A Killing in Antiques

by Moody, Mary

  I said I’d have Mildred get in touch with him, and gave him Frankie’s phone number.

  “How can they figure the time, Matt?”

  “Monty had clear eyes, the right body temperature, no lividity, no rigor.”

  “Can they fine-tune it any better?” I asked.

  “The pathologist’s report will pin it down by the condition of the stomach contents, but that’s what they have right now.”

  It was time to hang up. I didn’t want to think about lividity or stomach contents.

  I decided to ease my squeamishness by beginning my own second run-through, and started on the other side of the field. That would keep me from following Monica; I didn’t want to be in her hair as she tried to figure out what she wanted.

  24

  I decided to see that pickle castor again. The dealer, a woman I’ve seen at auctions and antiques gathering places, specializes in old containers. Mason jars, enameled soda bottles, tin boxes that once held tobacco, spice, or tea. Containers of almost any sort. She sells regularly here. I’ve looked at perfume bottles in her booth from time to time.

  I couldn’t bring her name to mind, though I was sure I knew it. She has a few years on me, and she’s a woman who usually looks comfortable with herself. This morning she seemed somewhat frazzled. She rearranged her stock a bit, and tidied her booth in the quiet that usually precedes the arrival of the amateurs.

  I looked at a lovely old hatbox. It was covered in pink silk and had a thick gold cord handle. Clusters of tiny silk roses adorned it. Except for some fading, the silk was in excellent condition. I was about to ask the price when my eye settled on the pickle castor.

  I headed straight for it and gave it a closer look. I wondered if I should show some interest in it. A pickle castor is not my type of thing ordinarily. But if I could grab it for the right price, I’d be able to kill two birds with one stone. The negotiations could become my entrée into a conversation with this woman about the morning of the murder. Then I could bring it to Natalie as a peace offering. I stood hesitating, not sure how to approach her.

  “I wondered how long it would take you to get to that pickle castor,” she said.

  “What?” So much for a good approach.

  “The pickle castor,” she said, and she pointed to it, right there under my fingertips. Duh. “You’re Lucy St. Elmo, aren’t you? You got yourself shot in the keister a few years ago, outing some murderer down at the Cape, didn’t you?”

  Shirley. Her name is Shirley, I finally remembered. Now, how the devil does she equate that stupid incident with her silly pickle castor? I pulled my thoughts together and nodded to confirm her question. I wondered if I should feign injured dignity.

  “Well, I’m doggone glad you’re here,” she said.

  She squinted, and peered at my face with such intensity that I wondered if I remembered my moisturizer this morning. A grin began at the center of her mouth, then spread outward as she took a deep breath and went on. “Now you can get cracking on this one. Between the cops pestering me about the murder and the dealers pestering me about the pickle castor, I’ve had enough of this doggone foolishness to last me a lifetime.

  “The minute I saw you I knew good and well that you didn’t come here about any doggone hatboxes.” She gripped my arm just above the elbow and jabbed her free hand into my shoulder as she spoke, the grin nearly reaching her ears.

  Shirley thinks I’m going to solve Monty’s murder!

  “Why are the cops pestering you?” I asked when I realized this.

  “They’ve been after all of us in this little corner near the slope. They’ve convinced themselves that we have a view of the spot where Monty was killed. Except that no matter how often we point out that you can’t see that doggone spot from here even in the daylight, that it was dark, that we were rushing around unpacking our stuff, shouting back and forth to one another, and scuffling around moving things into our booths, they ask the same stupid questions. Did we see Monty? Did we see anyone near the spot? Did we notice anything suspicious?”

  “So they’ve been questioning all of you?” That seemed natural enough, given the location.

  “Yes, but when they get to someone who knows something, like me, they back off.”

  “And you, of course, know . . . ?” I still had no idea what she thought she knew.

  She nodded vigorously. “I tell ’em about the doggone pickle castor.” With that my shoulder took another pounding.

  “The pickle castor?”

  “Yes, every time they come here, I mention that doggone pickle castor, and they don’t give a flying fart about the doggone thing.” She took a breath, pulled her shoulders up to her ears, and spread her hands out palms up.

  I backed away quickly and turned that shoulder away from her. She stepped toward me. The doggone pickle castor? As she closed in on me, I threw my arm over her shoulder and patted her on the back. Damned if she didn’t burrow her face into my shoulder and sigh deeply. I could feel her shoulders tremble briefly. Then she backed away again, squared her shoulders, and took another deep breath.

  “Well, Shirley, why don’t you tell me about the dog”—I almost slipped “pickle castor?”

  Shirley didn’t bat an eyelash. She looked up at me. It felt good to be taller than someone. She’s one of the dozen people on earth that I’m taller than. There, there, Shirley, it’s gonna be all better. I placed a hand on her shoulder. That stabilized her. She didn’t move. She certainly seemed to connect the pickle castor with the murder.

  “Well, as you can see,” she said, “I’m stuck with the doggone thing. After Monty’s murder I was still sure a collector, or a museum, would pick it up. The doggone thing will drive me nuts.”

  I looked close. It was an excellent piece. Delicately wrought silver vines dripping with wisteria surrounded the mother-of-pearl container in a sinuous embrace. A tiny set of tongs in the same vinous pattern hung from its blossom-clustered hook. It was meant to serve pickle at an elegant Victorian table.

  The pickle was, of course, just as likely to be tart preserved fruit, or colorful crisp vegetables, as it was to be cucumbers or gherkins. Pickle was served in counterpoint to rich Victorian meals. Heavy, gravy-laden meat dishes. Salads, not unknown, being thought of as kitchen food, or even worse, French peasant food.

  But how the devil did Monty’s murder fit in?

  “Monty came into my shop about a month ago,” she said, answering my thoughts. “He got up that way maybe a couple of times a year.”

  “He made the rounds, didn’t he?” I said. Her shop is in northern Vermont. I do some hunting in Vermont, but I seldom venture north of Quechee, and have never been as far north as her place.

  She nodded her agreement. “He pounced on the doggone thing as soon as he spotted it. At first I thought he was angry, but he wasn’t. He just wanted to know everything there was to know about it. He wanted to know where it came from and how I got it. He even asked if it had a provenance. Can you beat that? A provenance. Wanted to know if I had a written provenance.” Her eyes were wide.

  Curiouser and curiouser. A written provenance. Americans are very casual about what we call an antique, and even more casual about proof that an antique is precisely what it claims to be. This is particularly true in the under-a-million-dollars category, but even in the big time, written provenances are scarce and sketchy. The European antiques community claims to look askance at this and other American practices. But plenty of them were here today, and plenty of them were buying and selling without papers.

  I couldn’t imagine Monty having an interest in a written provenance, and I was as perplexed as Shirley was over his behavior. His claim was always that he was in the junk trade, but he had a rich understanding of antiques, and I’m sure he loved them.

  “And did you remember where it came from?”

  “Are you kidding?” she said. “Of course I remembered where it came from. I can tell you where every piece in my shop came from. Can’t you?”


  In fact, I can. I forget all kinds of things, but I can always remember where I bought a fine antique. A name might stump me for a while, but usually it comes back to me. Even when it doesn’t, I can describe the person, or the shop, or the way I got to the place. That nudges my memory. I’m able to do that for years after an event.

  “I got this before an estate sale,” Shirley said. “The woman who’s lived across the street from me for years had an oddball uncle who died. She had to dispose of his estate, and she invited me to take anything I wanted if I’d help her sell off what I didn’t want. She wanted nothing for herself. My understanding is that the uncle was nasty, and you know how those things go.”

  “Indeed I do.” That kind of estate sale is a dream come true.

  “I made a killing on that one. I was, of course, the first dealer to see the stuff. What a day that was. . . .” Shirley gazed into the distance. She seemed lost in remembering the estate sale. She named items offered in that sale. She lingered over the triumphs of the day. Her hands were up by her own shoulders, beating at the air. I took both of them and held them, patty-cakes, nudging her back to me. We stood like that while she returned her mind to Monty’s visit.

  “Monty wanted that pickle castor, but he didn’t want to buy the doggone thing. He asked me to lend it to him. I hesitated, but before I could make up my mind, he’d reconsidered. He said it would be better if I’d put it aside, then bring it here to Brimfield for the spring event. He said he’d bring me a buyer, and he’d guarantee its sale at my top asking price. The whole thing was odd.

  “Monty usually came around to sell me something, not to buy something. I asked why he didn’t just send the buyer up to the shop. He told me he had to witness this sale, and he kept assuring me that his buyer would pay a premium for it. I hate to hold anything for a month, but it’s my off season at the shop right now. I do some business in this mild weather, but my big sales come during the ski season, when the skiers come up from New York City. New Yorkers have a different attitude about money than summer tourists do.”

  Shirley again strayed from the story I wanted. I began to see why the police had backed off. Her story is so convoluted that it’s hard to separate the nuggets from the fruitcake. Hard to know if she really knows something.

  Then Shirley told me that Monty was supposed to bring that very same buyer to her booth before the official opening of the Brimfield marketplace on Tuesday morning.

  “Oh, my God.” Now, I saw. She’s right. Monty’s buyer . . . is the killer. No. No, maybe not. But, if not the killer, then he may have seen the killer. He.

  “Did he say if the buyer was a man?” I asked.

  “I don’t think so,” she said. “I’ve been trying to remember exactly what he said, but I only recall him saying ‘this buyer’ when he was at the shop. Then, the day before Brimfield opened, he called to confirm. He definitely only referred to ‘my buyer’ on the phone.”

  “Did you tell the police Monty was bringing an early buyer on opening day?”

  “In so many words,” she said.

  I’ll bet.

  When I asked the price of the pickle castor, it was easy to see why Shirley was still stuck with the doggone thing. Dealers and collectors had been interested in it, but Shirley’s wildly inflated price had driven them away. I asked why she was so rigid, and she told me that it was a museum piece. I grinned and kept my mouth shut. Perhaps she would run into someone who had a museum with just the right spot for it.

  I ended up buying the silk hatbox. I could visualize it brimming with freshly laundered linens and laces. A bar of lavender soap in the bottom would fill the box with fragrance and permeate the linens, and its old-fashioned scent would burst into the air whenever the box was opened. People love to open a box and find wonderful things inside. I swaddled the hatbox in an old sheet and tucked it into Supercart. Then I rushed off to see Shirley’s neighbors, none of whom had seen or heard anything unusual around the time of the murder. A variety of theories were offered, but they were the type based on Law and Order, rather than on fact or observation.

  25

  TJ and Monica were at the Patio regaling Mr. Hogarth with tales of their triumphs. They gloated over their success. When I arrived, Monica dug around in the tote bag she carried and came up with an amber brooch. A beauty, set in gold filigree. The amount of actual gold in the setting was likely to be minimal, but it was a finely worked and well-crafted piece of costume jewelry. And she’d acquired it for a song.

  I was impressed and told her she had a good eye.

  Mr. Hogarth inclined his hat toward her and explained that I’d just given her one of my highest compliments.

  TJ, no longer able to stand all the praise going in Monica’s direction, unsnapped a battered cardboard guitar case, revealing a Martin guitar, a beauty. The instrument, acoustic, was made from a variety of woods. It sported an inlaid mother-of-pearl design in a herringbone pattern around the sound hole and along its neck. A fine piece of workmanship.

  “From the fifties,” he said, admiring it. It had no strings.

  “I also bought two midcentury chairs,” he said. “We can pick them up when we make the rounds collecting your stuff.”

  “Midcentury” is a term taking hold, meaning the fifties. That’s the nineteen fifties. But the sixties and seventies are sliding in under that definition, too. To me, that’s the stuff my grandmother’s house was full of. It held no appeal for me. I asked if the chairs were upholstered in avocado leatherette.

  “White with gold boomerangs,” he said. Yuck.

  “All in all, a good morning’s work,” Mr. Hogarth said. Then he was off to consult with Baker about the picnic. “Don’t forget,” he reminded us. “We have to get together again at noon. I’ll bring picnic assignments.”

  This was a good time to pack today’s collected treasure away in TJ’s rental truck. All three of us got in the truck, and TJ drove us back to the Girls’ Field. Monica pointed out a tent where she saw an amber necklace that really tempted her. She thought it might go well with the brooch she purchased. I told her that now was the time to get it, but she needed to think about it.

  Together, we made quick work of picking up the heavy furniture and large pieces I had accumulated. TJ’s chairs were less bulky than mine, and they were in excellent shape. But I still couldn’t see the attraction.

  Then we picked up my car and TJ followed me to Al’s, where we packed all we could into the truck for the trip back to the Cape. Since the truck couldn’t hold everything, I picked the items I was willing to leave behind and we settled them back into the storage space.

  “We’ll come back one day next week,” I told TJ. “We can pick up this stuff, and anything else I buy over the next two days.” When we finished, we all tramped into Al’s kitchen. It was quiet. Al was not in sight, but she couldn’t have been too far away. The kitchen smelled of recent baking.

  I offered to make TJ and Monica a pot of coffee, but they both quickly demurred. Everybody makes a joke about my “bad” coffee. I know they’re just teasing, but sometimes it bothers me. I didn’t have time to be offended, though, because we heard Al coming down the stairs.

  She made coffee, but announced that except for a few broken cookies, she had nothing tasty to offer us, as she had just sent several trays of sweets off to the picnic. The broken cookies were wonderful, but the conversation was odd. Al told Monica that she had known Philip from the day he was born, and Monica coaxed her into telling “baby stories” about him. Where was I when these events were unfolding? I had to have been there; Philip was my firstborn, but none of it sounded familiar to me.

  The stories went on a little too long, and we had to dash back to Brimfield to meet Mr. Hogarth and pick up our picnic assignments. We were a few minutes late, but Mr. Hogarth was relaxed and in a good mood.

  “Have you decided what to do about food?” TJ asked.

  “For me there’s no deciding necessary,” Mr. Hogarth answered, “I always have the same thing
at this picnic: Canadian pork pie, apple pie, and lemon meringue pie.”

  His eyes pulled almost shut and his shoulders shook. “It’s . . . what . . . you . . . call”—and from his carefully pronounced words, his timing, and his not too well smothered snort, I knew the joke that was coming—“a well-rounded diet,” Mr. Hogarth said. The snort collapsed inward and became a cackle. He enjoyed his little joke as much as if he had never heard it before, much less repeated it, thousands of times. “A well-rounded diet,” he repeated happily.

  TJ, who has spent a lifetime around politicians, rewarded him with an easy laugh. He also cocked an eyebrow, and glanced sideways at me.

  “That’s the menu,” I agreed. “You can have anything else that appeals to you, but pork pie, apple pie, and lemon meringue are always served at this picnic.”

  “It sounds majorly excellent,” TJ said.

  “All four of us will pick up the pies. We’ll each carry two,” Mr. Hogarth said.

  “That’s a lot of pie,” I said.

  “Baker is expecting quite a large crowd.”

  I turned to him, and he gave me a look that I couldn’t quite read. We all walked over to the Quinsigamond Quilters pie booth. My favorite. Someone in that booth makes a Canadian pork pie that is to die for. It draws me back again and again.

  Several booths sell homemade pies during the antiques marketplace. Women’s clubs of one sort or another do this to raise money for good causes. The Quinsigamond Quilters start late. Their booth hadn’t opened yet, but their area was mobbed. We snaked our way in as close as we could to the front of the booth. The crowd that had gathered hadn’t bothered to form a line; they had instead thronged against the counter without pattern.

  The ladies seem unaware of their contribution to the congestion around their booth. They stock it after the surrounding booths have been open for a while. They unload their cars with painstaking diligence, one pie, one trip. If a pie lady has baked or collected five pies, she makes five trips back and forth from her car to the pie booth. When she arrives at the booth with a pie, the assembled group makes a space for her to walk through. When she passes, they close ranks in a different order.