I hadn’t known he was a widower. Mother surely did.
‘But,’ he was saying, shaking his head, ‘I didn’t know anything about the money … you must believe me.’ He paused. ‘She … she was miserable in her marriage, and I think, well, coming here, to this lovely farm of mine, she could imagine herself living with me. I thought at first she saw me as a father figure, but … it was more than that, different than that. Only …’
I finished his sentence. ‘You didn’t feel the same way about her.’
He lowered his head, and nodded. ‘It came about so fast that I didn’t think beyond the excitement of … of a fling with a younger woman.’
Mother said, ‘So when you told her the affair was off, she threatened to make trouble for you, ruining your reputation, and your business.’
Frowning, with some of the indignation returning, Hughes sat forward. ‘It wasn’t like that at all! I hadn’t even gotten around to telling her.’ He sighed. ‘And then, when I heard she’d died … well …’ His tone was melancholy now. ‘… I didn’t have to tell her, did I? It was too late to tell her anything.’
Mother’s voice took on an atypical edge. ‘After you silenced her, you mean.’
He looked at her in earnest. ‘Vivian! You know me. Do you really think I’m capable of killing anyone, let alone two people I barely knew?’
Mother studied him. Really studied him. Then, dejectedly, she shook her head and uttered, ‘No. Not really.’
He sat back, let out a deep, relieved sigh.
Mother, apparently suddenly realizing the folly of placing a double murder at this man’s feet, said, ‘Besides, if you had known about the money – and poisoned Tiffany for it – why would you bother running Skylar off the road?’
‘I would think,’ he said, sounding hurt, ‘that you realize this horrible thing you’ve suggested is nothing I would be capable of doing … over some, some … petty affair.’
Still, there was nothing ‘petty’ about the quarter of a million smackers Tiffany had left him.
Mother, regrouping, asked, ‘Did your “younger woman” ever share any confidence with you, other than random snippets about her unhappy marriage?’
Our host frowned. ‘Funny you should ask that – I did get the feeling something else might be troubling her. But, if so, she never quite got around to expressing it.’
Was this the ‘something’ Tiffany had wanted to talk to Mother about?
Hughes was saying, ‘Anyway, if Skylar had been having an affair with anyone, it would’ve been Colette Dumont.’
Mother, eyes flashing, pounced. ‘What makes you say that?’
The man seemed to regret his words. Then he shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t want to put anybody in the position you’ve put me in.’
‘Michael,’ she persisted, ‘someone is killing people in our little antiquing circle. If you know anything, you need to say.’
Finally Hughes shrugged. ‘Well … Skylar and Colette had been doing some business together.’
‘What kind of business?’
‘I don’t know, exactly.’
Or at least he wouldn’t say, no matter how much Mother tried to shame or scare him. That was obvious.
So she took a different tact. ‘Do you know if Colette bought anything at the tag sale?’
His eyes tightened in thought. ‘No … I don’t believe she did – oh … wait. She did make a purchase, at that. I only noticed, and then kind of forgot about it because – well, it was such an inconsequential item for her to pick up.’
‘What was it?’
‘A box of books.’
Mother frowned. ‘Valuable?’
A dry laugh. ‘Good Lord, no. That’s what made it inconsequential. I nearly didn’t include them in the sale.’
‘What were they?’
He thought a moment. ‘Old Agatha Christie mysteries. Cheap reprints.’
‘Anything in particular?’ Mother persisted. ‘Poirot titles? Miss Marple? Standalones?’
‘Good lord, Vivian, I don’t know!’ he said, showing some irritation. ‘I didn’t write up the sales ticket – my assistant did.’
Mother smiled, as if that might heal the wounds of this contentious conversation. ‘Might I possibly see that sales ticket?’
‘It’s on my computer,’ he replied, as if that were enough to deter her.
Foolish man.
‘A copy will do,’ Mother replied sweetly.
An exasperated sigh came up from his toes and seemed to propel him to his feet. ‘Very well … but only if you will promise to then go. I told you when you called that I have an appointment to keep.’
‘And miles to go before you sleep?’ Mother asked. ‘That’s just a poetical rhetorical question, dear. No need to reply.’
He looked at her for a while, as if trying to decide whether or not to strangle her, then decided against it and entered the house, the old farmhouse screen door slamming behind him, as if it were as put upon as he was.
I opened my mouth to say something, but Mother held up a hand. Whether she wanted silence for contemplation, or perhaps thought Hughes might be listening, wasn’t clear. Either or both were possible.
Several minutes passed before our beleaguered host returned to present Mother with a print-out, like Simon Legree delivering an eviction notice.
She studied the page, then passed it to me.
Recorded as sold to Colette Dumont were the early novels of Poirot, beginning with The Mysterious Affair at Styles and ending with Hercule Poirot’s Christmas.
Murder on the Orient Express, which should have been included, was not on the list. That title was certainly starting to turn up. Was that significant? And why was an upscale dealer like Colette interested in Christie reprints at all? Just a fan, maybe?
Hughes asked Mother acidly, ‘Happy?’
She looked up at him. ‘Ecstatic.’
‘Thrilled to hear it. I simply have to leave – you’ve already made me late.’
If he was expecting an apology from her, it would not be forthcoming.
Sardonically, with a mock gracious gesture, he added, ‘But, please, do sit and finish your drinks.’
‘Thank you,’ I replied, when Mother said nothing.
Hughes walked to the barn, where he opened the double doors, then disappeared within.
Shortly after, an engine started, then a white van backed out, straightened, and drove away, leaving a trail of dust.
Neither side of the vehicle was dented.
One of the reasons we were here was to see if the dealer’s vehicle bore signs of having ‘helped’ Skylar over the side of Colorado Hill.
After taking the last sips of our lemonade, we left the porch and were heading for the Fusion when I realized I hadn’t seen Sushi for a while. My eyes made a trip around the lush grounds looking for her, but she was nowhere in sight. I had a moment of dog-owner panic …
… but then there she was, trotting out of the barn.
Hughes had exited in such a huff and a hurry, those wide doors had been left open wide, and our furry little sneak had slipped in for a look around.
Mother raised an eyebrow. ‘Sushi had a quick peek around – why shouldn’t we?’
‘Because your dear old friend Michael might come back.’
‘Well then, my child, we were merely closing up the barn so no one would get in, weren’t we?’
Inside the barn, instead of finding farm implements lining the walls, or livestock in stalls, or hay in the loft, the structure revealed itself as having been gutted for storage. Around the periphery, on deep metal shelving, were hundreds of boxes; the central area was reserved for the now-absent van with plenty of room for loading and unloading.
I walked over to the nearest shelf where a carton was labeled HASSLER in black marker.
Behind me, Mother said, ‘What didn’t sell at Ruth’s tag sale, he’ll donate to a good cause.’
‘I always wondered what happened to the leftover stuff at tag sales.’
‘Yes, and in this case the good cause is solving two murders. Go ahead, dear.’
I untucked the top flaps on the box.
Mother peered over my shoulder. ‘What’s in it?’
I sifted through the contents. ‘Seems to all be greeting cards – decades’ worth.’
Mother made a shivering sound. ‘I know people like that – save every single one they get!’
She retained a card for only the day of celebration, then into the trash it went, no matter the sentiment. I have a hunch some people, receiving her Christmas letter in the mail, didn’t wait that long.
‘Here’s one in a frame,’ I said, holding up a fancy gold card behind glass with printed words, ‘Happy 50th Anniversary To My Loving Wife.’
‘Take it out, dear,’ Mother said. ‘There’s bound to be an inscription for that Golden moment.’
I slid the back off the frame, and handed her the card.
Mother opened it and read aloud: ‘You’ve always dreamed of having a signed first edition of your favorite Poirot. Perhaps next year I can find you the cover. Love, Harry.’
Our expressions mirrored each other – stunned, bug-eyed, mouths open darn near as wide as the barn doors.
Her words came in a rush: ‘What the devil happened to that book from the Old Curiosity Shop I was supposed to give Skylar?’
Mine came just as fast: ‘I added it to the ones we bought from Dumpster Dan, to take to the recycle station!’
She clasped her hands in prayer. ‘Please tell me you didn’t take them!’
‘I didn’t.’
She nodded to the sky, then beamed at me. ‘I can always count on you to not follow through.’
‘Thank you very much.’
She sang, ‘That’s the nicest thing that anyone’s ever done for moi! … Where’s the box?’
‘In the trunk.’
Back at the Fusion, Mother once more examined the book she had brought back from London.
Her sigh was one of frustration. ‘So much for that hunch. It’s a reprint. And not the original first edition cover.’
‘Are you sure?’ I asked.
She handed me the book, and brought out her phone.
Soon, Mother put the screen under my nose. ‘This is the first cover, published in 1934 by Collins Crime Club in the UK.’
The illustration depicted two men in silhouette stoking coal into a fiery train engine.
Mother tapped the one in my hand, with its image of a train in snowy landscape. ‘That is the reprint by Crime Club in 1953.’
I grunted, and was about to toss the book back into the box when, on impulse, I removed its jacket and the plastic sleeve …
… which revealed a second cover beneath!
One with the original coal-stoking depiction.
Mother gasped. ‘A cover within a cover! How clever.’
‘We had it all along,’ I marveled. ‘That’s what Skylar was looking for when he broke into our house!’
She nodded, eyes big – really big, behind those thick lenses. ‘And paired with Ruth’s signed golden anniversary present, the book would now be worth a hefty sum.’
‘Where do we go from here?’ I asked.
‘Well, dear, we’re already in Iowa City – perhaps we should do some shopping …’
Mother used her cell. In a moment I heard a feminine voice, with just a hint of French accent, saying, ‘Antiques Fantastique.’
‘Ah … Colette Dumont herself!’ Mother chirped. ‘How wonderful! Vivian Borne speaking. I’m in town with my daughter, Brandy, who I know would love to meet you, and see your incredible shop.’
‘I’ll be here until closing, Vivian,’ the woman said, business-like but friendly. ‘You’re welcome to stop by.’
‘Will do,’ Mother told the cell. ‘Au revoir!’ She ended the call.
We looked at each other.
‘She knows it’s a ploy,’ I said.
‘And I know that she knows it’s a ploy,’ Mother said.
‘And she knows that you know that she knows it’s a ploy,’ I added.
‘And that’s all we need to know,’ Mother said.
Antiques Fantastique was located in the downtown midst of Iowa City – home to the University of Iowa – just far enough away from student bars, second-hand stores, and inexpensive eateries to maintain an air of exclusive respectability.
Parking on the street in college towns is always fraught with peril, what with the lack of spaces, limited time on meters, and outrageous cost of fines. So I immediately punted (Go, Hawks!), heading to the closest public garage – a four-tiered monstrosity – which happened to be just across the street from Colette’s establishment.
After I’d gotten my ticket and the mechanical arm of the barrier gate had raised in its jerky, put-upon way, Mother said, ‘Go to the left.’
‘Those are leased spots,’ I protested.
‘Exactly.’
‘She wouldn’t risk parking her dented car here.’
Mother shrugged. ‘She might have. Who from Serenity would ever see the thing?’
‘Nosy would-be amateur sleuths?’
‘Just do it, dear.’
We cruised the leased area, going up and down each row, looking for a silver Jaguar, but finding none. No shortage of hybrids like ours, though.
Several empty reserved spots indicated one could be leased by Colette, who had perhaps thought better of driving a car involved in a vehicular homicide.
After parking on the upper level, and cracking the windows for Sushi, Mother and I made our way down the echoey stairway, then jaywalked across the street to a modern concrete building. A sign on the glass entrance of Antiques Fantastique recommended clients make an appointment. But the door was unlocked.
I don’t know what I’d been expecting, but the ultra-modern, sparse interior might best be characterized as more a gallery than an antiques shop, its white walls displaying oil paintings in heavy gilded frames with sculptures and other objets d’art balanced on Greek pedestals.
Oh, there were antiques, mostly Louis the Fourteenth (or Fifteenth?) furniture and Tiffany lamps and other high-ticket items. But nothing actually had a ticket – if you have to ask, mon cheri, you can’t afford it.
We were met by an attractive – make that stunning – woman perhaps in her forties (or possibly fifties, with the help of a very skilled artiste de scalpel) with sleek, dark medium-length hair and perfectly understated make-up. She looked très chic in her gray tweed Chanel suit and designer heels.
The wide red mouth spoke. ‘How nice of you ladies to drop by.’
Introductions were made, and Colette offered me her hand, which was at least as cold as her violet eyes, all of which went with the chill temperature she maintained in the shop.
Mother began, ‘You’re lucky to have that parking ramp just across the way. Places on the street are scarcer than hen’s teeth.’
Fortunately, Mother was in detective mode and all of us are spared a discussion of whether hens actually had teeth and, if so, what were they like, exactly.
‘Yes,’ the woman said with a wisp of a smile. ‘That ramp is the reason I chose this location. It certainly wasn’t the architecture of this building.’
Mother’s laugh sounded phony, but then it always kind of did. ‘I suppose leasing a parking spot across the way would be sky-high.’
‘I wouldn’t know,’ she said with a tossed-off smile. ‘I walk from home.’
‘How invigorating!’ Mother’s eyes went to the woman’s feet and those designer shoes – five (hundred) will get you ten (thousand) the soles were red. ‘But surely not in those, dear.’
Colette’s laugh seemed just as phony as Mother’s. ‘Of course not – not in Louboutins.’
Do I know my shoes?
‘Please have a look around,’ she said, pleasantly dismissive, ‘and do let me know if I can be of any help.’
If the woman had hoped to extract herself with that, Mother put an end to such a foolish noti
on.
‘Oh, you can be of help,’ Mother replied.
‘Oh? Is there something here you’re interested in?’
‘Yes. Answers to a few questions. Now, I understand you spent some time last night with Skylar James at The Trading Post. Am I correctly informed?’
‘You are,’ Colette replied, folding her arms; then she made a sad face. ‘Such a tragedy – I heard about the accident from his wife.’
Mother’s eyebrows went up. ‘Really? From Angela?’
Colette nodded. ‘She gave me the terrible news when I phoned to talk to Skylar this morning.’ She waved a red-nailed hand. ‘It was regarding an item in her late husband’s store that I’d inquired about. We couldn’t come to an agreement as to price last night, so I was going to try again.’
‘What was the item?’ Mother asked.
Colette hesitated. ‘I’m sure you’ll understand that I wouldn’t want the information to get around, as I’m still hoping to acquire it through his wife.’
Mother splayed a hand upon her bosom. ‘My dear, as one dealer to another, you may consider me the soul of discretion.’
As opposed to the sole of Louboutins.
The red mouth twitched in mild irritation. ‘Very well … it was a painting.’
‘Ah … the Remington oil,’ Mother said.
Colette’s surprise was obvious. ‘That’s right. Perhaps you’ve noticed it in Skylar’s office.’
‘I have. But Angela claimed it was merely a copy.’
Colette’s smile was knife-edge thin, a red cut thanks to the lipstick. ‘Well … Skylar may have told her that, so she wouldn’t know how much he’d paid for it.’
‘I see.’ Mother filed that away, then asked, ‘Did Skylar say why he was willing to part with the painting? For a man with a collecting interest so focused on the Old West, a Remington must have been quite the rare prize.’
A shrug. ‘Isn’t it obvious? In this financial climate? We’re all having difficulties, from the bottom …’ She nodded toward us, then lifted her chin. ‘… to the top.’
Gotta hand it to her – Colette did know how to lob a snobbish insult.
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