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Authors: Kaitlyn Dunnett

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“What do you think you’re looking at?” she snarled.

Before Liss could reply—not that she intended to—Thorne’s ex turned away. She gave him a shove that propelled him back into the toy store and strode through the door after him. It slammed behind them with such a resounding crash that Liss was surprised the glass didn’t break.

Shaking her head, she retreated to the sanctuary of Moosetookalook Scottish Emporium. She had too much work of her own to spend time worrying about domestic discord at the toy shop.

 

Liss awoke on Saturday morning to find herself nose to nose with Lumpkin. His was cold and wet. “We’ve had this discussion before,” she told the big cat. “You’re not supposed to sleep on the bed.”

He stretched out an oversized paw and patted her cheek with it.

“Think you’re cute, don’t you?” But she ran her palm over his furry head and back in a long, loving stroke before she swung her legs off the side of the bed and got up.

The movement was fluid, causing only the faintest twinge and accompanied by a little early morning stiffness—both reminders that she’d had major knee surgery less than two years earlier. Liss did a few stretches to limber up, but nothing close to the routine she’d once gone through to start every day.

Her career as a professional Scottish dancer had ended abruptly with an injury that, while it did not prevent her from leading a normal life, had put an end to doing high-impact jigs and reels as a way of making a living. Liss still missed being part of
Strathspey
, a touring company intended to be to Scottish-Americans what
Riverdance
was to those of Irish descent. Gradually, however, she had come to appreciate what she was doing now. These days, the occasional ache in her knee and the stiffness that sometimes set in when she went too long without moving were petty annoyances rather than emotionally painful reminders of what she had lost.

A quick glance through the corner window as she dressed was enough to tell Liss there was still no snow on the ground. In fact, it looked to be another clear, cloudless day. There were, however, two strange cars parked on the street in front of Moosetookalook Scottish Emporium. A pickup truck she didn’t recognize sat idling outside The Toy Box.

The number of vehicles had increased to seven by the time Liss slipped across the back way to the shop in preparation for opening at eight. A hopeful sign, she thought, and pretty much right on schedule.

Word of a cache of Tiny Teddies in Maine had hit the Internet even before the first newspaper and television ads appeared on Thursday, along with a brief news item on the partridge-in-the-pear-tree ceremony. That was how Felicity Thorne had discovered what her ex was up to.

By Friday morning, Liss had received several dozen e-mail inquiries. She’d sent the same reply to everyone: “Come to Moosetookalook, Maine, to shop. No mail orders will be filled.”

As she’d expected, there had not been an immediate upsurge in business. Friday had been almost as slow as it usually was. Liss had been prepared for that. After all, most people had jobs. If they were going to drive to central Maine, a solid four hours northwest of Boston, they had to have the time to do it. That meant the weekend…and here were the first of them.

She loaded the change from the safe into the cash register, turned on the lights, made one last check of the displays, pasted a smile on her face, and opened the door. That was the last moment she had to take a deep breath for the rest of the day.

Within an hour, at least in terms of what was usual for a small, rural Maine town, hordes of shoppers had descended upon Moosetookalook. Liss was down to sixty Tiny Teddies in kilts by the end of the day. She’d done pretty well selling other items, too, and been kept so busy by the steady stream of customers that she’d barely had time to scarf down a couple of power bars and a soda for lunch and take a bathroom break. She had no idea what might be happening beyond the Emporium’s front door.

She had seen the last customer out and was about to lock up when a bright red Lexus with Massachusetts plates screeched to a halt at the curb in front of The Toy Box. The woman who barreled out of the driver’s side, barely taking time to slam the door behind her, was swathed in layers of vivid electric blue. The garment appeared to be a cross between a Victorian greatcoat and a cloak—lots of capes attached.

Shaking her head, Liss watched the woman race up the steps to the porch of the toy store and into Gavin Thorne’s shop. She didn’t look particularly young, which meant it was probably collecting fervor that put wings on her feet. Either that or she was an extremely dedicated grandma.

Liss turned the dead bolt on her own door, lowered the shade over the glass, and headed for the half bath next to the stockroom. By the time she came out, someone was knocking with enough force to make the panes in the door rattle. Liss sighed. She had a pretty good idea who was on the other side. One glimpse of the woman in blue had been enough to tell her that she wasn’t the type who went away before she got what she wanted.

“Just a minute!” Resigned to another delay before she could fix supper and put her feet up, Liss trudged through the shop to unlock the door.

“Well, finally,” said the caped customer on the other side.

She pushed past Liss into the shop, craning her neck and swinging her head from side to side, her beaklike nose all but sniffing the air. She was older than Liss had thought, with wattle showing above the neckline of her incredible coat. Liss couldn’t help but imagine her as a giant bird turning beady-eyed curiosity onto new territory.

Just lately, birds had been much on Liss’s mind. This was the third day in a row she’d had poultry on the premises. The “first day of Christmas” had featured a partridge provided by the local taxidermist, but on Thursday she’d taken custody of two turtle doves—actually carrier pigeons—and yesterday she’d added a crate containing the chickens who had played the roles of “three French hens” in last night’s festivities. After a while she’d gotten used to the continual scratching sounds, but the truly incredible smell was something else entirely. Today, this evening’s “calling birds” had been delivered, one by one, during the height of the shopping frenzy. All four now resided in the stockroom with the rest of the livestock.

“This is it?” The woman in blue was holding up one of Liss’s wee teddy bears. “You don’t have any other costumes?”

“Sorry. We didn’t know they were going to become so collectible.”

“No, I suppose you didn’t.” But the woman’s look said she
should
have. “Is this price right? $
9.99?”
She carried her prize to the sales counter where Liss was waiting.

“That’s right, and you also receive a free Yule candle.” She opened the box next to the cash register. “The Yule candle is a symbol of good will, given to you along with our wish for a fire to warm you by and a light to guide you.”

The woman looked suspicious of this largesse, but dug a credit card out of an oversized shoulder bag and handed it over. The name embossed on it was Lovey FitzPatrick.

“Here you go, Ms. FitzPatrick,” Liss said a few minutes later, handing over one of the bright red bags with Moosetookalook Scottish Emporium emblazoned on the side. “I hope you’ll be staying for the festivities this evening. We’ll have carolers out singing. Santa Claus will visit the gazebo in the town square. And since this is the fourth day of Christmas, according to the old song, we will be introducing our four calling birds.”

“Unless you have more of these bears, I’ve got what I came for.”

“You’ve already been to The Toy Box, I take it?”

She snorted. “Oh, yes. Talk about overpriced!”

“But he does have a dozen different bears, and—”

Lovey FitzPatrick’s face turned bright red. “A
dozen!
That rotten liar!” Clutching the bag with the kilted bear and the candle, she stormed out of the Emporium.

Through the plate glass of the display window, Liss watched her sail back across the street and into Gavin Thorne’s store. “Good luck to you both,” she murmured.

This time when Liss locked up, she also turned out the lights. She wasn’t done for the day. Not by a long shot. She still had the next stage of the pageant to run. But she was through dealing with crazed customers until tomorrow.

A raucous shout of “Bring me my tea!” from the stockroom made her jump. Her hand to her heart, she fought the urge to reply. Yelling “Get your own damn tea!” would have no effect, not when the one demanding service was a parrot.

Liss entered the stockroom, her nose wrinkling at the smell of chicken manure. If she’d realized before she started this that she’d have to clean crates and cages, she’d have…done the same thing. With a sigh, she set to work cleaning, feeding, and watering. Chicken mash, she’d discovered, also had its own distinctive odor. It wasn’t unpleasant exactly, but she wouldn’t forget what it smelled like anytime soon.

The doves came with their own individual carrying cages. The chickens were in an oversized wooden crate that took up the rest of the space on top of the Emporium’s worktable. The cages of the four “calling birds”—played by pet parrots borrowed from all over the county—hung from every convenient hook.

“Okay, boys and girls,” Liss told them when she’d finished with the chickens. “Your turn.”

Parrots seemed to be somewhat cleaner in their habits, and they were certainly prettier to look at. Still, they came with their own set of problems. For one thing, they had to be kept warm, a tricky proposition with a pageant that was being held outdoors.

They also talked.

It had been the blue and yellow parrot who’d wanted tea. Winston. She gave old Winston some seeds and refilled his water dish. The mostly yellow one—Claudine—appeared to be sleeping. Liss hoped she was sleeping. Visions of reliving parts of the dead parrot sketch from
Monty Python’s Flying Circus
danced in her head. The third parrot, Augustus, was mostly red. He gave her an evil leer as he sidled back and forth on his perch.

The fourth parrot was named Polly. She was green. She watched with ill-disguised mistrust as Liss put out food and water. Liss latched the door to Polly’s cage when she’d finished, but didn’t cover it. She planned to leave the lights on for the birds, too. She’d come back to collect them in an hour or so for the ceremony, after which they’d go back to their owners until the pageant a week from Sunday.

“Polly want a cracker,” Polly said in decidedly cranky tone of voice.

“That is so clichéd!” About to leave the stockroom, Liss turned to look back at the bird. “Besides, I don’t have any crackers.”

“Polly hungry,” the parrot screeched, sounding even more irritable than before. “Gimme the f___ing cracker!”

Chapter Four

B
e careful what you wish for,
Sherri Willett thought on Sunday evening as she directed yet another out-of-state car toward the parking lot behind the grocery store. Shoppers had come to Moosetookalook, all right, and they’d brought their bad manners with them.

The town selectmen, Jason Graye in particular, were up in arms. The invaders were so desperate to lay hands on the one toy every child must find under the tree this year, or to score collectibles for themselves, that they had wrecked lawns by parking on them, created traffic jams, and even engaged in fistfights.

Things became quieter once darkness fell—thankfully early at this time of year—but the need for a visible police presence had everyone in the department working overtime. Sherri had barely seen her son all weekend. It wasn’t that she didn’t appreciate the extra income, but she was not looking forward to working twelve-hour shifts from now until Christmas. According to the newly posted schedule, she’d get off at midnight, have a whole twenty-four hours to catch up on sleep and play with Adam, and then work midnight to noon for the next week. Both her feet and her head ached just thinking about it.

During a break in traffic, a team from one of the Portland television stations approached Sherri. A microphone was thrust into her face and she could see the red light indicating that the camera was running.

“Any trouble with the crowds, officer?”

Sherri had no great desire to see her own image on the small screen, bigger than life and in high definition that showed every wrinkle and blemish, but it didn’t look as if she had a choice. Repressing a shudder, she managed a stilted smile. “Everything’s going very smoothly. We have plenty of parking available for anyone who wants to come to Moosetookalook.”

She wasn’t about to reveal the selectmen’s gripes or describe the disgruntled customer who’d stomped down the porch steps of The Toy Box empty-handed and cussing a blue streak because Thorne’s markup was too steep for his wallet. Nor was she going to mention the shouting match she’d witnessed earlier that day between Stu Burroughs and Gavin Thorne.

In Sherri’s opinion, Stu was beating a dead horse. No way was Thorne going to share the goodies. Stu would do better to think of some novel way of his own to attract passing customers into his shop. A sale, maybe, though she could understand why cutting his prices might not appeal to him when Thorne kept raising his.

Sherri was vaguely aware of the reporter blathering on for the camera while she continued to direct traffic, but she was startled when the woman suddenly thrust the microphone in front of her again.

“Is that true, officer?”

“I couldn’t say.” Sherri kept smiling and hoped she hadn’t just made a fool of herself. She couldn’t say because she had no idea what the question had been.

A spattering of applause heralded Liss’s introduction of the symbol of the fifth day of Christmas—five huge, interlocking rings made of cardboard and covered with sparkly gilt paint.

Sherri jerked her head toward the town square behind her. “You might want to head over there before you miss this evening’s ceremony.”

“Five golden rings,” the reporter murmured.

“Looks like a poor man’s version of the Olympic symbol,” her cameraman muttered, but he dutifully aimed his equipment away from Sherri and toward the gazebo-style bandstand.

A small crowd of locals and tourists had gathered around it. The children playing on the jungle gym, merry-go-round, and swings in the playground area ignored the podium and the P.A. system that squealed when Liss tested it, but the grown-ups filling the space between the flagpole and the monument to the Civil War dead quieted down enough to listen. Feeling cynical, Sherri decided that was probably because there was a camera rolling. Or else they were hoping for another embarrassing incident. One of the previous night’s featured performers had proved to have an…interesting vocabulary.

Assisted by chief of police Jeff Thibodeau, dressed as Santa Claus, Liss hoisted the rings into the air. She said a few words about the twelve days of Christmas shopping in Moosetookalook, and encouraged everyone to take advantage of the opportunity to visit all of the community’s shops. Then she turned the gazebo over to the carolers.

They sang standing next to the “pear tree” from the first night of the pageant. It was actually a young apple tree in a large pot. Wax pears and a stuffed partridge had been wired to otherwise bare branches. Sherri was glad Liss had reconsidered asking the art teacher at the high school to make her something out of papier mâché. Precipitation of some sort was likely during the twelve days it would have to sit outdoors, even if that precipitation didn’t fall in the form of snow.

Sherri hummed along with the Christmas carols while she continued to direct traffic. Things were slowing down a bit, but The Toy Box was still open. With the other stores around the town square closed for the night, Gavin Thorne’s shop windows shone like a beacon. He’d strung Christmas bulbs around every frame and across the porch. A flashing light highlighted a sign announcing the current price for Tiny Teddies. It seemed to go up every time Sherri turned around.

The cost of a Tiny Teddy from Gavin Thorne’s shop was now a hundred and fifty dollars. He’d jacked the price up yet again just as soon as Liss sold the last of her supply. Sherri wasn’t sure, but she thought Marcia might still have one or two left. Then again, Marcia had started out pricing her bears at a hundred dollars apiece.

Crazy,
Sherri thought.
People who’d pay that much for a stuffed toy have got to be nuts.

But like moths to a flame, shoppers couldn’t seem to stay away. Almost everyone who entered Thorne’s store came out carrying a small Toy Box bag in a manner that suggested it contained treasure more precious than gold.

“I haven’t seen anything like this since the Beanie Baby craze back in the late ’90s,” the cameraman said as he and the reporter passed Sherri again on their way out of the town square.

Sherri had a vague memory of what he was talking about, but only that there had been a shortage of the toys, not that prices had gone sky high. Back then, she’d been a rebellious teenager living on her own after she’d dropped out of high school and run away from Moosetookalook.

How things had changed!

 

On Monday morning, Liss was in no hurry to reopen the Emporium. A sign in the window told shoppers she was sold out of Tiny Teddies. She did not expect anywhere near as many customers as she’d had over the weekend, although she did hope there would still be some overflow from The Toy Box. After all, she had other items in stock that would make wonderful Christmas gifts.

She took her time feeding and cleaning up after the assorted poultry living in her stockroom and only when that was done did she unlock the shop. During the morning and the first part of the afternoon, business was steady, if not exactly stellar. Then it fell off entirely. The sleigh bells on the door hadn’t jangled for over an hour when Eric Moss turned up with a delivery—six geese for that evening’s ceremony.

“Are they getting fat?” she asked, remembering again the song about Christmas, pennies, and hats.

“Why?” Moss asked. “You planning on eating them after the ceremony?”

Taken aback, Liss just stared at him. She honestly hadn’t made the connection. Her family usually had a nice turkey and maybe a ham at Christmas. She peered into the huge crate. Two of the geese stared back at her. One stuck its head through the slats and tried to peck her.

“You’ll have to watch out. Geese have nasty temperaments. Do best if they weren’t so confined, too.”

“They are
not
getting the run of the stockroom.”

“You got a garage, don’t you? Use that as a coop.”

“Isn’t it too cold out there? And I have chickens and pigeons, too.”

Moss shook his head in disbelief as he wheeled the dolly with the crate toward the stockroom. “Used to be kids who grew up in the country knew something about farm life. You do know eggs come from chickens and milk comes from cows, right?”

“There’s no need for sarcasm,” she muttered, following him.

“My folks raised chickens. Had a few goats and a couple of cows, too, and our own apple trees. Planted vegetables every year.”

“The good old days?” Liss wrinkled her nose as one of the geese made a deposit in the straw in the crate. It was
not
an egg, golden or otherwise.

Moss snorted. “Not so good. Folks around here barely got by even back then. Anyway, what I was going to say is that our chicken coop was a wooden building with no heat or insulation except for the straw in the nests. Never seemed to bother the birds none to be cold. They got them nice feather coats.” He grinned, showing a mouthful of store-bought teeth.

The retired delivery service driver was a lean man of medium height, although age had given him a slight stoop. When he’d unloaded the crate, he wheeled the dolly back into the shop. “I hear you’re all out of Tiny Teddies.”

“I’m afraid so.” Liss retreated behind the sales counter.

“You sold ’em too cheap.”

“Probably, but I didn’t feel comfortable putting the price up higher.” Her profit had been healthy enough and her customers had gone away happy. Many of them had spent time browsing in the Emporium and made other purchases before they left. Others had promised to check out her Web site next time they needed a unique gift.

“Would you charge more if you had to do over again?” Propping an elbow next to the cash register, Moss leaned close enough for Liss to catch a whiff of the Ben Gay he used to keep his arthritic fingers limber.

She considered the question for only a moment before she replied. “I doubt it.”

He frowned at her answer and seemed to be pondering its significance as he left the counter to wander around the shop. It took him a good ten minutes to finally came to the point. “I can get you more.”

Liss felt her eyes widen in disbelief. “More Tiny Teddies?”

“Yep. And ’cuz I like you, Liss, I’ll sell ’em to you for only fifty bucks apiece.”

“How…generous of you.”

“Interested?”

“No.”

He looked at her as if she’d lost her marbles. “Why not?”

“These bears of yours aren’t wearing kilts, are they?”

“No.”

“There you have it, then. Besides, you want too much for them.”

“I could come down a bit.”

Liss sighed. She really didn’t want to ask. “Where did you get them, Mr. Moss?”

“I’ve got my sources.”

“Yes, well, I’ve got a source, too—for information. It’s called the Internet, and this last week I’ve been reading up on Tiny Teddies. Seems there are some unscrupulous people who are trying to pass off counterfeit bears as the real thing.”

“I don’t know nothin’ about that,” Moss mumbled.

“No? Seems these bears are cheaply made in China. The collectors don’t want anything to do with them. They aren’t, well, collectible. One report I read said they weren’t particularly safe for toddlers to play with, either.”

Moss looked offended. “I wouldn’t try to pull a fast one on you, Liss. These are the real deal.”

“Then you’ll have to tell me how you got hold of them. Otherwise I can’t risk buying them.”

“You saying they might be stolen? No such thing! I’ll have you know I’m an honest businessman!”

He acted as if she’d insulted him, but Liss remembered his clandestine meeting with Jason Graye. Something had been “off” about it. “Can you prove your bears were made in the U.S.?”

Aside from the counterfeiting issue, Liss’s research had revealed that the toys were legitimately manufactured on both sides of the border. There was a limit, however, on the number of Canadian-made toys that could legally be brought into the U.S. Taking a trip to Quebec Province and filling the trunk of your car with bears, intending to resell them back home, was a big no-no. There had been several recent arrests at border crossings around the country, although none so far in Maine.

His eyes narrowed. He edged toward the exit. “I don’t have to prove nothin’!”

“Did Jason Graye set this up?”

Moss made a sound of disgust but he kept inching away from her.

“Come on, Mr. Moss. I need answers.” She slipped out from behind the sales counter, trying not to look as if she wanted to stop him from leaving. “I don’t do business with anyone who isn’t up front with me.”

“Man’s got to have some secrets.” Moss tugged nervously at a frayed section at the hem of his coat. “I stand to lose big time if someone else discovers my sources.”

“I’m not your competition.”

“So you say.” He hesitated at the door, looking uncertain whether he wanted to go or stay.

“Is Jason Graye? Or is he your partner?”

“I work alone!” Indignant, he left in a huff.

Liss peered through the display window, curious to see what Moss would do next. To her surprise, he was standing stock still on the sidewalk out front, staring at The Toy Box.

Her gaze followed his to Gavin Thorne’s display. The flashing light revealed a single Tiny Teddy, one of the ones dressed in a chef’s hat and apron. Next to it was a new sign, the black letters so huge that Liss could read them easily even though she was two houses over and half a block away.

LAST TINY TEDDY IN NEW ENGLAND
—$750

Eric Moss took off across the town square. Liss found it odd that he didn’t approach Thorne or stop in at Marcia’s consignment shop but she told herself it was none of her business. She went back behind the counter, intending to look at spring catalogues and plan her stock orders.

Instead she found herself staring into space, elbows on the counter, chin propped on her fists. After a moment, her fingers moved to toy with the small silver pin of a Scottish dancer that she’d used to hold the lacy white jabot at the neckline of her blouse in place. As usual when at work, she wore an outfit from the Emporium. Her floor-length skirt was made of wool woven in the Royal Stewart tartan.

Double duty, her Aunt Margaret called the habit of dressing up for work and modeling what they sold at the same time. Sales staff automatically became walking advertisements for the merchandise.

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