Antiques Ravin'

by Barbara Allan

  “Well, someone was here that night,” Mother told them. “Someone with a key to get in after hours and use the landline.”

  Myron asked, “How do you know that?”

  “Because that person called Morella Crafton on the city hall line at precisely ten twenty-six. Not long before the young woman was murdered.”

  The room filled with murmurs as the council looked up and down the line at one another. I watched as faces registered surprise, then—as the weight of Mother’s words dragged them down—alarm, and finally suspicion.

  Paula, wincing, gestured vaguely around her. “You’re saying one of us killed Morella?”

  “For the moment,” Mother said, “I’m making no accusations. Merely stating facts.”

  Rick stood. “You know what I think? I think you’re looking for somebody to pin this on! You’re new on the job and want to wrap things up quick, make yourself look good. Well, I’m not going to help you do that. If you have any more questions for me, you’ll have to talk my lawyer.” He pushed the chair away. “Who else is smart enough to leave with me?”

  Wally rose, then Lottie, and Paula, and they all followed Rick out of the conference room. I was reminded of prisoners marching out to break rocks.

  Only Myron remained.

  Tony and I joined Mother at the table, sitting on either side.

  “Of course,” Mother said with a sigh, “I didn’t expect someone to admit making the call. But I had to try. Had to put it out there.”

  The mayor’s expression seemed almost painfully earnest. “Sheriff, I know my fellow council members. They’re good people. This festival takes it out of all of them, and now . . . all of this craziness? I think you’re going down the wrong road here—someone, anyone, could have picked the lock to get in and use our phone.”

  Mother said, “Yes. But why would they? And even if there was some reason to do so—perchance, to implicate you council members—they would be taking quite a risk. The streets here are well lighted at night, and there’s still activity at ten o’clock, especially at the bar.”

  “But not in the alley,” Myron pointed out. “You’re assuming this person came in the front door.”

  “I am,” Mother said.

  “Why?”

  “Because,” she said, “the rear of the bank shares that alley, which I bet has motion-detecting flood lights and likely one security camera at least.”

  Nodding, Tony said, “I believe the sheriff’s right. Who would question a council member being in this building at any hour? But a council member who wanted to use a phone without being heard or seen would know this line would be safe. Or would have been, were it not for the sheriff’s sharp detective work.”

  Touched by that, Mother said, “Thank you, Chief.”

  I addressed Myron. “You say you know your council members well . . . but how well do you know Pastor Creed? He dislikes the very idea of the festival, is agitated about the mausoleum not being secured, and now we’ve learned he probably still has a key to city hall. And I don’t think anyone who saw him unlock the front door would think much of that, either.”

  The mayor was shaking his head. “No. No. He’s a devoutly religious man. He just wouldn’t . . . couldn’t have done such a thing to me. And why would he kill the Crafton girl? How could he even conceive of killing anyone?”

  “As an example,” I said firmly. “A harsh warning to any locals who’d been using the mausoleum for illicit purposes.”

  Mother was nodding. “My darling deputy speaks wisely. Pastor Creed could have seen Morella there in the graveyard, which he considered his turf. He may have picked poor Morella as his instrument of retribution.”

  She paused.

  “And you, Mayor—the good pastor might see striking you down for representing this godless festival honoring a degenerate author’s evil works, viewing both of these twisted acts of revenge as being for the greater good.”

  The mayor was frowning, shaking his head. “Pastor Creed did voice his displeasure over the festival and the mausoleum at several meetings, but . . .”

  “Well, there you go,” I said.

  “But this just doesn’t seem like anything he’d be capable of.”

  Mother said, “There is one question you can clear up for me, Mayor. How was it that the Poe book was hidden in your store?”

  He shrugged. “Sheerly a random matter. We drew for which location. Names of participating businesses were put in a bowl, and mine happened to be picked.”

  “By whom?” Mother asked.

  “Is that important?”

  “Possibly.”

  He thought back. “Well let’s see . . . I believe Paula drew it out.”

  “You saw the slip?” Mother asked.

  Myron shrugged again. “No, I took her word. Why wouldn’t I?”

  Mother said nothing.

  The mayor frowned. “Why in the world are you asking me about this, Sheriff?”

  Mother sidestepped the question and posed one of her own. “Might I ask a favor, Your Honor?”

  “Certainly.”

  She gestured to the chalkboard across the room. “I would like to use that.”

  Tony and I exchanged tiny smiles. On prior cases Mother had always compiled her suspect list on an old schoolroom blackboard on wheels in our library; she must have felt adrift here without it. Once she even “borrowed” a sandwich chalkboard from a restaurant.

  “Sheriff,” the mayor said magnanimously, “you may come in here any time you please. If you need one of our famous keys . . .”

  “No, dear. I want to take it with me.”

  “Take what where?”

  “The chalkboard, dear.”

  “Uh, okay,” he replied, puzzled. “If it’ll come off the wall.”

  Almost everything Mother did was off the wall.

  “And don’t worry,” she said, “I’ll bring it back. I merely mean to commandeer it for a day or so.”

  Tony and I stayed around to assist in freeing the chalkboard from its screws, then helped her load it into the rear of the Explorer. Tony played prisoner in the grilled-in backseat while I drove us to the Pullman, where we helped Mother in with her new toy.

  After that, Tony and I walked off into a surprisingly nice, cooled-down night to find something to eat. I, for one, had worked up an appetite.

  * * *

  We wound up at the only place in tiny Antiqua where we might get a bite at this late hour—the Happy Hour bar, on the main floor of another old Victorian brick building, across from Wally’s store, Junk ’n’ Stuff.

  The watering hole was hopping on this Saturday night of the biggest weekend of the local year. The tin-ceilinged, wooden-floored establishment had a central open area for dancing to the jukebox and a Long Branch Saloon–style bar with a backing mirror and a lineup of liquor bottles. With Tony in the lead like the prow of a ship, we made our way through happy dancers and happier drinkers to the rear with its small tables and a handful of high-backed booths.

  As Tony and I pushed through, I noticed Wally seated at the bar. He saw us, quickly downed a tumbler of golden liquid, and made for the door.

  As we neared the back, I mentally asked Yellow Feather—the Native American spirit guide who always gets me good parking places—to expand his powers to bar booths. Suddenly two middle-aged women seated in one such booth vacated it, leaving behind half-filled glasses of red wine. They would soon find themselves outside, wondering what had happened. Thank you, Yellow Feather!

  (Or maybe they’d had three glasses and just wanted to go home.)

  At any rate, we slid in on opposite sides of the booth, and a barmaid came over. Tony inquired about food. Slices of microwaved mini-pizza were on offer, and not much else, but that sounded gourmet to me about now. Tony ordered sausage and a Busch on tap, and I asked for pepperoni and white Zin.

  Earlier, when Tony had told me he could join me at the festival Saturday evening, I had envisioned a romantic dinner with him. But this would have to do.
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  Anyway, despite the noisy atmosphere, most of the chatter was up front along the bar, and the jukebox was muffled, the high sides of the wooden booth allowing us to talk without raising our voices.

  Tony asked, “How are you holding up?”

  “Just fine.”

  His expression revealed I’d flunked his built-in lie detector.

  So I sighed and said, “This pro bono deputy gig is harder than I thought it would be.”

  Why did I say that?

  Tony wasn’t going to give me any sympathy, not after warning me it was foolish to sign on as Mother’s driver. How else could I have kept an eye on her? If he was going to berate and belittle me now, I might just get up and walk out....

  But Tony said, “I’m here for you, Brandy. Whatever you need.”

  And I just about cried.

  Our little pizzas and drinks arrived, and we talked about other things (cabbages and kings?): that the Cubs were doing so well they could be on their way to another World Series; how he had a bumper crop in his vegetable garden at his cabin needing to be eaten else canned (the vegetables, not the cabin); and whether we should get tickets to a concert series in Des Moines with the Oak Ridge Boys (he liked), Tonic Sol-fa (I liked), and Jackson Browne (we both liked).

  My spirits, Native American or otherwise, had lifted considerably by the time our microwave meal was finished, and we were enjoying another round of drinks when Tony’s eyes moved from me toward the front of the room. He nodded his head slightly, and I craned for a look.

  Rick and Lottie had just come in, Rick muscling up to the bar to order drinks while Lottie gazed around. She spotted us, elbowed Rick; he saw us, and they walked out.

  Tony said, “We’re popular tonight.”

  “Second only to Mother.”

  “Are those two a couple?”

  “Maybe. Or just feeling shared guilt about something.. . .”

  A little before midnight, we left the bar to stroll along the main drag, shops shuttered for the night. When we turned up a side street, past the alley behind the row of antiques stores, I noticed Paula going in the back of her shop, Relics Antiques, and slowed my pace. In a few moments the upper floor lights of her apartment went on.

  I hadn’t seen her in the bar. So where had she been for the past few hours?

  The weather had cooled considerably—a welcome relief from the heat and humidity—and a pleasant breeze kissed my face. That was almost as good as Tony doing it.

  He took my hand as we walked along, discussing—or, rather, negotiating—how we could make a late summer fishing excursion to Canada as much fun for non-fisherwoman me as for rod and reeling him (casting my line at Mall of America on the way would be a start). Soon we found ourselves at the park lit only by a half moon.

  The picnic tables were empty, as were the log cabin shelters. In the deserted playground, the swings rocked to and fro, as if inhabited by little ghosts; the wind was picking up. We proceeded to the bank of the pond, where a single rowboat, broken away from others tethered to a dock across the water, was banging against the shore in the now-rippling water.

  Tony looked at me. “Shall we return it?”

  I smiled and nodded.

  On the bank, he steadied the boat while I climbed aboard, then sat on the rear bench. Then he got in, so graceful for a big man.

  “Take the long way around,” I said.

  He smiled and took the oars in hand.

  I leaned back against the flat stern and gazed up at the multitude of glittering stars, listening to the soothing and rhythmic sound of the oars as he rowed.

  “I wish you had a banjo,” I mused, the effects of the second glass of white Zin lingering.

  “If I did, I couldn’t play it.”

  “Then sing something.”

  He frowned. “Have you ever heard me sing?”

  “No. But can’t be that bad. Come on, be a sport. There’s no one here but us chickens.”

  “What do you want to hear?”

  I thought for a moment. “How about ‘Down by the Old Mill Stream’?”

  “I only know the chorus.”

  “That’ll do.”

  “Down by the old mill stream where I first met you . . .”

  Hey, what do you know? Tony Cassato had a wonderful baritone voice.

  “Not bad,” I interrupted him. “But put some feeling into it—this is where you first met me, remember? In the song, of course. The love of your life.”

  He maybe made a face at that, but it was dark, so I couldn’t be sure.

  “With your eyes of blue, dressed in gingham, too.”

  I slid down farther, lay my head on the back of the boat.

  “It was there I knew that you loved me true.”

  And trailed a hand in the water.

  “You were sixteen, my village queen, by the old mill stream. ”

  How romantic . . .

  Something touched my hand, and I yanked it out.

  “Got a nibble?” Tony chuckled.

  “Maybe,” I laughed, feeling silly.

  I looked over the edge of the rowboat, down into the black, murky water, and a body popped up.

  A Trash ’n’ Treasures Tip

  Know precisely what you are searching for. Vague memories or partial descriptions of a book are not enough to go on. Have a complete title, the author’s name, year the book was printed, and the name of the publisher. Online, I thought I had ordered an inspirational book, The Road Less Traveled, but what arrived was a travel book on back-country roads with the same title. I considered sending it back, but Mother was having too much fun reading it. And underlining.

  Chapter Nine

  Poe Foe

  Vivian taking the reign again.

  You would-be wordsmiths (and word-joneses for that matter), just look at what I did there! It’s a play on words—taking the reins, taking the reign. A little wordplay, even at the most stressful of times, is always welcomed by readers.

  Even though I feel—in the writing of these nonfiction true-crime accounts—that I am being shortchanged by my editor and my darling daughter, re: the number of chapters per volume I am allotted, there is no joy in Mudville (literary allusion) in my taking over the narrative from Brandy at this juncture.

  You see, after the body of John Miller surfaced in the pond (and it was indeed John Miller, the fest’s winner turned loser, who bobbed to the surface like a bar of Ivory soap) (metaphorical language is also something readers enjoy), the poor girl had to be conveyed by Tony back to the Pullman, where she with my blessing took one of my sleeping pills.

  By the way, you wordsmiths may be jones-ing on my mastery of metaphor, wordplay, and literary allusion, but you need also remember to maintain a tight focus on the narrative that you are relating.

  Where was I?

  One would think that after all of the cases Brandy and I have solved (some of which proved fairly harrowing), the child might be accustomed to confronting the occasional corpse; in her defense, however, the bodies were piling up around Antiqua at a fairly alarming rate.

  But, the show—which is to say, investigation—must go on, even in the wee small hours of a Sunday morning.

  At the moment, the Serenity Search and Rescue team were out on the pond in rowboats with search lights, using drag bars with hooks to pinpoint the location of the late Mr. Miller, who had disappeared back down into the murky depths before Chief Cassato could snag him.

  The bedraggled forensics team, Henderson and Wilson, were also hard at work, setting up a perimeter around the immediate area, along with a triage, although there would be no patient to whom administrating medical aid might serve helpful. Still, the coroner, once he arrived, would want the privacy for a preliminary evaluation of the remains.

  The chief, upon returning from tucking Brandy in, joined me on the bank, near the boat dock.

  I said, “Death was in that poisonous wave, and in its gulf a fitting grave.”

  The chief’s thick neck swiveled my way, eyes
giving me an unblinking look. “Say what?”

  “An Edgar Allan poem. ‘The Lake.’ ”

  He grunted.

  I sighed. “I’m afraid we’ve underestimated our killer.”

  Another grunt.

  “Although,” I offered, “this could be a copycat mimicking the Poe allusions of the Crafton girl’s murder and the attempted murder of the mayor.”

  Speaking of literary allusions, these crimes were rather extreme examples thereof.

  “Why a copycat?” he asked, finally giving me more than a grunt.

  “Someone who wanted the Poe book,” I ventured, “might wish to confuse the issue by tying this death to the previous Poe-styled crimes. Paul Oldfield—who came in second place to the late Mr. Miller, where that valuable book is concerned—in particular comes to mind.”

  The chief was nodding. “This latest murder victim’s motel room needs searching.”

  I had been just about to suggest that, but often great law enforcement minds think alike.

  So I informed forensics of where Chief Cassato and I were heading, instructing them to notify me when Miller’s body had been recovered.

  With the chief’s vehicle at city hall and mine still parked at the Pullman, we hoofed the short distance to the highway, where just within the city limits awaited the Tiki, a typical, small-town mom-and-pop motel that probably had seen its share of moms and pops over the years, since its Grand Opening Week guests might well have included Bonnie and Clyde.

  The office was located in the center of the one-story structure, its NO VACANCY (inaccurate now) glowing, bookended on either side by four rooms, making a total of eight. An urn of geraniums greeted us outside the front door, and neon trim winked at us in pink and blue. We entered a small, brightly lit rustic room.

  No one was behind the counter, so I hit a little bell, and shortly a curtain parted and out shuffled a tired-looking, stubble-faced, elderly gent in wire-frame glasses and a white shirt and bow tie (and presumably trousers of some kind, although the counter blocked that key information). I suddenly reduced my estimation of the number of moms and pops in the Tiki Motel’s history.

  “Howdy, Sheriff,” he addressed me.