Keepsake Read Online Free PDF Page B

do?"
    "Aagh."
    Quinn laughed and said, "I've lost my shirt there once or twice myself."
    They had something in common, it seemed. The barber warmed to Quinn a little. He cocked his head over his sloping shoulder and said, "So you're thinking of pulling up stakes. Any idea where you'll put 'em back down?"
    "I imagine somewhere around here," Quinn said equably. "Know any houses for sale?"
    "You're looking for—what? New construction? Because there's a new subdivision going in at the west end that might suit."
    Quinn seesawed the palm of his hand in the air. "Something with more character, I think."
    Rubbing his cheek thoughtfully with the tips of his fingers, Tony said, "You know what I'd do? I'd go on the Candlelight Tour of upper Main . The houses are open tonight through Tuesday. Check out Hastings House; it's been on the market for a while. The place is maybe older than you're looking for, but it's a local landmark—well, I don't need to tell you that—and it could go cheap. It needs some structural work. Big bucks."
    "Thanks for the tip," Quinn said as he shrugged into his jacket and plucked a brand new ski cap from one of the pockets. "Maybe I'll check it out."
    He hiked his knapsack over his shoulder and let himself out of the tiny two -chair shop, stopping to admire the ancient barber pole out front. It was so much a part of the establishment that he'd hardly noticed it on his way inside. The red-and-white-striped icon looked exactly the same as seventeen years earlier, spinning slowly in its glass housing, its motor still whirring along. A barber pole in working order was a rarity; it was probably worth more than the business itself.
    Quinn felt yet another twinge of regret. Tony Assorio, no-nonsense barber ... the shoemaker languishing around the corner... the watch repairman, struggling in the shop next to him—all of the shopkeepers were old and gray and all of them were doomed to become mere memories, like the soda fountain that once had served cherry cokes, and the elegant Art Deco theater that someone had hacked into a four-screen multiplex. Throwaway goods and volume discounts, that was the name of the game nowadays. How could the little guy hope to compete?
    Maybe Keepsake would be able to hold on to its unique, small-town feel—hadn't Mrs. Dewsbury boasted that they'd recently beat back a Wal-Mart?—but probably it wouldn't. Christ, someone was cramming a subdivision into the west end. Quinn never thought he'd see the day. What next? A theme park?
    "Oh, no," said Mrs. Dewsbury later when he mused aloud to her. "We won't get a theme park here. Someone's already beat us to the punch on that one—thank goodness. Can you imagine the traffic?"
    Quinn reached down to the top of the ladder for the wire crimper, but, like a surgical nurse in mittens, Mrs. Dewsbury insisted on handing it to him.
    "Are you really planning to come back here for good?" she asked as she watched him crimp two wires together in a plastic sleeve.
    It was awkward, working with short wires in the small hole cut into the porch ceiling. And it was finger-freezing cold; he'd hardly had time to adjust to New England 's weather. But Quinn's first order of business, cold or no cold, was to get light on the porch. If someone was going to come after him, he was going to have to do it someplace other than at Mrs. Dewsbury's house.
    He had to think about how candid he could afford to be with the elderly widow. She was shrewd and she was fearless, but could she hold her tongue?
    He decided she could.
    "You want the God's honest truth?" he said, gently easing the wires back into the hole ahead of the light fixture. He glanced down at her. She was supporting the back of her neck with gray-mittened hands while she watched him work. Her face had the charming pinkness to it that fair- skinned Yankees, young and old, got when they stood too long on their porches in fifteen -degree temperatures. She looked pleased and satisfied and curious and, yes, she