Free The Christmas Shoppe by Melody Carlson Page B

more, like when would it be her turn to ask him some questions, but it was time to get to the budget meeting.
    “If you don’t mind, I’d like to email you the article before it runs so you can make sure I’ve gotten my facts straight.”
    She pointed to his black notebook. “I have to admit that I’m a little curious about how that’s even possible. I’ve been told that I can talk a mile a minute, and I doubt most people can write that fast.”
    “I use shorthand.”
    She laughed. “Well, of course you do.”
    They said goodbye, exited her office, and continued in opposite directions. She was a little concerned about how candid she’d been with him—she was usually more cautious with her words. But he’d promised she could trust him. She would have to see if Tommy Thompson was what he appeared to be—a man who kept his word. She sure hoped so.

Helen never worked a whole day on Fridays. But she had wanted to stick around long enough to hear Tommy’s response to the websites she’d sent him. Surely he wouldn’t continue his conversation with Garth Price once he realized what that shyster was really up to, would he?
    She paced in the small kitchen, glancing up at the clock from time to time. It was 12:30 and Tommy still wasn’t back. She’d already cleaned the coffeepot, sink, and counters, and unless she cleared out the refrigerator, which probably needed doing, she would have no excuse to stay.
    She looked out the window just as Matilda Honeycutt was about to go into her building. That gave Helen an idea. Tommy had been trying and trying to make an appointment with that woman, but she’d been dodging him like he was with the IRS. Perhaps Matilda would be more open to talking woman to woman about her plans for her new business. If Helen was able to extract some information from Matilda, she might be able to pin down Tommy and make him listen to her.
    With this mission in mind, Helen grabbed her purse and hurried across the street. Without hesitating, she knocked loudly on the door.
    “Come in,” Matilda said as she opened the door.
    “Are you open for business?” Helen tried to mask her surprise at this unexpected friendliness.
    “It all depends.” Matilda smiled as she stepped aside. “But you are more than welcome to browse through the merchandise if you’d like.”
    “Thank you,” Helen said. “I’d love to look around.”
    “Just let me get the rest of the lights turned on,” Matilda said, “so you can see better.”
    Helen followed her, watching as Matilda’s long, colorful skirt swirled behind her as she walked. Something jingled—probably jewelry—and her long, curly gray hair hung in a loose ponytail, tied midway with a loopy piece of purple cloth. Her feet shuffled along the wood floor, not bare today—but wearing sandals in mid-November? Truly, this was a strange sort of woman. But for some reason, Helen felt intrigued by her.
    “There we go,” Matilda said as the lights flickered on. “Let there be light.”
    Helen looked around the room. Much of the original shelving—the same sturdy wooden units that had been used for Barton’s Stationery Store long ago—was still in place. Sure enough, there seemed to be merchandise arranged on the shelves. But there didn’t seem to be any particular order to the way the goods were laid out. A baseball mitt sat next to a crystal vase with a black pocketbook on the other side of it, and next to that was a worn rag doll. Really, it made no sense.
    What made even less sense to Helen was that this was obviously a thrift shop—exactly what Parrish Springs didn’t want or need in this part of town. There were plenty of secondhand stores on First Avenue. Helen could only imagine how the other downtown retailers would react to this news. In fact, it seemed clear that there really was a story here. After years in the newspaper business, Helen knew that controversy always equaled story. She could already imagine the headline: “Local