I smiled sympathetically at our hostess and followed Mother.
Mrs. Hatcher closed the heavy door, then joined us in a large foyer, where it became necessary for the pro bono deputy to pick up the conversation.
Why?
Because the sheriff was staring openmouthed at the interior’s grandeur, her eyes bugging behind her large lenses to bounce up the exquisitely carved staircase to the stained-glass windows on the landing, then down again and over to a huge, ornately carved grandfather clock, and up once more to a crown-like metal chandelier, which I hoped was securely attached to the ceiling, as we were all standing beneath it.
“Perhaps we should sit down?” I suggested, fighting memories of Phantom of the Opera.
Mrs. Hatcher swallowed and nodded. “We can go into the parlor.”
“Yes, let’s do,” Mother said. Said the spider to the fly.
The parlor—on our right through sliding pocket doors—was all dark walls and somber Gothic furnishings, marginally cheered by the morning sun.
Mother and I sat on a couch with cushions somewhat softer than stone near a baroque carved fireplace while Mrs. Hatcher helped herself to a high-backed chair with pointed finials that looked lethal.
I couldn’t seem to reconcile the surroundings with the mayor’s country-club persona. Had this (to me) hideous mansion been inherited? Or perhaps it reflected his wife’s tastes?
The woman began, “Myron worked at the store late last night, cleaning up.”
Mother was still cross-examining the furnishings, so I said, “Why was that necessary?”
She sighed. “Because things were such a mess, what with everyone searching for that Poe prize. More like locusts than customers.” She shrugged and shook her head. “Anyway, I wasn’t too worried when he hadn’t come home by the time I went to bed. It’s been like this on previous fest weekends as well.”
Mother had finally turned her attention to the mayor’s wife. “When exactly did he usually get home, Mrs. Hatcher, during Poe Days?”
“Call me Caroline, please. About midnight. But I woke around three and Myron still wasn’t here, so I called his cell phone. When he didn’t answer, I tried the shop’s number and got the answering machine.” She paused. “Then at six this morning I called Paula Baxter—her store is next door, and she has an apartment above her place. She says she hasn’t seen Myron since a meeting at city hall early last evening.”
A tear trailed down the woman’s cheek, and she wiped it away with a forefinger.
“Go on, Caroline,” Mother said. “And I’m Vivian. And this is my deputy.”
I didn’t know whether to growl or laugh, and did neither.
Caroline said, “I asked Paula if she’d go down to our shop and see if Myron might have worked through the night—or fallen asleep there.”
The deputy—me, remember?—asked, “Why didn’t you go straight there yourself?”
“I didn’t want to leave the house, in case Myron came home. Well, Paula called me back and said the front door was locked and he didn’t answer her knock. And she knocked hard. So she went around to the back door—also locked—and saw that his car was still there! She pounded the back door and got no response, then called me. And that’s when I got in touch with you, Deputy.”
“Call me Brandy, please.”
Mother gave me a mildly reproving glance, as if that were inappropriate, then asked Caroline if Myron had any enemies.
This question startled Mrs. Hatcher, who sat forward. “Why . . . why do you ask? Do you think something may have happened to him? That someone might have . . . done something?”
“No, no,” Mother replied soothingly. “It’s just a routine question, Caroline.”
The woman’s chin rose, her expression at least a little indignant. “Well, he didn’t have an enemy in the world! Everyone loves Myron.”
“I’m sure they did,” Mother said.
“Did?”
“Do. I’m sure they do.” She was backpedaling like a circus monkey on a unicycle. “I’m sure Anitqua’s well-regarded mayor will turn up perfectly well with a perfectly good explanation.”
And that assurance proved perfectly useless, as Mrs. Hatcher’s worried expression returned, buying none of it.
“Myron has never disappeared like this before,” the woman said. “And after what happened to that poor girl yesterday—”
She began to cry.
I got up and gave our hostess a tissue from my purse, then returned to my post.
Mother leaned forward. “Try not to worry yourself, dear, we will find him. By the by . . . whose idea was it, living here?”
Caroline, thrown by this non sequitur, frowned above the tissue she was using and said, “What?”
“Ancestral home, is it?”
Mrs. Hatcher shook her head. “No. Myron always had his eye on this place, ever since we moved to Antiqua. When it came up for sale, we snatched it up. But it’s been something of a money pit, and sometimes we kick ourselves for . . .” She frowned, angry either at herself or Mother for getting off-track (perhaps both). “You will find him, won’t you, Sheriff?”
“Never have I, in holding this office, failed to locate a missing person.”
That seemed to reassure Caroline Hatcher, at least a little, probably because she didn’t realize that her husband was Mother’s first missing person.
Before we took our leave, Mother asked for and received a key to the Hatchers’ antiques shop and a spare key fob to Myron’s Cadillac.
Back in the Explorer, the near-mansion looming over us like a solid shadow, I remarked, “I don’t know why you like Gothic Revival.”
“In this instance, I don’t particularly. The Hatcher manse is rather beyond the pale, don’t you think? Did you ever wonder what that expression means, dear?”
“Can’t say that I have.” Actually, I thought it was “beyond the pail,” like maybe somebody threw a paintbrush at a can and missed.
“It refers to an area in Ireland,” Mother said, with the characteristic smugness she assumed when schooling her backward daughter, “where the wealthy once lived—from Dundalk to south of Dublin.”
I started the engine up. “Gee, now I can check that one off my ‘ever wonder’ list. Anything else you’d care to share?”
She put a finger to her lips. “Just a question. Did you notice the state of structural disrepair?”
“How can you tell with Gothic?”
“And the sparseness of the furniture in the parlor, along with missing pictures, as evidenced by their outlines on the faded wallpaper? I sense financial difficulties.” In transit now, I offered a one-shouldered shrug. “They own two late-model cars. Besides, maybe some of the furniture and framed pictures have been moved to their store to sell this weekend.”
Mother sighed. “I suppose that’s one explanation.”
“Or maybe the stuff didn’t come with the place. My guess is, it’s a dream house that turned out to be a nightmare. Way too big and demanding for a couple. So they’ll eventually sell it.”
Mother said nothing. She hated it when I shot down any of her notions.
“Anyway,” I said, “we’ve got an M.I.A. mayor to find.”
Antiqua was bustling once again, but entering from the south was easy, and I quickly found my way, via side streets, to the alley behind the row of antiques stores.
And, as Paula had told Mrs. Hatcher, the mayor’s silver Cadillac was parked near the back door of Top Drawer.
I eased the Explorer over, leaving some distance between us and the Caddy, and we both climbed out.
Staying by the SUV, I watched as Mother moved slowly around the car, peering in the windows. After trying the door handles and finding them locked, she used the key remote to access the inside and root around, including the trunk.
I was getting hot standing in the sun, the cooler morning air having evaporated.
“Well?” I asked, impatiently.
She walked over. “Nothing seems untoward.” D
igging out the spare key to the shop, she said, “Let’s have a look inside.”
Nothing seemed “untoward” in there, either.
The high-end, somewhat pretentious (IMHO) antiques were nicely arranged and well displayed, with no signs of a robbery or a scuffle. The checkout counter was neat and tidy, as were the undisturbed contents of the drawers—everything ready for today’s onslaught.
The only thing missing was the store’s owner.
I heard the front door unlock, and we looked that way in anticipation; a male teenager in a short-sleeved white shirt and blue jeans entered, along with a warm breeze.
“Oh!” the young man said, startled at the sight of us. He was pudgy, with sand-colored hair and a cherubic face.
Mother, not bothering to explain what we were doing there and how we got in, asked, “And what is your name?”
“Ryan, sir . . . er, ma’am . . . I mean, Sheriff.”
“Have you seen Mr. Hatcher recently?”
He took a few tentative steps forward. “Not since I closed up yesterday. Is . . . is something wrong?”
“No,” Mother said. “Will you ask him to call Sheriff Borne when he comes in? He has my number.”
“Okay.”
We left through the back, Mother locking the door behind us.
Outside, I took a stroll around the Caddy myself, then knelt on the gravel to look under the car.
Mother, heels of her hands resting on her duty belt, in a vague suggestion of Western sheriff, said, “Dear, you’re wasting your time.”
I stood, and mimicked her hands-on-hips pose. “Am I?” Then I held out the mayor’s key fob.
Mother beamed. “Well, what do you think about that!”
I took that literally and said, “He could have dropped it when somebody grabbed him. Could this be a kidnapping?”
“A snatch job?” she said. I hated it when she talked like somebody in an old Hawaii Five-O episode. “We don’t know that for certain. There could be any number of reasons for that key fob getting under there.”
“You do realize we should inform the FBI, don’t you?”
She made a “What For?” face and shrugged.
I smirked. “You don’t want to do that, because they would take over.”
“I will call them,” she said, with just a hint of defensiveness, “if and when we have more proof to back up your theory.”
“More proof than the shop owner disappeared last night and his key fob was found under his Cadillac? And, by the way, we just had a murder in this small town?”
“I have no intention of wasting the FBI’s time. They have enough to do, trying to decide who in government to go after next.”
I sighed. “I just don’t want you to get yourself in trouble. You’re only getting started in this job.” Which reminded me. “What happened at the casino? You were following a lead, right?”
She nodded. “Morella Crafton went to the Tomahawk Thursday night, and their security team may be able to provide us with camera coverage of a cell call she received. Possibly including the caller’s number.”
“Anything else?”
“No.”
Mother had a “tell” when she was lying: Her eyes looked briefly to the right. But, for now, I didn’t press the point.
She was saying, “I need to use our mobile radio to check in with Deputy Chen, then contact the coroner for his prelim findings on Morella. With luck, the casino may have found that video by now. But for the moment our chief concern is the missing mayor.”
“Right,” I said. “How about tracking the mayor’s cell phone?”
Mother nodded. “The PD might be able to assist with that—if his phone is still turned on. For now, I need to stay at the scene. But there’s something you can do.”
“What?”
“Interview the council members. Find out when they last had contact with His Honor. Then ask them to frankly discuss any adversaries he might have. Even a small-town mayor can make enemies.”
“Roger that.”
Mother held out a hand. “I’ll need the keys to the SUV, dear, to engage the equipment—computer, mobile radio, and such.”
“Use your own key,” I said.
“Why, what key would that be?”
“Oh! Don’t you have one tucked away in your utility belt, Batman? Or did you hot-wire the SUV last night?”
And I walked away.
She could always fire me.
* * *
I had not been inside the other council members’ shops and was curious to see what the contents revealed about the owners’ personalities, the way Top Drawer Antiques had the pretentious Myron Hatcher.
(I would hate to think what our merchandise back at Trash ’n’ Treasures said about Mother and me, especially since it included a lacquered fruitcake, a Happy Face alarm clock, and a tabletop plastic Christmas tree for weenies on toothpicks.)
Paula Baxter’s redundantly named Relics Antiques was open for business, although not very busy despite the festival. Which actually made sense, as people were waiting for the release of the second encrypted clue at noon to further indicate exactly what Poe item they would be looking for.
Paula—in an orange-red dress that went well with her short red hair—was behind the counter, waiting on a customer, giving me the opportunity to stroll around her shop.
The place had a casual vibe, the antiques fairly common and only slightly overpriced. Unlike Top Drawer, where placards screamed “Prices Firm,” I had the feeling you might be able to bargain with Paula.
Many antiques shop owners bought what they themselves liked and even collected, since they had to be around the stuff all day—and items suitable for their own collections might be brought to them by dealers and clients. Paula offered a diverse assortment of furniture, glassware, old toys, and books, with a penchant for vintage Christmas items, as well as a fondness for framed pictures (some oil, some prints) of old-time, homey settings—snow-covered farmhouses, cozy cottages at autumn, families gathered ’round the hearth, and so on.
Paula was free now, so I walked over to the counter.
Immediately she asked, “Any word from Myron?”
“No. But we did speak at some length to Caroline. She seems pretty flummoxed, has no idea what might have happened.”
She shook her head. “I just don’t understand it. Myron is supposed to hand out the second clue soon!”
If he’d been kidnapped, that would seem the least of our concerns; but right now in Antiqua, the festival was all.
I shrugged, not sure what to say. “Well, it’s not noon yet.”
Her eyes brightened. “I’m sure he’ll show up by then. He loves the limelight too much to miss it.”
“When did you last see Myron?”
“Yesterday,” she said without pause, “after our stores closed. We had a quick meeting at city hall about how we felt things were going with the fest. That lasted, oh, maybe . . . fifteen minutes?”
“Any idea where Myron might have gone after that?”
“Sure. Back to his shop. We walked over together. My place looked like a tornado blew through it.”
“You stayed to clean up the place?”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
She made a face, shrugged. “Finally gave up around nine. Went upstairs—that’s where I live. I mean, what’s the point of spending too much time putting everything back in perfect place? Folks are going to mess things up even more today.”
I nodded. “Did the mayor have any enemies you know of? Political opponents, maybe?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Do you mean someone who might want to do him harm? Physical harm?”
I nodded again.
She shook her head, kind of shivered. “Then, no, I can’t think of anyone.”
Paula’s eyes shifted from mine to someone who had just come in, and for a brief moment her eyes registered surprise. And what else?
Alarm?
I turned to see a man on the near
side of middle-age, about six foot, maybe one hundred eighty pounds, wearing a wrinkled plaid shirt, baggy blue jeans, and scuffed white tennis shoes. His long, graying hair pulled back in a ponytail and the unruly salt-and-pepper beard gave me the impression of an aging hippie.
“Welcome to Relics Antiques,” Paula said cordially. No sign of alarm now. “Let me know if I can be of any help.”
He approached. “I’m looking for a turn-of-the-century candlestick telephone.”
Paula smiled. “I believe I have one.”
She threw the smile at me. “You’ll have to excuse me, Ms. Borne.”
“That was all, anyway,” I told her. “Let the sheriff know if you hear from Myron. Right away.”
“Will do.”
She disappeared with the man into the back of the store. I went outside, where the sidewalk was beginning to bustle with jovial, mildly crazed folks, ready to continue the search.
I’d become pretty adept at quickly scanning and mentally recording merchandise in other antiques shops, always on the lookout for something unique for us. I’d have remembered seeing a vintage candlestick phone in Paula’s store, as it would have made a perfect addition to ours, specifically the living room Victorian merchandise. But I supposed I could have missed it.
Lottie Everhart’s shop Somewhere in Time—judging by Mother’s earlier description of the place as having been filled to the rafters and cluttered—seemed to have changed dramatically since the death of the proprietress’s partner.
The store was more of a gift shop now, with antiques scattered here and there as almost an afterthought. It was as if Lottie had wanted to expunge any memory of the store prior to the disastrous Poe portrait sale and the suicide of her husband, Mike.
I located the owner, attractive in a low-cut white blouse and tight black slacks (her, not me), as she was opening a glass display case of Precious Moments figurines for a heavyset woman whose face at rest seemed to form a permanent frown.
Lottie handed a small collectible—a baby with a bear on its back—to the customer, who skeptically looked at the price, then sniffed, “I can get it cheaper on the Internet.”
The customer thrust the figurine back at Lottie and trundled off.
Looking at me, the owner sighed. “You don’t know how many times I hear that.”
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