“It’s really lovely,” Mercy agreed. “Do you know who made it?”

“I don’t know the man’s name, no. He doesn’t sign his work, either.”

Yes, he does. You just have to know what to look for. “No? That seems like a shame. This workmanship is exquisite. I’d want everyone to know my name if I could make something like this.”

“I know, right?” Ginger ran a fond hand over the lid. “It has the space for a music box, if one wanted to add it. Not trying to put any pressure on you at all, but this is the last thing we have from this artist. All of our other items have sold. This one came in just as the weather turned bad and tourism dropped off for the season. Also, it’s pricier than his other work. I’ll be sorry to see it go—when the right person comes along, of course,” she added, her cheeks pinking with embarrassment. “Like I said, no pressure at all.”

“No worries, I know what you meant.” Mercy scanned the store again. “Actually, I was hoping to find a quilt. One of my friends bought one here and I admire it every time I go to her house.”

“Oh, the quilts are long gone. We didn’t get that many in our last delivery.” Ginger’s forehead crinkled in a slight frown. “Which was a long time ago, come to think of it.”

“When was that?” Rafe asked casually.

“Gosh. Back around Halloween, I think. We still had our ghosts and goblins display up. I put the jack-o’-lantern I’d carved on top of one of the smaller tables by this same artist, and it sold the next day. The table.” She grinned winningly. “Not the jack-o’-lantern, because I can’t carve to save my life.”

Mercy chuckled. “Me either. Did the artist himself deliver the tables?”

“Oh no. He’s a recluse. His friend brought them by and picked up his payment. I wanted to meet the artist. I wanted a custom display case for my dad about a year back. He’d just gotten the flag from my great-grandfather’s casket and I wanted to give him something nice to put it in.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Mercy said quietly.

The woman shrugged. “Papaw was almost a hundred. He had a really good life. Still miss him, though.” She visibly shook herself. “Anyway, I never got to meet the woodworker himself.”

“Maybe they’ll be back with more work now that spring is here,” Rafe suggested.

Another shrug. “Maybe. But the guy who repped the artist brought stuff in at least once a month for the last few years, even in the dead of winter. Then as of November”—she snapped her fingers—“nothin’. It wasn’t all woodwork. There were quilts and some dolls. Knitted scarves, sweaters, and blankets. Every now and then a cross-stitched sampler. It’s all gone now, except for this lovely.”

The door jingled again. “More customers. Give me a shout if you have any other questions.”

“Will do.” Mercy waited until she was gone before tentatively lifting the jewelry box lid. And couldn’t control her gasp. “Oh my God,” she whispered. “Rafe.”