by Moody, Mary
Two notes, I saw, had been slipped under the door: “Lucy, call Matt when you get back, Sonny,” and, “Lucy, call Hamp when you get back, Sonny.” So much for no answering machines.
Sonny’s door is across the hall; his apartment occupies the back parlor, or sitting room. We see him rarely, and might never have met, except that he had once interrupted an argument between Hamp and me at the front door of the once elegant old brownstone.
We had arrived without warning because we—that is, I—wanted to surprise Nancy with an antique desk that she had greatly admired when she was last home at the Cape. Hamp wanted to call and tell her we were coming, but I knew she’d be here. She had the week off from school, and she was determined to spend it studying in Boston. Otherwise, of course, she would have come home to the Cape and spent time with us.
Sonny heard Nancy’s name mentioned and asked who we were. Except that he was wearing a gigantic cowboy hat, he looked like a pretty regular guy to me, and I began explaining who we were. When I said we were her parents delivering a desk that she wanted, he said, “No problem.” He’d be happy to let us in.
“You have a key to Nancy’s apartment?” we asked.
“Sure, I pick up her mail and bring it in for her.”
“Huh?”
“Sure, she has a key to my place, and I have a key to her place, no problem.”
And with that Sonny opened the heavy door, unlocked his mailbox and Nancy’s mailbox, and took the mail. Then he dashed into his place, found Nancy’s key, and ushered us in.
The apartment looked oddly neat. Sonny told us to knock on his door when we were through moving the desk. He’d lock up after us. No problem. Hamp and I were still gaping at each other after he closed the door.
No problem. No daughter. I noticed the absence of her high-tech sound system equipment, and the stack of unopened mail on the mantel in the little apartment. I sensed that I understood the rest of the story, but I said nothing to Hamp until later. I was just too tired for the scene that I thought would follow.
Sonny’s messages stared back at me now. I’d have to return both calls. I should call Natalie, too, and explain why I hadn’t met her this morning. I decided to put off calling Hamp until later, and jabbed Matt’s number into the phone to get it out of the way. He answered on the first ring.
“Billy will have to spend the night in jail,” Matt told me. “Under the right conditions I can get him released tomorrow. They’re holding him on a fairly unsubstantial warrant. My best, and quickest, shot will be to show that he’s being held without probable cause.”
“Can you do that?” I asked.
“Well, unless they can come up with something more tangible than the premise that Billy collected lace, I can. I intend to show that the charges are too flimsy to hold up. So, what can you tell me?”
I could tell him little, except that I knew Billy hadn’t done it.
“I’m looking for something a little more fundamental,” he said. “You were there all day. I imagine you’ve been snooping. What have you learned?”
“Nothing!” I protested, ready to argue the snooping, but another thought occurred to me. “Since when has Billy collected lace?” I asked.
“He says he doesn’t collect lace, but they found a box of old tablecloths in the truck. Most of which were lace, and that’s what they’re hanging the arrest on. Come on, Lucy, are you holding something back?”
“No!” I wished I knew something, so I could hold it back, at least for a little while, but I didn’t, so I couldn’t.
Wait a minute. Did I know something? Could that brief meeting between Monty and Mildred mean anything? It took less than a minute, seconds really, and nothing of substance was said. I decided to let it go.
“Are you going back there tomorrow?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Well, while you’re there nosing around, let me know if anything about that lace comes up, or if there’s something that just doesn’t smell right to you.”
He lost interest in me immediately, as I had nothing more to offer. As soon as we’d hung up I realized that I had forgotten to ask Billy’s last name. My stomach begged for succor; I’d had enough chaos. Before I could make reparations, I called Natalie’s number. No answer. I didn’t bother leaving a message.
I gave up the idea of a soothing bath—I realized that I couldn’t be soothed tonight—and took a quick shower instead. I wasn’t really hungry, but I rifled through the tiny kitchen, looking for food to tranquilize me before I called Hamp.
Nothing in the fridge but a stick of margarine, a bag of Starbucks Kenya rolled so far down it’d barely make tomorrow morning’s allotment, and a jar with about a tablespoon of salsa clinging to its sides. I scanned the cabinet shelves, but I don’t know why I bothered. A large can of tomato juice, a jar of popping corn, and a half-full bottle of vodka. Hamp and I occasionally snack here, when he can get away from the Cape for a little rest and relaxation, but we rarely bother to cook. We love the wonderful restaurants in town.
I was too tired and it was too late to go out and get something. I opted for a pot of popcorn, and while it was popping I scraped the salsa jar clean, relishing every morsel the spoon could capture. I opened the tomato juice and nipped at it straight from the can. Mmmm, warm. I knew better than to look for an ice cube; the trays were cemented into the freezer, buried in frost. The small refrigerator that came with the apartment was so old it thought it was an icebox.
I took the pot of popcorn and the rest of the tomato juice over to the phone and called home. Maybe Hamp missed me; he’d seemed so troubled lately.
The phone rang eight times. I’d let it ring once more, then hang up. After that, the machine would answer, and I was too tired to understand whatever witty repartee it had in store for me tonight.
Only three of our five kids live at home just now; they come and they go, but mostly they keep coming back. We had been down to just two of them when Philip married Monica. But he gave up his little apartment in the shadow of the Bourne Bridge on the mainland side of the Canal so they could move in with us. That move would allow Monica to get her degree at Lyman, where Hamp teaches, almost without cost to any of us.
“Hello.” It was Monica, Philip’s bride. I didn’t know what to make of her. She was very quiet, and I couldn’t tell yet if she was reserved, or shy, or just a quiet person. I told her I was returning Hamp’s call.
“I think he’s asleep,” she said. “Would you like me to wake him?”
Before I could respond there was a stirring at the other end of the line.
“ ’Lo?” It was Hamp, his voice full of sleep.
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” I said.
He cleared his throat. “There’s some good news. I didn’t want you to miss it.” I could hear the mangled words through his hand, which, I knew, was rubbing the sleep out of his face.
“I can handle some good news.”
“It’s about the apartment,” he said. “We may be able to get rid of it.”
“Huh?” A cold feeling moved into my stomach. I love this apartment.
“Someone wants to sublet it until our lease is up,” he said.
He went on about a foreign couple who would be in Boston for the summer, working at one of the universities. While he spoke, I thought about what objections I could legitimately offer to keep them out.
“If they do any damage to the place,” I asked, “will we be liable for it?”
“I don’t know,” he said, “but as middle-aged, serious scholars, they’re hardly apt to be destructive.”
I wished I had put some vodka in the tomato juice. A pause in our conversation let me know that he was waiting for a response.
“When are you coming back?” he repeated. Did he miss me?
“I’ll be here in Boston again tomorrow night, and then the next night, Thursday, I’ll come back to the Cape. I’m not sure yet about Friday or Saturday night,” I recited, repeating the schedule that I had announced aga
in and again, and also posted on the refrigerator door at home.
“Good, good,” he said quickly. “Do me a favor. Pick up some ingredients in Chinatown tomorrow when you get back to Boston. I need them before my next lesson.”
He missed having someone to run his errands. “I’m not sure I’ll be back here before the markets close,” I said. Hamp was learning Chinese cooking from a colleague at the research center.
“If the markets are closed, Professor Chou says to go to the kitchen at the Happy Dragon and buy them there.”
Oh, great. Much as I enjoyed the new cuisine at our house, and especially the fact that I didn’t have to cook it, I didn’t feature rushing back to Boston tomorrow to hunt for dried lily buds and fermented black beans. Even so, I read the rest of the list back to him, and we hung up. We have our ups and downs, Hamp and I, but most of the time we’ve been lucky enough to enjoy a rich and loving relationship. We give each other plenty of room to develop our interests, but lately Hamp needs even more time to himself, and I find myself missing the easy intimacy that’s been ours for so long.
It was eleven o’clock. My day had begun more than twenty hours before. Not a standard day. I didn’t even unfold the sofa bed. Something was chewing at the corner of my mind. I couldn’t shake it, couldn’t bring it forward. I leaned back on the pillow. I hoped the day’s chaos wouldn’t keep me awake.
12
At four thirty the next morning, I surged out of a sleep so deep that parts of it were still slipping away as I sat on the edge of the sofa bed. Five hours of sleep leaves me looking for a nap on an ordinary day, but on a Brimfield day it is enough to exhilarate me throughout the hunt.
Late in the week the lack of sleep catches up with me. Mostly I can just about match my energy with the number of days left. I promise myself a forty-eighthour nap when Brimfield is over. The older I get, the truer that promise feels.
Today’s drive was lovely. The dawn came up behind me soon after I was on the road. Forsythia and jonquils looking recently past their prime attracted the day’s first sunlight and shimmered deceitfully in a flagrantly luminous dance, a final dazzling seduction before their botanical clocks ran out.
Everything was right for a great day of gathering treasure. Coylie waved me into a space next to his truck.
He danced around the door of my van as I parked. Something was up.
“Wait’ll you hear this,” he said. His eyes were round, and his pale face made the bright orange curls even more vivid. “I spent the night of the murder in the tent next to the killer.”
“Wow.” No wonder the kid was supercharged.
“And,” he said, dragging the word out several syllables, “I talked to him, just before he went off and murdered your friend.”
“Coylie, what are you talking about?” Why didn’t he tell me this before?
“Look. Look at this,” he said, and he dashed over to his spool table, grabbed a newspaper that he had put by for this moment, and showed me the front page.
“Holy shit,” I said. I couldn’t help it. There, plastered across the front page of the Mid-State Chronicle, for all the world to see, was Silent Billy’s face, big as life, along with a story that appeared to accuse him of the murder. This was terrible.
I tried to concentrate on the story in the paper, but I wanted to know what in the world Coylie was talking about. It took a little sorting out before I understood.
“Frankie had to go home,” Coylie said. “He was upset. We were pulling stuff out of his truck, tossing it into mine. It was a mess.”
“So, where does Billy come in?” Enough about Frankie’s bad luck.
“He was in the next tent, up at Jay Bean’s. They only charge three bucks a night to camp up there,” he said.
“Coylie, please, what happened with Billy?” I said.
“Okay, okay, I’m getting to it,” he said.
I squashed a flash of sarcasm; I really needed him to get on with his story.
“I was yelling back at Frankie. Maybe we got into a tussle. I had to get to work at the parking lot, but Frankie wanted to pack more stuff onto my truck. That’s when this guy, the murderer, stuck his head out of his tent and looked at us. He didn’t say anything for a minute, just watched us.”
I winced. Murderer. “Call him Billy. But, you said he spoke to you?”
“Yeah, sort of. I had to leave, and Frankie was tying down the stuff he had to take back to Scottsdale, both trucks were a mess. The kil—um, Billy saw something in the back of Frankie’s truck, and said, ‘Good stuff,’ or something like that. Me and Frankie thought he meant a painting, but turns out he meant the frame. It looked like a damaged frame to me, but by the time we figured that out, I had to leave.”
That was the story. All of it. Coylie had left Frankie and Billy talking about a broken picture frame. The end. So then Billy runs off and murders Monty. Okay. Or wait. Why was Frankie so worked up? Maybe he ran off and killed Monty. Thin, very thin.
“What time was that?” I asked.
“Just before I met you at the parking lot yesterday. Maybe ten minutes before we met.”
We thought about it, before four a.m. Could the time be important? Monty was still alive at four o’clock, when Mildred saw him.
“Any other campers up there?”
“A couple.”
“Are they still there?”
“Some. I’m staying until Thursday morning, myself.”
“Maybe I should talk to them.”
“I doubt they’re there right now. They’re probably standing in the six o’clock line. People have been heading that way for over an hour.”
I’d see the campers later; right now I’d head for the six o’clock opening. Today’s openings were staggered, and I had time for each, including second run-throughs.
I did my best to make up for yesterday’s lost time. I pored over furniture; I looked over shelves and tables loaded with things that were offered up as antiques. Plenty of junk mixed in with the real stuff.
Junk is not daunting. My eye eliminates it, and any other object that doesn’t fit my requirements. Today nothing slipped by me. I was methodical. I was determined. I executed a meticulous search. I was good, my mind completely engrossed in the hunt.
Time did its thing and I did mine. I filled Supercart and hurriedly emptied it into the van; I’d arrange things later. I’d have plenty of help today. Every time I dropped off a load of goodies I felt a wave of energy, my step lightened, and all was right with the world.
My second run-through was productive, too. The second time through is easier. Negotiations may become extended, but the buying and the selling is more relaxed. Here’s where I can allow myself to shop for vintage costume jewelry. I can’t do that on a first run, when time is of the essence. When jewelry shopping, I get so carried away that I forget about the time.
I unfolded Supercart’s counter and studied this morning’s collection. A fine assortment that nearly filled a gallon-sized plastic baggie. Antique and vintage costume jewelry is a relatively new avenue for me. I started collecting it a few years back, when I wanted a few pieces for myself. I meant to jazz up the black dresses I wear to camouflage my, ahem, fat. I’d been offended when the kids referred to the simple black dresses in my wardrobe as my vampire-wear.
When other women admired the jewelry I wore, I’d put a few pieces into the antiques shop, and the response had amazed me. Costume jewelry takes no room, it brings customers back, and it’s far more profitable than other tiny items. Hamp had been dismayed when I sold a piece of it right off my dress to the dean’s wife at a faculty party.
I still use jewelry to camouflage the black dresses that camouflage the fat, but now I also tuck it into little spaces around the shop; a pillow stuck with rhinestone pins, a cut glass bowl filled with pearls, an old brown velvet hat covered with cameos. Wine goblets full of amethyst, amber, or jet. Little surprises waiting to be discovered as one browses among the real antiques.
Today’s search had go
ne so well that I’d finished fine-combing the field earlier than I’d expected. With a little free time before the nine o’clock opening, I trotted toward one of the fields that I’d missed yesterday. The crowd was thinner. The sun had ripened the morning, and the fickle New England spring was inspiring false hopes that it was here to stay. The sky was blue and cloudless, the air polluted only by the gossip about Silent Billy.
The murder, its early shock value defused, was now reduced to the status of small talk. Still, it was the first item mentioned in most conversations.
The news from those in the know, and this morning that seemed to be everyone, was that Silent Billy was guilty. People, on the basis of hearing about his quirky quietness, had overwhelmingly concluded that Billy was a “head case.” Therefore, the reasoning went, he must be the killer, because, “Guys like that, they live on the edge, y’know. They snap.”
Occasionally someone would pronounce Billy innocent, but risking a jury selected from the peers that were kicking around Brimfield today would be perilous indeed. I’d call Matt later today to see if he had been able to get Billy released. He hadn’t sounded absolutely certain on the phone last night.
Billy’s lack of conversational skills was no reason to hold him for murder. The police had to abide, to some degree, by the probable-cause restrictions. And collecting lace was a new one to me. I’ve always been interested in linens and lace myself, but I’ve only known Billy to be interested in restoring and refinishing furniture. I didn’t think he collected anything. I suspect that he views furniture restoration as his work, not his hobby.
Billy’s situation teased at my mind as I scanned the booths I passed. I didn’t expect to see anything I wanted. Here, on the day after a field has opened, it’s often items of lesser value that remain, or items more commonly found. Sometimes what looks genuine turns out to be flawed, or a repro, or to have some other problem, and that’s why it remains.