Antiques Ravin'

by Barbara Allan

  “Nonsense,” I said. “Most folks will take Mr. Oldfield’s ranting on social media as the sour grapes that they are!”

  “I hope you’re right, Sheriff,” Myron said. “And thank you for handling this unfortunate event so fairly and efficiently.” He paused. “If Ryan and I are no longer needed, we should be getting back to the store.”

  “Go right ahead.”

  They departed.

  Brandy and Sushi moved down to take Miller’s empty chair.

  “Mother,” she said in a low voice, “I have an interesting revelation to share.”

  “Speak up, dear. My right ear is blocked. By the by, do you think there’s any particular difference between wax removal products? The one I tried recently didn’t seem to have the proper snap, crackle, and pop.”

  “Mother!”

  “Not that loud, dear.”

  Splitting the difference, she said, “Wally Thorp told me in confidence that he’s Morella’s biological father.”

  I sat back and gave a low whistle. “Good heavens. Now some things are beginning to make sense.”

  “Yeah,” Brandy said, “but I still wouldn’t rule Thorp out. It’s not like Morella was a daughter he’d raised. She was a stranger, the result of a passing fling. The two of them were seen having heated arguments, and he might well have accidentally killed her in one.”

  I frowned. “Filicide is rare, but it does happen. But why would Wally take action against Myron?”

  She gave me her theory that Wally may have suspected that his daughter was having an affair with the mayor.

  I looked at Brandy with newfound admiration. “Interesting.”

  My cell phone sang its Hawaiian song. The caller was Ben Saukenuk, manager of the Tomahawk.

  “Sheriff Borne,” he said, “I have that information you requested—footage showing the Crafton woman’s cell phone.”

  My pulse quickened. “Including the number of her caller?”

  “Yes. Would you like to come see the footage?”

  “Just give me the phone number, please.”

  He did, and I wrote it down.

  I thanked him, then instructed the casino manager to hold on to that footage, as it would be needed as evidence.

  Cell phone numbers—and landlines as well—could be accessed through the sheriff’s car computer, but that meant a hike back to the Explorer parked at the church.

  I didn’t want to wait that long, so I found out the old-fashioned way: by calling the number myself.

  A voice I recognized as Lottie Everhart’s answered.

  “You have reached City Hall. If you know your party’s extension, dial it now. Otherwise, please leave a brief message and phone number, and someone will get back to you. Thank you, and have a nice day!”

  I stood, then hurried through the hallway to the front desk. A blinking on the answering machine made a small beacon to light my way, keeping my investigation off the rocks, guiding me toward the port of justice. (I think that was a splendid metaphor, don’t you?)

  (Note to Vivian from Editor: No.)

  The list of suspects had suddenly narrowed to those who had a key to city hall to use the phone Thursday night—Lottie, Paula, Wally, and Rick.

  Vivian’s Trash ’n’ Treasures Tip

  Most rare books are old, so expect some wear and tear. Reputable book dealers will describe these flaws; if they don’t, don’t buy the book, or return it for a refund. But if you do keep the book, don’t try to fix it with Scotch invisible tape . . . which isn’t all that invisible.

  Chapter Eight

  Poe, Poe, Poe Your Boat

  Brandy back in charge. Or, anyway, back.

  Saturday evening, Mother and I were seated in the air-conditioned parlor of the Pullman, enjoying soothing cups of hot tea, when a sharp knock came at the door, startling us just a little—Sushi, too, curled up between us.

  “Entrée!” Mother called out.

  The door opened and the chief of the Serenity PD police, one Tony Cassato, strode in like he owned the place. Of course this guy owned any place he strode into—late forties, graying temples, steely gray eyes, square jaw, thick neck, barrel chest.

  Tony was not in his standard work attire of light blue shirt, navy tie, tan slacks, and brown Florsheims, most likely because technically he was not on duty. But I was mildly amused that he had maintained a similar conservative look by way of a blue short-sleeved polo shirt, tan shorts, and brown slip-ons, sans socks.

  Readers who are familiar with our disjointed and sometimes dysfunctional courtship may skip down to the paragraph beginning, “Sushi, seeing Tony, went bananas.” All others continue on.

  Tony arrived in Serenity about four years ago from the East Coast to take our local top-cop position, a duty that soon found him butting heads with Mother thanks to her interference in a murder case (Antiques Roadkill). Being her (often unwitting and unwilling) cohort in crime, I also got off to a rocky start with Tony. Gradually, however, we warmed to each other, and he came to understand (if not accept) that, due to Mother’s bipolar disorder, my loyalty must always tilt in her already tilted direction.

  For a long time, Tony was a man of mystery. Then, one evening at his cabin where we were . . . let’s call it enjoying each other’s company . . . an assassin came calling (Antiques Knock-Off). A Mafia godfather had taken a contract out on the chief, who had testified against a certain crime family in New Jersey. After we managed to escape, Tony suddenly disappeared out of my life and into WIT-SEC (witness protection).

  Later, on a trip that Mother and I took to New York City to attend a comic book convention (Antiques Con), Mother (unbeknownst to me) paid the mob’s elderly godfather a visit and convinced him to drop the contract (the baked ziti she brought may have been a factor, along with helping him solve a literal family problem).

  Which brought Tony back into my life, both personally and locally. Since then we’ve had two more bumps in the road: the appearance in Serenity of his estranged wife, whom he thought had divorced him after he signed the papers she’d never filed (Antiques Frame), and most recently Mother running for, and becoming, the sheriff of Serenity County (Antiques Wanted). The first bump was settled; the second . . . we’ll have to see.

  It’s a good thing all of that is true, or it might sound ridiculous.

  Sushi, seeing Tony, went bananas, whimpering, leaping up at our visitor’s bare legs (so glad those nails were clipped recently!), demanding to be picked up—which Tony did—and then she sniffed everywhere she could take her nose. While Sushi was very fond of Tony, she was fonder of his dog, Rocky (not named for our relationship), and his scent on the chief was like catnip, if the dog were a cat, which of course she wasn’t.

  Still with me?

  Mother asked regally, “Care for some tea, my good man?”

  Tea always brought out the English accent in her. My quick frown sent it packing.

  Tony peeled Sushi off and set her on the floor. “No, thanks. But should you have a cold beer . . .”

  Having thoughtfully stocked Tony’s brand (Busch) in the little fridge, I left to fetch one.

  I returned and handed the cold sweating can to the chief, who was seated rather absurdly on a much-too-small-for-him velvet chair. Sushi was spread out on the rug, tummy down, spent from her fuss over Tony.

  Tony started right in. “Your reading of the crime scene, Vivian, was spot-on—blunt force trauma, the unconscious girl shut in that sarcophagus. She wakes up, suffocating, tries to claw her way out—unsuccessfully. Obviously.”

  “Terrible,” Mother said, for once shaken by the reality of death. “Is there any reason to keep this information under wraps, Chief?”

  “No,” he said simply.

  Without preamble, Mother shared her new info. “Because the call Morella received at the casino came from a city hall landline, my list of suspects has narrowed to the council members?”

  “Uptalking,” I said to her.

  Mildly flustered, she said, “Sorry. At any
rate, I feel I should round up the council immediately, rather than wait till morning.”

  Her pause indicated that she was open to Tony’s opinion. He was kind enough not to point out that “immediately” had not happened yet, though cups of tea for Mother and her sort-of-deputy had.

  Instead he said, diplomatically, “It’s your show.”

  Mother smiled, liking that. Which was probably why she said next, “Perhaps you could attend the group interview—not in any official capacity, of course, but as another seasoned set of eyes and ears.”

  “Of course,” he said with a nod.

  What was his game?

  As Mother sat on the couch using her cell phone to call the council members and have them meet her at city hall, I led Tony back to the galley kitchen.

  I said, “You’re being awfully nice to her.”

  He shrugged. “She’s the county sheriff, I’m the city chief of police. We need to get along. Cooperate. Respect each other.”

  “You respect Mother?”

  “She has a nose for sniffing out murderers. I’ll give her that.”

  I stood close to him, put my arms around him. “I’m so glad you’re here,” I whispered.

  “I am too. Getting gladder by the second.”

  My eyes held his. “She needs your help, you know, but won’t ask for it. And if you step in and take over, it’ll just make things worse.”

  Worse for me, I was thinking.

  Tony nodded. “You may think I’m just a big lug, but I do have a certain . . .”

  “Finesse?”

  “Damn straight. You said on the phone she was making reckless decisions. Care to elaborate?”

  I shook my head, my eyes leaving his. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because then you’d have to do something about it.”

  “Ah. I see.”

  I pursed my lips. “Tony, this is her first big test as sheriff, and Mother wants to do well. She knows she has a certain. . . not finesse, but reputation. And wants people to think well of her in this new role.”

  His smile was a sideways thing. “Brandy, if she doesn’t stay within the law, she’ll have a lot more to worry about than what people think.” He lifted my chin with a finger, looked into my eyes. “Look, I’ll be around until this is resolved, and help where she’ll let me . . . or work behind the scenes when she won’t.”

  I nodded. “You’ll cover her behind?”

  “Consider it covered. And I’ll throw yours in for free. Feel better?”

  I nodded. “Way better.”

  He sighed. “Me too.”

  About half an hour later, Mother, Tony, and I were greeted in front of city hall by the mayor himself, the first to arrive at Mother’s impromptu summons. I introduced Tony, and the two men shook hands.

  “I hope this is important, Sheriff,” Myron said with a tinge of irritation. “Caroline and I were in the middle of a late dinner.” He’d downgraded his country-club clothes to shorts and a short-sleeve shirt.

  “Important,” she said, “is exactly what it is.”

  Myron’s eyes went to Tony, apparently hoping the Serenity chief might elaborate on his presence, but neither he nor Mother enlightened the mayor.

  Inside city hall, Myron turned on the lights, and we headed down the corridor to the conference room, where more lights were switched on.

  Mother moved to the head of the table and sat there, Myron taking a chair next to her. Tony and I stood down at the opposite end of the room, in front of a medium-sized green chalkboard on the wall.

  No one said anything.

  Next to arrive was an agitated Rick, in cutoff jeans, T-shirt, and thongs.

  “What’s the deal? I’m trying to relax after a crazy-hard day.” He yanked out a chair next to Myron and plopped into it. Not everybody can sit down angrily—it’s a gift.

  Then came Wally, looking sleepy and in typically disheveled attire. “I don’t appreciate being woken up, so this better be good.” He sank down in the chair next to Rick.

  Paula and Lottie arrived together, the former in gray sweatshirt and pants, the latter in an off-the-shoulder blouse and short-shorts, fully made-up and hair coiffed.

  With a smirk, Paula said to Mother, “You’re lucky I hadn’t taken my sleeping pill yet.”

  She joined Wally. Lottie said nothing, dutifully taking the chair on the end, near Tony and me.

  Mother Hen addressed her chicks all in a row. “Thank you for coming at this hour at such short notice.” She gestured to Tony. “This is Chief Anthony Cassato from the Serenity Police Department.”

  The council swiveled their heads toward Tony, then back to Mother, who said, “His presence is not official, as he just happened to be attending the festival. But since he was available, I’ve asked him here to advise and consult.”

  The council members exchanged frowning glances, mixing a cocktail of confusion and irritation.

  “I think it’s time to set aside a certain little white lie,” Mother said.

  Eyes all around the table widened.

  “Myron,” she continued, “did not fall asleep in his shop last night. He was attacked around midnight. About to get into his car, he was hit on the head, then conveyed to the church, where he was walled up unconscious in the basement. With bricks. His hands were secured, his mouth stuffed with a gag. Fortunately, I found him in time.”

  The reaction was swift—and predictable.

  “Oh my God!” Lottie gasped, a hand going to her ample chest.

  “Thank goodness you’re all right!” Paula said to Myron, adding with just a little irritation, “So I hadn’t overlooked you.”

  Wally asked, “What does this mean?”

  Rick provided an uncalled-for answer: “It means this stupid Poe festival has attracted some psychopathic killer! And what are you going to do about it, Sheriff? Not that you’re in any way qualified!”

  Mother looked at the young man, who sneered at her and leaned back arrogantly in his chair.

  She said to him, “I’ll begin with a question, Mr. Wheeler. Where were you last night between eleven and two?”

  “What?” Rick blurted. “You’re nuttier than a Salted Nut Roll if you think I, or any one of us, would do such a thing to Myron!”

  Heads nodded in agreement, accompanied by muttering.

  “Two things,” Mother said. “First, it may not have been one of you. It might have been two of you.”

  The objections to that overlapped into an unintelligible cacophony.

  “And second,” Mother said, “answer my question, Mr. Wheeler. Where were you?”

  Grudgingly, Rick said, “At home. Asleep.”

  “Alone?”

  “Alone! Not the best alibi, I guess.”

  “Not the best, I would agree.”

  Mother went down the line asking every one of them the same question. Paula, Wally, and Lottie’s responses were similar to Rick’s, to say the least. Paula had taken her usual sleeping pill, Wally slept in his recliner all night, and Lottie watched a late movie and then went to bed.

  Everyone in Antiqua seemed to sleep alone. At least on the city council. Even Myron had slept alone, hadn’t he? Walled up in that church basement.

  And of course, any one of them could have left their homes and attacked the mayor.

  “The time has come,” Mother said portentously, and for a moment I thought she’d continue with: To talk of many things: of shoes—and ships—and sealing-wax—of cabbages—and kings . . .

  Thankfully she just filled them in, straightforward, on the grisly reality of Morella’s death, which needed poetry from neither Poe nor Lewis Carroll.

  Only Mother and I knew that Wally was the late young woman’s father, and he showed no obvious emotion. But I could see a slight trembling and dampening eyes.

  A clearly shaken Lottie asked, “Sheriff, do you think what happened to Morella and Myron was the work of the same person?”

  “Likely,” Mother replied.

  �
��Then it has to be someone who came to Poe Days,” Lottie reasoned. “Like Rick said—some psycho!”

  “But why pick on us?” Wally grumbled, seeming put-upon by the very thought of murder.

  Mother leaned forward, elbows on the table, tenting her fingers. “I was just about to come to that.”

  “Well, get on with it,” Rick snapped. “We were already tired—now we’re scared silly, too!”

  (He didn’t say “silly”—he used the kind of word that keeps a book out of Walmart.)

  Mother cocked her head. “I feel quite well rested, Mr. Wheeler, thank you very much . . . and am prepared to stay here all night, if need be. It takes more to scare Vivian Borne than some deranged practical joker.”

  She could speak for herself. All this sounded plenty scary to the pro bono deputy.

  Rick had nothing to say.

  Her chick back in line, Mother asked, “Who besides yourselves has a key to this building?”

  The seeming non sequitur of a question threw the council off base for a moment.

  Then Myron replied. “Well, besides us . . . the treasurer, Bob Stewart, has one, of course.”

  Mother frowned at the mayor. “I haven’t met him. Has Mr. Stewart been around?”

  “No,” replied Myron. “Bob is in Arizona attending a family funeral. Won’t be back until next week.”

  “I see. Anyone else given a key?”

  “The secretary we lost due to budget cuts,” Paula offered, then leaned forward to look at the mayor. “Did she ever return it?”

  Myron nodded. “Before leaving town for another job. I think all the keys are accounted for.”

  “No, Pastor Creed has one,” Lottie reminded him. “The sanctuary air-conditioning broke down in July, remember? And he held some meetings with church elders here. I don’t know if he ever returned that key. Myron?”

  The mayor frowned. “He might have. But, frankly, I don’t recall that he did.”

  “All right,” Mother said. “Were any of you in city hall on Thursday night between ten and ten-thirty?”

  The five council members exchanged puzzled looks, then all shook their heads. It was so well coordinated they might have practiced it.