Total pages in book: 29
Estimated words: 26793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 134(@200wpm)___ 107(@250wpm)___ 89(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 26793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 134(@200wpm)___ 107(@250wpm)___ 89(@300wpm)
The star is gone.
“Maybe I moved it last night and forgot?” I suggest to Finn, who tilts his head. Even to my own ears, the explanation sounds unlikely. That star represents weeks of work and a priceless connection to my father. I wouldn’t simply misplace it.
I begin a painstaking search of the shop, checking behind the counter, in the small storage room, under tables covered with works in progress. Finn follows close behind, his nails clicking on the wooden floor.
“It was right here,” I say, tapping the glass of the front window. “I placed it here myself before we left for our walk.”
The panic that had been simmering now boils over. I rush to the door, examining the lock for signs of tampering. Nothing looks disturbed. The cash register remains untouched, with the day’s float still inside. Nothing else appears to be missing, just the star.
My star. Dad’s memorial.
The phone feels heavy in my hand as I dial Klara’s number. She answers on the second ring, with the sounds of her busy café in the background.
“Klara, it’s Marnie. Did you . . . did you happen to borrow my driftwood star for the café? Maybe as a surprise decoration or something?”
Her silence tells me everything before she even speaks. “No, honey. Why would I take it without asking? Is everything okay?”
“It’s gone,” I say, my voice quieter than I intend. “I came in this morning and it’s just . . . gone.”
“I’ll be right over.”
While waiting for Klara, I continue searching. Finn stays close, nudging my hand with his nose when my movements become too quick.
The bell above the door jingles as Klara bustles in, a cloud of flour and cinnamon trailing her. “Tell me exactly what happened,” she says, her usually cheerful face lined with concern.
I tell her about the night before, and how I had positioned the star in the window, locked up, and taken Finn for our beach walk. “When I came in this morning, it was gone. No broken windows, no forced locks. Nothing out of place. Just . . . vanished.”
Klara checks in places I had already examined twice. “Could someone have a key? An old employee, maybe?”
“It’s just me,” I reply, leaning against my workbench. “Dad was the only other person with a key, and I changed the locks after he passed.”
The bell jingles again as Bea from Seashell Books & Baubles enters, carrying a tray of hot chocolate. “I saw Klara rushing over and thought you might need reinforcements. What’s happened?”
Soon, my small shop fills with concerned neighbors. Monica, Tommy, and even Ned from The Twinkling Tides Bakery crowd around, offering theories and support.
“You should call the police,” Ned suggests, his baker’s hands leaving flour prints on my counter. “Theft is theft, even in Seacliff Haven.”
“What exactly would I report?” I ask. “Officer, someone with a key I didn’t know existed took my driftwood creation but nothing else of value?”
A sharp voice cuts through the murmurs. “What seems to be the problem here?”
Sid Gillespie stands in the doorway, his tall frame blocking the morning light. Despite the early hour, he looks immaculate in a charcoal sweater and dark jeans, his salt-and-pepper hair artfully tousled.
Klara fills him in while I continue searching through a stack of sea glass I’d been planning to incorporate into new pieces.
“That’s unfortunate timing,” Sid says. “The auction is what, four days away?”
I glance up. “Yes. Unfortunate timing indeed.”
Our gazes lock, years of rivalry crackling between us. Sid’s driftwood sculptures command higher prices than mine, his gallery drawing the wealthy summer tourists while my shop caters more to locals and those seeking affordable souvenirs. But the charity auction has always been my moment to shine, my star consistently the highlight of the event.
“You don’t think I had anything to do with this, do you?” Sid asks, eyebrows raised. “I have my own piece to finish for the auction. Why would I need yours?”
“I never said you did,” I reply, though the thought had crossed my mind.
Tommy clears his throat. “Have you checked with Dawson? He might have heard something. That antique shop of his seems to know all the town gossip before anyone else.”
I haven’t spoken more than a casual hi here and there to Dawson Morrow in years, not since his falling out with my father. But Tommy has a point. If anyone would know about unusual activities in town, it would be Dawson.
“I might stop by later,” I concede.
The impromptu gathering slowly disperses as shops need opening and the Christmas Market setup needs attending. Klara stays behind, perching on a stool by my register.
“What are you going to do?” she asks quietly.
“I have to find it. That star means everything. Not just for the auction, but for . . .”
“For your dad,” Klara finishes. “I know, honey.”
I begin tidying the counter, needing to keep my hands busy. As I move a display of small driftwood ornaments, something white catches my eye. An envelope, unmarked and sealed, tucked beneath the wooden stand.