Antiques Fire Sale

by Barbara Allan

  He grunted. “Not one wise instance, maybe. Just repeated ones. Often illegal in nature.”

  I put hands on hips. “Name one!”

  “Just one?”

  “All right, then—name as many as you like!”

  “How much time do we have?”

  “When?”

  Another shrug; he seemed insufferably calm. “I could begin when first I met you, the time you came to my office ostensibly to welcome me as the new chief, then pretended to cough, asked for some water, and when I left the room to get you some, you rifled through my desk.”

  “That’s not strictly true,” I maintained. Then added, “I do admit to leaving my chair to look at the picture on the wall behind the desk, but—”

  “There’s a security cam in my office.”

  “What I meant by ‘that’s not strictly true’ was that I really did have a cough.”

  He rubbed his chin, eyes looking up as if his memory were hovering. “Then there was the succession of dispatchers I had to fire for giving you confidential information after you bribed them with Godiva chocolates, parts in plays, and—my favorite—an autographed photo of George Clooney. By the way, was that really his signature?”

  I shook my head. “Forged. That’s not illegal, and do you really think someone who can’t be trusted need be dealt with forthrightly?”

  He grunted again. “Shall I move on to breaking and entering?”

  My lips performed a modest Bronx cheer. “That was all before I became sheriff. I thought we were going to call a truce.”

  The chief’s voice turned serious. “We are. But you have to understand that since you are sheriff, it’s imperative that you go by the book. Otherwise, you could compromise these investigations—mine, yours, and ours.”

  I cocked my head. “I do believe, Chief Cassato, that this is the longest conversation we’ve ever had—and while it has not been entirely pleasant, I do think we’ve reached a professional understanding.” I pointed a finger. “But I do not cop to sneaking.”

  A white utility van arrived with Serenity’s two forensics specialists: Henderson, an overweight, world-weary veteran with salt-and-pepper hair, and Wilson, noticeably younger with a shaved head and flat nose.

  The pair got out, gave us professional nods, circled the vehicle to the rear, then opened the back doors and began hauling out their equipment.

  Having no desire to tromp back through the forest and compromise the area further, I informed the chief I wanted to take another look inside the mobile home but did not wish to disturb any potential evidence.

  He gave me a nod of permission. “They won’t get to that for a while.”

  I left the three men to their tasks.

  Inside the trailer, a sudden weariness descended upon me—perhaps a delayed reaction to finding Jimmy—and I sought repose on the couch. Nice to have a peaceful moment to myself.

  I’d been sitting there in quiet contemplation for a few minutes when a terrific explosion lifted me up off the sofa, then unceremoniously dumped me down again with a whump!

  Next came a whoosh! as a fireball roared toward me from the rear of the trailer. I jumped to my feet, grateful for my stellar hip replacements; scrambled to the door; and hurtled myself out, where I dropped to the ground, then rolled away from the licking flames that had completely engulfed the mobile home. Its squat neighbor, the propane tank, had vanished.

  I lay there, stunned, when suddenly an out-of-breath Tony was bending over me, asking me if I was hurt, to which I responded that I didn’t really know.

  Then the world faded to black.

  * * *

  Brandy’s face came into focus.

  “Where am I?” I asked.

  “Hospital. Private room.”

  “How am I?”

  “A mild concussion,” she said. She summoned a supportive smile. “You seem determined to be burned to death. Or have you angered the god of fire?”

  “I don’t recall doing anything to offend Hephaestus.”

  Her eyes widened; she seemed impressed by my erudition.

  “What happened, dear?” I asked. “Help me sit up.”

  Brandy adjusted the bed while speaking. “Seems the propane tank next to the trailer exploded.”

  “Good lord,” I said, then wondered aloud, “Accidentally? Or intentionally?”

  Brandy shook her head. “All I know is that you’re alive, and I’m grateful for that. Things would be pretty dull without you.”

  My head was spinning—with thoughts, not general concussion-related dizziness—when Brandy put another thought in there.

  “That vase you’d hoped to rescue at the Wentworth place?” she said. “It turned up online.”

  “Do you think it’s the vase?”

  “Sure looks like it. And each one of those things, that I’ve seen anyway, seems pretty distinctive.”

  “Where did you spot it?”

  “On the website of an antiques shop in downtown Chicago—Clark Street Antiques.”

  “Satisfactory,” I said. That was what Nero Wolfe said when Archie Goodwin delivered, and Brandy had.

  “What are you going to do about it?” she asked. “Go there yourself, or contact the Chicago authorities?”

  A third choice occurred to me, but I kept that to myself, for reasons that will become clear (but not to Brandy).

  “I’m doing nothing at the moment, dear,” I said, adding sternly, “and do keep this information about the vase just between us.”

  A knock on the doorjamb announced Tony, who strode in saying, “How’s the patient?”

  “See for yourself,” Brandy said, rising from the chair. “I’m going to get some coffee—either of you want any?”

  We both declined.

  She slipped out, and Tony took her place in the bedside seat of honor.

  “You up to answering some questions?” the chief asked.

  “Of course.”

  “Before the explosion, did you hear a gunshot?”

  “Why? Do you think that’s what caused the tank to explode?”

  “One possibility,” he said.

  I thought for a moment. “No, I don’t recall a gun firing. But, then, I was at the opposite end of the trailer.”

  “Which was lucky for you.”

  “Quite. Anything salvageable of the trailer and/or its contents?”

  The chief shook his head, then said, “Luckily the fire was contained to the immediate area. Those woods could be raging about now.” He paused. “We did find pieces of the propane tank, which we’ll turn over to an explosives expert for possible determination of cause.”

  The room went quiet for a moment or two.

  I said, “We need to have that departmental meeting this afternoon. And I need to be there.”

  Tony raised his eyebrows. “The doctor said you’d be here for another day.”

  “I have it from a higher authority that I’ll be out by noon.”

  He smirked. “You’re talking about either Jehovah or yourself. I’m guessing the latter.”

  I gave him my sweetest smile.

  He sighed, and stood. “I’ll arrange the meet, Sheriff.”

  As Tony was exiting, Brandy entered, Styrofoam cup in hand, and they exchanged brief words before he was gone.

  I called her over.

  “Get my clothes, dear.”

  “What, again?” the girl whined. “Can’t I at least finish my coffee?”

  “It’s a to-go cup, darling girl. And it’s time to go.”

  * * *

  The meeting was convened at the police station in the conference room shortly after one o’clock. On the table in front of us were yellow notepads and pens, along with bottles of water. Tony sat at the head of the oval-shaped table, yours truly to his right. Across from me was Coroner Hector Hornsby and, next to him, Medical Examiner Tom Peak, followed by Fire Marshal Stephen Nelson.

  Tony said simply, “We need to bring Vivian up to speed.” His eyes went to the fire marshal. “Ste
phen?”

  The man, around forty, boyish-looking, with sandy hair and deep blue eyes, sat up straight and cleared his throat.

  I put pen tip to pad.

  “The source of Wentworth mansion fire remains undetermined,” he said, “but is suspected to’ve started in either the front bedroom fireplace or the fireplace directly below in the sitting room. You see, Sheriff, because of the way the house had been built—”

  I interrupted. “I do not require a lesson in Victorian architecture, young man. I’m aware that the structure had no fire walls between floors—that’s why it went up like a box of matchsticks. What I want to know is what’s being done to further the investigation.”

  To his credit, the fire marshal kept his composure, his unlined face showing only the slightest flush. “The state fire marshal is arriving tomorrow.”

  “Why not today?”

  Stephen looked at Tony for help but didn’t receive any.

  “Because,” the fire marshal said, “the insurance company has its own investigator there now.”

  “What?” I bellowed.

  The man shifted uncomfortably in his chair, then summoned up some spine. “They have every right to examine the ruins, Sheriff.”

  “But surely,” I said, “not until after the state investigators conclude their on-site examination.”

  The fire marshal found some more backbone. “State couldn’t get here until tomorrow, and every day that passes wastes time, especially with rain in the forecast.”

  I said unhappily, “Well, what’s done is done.”

  Stephen, his mouth a thin line, sat back in his chair.

  “What do you have for me, Hector?” I asked. One does not have to sit at the head of a table to dominate it. Was there any doubt?

  The coroner looked at Tony, who gave him a nod.

  The balding, bespectacled man shuffled papers in front of him. “First, I have the external autopsy report on the body found in the Wentworth fire. . . .”

  I waved a dismissive hand. “Already have that.”

  His eyes narrowed behind the spectacles. “How?”

  “Not pertinent. What else?”

  More papers shuffled. “I also have the external report conducted early this morning on the body discovered in the woods.”

  “You didn’t wait for me?” I protested.

  The coroner shrugged. “You were in the hospital.”

  Tom, more diplomatic, replied, “Sheriff, the examination couldn’t wait. The man was getting . . . ripe.”

  Still, I gave the medical examiner my finest glare.

  Hector began passing out copies of the report as he spoke. “The body is that of James Sutter, previously thought to be the person who died in the fire, now referred to as John Doe.”

  “Which I most likely could have told you,” I said, “if I’d been allowed to stay through Mr. Doe’s autopsy, as is my right as sheriff.”

  That hung in the air for a moment before Hector continued.

  He said, “Mr. Sutter died from a blow to the back of the skull, as had Mr. Doe.”

  I glanced at the one-page report before tossing it aside. “This is useless—weight, height, hair color—where’s the estimated time of death?”

  Hector’s response was condescending. “Sheriff, this is the external—or preliminary—report Tom conducted.”

  “I’m aware of that,” I snapped. “When will the internal report be available?”

  Tom answered. “That’s in the hands of the University of Iowa Hospital, who will conduct that. They have three pathologists on staff with better equipment than what’s available to us.”

  I nodded, then said, “I assume there’ll be another look at John Doe to try to identify him.”

  Hector and Tom exchanged glances.

  “What?” I asked.

  Hector, avoiding my eyes, said, “I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

  I set my pen down. “Let me guess. John Doe has been cremated.”

  Hector’s shrug was apologetic. “Gavin Sutter wanted to go ahead with the funeral, and I saw no need to refuse him.” The coroner added, lamely, “And, of course, this new wrinkle wasn’t known at the time.”

  I drummed my fingers on the table, showing my displeasure.

  Tom said, “I did take various tissue samples from John Doe, so we do have DNA.”

  “Thank you,” I said, “for that much.”

  Tony picked up the mantle. “I suggest we look at the possibility that John Doe could be the absent Leon Jones—or at least, not rule that out.” He looked at me. “Even though Leon’s mobile home was destroyed, forensics might be able to collect DNA from his workplace at the Playhouse. Sheriff?”

  “He had a closet where he kept some personal things,” I said, nodding. “Good thinking. It’s a start.”

  Tony continued. “And I’ll see what medical records I can obtain from the prison where he did time.”

  The meeting felt as if it was winding down, but I wasn’t finished yet.

  I addressed Tom. “Getting back to James Sutter—why is there no estimated time of death given on the external you conducted twelve hours ago?”

  “There never is.”

  “Not even a guestimate?”

  “I prefer not to make ‘guestimates,’” he responded. “Too many variables. The fact is, Sheriff, unless the end of life is witnessed, all that can be known for a certainty is that the time of death falls somewhere between when the person in question was last seen and when the body is found.” He paused. “But I can tell you that rigor mortis had completely disappeared.”

  “Thirty-six hours after death,” I said.

  That impressed them.

  I said, “So, if I found Jimmy . . . er . . . Mr. Sutter around midnight last night, and saw him last at five p.m. on Monday, the total of hours between would be . . .” I did the math on the pad. “Fifty-five hours. And fifty-five minus thirty-six is nineteen hours.” More scribbling. “Which means Mr. Sutter was killed sometime between five Monday afternoon and noon on Tuesday.”

  Tom nodded. “That would be a fairly reasonable—”

  “Guestimate?” I said.

  He smiled just a little. “Call it an estimate.”

  I held his eyes. “What else can be learned from the internal autopsy that might narrow the time further?”

  “Perhaps something regarding contents of the stomach, the level of vitreous potassium, possibly corneal cloudiness. All of those could help.”

  I swiveled to Tony. “You have a BOLO out on Leon and his truck?”

  The chief nodded. “Already done.” He glanced around. “Anything more? From anyone?”

  There wasn’t.

  Chairs were pushed back.

  While Hector, Tom, and Stephen beat a hasty retreat, Tony and I lingered.

  “Chief, I’d like to make inquiries about who else might have either seen or spoken to Mr. Sutter after I did. Any problem with that?”

  “No,” the chief said. “Just keep me informed so we’re not covering the same ground.” He paused. “Kind of rough on them, weren’t you?”

  I arched an eyebrow. “You disapprove?”

  A slight softening of the steel-gray eyes told me he didn’t.

  “But you do have to work with them,” he said. “I understand you’re schooling them in respecting you and your office. And I’m fine with that. But you may wish to moderate your interaction with these public servants, starting next time.”

  I smiled. “Understood. You know, whenever I direct a play with a new cast, I find a moment early on to blow my gasket. After that, I’m helpful and polite and, really, very nice. But the actors always know what Vivian Borne is capable of.”

  He grunted. “That’s more than I can say.”

  Vivian’s Trash ’n’ Treasures Tip

  The condition of an item is imperative. The online description should list the age, period, style, provenance, any damage or restoration that has been done, and finally a guarantee that the antique it is n
ot a replica. Of course, if you’re overly persnickety, you may get an e-mail from the seller saying that the item has been sold to someone else.

  Chapter Seven

  In Which Vivian Makes a Call

  And Jake Holds the Line

  Hi. My name is Jake, and I just turned fourteen. Brandy is my mom, and Vivian is my grandmother. I live with my dad and stepmom in a Chicago suburb called Naperville. He’s an investment banker, and she’s a pediatrician. They have hard jobs so I try to stay out of trouble, but sometimes I can’t help it, like now.

  Some of you may remember me, and how I got involved in one of Grandma’s cases when I was twelve and visiting on fall break. Dad was furious after he found out that I got put in danger, and he banned me from seeing Grandma and Mom for a while. But then he got over it, or forgot about the ban, or whatever, because I’ve been back to Serenity many times since.

  You’ve probably already guessed that Grandma wants me to do something for her today, which is Friday, and you may even have guessed what that something might be, and how that means I’m going to have to skip school.

  I’m in eighth grade at Jefferson Middle School. That’s a public school. I used to go to a private one, but I won’t say which, because I did like some of the teachers there and don’t want to make them look bad. But just the same, I didn’t like it. In fact, I ran away, but I won’t go into that.

  Anyway, I skipped school before by saying I was sick, like when I first got Red Dead Redemption, a video game set in the Wild West that’s kind of violent but has really cool graphics. But with a stepmom who’s a doctor, I can’t pull that very often and hope to get away with it.

  After the divorce, when I was eleven, things got really tense between Mom and Dad. Started when she used bad judgment at her ten-year high school reunion. I probably shouldn’t even know about that, but she talks about it in her books and I’ve read those.

  Anyway, now they get along okay for divorced parents. Have to admit, sometimes I wish I lived with Mom and Grandma, because I miss them, and things are never dull around where they live. But then I’d be missing my dad, and he and I do get along better than most. So what’s a kid supposed to do?

  What else do you need to know?