Antiques Ravin'

by Barbara Allan

  “Ah! You recognize me. Did you perchance take in my performance of ‘The Raven’?”

  “No. I saw your badge. Just now.”

  “Oh. Nicely observed.”

  The chief was giving me a look for some reason. He could be such an enigma!

  The elderly gent said, “What can I do you for?”

  “This is my police consultant, Chief Cassato from Serenity. We’d like to see John Miller’s room.”

  The old gent winced in thought, then reached for the phone on the counter. “Well, uh . . . not to stand on ceremony. But he could be in there now, and it might be more proper for me to give him a jingle first.”

  I raised my hand, smiled. “A jingle won’t be necessary. What is your name, sir?”

  “Rex J. Forsythe. I’m the owner.”

  “Well, Rex, if I may? I can assure you Mr. Miller is not in his room. Right now he’s out at Antiqua park.”

  “What is he doing there?”

  “Not much. Now, in the meantime, will you let us have a look at his room?”

  He was frowning in confusion. “Isn’t this the kind of thing that you should be showing me a warrant for?”

  The chief said, “Why, Mr. Forsythe? Is there some reason we shouldn’t see Mr. Miller’s room?”

  The owner shrugged. “Not that I can think of. It’s just . . .”

  The chief, starting to seem just a little impatient, said, “Just what, Mr. Forsythe?”

  “Just . . .” the elderly gent said with a shrug. “This is the most excitement we ever had out at the Tiki. Except maybe for things that go on behind closed doors.”

  I beamed at him. “Isn’t that always the case? Shall we?”

  The chief and I followed the owner to number six, where our host unlocked the door with his passkey.

  “Thank you, sir,” I said. “That will be all.”

  The old boy hesitated, eyes blinking behind the wire-framed lenses. “You’re not expecting any gunfire or the like?”

  The chief said, “Probably not.”

  “Well . . . okay then,” the owner said, and scurried back to the office. Scurry being a relative term, considering his age.

  I opened the door, entered, flicked on the lights, slowly scanned the room, and then gasped. “Good Lord!”

  The chief, reacting behind me, asked, “What is it, Vivian?”

  Barely able to maintain my composure, I said, “Over there!”

  His hand hovered reflexively over his right side, where he normally would have carried his weapon. He took a few steps past me. “Where?”

  “On the wall, above the bed!”

  He narrowed his eyes, shook his head. “I don’t see what you’re—”

  “The painting!” I said. “Check the lower right corner!” The man might be a first-rate police officer, but he could be so thick sometimes. I could see it from here!

  The chief walked over to the framed portrait of a pretty island girl, painted on black velvet, and leaned in. “All I see is ‘Edgar Leeteg, Tahiti.’ ”

  “Exactly! Leeteg is the father of black velvet paintings. He started the trend when living in Tahiti after Double-you Double-you Two. Some of his works can go for tens of thousands of dollars, and that ain’t coconuts! What a find!”

  The chief, apparently unimpressed, was covering his face with a hand.

  “If that painting were missing,” I said, “we’d have our murder motive!”

  “But it’s not missing,” he said quietly.

  My eyes flew to the pair of lamps on either side of the bed. “Good Lord! And those appear to be vintage chalkware. Continental Art Company, unless I miss my bet! You don’t know how rare it is to find both the male and female figures . . . although they appear more Hawaiian in their garb than Tahitian.”

  “Vivian . . .”

  Rotating, I gasped yet again. “And will you look at all this original Heywood-Wakefield furniture! I’ve never seen a complete bedroom set in the bamboo style before. Headboard, dresser, two end tables . . . very rare, indeed. And there’s even a bamboo chair with floral cushion! Granted, the wood varnish has seen better days, and some of the bamboo is missing, but nothing that couldn’t be restored.”

  I had run out of breath. The chief was just looking at me.

  I said, “What?”

  He looked rather flushed.

  “Don’t you feel well?” I asked.

  “This is a possible crime scene,” he reminded me through clenched teeth. “It’s not a yard sale.”

  “Oh, treasures like these just never turn up at yard sales. Well, perhaps occasionally . . .”

  He took the Lord’s name in vain rather loudly, making me jump.

  Poor man must be tired. I mean, he’d had a heck of a night. I, myself, had felt fatigued just moments ago, but all these motel room goodies had given me a welcome jolt of adrenaline.

  “We should probably get to work,” I advised him. He’d dillydallied enough.

  I unzipped a pouch on my duty belt and produced two pairs of latex gloves, which we put on. The chief, looking strangely glazed, moved to the bathroom while I stayed put.

  The bed was still made, though indications were that Miller had been in the room since its last cleaning: an ashtray brimmed with butts on one of two nightstands, and a used towel lay crumpled on the floor.

  There was no closet, so I walked over to the dresser—noting a few deep scratches on the top, which would lower its value—and opened each of three drawers, finding them empty. Apparently their contents had been transferred to a duffle bag, open on the floor, indicating that Miller had not planned on staying the night, little suspecting he would be checking out even earlier, and from more than just this motel room.

  Crossing over to the nearest nightstand—cigarette burns on the surface could make refinishing difficult—I opened its single drawer, discovering only a Gideons Bible.

  I rounded the bed to the other nightstand, where I found its drawer empty.

  From the doorway of the bathroom, the chief asked, “Anything, Vivian?”

  “The lamp’s female figure has a large crack,” I said, “and it could be restored, but matching the color would be tricky.”

  “I mean anything pertinent to our investigation.”

  “Not yet. Still looking!”

  Then I spotted a business card for Relics Antiques at my feet and picked it up with latex-protected fingers. Not easy to do! A handwritten phone number on the back of the card differed from the one on the front.

  Tony approached. “Something?”

  I showed him the card.

  “Looks like Paula gave Mr. Miller her personal number,” I said. “Might be interesting to learn why.”

  “Might at that. Anything else?”

  “No. You?”

  He shrugged. “The usual toiletries . . . but there is some chalky powder on the floor, which forensics should have a look at. Might be talcum. Might be something else.”

  I nodded. “I take it the late occupant didn’t use Poe’s expensive Tales as bathroom reading.”

  “Not hardly.”

  “And the book isn’t out here anywhere. Mr. Miller must have taken it with him.” I shrugged. “Perhaps someone offered to buy it.”

  He was nodding. “And they met, probably at the park, for a quiet transaction.”

  “And, instead of transacting, the ‘buyer’ dispatched the ‘seller’ forthwith.”

  “Seems the best explanation,” the chief said. “I certainly see no evidence that the man was killed here.”

  “Nor do I.”

  The chief sighed. “I’m heading back to Serenity. I can do more good for us there than here. Want to hit the PD computer and find out more about John Miller and Paul Oldfield.”

  I said, “Would be nice to know Oldfield’s movements after I told him to get out of Dodge. He should have long since returned to Illinois.”

  “I can follow up on that. Tell Brandy I’ll check in with her later, would you?”

  I nod
ded. “I’ll wait here for forensics.”

  He headed out, leaving the door open.

  My cell sang its Hawaiian song in keeping with the Leeteg and the lamps.

  Forensics tech Henderson was calling to say the rescue team had just pulled Miller’s body from the pond. I told him he and his partner, Wilson, needed to come over to the Tiki to process Miller’s room when they were finished at the park. His response betrayed a lack of enthusiasm for further wee-hours work. What exactly he said is something I shan’t repeat here.

  I made myself as comfortable as I could in the Heywood-Wakefield bamboo chair, knowing they would be a while.

  I was thinking about how difficult and convoluted these particular murders were when I had a sudden revelation! Sometimes all the puzzle pieces suddenly fit, all the tumblers on the lock click, and the world opens up like a clamshell!

  I couldn’t believe it hadn’t occurred to me earlier!

  Maybe the other rooms in this motel contained the same vintage furnishings as this one! I could cherry-pick the best pieces, the nicest chalkware lamps, but do my darndest to snag every single one of the Edgar Leeteg black velvet paintings!

  I settled farther into the chair, resting my head against the bamboo back. Maybe something about the case itself would occur to me.

  Should I tell Mr. Forsthye of the value of his furnishings? Or let “seller beware?” I could be truthful about the furniture—pointing out the costly restoration—and lowball the paintings, as the market for Leeteg had softened in recent years . . . or, I could be truthful about the paintings, and lowball the furniture.

  I yawned. Of course, I was assuming that the elderly owner had little knowledge of the antiques among us, which could make negotiation brutal, just murder. . . .

  Then everything went black!

  Had I been struck a blow from behind? Would I be dragged to a crypt and stuffed into a sarcophagus like poor Morella, to suffer a premature burial?

  Sorry to disappoint you, dear reader, but I merely fell asleep, dreaming of Tahiti and bamboo furniture.

  * * *

  Brandy back.

  Apologies. That one hurt a little, didn’t it?

  Anyway, after the peal of a church bell woke me, it took a moment before I realized I was in bed in the Pullman. I looked at my cell phone on the nightstand: 9:45 a.m. I climbed out from under the covers, somewhat groggy from the sleeping pill, and went over to part the window curtains.

  Outside, the sun was shining, the lack of moisture on the glass indicating a cooler temperature. Looked like a nice day for a change.

  But not for John Miller.

  I pushed any thought of my ghastly discovery of him out of my mind, and I wandered out of the bedroom, looking for Mother. Not finding her, I returned to get my cell phone and call her. I got her on a single ring.

  Mother, sounding remarkably chipper, said she was still tied up with forensics and that Tony had returned to Serenity to do some investigating on that end and would call me later.

  “Would you like to be helpful, dear?”

  “Sure,” I lied.

  “Why don’t you go to this morning’s service?” She’d heard that bell too. “Might be just the thing to make you feel better. You could send up a prayer for that poor soul in the pond. Well, he’s out of the pond now, but you know what I mean.”

  Church did sound better than joining her at a crime scene, and there was nothing to do in the Pullman but sleep some more, which just seemed sad.

  I said, “Church is fine.”

  “Yes, good for the soul! And for studying suspects.” Right then something I’d meant to mention to her popped into my head.

  “Mother, Saturday morning I was in Paula’s store when John Miller came in.”

  “Oh? Really? Interesting! What was her reaction?”

  “She looked surprised to see him, and kind of upset. She pretended not to know him, but it seemed obvious she did. And I’m sure he was there on some kind of pretense. Then they went off to talk where I couldn’t hear them.”

  She said, “Interesting” again but didn’t explain.

  I wasn’t in a frame of mind to ask why, either. So we signed off, thankfully minus any police codes.

  Sushi, who’d finally roused from slumber, was asking to go out, and after I’d done my dog-owner duty, I took a quick shower and found something clean to wear. It now was a quarter after ten.

  When I arrived at the church, the doors were closed and singing could be heard from within.

  I slipped inside, spotted a place at the end of the back row, just as the hymn “Nearer, My God, To Thee” ended, and everyone sat down.

  I was surprised by how many people were there, after Pastor Creed’s lament about dwindling membership. Maybe some tourists were present. Anyway, considering the trying events of the past few days, I figured folks needed some spiritual comforting.

  Rubbernecking a bit, I noticed the council members were in attendance, scattered throughout the congregation: Wally and a woman I took to be wife Stella, Paula with Lottie, and Rick near the back. Mayor Hatcher and his wife, Caroline, were positioned rather conspicuously in the first pew.

  Pastor Creed, poised at the pulpit, opened his Bible and gazed out over his somewhat shell-shocked flock.

  “Recently our small community has been faced with tragedy and strife. How can one cope? By giving comfort to one another, helping one another, and sharing the pain and sorrow. And, most important, by praying with all your heart from the depth of your soul. Please join me in the Lord’s Prayer.” He bowed his head. “Our Father who art in Heaven . . .”

  The congregation spoke as one.

  That show of unity was kind of nice, yet I couldn’t help but wonder if this represented all the consideration poor Morella was likely to receive. Or the lucky-to-still-be-alive Myron. Not to mention that outsider, John Miller. . . .

  When the Lord’s Prayer had concluded, Creed intoned, “Our scripture for today is taken from Deuteronomy 19:15.”

  The woman beside me whispered to her husband, “That’s not what’s in the program.”

  “One witness shall not rise up against a man for any iniquity, or for any sin, in any sin that he sinneth: at the mouth of two witnesses, or at the mouth of three witnesses, shall the matter be established.” The pastor closed the Bible. “What God is telling us through Moses is that laws are . . .”

  That was when I stopped listening, my brain flatlining while I stared at the man’s bad toupee in front of me. If God in all His glory had removed this guy’s hair, how could a mere mortal hope to get away with a rug like that?

  Another hymn brought me to my feet—“How Great Thou Art”—after which the choir sang something modern, and they sounded pretty good. Afterward, everyone settled in for the sermon.

  Pastor Creed spoke in a firm baritone that gave his words weight. “The Bible teaches us that at the final judgment, the righteous will enter Heaven and have everlasting life, but the wicked will go to Hell and have eternal punishment. We know what Heaven is. But what is Hell?” He paused for effect. “Hell is a place of darkness and fire with no rest or relief. . . .”

  Okay. This was not my idea of finding comfort, so I zoned out again.

  After what seemed like an eternity of punishment doled out right here on earth, the sermon concluded, and everybody stretched their legs for the final hymn, “What a Friend We Have in Jesus.”

  After the first stanza, I slipped out to avoid talking to anyone—especially council members who might have noticed or heard about the activity at the park late last night.

  Back at the Pullman, Mother was in the parlor, on her knees as if for a Sunday morning prayer.

  No such luck.

  She was, instead, crouched before the big borrowed chalkboard, which was propped up against the couch. I could tell by her expression she was having trouble compiling her suspect list, which looked like this:

  She looked over her shoulder at me. “It’s a work in progress, dear. Unfortunatel
y, I’m not making any.”

  “That’s a lot of question marks,” I pointed out.

  “Also a lot of opportunity.”

  “There could be two killers, you know.”

  “I’m aware of that! Sorry . . . didn’t mean to snap. How was church? Anyone ask about last night?” She raised a hand for assistance in getting up, which I provided.

  “I avoided talking to anyone,” I said. “What happened after I took that sedative last night?”

  Standing now, Mother filled me in: The coroner’s initial opinion was that Miller had been struck a blow on the head before being dumped into the pond, where he drowned. She also detailed her search of Miller’s hotel room with Tony. I forbade her from elaborating on the kitschy motel room finds.

  I asked, “What do you think happened to the book?”

  She was studying the chalkboard. “Whoever killed Miller has it, most certainly.”

  My eyes went to the board as well. “Paul Oldfield is the only one with both motive and opportunity.”

  “I have no argument with that analysis.”

  My cell phone rang. Tony.

  “How are you doing?” he asked.

  “Okay. That pill really put me out. No dreams that I remember.”

  “Good.” His tone turned business-like. “Is Vivian handy?”

  Vaguely annoyed that Tony just dumped me for Mother, I handed her my cell but stayed close enough to hear both ends of the conversation.

  “Yes, Chief?”

  “I checked on Paul Oldfield. He did leave town yesterday afternoon. Made it back to Morris, Illinois, by early evening. He and his wife entertained. Their guests stayed late. No way he could have made it back to Antiqua.”

  Mother’s face soured. “I see.”

  “But I do have some interesting information on John Miller, and ‘interesting’ understates it. His real name is Owen Phillips. Twenty-some years ago he served time for armed robbery in Indiana.”

  “Well! Some antiques dealer!”

  “Actually, he is in the antiques business. He’s even connected to someone in that trade in Antiqua. Seems there was an accomplice who went to prison as well. I’m sending both mug shots to your e-mail.”

  While I kept the line open on my phone, Mother’s cell beeped, and she reached for it. In a few seconds she had opened the attachment.