“I don’t know if twenty-five’s a head start,” Mallory shot back.
“It’s a start, at least,” Nancy returned. “It’s much more than anyone else ever gets.”
The car fell silent for a moment. Each of them seemed to stir in thoughts of Brodie Thomkins, a boy who’d been born into a family on the other side of the tracks. Still, just like them, he had pride and love for his family, the kind that didn’t let him turn anyone in.
At the antique store, Elsa allowed herself to grow lost in the many textures and colors. She placed a finger on an eighteenth-century wardrobe and slid it across it, acknowledging the centuries of humans who’d viewed it as a part of their lives.
“That’s pretty,” Nancy breathed from behind her. “How does anyone choose what they want? When I moved into the Remington House, everything was already there, all laid out for me, courtesy of your father and mother’s iconic taste. Now, it’s up to us.”
Elsa laughed, remembering her mother’s gorgeous and singular taste. “It doesn’t matter what they picked out, Nancy. It’s your turn, now. The Remington House is yours. And these things will be your things for the next portion of your life.”
“I’m in my sixties,” Nancy pointed out, as though that was a million years old.
“With a lifetime still to go.”
“Hey, Mom?” Mallory called from the corner of the antique shop, past several hat racks and ugly paintings of flowers and an entire area set aside for furs. “Could you come over here for a minute?”
Elsa caught the urgency in her daughter’s voice. Quickening her step, she wove her way to the far end of the antique shop and stopped short next to her daughter and the stroller. Before them sat the old, ornate desk, upon which her father had scribed every letter, read every book, and built up his empire at the Katama Lodge.
This was the desk that had been taken from the Remington House.
“Oh my God.” Elsa’s heart quickened.
Mallory looked gobsmacked. “Who would steal from our house and sell that same item ten minutes away?”
“Someone very brash,” Elsa whispered. “Are there more?”
After that, Elsa, Mallory, and Nancy scoured the shop on a mission to find their things. Throughout, Elsa’s stomach felt acidic and bubbly, as though she might vomit at any time. After an intensive forty-five-minute search, during which they’d had to shove aside questions from the owner several times, they’d come up with three more items: another wardrobe that used to sit in the guest bedroom, an ornate chess set that Neal had had made in Prague, and a pair of emerald earrings that had belonged to her mother.
Elsa approached the front counter with a glare that told the owner she meant business. “Ms. Lanson. Do you mind if we have a word with you?”
There wasn’t a smidge of “investment banker” mentality on this woman. She bustled out from behind the counter, all smiles. “Did you ladies find what you were looking for today?”
Elsa could hardly speak. She glanced back at Nancy and Mallory, at a loss. How could she describe the devastation she now felt, standing in front of the things that had been stolen from them— now all marked for a combined total of two thousand five hundred dollars?
“These items were stolen from our house about six weeks ago,” Mallory said suddenly.
Her voice was different, lawyer-like. Assertive. Elsa sizzled with surprise.
Immediately, Ms. Lanson looked stricken. “What? That can’t be.”
“It’s very true,” Mallory continued. “We can back them up with old photographs. How long have you had these particular items?”
A wave of confusion passed over Ms. Lanson’s face. It seemed it had never occurred to her to think that someone would do this.
“It’s true that the same person came to bring these items in,” she said, her voice wavering.
“Who was it?” Elsa demanded.
Ms. Lanson’s eyes widened. “I don’t know. I— I saw how much these items were worth. The person selling wasn’t entirely sure of their worth, so I undercut them. It was a good sale for me. They had no paperwork, but…” Ms. Lanson’s eyes filled with tears. “You must understand. I would never have bought something stolen on purpose.”
Elsa and Mallory exchanged glances. It felt like getting a confession out of a criminal.
“Can you describe what the person in question looked like?” Mallory asked.
“Good question,” Elsa said.
Ms. Lanson scrunched up her face, as though each wrinkle brought up a memory. “He was a sailor type. Boat shoes. Collared shirt. That kind of thing.”