Antiques Ravin'

by Barbara Allan

  “Oh, please! You were gone before I even mentioned Lenore!” She yanked off her mustache, causing another passerby to jump. “It may interest you to know that those who stayed for the duration gave me a standing ovation at the conclusion of my performance! In fact, I had barely finished when they began getting to their feet.”

  Only a thankless child would think, Because she had finally finished.

  But I replied, “That’s wonderful to hear. Sorry I missed the last few minutes.” Time to change the subject. “I overheard some interesting dirt in the coffee shop.”

  “Concerning?”

  “Antiqua’s esteemed city council members. Some of it pretty steamy.”

  Her demeanor suddenly improved, eyes wide and sparkling now. “Ah! Tantalizing as that sounds, you’ll have to share it with me later—I’m off to have an interview with the area media. Wish me luck. Maybe it’ll make the AP!”

  “Break a leg.”

  She eyed me suspiciously, as she always did when I gave her that traditional show biz advice, then she smiled and disappeared into the crowd.

  I looked down at the panting shih tzu in my arms. “What do you say we go back to our air-conditioned Pullman?”

  Sushi nodded again. (She did!)

  I stepped into the flow of sidewalk traffic, letting it pull me along, but exiting at the first cross street to head in the direction of the Bed With No Breakfast, aka the Train That Went Nowhere.

  My route took me by the white clapboard Heartland Church, with its sign advertising the Sunday sermon:

  WHAT IS THE MEANING OF HELL?

  THE CHOIR WILL BE SINGING.

  I pondered that for a moment, then walked on.

  Next to the church was a cemetery shaded by tall pine trees. Sushi squirmed, then barked, telling me she had something to do. So I left the sidewalk and put her down in a grassy spot away from any graves. But instead, the little scamp ran off through the tombstones. I couldn’t blame her, the little darling having been cooped in either the SUV or the Pullman all day.

  “Don’t go very far!” I called out, then followed her into the cemetery.

  A wind had kicked up, causing the boughs of the pines to sway. Their rustling leaves seemed to whisper to me—or was that the cemetery’s dearly departed, offering a welcome. . . or warning?

  The deeper I wandered into the graveyard, the older the headstones became. In a section where people had died in the mid-eighteen hundreds, epithets were the norm. Some were pretty standard—religious and/or inspirational—but some were humorous.

  Here lies Daniel Tuke, the second fastest draw in Antiqua.

  Mary Brown lived each day as if it were her last, especially this one.

  Here rests Isaac Wigham, a big rock fell on his head.

  Smedley Crisp’s last words were “Watch this!”

  I was trying to imagine what ill-conceived action Smedley Crisp might have taken, when I sensed a movement directly behind me and whirled, the way you do in a graveyard when a sound spooks you. Exactly the way.

  “Didn’t mean to startle you, young lady.”

  He was tall and thin, almost cadaverous, with cropped white hair. He wore a black suit, black shirt and shoes, and looked like an undertaker. But at least he’d called me “young.”

  “That’s okay,” I said, my heart still thumping.

  “I’m Pastor Creed.”

  I introduced myself, including my kind-of-a-deputy status. “I see,” he said, “that you’ve been looking at the old Quaker gravestones.”

  “Yes. The Quakers seem to’ve had quite a sense of humor.”

  The pastor frowned. “Droll as those inscriptions may appear, I don’t really believe that they did. Have a sense of humor.”

  Oh.

  “Your church is Quaker?” I asked.

  “Nondenominational, now.” Something about that seemed regretful.

  “And the cemetery? It belongs to the church?”

  His response was a weight-of-the-world sigh that almost seemed too much for his slender shoulders. “We couldn’t afford the financial upkeep, so the city took it over. Now anyone can be buried here.”

  There goes the neighborhood.

  Pastor Creed cocked his head. “You plan to participate in the festival while you’re in Antiqua?”

  “Too crowded for me,” I said, shaking my head.

  He made a disgusted sound with his lips. “It’ll only get worse, I’m afraid.”

  If you were looking to receive the light of God from this preacher, I doubted you’d need shades.

  “You don’t approve of the event?” I asked.

  “I do not!” the pastor said. “Any idolatry of that man and his evil works is an offense to God.”

  “Poe, you mean?”

  “Indeed.”

  “It does bring in business.”

  “No good can come from the work of the devil.”

  Oh-kay . . .

  “But then,” he said, apparently sensing my discomfort, his voice softening somewhat, “that’s just my opinion . . . and I seem to be in the minority.”

  An awkward silence.

  “Well,” Pastor Creed said with a sigh, “I must work on my Sunday sermon. You’re welcome to attend services, young lady. Ten o’clock—and the church is air-conditioned.”

  He found a smile for me, and I found one for him, saying, “Thank you, Pastor.”

  He nodded and headed back toward the church.

  Sushi appeared at my feet.

  “There you are,” I said.

  But as I bent to pick her up, she ran off through the tombstones again! And every time I got within a few feet of her, she scampered away.

  “It’s too hot to play!” I hollered.

  Sushi kept the game up until she’d led me to a small stone mausoleum, where she sat suddenly down. That was odd. I thought she was looking for a place to piddle and suddenly she’s Lassie leading me to the well that Timmy fell into.

  The ancient structure was approximately ten by twelve feet and had a pyramidal roof. Grecian columns flanked a wooden door, above which was carved the name of the occupant—Henrietta Keller 1829–1911.

  Why had Sushi brought me here?

  Something glittered on the ground. I walked over and picked it up—a long, silver chain with a black raven pendant, wings spread.

  Like the necklace Morella had worn.

  I brought it up to my nose, and a sniff suggested the faintest scent of . . .

  . . . Shalimar perfume.

  I looked at the panting Sushi. Was that why she’d led me here? Had her nose led her to this necklace . . . ?

  Two crumbling stone steps led to the mausoleum’s door and an oxidized iron handle. I tried the handle and, to my astonishment, the door opened, flooding the windowless room with light, revealing a single unadorned stone sarcophagus at its center.

  Around the periphery, spent cigarettes—marijuana, judging by the faint but noticeably sweet, floral scent—littered the concrete floor, indicating there had been other visitors here besides me, Sushi, and unlikely mourners.

  I approached the sarcophagus and saw that the lid did not properly fit on its base. My eyes traveled to the floor, noting a fine ground powder created by stone scraping upon stone. The lid had been moved.

  What I did next I can only say was instinctive.

  Putting the heels of my hands against the rim of the lid, I pushed. And gritted my teeth and shoved some more, until, incrementally, the heavy top had dislodged enough for me to see within.

  And there, on top of the bones presumably belonging to Henrietta Keller, lay a considerably younger woman and yet now as old as she’d ever be . . .

  Morella, wearing a frozen, wide-eyed expression of terror more terrible than the grinning skull looking up past her.

  A Trash ’n’ Treasures Tip

  When using the services of a book dealer, make sure he or she is qualified; for example, have they earned certification from the Antiquarian Booksellers’ Association of Americ
a, or a similar organization, such as the International League of Antiquarian Booksellers? Just because a book dealer has some years on him or her, doesn’t mean their merchandise is antique too. Or, as Mother says, “Don’t judge a book by its cover—even if the leather is well-aged.”

  Chapter Three

  Poe Blow

  When Mother arrived on foot, summoned by my text, I was seated outside the mausoleum on its stone steps, holding Sushi protectively.

  “Are you all right, dear?” she asked, out of breath, still in her Poe costume. At least her glasses were back on and the mustache a memory.

  I nodded numbly.

  “Where is the poor girl?”

  I gestured with my head.

  Mother entered the crypt, then—after a few minutes, which seemed like hours—returned to sit next to me, her knees cracking on the way down, the sound as if she were snapping her fingers.

  “Took quite a blow to the head,” Mother said, as if reporting we should pick up milk at the store. “Been in there awhile—rigor has come and gone. Perhaps we should call the authorities.”

  “Mother, you are the authorities.”

  Her eyes widened and she smiled big. “Why, so I am! I forgot for a moment—this is my first murder on the job, after all. My first look through the official telescope! Now, I must remember my training.”

  Training from 160 hours of night classes at the community college, qualifying her to be sheriff. Barely. Of course her amateur standing was second to none....

  I said, “I believe, as county sheriff, you have Serenity’s police forensics department at your disposal. . . .”

  “I know that,” she replied defensively.

  “Just trying to help.”

  “Of course, dear.” She made the call.

  Then she smiled at me apologetically. “Don’t mean to be short with you. It’s just the darn heat. Now, before I call the lab boys in . . .” She paused for a moment, relishing what she’d just said. “Tell me, how is it you know the girl?”

  “I don’t, really,” I said. “She was a waitress at the coffee shop. Took my order yesterday. Her first name is Morella—no idea what her last is, but that would be easy enough to find out.”

  “And how did you happen to find her here?”

  I filled Mother in on how Sushi had done the detecting.

  She patted Sushi’s head. “Good girl. I always thought you were part bloodhound!”

  Sushi just gave her a look.

  Mother put a finger to her cheek and squinted into her thoughts. “Shalimar on the necklace, you say? Interesting choice of fragrance—too heavy for my tastes. I prefer something lighter, with hints of black currant buds and lily of the valley . . . like Anaïs Anaïs or Eau de Charlotte.”

  I stared at her. “Must you be so insensitive? A young woman has been murdered!”

  Now Mother gave me a look, eerily like the one Sushi had given her. “I know that, dear. But the best way I can help her now . . . only real way we can help her now . . . is to put emotionalism aside and find the one who did this. Perhaps the perfume holds significance—an expensive purchase for a mere waitress in a small town, don’t you think? There may be a boyfriend lurking somewhere.”

  Mother might be guilty of spreading a trail of nonsense in her wake, but even before she’d become sheriff, she had a no-nonsense and frankly rather cold attitude toward death in general and murder in particular.

  She got to her feet, using a hand on my noggin for support, saying, “I’ll call Deputy Chen and fill him in.”

  “Mind if I wait inside the church?” I asked.

  “Excellent suggestion—you’d be out of everyone’s way, yet still available for further questioning.”

  What was I, a suspect or a sort-of-deputy?

  She raised a cautionary finger, as if about to start “The Raven” again. “But don’t go mentioning details of the death to this Pastor, uh . . . what did you say his name was?”

  “Creed.”

  “Pastor Creed . . . or anyone else, for that matter. For now, just say the late young lady was found inside the mausoleum. . .”

  Young lady. That was what the pastor had called me.

  “. . . but not specifically where within it. No mention yet of apparent death by blunt object. And yes, you can use her name. It will get out soon enough.”

  I nodded.

  Mother produced her cell phone from the frock coat’s pocket to take pictures, and I stood holding Sushi, who squirmed just a little, probably preferring to do her own traveling. But this was a crime scene, after all, so with the dog in my arms, I trudged toward the church, feeling as if I were walking on sand. Or maybe quicksand.

  Parked near the back of the building was a red truck, bearing more than a few scrapes and dings, its open cargo area laden with red bricks. Two men in work clothes—one young, the other older—were pushing brick-filled wheelbarrows toward the old storm cellar entrance to the basement, like the one Dorothy tried to get into when the tornado came.

  I walked around to the double front doors of the church, found them open, and entered, immediately disappointed that it was not cool inside. The air-conditioning must have been reserved for Sunday services only.

  There was no vestibule, the sanctuary stretching out before me like an old one-room schoolhouse: wooden floor showing decades of wear; hard oak pews sans cushions; and plain, uncurtained windows. To my right, tethered to a hook on the wall, a rope led up to the small open tower, where a cast-iron bell waited patiently to summon sinners.

  At the opposite end of the room was a wide, stagelike chancel, two steps running its length, leading up to an unadorned altar, above which hung a roughly carved cross. To the left was a podium, to the right a row of chairs for the choir, and behind the chairs an old stand-up piano.

  Two closed doors banked either side of the chancel, one marked RESTROOM and the other OFFICE. Behind the latter I heard a slam, of a drawer shutting maybe—the man of the cloth at work, apparently.

  I sat in a back pew on the center aisle, Sushi down on the seat next to me, then stared at the cross, trying not to think of anything.

  How much time passed I couldn’t tell you—half an hour maybe—but after a while the door to the office opened, and Pastor Creed came out and headed up the outside aisle.

  He didn’t notice me at first, but then stopped short. “Miss Borne!”

  “Didn’t mean to startle you, this time.”

  He found a fold of a smile. “Turnabout’s fair play, they say. We don’t get many visitors in the midafternoon, even when Antiqua’s full of tourists.”

  He edged through the pew to reach me, then paused, eyes briefly taking in Sushi before returning to mine, apparently deciding not to complain about the canine parishioner.

  “You look upset, child,” he said.

  Was that a promotion or demotion from “young lady,” I wondered.

  I told him how I’d discovered Morella in the mausoleum and that Mother was on the scene and other authorities were on the way.

  On an exhale, the pastor said, “Dear Lord.”

  He sat next to me, then bowed his head and folded his hands in his lap. His lips moved in silent prayer.

  When he had finished, Creed said resignedly, “And yet . . . I’m not surprised.”

  “Pardon?”

  “I would imagine a drug overdose.”

  “What?”

  “Was the cause of it. Isn’t that the case?”

  “I wouldn’t know. I just found her. I’m not the coroner.”

  That was a little snippy, but he didn’t seem to notice. He explained himself, quietly. “Seems I’m always finding evidence of drug use in that particular mausoleum. I’ve told the city council about it, repeatedly. Asked the mayor personally to put a secure bolt on the door.” He sighed. “But nothing has been done. Perhaps they’ll do something now.”

  “Did you know Morella?”

  “Not really, no. Certainly not well. I know she works . . . worked at the co
ffee shop, and I’d seen her around town at times with a sketchy crowd.”

  “Was she part of your congregation?”

  He shook his head. “She never attended services. Not even Christmas or Easter. Of course, most of the youth in this town aren’t exactly devout. Just look at the way they dress! How they mutilate themselves with hedonistic tattoos and piercings.”

  I shrugged. “A lot of them wear crosses, though.”

  From below us came a loud noise, like rocks being broken by a sledgehammer. I jumped a little, though Pastor Creed seemed barely to notice.

  “Sorry,” the pastor said with a faint smile. “The workmen are replacing a buckling wall.” Then, with a more distinct frown, he said, “Perhaps I should go see if I can be of any help.”

  “I don’t think you should.”

  “Oh?”

  Through the window onto the parking lot, I could see a white utility van pulling up to the cemetery entrance.

  “The forensics officers are here,” I said, “and they won’t be wanting anyone near the mausoleum except the sheriff.”

  “Forensics?” the pastor said with alarm. “Why would they be called? Won’t an autopsy confirm an overdose?”

  “It would, if you’re right about that,” I replied, keeping the blunt object information to myself as Mother had instructed. “Sheriff Borne is just being thorough, and besides, forensics is part of Antiqua’s contract whenever there’s a . . .” I hesitated to say “suspicious.” “An unexpected death.”

  He seemed to accept that, saying, “Then I will take the opportunity to pray for that poor girl’s soul. Perhaps our Lord God will be lenient and consign her not to Hell but the mercy of Purgatory.”

  Not exactly my idea of mercy, but different strokes.

  The pastor stood, stepped past me into the aisle, then walked down to the elevated chancel, where he approached the altar, knelt before the cross, and once again bowed his head.

  The church doors opened and a blast of hot air entered, as if God Himself had decided to deliver the pastor a prompt reply. But it was only the still-Poe-clad Mother. She came over quickly, and I moved down so she could plop herself next to me. I could almost smell her burning.