SEATTLE
January 14
The wind that sliced into Puget Sound was born in the Gulf of Alaska. It was icy and mean. Cleverly skirting the rocky north shoreline, it rushed straight into the bay, swirling about the harbor and nudging relentlessly at docked freighters and waiting ferries until they bobbed like corks. Then it forced its way into the city, slithering along streets and coiling in the deeper shadows. It hesitated for a moment, then moaned despair at an icicle moon staring down at Seattle from a cloudless sky. The sudden lull was a ruse. As cunning as a cobra, the wind changed direction suddenly, gusting through Pike's Place and shaking the skeletons of trees. Discarded wrappers and desiccated leaves from last autumn rustled as the wind passed, adding to the bitter chorus of a winter night. The wind was a predator with one simple intention, spit winter's frigid venom into the faces of the city's denizens.
Shane McInerney stepped briskly over the bricks of Pioneer Market, hunching her shoulder against the wind's bite. The young woman pulled her head deeper into the raised collar of an ankle length Peacoat, grousing under her breath. Her mane of blonde hair was suddenly pulled free by the wind and whipped forward like a ship's pennant, pointing to the entrance of a small shop just ahead. As she entered a narrow pedestrian street between buildings, her heeled boots echoed hollowly off the stone walls. Then she sighed as she stepped into the welcoming glow of the shop's lantern hanging above its door.
A new friend was watching her approach. A silver Siamese with startling blue eyes was perched atop a five foot tall owl carved from the torso of a Douglas Fir. The owl was the iconic symbol for Turn The Page – Books and Notions.
"Hello Peanut," she said softly, touching the cat with her index finger. The cat responded with a sound that could have meant "Meow" or "Sup?" in Siamese.
Shivering against the wind, Shane pushed against the carved brass handle of the shop's door. The cat had been waiting for that very moment, and deftly made the leap to Shane's shoulder. The wind had been waiting for that moment too, and as the door was opened, it gusted, intent on rushing in ahead of Shane. With the speed and agility that a green beret would have proud of, the blue eyed blonde stepped through the door and grasped the intricately carved handle on the inside while turning her body at the same time. In one smooth motion, she and the cat denied the wind's strike and stepped into warmth. Left outside, the wind moaned defeat and returned to the street, resuming its search for the weak and unaware.
Three quick steps and Shane found a tall stool at the end of a very old roll-top desk. Hooking the heel of a boot over a rung, she settled long legs into a posture that resembled a resting flamingo, if the flamingo were blonde and wearing a peacoat. She folded her hands in her lap and watched the candle flame on the desk beside her as it guttered in response to her sudden arrival. Peanut pushed her nose into the side of Shane's head to say thank you for the ride, then casually jumped to the top of the desk. The cat sat and started cleaning the back of one paw.
The whiskered old man sitting at the desk had watched her entrance with amusement. His gray eyes twinkled as he studied her odd pose on what had quickly become her favorite stool. "You're late," he said. He carefully closed the very large volume of parchments he had been working in and turned to face her. Picking up a thick, white candle and holder from the top of the desk, he set it on the heavy book. The flame bent sharply to one side, then flared once before settling back to a slow, sinuous waver.
Shane had only been in Seattle for a week – a sad week away from Oliver – but had spent a great deal of her time here in Josiah's shop. Enough time that Peanut had adopted her as family. In that short time she had learned a great deal about the man, his idiosyncrasies, and his shop. Example: she was the only person in Seattle who knew that the ornate pewter candle holder he had just moved was a relic that hailed from the days long before Arthur walked the soil of England and pulled swords from stones. What she didn't yet know was how Josiah had gotten his hands on what was clearly an archeological treasure. Leaning forward, she let a finger trace the tightly curving pewter bowl and handle as if to read the braille of its history.
"I know I'm late, I'm sorry. But I needed some phone time with my husband. Are you going to tell me the story of this piece tonight, Josiah?"
The man smiled. Not for the first time in the last week, she was reminded of Carroll's Cheshire Cat. The man pointedly ignored the question.
"You have thing about candles, don't you?" she asked.
In response, the candle did what candles do and flickered, painting a warm glow along the side of the man's face. He was grinning now, his old face creased by time. "Electric lights are sterile, and yes, I do prefer candles. Always have. Technology is clinical and cold while candles are warm and hold stories and the stuff of legend."
Shane nodded politely, and touched the heavy leather binding of the volume he had just closed. Oliver would have loved this place, she thought. His antipathy for technology would have endeared him to Josiah. "Did you learn anything from the Doyle Journals?" she asked, hopeful that she could go home soon.
The man blinked at her and sighed. The wavering circles of light cast by the candle was the only light in the shop and it created a blanket of shadow that stretched in every direction. Dozens of darkened bookshelves formed hidden rows behind them, shapes of darkness painted against darkness.
"Sadly, no. Barrie from the Seattle Museum will be here tomorrow. He is hoping that you and your Postable friends will have clearance from the Postal Service by then to pursue his case."
"Why did he request the staff from the Denver DLO?" she asked again. She already knew, but liked to hear it.
The old man laughed at her façade, seeing it for what it was. "As I have already told you, Oliver O'Toole and his Postables have garnered a reputation, even among sleuths, as being the best there are. Barrie desperately needs to find the missing antique, and since it is priceless, he is willing to pay all your salaries while you look for it. Governor Thorne agrees, that's why he contacted the Postmaster General directly."
"Yeah," Shane said. "Not the most efficient way to deal with bureaucracy. I could have hacked our permissions three days ago and be home with my husband now."