Free Dog Bless You by Neil S. Plakcy Page B

still can’t find
jobs.”
    I didn’t know what to say. I felt bad for Owen, but I
had no advice to offer, no place I could send him for a job.
    “You came to see Mark?” he asked. “He’s in the back.
He’ll be right out.”
    We both stood there. “So, you’re interested in
antiques?” I asked.
    He shrugged. “Mark’s been really good about offering me
an opportunity. So I’m learning.”
    The back door opened again and Mark stepped out. He was
overly tall and scarecrow-skinny, a few years younger than Rick and I, with a
shock of black hair that stuck out from his forehead. He appeared gangly, but
he was deceptively strong, and I’d seen him handle expensive antiques with
exceeding care.
     “Hey, Steve,” he said. “How did your girlfriend like
the Regaud photo you bought her?” I’d been in his store a few months before and
bought a framed photo of a couple on a rainy Paris street, by a lesser-known
French photojournalist.
    “She loved it. Turns out Regaud is one of her
favorites. You have any others?”
    He shook his head. “But they turn up now and then. If I
see one I’ll keep you in mind.”
    “I’m going to take off for Mrs. Christiansen’s,” Owen
said. “Striker and I loaded the sofa in the van.”
    “Thanks, Owen. Call me if you run into any problems.”
    He nodded and walked out the front door, leaving the
bell jangling.
    “New employee?” I asked Mark.
    “Business is good. With the housing market in the
toilet, people are staying put and redecorating. I finally broke down and hired
some help. And he’s got a friend who can help with the heavy lifting, too,
another vet. Lives in North Jersey but comes down this way to hang out with
Owen.”
    “His parents live down the street from me,” I said.
    “Marie Keely is a good customer,” Mark said. “She asked
me if I knew anybody who could hire her son and I figured I’d do her a good
deed. He’s a good guy at heart. Just been through some trouble.”
    “What’s his story?”
    “He’s a vet. Came home from Afghanistan with a drug
problem. His parents sold their house in Crossing Estates to pay for his rehab.
Had to downsize and move to River Bend.”
    Mark’s store was a hodgepodge of fifties furniture,
rusty farm signs and antique china. Framed posters shared wall space with
watercolors of local scenes. I turned to watch Owen back the van out of the
driveway, and nearly knocked over a china statue of an Irish setter, and that
reminded me of Rochester, home alone and getting into who knew what kind of
trouble.
    Mark reached over and picked up an ornate figurine of a
ballerina on pointe, and rubbed his sleeve on it to wipe away some dust. “What
can I do for you?” he asked.
     “I have something I want to talk to you about,” I said.
“If you have a couple minutes?”
    “Sure.”
    I told him about the college’s acquisition of the Friar
Lake property, and Babson’s plans, leaving out the bit about finding a dead
body there. “I’m going to need some help with design stuff. You do that kind of
thing?”
    “I haven’t done anything like that for a while, and
like I said, the shop is very busy right now.”
    “Come on, Mark, you’re the only person I know who could
help me out.” I had Joe Capodilupo handling the construction; I really needed
someone like Mark to take point on the interior decorating, and if Mark
couldn’t help me I’d be up a creek.
    He pursed his lips together. “What’s your timetable?”
    “Right now I need some general guidance—I’m pretty lost
when it comes to decorating. If you could come out to the property in the next
week or two, take a look, and point me in the right direction, I’d really
appreciate it.”
    “From what you’ve said, this is a big project.”
    I nodded. “You bet. But most of the interior work is
going to happen during the winter. And I’ll bet your business slows down when
the tourists disappear, right?”
    “All right, you’ve worn me down,” he said,