards me. “And who is this gorgeous young thing? Ginny, is this your granddaughter?”

Aunt Ginny ran her hands down to her hips. “No, Courtney. You don’t keep a figure like this and have babies. This is Poppy, my great niece. She’s my late brother Ernest’s granddaughter.”

Courtney took my hand and held it while he gazed into my eyes. “She looks just like you when you were a girl.”

Aunt Ginny gave him a wry grin. “Yes, well, we’re a good-looking family.”

“Oh, I know.” He winked at Aunt Ginny, and Royce reached his arm across her shoulders and pulled her close to him with a quiet grunt.

Courtney held his hand out to Gia. “And this must be your husband?”

My heart sped up with a mixture of thrill and panic. “No, no. Just my boyfriend. I mean he’s not just my boyfriend. Gia’s not really a boy but no one says man friend, do they? Adult friend? He’s not my husband. Not yet anyway. Not that he will be!” I was spiraling. “We’re not engaged. It’s way too soon. We’re just two single people on a date. What did you ask me?”

Gia chuckled under his breath. “Okay, Bella, calm down before you have the stroke.”

Aunt Ginny slowly nodded. “Mmm. Smooth.”

The front door flew open again and a wild woman with a platinum wave of hair launched herself onto the front porch. She was wearing a hot pink caftan with gold trim and what must have been every piece of jewelry in the house. “For God’s sake, Courtney, bring them inside. It’s so humid they’ll have to wring out their clothes. Thelma is already in the kitchen and I can’t leave her for long.” The woman locked her fluorescent-purple-lidded eyes on Aunt Ginny. “Hello, Virginia.”

Aunt Ginny stiffened. “Josephine.”

“I hope you’re not planning to put anything of mine in that giant purse you’ve brought with you.”

Aunt Ginny patted my leather tote bag that she was apparently borrowing. “Of course not. Some of us are just more fashion forward than others.”

The woman played with three competing strands of beads that were draped around her neck. “You look like you’ve been unwell, dear. How are you feeling?”

“Fit as a fiddle. But I’m worried about you. You don’t look like you’ve seen a ray of sunshine in months. Have you been stuck over your cauldron all summer?”

Josephine laughed in an unconvincing way that sounded like a lawn mower engine trying to turn over. “Mmmhnhnhnhn. And who have you brought with you?”

Courtney put one hand on my shoulder. “This is Ginny’s grandniece, Poppy, and her beau, Gia, darling.”

Josephine gave us a saccharine smile. “Gia? What a beautiful name. You usually hear that on a girl.”

Bold talk from someone whose husband’s name is Courtney.

Aunt Ginny sighed, stiffly. “It’s short for Giampaolo, Josephine. It means John Paul in Italian. Gia’s family is from Italy.”

Josephine waved her hand. “Well, welcome to America. We’re not fascists like you Italians, but I think you’ll learn to accept us anyway.”

Gia flashed her a tight smile, and I could tell he was holding back a laugh. He put on his thickest accent. “Grazie, signora. I am sure I will learn to love América.”

Aunt Ginny snorted. “Well, if your citizenship these past twenty-odd years hasn’t done it, I don’t know what will.”

Josephine circled both her hands in the air and her rows of bracelets clattered against each other. “Come on in, everyone. I’ve got to check on Thelma before she turns out the house. She’s like a sneaky pink magpie. Ginny, why don’t you join me. Maybe you can keep her from rifling through the cabinets.”

The garden party was not off to a great start and we weren’t even inside yet.

Courtney led us up the brick walkway that divided the manicured yard into two beds filled with flowering shrubs and late summer bulbs edged by a cast-iron fence. I would have to pay for a full-time landscaper to make my yard look this amazing, but Courtney proudly exclaimed that he had done all the work himself. “Gardening is a Whipple family tradition.”

The inside of their home was like a china outlet store. My stomach gave a flutter as I looked around at the delicate and expensive treasures on every corner within reach of my elbow or derriere. Courtney had a wealth of antique furniture, but there was refreshing lack of lace and chintz found in so many of these Victorians.

A polished dark wood staircase graced the front foyer. A blue damask living room was to the right. Across the hall was a spiced-peach sitting room where a man and woman sat drinking cocktails like they were posing for the cover of Collector’s Quarterly.

They were about my age. The woman was thin and shapely with a pixie cut of ash-blond hair and an air of confidence like she had never had a day of self-doubt. She wore a silk sheath dress that matched her cornflower-blue eyes.

The man was a touch taller, with dark brown wavy hair that would be unruly if he let it get any longer, a slight trimmed beard like he had forgotten to shave for the weekend, and the same blue eyes as the woman, but with a little more mirth to them. He had an infectious smile that said he would be the life of any party if given the chance—just ask his fraternity.

Aunt Ginny and Royce followed Josephine down the center hall towards a massive dining room while Courtney introduced us to the handsome couple.

“Poppy, I want you to meet my daughter June and my son Augustus. There is no July. My first wife wanted to be clever with the birth names. We were planning to hit a few more of the months but she took ill and we only have the summer represented. June has come down from Cherry Hill to help me celebrate my big win.”

“It’s nice to meet you. This is . . . Gia.” After that crash and burn outside I wanted to play it safe. What am I supposed to say? Paramour? Soul mate? Everything sounded weird all of a sudden. I tried to gauge Gia’s reaction to my introduction to see if this one went better. Nothing.

The man shook Gia’s hand. “Call me Auggie. Augustus sounds like the fat kid from Willie Wonka.” June shook Gia’s hand and held it long enough that I wanted to smack her wrist. Next time I’m saying “boyfriend,” so there’s no confusion.

Courtney headed out of the room. “My stepdaughter will be here shortly. I think she and her husband got bumped to a later ferry. I’m just going to check the marinade. June Bug, get them a drink.”

Gia agreed to a glass of pinot and I accepted an iced peppermint tea. Then we sat in awkward silence until June returned and Gia broke it. “Are you two also the snowbirds?”

Auggie reached his arm across the back of a vintage golden tufted sofa. “No, I live here. Someone has to keep an eye on the place while Dad’s in Florida. I’ve been running Whipple’s Antique Emporium on the island since my father retired in 2010.”

June sat back in a white wing chair with a pastoral pattern in pumpkin-colored toile and lazily crossed one leg over the other, showing how long and toned they were. “I’ve escaped. I put Cape May in my rearview mirror as soon as I filed for divorce last year. I can’t stand the beach. I only came down this weekend to celebrate Dad’s blue ribbon.”

Auggie snickered. “His twenty-third blue ribbon in as many years. Don’t worry. You’re going to hear all about it whether you want to or not.”

Gia gave Auggie a polite smile. “You own antique store?”

Auggie nodded but June answered. “We both do. Auggie works locally and handles sales and customer relations. I’ve moved on to evaluation and procurement. I don’t like to be trapped behind a desk.”

Auggie rested his ankle on his knee, showing a bright pink sock. “Are either of you going to be at Cold Spring Village next week?”

Cape May had a series of theme weeks throughout the summer. We’d just survived the Fourth of July celebration. Then it was on to Pirate Week and the Annual Garden Show. Now we were full steam ahead for the Annual Antique Show and Auction.

Auggie grinned in a very impish way. “I have something dangerously unusual to auction off—if the authenticity can be verified in time.”

My ears perked up at the promise of something intriguing. “Ooh, what is it?”

Auggie grinned. “It’s top secret, but why don’t you two come out and see the unveiling? I think you’ll be impressed.”

I took a sip of my mint tea and immediately realized we had had an error in communication over how much alcohol belonged in mint tea. I thought none. June had not mentioned that the mint would be coming in the form of schnapps. I strangled back a choke. “What is procurement?”

June shook her ice and her chunky silver bracelet clanked against her highball glass. “I visit estate sales and buy items of value at a fraction of their worth for Auggie to resell at Whipple’s. Although this last item he found all on his own somehow.”

“That sounds interesting.”

Auggie gave his sister a defensive look. “I don’t just resell things. I rescue and restore them too. And I search for hard-to-find items for collectors.”

June shrugged. “I’m rather tired of it all, to tell you the truth. I just want to get home to my Jack Russells. I would have brought them with me this weekend, but Josephine is. . .