A Purrfect Alibi

Withington’s Antique Store was across the street. Traffic was always light in Oyster Cove, so we sauntered across, admiring the colorful barrels of flowers and cheerful store awnings. The town had made sure that everything was in tip-top shape for the two hundred and fiftieth celebration a few weeks ago and the streets practically gleamed. Store windows sparkled; the cafe had put out several scrolly wrought-iron tables and chairs; and the whole thing was reminiscent of a Parisian sidewalk.

It was picturesque, especially with the cats that were trotting into the alley between the cafe and Withington’s. Wait… that looked like Nero and Marlowe. As I watched, Nero glanced back over his shoulder, his eyes catching mine. I could have sworn he nodded before turning back and continuing on his way. This wasn’t the first time I’d seen the cats downtown and it made me wonder how they even got down here. Was there some secret shortcut? If there was, I wouldn’t mind finding out so I could use it myself.

Withington’s Antiques smelled like old furniture and lemon pledge. It was crammed to the gills with oak servers, mahogany dining-room sets, crystal chandeliers and lighted glass cases full of vintage jewelry and knick-knacks. Agnes Withington had run the shop since I’d been in diapers and she had to be ninety years old. She sat behind the counter on a stool, a petite thing with a shrewd gaze.

She smiled as she recognized Mom and Millie. “Millie and Rose, what a pleasant surprise!” Her inquisitive gaze drifted to me.

Mom gestured to me. “Agnes, this is my daughter, Josie.”

Her smile widened. “Of course, she looks just like you. I heard you came back and bought the Oyster Cove Guesthouse. Plenty happening up there since you took over.”

You could say that again.

Millie whipped out her phone and slid it across the counter to Agnes. “Actually, that’s why we’re here. You might have heard there was an incident up there yesterday and we’re looking for someone who would have purchased a buckle like this.” Agnes squinted, then reached under the counter, producing a lighted magnifying glass, which she turned on to magnify the image on Millie’s phone.

While she was squinting at it and moving the magnifying glass closer and further away, Mom drifted over to a display of beautiful old pens that sat at the end of the counter. They were fountain pens and each sat in a little holder, their golden nibs pointing toward the ceiling. “These are quite unusual,” Mom said.

Agnes looked up from the photo, squinting for a few seconds as her eyes adjusted. “Oh yes, they are, aren’t they? It’s a new venture of mine. I repurpose old quill pens into newer fountain pens. Of course, I can make them into rollerball pens too, but those aren’t nearly as much fun as a good old fountain pen.”

“Nifty.” Millie tapped her finger on the phone bringing Agnes’ attention back to the buckle.

“Do you have an old pen you need repurposed? I’m having a sale. Lots of people are taking advantage of it,” Agnes said. “I’m turning Anita Pendragon’s great-great-great-grandfather’s sterling silver quill pen into a fountain pen and Leslie Bruber’s mother-in-law is having me retrofit her grandmother’s old mother of pearl pen, too.”

“No, thanks,” Millie said.

“Oh and I repurpose old buckles and buttons into jewelry as well.” Agnes beamed with pride. “I could show you some if you’d like.”

“We’d love to,” Millie said. “But not today. Today we’d like to know about this buckle. Perhaps you worked on it recently, restored it for someone, maybe?”

As Agnes stared down at the buckle again I looked at the pens. They appeared to be ancient. A few were made of horn, one looked like etched silver. My gaze fell on a purple card sticking out from the bottom of the display. It had a crystal ball on it with a Milky Way of stars swirling around it. I pulled it out further to see the name. Esther Hill! Had she been here for a buckle?

“That’s an old buckle,” Agnes said. “But this is a drawing, not a photograph, they didn’t have them back then.”

“Yes, we know.” Millie sounded impatient. “But the drawing is so realistic, we figure the artist drew the buckle exactly.”

“My guess is the buckle is from the early seventeen hundreds. You know they handmade them back then. Usually out of brass, then they would plate them with silver or gilt them with gold. This image is fuzzy and it’s hard to see the fine details, but you can see the intricate work on the top,” Agnes said.

“Yeah, we already figured all that. What we want to know is if anyone came in here and bought a buckle that looked like this,” said Millie.

Agnes put her magnifying glass down. “Nope.”

“You sound awfully certain. Don’t you want to think about it, maybe check some records?” Millie said.

“Don’t have to. I just thought about this the other day.”

“You did?”