sorry we took it out on you. Honest, I came here about the job. I even have a letter of recommendation from Ms. Plinski.”
Ms. Plinski? Darla raised her brows in surprise. Robert was the candidate Mary Ann had said she’d known?
Darla did know that the older woman had a soft spot for customers of the goth and steampunk persuasion. Robert and his girlfriend had fit into the former category and, according to Mary Ann, were among her regulars. But she hadn’t realized that Mary Ann apparently had an acquaintanceship with the youth beyond that of buyer and seller.
Before she could comment, Robert reached into the backpack at his feet and withdrew a heavy, cream-colored envelope. Gingerly, he slid it across the small table toward her. Darla suppressed a sigh as, with an unwilling sense of obligation, she picked up the letter.
To Whom It May Concern, the letter began, written on matching cream-colored stationery in the old woman’s spidery yet elegant hand. I have known Robert Gilmore for approximately three years and have found him to be of exemplary character. He has provided seasonal help at my establishment, Bygone Days Antiques, performing such tasks as packing and unpacking furniture, running errands, and tidying the store. He has always been honest and polite in his dealings, and I wholeheartedly recommend him to any employer.
Darla studied the signature an extra moment, just to make sure it was indeed Mary Ann’s; then, folding the letter back into its envelope, she handed it back to the youth.
“It seems Ms. Plinski thinks quite highly of you,” she conceded. “But your resume doesn’t say anything about your having ever worked for her.”
“I helped out the last couple of Christmases, and the time Mr. Plinski broke his leg. Mostly, I did it for free, so I didn’t put it on my resume,” he added, answering her unspoken question.
His gaze flickered toward Darla again, the sullen expression brightening. “It was pretty easy, hauling things around and making some deliveries. And Mr. Plinski showed me things like, you know, how to tell a fake antique. Him and Ms. Plinski, they’re pretty sick for being so old.”
Which expression, Darla knew from some of her teen customers, meant the elderly brother and sister were what she would have called “cool.”
She suppressed a reflexive smile, as her earlier irritation began to fade. Maybe the kid had potential after all. Moreover, she was impressed that he’d actually dealt with the reclusive Mr. Plinski in person. Even though he lived and worked next door, Darla had caught only glimpses of the old man and had never actually spoken to him herself. In fact, at one point she had even theorized to Jake that perhaps “Mr.” Plinski was actually Mary Ann dressing up like a male and pretending to be her own brother!
“Fine, let’s start over. You’ve got stocking and delivery experience. So tell me what you did at Bill’s Books and Stuff,” she urged him, returning her attention to his resume. “Is this a full-fledged bookstore, or do they sell gifts, too?”
“It’s, um, not exactly a regular bookstore. It’s more like magazines and videos and, well, you know, stuff.”
“Stuff,” Darla echoed, confused now. “What kind of stuff?”
“You know, stuff.”
To Darla’s surprise, the boy’s cheeks reddened, making him look even younger than his eighteen years. His gaze dropping to his chewed fingers again, and he mumbled, “Like, X-rated stuff.”
“You worked in an adult bookstore?” Darla squeaked, dropping his resume as if it were contaminated with porn-shop cooties by association.
Robert gave a defiant nod, though he still wouldn’t look her in the eye.
“It paid good, and the hours were after school if I decided to take some classes. It’s not like I did anything, you know, kinky. I just ran the register and stocked the shelves and helped the customers.”
“So, why did you quit?”
“I didn’t exactly quit. I kind of, you know, got fired.”
This time, he met her gaze squarely. Darla stared back at him in surprise. How in the heck did someone get fired from a place like that? Too much time spent perusing the stock, maybe? But something in his expression kept her from speaking that snarky thought aloud. Instead, in as neutral a tone as she could muster, she asked, “Why don’t you tell me what happened.”
“It was a few days ago. This customer came into the store around midnight. You know the type . . . sunglasses at night, wearing gold chains, that kinda thing.”
He paused and snorted. “He was old—at least, like,