Treasure Me (32 page)

The pint-sized general was a one-woman army protecting The Second Chance from marauders. Birdie smiled despite her depressed mood.
Theodora is family. My family.
True, they didn’t have anything in common but their common blood.

Pride bloomed inside her. It was enough.

Delia slapped an order on the pass-through window. “Blossom—stop gabbing. Work the counter until Ethel Lynn gets back. And you—” she poked Birdie hard in the chest, “get over to table five. Mrs. Sanson wants a word with you.”

Birdie paled. Mrs. Sanson, who owned the craft store on Route 44, was so deeply crimson she looked like her ears would explode off her head.
I snitched a twenty from her purse right before Thanksgiving
. Glaring, the woman swept her manicured fingers across her silverware, pausing at the knife.

Delia shoved Birdie forward. “It’s only a butter knife. She’s trying to scare you.”

“It’s working.”

Humiliated, Birdie suffered through enough of Mrs. Sanson’s insults to scar her for life. During the next hour, she endured more of the same as locals fought their way past the treasure hunters from Akron. One by one they confronted her with raised voices and scowling looks.

Beaten down, she kept her tone polite and her pencil moving. To her relief, Finney placed the massive pickle jar on the counter for locals to take what they were owed; she must have rifled through the pockets of Birdie’s army coat as well. All the cash the cook found—all of it, including Birdie’s hard-earned tips and weekly pay—were stuffed into the jar.

No less than she deserved. If she was broke at day’s end, so what? She’d betrayed the entire town, making herself a pariah in the process.

“Want something to drink?” Blossom asked when Birdie, exhausted, dropped onto a barstool behind the counter. The teen waved the coffee pot through the air. “You look like you need a jolt.”

“Only if there’s something stronger than coffee in there.”

Theodora came around the counter. “This is a dry establishment, missy,” she said, but she winked.

Until now, she’d ignored Birdie. Oddly, her gravelly voice was a surprising balm. Or her expression was—she didn’t look angry.

But she did look strange. Theodora sported a tall fur hat, which matched the distressing fur collar on her herringbone suit. The suit was straight out of the 1950s, a ghoulish creation with the head of a mink sewn into the collar of the jacket. Birdie prayed it wasn’t a real mink—the disembodied creature gave her the shivers. Knowing Theodora, it probably was.

Birdie rubbed her temples. “I guess I’m stuck with coffee.”

“You need something better. Come here.” Theodora walked to the corner behind the counter. “I’ll fix you up right quick.”

“Fix me up how?”

The old woman produced a gold flask from the side pocket of her skirt. “Drink this,” she said, unscrewing the flask and sending diesel fumes into the air. “It’s moonshine. My special blend.”

The fumes bleached Birdie’s nasal passages. “Not a good plan. Your brew’ll kill me.”

“You should be more worried about Mr. Berkins killing you. He just sat down at table eleven. Damn fool’s shooting fire at the back of your head.”

“I’ve run out of ways to say I’m sorry.”

“Next time try flowers.”

“You’re a laugh a minute, Theodora.” Birdie grabbed the flask and swigged. Lava scorched her esophagus then hit her belly. “Now
this
is how you grow an ulcer.”

Theodora took back the flask. “You’re welcome.”

“I can’t take much more of this. Everyone screams at me. I’m a cockroach. Can’t Mr. Berkins simply get his money from the pickle jar? Will you ask him?”

“I can’t right now. I have bigger fish to fry.” Theodora’s wrinkles collapsed into revulsion. “Look what the cat dragged in. Leaving the restaurant to get all gussied up! It’s time to give Ethel Lynn a piece of my mind.”

A blast of arctic air blew in through the opened door. Startled, Birdie looked up.

Posing with a movie star’s panache, Ethel Lynn let her velvet coat drop and shimmied her feathered shoulders.

Feathers?

Batting her eyes at the photographer, Ethel Lynn oozed an aged and heavily feathered femininity. Across the dining room, necks craned.

Her gold sequined cocktail dress had arrived from the Roaring Twenties with peacock feathers on the shoulders and a line of vibrant plumage running down the low-cut bodice.

Delia careened with her tray into the counter. Dishes crashed to the floor.

Stepping over them, she tipped her head to the side. “Not bad for an old broad of seventy,” she murmured—her first civil comment all morning. Grateful, Birdie smiled. “If her boobs didn’t look like empty Hot Pockets, she’d actually look good.”

Birdie nodded. “She looks pretty,” she agreed, wanting to prolong the conversation. Delia was coming around. “More glitter than necessary… but it is the holiday season.”

Theodora banged her fist on the counter. “It’s an abomination. Ethel Lynn, hightail it over here and explain yourself!”

She did, trailing sequins like fairy dust. She’d done her face up—sapphire eyelids and crimson lips. Even her wispy, silvered hair was pulled into a chignon.

“Theodora, must you yell?” Patting her hair, Ethel Lynn favored the gawking photographer, struck dumb beside table nine, with a flutter of her lashes. “This is my first brush with fame. Don’t spoil it.”

“You old coot. How will you wait tables dressed like a hussy?”

“With elegance and finesse.”

“Fool.”

Sashaying closer, Ethel Lynn halted suddenly. “Hells bells! Theodora, there’s a beaver at your throat!”

“It’s a mink.” Theodora tugged her collar and the little head bobbed up and down, its spooky glass eyes catching light. “Granite isn’t as thick as you. Can’t you tell one kind of animal from another?”

“Whatever it is, it’s awful.”

Delia stuffed gum into her mouth. “It is,” she agreed between chews. “I feel like those little eyes are following me.”

Ethel Lynn waved dismissively. “Cover it up.” She was probably channeling Joan Crawford. She wasn’t usually this bold.

One of the feathers on her shoulder poked Theodora in the cheek. Birdie smelled danger. If someone didn’t separate them, they’d soon come to blows.

“Is there any ribbon in back?” Ethel Lynn was saying. “Someone ask Finney. Let’s blindfold the beheaded pet so it doesn’t stare at us.”

“How dare you,” Theodora hissed. She threw down the broom, her attention skittering across the counter. “Where’s my gun? Insulting my clothing—you’ve gone too far.”

Delia shook her head. “There’s gonna be nothing left but fur and feathers.” She grimaced, and Birdie followed her gaze across the dining room. “Uh oh. Tilly Solomon just walked in. Birdie, how much did you take from her?”

Unsure, Birdie leapt back as Theodora threw her tiny fist at Ethel Lynn’s face. “Gosh, I don’t know. She’s a regular. I hit her more than once.”

“Looks like she knows it, too.”

Avoiding a left hook, Ethel Lynn shrieked. She came to her senses and raised her spindly arms in a defensive pose. The boxing match would’ve been entertaining to watch if Tilly hadn’t dropped her Gucci bag on the counter.

“Birdie Kaminsky, I hope they put you behind bars! I’ve lived in Liberty all my life and I’ve never had to worry about someone stealing from me.” The woman’s hazel eyes spit fire, and Birdie’s stomach hit the floor. “How much did you take from me?”

Birdie grabbed the huge pickle jar and slid it forward. “I can’t remember.” Behind her, the old women tussled. An aimless blue feather drifted past. “Will fifty cover it?”

“You aren’t sure what you took?”

“I’m sorry.” Miserable, she dug into the jar.

“Then give me forty. I can’t take more if you aren’t sure.” Tilly snatched the two twenties from Birdie’s outstretched hand. “And do something about your friends. They’re both too old to be roughhousing.”

My friends?
Touched by the comment, Birdie regarded the scuffle behind her.

Amazingly, Ethel Lynn had Theodora by the arms and was turning her around in a clumsy circle. Both sets of legs were spinning. Since all four were as old as dry tinder, she leapt into action. If she didn’t break up the fight, there’d be more than fur and feathers on the floor. There’d be blood.

“Stop it!” She flung herself between them. From the corner of her eye, she noticed the photographer snapping away. “If you’re both dreaming about the ER, I’ll get Finney to come out here with her skillet.”

More scuffling and Ethel Lynn screamed, “I’m sending her straight into surgery! Get back—I’m taking aim!”

“Like hell you are.” Birdie grabbed the fist whizzing past her nose. “You’re both too old to settle your differences this way.”

Theodora quivered with rage. “Then fetch my gun. We’ll settle this like men.”

“Oh, Theodora—shut up. You probably load your gun with rock salt. You don’t have the balls to shoot anyone. Well, anyone bigger than Alice.” Despite her despair, Birdie grinned. “Assuming you
did
have balls.”

Delia rolled her gum between her teeth. “Who’s Alice?”

Birdie waved her into silence then wagged a finger at Ethel Lynn. “And stop shrieking. The sound goes straight to my molars.”

Theodora glared at the cameraman. “Isn’t it time you skedaddled out of here?”

When he shrugged, she lunged for her broom. He bolted out the door.

Birdie rubbed her temples. She was starting into a headache. By the time she finished doling out apologies to the people of Liberty, she’d be working on a migraine.

“If we all calm down, the day will go faster,” she said, helping Ethel Lynn adjust her feathers. “Can we please try? Yes? Good. Now, I’ll wait the tables in the front of—”

Someone grabbed her from behind, sending her order pad hurtling through the air. Struggling for balance, she righting herself and spun around.

She came face to face with Natasha Jones.

Hatred glittered in the woman’s eyes. “I’m amazed Finney hasn’t thrown you out.”

Screwing on her fur hat, Theodora rushed forward. “Calm down, Natasha. You’ll get back every cent she stole from you.”

“It won’t make things right. My daddy went without his blood pressure medicine. He had to wait until the day after the Festival of Lights for me to come up with the money. I was scared he’d have a stroke before I got the prescription refilled.”

Birdie’s heart plummeted with horror. In all her years of taking petty cash, she’d never considered how her actions might affect someone. Had she put a life at risk? The prospect chilled her to the bone.

“Is your father all right?” she whispered.

Natasha released a bitter laugh. “No thanks to you. My bakery is small. It’s all I can do to make ends meet. I work hard, Birdie, too damn hard to allow the likes of you to put my family in jeopardy.”

“If there’s anything I can do—”

“There is. Take your filthy predilections elsewhere. Leave the good town of Liberty.”

The baker started off, then reconsidered. She wheeled back around and, swift as the wind, slapped Birdie across the face.

The blunt force of her fury sent a wave of blackness through Birdie’s vision. Sharp pinpricks of pain followed, and a crushing shame. Natasha stormed off.

The silence left in her wake was deafening. One by one, the other women drifted back to work. Abandoned, Birdie pressed her palm to her stinging cheek.

For the remainder of the day, she worked in a miserable stupor. No one else physically accosted her but with each new apology, another bit of her soul disappeared. Natasha was right—she wasn’t fit to live in a world where neighbors sat on front porches and met for coffee in the town’s only restaurant. If she’d ever been foolish enough to dream about staying in Liberty, those hopes were now dashed.

She was a misfit, a con artist. No better than her conniving mother and blundering father.

By closing time, her feet were swollen like lava-filled balloons and her jaw ached from gritting her teeth. With her order pad shaking in her hands, she’d taken insults and orders in equal measure. It was no less than her due.

One more duty lay ahead. She’d promised to see Officer Tim at the police station on Elm.

* * *

At the southeast corner of Liberty Square, the sorrowful thief paused long enough for a layer of snow to gather on her army coat. The flowing gilt of her hair hung in stringy cords and her shoulders sagged.

Moved beyond speech, Theodora watched the child turn east toward Elm and resume walking.

Approaching, Finney joined her at the window. “Should we follow her?” the cook asked.

“Don’t fret. She’ll go straight to the police station.”

Finney slowly wiped her hands on her apron. “I went through her coat this morning looking for all the cash she’d stolen.” She drew in a quivering breath. “There was a sight more than money in her pockets.”

“What else did you find?”

“Good grief—all sorts of stuff. I found a novel, a pocketknife, three candy canes and a church bulletin. There was also a sewing kit. She probably stole it from Ethel Lynn.”

“Which church was the bulletin for?”

“New Faith Congregational in Lexington, Kentucky. Imagine—our sassy girl attending church, in Lexington no less.” The cook shook her head. “None of it broke my heart, though.”

“What did?” Theodora asked, curious.

“Birdie’s got an old-fashioned book—must’ve come from an antique shop. There are the prettiest pictures of ladies inside. The text is full of instruction for all sorts of social situations, how to make a proper introduction or write a thank you note—” The cook paused, her generous bosom heaving with shuddering emotion. “A pretty book hidden beside all the stolen money. An etiquette book! Why would a pickpocket carry around such a thing?”

“She wants to be a lady,” Theodora replied, amazed that Finney couldn’t see what was so patently obvious. “What a person does and what they dream of becoming doesn’t always match up.” She grunted. “I put my faith in the dreamers. You don’t become something better if you can’t see it first.”