Finn-agled Read online

  Finn-agled

  A Finn’s Finds Mystery

  by

  Kristine Raymond

  Finn-agled

  Copyright © 2019 Kristine Raymond

  EPUB Edition

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the express written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Design by: KRDesigns

  Dedication

  To cozy mystery and Bassett Hound lovers everywhere.

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Note to my readers

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  The Final Chapter

  Items of Interest

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Connect with Kristine on Substance B

  Note to my readers

  Color Dilution Alopecia is a real disorder that affects dogs, most often those that have a blue or fawn coat.

  My Basset Hound, Bruno, is afflicted with this condition, leaving him hairless over most of his body, offering me the opportunity to dress him up in whimsical sweaters during cold weather.

  How It Begins

  otherwise known as

  Chapter One

  Who would’ve thought an antique writing box – or rather, the item hidden in said box – could cause such a kerfuffle?

  Lying in this dimly lit hospital room, barely able to speak, my loving family gathered around my bedside making valiant efforts to mask their expressions of concern and despair, I–

  Wait a sec. You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you? Guess I got a little ahead of myself. I’ll start at the beginning, but first, a little about me.

  My father has a thing for Bea Arthur; my mother for American humorist Finley Peter Dunne. That’s how my birth certificate ended up emblazoned with the moniker Maude Finley Bartusiak. (A nod to Grandpa Andrzej and his ancestors for the surname). Quite a mouthful to bestow upon a newborn, don’t you think? Earning my eternal gratitude, in my first twenty minutes of life, Grandma Lena gazed upon my wizened visage and stated I would forever be known as Finn.

  Believe it or not, my name – and the history behind it – has sparked numerous conversations over the course of my lifetime, affording me the opportunity to provide the above explanation. Guess there aren’t many Maude Bartusiaks in the world. Or Finn Bartusiaks, for that matter. Not that I do anything to dissuade the interest, mind you. I’m what Mom refers to as gregarious. In other words, I like to talk, but there’s nothing wrong with that, is there? I mean, humans evolved with the ability to speak, so I may as well take full advantage of the gift, shouldn’t I? Some days, I fear, it’s the only thing I’ve got going for me.

  If threatened with bodily harm, I’d describe myself as someone of average looks and height, and a figure politely referred to as shapely – a direct result of my fondness for Grandma Lena’s pierogis. My hair is the color of burnt toast, my eyes a shade darker, and a smattering of freckles over a perfectly shaped nose – the only feature I truly like about myself – enhance an otherwise ruddy complexion. I hail from a loving family and count myself lucky to live in the same town as not only my parents but my paternal grandparents as well. Mom’s mom died before I was born, and her dad passed away a few days before my first birthday, so the grandparents Bartusiak are the only ones I know. Plus, weekly visits to both homes and lots of leftovers are an added benefit.

  You’re probably wondering where I meet all of these folks curious about my humble beginnings. Am I a celebrity of such fame that people recognize me when I walk down the street? Is my name volleyed back and forth in whispered conversations amongst the wealthy? Have I won a Nobel Prize for philanthropy? (Do they even give one out for philanthropy?) Hardly.

  I’m the owner of a surprisingly well-to-do antique and consignment store which attracts shoppers by the busload. Not that I’m complaining one iota about the foot traffic. See that cute little Mazda Miata convertible parked out front? The one the color of garnets? Yeah, he’s mine. Well, mine and the bank’s. Lance and I have been together for three months now – did I mention I call him Lance? Only fifty-seven more payments to go before he’s free and clear….

  What? Oh, sorry. I tend to lose my train of thought when I talk about Lance. Where was I? That’s right; my name. Or rather, how people come to ask me about it.

  I live in the seaside village of Port New (on a side note, who names a town Port New? I’ve always thought the founding fathers got the two words backwards) which was erected on the land side of a protected cove along the New England coastline making it a popular destination for both day-trippers and vacationers. My shop, Finn’s Finds, sits in the perfect location; a little over a tenth of a mile from the beach – which is ideal because on nice days I leave the front door open to encourage the ocean breezes to flow through – and three doors down from Dough Knots, a nautically-themed bakery which sells the most delectable treats. The aroma of freshly-baked bagels wafting in on the salt air makes my welcome mat obsolete.

  Excuse me a moment while I wait on this customer…

  …

  …

  …

  …

  …okay, I’m back. Sorry about that; business is surprisingly brisk for a Monday. The shop’s only been open for thirty-seven minutes and already I’ve sold a five-tine vintage pitchfork to a stars-in-their-eyes, octogenarian couple from Pahrump enjoying their second honeymoon (I’d love to see how they’re going to get that past the TSA) and an antique shaving mug and brush set to a sullen-faced adolescent who isn’t yet old enough to shave. It could be a gift for his father or uncle or grandpappy, I suppose. I asked, but he didn’t say; just shoved his money at me without a word and slunk out. Kids these days!

  What? My last customer? Oh, he wasn’t a customer at all. Well, not in the sense you’re thinking. You see, aside from selling antiques and collectibles, I also buy them if the price is right. I mean, I need to fill my shelves somehow, and there are only so many estate sales in a town this size. So, when people clean out their attics or garages or whatever, their first stop is usually here to see if they’ve been holding onto any lost treasures. For the most part, what they show me is junk – not to be mean or anything, but a headless action figure that both your toddler and your puppy took turns teething on is hardly going to net you enough to buy a cup of coffee, much less pay off your mortgage – but occasionally someone brings in a steamer trunk from 1900 that their great-grandfather used when emigrating from Bulgaria or a Depression-era candy dish with nary a chip nor scratch that was the centerpiece of Grandma’s table at every holiday gathering.

  In those cases, I advise the seller to contact a reputable auction house that will help them get the price they deserve. Hey, I’m not in business to cheat anyone. Sometimes, they take my advice and walk away without a backwards glance as I quietly shed a tear over the loss of a pair of platinum and emerald earrings once worn by a 1930s starlet, but oftentimes they decide it�
�s not worth the hassle and leave their loot with me to sell on consignment. Or sell it to me outright.

  Such is the case with the man who just left. Medium height with a slender build, sandy colored-hair, beady eyes, and a few patches of whiskers on an otherwise clean-shaven face, he wasn’t one of my regulars (not that I’ve ever claimed to know every resident of Port New) and the piece he brought in for my perusal more than piqued my curiosity. Not offering his name (don’t you find that odd?), he raised the lid of a rare, circa 1820, mahogany and brass writing box to reveal multiple hidden compartments inside. My salivary glands kicked into overdrive.

  “What’ll you give me for it?” the man growled, his voice a peculiar cross between a Chicago gangster and my Aunt Magda, Grandma Lena’s older sister.

  “Are you sure you want to part with it?” Lovingly stroking the rich patina, envisioning myself cradled in the custom, heated, leather seats I’d been eyeing for Lance that the profits from the sale of such an heirloom would provide, I felt it my duty to ask. “It’s a beauty and far more valuable than anything I’m able to offer.”

  His face contorting like that of an eight-month-old’s who didn’t want to eat his strained peas, Beady Eyes snarled, “I don’t have time for this! You want it or not?”

  Yes! my inner voice clamored, while common sense clawed its way towards the surface. Something was off, and I’d be remiss in my duties as a respectable and upstanding business owner if I didn’t pursue the matter further. As such, the words tumbled out on their own. “It’s not hot, is it? I mean, you seem in an awfully big hurry to unload it. I run an honest shop, you know; everything legal and aboveboard.”

  His face turning the color of a ripe Jersey tomato, the man snatched the box out of my hands, tucked it under his arm, and hot-footed it towards the exit. “If you don’t want it, I’ll find someone who does!”

  “Wait!”

  Practically hurdling over the counter, I caught up with him at the door and blocked his escape. “I’m sorry; I meant no offense. Can we start over? I’m sure we can reach a mutually satisfactory agreement.”

  Did you know it’s possible for your heart to stop beating – I mean, literally stop beating – in moments of great anticipation? No? I’m sure I read that in a scientific journal somewhere. Or, maybe not. Maybe it was pure imagination that my blood stopped pumping as I held my breath and waited for Beady Eyes to make his decision. Just as I was about to keel over from lack of oxygen, he muttered something unintelligible and nodded.

  Hiding my elation – I am a professional, after all – I casually returned to my place behind the glass-topped counter (geez, I really need to dig out the bottle of window cleaner; would you look at those fingerprints?) and opened the register. “Do you have a specific amount in mind?”

  “How ’bout a grand?” he growled, his namesake eyes ping-ponging around the room nervously.

  “A grand?” My mouth falling open, I pretended not to hear the alarm bells shrieking in my ear and repeated for my own clarification, “As in one thousand dollars? For this priceless heirl–”

  Shut up, Finn, before you blow this deal! Stop acting like a puppy whisked from death’s door into the arms of an adorable, towheaded youngster named Toby and start behaving like the shrewd, calculating businesswoman you are! You’ve got this guy on the hook; now reel him in!

  Ignoring the warning siren threatening to give me a migraine, I tossed my head as if such dealings were a daily occurrence and shrugged noncommittally. So what if the whole thing smelled like Aunt Magda’s kaszanka? I was getting the better end of the bargain. After paying commission to the auction house and having custom seats installed, I’d have enough left over to spring for vanity plates for Lance, and maybe one of those weekend spa packages for me, Mom, and Grandma Lena. Everyone’s a winner. Of course, that thought didn’t prevent my insides from flopping around like a sea bass on the boardwalk as I counted out a thousand dollars in cash, making neat stacks of fifty-dollar bills on the fingerprint-smudged counter.

  I know what you’re thinking. I don’t normally keep this much cash on hand in the store, but Peter MacDonald had mentioned in passing last week that he was finally ready to part with his dearly beloved, deceased wife’s McCoy Clown in a Barrel cookie jar, passed down to her from her grandmother’s cousin; a transaction for which he would only accept cash. And while taking possession of such an item would do nothing to alleviate my irrational terror of wigged, face-painted buffoons, I needed to be prepared in case he ultimately followed through as I already had a buyer lined up.

  You’d also be amazed at how many people pay with actual paper money while on vacation, usually in the form of big bills, necessitating the need for me to keep ample change on hand while also providing the opportunity to take advantage of transactions such as this when they came along.

  “Nine hundred and fifty. One thousand.” Narrowly escaping a paper cut as Beady Eyes snatched the dough out of my hand, I plastered my best ‘Thank you for doing business with Finn’s Finds; please come again’ smile on my face and watched him leave the shop, ignoring the bevy of jackhammers splitting my skull in two while my common sense packed a bag and lit out for Poughkeepsie.

  Cradling the priceless – okay, not so priceless; I did shell out a thousand bucks for the thing – writing box to my chest, my mind wandered, imagining all of the important and famous people through whose lives this stunning piece has passed. Industrialists, diplomats, kings. Maybe even an Oscar-winning actor or actress. I read somewhere that Diane Keaton collects antiques.

  My fingers caressed the brass fixtures, appreciating the craftsmanship; aged, certainly, yet still in excellent form. A hint of pitting here and there but that was to be expected…wait; what’s this? The stiff, pointed corner of what appeared to be some sort of paper peeked out from along the bottom seam.

  Barely able to contain my excitement, dozens of possible scenarios sprung to mind. Was it an original, handwritten copy of the Declaration of Independence or, perhaps, a love letter written by a former United States President to his mistress? What if it’s a map showing the location of Jimmy Hoffa’s grave?

  Open the dang thing and find out!

  Lifting the lid, I inspected the secret compartments only to find them as empty as Uncle Jakub’s vodka bottle after every family gathering. Nothing in the interior gave any indication as to what was hidden inside and giving the box a shake; I heard nothing.

  Convinced, somewhat disappointedly, that my imagination was playing tricks on me, I upended the case. Sure enough, a tiny speck of white poked out from between the joints, taunting me, mocking as I attempted to dislodge it with my fingernail. Chipping two before abandoning my recovery-by-keratin efforts to dig around in my junk drawer for a metal nail file, I cursed loudly when my fingertip came in contact with the pointed end of a barbecue skewer I’d forgotten was in there.

  A drop of red beaded up and, amid further colorful language, I popped the injured digit into my mouth, my nose wrinkling at the coppery taste that assailed my tongue. Scowling, I sucked on it for a minute then pulled it out, inspecting it closely. The bleeding had stopped, not that it’d been a gusher to begin with, but there was definitely a red mark, and the skin was sore to the touch.

  “Do you need me to call 9-1-1?”

  Remember that heart-stopping moment I described earlier? The one where my brain froze and my lungs lost their ability to inflate? Well, it was happening again, this time in direct correlation to Spencer Dane materializing before my eyes. A Port New native with Hollywood-esque features and a witty personality, he’d moved to New York City after graduating high school with aspirations of becoming a bestselling novelist. With sixteen (or was it seventeen?) New York Times bestsellers under his belt, he’d not only achieved his dream; he’d pulverized it into oblivion.

  Did I forget to mention he was also my high-school crush, and judging by my sweaty palms and galloping heart, apparently still is? Of course, he never knew I existed. The one and only time I had co
ntact with the future (in-my-wildest-fantasies-only) father of my children was sophomore year when I tripped over my own feet in the school cafeteria and dumped an open carton of milk all over his Spanish book. Hey, strong bones and a healthy smile were priorities to this growing girl!

  Avoiding eye contact, I mumbled a stuttered apology and watched in abject horror as he tried frantically to blot the dairy product from the sodden pages. When mooing sounds began emanating from the other kids at the table, I fled; fading into the background and continuing my obsessive infatuation with my heart’s desire from afar until graduation two years later separated us.

  Still, the incident must have made an impression, even if I didn’t, because it ended up as a scene in his first book. Only the clumsy girl with dirt-brown hair and teeth so big they could be mistaken for a Thoroughbred’s had been with the stroke of a pen magically transformed into a stunning, shapely blonde who didn’t recognize her own beauty and ended up with the hero in the final chapter. That’s fiction for you!

  Back to the present moment.

  Not having so much as blinked since Spencer entered the shop, my corneas were beginning to desiccate. Drumming up a sickly smile, which upon later reflection resembled that of someone who’d swallowed a box of live crickets, I took a shaky step sideways.

  Damn, does he always look this yummy?

  That adolescent physique I’d drooled over in high school had filled out nicely – contours and concaves in all the right places – and lest he mistake me for a rabid St. Bernard, I swallowed discreetly, a feat that proved difficult since I’d yet to remember to breathe. The growing-better-with-age Gods had been kind; hell, they’d gone out of their way to bestow upon him every available upgrade at their disposal. Sun-kissed golden locks styled in such a way that they appeared unstyled lay atop his head, tousled strands sweeping low across his forehead, coming to rest above eyes the color of the ocean.