Antiques Ravin'

by Barbara Allan

  Me too. My answer to such a patron in our store? “By all means, spend less money if you can. On the other hand, the item you desire is right here, right now . . . and you can examine it, and take it home to enjoy, immediately. Without fear of having it mischaracterized on the Internet or arriving damaged in the mail.”

  Worked for me, almost always.

  But sharing this perhaps unwanted advice was not why I was here. It was to say, “I need to speak with you.”

  “Certainly,” Lottie replied. “Won’t get crazy in here until noon.” She replaced the little figurine on a shelf, locked the case, then turned to me.

  I informed the council member that the mayor hadn’t been seen since their meeting yesterday evening.

  Lottie frowned and said, “Well, that’s odd. He seemed perfectly fine then. And Caroline has no idea where he is?”

  “No. Can you think of anyone who might wish him harm?”

  Her eyes widened. “Good heavens, no! Certainly not! He’s something of a beloved figure around town.”

  That seemed to be the consensus.

  I pressed. “Mr. Hatcher ever have a run-in with anyone? Any bad blood from a political opponent when he ran for office, for instance?”

  “Well . . .”

  I waited.

  She moved a step closer and lowered her voice, though the shop was otherwise empty. “A few weeks ago, after our regular meeting at city hall? Myron and Wally stayed behind in the conference room. I was about to go out the front door when I heard them.”

  “Heard them what?”

  She hesitated, then said, “Arguing.”

  “About . . . ?”

  She shook her head. “No idea. The conference door was closed. But voices were raised.”

  I said, “The sheriff will want to know more about that.”

  Lottie shrugged. “Nothing more to share, really. Disagreements come up among us all the time. We don’t always see eye to eye—that doesn’t make us enemies.” She touched my arm. “If Myron is missing, what does it mean?”

  “I honestly don’t know,” was my reply.

  And with Mother still keeping the lid on Morella’s death being a murder, I dare not add that to the mix.

  I left a concerned Lottie behind and went two doors down to Wally’s Junk ’n’ Stuff, where upon entering I began to sneeze.

  No dusting seemed to have been done in here for years. Stuff was stacked everywhere—paint-peeling doors, seatless chairs, rusty metal, moldy books, cracked crockery. A neon TILT sign flashed in my brain as I tried to take it all in.

  Narrow aisles—sometimes leading to dead ends—had visitors jostling around one another. This mess, after all, would seem an ideal place to hide something. I found the owner wearing the same short-sleeved plaid shirt and well-worn cargo shorts as the day before, singing the praises of an old wooden wagon wheel to a male customer, who decided to take a pass when his wife elbowed him helpfully.

  After informing Wally I needed a word, he said he was too busy for that, so I let him know the sheriff had sent me. He sighed—I was surprised a blast of dust didn’t come out—and we snaked our way back to a dirty and dusty office, where we stood facing each other.

  After I filled him in, Wally echoed what Paula and Lottie had said about seeing Myron at the meeting last night. He said he was sure the mayor would turn up.

  “You had an argument with him a while back,” I reminded him, “after another recent meeting.”

  “Says who?”

  “Not at liberty to say.”

  “Lottie!” he scoffed. “She’s a little snoop and a troublemaker who oughtta look after her own affairs, if you get my drift.”

  This was not the quiet, emotional man I had met at the church (and Mother had not yet shared with me her encounter with him at Morella’s apartment upstairs).

  I asked, “What was the argument with Mayor Hatcher about?”

  “Didn’t Lottie tell you? I mean, she probably had her ear to the door!”

  I said nothing.

  He sighed. “I was just . . . ticked off that Myron took over the planning of this year’s festival, wholesale, including picking the prize—which we all had to chip in for, so why didn’t we have more of a say in it?”

  The question was rhetorical, so I waited.

  “Anyway,” Wally went on, “that’s water under the bridge.”

  “Then you’re happy with the choice of the Poe book?”

  He shrugged a single shoulder. “I guess it was worth the price. Attendance is up at the festival, which should mean more sales. And Myron promised to make picking any future prizes a joint effort. After the fact, but he did promise.”

  Regarding any enemies Mr. Hatcher might have, the junk dealer couldn’t think of any, somewhat reluctantly admitting that Myron was generally well liked, even if Wally and Myron had their share of disagreements.

  Before departing, I asked Wally what he was going to do with Morella’s things—mostly to gauge his reaction—and his demeanor immediately softened.

  “I don’t really know,” he said sadly. “She didn’t have any relatives. I guess when the sheriff says it’s okay, I’ll box up what’s there and donate it someplace.”

  “Sounds right,” I said, then smiled a little and left.

  My final stop took up much of the next block—Rick’s Treasure Aisles, an old barn reconverted into an antiques mall with dozens of booths rented by different dealers. Such malls were my favorite antiques shopping experience—you never knew what you might find. Each stall was different: This one sloppy, that one neat, next one focused, its neighbor scattered. And the barn atmosphere itself was charming and relaxed.

  I found Rick trying to deal with two customers, with another waiting for his attention. I took the owner’s arm and pulled him aside.

  Our brief conversation wasn’t worth the paper we’ve printed it on. But you better read it, anyway.

  Me: Excuse me, but no one can find Mr. Hatcher.

  Rick: So what?

  Me: I mean he’s missing.

  Rick: Who cares?

  Me: Did anyone hate him?

  Rick: Everybody hated him. If they say different, they’re lying. Now, if you’re not gonna buy something? I’m busy.

  Walking back to rejoin Mother, I passed city hall, where Paula was passing out slips of paper with the second cryptogram. She saw me through the crowd, raised her eyebrows in question, as if to ask, “Any news about Myron?” I shook my head in answer. Our shared expression said the mayor must be in trouble.

  I picked up an undeciphered sheet someone had dropped on the ground.

  0++! 1+(.+8@) 2++! 8*;6;08= ;508)

  From my purse I got out a pen and the cheat sheet of codes I’d recorded so far and began marking up the new cryptogram, right there on the sidewalk.

  This clue was harder, but since I already knew what the prize was, it didn’t take me long, even with a few gaps of letters, like on Wheel of Fortune:

  Look for Poe’s book entitled Tales.

  My cell phone rang.

  “Come at once,” Mother said urgently. “I’m still in the alley behind Top Drawer.”

  “On my way.”

  I broke into a jog, and by the time I reached the Explorer—within which Mother was seated behind the wheel, tempting fate, with the air conditioner running—my clothes were soaked.

  I got in on the rider’s side. “What is it?” I asked, out of breath.

  “Myron’s cell phone has been triangulated to the church,” she said, eyes bright with the excitement of the chase.

  Mine widened too; no idea whether they were bright (kind of doubt it). “Not another entombment?”

  “Inside the church,” she clarified.

  I got out, Mother got out, and we performed what in less enlightened days might be termed a Chinese fire drill. Soon I was behind the wheel, and we got going.

  On the short drive to the church, Mother told me that the coroner had reported having a hard time estimating the time o
f Morella’s death—due to the heat—but felt the young woman had likely died between midnight and two a.m. Since she had been alive in the sarcophagus for a while, Morella could have been attacked much earlier.

  But it wouldn’t have taken her too long to run out of air.

  I asked, “And word from the casino?”

  “Nothing yet.”

  The front doors of the church was unlocked per usual, and we entered, the sheriff leading, deputy following. That much in our relationship hadn’t changed.

  Pastor Creed, placing hymnals in the wooden holders on the back of pews, paused in his toil as we approached.

  “Good morning—or should I say afternoon,” he said pleasantly. “Another hot one.” Then, reading our expressions, he added, “Is anything wrong?”

  Mother didn’t bother answering; instead she got out her cell phone and quickly entered a number.

  Pastor Creed asked, “What is this about?”

  “Triangulation indicates,” I said, “that Mayor Hatcher’s cell phone is here somewhere.”

  “It is?” The pastor frowned in confusion. “What are you—”

  The trill of a cell phone rose faintly through the floorboards.

  Mother demanded of the confused pastor, “Take me to the basement. Now.”

  “The only entry,” he said, pointing, “is outside in back.”

  Mother moved faster than anyone who’d recently had bunion surgery should have been able. I followed her, and the man of God followed me.

  As Mother neared the slanted wooden doors leading to the basement, the pastor called out, “Sheriff! You’re not going down there are you?”

  She put on the brakes. “Why? Don’t you want me to?”

  Creed, out of breath, said, “You just need to take care if you do! The workmen likely left a mess when they quit yesterday, and they’re not due back till Monday.”

  Mother looked past the pastor. “Brandy, your assistance please.”

  She and I grabbed the handles on the storm cellar doors, and in seconds we were descending a half flight of wooden steps, Creed trailing behind. The trilling had stopped, gone to voice mail probably.

  The basement—really a large, low-ceilinged cellar—had a dirt floor and red brick walls. Scattered about, as the pastor promised, were the workmen’s hand tools, several wheelbarrows, bags of mortar, and stacks of bricks.

  Behind us, the pastor—still not getting it—said, “There’s nothing to see down here. Just some crumbling walls that need replacing.” Then: “That’s odd. . . .”

  Creed walked over to a recently constructed wall, touched it, and said, “This shouldn’t be out so far.”

  Mother’s grin was a skull’s. “‘The Cask of Amontillado’!”

  Again she entered the mayor’s number . . .

  . . . and the trill came from behind the wall!

  “Brandy! Get a tool—you too, Pastor. Anything we can use to break through this brick. Let’s hope it hasn’t dried too thoroughly.”

  “Wait!” Creed protested. “What . . . ?”

  “Do as she says,” I told him.

  I grabbed a flat-edged shovel, Mother took a mortar hoe, and the pastor reluctantly found a heavy stone-hammer.

  Together we pounded on the bricks, which easily broke apart because the mortar had, thankfully, not set.

  And there, on his knees on the dirt floor in the tight space, his wrists clasped to the crumbling wall behind him, was the slumped, head-hanging figure of a man, a rag stuffed in his mouth as a gag.

  Someone had entombed the mayor.

  A Trash ’n’ Treasures Tip

  The old adage that good things come to those who wait can apply to hunting for rare books. Be patient, and it will turn up. Patience, though, is not one of Mother’s virtues, or mine . . . and certainly not Sushi’s, who is still with us despite having chewed up one of Mother’s favorite tomes, Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm (not Rebecca of Manderley).

  Chapter Six

  Poe With the Flow

  My first impression was that the mayor was dead, but then a soft, muffled moan emerged from the cloth stuffed in his mouth. He moved a little.

  “He’s alive!” I said, and immediately realized I sounded like Colin Clive in the 1931 Frankenstein.

  The pastor and I stepped aside to give Mother room as she crouched before the hole we had made in the brick wall. Reaching in, she touched Mr. Hatcher’s arm, and he emitted a louder groan.

  She leaned in and snatched the cloth from his lips. “Myron!” she said. “Wakey wakey!”

  “Huh? . . . What . . . ?” came the weak reply.

  “We’re going to widen the hole,” Mother told the prisoner. “Don’t go anywhere.”

  The mayor’s head came up, and he goggled at her. Apparently he would honor her request.

  We used the tools and widened the aperture. Mother had me take photos of the crime scene before the pastor used a screwdriver to pry loose the clasps that had been hammered into the wall—wasn’t terribly hard removing them, since that wall was rather a crumbling thing in the first place.

  Mother took the half-sitting man by one arm and said, “Pastor Creed, some assistance please.”

  Mother’s low-back issues wouldn’t allow her to perform this duty alone. Creed took the mayor’s other arm—Myron’s suit was powdered with pulverized mortar from his rescue—and they helped him through the hole. I continued to take pictures on my phone of the procedure.

  “Where . . . where the hell am I?” the mayor asked groggily, leaning heavily on the pastor.

  Who said, “Language, please.”

  “The church basement,” Mother told him.

  Myron’s words came slowly. “My . . . head . . . hurts. Really hurts. What . . . happened?”

  Mother said, “You may have been sapped, Mayor Hatcher.”

  “Sapped?”

  “That’s what we call ‘conked’ in the law enforcement game. Do you think you can walk?”

  He nodded, then said, “Need water. And . . . a restroom. Any . . . any of you see my glasses?”

  “We’ll tend to your needs,” Mother replied, then nodded to me to go in through that hole and have a look around and snap some more pics. She and the pastor drunk-walked the mayor toward the stone steps to the outdoors.

  Checking inside the would-be tomb, I saw nothing in the dirt but chunks and shards of broken mortar and brick—no sign of His Honor’s glasses. Outside the opening, any footprints the abductor might have left had been obliterated by our own movements—that and the action of dragging Mr. Hatcher out of captivity.

  Expanding my search, I found several cigarette butts, along with a crumpled Camels pack, which I believed to have been left by a workman. I doubted that the killer would have built the wall, then hung around for a few smokes. Discovery of another empty Camels pack, and more spent butts, seemed to substantiate that theory.

  Above, a toilet flushed and water pipes gurgled; I left the basement, closing the storm cellar doors, and headed inside to join the others in the sanctuary.

  They were down in front, Mayor Hatcher (in the first pew) the only one seated. Mother was in the row behind the mayor, leaning over to press a white hand towel to the back of his head. Pastor Creed stood before his lone parishioner, holding a glass of water.

  Mother was saying, “There isn’t any blood . . . just a nasty little bump. But you really should go to the ER.”

  “No, I’m all right,” the mayor responded, sounding more like himself.

  “You were apparently unconscious for nearly twelve hours, Mr. Hatcher,” Mother told him. “A possible concussion is nothing to play fast and loose with.”

  Hatcher held up a hand and glanced back at her, signaling that she should cease the toweling. “I said I’m fine. I appreciate your concern, Sheriff . . . Pastor. But what happened to me?”

  “That’s what I hope to find out from you,” Mother replied, moving into the aisle to see him better.

  He frowned up at her. “I’ll do what
I can, only . . . I can’t remember a thing.”

  “You must try. Because I can tell you one very obvious thing: Someone tried to kill you, and in a most nasty way.”

  Hatcher swallowed thickly, then thrust his hand toward Pastor Creed, gesturing for the glass of water, which his holy host provided. After the mayor downed its contents, he handed the glass back with a nod of thanks.

  Then, staring past the preacher at the large, looming cross on the wall, the mayor said, “All I remember is leaving the back of the store around midnight, walking to my car, and . . . really, that’s . . . that’s all.” His eyes went to Mother. “The next thing I’m aware of is being in a cold, musty place, in a kind of sitting position on a hard surface. . . and you talking to me.”

  Not much to go on.

  Mother nodded for the mayor to make room, and he did, sliding over. She sat next to Myron, angled toward him.

  “Would you do something for me?” she asked. “It might be unpleasant, but it could be most helpful.”

  “I’ll . . . I’ll certainly try.”

  “Good. Close your eyes.”

  “Close my . . . ?

  “Close your eyes. That’s right. Now go back to the moment you were leaving the store. You’ve been working late, you are tired, you want to get home to Caroline. You have your keys to the store in your hand and lock the back door.”

  “No need. It locks when I shut it . . . but I do have my car key fob in hand.”

  “Fine. You go down the few stairs to the alley. What then?”

  “I click the car open, with the fob.”

  “Excellent,” Mother said. “The car lights are now on and you walk toward the driver’s side, the key fob in your hand. You reach for the door handle.”

  Hatcher’s eyes flew open. “I see a figure behind me! Reflected in the window glass!”

  “Who?” Mother asked, excitedly.

  The mayor shook his head, but it seemed to hurt and he stopped. “Indistinct . . . little more than a shadow.”

  Mother looked deflated. “Little more?”

  The mayor hesitated. “And yet . . .”

  “Yes? Yes? Yes?” One more “yes” and maybe I would kick her in the sanctuary.