Page 59 of P.S. It’s Always Been You
“Your jammies, your face, and literally everything about you.”
“So what is it? Tell me now,” I say with morning gravel in my voice, wondering if it’s the answer to the clue.
A twinkle sparks in his eyes. “Did you know that next door to the Firelight PlayHouse on Forty-Fourth Street is a curiosity shop? It’s called Caribaldi’s Curiosities. It’s run by Jack Caribaldi’s son.”
I blink, my mouth falling open. “Are you kidding me?”
“Found it on Google. Sometimes the obvious answer is the answer. All the clues were spelled out in the letter, as it turns out. The next part of the tale might require you to find a curiosity near the boards with the greatest of ease. You know where all the best ones are in a particular district. The shop is in the theater district. Near the boards. It’s connected to the circus friend. It’s full of curiosities.”
Thirty minutes later, we’re dressed and knocking on the green wooden door of a vintage shop on a quiet Saturday morning along the Great White Way.
Caribaldi’s Curiosities.
I hold my breath. Tension floods my cells. I don’t know what to expect, but I want to get my hands on another letter. I want to devour Edward and Greta’s words. I’m an addict already.
The door creaks open, groaning from the years, as a bell jingles overhead and a truck carting newspapers trundles by.
With the door cracked, a pair of eyes flicks from Hunter to me and back. The man pushing eighty, maybe more, shoves his glasses up his craggy face, his blue eyes sharp and piercing. “Who are you?”
“I’ve heard great things about your shop. I’m Hunter Armstrong.”
A grin tugs at the man’s lips but disappears just as quickly as it surfaced. “Come in, then. I’ve been expecting you.”
25
Hunter
I’ve never seen so many skulls packed so densely.
I’ve traveled to the catacombs in Paris, but they have nothing on this curiosity shop. This tiny, stifling shop is a model of the thimble-sized options in Manhattan real estate. It’s like someone said, “Hey, let’s see exactly how much crap you can jam into a couple hundred square feet in this city.”
Voilà.
You’ve got a shelf full of skulls.
Another one is stuffed with taxidermy mice next to old . . . are those handcuffs? Maybe shackles?
Another shelf holds jars and bottles like you’d find in an apothecary shop, eyedroppers and stoppers and antique bottles for beard products, and one bottle with calligraphy etched on green glass proclaiming the contents inside are some kind of mysterious pills. Above the grooming and “feel better” supplies is a display of insect curiosities: spiders in amber, illustrations of bugs, a compact with a butterfly.
In my travels around the globe, I’ve visited many curio shops, and this collection of sundry items seems to be on par with them, but my thoughts are on long-ago lovers rather than bones, bugs, and bottles. All I can think about is the remark the man made when he opened the door. I’ve been expecting you.
How the hell was he expecting us? I part my lips to speak, but Presley jumps in.
“Excuse me, sir. Did you say you were expecting us?” she asks, evidently reading my mind.
The old man dodders past a skull, patting it on his way. “Hi, Freddie.”
I cast a sideways glance to Presley, mouthing, Freddie?
Presley shrugs back, whispering, “No idea.”
The man doesn’t answer as he shuffles toward a wall display of vintage signs, some in Spanish, others in French, still more in English. Street signs, road signs, and shop signs advertising moon pies for five cents and Coca-Colas for a dime.
I shake my head, trying to process the oddities in here and, frankly, the lack of circus paraphernalia. At the very least, I figured there would be a crystal ball, maybe a turban for a fortune-teller.
“Excuse me,” Presley tries again as the man says good morning to Freddie’s compatriot Martha.
As if in slow motion, he turns around. “You were looking for something? Skulls? Martha is for sale, but Freddie is a family heirloom. Found in the Amazon.”
A flash of light.
Now we’re getting somewhere.
“Where in the Amazon?” I ask, my fingertips tingling with possibility.
He waves a hand airily. “Just some lost city. Truth be told, his name probably wasn’t Freddie. But his chin reminded me of my cousin, so I named him that.”
“Was the skull from an expedition there?” I press on. I have a laundry list of questions.
He rolls those sharp blue eyes so hard I bet it hurts. “Of course. How else would I have gotten it?”
“Is it from the Lost City of the Sun?” Presley puts in, and her voice catches with eagerness at the end.
The man shrugs impishly. “Perhaps.” He extends a hand to Martha, patting her cranium. “But this beauty? She’s from . . .” He whispers, lowering his voice, “Brooklyn. Found her in a garage sale.” He brings his finger to his lips. “Shhhh.”
