19

Medford Millinery was appropriately located in Medford. Medford Square to be exact, about fifteen minutes north of the city.

Preston said, “Next time I’m driving. You drive like a granny.”

“Are you insulting Dovie?” I clicked my key fob and my car beeped twice, locking the doors. I slipped on my gloves and looked around, immediately drawn to the coffee shop across the street. Feeling the pull, I started toward it, only to be suddenly jerked backward.

Preston held firm to the strap of my purse. “The hat shop is this way.” She started down the sidewalk.

“Can’t I meet you?”

“You’re not going to be able to focus until you get a latte, are you?”

“Nope.”

“Let’s hurry up then.”

Ten minutes later, we stood inside the millinery shop, surrounded by some of the fanciest hats I’d ever seen. The man behind the counter didn’t look too pleased to see us.

Preston marched up to the counter (she really needed to work on her finesse) and placed the Lone Ranger’s hat next to the cash register. “Hello. We found this hat, and were hoping you could help us reunite it with its proper owner.” She tried batting her eyelashes, but her direct manner of speaking overruled any kind of flirtatiousness.

Thank goodness, because that would have been too much for me to handle. The shopkeeper looked to already have one foot in the grave. He was small and skeletal, his paper-thin skin stretched across his drooping features. Dark splotches covered his neck and face, rising onto his forehead and creeping across his shiny bald spot until disappearing into his receding dull gray hairline. Tufts of white hair shot from his ears, reveling in freedom by twisting and curling along the veiny skin covering protruding cartilage.

He had to be ninety if a day.

“Did you not see the sign?” he asked in a heavy Italian accent.

“What sign?” Preston asked. “No returns? This isn’t a return; it’s—”

He slammed his hand on the countertop. “No food or drink!” he bellowed, his voice shaking the windows.

“Cripes!” Preston jumped back, splashing her coffee onto her winter white wool coat.

The man placed both hands on the glass countertop, leaned forward, and huffed, much like a bull before he charged.

I backed slowly toward the door.

“Do you happen to have a paper towel?” Preston asked the man in a dulcet tone.

He let out a hearty, “Arrrrgh!” that had those windowpanes shivering in fear.

I confess to a shudder as well.

“No need to be surly,” Preston growled in return, only mildly fazed by the outburst. I, on the other hand, was ready to run away. Far, far away.

Preston spun, removed my coffee from my hand, and set both our cups outside the door. When she passed by, she said, “You just had to have your coffee first, didn’t you?”

“We should go,” I whispered.

“The Lone Ranger,” she forced through clenched teeth. She turned back to the shopkeeper, a broad smile stretching the limits of her face. “Better?”

He smiled, a closed-lip affair sure to give me nightmares. He hooked his thumbs on his vest and drummed his bony fingers on his hollow chest. “I am Dominic Pagano. How may I help you lovely ladies?”

“The hat?” Preston said, pushing it his way.

“Ah yes.” He picked it up, ran a hand lovingly along the edges. He handed it back to her. “I can’t help you.”

Her shoulders stiffened. “What do you mean?”

“My clientele is confidential. I absolutely cannot divulge who purchased the hat.”

“But you do know who purchased the hat?” Preston asked, digging for information. Her fists were clenched at her sides.

I stepped up beside her, just in case I had to hold her back from leaping the counter and strangling the old man.

“My memory is limitless.” Dominic tapped his temple. “I never forget a hat, a face, or a name. I made this hat in 1989. July. An unusually hot summer, as I recall.” He ran a hand over the hat as though it were a pet.

I rummaged around my satchel, pushing aside the files I’d shoved in there, a bottle of water, a hair pick, lip gloss, my overstuffed wallet, and finally found my card case and pulled out a business card. “Could you please contact its owner and tell him we found the hat and would like to speak with him? He can call anytime.”

Spindly fingers clamped onto the card. “Valentine?” His bushy eyebrows rose. “As in ‘Oscar Valentine’?”

“He’s my father.”

Preston smiled triumphantly.

The man flushed with pleasure. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place? Oscar is one of my favorite clients. He’s quite fond of the fedora, is he not?”

“Not for long,” Preston snapped. “I doubt he’ll ever come in again once he finds out how you treated his daughter. His only daughter.”

I sighed dramatically. I might as well play it up. If it helped track down the owner of the Lone Ranger hat, why not?

“And her closest friend,” Preston added, linking elbows with me.

Okay. That was pushing it.

The shopkeeper hurriedly pulled a slip of paper from beneath the counter. In spidery penmanship he scribbled a name. He checked an old-fashioned Rolodex and jotted down an address as well. He slid the paper across the counter.

Jeffrey Denham-Foster with a Randolph address.

With a brittle smile, the shopkeeper said, “I don’t know how much good it will do.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Mr. Denham-Foster passed away a year ago.”

That news certainly changed the direction of our investigation.

Preston glanced at me, then back to the man. “Was he married?”

“Why, yes. Lovely woman. Eva. They had three children together. Arnold, Matthias, and Linda.”

I had the feeling, if asked, Pagano could provide birthdates. He wasn’t kidding when he claimed a great memory.

“I’m quite sorry I can’t be of more help. But please do give your father my best. Have a lovely day. And…”

“Yes?” Preston asked.

“If you come back,” his smile turned to a snarl and he banged his hand on the counter, “remember no food or drink!”

The glass shook again as Preston grabbed the hat and my arm and steered me to the door. Outside the shop, she bent and picked up our coffees. She handed me mine, and I tossed it in a trash can.

“He’s pleasant,” I said, smiling.

She tipped her head. “I kind of liked him. I have a soft spot for crankypusses.”

“I’ll remember that.”

Sipping her coffee, she frowned. “It’s cold.”

“Imagine.” I started for my car and stopped short.

“What?” Preston asked, following my gaze.

My car sat at the curb, all four doors open wide. I quickly looked around.

“What are you looking for? Should we call the cops?”

“No use.” My pulse raced. “I’m sure Tristan Rourke is long gone.”