Читать книгу The Visitor - Amanda Stevens - Страница 11

Six

I was very tired the next morning, having dozed only fitfully after I’d gone back to bed. The insect shell left on the nightstand troubled me greatly because it was concrete proof that something had been in my house, even in my bedroom. In hindsight, the actions of my strange visitor seemed almost childlike—pilfering my sparkly bookmark after a macabre game of hide-and-seek. But this revelation made the intrusion no less alarming. Quite the opposite, in fact.

Despite my exhaustion, I managed to rise at a decent hour and was out the door well before nine. I’d scheduled a meeting with a local historical society for late morning, but I still had plenty of time to investigate Dowling Curiosities.

I found a place to park, and as I walked along the shady streets, the sights, sounds and tantalizing smells of a Charleston morning helped soothe my ragged nerves. The tourists were already up and about, although most of the upscale shops along King Street’s antiques district were not yet open.

Passing the address of the shop, I backtracked but saw no sign or shingle. I thought I’d entered the wrong address in my phone until I realized the shop was located at the back of a building. Access was through a wrought iron gate and down a cobblestone alley lined with potted gardenias.

A sign in the window informed me that the shop would open at ten so I headed over to the harbor for a walk along the water. By the time I returned, it was a few minutes after ten and I could see some activity in the shop. A woman was just leaving and we nodded to one another in passing. Bells announced my arrival and her departure as the door swished closed and I stood for a moment gazing around.

Dowling Curiosities was small, cramped and smelled of camphor. The restricted space might ordinarily have repelled me, but the light shining in through the windows was pleasant and the crowded displays had been styled by a clever hand: antique dolls dressed in mourning clothes, carnival sideshow posters in gilded frames, glass cabinets showcasing all manner of curios from ivory-handled dueling pistols to bizarre mechanical toys. And on long shelves above the display cases, dozens of antique cameras and stereoscopes.

As I approached the back counter, a man came through the curtains and stopped dead when he saw me, his hand flying to his heart.

“Oh, my,” he said on a sharp breath. “You gave me a fright. I didn’t know anyone was about. I heard the bells but assumed that was Mrs. Hofstadter leaving.”

“We passed each other in the doorway.”

“Ah, that explains it.”

I looked around doubtfully. “You are open for business, aren’t you?”

“Yes, of course.” He stepped up to the counter with a welcoming smile and I found myself charmed by his whimsical fashion statement—plaid pants and a sweater vest over a lavender shirt with a popped collar. He looked to be in his mid-to late thirties, but the silky sweep of dark blond hair across his brow gave him a boyish look that belied the tiny crinkles around his gray eyes. “How may I help you?”

“I’m hoping to find some information about an antique stereoscope.”

“Well, you’ve certainly come to the right place. Stereoscopy happens to be a passion,” he said. “What kind of stereoscope are you interested in?”

“I’m not here to buy. I found an old viewer in my basement and I’m hoping you can tell me something about it.”

As we spoke, I removed the stereoscope from my bag and placed it on the counter. He picked up the device and lifted it briefly to his eyes even though the cardholder was empty.

“This is a handsome piece. Manufactured by the Keystone View Company here in the States. You can still see their stag elk trademark on the side. See?” He pointed out the emblem. “The unit appears extremely well preserved for having been stored in a damp basement.” He gave me a reproachful glance.

“I had no idea it was even there,” I said defensively.

“What a wonderful find, then. I’d put the age somewhere around 1890 to 1900.”

“That old?”

“Yes, indeed,” he said as he carefully returned the viewer to the counter. When he glanced up, there was a shrewd gleam in his eyes. “If you’re looking to sell, I should warn you that the Monarch—which you have here—was the most common viewer on the market back in those days. Handheld units were mass-produced and relatively inexpensive even in the late nineteenth century. They’re collectible, of course, but not as highly prized as the larger stereoscopes.”

“It’s not mine to sell. As I said, I came across it in my basement and I’m trying to determine the original owner.”

“That’ll be next to impossible, I’m afraid.” He leaned an arm against the counter and I got a whiff of orange blossoms with a dark base note of hawthorn. “A viewer this old has undoubtedly changed hands any number of times. Unless you know how it came to be in your cellar, I don’t know how you’d be able to trace the provenance.”

“That’s why I came here, Mr. Dowling—”

“Owen, please.” He flashed a beguiling grin.

“I think you may be in a unique position to help me...Owen. There’s a small silver tag on the bottom with the name of this shop and an inscription.”

He lifted a curious brow as he turned the viewer over. “So there is. ‘To Mott, From Neddy. Together Forever,’” he read, a frown fleeting across his features as he studied the plate.

“Do you recognize those names?” I asked anxiously.

“What? No,” he said with a distracted air. “I was just trying to remember when we switched from silver plating to brass tags for inscriptions.” He paused, considering. “I don’t recall ever seeing one like this, so I think we can safely assume the viewer was bought and sold before my time.”

“I know it’s a long shot,” I said on a hopeful note. “But I thought you might have a sales receipt or even a record of the engraving.”

“The computerized files won’t go back that far, and even if they did, it would be impossible to locate a receipt without a last name. But if I may make a suggestion?”

“Please.

“If you’d like to leave the viewer, I’ll be only too happy to show it to my great-aunt. She’s owned the shop for nearly forty years and I believe she used to do all the engraving herself. The names in the inscription are rather unusual, so there’s a chance she might remember them.”

“Would it be possible for me to come back later when she’s in?”

Owen Dowling shook his head regretfully. “Her visits are few and far between, I’m afraid. She rarely even comes to Charleston these days.”

“I see.” I pulled a business card from my bag and placed it on the counter between us. “If you or your aunt should think of anything, would you please give me a call?”

He glanced down at the card and another scowl skidded across his forehead, but when he looked up, his expression showed nothing but a mild curiosity. “You’re a cemetery restorer.”

“I am.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever met one before. Sounds like a fascinating profession.”

“It can be. Anyway, thank you for your time.”

“It was my pleasure. I only wish I could have been of more assistance.”

I shrugged in resignation and thanked him again as I returned the stereoscope to my bag.

A phone rang in the back and he pocketed my card with an apologetic smile as he glanced over his shoulder. “Sorry. I’m the only one here so I have to get that. But please...” He waved a hand to encompass the showroom. “Stay and have a look around. Take your time and enjoy our curiosities.”

“I have an appointment, but some other time perhaps.” My voice trailed away as he disappeared through the curtain and I could hear the rumble of his voice as he answered the phone. I would have liked nothing more than to spend the rest of the morning browsing through all the oddities and treasures, but I had to get to my meeting with the Greater Charleston Historical Society.

The pleasing tinkle of the bells followed me out into the sunshine. As I started down the cobblestone alley toward the street, something compelled me to glance over my shoulder.

Owen Dowling stood just beyond the doorway peering after me. He had a phone to his ear, and as our gazes connected, he stepped back into the shadows as if he didn’t wish to be seen.

I experienced the oddest sensation in that moment. Part premonition, part déjà vu. I’d never met the man before, had never been to that shop. Yet I couldn’t shake the notion that I had been guided to Dowling Curiosities for a reason, and that my visit with Owen Dowling had somehow set something dark and dangerous in motion.