As they approached Antique Times, Ivy said, “I’d like to stop and see what Nan and Arthur might have.”
They stepped inside, and the aroma of spicy mulled wine tickled Ivy’s nose. “That smells heavenly,” she said.
“Tastes even better,” Arthur said with a wink as he began to prepare two cups for them. “The tradition began with the Romans.” He ladled warm red wine with sliced oranges and lemons into cups and added a splash of brandy and a cinnamon stick.
Ivy sipped the warm, fragrant concoction. “This is delicious. How do you make this?”
“That’s Nan’s department.” Arthur motioned to his wife, and Nan bustled over to them.
“So glad you like it,” Nan said. “I use Arthur’s mother’s recipe from England—but with a little twist. I use a good Malbec, Syrah, or Zinfandel, not too pricey but rich enough to stand up to the spices and fruit. Then I add honey, cinnamon, clove, and star anise. And, of course, sliced oranges and lemons. Pears and apples are good in that, too.”
“Mmm, I love the fruits and spices,” Ivy said. “My mother makes something similar with fruits and spices called Ponche Navideño, which is a traditional Christmas punch. Instead of wine, we add brandy. I’ll have to make it for our Christmas Day open house.”
“We’ll be there,” Arthur said.
“We also have stollen, chocolate panettone, and mincemeat pie if you’d like a little nosh,” Nan said.
“I could sure go for that.” Bennett turned to Ivy. “Nan is a wonderful cook.”
“Arthur holds his own in the kitchen, too,” Nan said, her red curls framing her bright smile. “He made the mincemeat pie, I made the stollen, and the panettone comes from the Italian market down the street.”
“We’re having dessert first,” Ivy said, laughing, though they’d already had appetizers at the wine and tea hour at the inn. “This stollen is excellent,” she added as she ate bits of the candied fruit bread with powdered sugar.
“Next weekend, I’ll bring pigs in blankets,” Arthur said. “For you Yanks, that’s sausages wrapped in bacon. I grew up on those and Yorkshire pudding at Christmas, along with turkey, roast potatoes, and Brussel sprouts. And figgy pudding, of course.”
As they enjoyed the treats, Ivy perused the antiques and selected a crystal paperweight that she knew would be a perfect addition to her sister-in-law’s collection. “I’ve been going through the book that you and Nan compiled on Las Brisas again. One of our guests is interested in the inn’s history.”
“That must be Nick,” Arthur said. “What a fine young man. He was in here just the other day.”
Ivy was dying to ask why, but after she’d talked so much about guest privacy, she couldn’t ask. From the corner of her eye, she saw Bennett grinning at her. Arthur was a regular at Java Beach and known to keep up on the town gossip.
Bennett sipped his mulled wine. Nonchalantly, he asked, “Was he looking for anything special?”
“He was particularly interested in Las Brisas around the time of the Second World War. Most folks like to chat about the paintings or crown jewels found there. Afraid I couldn’t help him much on that count, either.”
After Ivy paid for the paperweight, they walked to Spirits & Vine, where they ordered two bowls of steaming lobster corn chowder. Ivy knew the owners of the wine shop, and though the atmosphere was lively, the clientele never got out of hand. In a rear room that opened to the beach, young people often gathered for poetry readings and jazz.
Ivy and Bennett sat at a table by the window, and as they looked out, they saw Nick strolling along Main Street, stopping to talk to shopkeepers.
Ivy rested her chin on her hand. “I think Nick is just lonely,” she said, though she felt she was missing a piece of the story. Not that it was any of her business—except as it had to do with the inn.
Still, she couldn’t help but wonder. And there was no harm in that, was there?
Chapter 12
“Thanks for calling me, Ari.” Ivy tapped her phone to hang up and turned back to Shelly.
Ahead of them, their new guests were charging along the water’s edge. Ophelia and Molly Ann, who were now sharing a room, were laughing and talking with Rosamie. Nick and Kristy were strolling behind them, their heads bent together, engrossed in conversation.
Even though the guests had just met, friendships were developing. Ivy guessed they ranged between the ages of thirty and seventy, but they’d quickly found common interests.
Shelly gestured ahead. “You called it. This is like winter camp for adults. We should start promoting Valentine’s Day soon. Or a January break. I’ll bet we can make this one hot winter at the inn.” She zipped up her soft yoga jacket and bundled her scarf around her neck. “So, what did Ari have to say? Do we have more stolen property on our hands?”
“I’m not sure,” Ivy replied. “He and his team confirmed what Elena said about that piece. It could be one of the missing Fabergé imperial eggs, or it might have been made for another client. Or it could be a copy. He’s running a check on the FBI and Interpol databases to see if it’s on any stolen property lists.” Ivy paused. “I also called Chief Clarkson to report the found property.”
“That was such a long time ago.” Shelly kicked a toe in the sand. “When do we get to keep some of the loot we find around this place?”
“I don’t know if we ever will. Seems like Amelia Erickson was safeguarding property here. The rest of their collection—which we saw on display in the house in those old photographs—was properly documented and sold as part of the estate that went to charity.”
“Does that mean this would, too?”
Ivy let out a sigh. “I spoke to Imani about that, and she thought the egg could be called mislaid or abandoned property. She’s researching that.” Ivy shivered and brushed wayward strands of hair from her face. “Frankly, that piece probably belongs in a museum.”
Shelly twisted her lips to one side. “Or in a billionaire’s private collection.”
“If it were to go to auction, I suppose that’s possible. But I like to think that people in need would benefit from the sale.”
“You make it sound like it’s not ours to keep.”
“I doubt if it is. It’s one thing for owners to leave behind a valuable chandelier that’s attached to the ceiling—that’s obvious and covered in the sale documents. But a rare jewel hidden away—even if by accident?” Ivy shook her head. “I’m being realistic.”
“Amazing that no one would miss it after all these years,” Shelly said.
“They might not have been around to reclaim it. Many people didn’t make it out of the Second World War alive,” Ivy added quietly. “We should not celebrate their loss.”
Shelly pressed a hand to her mouth. “Oh, my gosh, I hadn’t thought of that. That makes me feel awful.”
“If that were the case, I’d want funds from the sale of that to help others. Then that person’s life would be honored. I think any profit should go to benefit the charities Amelia named in her will.”