Bad Reputation, A Read Online Free

Celosia was only thirty minutes from Parkland, these businesses did very well, especially the novelty candle shop and the local crafts store with its array of homemade jams, jellies, honey, and quilts. Flair For Fashion was an upscale establishment, the kind my mother would love, offering overpriced clothes, jewelry, and purses. The windows displayed sleek outfits on faceless mannequins admiring themselves in fancy oval mirrors.
    Pamela met me at the door. “Thanks for coming, Madeline. Let me show you the problem.”
    Stepping inside was like walking into a movie star’s oversized closet, all shiny floor and lighted mirrors. The jewelry was sorted by color on small tables draped with silky cloths, and the purses hung from curly gold hooks. As I passed by, I glanced at a few price tags and wondered who in Celosia could afford these things. Dresses and scarves were hung on matching hangers padded with contrasting colors. Another mannequin stood with arms on hips, its outfit a tight leather skirt and cream-colored silk blouse. It looked oddly defiant, as if to say: Buy this if you dare!
    Pamela was dressed in similar style: a snug green leather skirt and matching sweater. Her metallic bronze high heels clicked on the gleaming floor as she led me to the back of the store and opened the door of a room packed with bulging file boxes and untidy stacks of paper. “See what I mean? I know that letter’s in here somewhere.”
    The room looked like a real closet—a hoarder’s closet. I wasn’t sure where to start. “Have you checked any of these file boxes or stacks?”
    â€œI’ve been through that one,” she said, pointing to a gray three-drawer file cabinet. “I’ve been trying to do a little every day, but the phone’s always ringing, and I have customers to take care of. It’s just overwhelming.”
    â€œOkay, what am I looking for?”
    â€œIt’s a one-page letter from Daniel Richards. He used to own this building, and now his son, Daniel Junior, is the owner. In the letter, Daniel Senior gives me permission to make whatever changes I’d like, including expanding the shop at the back. His son won’t let me do anything unless I produce this letter.”
    â€œAll right.” I took another look at the daunting stacks. “You’re sure it’s in here?”
    â€œI can’t think of any reason why that letter would be in my house, but I’ve searched thoroughly, just in case. It has to be in here.”
    â€œDo you have any help in the store?”
    â€œThat’s another problem. I am so short-handed right now. The woman who usually helps me out is having a baby and will be gone for at least half a year. When she was here, we could take turns watching the store, but now it’s just me.”
    I spent the next hour going through every piece of paper in one of the filing cabinets. It was slow work because Pamela had saved every receipt, every order, every packing slip, and every piece of correspondence she’d ever received.
    Pamela apologized for the extra stacks. “There’s a lot of Art Guild information, too, Madeline. Copies of our bylaws, minutes of our meetings, program booklets, things like that. Bea Ricter used to be our secretary, and now I am, so she gave all that stuff to me. It should all be in one filing cabinet, but there may be some stray papers in some of the stacks.”
    â€œI’ll separate anything that looks like it belongs to the Guild.”
    When I took a break, I noticed several pictures of flowers on the walls of the shop and asked Pamela if the paintings were hers.
    Her cheeks went pink. “Oh, do you like them? They’re nothing compared to your work.”
    I’d seen hundreds, maybe thousands of paintings like these, typical, orderly still lifes of flowers in vases, flowers in pots on windowsills, flowers drooping on trellises. Nothing badly painted, but nothing