Antiques Ravin'

by Barbara Allan

  “Something Rick said, dear, makes things finally fall into place. Specifically, what he said about eliminating himself as a suspect in the robbery.”

  I nodded. “You think Myron hoped to do the same thing by making himself one of the victims, but one who’d luckily survived.”

  “Luck had nothing to do with it. He dropped that key fob by his Caddy so we’d know something was wrong and go looking for him.” She paused. “And he walked into that church basement willingly, although not alone, and that is what Pastor Creed saw through his binoculars— and I’ll wager His Honor he wasn’t in that ‘tomb’ nearly as long as we assumed.”

  I nodded. “And Creed figured he could use that knowledge to get funding for the new church, and parsonage, which explains the scripture reading. To let Myron know what the good pastor had witnessed, but that he was no threat.”

  “Exactly. At least as long as the mayor helped him with that funding.”

  “But who walled Myron up?”

  “His accomplice, John Miller. Remember the mortar residue found in his hotel room? Then Miller or rather Phillips, became a loose end, or perhaps got greedy. Turn here!”

  I did. “Boy, everybody was putting the squeeze on the mayor! But what’s behind all the Poe allusions? And did he kill Morella, too?”

  “Yes, dear, but for now just swing in there.”

  We were at the Hatchers’ driveway. I pulled in and up behind Caroline’s burgundy Buick sedan. The Caddy was not there, but she might know where to find her husband.

  I cracked a window for Sushi, leaving her behind as we climbed out. When I skirted around the sedan, I saw that the front bumper was badly dented.

  Mother noticed it too.

  “Maybe it’s not Mr. Hatcher we want,” I said, “but Mrs. Hatcher! Maybe she’s been protecting him all along, cleaning up after him.”

  Mother shook her head. “No. I’m sure Myron merely used her car to push the Pullman.”

  The front door of the looming house opened and a distraught Caroline ran out. She was in a robe, too, but a flowing white silk one, like something from the cover of a Gothic romance.

  “He’s gone!” she sobbed. “Myron’s gone. I didn’t know! I swear I didn’t know!”

  “Which way?” Mother asked urgently.

  Caroline pointed south.

  “How long ago?”

  “No more than five minutes,” she said.

  “Let’s roll, Brandy!”

  We reached the Explorer, but I paused at the driver’s side door. Behind us stood the woman, the Addams Family house hovering over her, as she slumped there covering her face with her hands.

  As I gripped the door handle, I wasn’t sure I was convinced; it might be a performance. “You’re going to believe her, Mother?”

  “Must I drive myself?” Mother demanded.

  We got back into the Explorer and took pursuit, Mother initiating the siren and flashing lights. Then she radioed in a 10-80 giving our position, all the while urging me to go faster.

  Rolling hills flattened into farmland. On a long, straight stretch of highway, I could make out a vehicle in the distance, fleeing toward the horizon.

  Within a few minutes, I had cut the miles between us and the silver car.

  “You’re gaining on him!” Mother said, holding Sushi tightly. “Good girl!”

  I wasn’t sure whether she meant me or Sushi.

  Something else became clearer in the distance—a long freight train, traveling horizontally at a good clip. It would soon intersect with the highway.

  “Can’t you drive any faster?” Mother asked snippily.

  “I’m going as fast as I dare,” I snapped.

  Snip: “If he makes it to that crossing, and we don’t, we’ve lost him.”

  Snap: “I’m not risking our lives over this! He’s not going to get away with this.”

  Snip: “I know he’s not, but I want to be the one who sees he doesn’t!”

  Ahead, Myron was traveling at a speed admittedly much more reckless than mine in a desperate attempt to make the crossing, where red lights were flashing, and to beat the train there.

  But he didn’t.

  Nor could he slow down in time.

  Or could he have?

  We watched as the Cadillac slammed into the side of an oil tanker car. I was slowing at a safe distance as the fireball blossomed and rose in a terrible beauty right out of Poe.

  A Trash ’n’ Treasures Tip

  Devious booksellers will sometimes use software to enhance a photo of the book’s cover in their ad, making the colors more vibrant, enabling them to charge more than the book is worth. Mother finds this use of Photoshop an outrageously dishonest one, although when it comes to shots of herself, she’s fine with it.

  Chapter Twelve

  Poe Me a Merlot

  The Friday morning following her (and my return) from Antiqua, Mother summoned Tony and me to her office in Serenity’s modern jail building, which was next door to the police station.

  As I probably mentioned once or twice or one hundred times, Mother loves the old Perry Mason TV show, relishing in particular those final scenes in Perry’s office, where Perry and Della and Paul Drake are having coffee, and Della brings up something about the case she doesn’t understand.

  “Perry,” she would say, “how did you know to do this or that?” Or “Perry, how could so-and-so have known about such and such?”

  Well, this morning was Mother’s version of the final scene in The Case of the Raven Madman, and she was playing Perry, Tony appeared as Paul, and I of course became Della. But along with the coffee, we were enjoying a Danish dessert called valnodkage (walnut cake) served on Haviland pink rose china with sterling silver forks, which she’d made me bring from home (cups, too) . . . just in case you thought that was standard issue at the county jail.

  Mother liked to claim the valnodkage recipe as her own, but in reality she’d taken it, like a bath towel, from the Svendsen Grand Hotel in Copenhagen on a trip to Denmark in the late 1960s. Specifically, she had stolen it from the kitchen of the hotel’s famed chef, who she may or may not have been romantically “reclined” with, as she sometimes said.

  Anyway, here it is for your dining pleasure. (I’m sure the recipe was never copyrighted, and, besides, the hotel is no longer in business.) (I checked.)

  Valnodkage

  For the Cake:

  ⅔cup butter, softened

  ⅔ cup sugar

  3 large eggs

  ½ teaspoon vanilla extract

  1 cup all-purpose flour

  ½ teaspoon baking powder

  ½ cup chopped walnuts

  For the Glazing:

  1 cup powdered sugar

  1 Tablespoon water

  1 teaspoon lemon juice

  Walnut halves (for decoration)

  Cream the butter and sugar until smooth. Add the eggs one at a time, beating after each one. Stir in the vanilla. Add the flour sifted with the baking powder, and mix well. Fold in the walnuts. Pour into a buttered loaf or funnel pan. Bake at 350° F about 35 to 45 minutes, until done. Invert cake on cake rack, and while cooling (cake, not the cook), mix together the ingredients of the glazing, except the walnuts. When completely cooled (again, cake, not cook) cover the top (the cake’s, not yours) with the glaze mixture and decorate with walnut halves.

  Yield: Eight servings

  Della, seated on the side of Perry’s desk in a form-fitting knit dress and high heels, her shapely legs crossed, asked, “How did Myron Hatcher come to know John Miller?”

  Okay, okay—I was in a chair in front of the desk, in a wrinkled blouse, torn jeans, and ancient tennies. In my defense, I was still somewhat traumatized by our ordeal.

  But not Mother, behind her desk in uniform, not a robe.

  “That’s an easy one, dear,” she said. “Remember, Paula informed us she’d told Myron about her past association with Owen Phillips, aka John Miller, who was now an antiques dealer, almost certainly a shady one.
The mayor contacted ‘Miller’ to find him a convincing forged Poe antique item. Miller came up with the bogus book, and together Hatcher and his accomplice pocketed the cash from the other council members.”

  “Which is not,” Tony put in, wearing his standard office attire (see Chapter 8), “the only money the mayor helped himself to.”

  This was news to Mother. “Oh?”

  “His Honor,” Tony said dryly, “collected more donations for the church than was needed for the basement project, keeping the overage.”

  I asked, “How is the pastor doing?”

  “Still in the hospital,” Mother replied. “But he’s come around. He’s cognitive enough to deny that he was having an affair with Morella—she never visited him in his parsonage, he avows. That rumor came to us from Myron, remember? But Pastor Creed did confirm seeing the mayor enter the church basement on his own volition, with a stranger whom he identified in a photo as Miller.”

  I said, “Did Creed admit to blackmailing the mayor?”

  “He doesn’t see it that way. He calls sharing what he saw with Hatcher just information designed to encourage His Honor in helping fund a new church.”

  “And parsonage,” I added. “Will the pastor be charged with extortion, do you think?”

  “Unlikely,” Tony said. “His cooperation in clearing this up will go a long way.”

  I frowned. “But why on earth did Myron kill Morella?”

  Mother sat forward, tenting her fingers. “That young woman started the whole pendulum swinging, dear. While having an affair with Myron, she learned of the fake book and blackmailed her lover for money to get out of town.”

  “Is that a theory?” I asked.

  Mother’s eyebrows rose. “Morella finding out about the book and blackmailing Myron? Yes. But that they were lovers we’ve established. Morella’s friend Willow came forward and said she knew about the affair but didn’t say anything about it till now, not wanting to get involved. More cake, anyone?”

  Tony declined. I didn’t. I’d lost eight pounds in Antiqua, and my clothes didn’t fit. Sort of refreshing, though, to have my wardrobe too big for a change.

  “I had a chance,” Tony said, “to talk to Myron’s helper.”

  Mother was on her feet, refreshing our coffee cups.

  I asked, “And what did Ryan have to say?”

  “The Chief and I interviewed him together,” Mother said, sitting back behind her desk again. “The young man is an ex-helper, now. Has quit Top Drawer, which right now isn’t open for business, anyway. What Caroline Hatcher will do with it, who’s to say? Anyway, that scuffle in the street between Miller and Oldfield over finding the Poe book? Ryan admits he didn’t see who got to the faux Poe Tales first but was pressured by Hatcher to say it was the former.”

  Tony nodded. “Otherwise, the scam might have been discovered.”

  I asked, “What did Caroline know?”

  Mother smiled and nodded at Tony. “Why don’t you take that one, Chief, as you were at the interview too.”

  I noticed, now that they were colleagues, she was no longer calling him “Chiefie.”

  Tony stifled a smile at her magnanimous gesture. “Neither your mother nor I have come up with any sign that Mrs. Hatcher was involved with the homicides. She may have suspected her husband, but that’s both hard to prove and not really a crime, unless she actually aided and abetted. Anyway, there’ll be no charges.”

  Deputy Chen knocked on the doorjamb and stuck his head in. “Reminder about your eleven o’clock luncheon with the Garden Club, Sheriff,” he said.

  Mother’s nod was almost a bow. “Thank you, Charles. Say, would you mind if I called you Charlie? I’m such an Earl Derr Biggers fan!”

  “Who? And, uh . . . Charles, please.”

  The forty-something deputy disappeared.

  “Pity he doesn’t embrace his heritage,” Mother said. Then she sighed. “A lady who lunches! That’s my life of late—Serenity’s leading theatrical light now lowered to playing the rubber chicken circuit.”

  Tony got to his feet. “And I should get back. Thanks for the cake, Vivian. And, uh . . . good job with the case.”

  Mother beamed and blushed just a little. “Thank you, Chief Cassato. That means a great deal to me.”

  He smiled, nodded, then signaled to me he wanted my company.

  “See you later, Mother.”

  But she was basking in her glory and barely noticed me slipping out into the hall.

  In the lobby, we paused in front of the double glass entrance doors.

  “Dinner tonight?” he asked.

  “Where?”

  “I’ll provide the steaks if you bring a salad.”

  “Deal. What time?”

  “Seven should be fine,” he said.

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  * * *

  Even though I’d be spending the evening at Tony’s rustic cabin, I took time getting ready to remind him I hadn’t always been a hot mess in need of a hot shower.

  But I took one, then got out my curler, blew the dust off, fired it up, styled my shoulder-length blond hair in loose waves, then applied the war paint.

  (Mother to Brandy: Now who’s politically incorrect?)

  If you’re not interested in my makeup or clothes, skip down to the paragraph beginning “Sushi, who always went with me to Tony’s cabin . . .”

  I don’t buy a lot of makeup. I have only one mascara (Dior Addict It-Lash), one eye pencil (MAC, Bountiful Brown), one eye shadow (Chanel, Trace 86), one blush (NARS, Orgasm), and one lipstick (Chanel, 61 Bonheur). They’re expensive, but less costly than a drawerful of mishaps, drying out in there and collecting bacteria.

  My perfume is Juicy Couture’s Viva La Juicy. I also have Norma Kamali’s perfume, which she stopped making some time ago—a silver bottle with atomizer that came in a black velvet box—that on special occasions I’ll spritz in the air, then walk through it, because the scent is so strong. But for tonight, I used Juicy.

  My ensemble was a black eyelet cotton dress by Velvet (end of last year sale), black and gold floral necklace by Kate Spade (outlet); and white Rag & Bone platform sandals (sold cheap on eBay by a dissatisfied owner)—but I wasn’t going to be on my feet that long. (Think what you like.) My purse was a little black Coach with funky decals that I’d waited for for months to go on sale (Von Maur).

  Sushi, who always went with me to the cabin, was on the bed watching me get ready but evincing little interest, obviously assuming by what I was putting on that Tony’s hideaway was not my destination.

  So when I said, “Let’s go to the cabin,” she nearly did a backflip off the bed.

  Downstairs, I had already gathered a picnic basket of ingredients for the salad—iceberg lettuce, homegrown tomatoes, green and red peppers, radishes, carrots, celery, and red onion. Also, freshly homemade Italian dressing.

  Mother was at the home of one of her gal pals for a gathering of their mystery book club, the Red-Hatted League, and I left her a reminder of where Sushi and I would be. Then we headed out to the C-Max.

  Tony lived out in the country, about fifteen miles north of Serenity, along a winding two-lane highway that hugged the banks of the picturesque Mississippi River. Right now, with the sun hanging low in a sky streaked with purple, the last rays of the day shimmered like diamonds on the water. Holding Sushi tight on my lap, I powered the window halfway down and let her sniff the cool, late summer air.

  Sometimes, especially at night, spotting the left turn to the cabin amidst all the foliage could be tricky. So Tony had put a marker at the entrance—a dilapidated carousel horse, pole stuck in the ground, which he’d found in a shed after buying the property.

  Then down the lane we went, pulling up and in, behind Tony’s truck.

  I gathered Sushi and the basket, and—feeling a little like Dorothy in Oz—climbed the few wooden steps to the porch, where I knocked at the door.

  When it opened, Tony gazed at me with unabashed fondness, then partial
ly closed the door. “As fetching as you look, miss, and as tempted as I am to invite you in, I already have a girlfriend, and she’s going to be here any minute.”

  “Very funny,” I said with a little laugh.

  Sushi had already jumped from my arms to trot between our legs, looking for the love of her life—Rocky, Tony’s mutt with his trademark black circle around one eye, recalling the dog the Little Rascals ran with.

  Tony stepped to one side. “You really do look lovely, Brandy.”

  My cheeks turned pinker than my blush. “Thank you.”

  A pleasant, woodsy aroma greeted me as I entered, the cabin roomier than it appeared from the outside. To the left was a cozy area with a fireplace (unlit) faced by an overstuffed brown couch and matching recliner; to the right, a four-chair, round oak table shared space with a china hutch. A short hallway led to a single bedroom, tiny bath, and kitchen, with a small porch on the back.

  Cozy.

  The rustic walls showcased Tony’s collecting interests—an assortment of antiquated wooden snowshoes and various fishing items, old rods, wicker creels, and nets, all nailed there rather haphazardly.

  Rocky knew the drill whenever Sushi arrived, and the bigger dog flopped on his side on the braided rug and patiently let her crawl all over him and lick his face. She had no shame.

  Of course, neither had I.

  Soon, I was in the kitchen washing and prepping the vegetables while Tony tended to the grill on the back porch, toasting some garlic bread along with the steaks.

  Then we were seated at the table, enjoying the meal with a bottle of Merlot, as the sun slowly disappeared outside, a nice breeze coming in the open window, ruffling the curtains.

  Tony and I had our own cabin drill—no talk of Mother, or his work, or politics. But we did have plenty of common interests, including movies, music, and sports. And when the conversation ran out, neither of us minded the silence.

  But I could sense on what was feeling like a perfect night that something was bothering him. And later—the dishes washed, with us seated on the couch, his arm around me, Sushi curled up with Rocky in front of a fireplace flickering with flames now that the night had cooled off—I thought we should get whatever it was that was troubling him out in the open.